Francis Has His Way: How Michael Kennedy Inspired a Naming

If my boy had been a girl, he would have been called Freya Francis. The Francis bit stuck, and it is with great sadness that I learned recently of the death of the source of, not quite his 'namesake', but the inspiration behind the choice of his name.

I appear to have overlooked this event, when it actually happened last year. I still consider myself to be somewhat out of circulation, so I recall it being hinted at, but not fully acknowledged or digested by me, until listening to a CD of the person in question, last night, at which point the penny dropped. But let me start at the very beginning.

Inspired by the movie Brother Sun, Sister Moon, I had, although not Catholic, been playing with the idea of calling my son Francis. His father and I realized however that, in Australia, it would inevitably be shortened to Frank, so it was set aside as a first name and reserved as a middle name, which would do for either gender.

Then, when I was around six months pregnant, I found myself at Fairbridge Festival. The child inside me slept for long periods, but clearly indicated his apparent  pleasure on hearing certain music. While listening to Michael Kennedy, I felt him kicking during his song about animals, called Francis Has His Way, and this decided it for me.



I'd originally met Michael, or Mick, down at Nannup Folk Festival  some years earlier, when I was first writing songs (1997?). I distinctly recall discussing songwriting with him, after his gig, somewhere on the main street. He'd been encouraged over by a mutual friend and choir director. After that, although I didn't know him well, there was a friendly rapport between us, perhaps in the way that happens for visiting musicians from over east, who are happy to see a familiar face at festivals in the west. I recall seeing him again at Fairbridge Festival in 1998, the year my choir, Ocean, sang in the chapel there. We must have been on the same concert or something and met backstage in the green room.

But 2010, the year our ukulele band Spiderfish Stew performed at Fairbridge, is my most significant memory, because I found myself in the front row in the chapel, listening to Michael and capturing some of his songs on shaky but historically significant video, on a now dinosauric smart phone, which are still up on an old you tube channel: http://youtu.be/mp7OzE9PuFw. I have a vague recollection of Michael writing to thank me for taking them, but I've lost sight of the details.



In August of last year, Michael's time on Earth, as someone with cystic fibrosis whose life had already been extended by a decade, due to a double lung transplant with a definite use-by date, came to an end. Ten bonus years in which to forge a strong marriage and to beget a child, now aged three. The same age as me, Mick was only 47 when he died.

I know not what force led me to put on his CD Seed last night, the one with the song about Francis, but I did. As I listened, it dawned on me how Mick often wrote about being taken back by the earth. Clearly, awareness of his mortality was something he lived with. Thankfully he chose to spend what time he had creating beautiful art, first as a potter and then as a musician and songwriter with a truly stunning voice. One of those men who didn't shy away from giving expression to their sensitivity, but who instead packaged it into astute observation and rich, heartfelt storytelling metaphor in the style of the contemporary folk tradition.

I believe Michael was awarded prizes of the 'best male vocalist' variety, at various Australian festivals, and also showcased his song Dunghala, about the ailing Murray River and the Yorta Yorta people who are its traditional custodians, in conjunction with the Melbourne Boite's Millenium Chorus. Directed by Penny Larkins and Carl Pannuzzo, who I also know personally and whose songs and music, individually and collectively, I just love. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgfQAZaqKsY&feature=youtu.be

As I removed the insert with the song details from Seed's hard CD case, I noticed a handwritten, personalized autograph that I'd forgotten about. In silver pen on black it reads:

"Dear Ginny, I hope the next few months go REALLY well - another precious voice! Blessings, Michael K."

My memory is notoriously bad, unless jogged by other people and incidents, but I surmise from this that I purchased the CD while pregnant in 2006, the year the CD was released, and the Fairbrdige year when I decided on Francis. What a special gift and memento.

As we listened the other night, I explained to my darling boy the story behind his name, and how his enthusiastic kicking while listening to Mick was the clincher. Then I told him I had just learnt of Michael's passing, and how lucky we were to have his beautiful songs to listen to in spite of this. And then I wept. My gorgeous boy with the middle name of Francis came and put his arm around me, leaned into my shoulder, and had a cry too, as he digested the news, the story and the song. My little feisty extrovert-yet-sensitive, resilient-yet-easily-moved boy-child, who sings all day around me, finding his voice with its delightful vibrato as he sings everything from video game themes to Michael Jackson, to my songs, to world music. Another precious voice, indeed.

         

What a Difference a Day Spa Makes...

I have to wonder what is happening in the cosmos, when appliances and other household items go on strike en masse. In one week, the pond pump broke, as did the DVD/ VHS player I use to review old and current teaching materials. The ceramic fish near the pond shattered (blown over by the wind), and two favourite pairs of sunglasses cracked. My u-Bass breakage, which happened in Melbourne, proved to be tricky to resolve in the replacement parts department; my ukulele tuner stopped working entirely and my camera went missing (presumed dropped into the wastepaper basket by a small child, and accidentally disposed of)! Not to mention the rather alarming spate of political events that have unfolded lately in Australia.

I'm sure Daniel Sowelu would do a fab job of  explaining the prevailing astrological and archetypal currents at play, and the good old Fontana Dictionary of Modern thought entry on Resistentialism, summarized here on Wikipedia, offers a humorous secular explanation for the seeming conspiracy of material objects to confound our lives.

So, when a car break-in incident during an otherwise wonderfully sunny happy sandcastle building session with Bryn and his playmate at our local dog beach at the beach just over a week ago (several hundred dollars worth of useless to anyone but us gear taken), on the tail of assorted other contraptions breaking down, I become totally discombobulated, bodily-speaking. Very achy and with a migraine that lasted two days, then hung around as a vague headache for a few days more.

I don't know about you, but I am someone for whom acts of nurturing self-care definitely work wonders. Being HSP, my threshold for stressors including adverse life incidents and sleep deprivation will manifest bodily, perhaps more quickly than the more robust among us, for whom such things might be mere water off a duck's back. I can  do a certain amount of it myself: soothing baths, music-
making, cups of herbal tea, rest, yoga stretches, meditation to relaxing music.

                                 

As a single Mum with no Significant Other to regular attend to such needs however, it  is wonderful
to let go completely and have someone nurture me platonically, make the cuppa, and soothe away the pain. There was a time in my life when I was pretty switched on to the holistic bodywork options locally. As a practitioner myself (reiki, reflexology, sond healing and other forms of bodywork), I tried many different holistic modalities. I even wrote some freelance articles for a local holistic
publication called Nova. As I phased into music, I was happy to be on the receiving end, rather than the giving end of the deal.

But I seem to be less in touch these days with what and who is out there, and the landscape has changed a great deal since I was more fully in it rather than being busy at the Ministry of Music and Motherhood. So, while I can't always immediately know who to go to, I have a pretty good idea
ofwhat I do and don't like in a massage.

Darkened rooms are the business for many HSPs, not because we are drawn moth-like and Goth-like
to The Dark Side - quite the opposite- but because retreat from the overwhelming stimulation of the outer world is, as HSP doyen Elaine N.Aron puts it, "as necessary as breathing". I also find that most of my creativity is born of inward retreat, after outward observation or stimulation. So I am a bit fussy about the location of the massage venue, having experienced some massages in places or cultures where quiet doesn't seem to be part of the equation.

The other thing is that, at the very least, I need to be in a situation with a body worker who is responsive to request (soft hard etc), and not stuck on an autopilot routine, unable to give extra
attention to the sore spots, or unaccommodating of whatever feelings may arise. Thus, sports massage seldom cuts the mustard, being a product of a limited, scientific view of 'bodies as machines'. Maybe after a vigorous game of netball, for the players, it is just the ticket. But there is not enough
acceptance of the way in which our cells and muscle tissue store more than just post-workout lactic acid, in my experience. Massage can be like an awakening: as things shift and are released, new awareness arises. We can go to places we didn't even know existed, since the door to them is invisible from the mundane world. Only when we surrender, on a  table, at the hands of someone respectful and open-hearted and wise, do we visit those lands.

I phoned a couple of known and recommended holistic nurturing spots to book a massage, to find they were fully booked. It didn't quite sit right anyway, in terms of price or the niggling intuitive
feeling that neither was where I needed to be. Then I happened to remember a special being advertised at the spa alongside my gym. I made the call and am so relieved that I did.

It was perfect! I was able to go to my tai chi class there first, after dropping Bryn off, park effortlessly
out front (beats heading into Freo and dealing with a total car scrum), then head on over to the spa, which is just inside the building near the front entrance. For the price of a regular massage, I enjoyed the milk bath special. In a small, round private spa, in aforementioned quiet, dark cave of a room, I soaked away my backache for 25 minutes to relaxing music, with juice cocktails, herbal tea and water served to me on request. A sweet and capable masseuse with strong but gentle hands then ironed out the various mind-body-soul wrinkles.

I returned to the spa yesterday to have my hair done, having spotted another of their specials. After a bonus eyebrow and lip wax, I had my hair cut and coloured by another sweet woman originally from Victoria and came away feeling truly renewed.

The best bit was the head massage while she was shampooing and then again when she was rinsing
away the colour. My scalp delighted in it, and whatever vestiges of last week's headache remained disappeared down the gurgler, along with the suds. Having my hair done or my head massaged is a neat HSP strategy for dealing with travel stress, which I've used when in Bali and Thailand. I also availed myself of this little bit of pamper, last month while in Melbourne, when I had my hair cut stylishly, polished and straightened within an inch of its life, in the Vietnamese family-run salon in Victoria St Richmond. I forget quite what an effective and relaxing thing it can be, until I'm there at the basin, with someone's deft fingers working my beleagured scalp! It doesn't always have to be a full body massage- provided the water temperature is suitable. Warm water and some scalp soothing are a fine way to sink into a state of bliss and calm and to remove any ants that are dancing about up there. Of course, unless one is exceedingly wealthy, a splurge at a day spa is a first world privelege. it certainly isn't an everyday thing, but it is definitely something that needs to be factored into my life,
regardless of income, on a regular basis.

After many years, I know it to be true that healing and self- actualization don't always come from the Big Ticket approaches. Mostly, it's everyday acts of kindness to ourselves that achieve this: naps and 'time out' when we need them, enjoyable nourishing food, toothbrushing, haircuts, small treats and 'artist's dates' as Julia Cameron of The Artist's Way fame recommends. Hugs when they are needed, wanted and welcomed, solitude if we've been around people too much (for us), company if we've disappeared up our own fundamental for too long. As HSPs, it is so important to tune into our intuition regarding what we uniquely need, and then to endeavour to juggle it into our lives.

Of course, there is a place for the Big Ticket processes. I myself will be doing a six week program designed to dig a little deeper, because the time is right, and my intuition tells me now is the time to
address certain cellular memories that are proving resistant to diet and exercise, and to be impediments to deeper fulfilment of my life purpose (more on the later- I'm keeping a handwritten
journal. Meanwhile, check out Jeff Brown's work). But self-actualization isn't a thunderbolts and lightning event, in my experience. Most often, it's a process brought about by quiet acts of self-care, such as removing myself from the other world and into some sort of metaphoric cave for a time, in order to re-enter  those outward spaces more depth-charged, authentic and resilient. And the greatest act of self-care is trust: to entrust ourselves to someone else's healing hands, having trusted our intuition about who to go to,  to trust that whatever comes up asking to be expressed and  released is just fine. In short, to trust the process of ourselves nd our lives unfolding towards somewhere better or at the very least, contentment with where they are.