I’m sitting on the plane, the BA flight to London City. It’s more of a hopper, we call it the Morna* Bus. Of 50 passengers on the 70 seater, I know 16. We are sat on the runway due to air traffic control delays, which in the words of the pilot,
“… is a bit ridiculous because we are the only aircraft on the Tarmac.”
To be honest, nobody minds. This delay is a little stolen opportunity to catch up with friends, the special ones in business class wandering back to the ordinary space behind. No one actually ever wants to leave, we just have stuff to do off-island.
Me, I’m getting off for a few days to put in some family face-time. I’ve left OH in charge, with a fridge full of food, although I know he’ll take the off-spring out for every meal, except the one where he goes out for sushi and the baby sitter cooks pasta for the kids. The plan came to me in a session with my healer. I need space from them, they sure as hell need space from me and I need to spend some time with mum and sisters.
My healer is actually my facialist, by that I mean the woman who does my facials. Every year I consider Botox, fillers, other products to plump and pump and primp my 40-something face. But my wonderful facialist shows me another way.
I used to have her come to my house, on the grounds that it saved time and required less childcare but I realised I don’t actually need weekly facial appointments, just a weekly appointment away from the kids.
So I arrive at her cosy little casita that sits at the bottom of the land of her landowner landlord’s property and my therapy begins. The wonderful Marion Stone, a gorgeous, petit, glowing, hippy, a quintessential Ibiza resident, who has lived quite a life and now lives comfortably alone, grateful for where she has ended up and able to pass that wisdom on through her healing hands.
I floated into her calm treatment space, leaving my worries at the door, the smell of orange flower wafting in the air. There might be lavender and rose and calendula all around but the magic is not in the ingredients but in Marion’s wonderful healing hands, as she gently works on her waiting faces, layer by layer. I swear this woman could work with sunflower oil and still make a difference.
So, last week she could sense the tension I was feeling, the guilt I was carrying, due to being the absent child to my mother, the absent sibling to my sisters. And in the midst of the bee venom mask that was simulating bee stings in order to stimulate collagen, she helped me find the strength to give over child-rearing control to OH (I have made the oldest child promise to administer multi-vitamins and omega 3 capsules to himself and the others three times a day) and off I fly!
For more than a thousand years spiritual folk have found their place in Ibiza and non-spiritual folk have found themselves embarking on spiritual journeys. From the Punic times when Ibiza was considered an island of healing, through to the Phoenicians, who named Ibiza ‘Bes’, the God of Dance, to the modern-day hippies who started their pilgrimages to Ibiza in the 1960s. Maybe it is the magnetism of Es Vedra, maybe it’s the space to breath and the chance for gems like Marion Stone to intersect with highly – strung control freaks like me. We sit on the runway, not minding an extra few minutes in the wide open space, and as we gear ourselves for some time in the big smoke, we know the magnetism will attract us back before long.
*Morna International College – the British International School
www.marionstone.com – cancel the Botox appointment and go and visit Marion