The Soul's Compass: A Traveller's Way Home

By Nikki Cornfield

While navigating the sometimes challenging effects of an expatriate life, author Nikki Cornfield documents her search for a sense of self and purpose. Born restless, with an acute need to satisfy her soul and the courage to follow her instincts, she traverses an unconventional path. Guided by her feelings and the ‘messengers’ who appear as she journeys across three continents, she finally finds answers from an unexpected source.

As Cornfield begins to connect the dots of her life, she increasingly notices the serendipities that appear to direct her path. As she learns to trust this invisible source of guidance, memories begin to reappear, further illuminating her spiritual voyage and return to her authentic self.

In this memoir, Cornfield shares the sometimes brutal, but always transformational process of emotional and physical healing, and demonstrates the importance of listening to our inner voice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Oct 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781982297879

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Copyright © 2023 Nikki Cornfield.

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 author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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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.

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ISBN: 978-1-9822-9786-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-9787-9 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/16/2023

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Contents

Chapter 1     ‘Where it all Began’

Chapter 2     ‘Come Fly with Me’

Chapter 3     ‘Life in the Air’

Chapter 4     ‘First Class Travel’

Chapter 5     ‘Longing for Change’

Chapter 6     ‘Finding Peace in the Chaos’

Chapter 7     ‘A Birth and a Death’

Chapter 8     ‘There’s One and There’s Another’

Chapter 9     ‘And Then We Were Five’

Chapter 10   ‘Opportunity Knocks’

Chapter 11   ‘Moving Down Under’

Chapter 12   ‘A different kind of Christmas’

Chapter 13   ‘Searching for Direction’

Chapter 14   ‘A Medical Blunder’

Chapter 15   ‘Singapore The Exotic Butterfly’

Chapter 16   ‘East Meets West’

Chapter 17   ‘Culture Shock’

Chapter 18   ‘Universal Help’

Chapter 19   ‘Back To My Childhood Dream’

Chapter 20   ‘Becoming Yoga’

Chapter 21   ‘A Sense Of Home’

Chapter 22   ‘The Wild Card’

Chapter 23   ‘A Sense Of Belonging’

Chapter 24   ‘Searching For Meaning’

Chapter 25   ‘A Journey Of Self-Discovery’

Chapter 26   ‘A Need To Find Home Again’

Chapter 27   ‘Pressure Mounts’

Chapter 28   ‘Longing for Roots’

Chapter 29   ‘Global Nomads’

Chapter 30   ‘Finding My Voice’

Chapter 31   ‘Lost Identity’

Chapter 32   ‘A Major Breakthrough’

Chapter 33   ‘Returning Full Circle’

Chapter 34   ‘Tapping Into The Wisdom Within’

Chapter 35   ‘Discovering The Healer’

Chapter 36   ‘A Soul Connection is Made’

Chapter 37   ‘Coming home to me’

Chapter 38   ‘What is my message?’

Chapter 39   ‘The Serendipities Continued’

Chapter 40   ‘The World Shuts Down’

Chapter 41   ‘A rude awakening’

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

‘WHERE IT ALL

BEGAN’

M y story begins some five decades ago in my childhood home in Wales where life revolved around our garden and the ocean.

I recall Mum peeling her wedding veil back from the raspberry bushes, revealing the plump red jewels, wet with morning dew, the sun’s rainbows dancing around them. Mum never wasted anything and bits of her dress were scattered around the garden, protecting the fruits and vegetables from bugs and caterpillars. Our garden was long and narrow with Dad’s potting shed at the bottom near the old oak tree. The greenhouse stood next to neat rows of potatoes, broad beans, onions, or whatever new vegetable Dad was trying out that year. He was like a scientist, trialling new combinations whilst Mum oversaw experimentation in the kitchen.

I remember being four or five, sitting patiently waiting for the raspberries’ uncovering, a cold metal colander between my legs, my back warmed by the summer sun. My legs would itch from the freshly cut grass and the ladybirds that crawled over my calves and thighs. Dad told me he didn’t have to use pesticides as ladybirds naturally stopped the pest insects from eating our food. I loved searching for that glimpse of ripe fruit hiding beneath a leaf or tucked at the back soaking up the secret rays of sunshine. I was told not to pick unless the colour was perfect all over, and when I found one, I placed it gently into my colander being careful not to bruise it.

Dad would sport a white knotted handkerchief on his head and could always be heard whistling the same line from ‘Roll out the Barrel’. As he stripped off his shirt, I would hear him say, ‘If it’s good for the garden it’s good for me too’.

My earliest memories of food are inexorably linked to the seasons. Summer was marked by the taste of earthy new potatoes drizzled with butter and chopped chives or that first bite of tiny deep red tomatoes, their yellow pips exploding onto my shirt. The smell of warm toffee coated apples signified autumn and the diminishing trickle of produce marked the approach of winter, my least favourite season.

Mum loved to bake and there was always a cake to mix or a pan to stir. Meals finished with apples or plums freshly stewed with cinnamon and cloves. All from the garden. Meals were a ritual, an honoured event to which we all contributed. One of us would set the table, another would cut herbs or pull something up from the ground. Dad’s job was to wash the food using the outside tap and check for buried caterpillars. Mum would grumble that there was always too much produce and could often be found stewing plums or pushing raspberries through a sieve to make jam. Pickled vegetables would jostle for space amongst chutneys and preserves. The garden and the food it gave us represented the roots that connected me to the earth. The family rituals of eating together instilled in me a deep connection with and a love for food and the way it could bring people together. Food to me was more than nourishment, it gave me roots and love and represented family and togetherness.

Every Christmas my brother and I would watch Mum at the market auction as she jumped up and down with her numbered stick trying to bid for our Christmas turkey. Later she would heave its still warm body onto the chopping board and began the long process of plucking. The kitchen would fill with clouds of creamy white feathers and the stench of fresh flesh. In the garage, I had to duck my head to avoid freshly shot pheasants hanging by their feet from hooks in the ceiling. They swung for up to nine days to get ‘gamier’ in flavour and to tenderize the meat. Mum made pheasant, casseroled with vegetables from the garden, a liberal soaking of red wine and a dollop of home-made redcurrant jelly.

My love affair with food and its place in the family evolved on a school exchange trip to Roscoff in Northwest France. It was here that I connected with food on a deeper level. In France, food and eating are a national past time. Everything is about simplicity. Few, but high-quality ingredients ensure indulgence and pleasure. Pace is important. Preparation is completed slowly, from careful selection at markets to the savouring of slowly cooked meals, unhurriedly eaten.

My love of travel appeared at a young age whilst watching The Holiday Show and Wish You Were on Here on TV. These programmes ignited my desire to travel and inspired a feeling that I wanted my life to be larger than my surroundings. I sat each week glued to the screen watching Judith Chalmers in places I didn’t know existed. Smiling at the camera, she would be framed by palm trees, blinding white sand and a blue sea so unlike the grey one I swam in down the road. Each week as her tan became deeper and her teeth whiter, she took me out of my living room and into her world. I wanted to do a job like hers, I wanted that life so badly that I had to have it and knew nothing was going to stop me.

At the time, I relied on books from my local library to show me the world and remember seeing an air hostess depicted on the page of a careers book. I was captivated by the image of the immaculately dressed woman and the sharp glimmer of metal from the wing behind her. The image left an impression on me and further inspired my longing to see the world. I took the book home and kept returning to the page with the air hostess. Through the thoughts and actions that stemmed from watching travel programmes and staring at the picture in the library book, I was unknowingly putting my intention out to the universe and planting the seeds to my future career in travel.

One day as I sat despondently with nothing to do, my mother suggested we visit her friend Betty, who had been my introduction to the mystical as she was always discussing astrology or tarot cards. Whilst I didn’t understand everything being said, I loved the clinking wind chimes that swung from Betty’s trees, the pungent smelling incense and the candles that flickered in the corners of her trinket-laden home. Whilst Mum busied herself making tea, I told Betty about my uncertainty over what I should do with my life. Betty told me about a lady called Brenda who used tarot cards and I begged Mum to get her number. At the time, I didn’t have any firm beliefs on such things, but I felt drawn to the idea of it. Mum agreed and we walked to Brenda’s brown-bricked bungalow, rang the doorbell and waited in anticipation.

She isn’t going to tell us anything bad Mum, I am sure she isn’t allowed to do that, I said with reassurance that I didn’t feel.

When the door opened, I saw a grey-haired woman with tight curls and a beaming smile. She looked nothing like a mysterious gypsy muttering spells over a crystal ball.

Hello, my dears, she said, before enveloping me in her ample bosom.

It felt like visiting Grandma. Brenda beckoned us into a shabby, but welcoming living room where the two bars of her gas fire glowed behind a black cat stretched out and purring in its warmth. Brenda introduced us to her husband, Granville, who sat like a beached whale in his armchair, shirt buttons struggling over a swollen belly and yellow stained fingers resting on its mound, pipe in hand. He grunted hello before Brenda scooted us into her spare room.

Why are you here dear? Brenda asked me as she held my hands and stared as if she could see inside of me. It’s okay, she continued, I am not going to tell you anything bad dear, I am just here to help guide you.

I felt my muscles soften and relaxed into the chair as I started talking.

I have a boyfriend called Eddie who I love very much, I said. But I want to travel and something strong is pulling me elsewhere. I need to go and explore, but I need him too. I want some reassurance that it’s the right thing to leave him.

Let’s shuffle these cards, shall we? said Brenda, as she opened the drawer by her knees.

The cards were wrapped in a thick piece of blackcurrant coloured crushed velvet and tied with a gold braided curtain cord. Like a magic trick, she whipped them out and laid them face down on the table. A gold filling in her mouth reflected the light from a candle she had lit in front of her as she placed her warm plump hands over mine, closed her eyes and began to hum.

I am connecting to your soul, so we must be still and sense each other’s energy, she said, stroking my hands.

I closed my eyes and sensed some change in the atmosphere, a subtle shift in the energy that was now different. I was sensing something, but I had no idea what it was.

Well, my dear, she said. What a journey you have ahead of you. I see a man waiting patiently, but he isn’t the man who will be by your side in the future. There will be someone else very special a long way into the future when the time is right.

Then her face changed, and she looked at me earnestly.

I see a life filled with light and so many opportunities, she said. Your lifelong search for answers will take you to many places around the world.

Excitement rushed through my body at the vision, but also curiosity at what she meant by ‘search for answers’.

Do you have any questions? she asked.

I want to know what to do next, I said.

Go and buy The Lady magazine, she said. Look inside for the wonderful opportunities they have for young people like you.

I felt like my life and its journey were unfolding on the table in front of me. I finally had some clarity, an affirmation of what I wanted and how to look for it. My heart soared with expectation and possibility. As I left the room, I knew I would return one day. The reading and conversation had satisfied a deep need in me for knowledge and guidance.

I took Brenda’s advice and subscribed to The Lady magazine, a publication renowned for its classified advertisements for domestic service and childcare. It was, in its own words, ‘a high-class’ woman’s magazine which had been supplying ‘everything a dignified lady could wish to read since 1885’. It showed me a world so different from the small streets and semi-detached houses that surrounded me. Reading it strengthened the deep yearning I had for travel, adventure, and glamour.

Two months later, I accepted a job in Geneva, caring for two young children; I felt elated. The experience started well. I spent the flight drinking champagne and visualising the perks I had been promised, such as a soft top Mercedes and winter skiing trips. Unfortunately, reality crept in shortly after landing. Zurich was not as I had imagined it and I found myself unprepared for looking after children. I was desperately lonely during the daytimes and struggled to make conversation with the parents in the evenings. A few weeks after my arrival, the mother’s brother, Gerry, came to visit. He was single, lively, and gregarious, and told me how he loved having the freedom to go where he pleased. One evening as Gerry sat describing his latest adventures, I realised that he was doing what I wanted to be doing, but instead I was stuck watching someone else’s children. His arrival was the mirror I needed to accept I was on the wrong path.

Chapter Two

‘COME FLY WITH ME’

M y first job after returning home was as a medical records clerk in a local hospital. Working in a windowless room doing repetitive tasks was soul destroying. Surrounded by the low energy of sick patients and unambitious, uninteresting colleagues just strengthened my determination to do something extraordinary with my life. I felt a constant deep longing to go somewhere else.

A year after finishing school, however, I was still unsure about what to do with my life, so I decided to apply to university and study for a BA in Business (Travel and Tourism) at Bristol University. After being accepted, however, I became unsettled at the prospect of committing to something for three years without a clear end goal. I began to wonder if, once again, I had chosen to follow my instincts instead of thinking rationally. Three months later those feelings were dwarfed by grief following the loss of my grandad just before Christmas.

Upon returning to Bristol after the holidays, I knew I was going in the wrong direction and was brave enough to listen to my instincts which were telling me to quit university. I took a job at a make-up counter whilst I figured out my next steps. Dressed in my uniform of a white A -line dress and flat shoes, I found myself staring longingly at the impeccably groomed air hostesses who visited my counter. I recognized the longing for what it was and suddenly knew what I wanted to do. I later realised I was being nudged onto a path that aligned with my soul’s journey.

The problem was I didn’t have any relevant experience and was too young to apply to airlines as they were only inviting applications from those aged 21 and above. This was still a year away for me. I decided to go home and use the time to gain some experience. I applied for a range of jobs including nursing. My parents patiently drove me up and down the country to attend interviews, but eventually I decided that I didn’t want to be a nurse. The experience enabled me to learn for myself, which I later discovered was the process by which I make decisions. I need to try things, feel them and, where necessary, go around in a big circle before getting to the right place. Going straight from A to B just doesn’t work for me.

I decided to apply for a campsite courier job in France with Sun Sites Holiday Group. Campsite couriers work for tour operators who rent out pitches for the summer on campsites. Their ‘static’ caravans remain in one place all season. My responsibilities included cleaning the tents and caravans and making sure customers had a trouble-free stay. The latter meant mucking in with any job that needed doing. It was this variety that appealed to me, plus I would be active and outdoors every single day. That my days off would give me plenty of time to travel and share adventures with new friends was a distinct advantage.

Two weeks prior to leaving, a warning bell sounded inside my head. I didn’t have a clue where in France I would be stationed and the prospect of six months without seeing my family or boyfriend, Eddie, was overwhelming. But I ignored my inner voice and left. I was allocated a place on ‘Castel Parc de Fierbois’, a large, beautiful site next to a lake in the Loire Valley. My first task was to help assemble a campsite for the families that would soon arrive. It was a daunting assignment and as the wind howled through the empty field, I was completely panic stricken. I ached for Eddie, mourned for my grandad and felt guilt at leaving my parents and my grandma who was now without her soul mate.

I knew that I had got myself into another situation. But I stuck with it. I cleaned mouldy tents, ovens encrusted with decaying food and hair covered pillows. I cursed myself that I had volunteered for this role. It seemed a world away from The Lady magazine and my plans of a glamorous life.

At night, I lay awake disturbed by the wind, whistling through gaps in the windows and door of my small caravan. Relentless rain left the ground a gooey mess and as the field became more saturated, I became more miserable. On days off, I would visit local villages with pretty gardens. I often pictured my dad in our own garden. I felt sad that I was missing the emergence of lettuces, brown bottomed onions, and the sweet spring smell of the first cuttings of snow peas.

It was whilst working at the camp I first recognized a link between the weather and my emotions. The wind and cold impacted my feelings of stability and made me feel vulnerable and volatile. As the warm sunshine increased, I relaxed and started to enjoy the construction of the site. The season progressed and things became busier. There was no time to eat and my feeding habits became erratic, the opposite of my family’s ritualistic food preparation and enjoyment of eating together. At night, whilst I lay on my mattress looking at bugs settling into corners, I noticed the bed becoming more uncomfortable. I could feel my vertebrae digging into the mattress. No one told me I was losing weight and I didn’t notice it myself as it was gradual. I wasn’t sick and had lots of energy, but I had lost 30lb from my already slim frame.

When away from the campsite, I would reflect on what I had achieved. I felt proud of myself for not going home. When the time came to leave, I felt different, emotionally stronger. I had learned to be by myself and had a glimpse of the person I wanted to be when away from the moulds of home, family and relationships.

I knew my parents would be waiting for me at the bus stop. As I greeted them, I was unaware of how my clothes hung off my skeletal body. My parents didn’t mention it. As we drove through my town, it looked small and grey and I missed the wide-open spaces I had just left. After arriving home, I followed Dad up the stairs and saw my reflection in a full-length mirror. Not wanting to believe what I saw, I stripped my clothes off and stepped onto the bathroom scale. My breath caught in my throat as I saw the needle hit five stone 10 pounds. Only then did I recognize how much my experience had affected me.

Being home allowed me to recharge and nourish myself whilst deciding what I was going to do next. Once again, I was lost and without a job. I developed a niggling feeling that I should train for something I could do around the world and enrolled on a hotel reception course at my local college. This led to a live in job at a hotel which had a creepy manager who I sensed couldn’t be trusted. I left once my three-month contract was up and later heard that the manager was sacked for stealing.

Looking for guidance, I returned to Brenda. She told me to go to The Imperial Hotel in Llandudno and ask the manager for a job. Whilst it felt cheeky to take such bold action, I knew I had nothing to lose and drove to the hotel the following day. I ignored my pounding heart as I walked in and asked to speak with the manager. Mr Lofthouse, ‘Lofty’, offered me a job on the spot and I walked out incredulous that Betty had been right. What followed was one of the happiest periods in my life; I thrived on the security of being near my family and from the sense of belonging I felt with my team. I loved the variety of the work and the stimulation from the constant flow of customers of different nationalities.

I stayed at home for four years in the end. I kept my distance from Eddie, my first true love, which hurt us both but I knew being with him would hold me back from the bigger mission I felt I needed to pursue. I continued to date, but lost interest if a boyfriend tried to get me to settle down. I didn’t want a life of familiar routines, dinner on the table and regular pay checks. One day, restless and ready for change, the sign came that I needed to change direction again. A centrefold advert in The Daily Telegraph captioned, ‘Come Fly with Me’ screamed at me. From the page, a woman smiled, poised and proud in her immaculate uniform. The advert invited applications for cabin crew for the coming season. Remembering my childhood dreams to get paid to see the world, I decided to apply. I was older now and had had some experiences of working with people and travel, so I knew I was in with a chance.

I sent applications to several airlines. It was the nineties, when travel was still considered glamorous and during my Virgin interview, I was required to walk up and down an aisle in the Virgin uniform so the interviewers could see how my legs looked. My rejection letter confirmed to me the rumours that Virgin favoured blonds. I rejected an offer with Emirates despite a tax-free salary and numerous perks because I knew I didn’t want to live in Dubai. My future braver self would have jumped at the opportunity. In the flurry and excitement of sending off applications, I spotted another advert in the Sunday Telegraph for Carnival Cruises. Lured by the romantic idea of a life on the seas, I decided to apply. Several weeks later, two envelopes arrived on the mat in unison. Opening them, I saw offers from both Carnival Cruises and Monarch Airlines. I was at cross-roads in my life, knowing each choice would take me on an entirely different path to the other.

Chapter Three

‘LIFE IN THE AIR’

A cceptance letter in hand, I stood in front of the red pillar box I had walked past so many times as a child and reflected on the ambition that had brought me to this point. Running my fingers across the seal on the back of the envelope, I threaded it into the slit and gave it a satisfying push.

I had followed my instincts and rejected the offer from Carnival Cruises, fearing that on that path I would be forgotten in every port, a ship adrift without a lighthouse, a tree without roots. I had stayed true to my childhood hopes and dreams, to the image of me, uniform clad, striding confidently through the airport, high heels clacking as I pulled my wheelie bag towards the next adventure.

A few weeks later, my bags and passport were packed, and I was on my way to a training course in Manchester. I had six weeks of intense bootcamp training ahead of me. As I sat in the old aircraft hangar with the other excited ‘chosen ones’, I realised that I was just down the road from the hotel at which I had previously worked. I reflected on how my time there had been integral to my journey. The next few weeks were a blur. I felt like I had stepped into another world, one with a different language. My brain ached from trying to absorb the knowledge from the hefty training manuals. There were full scale aircraft mock-ups in which we were presented with emergency scenarios using volunteers as stand in passengers. Dressed in full uniform, we dragged these passengers off the plane, pushing them through doors and down the shoots. We yanked them from the water at the local swimming pool, pulling them into our inflatable boats. I was in my element, loving the thrill of not knowing what was coming next. It was a time of intense joy. I felt high from the knowledge that I was finally following my instincts and had achieved a childhood dream. I had set an intention and it had materialised.

We were whipped into shape quickly and by the end of the course, saturated with airline terminology and instruction manuals, I was desperate to get into the air. Graduation day soon arrived. My legs were shaking as I walked onto the stage. I smiled as the trainer pinned shiny silver wings onto the lapel of my black and yellow striped suit. After the tumultuous time on the course and all my soul searching, it was my inner glow and deep soul satisfaction that I noticed. This bird was ready to fly, not only the family nest but to spread its wings and go out into the world.

Disappointingly, the roster showed my first flight to be a long night flight to Dalaman in Turkey. I had heard horror stories about this flight from colleagues.