Unlocking the Keys: Ancient Wisdom, Modern Mystery and a Kiwi Traveller

By Vicky Cavanagh-Hodge

From the chaos of the Egyptian revolution to the tranquility of Japans temples, Unlocking the Keys presents a journey of discovery. This is the travel memoir of a Kiwi woman wandering the globe with her husbandtwo exciting years exploring hidden corners, volunteering on organic farms, and visiting some of the worlds most enigmatic sacred sites. Drawing from her experience as a healer and spiritual teacher, author Vicky Cavanagh-Hodge offers an intriguing world view, as she delves into far-flung cultures, ancient marvels and modern mysteries.

Unlocking the Keys focuses on freedom and inner knowing as it explores the stages of travel. Theres the pleasure of planning the adventureperusing maps, scouring the internet and poring through brochures. Then theres being there: living the dream, smelling the air and getting up close and personal with the locals. Finally, there is the enjoyment that only comes with reflection: the looking back and remembering as you relive the moments that have captured your heart and understand how they have changed you.

Following the life-shaping experiences that took Vicky and her husband around the globe, Unlocking the Keys delves into a world of infinite possibilities, encouraging you to listen to the voice within and remember your dreams.

Unlocking the Keys is a story of today and todays world seen through the travellers eye, but it is much more than this. It is a connection to the soul and an entry to the secrets of past civilizations and past lives that are still within the soul memory of us all. Vickys story touches a chord of ancient memory and inner knowing.

-Judy Satori, International Author, Teacher and Channel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Jul 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452510606

Vicky Cavanagh-Hodge

Vicky Cavanagh-Hodge is a holistic healer and spiritual teacher from New Zealand. In her writing, she combines this experience with a passion for travel—a passion that has led her to more than fifty countries on five continents.

Book preview

UNLOCKING

THE

KEYS

Ancient Wisdom, Modern Mystery

and a Kiwi Traveller

Vicky Cavanagh-Hodge

BalboaLogoBCDARKBW.ai

Copyright © 2013  Vicky Cavanagh-Hodge.

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.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

In the interests of privacy, the names of some people have been changed.

Editing by Tanya Granich

[e-mail]

and

Sarah Clinton

Back cover photograph by Simon Hodge

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

Balboa Press

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www.balboapress.com.au

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-1059-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-1060-6 (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.

Balboa Press rev. date: 7/8/2013

CONTENTS

Preamble

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For Simon…

Thank you for believing.

There is much that goes into a book—both seen and unseen.

As you read, I invite you to open to that which lies beyond the words.

In doing so, you open to a world of infinite possibility.

Sas-que-waa, there is more….

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PREAMBLE

W riting a book is a funny thing. I don’t know about you, but my whole life I’ve felt there was a book lurking within, just waiting for the right moment to spontaneously burst forth in a torrent of poetic prose.

But then, I’ve thought a lot of things in my time—like when I was a child, I thought I’d like to be a Private Investigator. The product, I’m sure, of numerous mystery novels and an episode too many of Remington Steele. Now granted, I do possess a certain eye for detail; a quirky power of perception for life’s subtleties. Patience, however, is simply not my greatest virtue. In the story of the tortoise and the hare, I am certainly the hare!

A phase longing to be a courtroom lawyer came next—perhaps fuelled by my desire for truth. Of course, I was blissfully naive to the actual workings of our antediluvian judicial system. Yes, it is fair to say, I was born with my rose tinted glasses, well and truly on.

Then the science teacher phase set in—a somewhat misguided interpretation of my passion for universal mysteries. Or, perhaps, an early glimpse of my enthusiasm for spouting forth life’s wonders—to anyone brave enough to listen.

So what ensued?

Well, by nineteen, I was a Real Estate Agent—not the slightest bit phased by the fact I’d never even rented a house, let alone owned one. I was fresh out of home and bursting with enthusiasm. I was ready to launch myself at life, and did so with boundless gusto. Such zest propelled me forward into a number of sales and marketing roles; the natural playground of a born talker and over-achiever.

The result: by my late twenties, annual burnout had become an expected norm, and cynicism was taking hold. My body hurt, my life was a mess, and all I had to show for it was money in the bank (and there wasn’t even much of that). Something needed to change, and it needed to change fast. I guess that was the beginning of it; the first of many great shifts—both inner and outer. My life had become a runaway bus, and I no longer recognised the driver. It had deviated so far from who I was, so far from the happy kid I remember; a kid who took such delight in family camping trips, school pet days, horse riding and pitching in on the farm. It was a life of simple pleasures; led from the heart and lived in the moment, and I knew I wanted to experience it again. It’s all I’d ever wanted. Somehow, I’d just lost sight of it. Yet, buried below the layers of life’s flotsam, I knew the desire lived on. It was simply a case of clearing the debris and finding the me beneath it.

So, how did it happen?

It started with a job that pushed every button I had. The details are not important, but the basic synopsis goes like this: I detest my job so much, I simply walk into my boss’s office one afternoon and quit—not pausing for a second to consider what would happen next.

Whilst some may consider the move hasty—and many parts of me did—in truth, the moment represented pure liberation. It felt amazing! A sudden wave of euphoria engulfed me, welling up like a hot air balloon ready to take flight. My very being pulsed with an unrestrained joy for life, clarity focused my mind, and all doubts were cast aside by the surge within. I couldn’t stop smiling and my heart was so full, it felt like it might burst. I felt so alive. So vibrant. Suddenly every door was open, and every path possible. I could do anything. I could be me!

With no job or income source in sight, I harnessed every ounce of that exaltation to take my next step; delving within to pull out the forgotten whispers of the heart. I’d had a wild ride on the career rollercoaster, but it was time for a gentler option. I was ready to tame the hare within, and channel my excess energy into a career more closely aligned with my true nature.

Over a number of years, I’d been pursuing an interest in holistic health, exploring several natural options. I’d completed correspondence papers in Anatomy and Physiology, also studying Reiki and Cranio-Sacral Therapy. It was a clear indicator my higher self was taking care of me, long before my muddled mind caught up. So, pushing fear aside, I launched my own healing practice.

Seven years on, I love my work. I am infinitely grateful for the doors it has opened and the people it brings me in contact with, every day. It has unlocked an entirely new world view.

The notion of a book has re-emerged. Perhaps this is the moment I’ve been waiting for…

CHAPTER ONE

D on’t say it, don’t say it, I silently plead. With eyes locked firmly on the industrial carpet below my feet, I concentrate on my breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. That’s it, Vicky; you can do it. The internal dialogue continues.

I’m an emotional wreck, a giant knot of matted feelings threatening to burst forth in an incredibly raw display of sentiment. Sentimental, that’s it. I am feeling sentimental. It’s okay, sentimental is okay; I can do this. Breathe in, breathe out.

Oblivious to my turmoil, the immigration officer stamps my passport, looks me in the eye, and with a broad Kiwi accent says, Welcome home.

There it is. He said it.

With his casual nature, easy smile, and just two words, this amiable official unravels me. In an almighty flourish of emotion, tears pour down my cheeks. Unable to restrain my sentiment any longer, I let go great gasping sobs—a gentle sniffle seemingly too small to suffice.

Th-th-thaaank you, I mumble to the stunned gentleman and brush past the counter, falling into the arms of Simon, my travel companion and husband.

"You knew it would happen, didn’t you?" he says light-heartedly as he gently rubs my back.

I look into his dark eyes and realise he’s right. I’m an emotional type, so tears are not unusual, and returning to my homeland today is more than enough to set me off. You see, I love this country. I love the soaring mountains, the long coastlines, the acres of rolling green grass, the rugged wilderness, and the easy and informal way of life. I love the very essence of the land, the ever-present echo of nature, and that very special something that silently calls.

There are undoubtedly places in this world that touch the soul more readily than others; places where you feel something stir in the depths of your being. New Zealand is one such place, and I never tire of meeting people who, upon learning I am a Kiwi, embark on a nostalgic account of their own trip to our distant land. No matter who they are, there is an inevitable shift in their energy, a smile lighting them up as they wax lyrical about our island nation.

It is a remarkable phenomenon, how a little country on the far side of the globe can pack such a punch. Perhaps it’s what Thomas Bracken was hoping for when he wrote our national anthem in the 1800s, including the line "make our praises heard afar." Mission accomplished, I’d say. Well done, Thomas.

Deep within, I feel infinite gratitude for the privilege of calling this land home, and standing now in the customs hall of Auckland Airport, I let that sentiment brim to the surface. Unabashedly, I allow nostalgia to overwhelm me and cry sweet tears of affection for my native soil. Dorothy’s right: there is no place like home.

Of course, as much as I love home, I love travelling too—hence, the airport and the passport stamp. Right now, Simon and I are returning from a two-year global sojourn: twenty-four delightful months of travelling, working, and exploring abroad. I guess you could call it a middle-aged gap year (or two, in our case).

Travelling is a shared passion, and we’ve taken every opportunity we could over the years to explore distant lands. This, however, has been our longest stint away. It’s something you’d think we’d have spent months planning, and I guess on one hand, we did. We had always toyed with the notion of taking a year off—to just see what might happen—but of course, there was always a list of reasons why we couldn’t. In late 2009, quite unexpectedly, all that changed. We simply woke one morning with a different perspective. It was as if all our fears had vanished in the night, and there were no excuses anymore. We just knew it was time to go—and truth be told, it had only been fear holding us back.

Once the talking started, there was no stopping us. In an enthusiastic rush of fearlessness, one thing led to another, and before there was time to reconsider, we’d booked two Around-the-World airfares. That was it. Lady Destiny had played her hand, and the stage was set.

Now, back in New Zealand twenty-four hours after landing, I have sufficient sleep under my belt to regain my equilibrium. We’re in the city of Auckland, a couple of thousand kilometres from our home in the deep-south. We have some time before our final leg, and over brunch we find ourselves reflecting on an extraordinary voyage. Mulling over the remarkable places we’ve been, I recall the incredible twists and turns, the moments I never could have anticipated.

My thoughts drift as images come flooding back—the chaos of Egypt, the colours of Greece, the enchantment of England, the beauty of Laos, the tranquillity of Japan—so many places, so many memories.

Where were we this time last year? Simon asks.

January 2011. It takes only a moment to cast my mind back, a smile lighting my face as I remember. A year ago, we were enjoying our final days in Jordan before heading to Egypt, nine months into our adventure and well and truly in travel mode. Of course, a year ago we had no idea of the events that would soon unfold!

I’ve always said travel has three stages of enjoyment. First, there’s the pleasure of planning it: perusing maps, scouring the Internet, and poring through the brochures. Second is actually being there: living the dream, smelling the air, hearing the sounds, and getting up close and personal. Finally, there is the enjoyment that only comes with reflection: the looking back and the remembering. Sometimes I think that’s the best part, reliving the moments that have captured your heart and understanding how they have changed you.

It is so easy for me to relive it now, to let my mind wander, stretching beyond time and space. In the theatre of my imagination it is so clear, so real, and so very close. I close my eyes, and I can smell the dusty landscape of Jordan, feel the warmth of the sun, hear the trill of the Arabic language—and just like that, I am there once more.

Gazing in awe at the soft pink hue of the stone, I feel a sense of intrepidness as the sheer cliffs of the shadowy gorge close around me. We are in the Siq, the kilometre-long rock corridor leading to the ancient Nabataean city of Petra. It is a magnificent place, the remains of a city hewn from solid stone more than two thousand years ago. Once home to thousands and a well-established stop on the ancient trade route, it stands today as a stunning collection of expertly carved tombs and multileveled dwellings with elaborate facades, intricate water systems, and narrow winding stairs. It was recently added to a modernised list of the world’s great wonders and having spent days amidst its glory, I understand why.

It’s our fourth day in Petra and yet, as we near the end of the Siq and catch a glimpse of the famed Treasury building ahead, I am enthralled once more—enthralled and, of course, transported into my very own Indiana Jones moment (the one where Harrison Ford gallops on horseback through the Siq with the grandeur of the Treasury building in the background). Covering the last few metres, I can’t help but let the dun-dun-da-da of the movie soundtrack escape my lips.

As the music fades, I find myself amidst a throng of day trippers clicking frantically on their favourite digi-devices. I notice a large contingent of Japanese tourists posing with serious faces beside the horses and carts they’ve arrived in. I’ve often wondered why the Japanese tourists I’ve seen on my travels refrain from smiling when being photographed. Their travel albums must look so grim.

As for the rest of the crowd, they’re trying desperately to get a photo of the Treasury with a colourfully adorned camel lounging so perfectly in front of it. It’s a good shot, I think, content to have captured it yesterday.

Then there are others who, like me, have noticed the local Bedouin guy who is the spitting image of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. His long curls and naturally Kohl dark eyes mirroring Johnny in eyeliner. The resemblance is remarkable, and I surreptitiously take a photo to add to our burgeoning collection (of travel photos that is: not pictures of Johnny Depp).

We weave our way through the pack, knowing few will venture beyond this site. Delighted to have a fabulous shot for the wall back home, they’ll retrace their steps through the Siq, content with their day of exploration. But for us, there is more. The mountains are beckoning, the rock is calling, and we allow its rosy glow to envelop us as we set out to explore yet another patch of this enigmatic terrain.

We are heading for the monastery on the far side of the valley, and I know an eight-hundred-step assent awaits us. At the bottom, donkey drivers congregate, offering to ferry us to the top for a modest fee. It is very tempting, but in the spirit of pilgrimage, we decide to tackle it on foot.

At around step three hundred, I start to question our hasty decision, and by step five hundred, I am sure we have been overly ambitious. I scan the surroundings, looking for any hint of a four-legged friend willing to whisk me away. My thighs are screaming, or at least I think they are—it may all be in my head. Perhaps I should stop counting.

Several steps later, all thoughts of tired limbs begin to fade, and anticipation rises in its place. I find myself considering the wonder of these steps—all eight hundred of them—carved into the rock and still perfectly intact two millennia on. I ponder the thousands, if not millions, who have gone before me. And I contemplate the faith that drove men to carve this grandiose place of worship in such an unlikely destination. What inspired them to begin, and what vision could possibly have kept them going, day in, day out, chipping away at the unyielding mountain face?

The path narrows and I sense we are nearing the top. Moments later, the path opens onto a large flat area and there, soaring above us, is the forty-seven metre high colonnaded frontage of the monastery. An almost impossible sight to comprehend, bursting forth from the solid rock mass, we have just ascended. In the centre, one understated opening marks its single entrance.

Inside, the walls and ceiling are perfectly smooth. Some covered in thick soot from the fires of previous inhabitants, and others showing the vast array of colours imbued in this rock. Swirling blue, deep ochre, blood red and dense purple dance together amidst the rosy pink sandstone. I’ve never seen such an extraordinary display of nature’s colours.

An entrepreneurial local has created a cosy café overlooking the site. Nestled in a wide mouthed cave, it is an enticing spot to rest our weary legs and breathe in the spectacle before us. Ordering two Arabic Coffees, we take a seat.

Our drinks arrive. The two centimetres of thick dark sludge in the bottom of the cup is a trade mark of the traditional brewing method in these parts. A tradition I sadly note is waning as growing numbers in the Middle East turn to instant powder. In fact, so rampant is the spread of this modern masquerade that it has been difficult at times to find an alternative. In Syria, I recall ordering an Espresso from a roadside vendor and watching in stunned silence as the teenage barista sprinkled instant Nescafe on the top!

Here, in a part of the world with a long and rich coffee history—a mere stone’s throw from the very origins of the drink—globalisation is taking hold. Centuries of culture threaten to be lost by the persuasion of a corporate giant’s marketing budget.

In the manner of an ardent warrior, I vow to take a stand, offering my daily-fix dollar only to those honouring the traditional techniques of brewing. If I can’t find a cup of the good stuff I’ll go without, rather than give in to the inferior quality of instant and all its marketing propaganda.

Ranting complete, we take our time descending, stopping often to enjoy the nooks and crannies along the way. I smile at the donkey keepers as we reach the bottom. Gathered in deep conversation, they seem to have lost interest in the day’s monetary potential, the trials and tribulations of Bedouin life joyfully taking precedence.

As we amble our way back to the desert town of Wadi Musa, gratitude flows. Gratitude for the opportunity to explore this Nabataean monument, for the way it has touched our hearts and filled us with awe. Yet even deeper, there is gratitude for the very rock from which it was created. This is a very special place, and I think the Nabataean knew that long before they even lifted their first hammer and chisel. Perhaps that’s what drove them to undertake such a monumental feat. But I wonder what guided them here in the first place.

We could easily spend more time in Jordan, but something is urging us on. I have a sense that getting to Egypt sooner rather than later is important, and having come to trust those instincts, we make the necessary plans. I guess in time, we’ll understand why.

It’s an early start next morning with a 7am pickup. Buses are few and far between here, so we’ve hired a car to take us to the port of