Don't Take My Advice - I Need It

By Kevin Pampling

A brutal tractor crash forces small town Kev into a new world, both physically and spiritually. Angry and resistant to change, the bitter bushman finds himself on a journey of inner growth that takes him from Australia’s searing outback to the icy mountains of Norway’s fjordland. Facing his demons of doubt in a strangely familiar land, Kev learns to 'listen with all his senses' as he strives to fulfil his heart’s desire: to find his soulmate.

“From being swept away in a Kimberley wet season to wearing shorts and thongs in a Norwegian winter, Kev’s adventures are entertaining and his road to enlightenment unique.  But it is in his heartfelt longing for a soulmate, a spiritual and emotional equal, that the true story lies. Kev brings us a starkly honest portrayal of the male human condition, and a warm account of what happens when we seek to heal the wounds of the past, and follow our heart toward a new future.”

“In a time of endless New Age speak, Kev's Bush Aussie vernacular is heartwarming, refreshing, and above all an achingly funny road to enlightenment...”

– Paula Constant

Author of:  Sahara  and  Slow Journey South

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Pampling
• Release date: Apr 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994343802

Kevin Pampling

Introducing Kevin Pampling of Kev’s Climbing Service: a tree surgeon, photographer and self-published author, living in the Perth Hills, Australia. A brutal tractor crash forced small town Kev into a new world, both physically and spiritually. Angry and resistant to change, the bitter bushman found himself on a journey of inner growth that took him from Australia’s searing outback to the icy mountains of Norway’s fjordland. Inspired by a picture of Geirangerfjord in a magazine, Kevin’s heart told him: “You have to go there!” Journey with Kev as he shares the value of following his heart. Being present and acting on his intuition was the key to creating: “Don’t Take My Advice – I Need It”, a book about his journey that inspires others who also have a dream to claim it, with passion, and follow their heart. Have a laugh at Kev’s expense for he is, as he says: “The best bad example I know.” “In a time of endless New Age speak, Kev's Bush Aussie vernacular is heartwarming, refreshing, and above all an achingly funny road to enlightenment...” – Paula Constant Author of:  Sahara  and  Slow Journey South

Book preview

Journey of Awareness

First cut into the slashing job, I had to stop the tractor and dismount. The boundary wasn’t clear.

Nothing’s ever straight forward, I thought.

Like me, the tractor idled rough. The slasher, being the only working handbrake, rested on the ground behind. Still engaged, the gears clanged loosely in their box, singing a song of contempt for all the rocks hidden in the long grass.

Bloody rocks. Waste o’ flamin’ time that was, putting new blades on yesterday.

Rocks weren’t the only things hidden: the property line pegs were missing. Wading back and forth through the tangled growth I wasn’t paying the tractor any mind, though I could hear its grumpy tune clearly echoing mine. I had bills to pay, breakdowns to fix, a family to feed and a farm to run.

I wasn’t happy, though I ought to have been. I had a wife and daughter, a home and land to live on, enough work to get by, friends, plenty of toys to play with, yet it was time for a career change. I wasn’t satisfied and deep in my stomach I knew this. I hated change, but I didn’t like the way things were either. I was comfortable with my life, sort of, so why change? The thought of it bothered me.

Then a different sense of bother erupted. It rose from the pit of my stomach, much deeper than my current worry, warning me of 'wrong in the making'. I wheeled around to spring my tractor sneaking off to work without me – downhill. On impulse I bolted, clueless of what I’d do even if I caught up to it. I couldn’t stand back and let it happen.

I’d created it.

The tractor swung away of its own accord, turning visibly as if driven by some ghoulish force bent on destruction. Lining up for a straight, fast descent, it moved with intent to commit carnage. The slope would soon steepen as it ran down to meet a busy road and, to add to the prospect of annihilation, houses stood right and left.

Running through the long grass I caught up to the tractor and launched at the footplate. I got a foot on board and a hand on the steering wheel, then my other hand found the canopy frame and I began to pull myself up toward the driver’s seat.

Okay, I’m in. That was easy – so I’d thought.

The rear wheel began to rub on my outside leg. Tyre lugs got a grip and their traction became a powerful magnet. Every cell in my body was activated, trying to pull myself clear. In a blink I’d switched from rescue to survival mode. I was fit, determined, and a bull at a gate with everything in life, but even that energy was no match for fate. That wheel had my name written all over it and, soon enough, it would have an imprint of my face as well.

The friction of the wheel dragged me backward and then down. I could do no more; my hands had been torn from their grip. When my boot made contact with the ground the wheel rode up my leg, over my body and, during that nanosecond that I was being run over, I saw blue.

The sky above was beautiful, more so than I’d ever noticed, and during that moment I found peace in my surrender. The glorious fight was over, and with that acceptance there came a realisation just before the wheel ran over my face.

My body is presently and, quite definitely, being fed into the slasher . . . feet-first.

There was no parade, no lifetime review, just surrender and a sense of peace. I simply accepted that I couldn’t change what was happening. Everything slowed down. As I disappeared under the tractor wheel my life became a movie in slow motion. I was the observer. I faced the tread of the tyre as it rode over my head.

Darkness came.

I hoped for the end to come quickly. I didn’t want to be left writhing on the ground, a suffering mangled mash of not-quite-dead human bits.

My 'blue sky' experience returned for one last peak through a short gap between the rear wheel and the front of the slasher as it raced past. It lasted a long time, yet it only travelled six inches at the speed of a blur. It didn’t make sense. Within this space I had enough time to admire the blue sky again and think about what was still to come.

I had awareness of having been run over, probably flattened, though most definitely still alive. I knew my legs and torso had already fed into the five-foot slasher trailing on the ground behind the tractor, and now my head was all that was left to face the spinning blades.

My body had sent no signals of pain. I’d felt nothing . . . though I should have. My bottom half had been eaten by a human-hungry slasher. It had to have been. My body was longer than the slasher itself, and my head was about to be served up as dessert.

You mean I’m still alive for the next bit?

The slasher picked up both my legs, bringing them up over my head. Caught up like a sausage in a blender, I was doubled over, rolled, bowled, bashed and clobbered. This part I felt, no longer in slow motion. It knocked the wind out of me and, unable to breathe, I continued to surrender to the mercy of the machine.

Darkness had returned.

I was being pulverised. I couldn’t tell up from down. With nothing more to do with my limp and twisted body, the slasher spat me out. I was left sitting bolt upright, squarely positioned to witness the tractor gain more speed as it ran away down the hill. I wasn’t clear on anything, but I was alive to witness the carnage.

Carnage that I had created – that I had failed to stop.

The tractor straightened out between the two houses but continued on toward the main road. It slammed into the trunk of a fallen tree hidden in the long grass. The rear of the tractor lifted high into the air, pausing there a moment, suspended. There seemed to be a decision coming: flip over, or not. It came back to earth, stalled, then settled in a cloud of dust. All went quiet.

With that came relief. Everything was safe.

MY HEAD FELT FULL, mostly on account of a pulverised skull. Through my eyes I could only observe without capacity to act. Detached from the world, my present state had nothing left for planet Earth. I looked about with wonder, nowhere in particular, into the void. With no energy left, no feeling at all, and no will to be there, I was gone. Only an empty body remained – the vehicle that I used to walk around in.

Am I alive? What is this place? Why am I here?

I wanted to curl up until it was over. Pain brought me out of my daze. My smashed body was talking to me. First came a cough, then a splutter, then a spit, then all at the same time. I became aware of my breathing. I was in trouble. That realisation brought me back into the present moment, back into my feeling body. I had blood inside my mouth – lots of it. I tried to spit it out but it kept coming. That’s when the thinking started.

Oh no, internal bleeding. I’ve survived the crash only to die a slow and conscious death. There has to be a reason. Please, give me a reason? I wanna know why?

The left side of my face was closing down and I couldn’t control movement. Swelling was setting in and my head felt like it had 'really' been run over by a tractor. I managed to cough and spit at the same time, and soon the blood began to thin. I recognised saliva. If ever there was good news then that was the best – the bleeding wasn’t internal.

I ran my hands over my head, down my neck, and around my shoulders. They came back without blood. The left side of my face was a lot larger than the right, though I could still work my jaw in and out, and side to side. While checking for missing teeth I discovered the source of the blood. The inside of my bottom lip had a deep laceration, presumably pressed against my teeth when the tractor wheel had run over my face.

Yep, that’ll do it. No big deal. That’ll heal.

I felt like road kill; only still breathing. I’d had crashes before but this was my lifetime best. I began to test my body, slowly; aware of what lay ahead in terms of recovery. It sucked, had knobs on it for sure; knobs that nurses would twist in the middle of the night to check if I might have pain . . . just in case.

Justin Case is a loser. He dwells on loss and lack, predicting the worst outcome in every event so precautions can be taken for something that will never happen. Even though he knows it, it’s still better to err on the safe side – 'just in case'. If I ever catch up with Justin, and his mongrel case, mark my words, he will answer.

I could move my back and my arms where I sat. Everything functioned; at least it seemed to. A good sign, finally, then another: Anne’s face appeared before me. I saw her with my eyes, though it seemed my mind had created the vision. I loved her, though she didn’t come in on a wave of love. A dreadful certainty had soaked into my consciousness.

She’s not going to handle it this time. She’ll give me the boot for sure.

I was sick of pain: emotional, physical, whatever. Gut-full, I’d had enough and lay down to die. At the risk of upsetting God, I no longer cared – for any of it.

I’ve had it, God. You can shove the lot, Mate.

ANNE, MY WIFE AT THE time, had never fully handled the last crash I’d had and, since we were having problems at home, I couldn’t face dealing with yet another hospital recovery plus the likelihood of her quitting on me. I wanted out; I mean the 'big out' – out of this existence. There in that moment, I gave up the will to live. Having reached my limit, I let it all go and returned to the state of surrender I’d found during the event.

If there is a creator, I give myself back in readiness. Take me home.

What I got was not what I expected. A voice spoke to me, clearly, as if someone stood there right beside me.

Pamps, spoke the voice. People don’t live through crashes like this. There’s something yet you have to do. 

My name was Kev, though the voice had addressed me by my nickname. That got my attention; there was truth in it. I sat up and searched for the source. No one, not a thing: nothing but long grass, a dead tractor, and blood. I knew I’d been let off lightly – I could’ve been mutilated.

In my thoughts I echoed the message, People don’t live through crashes like this.

That’s right, I thought, they don’t. So get on with it!

Everything changed. I could resist and go back to dying, or I could pick my sorry arse up off the ground and get on with living. The one thing I could not do was deny the truth in the message.

Call yourself a warrior? You lie down and die because a tractor ran over you? Mamma’s boy.

By now I could no longer tell who belonged to the voices in my head. Pain was creeping in. I was stiff and sore, spared by the grace of God or smashed by the grace of God, either way it was beyond comprehension. I swung my left leg over to stand up and watched in horror as my boot did a cartwheel on the ground. My foot was in that boot, attached to my leg, though not by much. Not a good look.

My leg was broken, that was obvious, yet I couldn’t feel it. I reached over and gathered up the boot containing my left foot. Still attached, somewhere, I brought it back and placed it in line where it at least looked proper, poking out the end of my jeans where it was supposed to be. Now that was a 'Kodak moment' I’d love to forget.

Expecting to hear crunching sounds, I heard only silence. I couldn’t bring myself to look. I pressed the fabric of my jeans around the fractured area to see if any blood would soak through. None did and just as well; I was having a mortal moment.

I needed a splint. Sitting tall I could just see over the top of the long grass but not into it. I looked back up the hill along a cleanly mowed five-foot path where the slasher had done a perfect job of cutting the tall grass. So far as I could tell, I’d received not one single cut from the same blades that had created that path.

I wore a belt with a knife and would’ve enjoyed tearing up my shirt. I’d been wearing a blade for years, prepared, waiting for a Boy Scout moment to justify its presence, but there was no stick in sight to strap up for a splint. I was robbed. The 'MacGyver' in me was gutted.

Now what?

(Angus MacGyver, a TV character from the 80s, always found a way out of any complex situation with minimal resources at hand)

It was a hundred metres up the hill to where I knew I could yell for help, but that seemed like a marathon. I had to come up with a plan fast; pain was coming. I placed my left leg on top of my right, then sitting up I reached behind and palmed my way backwards, up the hill. I lifted my backside off the ground and swung my body through my arms while dragging my right foot with my left riding on top.

More than once I had to collect my wobbly boot when it fell off its perch. That signalled more pain to come and by the time I reached the top of the hill I was hot, sweaty, and shivering with shock.

I yelled out across the gully to Bluey, one of the residents of the housing estate I was in. Bluey was a retired gardener always out in his yard pottering. Sure enough he was there to respond. He’d heard the bang earlier and still had a feeling something was wrong. He rustled up a couple of builders with a four-wheel-drive to rescue me, but when they got to the scene they were quick to throw their hands in the air. They put me in the 'too hard' basket and nobody wanted to move me.

Oh come on, I said. I made it up the hill on my own. Find me a line peg and I’ll splint my leg.

That they did and, yay; I got to have my 'MacGyver' moment after all. Perched on a length of four-by-two, they lifted me into the back of their ute and took me down the hill to meet the ambulance.

MY LEG HAD SUFFERED a spiral fracture, broken in three places. I had two broken ribs and a fractured left cheekbone. My leg didn’t keep me in hospital for long; I already knew the drill. When the swelling came down I was out of traction and into plaster. All I had to do then was prove I could manage a set of stairs on crutches, and they had to let me out.

I owned a set of crutches. Not that I should be proud of that . . . but I was. I’d mastered the bastards with two previous leg fractures. The day my leg was put into plaster I had Anne bring my crutches to the hospital. I wanted out of the place so bad that I insisted on taking the stair test. Ten days was enough.

I caught the hospital staff off guard. I stood before the counter, bag packed, waiting for a response that I could work with. None came. The staff were not accustomed to patients barrelling out of their orthopaedic ward so fast. I was ready for the stairs; they led home. I had balance, I had direction and, physically, I was fit. Psychologically, according to me, I was sound, but if I was to remain cooped up any longer I would surely have gone crazy. It just wasn’t heard of in hospital terms to 'up crutches' and leave without a pass.

Anyway, I wasn’t asking. I only had one question.

Where do I sign? I have a farm to run.

But the doctor will need to see you.

I had nothing to say in response. I’d already left.

The least you could do is wait until the plaster dries.

I should’ve used that line when Anne kicked me out.

MY LOVE FOR ANNE WAS immense, and yet within that love I suffocated her. She needed love, yes, but more important she needed freedom within that love. I had no idea how to nurture her needs in a loving way, nor had I any clue how to ask in a loving way for my needs to be met. I had a mental way of managing love, rather poorly.

I give, therefore, I get.

After the crash I struggled. I did the best I could in the face of adversity. I had a family to support, a farm to run, horses to breed, foals to wean, and a slashing business to maintain with a leg in plaster. Bills still had to be paid. I hardened, then withered. My heart was dry.

More and more Anne wasn’t around when I’d get home from work. Not knowing where she was brought worry, uncertainty. They were long nights. Again I sensed the beginning of an end, and this time it had a boot attached to it. The news came by telephone on one of those restless nights, worried out of my skull for the well being of my wife and daughter. Anne informed me that they wouldn’t be coming home that night, or any other night for that matter, until I’d packed my things and moved on.

Move on, I said, to where? I’m in plaster.

I don’t care, she said. Go home to your parents.

"Home! What are you talking about? This is my home."

The farm was my place when you met me, and therefore it still is.

I’ve put thirteen years into what our home is now and no man in his thirties with any dignity goes home to his parents.

Not my problem, she said. Thanks for all the improvements. Now take the machinery and leave.

Anne turned her back on me, and so too did the people we knew together. I’d worked hard at being supportive, keeping our marriage together, caring, though I’d missed the biggest thing, the simplest thing: I forgot how to have fun. My stress had leaked out. What an arsehole I must have been to have all my friends turn their backs on me. They were entitled to a good time, without me. So long as the beers kept coming they were okay. That’s what friends were for, right?

Still on crutches with a leg broken in three places, I moved in with my parents. Emptiness took the place of love. Resentment and bitterness were the filters I judged the world through. I imploded.

I checked in with Shoni, my daughter, to see how she was coping with the split. She was six. Shoni could tell me about the park across the street from any pub in a thirty-mile radius of home. There she had occupied herself, waiting for mum. I didn’t know what to do. Shoni loved her mum, we both did. She was strong, independent, confused.

What has Mummy told you about me not being here?

Mummy said you both decided that you didn’t want to live together anymore.

Shoni that’s not true. I didn’t decide that, Darling, Mummy did. I don’t want to leave.

Anne had been standing behind, hovering in range of hearing. With that she rushed in.

You’re using her to get back at me, she blurted.

That’s not my intention, Anne. I want to know how Shoni is, and how much you have told her. She has a right to the truth.

The conversation went no further. I was ordered away. Disempowered, I sank. I’d had concerns for Shoni feeling abandoned and, rightly so, that’s how I felt. The truth had been tainted and she had been getting only one side of the story. I had no idea then about the 'get-even games' parents played, stealing kids away from the other. The door had been closed.

Access was denied.

IN TIME ANOTHER CIRCLE of friends emerged. Together we co-created a new man from the broken one, the miserable one. They had no tolerance for negativity, choosing instead to share a common theme: awareness. One of these people, the closest of my new friends, became my guru. Gary was his name: 'Gary the Guru'.

Gary was no guru, not self-appointed anyway. I called him that because he was a wise man willing to share with a brother. I took his philosophy as fact, and his guidance as truth. He stood high on a pedestal, right up there where I’d put him. I took everything he said to heart. It was relevant. I’d given the Guru a lot of power, and that had caused me concern.

Why am I here? Have I joined the Cult of Gary?

Of what the Guru presented helped awaken me to my true purpose. I’d survived a tractor crash where I should’ve been hacked. I knew because I’d seen a survivor in the Royal Brisbane Orthopaedic Ward during one of my earlier tours of hospital duty. We had met in the shower one day. He’d gone under a slasher. It wasn’t pretty. That day in the shower was his first journey away from his bed in a year.

A whole bloody year.

Little had I known back then that my turn would come years later to face the same ordeal and, when it did, I would break out of hospital in ten days flat.

During the tractor event when 'the voice' had told me, People don’t live through crashes like this, it had brought with it a feeling, unique, one that I could trust. It became a 'gut feeling', a benchmark that validated intuition. It arrived from outside of me, finding its way into my core, down to my stomach, and then erupting gently, outwardly, as an inner knowing that could not be ignored. I knew then, from that day forth, where I sensed what was true for me.

Much later when the Guru delivered valuable concepts, they hit me in the same place, the same way. I say 'hit me' because he didn’t pull punches. I needed to hear what he had to say. It belonged to the second part of 'the voice', There’s something yet you have to do.

The Guru was prepping me for life beyond illusion. It wasn’t about 'fitting in' any more. There was something that I had to do. We made no promises, only agreements, working together setting up his farm. I had skills, tools, and the knowledge of bushcraft. The Guru had patience, tolerance, and the ability to listen.

I still lived in tick-tock world – the Guru had broken free. Having survived cancer in the seventies and the poison they had called 'treatment', the Guru had been stripped, humbled, and left with a wonderful gift: the ability to be in the present moment. Death’s door had taught him that the present was all he ever had and, with that, he chose to embrace a different life: one without constraint of obligation to fulfil the expectations of society, of family, and of so-called friends.

He had found a new partner; or rather she had found him. He surrendered and she scooped him up, and then off they drove in a bus to begin a brand new life together . . . elsewhere.

The Guru was straight onto my blame game and he never let up. It was time for me to take responsibility for all of my shit, one hundred percent. He would settle for no less. The Guru showed me that I always had a choice; nothing was by chance. How I saw the world would determine what that world presented, not the other way round.

Life is what you make it, Kev, said the Guru. You can choose to see doom and gloom and have that dark cloud above your head rain on your parade everywhere you go, or you can cheer up, be present, and see the good in everything. Shine from your heart, Brother. Choose 'unreasonable happiness' instead of that 'reasonable unhappiness' you bring with you to work.

That doesn’t make sense, I said. How can I have unreasonable happiness? I have plenty of reasons to be happy.

Then why aren’t you right now?

Ah, well, because you’re like a fucking singlet: you’re always on my back.

That’s called 'reasonable unhappiness'. See, you just gave me a reason that justifies your unhappiness. It’s someone else’s fault that you’re unhappy . . . my fault.

The big prick was right. The Guru nailed me every time I refrained from owning my stuff.

Tell me more about this 'unreasonable happiness', I prompted.

"Work on getting to a place where you are truly happy, not that shallow pretend smiley bullshit. I mean happiness that flows from your entire being, with no reason for it. You are happy, simply happy. You’re happy because you are. That’s 'unreasonable happiness'."

Oh, so how’s that going for you? I asked, clueless to his terminology.

I’m working on it. At least I have something to aim for. How’s that working for you?

Well, it seems like I got the 'reasonable unhappy' part sorted.

Good. You’re halfway there. Now aim for seeing the other part come to life. Create it.

How do I create it? You said it would be unreasonable.

That’s right, said the Guru. It can be. It will be. It is. Create it by seeing a world as perfect already. Everything you need is right here, right now. Look ahead to happiness, without a reason, and it will be there when you get there. You don’t need to 'do' anything; just see it as done already.

When you moan about the past you are asking for 'reasonable unhappiness' to continue. You are announcing all the things that are wrong, unfavourable – bad. God says: ‘You think that’s bad, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.’ Bad outcomes will continue. They have to. Why would Divinity not respond? You give them life by speaking of them. You are manifesting this outcome by projecting your thoughts out into the world. They will become real. In this process you are co-creating your reality along with God.

Oh, man. That’s a big contract. Can’t I start on something smaller?

Don’t be so hard on yourself. It all begins with awareness. Start by seeing your cup as half full, instead of half empty. You’ll get more of what you see, of what you announce. Be present and life will teach you. You always have a choice, and right now you choose to be here. 

I didn’t choose to be kicked out, Gary. Anne made that choice.

Yes she did, in the end, but you made choices along the way that contributed to that moment. Choice is not just the action you take. Inaction is also a choice. If there is something you know you must do and yet you do nothing, then your choice becomes non-action. The consequences are still your responsibility, especially when the shit hits the fan knowing that you could have avoided it. 

The Guru was right. I was beginning to understand. When our marriage had been going sour I had worked at saving it, the best way I could have, but I still hadn’t managed to change my behaviour toward Anne. I was ashamed for still believing that it had been her fault entirely.

That wasn’t fair, and in that moment I almost forgave her.

I MONITORED THE POLARITY of what I spoke: was it negative or was it positive, was it empowering or was it disempowering? My thoughts, my attitudes, my judgements and criticisms, they were all reflected back to me in situations that life presented. There, I began to notice the mirror: everything coming from within me, 'Life' reflected back to me, so I increased my love and gratitude for all the blessings I could find in my day, and 'Life' began to shift.

I was ready to give up the nightmare and let go of the past. It wasn’t easy to witness while I played the blame game – it was always someone else’s fault. I caught myself blaming others for the mess I was in; well, actually, the Guru caught me. Rather than stumbling along playing the victim, I began to take responsibility, seeing that I had full control over my attitude by how I responded.

I had a choice: dwell on my problems, or learn from them and move on. I had lost everything when Anne had kicked me out, well, so I had believed. In time I came to realise that she’d given me great power. I had in fact, been liberated. I was in charge, and the load I carried on my shoulders became lighter as I dealt with my issues. The trick was completing business as I went, and not piling any more unresolved issues on top of the load.

My intuition became my best friend. When it spoke I trusted it. It didn’t lie and it never abandoned me. Sometimes a voice spoke to me, and occasionally I would see an image or a vision, though mostly in the beginning it was a gut feeling that registered either good or bad. This was my inner knowing registering before my mind began to reason. I had to be quick to notice. My mind would rush in so fast to justify any direction I might have to face, and then the gut feeling would be gone: vanished, or rather banished by a controlling mind.

The Guru helped develop my listening skills and to his surprise, well, my surprise too, one day his bus told me to take her away.

While seeking shade during morning tea, we sat leaning against the bus that he and his lady had travelled in. I had rested my head against her outer wall and amidst the conversation I heard a mystery voice, clear and precise, say, Take me away.

It had been unmistakably that of the bus, coming through the back of my head, straight into my psyche. Looking for acknowledgment I turned to the Guru.

Did you hear that?

Hear what?

Your bus just spoke to me. It said: ‘Take me away’.

Did she now? Well, technically she’s not for sale.

That’s okay, I’m not going anywhere. I’m quite comfortable where I am.

That’s exactly why you need to leave, said the Guru raising his dark bushy eyebrows to put his signature on yet another of his incomplete meanings.

What’s wrong with being comfortable? I’ve been through enough already.

Have you?

I didn’t respond other than settling back into my chair to brace myself for another of the Guru’s lectures on life, the universe and everything. There was nowhere to duck.

Oh, God, here we go.

There’s little growth in comfort, offered the Guru. It’s out there beyond your comfort zone that life will teach you. It’s where your senses will be heightened, sharpened, and most receptive. When I left my comfort zone in this bus I was scared: scared of what I didn’t know, scared of what I couldn’t control. It’s called the unknown, Kev. Great place to be . . . it keeps you alive. Relax. Give up the need to control and everything will be all right. Learn to trust, Brother. You made it this far didn’t you?

Yeah, I replied, shifting in my seat.

And how much control did you think you had over that journey? posed the Guru.

Aww, some of it, I replied.

Well I’d say you were in complete control of every choice you made, every step of the way. It’s the outcome you had little control over. Right now you have a choice. The bus is for sale to you, if you really want her, and I do see you both together. Do you want her?

But I don’t have any money left now. I spent it all building the shed and getting a life.

The Guru looked over, tipped his head forward, down a little, then raised those dreaded eyebrows. It was a signal: something important was about to be delivered. Whenever he did this he added another two feet to his already six-foot plus frame.

"Do you want the bus?" he repeated.

I sat deeper in my chair. The message had been clear. On an intuitive level it was not to be ignored. These audio messages had been coming since the day of my crash. Something changed that day, or maybe I’d started noticing what had always been there. The bus had spoken. The message had been clear: Take me away.

Yes, I sighed, allowing a sneaky smile to stretch. I want the bus. I have always wanted to travel around Australia but I never made it happen. There was always an excuse. Hang on though . . . where’s the money coming from?

It felt good for about two seconds before my mind swamped the dream with fear.

If the bus has indeed chosen you, and you commit, then the means will present. Trust me.

His eyebrows lifted three times in quick succession, coupled with a 'guru grin' to offer his reassurance.

You’ve got two vehicles haven’t you? he asked, knowing the answer already.

Yes, but . . .

Sell ‘em, he said, chopping me off. The words rolled off the Guru’s tongue with complete detachment, flavoured it seemed, with a hint of pleasure. You won’t need ’em where you’re going.

How would you know that? I asked.

There’s only one of you travelling in the bus right? What are you going to do, run back and get the other vehicle every five miles? If you need transport it’ll show up. Trust.

Trust what?

Trust in Divine Order, Kev. If it’s meant to happen, if your intention is clear, then you will create it. Co-create it in fact, in alignment with Divine Will.

I was blank. I had no idea what the heck he was talking about. 'Divine' anything sounded like 'God' talk to me.

You can believe in God or not, continued the Guru. "Either way it’s Universal. There’s a creative force present in everything we do. A Universal Energy that is willing to support our journey through life. With that belief I know that wherever my thoughts go, they will become my projections. If I give life to anything through my thoughts, I am making it happen – manifesting. If there is a creator, and he, she, or it, creates in alignment with Divine Order, then I am co-creating along with this creator by my every choice. Nothing is by chance."

Whoa, that’s pretty deep, Gaz.

If the 'God' concept is too hard for you then call it Universal Energy. It’s creative and it flows through each and every Being. You can call on it to guide you, and in your case, it came to you as guidance after the tractor crash. It was your intuition that received it. You know that we all have an intuition somewhere, built into our psyche, right?

I didn’t until now. I don’t understand how it works though. It doesn’t come to me when I call on it.

You’ll figure it. There are no instruction manuals issued. Everyone is unique. Learn to meditate and allow it to come to you.

Meditate? What . . . like join a monastery and go, ‘Om’?

That did the Guru in. I hadn’t taken him seriously. How could I? His kind of talk was way out there, somewhere past Pluto. The Guru shut up shop and I was excused.

Let me know when you’re ready, he said. I’ll be right here.

The Guru was always there. He became my rock. He seemed to know when it was appropriate to push past my ego and reach the higher part of me that wanted to hear his wisdom. The part that knew it was time for me to step up but didn’t know how. He would tolerate my arrogance for only so long before exercising his 'ever-reaching awakening tool': a king-sized boot attached to a very long leg (a kick up the arse to awaken me).

If by then I still couldn’t hear the message, he’d walk away.

REPORTS HAD BEEN DRIFTING in from our circle about an amazing clairvoyant. Not a lofty, out-there, airy-fairy type, but rather an accurate, 'tell it like it is' seer with at least one foot on the ground. One by one our friends brought back tape-recorded sessions that inspired others to do the same. Everyone spoke