The Water Mosaic: An Elemental Journey

By Denice Finnegan

Inside Jo is a journey waiting to happen.

As she treks across the rugged Australian landscape on a rescue mission, Jo finds she is capable of so much more than she imagined. But she must face those things in herself and tear aside old habits, if she is to emerge from the cocoon of her old life.

Her guide is a wise old childhood friend, who knows more about who Jo was, and who she will become, than Jo herself does. Her map is the energy system of the body known as the chakras.

Understanding how to live life through each energy centre opens Jo up to new possibilities, and she discovers her relationship to everyone and everything is not only part of, but essential to, her success.

Because this is more than one womans journey. Her rescue mission is part of a bigger picture.
The Earth has chakras too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452564616

Denice Finnegan

Denice Finnegan grew up in the suburbs on the east coast of Australia, with a patch of wild bushland at her back door, where she first felt a connection to nature and her own spirit. She now co-runs a yoga studio and naturopathic practice with her partner in Sydney. Denice weaves her experience in yoga, meditation, and natural therapies into her storyline, to bring to life the everyday spiritual journey that is our birthright.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 Denice Finnegan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com.au

1-[phone]

ISBN: 978-1-4525-6460-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-6461-6 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Balboa Press rev. date: 04/02/2013

CONTENTS

BEFORE TIME

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

PART 2

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

REFERENCES

DEDICATION

Dedicated to all those people on their spiritual journey, who feel that the mundane threatens to engulf their spiritual spark.

Also to those who have guided and inspired me on my journey:

Wayne Dyer (and all the other scurvy elephants)

Caroline Myss (for introducing me to another language)

Deepak Chopra (for synchronicity)

Louise Hay (for love)

Ekhart Tolle (for answering my questions)

Jack Kornfield (a benevolent meditation teacher)

Neal Donald Walsch (for conversational possibilities)

Stephen Cope (for teaching me how to surf the wave)

Stephanie Dowrick (for encouraging thoughtfulness)

Stephen Levine (for reminding me I am mortal)

It’s as if I spent the first half of my life

Absentmindedly dropping small fragments of myself

In all the places I visited.

Like when you drop a crystal bowl

Then it smashes into a thousand pieces.

And a week later, you find a piece in a surprising place:

Under the stove or behind the pot plant.

So now in the second half of my life

I am gathering the small pieces of myself

From those surprising places

And gluing them together to create the mosaic

Of myself.

And as I clean off the grout from around all the tiles

I find a much more intricate and interesting picture

Than when I started.

B EFORE TIME

H er feet pounded the red earth, sending puffs of fine dust into the air. The laboured rasp of her breath and the sweat beading her brow fed the panic rising in her belly. She ducked nimbly beneath tree limbs, and swerved deftly around the coarse grass tussocks. A fearful glance over her shoulder showed no pursuers, but she didn’t dare stop to catch her breath.

Ghostly faces, stern and mocking, swam through her mind, sending her pulse higher and her step faster. The sparse bush barely concealed her wiry frame, but it gave her a clear view down to the creek.

The old woman squatting at the edge of the water glanced up, and shielded her eyes to see the cause of the young woman’s haste.

They’re here! shouted the young woman, her voice taut with fear. Run!

The old woman rose to her feet, sweeping the baby into her arms and tucking it into a cloth sling. Two children played in the shallows, the sun glinting off their naked brown bodies. The young woman splashed hurriedly into the pool and dragged the children from their play.

I will take the children and go to the road, the young woman panted. So they follow me. She looked anxiously back the way she had come. The sound of an engine in the distance spurred them into action. It’s the baby they want. Take her, hide in the reeds on the other side of the creek.

A large black car emerged from a stand of trees and moved rapidly towards them. The young woman ran, holding the hands of the two young children, their feet barely touching the ground. The old woman waded across the creek and merged into the shadows of the trees on the other side.

The car stopped, undecided which to follow. The passenger door opened, and a man in a dark suit emerged. He removed his jacket, and spoke to the driver. The car took off after the young woman, and the man walked slowly and steadily towards the creek. The old woman moved soundlessly along the edges, away from the man in black. The baby began to whimper, and the old woman stuck her finger in its mouth.

I know you’re in there, the man called. Bring the child out.

The old woman slipped noiselessly along the creek, the reeds providing a dense screen. It was deep here, and she stopped where the water swirled lazily in a hidden rock pool. She immersed herself and the baby up to their necks, and waited. Her own heartbeat and the baby’s mingled in a chaos of ancient drumbeats, and the suckling noise sounded loud in the silence.

The sound of footsteps thudding along the bank turned to splashes as the man began to cross the creek. The old woman could see him through the reeds, angry lines on his face, red from effort and frustration. For a moment, she thought he was going to give up and turn back.

Then the baby cried, and he surged forward again. In dismay, the old woman sank deep into the water, covering both their heads and the noise that threatened to reveal them. Under the water, the old woman’s soft brown eyes looked into the baby’s clear blue ones. The baby gurgled and laughed at the game, sending bubbles to the surface.

A strong hand grasped the old woman by the hair and dragged her free of the water. She looked into the triumphant eyes of her hunter, and struggled to escape. Without a word spoken, he placed both hands around the baby and pulled her away. The old woman cried out in anguish, and the baby screamed in response.

Swiftly and efficiently, the man carried the baby back across the creek. The old woman followed, and from her lips came the sound of an ancient song, rising and falling in a strange cadence.

Stop that noise! the man said irritably. Bloody mumbo jumbo.

The old woman continued her song, rising to a pitch that turned into a wail of grief. She held herself around the waist and rocked back and forth, sobbing and moaning.

The black car swung into view, and stopped with a skid next to the man. He bundled the whimpering baby into the back, and climbed in after her. The car took off, leaving the fine red dust to settle over the old woman.

PART 1

KALEIDOSCOPE

C HAPTER 1

T he tide was low, exposing stretches of sand along the edges of the river. A lone woman stood watching the ripples from schools of fish, a small black dog at her side. The wind whipped at her hair, sending it into her eyes, and making her pull her coat tighter around her small frame. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the brisk, clean air in her lungs and on her face, feeling alive and immortal. It was deserted; the only sounds came from the lapping of the tide and the song of the wind. She looked longingly at the contours of the cliffs that wound their way upstream, feeling their call. Space seemed to fill her up and empty her at the same time.

She looked down at her companion. C’mon Raz, better get to work, eh? The dog wagged her tail vigorously, making her hips wobble from side to side.

Picking their way along the river’s edge, the woman stopped regularly to inspect the seaweed-strewn edges, extracting foreign objects and stuffing them into plastic bags. Raz duly sniffed every pile she poked at, as part of the ritual.

The river was eerily quiet. The giant pelicans that usually glided effortlessly, skimming the surface of the water with their bellies, were missing. Even the seagulls with their constant plaintive call were absent.

She felt uneasy. She’d had a nagging feeling all morning that something was not quite right. Watery dreams from the night before elusively skimmed the edges of her memory. On reaching the mouth of the river where it widened before emptying into the sea, she let out a cry of dismay. There lay strewn the remains of a drunken party—dozens of empty beer bottles and their cardboard cartons, take-away food containers, cigarette packets, drink cans, and spent balloons complete with vinyl ribbons. The tsunami of rubbish threatened to engulf her.

Hooligans, she muttered, feeling the bristles rise on the back of her neck. They could carry it all down here, but not back again. It just makes me cranky. She stopped and ruffled the dog’s ears. More cranky! She let off a sharp cackle that turned into a grunt as she bent over to gather the bottles. Half buried in the sand was a wreath, battered and broken from years in the water and sun. She pulled it out and read the inscription, its letters faded and incomplete.

Looks like it’s to someone called Leisa? Or maybe Leisha. She squinted, trying to make out the words. All my love, George. Sadness crept over her. Poor bugger. She shook it off. Another irresponsible jerk. He should’ve thought about throwing this crap into the water, she muttered, stuffing the wreath into her bag.

The bags were heavy now, and threatening to break under their load. Her return journey was a struggle, through which she swore repeatedly. Once back home she dumped the rubbish, and inspected her hands.

Phew! Her nose wrinkled in disgust. I smell like an alcho.

When she was midway through lathering up in the kitchen sink, the phone rang. Shit! she swore vehemently, considering for a moment not answering it.

Yeah, what? she demanded of the caller, wiping her hands on her pants.

Thank you, I’m fine. And how are you Johanna? came back the reply. Jo cringed at the sound of her full name, used deliberately by her boss to throw her off balance.

Madge, I’m on holidays. Couldn’t it have waited? Jo said irritably, knowing equally well how Margaret hated the name Madge.

It’s hardly holidays Jo; it’s the same break you always get when our clients go home. That’s the kind of wonderful conditions you enjoy at this job. But I need you to go up to the Centre, said Margaret.

Yeah, well since when does a person have to work on her days off? grumbled Jo.

Since those two new staff I told you about arrived. I want you to show them around and help them settle in, since you are the most senior staff member. And the closest.

Oh, Jesus, Margaret, that’s not a good reason. You know I hate doing that stuff.

Well, you could always live further away, like in town, suggested Margaret.

Jo scowled. Eastlay wasn’t far away, only a five-minute walk, but its manicured lawns and neat suburban blocks were anathema to Jo.

Oh, you know what? Jo’s voice suddenly became appeasing. I can’t. I just remembered. I have an appointment.

Jo, you haven’t had an appointment since I’ve known you, replied Margaret. No, I tell a lie. You had an appointment with your anger management counsellor after the—ahem—incident with the gentleman on the beach. Remember? When I vouched for you and-

Okay, okay, I get it, blackmail now! Jo exclaimed.

Margaret’s laugh was soft and gentle. Jo smiled in spite of herself.

Think of it as developing your relating skills, Margaret teased. Their names are Clare and Skye. They will be in the main hall at about 11.30. Make sure they get lunch, and BE NICE, Margaret emphasised. Oh, and did I tell you: they are both moving in with you?

Jo could hear more laughter, before the line went dead.

Shit! said Jo slamming down the phone. Shit, shit, shit, shit!

C HAPTER 2

A fter dawdling over a cup of tea, Jo put her coat back on and reluctantly left the warmth of her place to walk the short distance to the offices and treatment rooms of the Centre. On the way, she passed a overgrown, disorganised vegetable plot, where a woman on her hands and knees was digging energetically.

Hiya Sue, what’s the garden delivering at the moment? Jo lingered, leaning on the gatepost.

Sue sat back on her heels, brushing the hair off her face and leaving a smudge of dirt on her forehead. She had a small pile of vegetables beside her that she had just harvested, and a large pile of weeds sitting in the wheelbarrow.

Mostly just weeds by the look of this, Sue laughed.

Ah, gees! You’re kidding me! Jo exclaimed, pushing through the rickety wooden gate. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Jo picked through the pile of weeds and held up a sad looking plant accusingly.

"This, Jo pointed demonstratively with her free hand, is not just any weed. This is dandelion that I have been cultivating for two years!"

Ah, sorry. I didn’t realise- Sue began.

Jo looked at the pile and let out a cry of dismay. She bent down and picked up a pile of crushed leaves.

What have you done to my peppermint? Jo asked incredulously.

Sue blushed. Well it was running rampant through the whole garden, I just thought-

Sue, stop right there. Jo pointed an accusatory finger at her. You might be a nutrition expert and okay as a cook—

Only okay! Sue protested.

"And you know a bit about growing vegies, but when it comes to herbs you fail miserably." Jo dug a hole with her fingers and shoved the dandelion back in the earth.

Not everyone is a walking botanical encyclopaedia, Sue shot back, unperturbed.

It’s okay I think, there’s a few other dandelions still over there, Jo said, surveying the remaining garden bed. "You can relax. But if you ever need some extremely bitter dandelion root to clean the shit off your liver, Jo shook the dilapidated peppermint at Sue. Don’t come crying to me for it!"

"There’s no shit on my liver, Sue eyed Jo. Not like some around here."

My shit’s my business. Where are you planting the spring crop? demanded Jo. "Just so I can make sure you do not commit genocide on any more of my medicines."

I’m not up to it yet. I’m just cleaning up this bed and finishing pulling out the root vegetables. I’m experimenting with some biodynamic formulas on the compost—you get huge vegetables with massive levels of nutrients! Sue said, a note of genuine excitement in her voice.

Margaret’s blackmailed me into doing an induction with two new staff from the city. They probably won’t know what a vegetable even looks like, Jo complained. You could come with me, you know, a torture shared is a torture halved, or something like that.

I’ve gotta go help Celia with lunch. I’ll make you your all time favourite: broccoli and brussel sprouts, teased Sue.

I’ll have the genetically engineered ones that taste like camembert on crackers and a nice red wine, Jo quipped.

I’ll see to it straight away, laughed Sue, standing up with a groan and holding her lower back. Hey, thanks for that contact, by the way, Sue said. I rang them and they’re coming out next week to check the soil for contaminants.

No problem. I had a lot of contact with that guy when my organic farm was tested. He helped me prove the aerial crop sprayers had over sprayed onto my land. Fat lotta good that was though, Jo reminisced. Once it’s poisoned- Although Jo shrugged dismissively, she felt the weight of her loss heavy in her guts.

"Well, if you hadn’t left there, you wouldn’t have come here. We might never have become friends. Sue smiled in a way that made Jo feel better. Anyway, better get this lot to the kitchen. Seeya at lunch."

Jo sighed and walked reluctantly toward the Centre’s gym hall, resting her hand heavily on the door handle, and opening it as though she were entering the dentist’s surgery.

At one end of the hall, the silhouette of a woman, arms folded across her chest, looked silently out the window. She was tall, and wiry, and Jo thought kind of tough looking. Her lips moved silently as she listened through earphones, her dark hair casting her eyes in shadow. At the opposite end of the hall, a young, lithe woman was absorbed in the graceful dance of the yoga movements Jo recognised as the ‘Salute to the Sun’. Her long, straight blonde hair, pulled hastily back in a ponytail, swayed precariously with each movement, threatening to slip its bonds and spill out of control. She kept her eyes closed, her attention absorbed in some other inner place.

The dark woman was in direct contrast: a rigid, unmoving statue. Feeling Jo staring at her, the woman turned and stared back, in what Jo felt to be a somewhat hostile way. Just at that moment, the blonde-haired woman finished her salutes and opened her eyes.

Oh! Hi! The blonde skipped over and landed with a small jump just in front of Jo, her hair finally escaping its constraints, and spilling over her shoulders.

My name’s Skye, and that’s Clare. Skye gestured over to the window. Clare walked over to them, her face a mask. Me and Clare met coming down on the train from Sydney, Skye said. It’s a really quick trip, but we got to know each other heaps well. I had to come all the way from Byron Bay, and that’s a trip I don’t want to have to do too many times! Skye revolved in a circle, her arms extended to the ceiling. This place is ab-so-lutely amazing! She dropped her arms and hugged herself. "I’m so excited, healing is my absolute passion, you know, I have been just dying to work and live in this place my whole life!" Skye beamed at Jo, bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of her feet, as though the ground was too hot.

That must be a whole 15 years then, muttered Jo.

What? Oh, no, Skye said breezily. I’m twenty-three. That’s okay, people often think I’m younger than I am. Skye started rolling up her yoga mat with what Jo considered was unwarranted precision. "It’s my energy. It just bubbles over. I know I talk too much-everyone tells me. Skye stood up balancing her mat across her shoulders. So-where to from here? You’re Jo, yeah?"

Jo sighed again, the effort of explaining herself to the woman-child bearing heavily down on her chest. With an effort she answered: Yes, I’m Jo, and-

Oh-my-Guru! Skye interjected. Her head fell back and she stared at the ceiling with her mouth open. Dumping the mat unceremoniously, she rustled through her oversized cloth shoulder bag and produced a phone.

"No-one will believe this! An authentic Tibetan mandala!" Skye held up her phone to take a photo.

C’mon, time’s wasting. Got lots to do. Jo impatiently ushered Skye out the door and motioned Clare to follow.

"It’s the one commissioned by the Dalai Lama himself!" Skye started texting furiously. "I have to post this on my blog. No-one will believe how awesome this place is."

I’ll let Margaret know you approve, Jo said, escorting them down the corridor. Staff room is in there, she said, pointing at a closed door, and kept walking.

"Oh, she already knows that," Skye replied, peeking through the door then running to catch up. "The Centre has the best reputation ever."

Yes and that reputation is hard fought and won. Jo eyed her two new recruits critically, feeling sure they wouldn’t measure up.

Acupuncturist works in there. Jo pointed to a closed door. Margaret works here. Jo indicated a larger office located centrally to all the treatment rooms, with clear walls on two sides. Where she keeps her eye on everything.

"Obviously," Skye said in a whispered aside to Clare. Jo looked on irritated as Skye pressed her cupped hands around her eyes against the glass wall and peered inside.

Moving on. The Osteopath works out of here. Jo flicked open a door and went to close it again. She just wanted this over and done with.

Skye held the door open with her foot and peered