Overjoy
In the Emotion Code, overjoy is defined as âintense delight elation which is too overpowering for the body; joy that is a shock to the systemâ. Emotions get trapped because we donât process them, either because itâs too traumatic or simply because we get interrupted. Generally itâs only negative emotions that get trapped in the body because we tend to shut them off, ignore them, stuff them down⊠Positive emotions are easier (and more pleasant) to process so they tend not to get trapped, however if the emotion is so intense that it is overwhelming, it can become trapped as âoverjoyâ.
After giving up my corporate job 6 years ago, I did not expect to see the Maldives again. I was happy to sacrifice the 2 weeks of luxury holidays in exotic locations that we used to have in an effort to have a more tolerable existence for 52 weeks of the year instead. I donât spend money on much, my clothes and general appearance can attest to that, but holidays (and my animals) is where all my disposable income went. It was the thing I was most afraid would negatively impact Garyâs life, that expensive holidays, for me at least, were no longer possible. In fact, no holidays at all, but then there was COVID and no one was going anywhere, and then the guesthouse, when it was doing well, meant I had the money but couldnât get away. Then last year we did manage a holiday on the money Garyâs Dad left us and we went diving in Egypt. The diving was expensive, but the resort was extremely basic, a camp almost, divers donât seem to care about anything but getting back in the water it seems, but it was charming and we loved every minute of it. I was confident that 5 star Foggo might now appreciate that cheaper holidays could be just as much fun. When I finally closed my guesthouse business account, I mentioned to Gary that I could go on holiday with the final balance. My sister had a window in November she could pet sit the girls and it felt like the Universe was complicit in the holiday plans. Whilst I Googled $29 a night pensions on the beach in Thailand, Gary was looking up luxury holidays in the Maldives. When he found one that exactly matched my absolute top budget, I was astonished, and delighted. Iâd never have considered going so far for only 7 nights, but it suddenly all seemed so worth it to see the delights of the Maldives again.
If youâve never been, let me tell you why itâs top of the list for anyone who has ever been there. Imagine the most perfect deserted island, pure white sands, turquoise, gently lapping warm water, clear as glass. Lush, jungle interiors, screeching fruit bats to entertain you, and mad whooping koels calling in the distance. Tropical reef fish of every colour and shape you can imagine, just inches from the shore. The coral gardens are varied, many of them bleached and broken by the sun and tsunamis, but the sheer volume and variety of fish make snorkelling an exquisite, all immersive experience. Itâs hot, but not unbearable, and the resorts are all luxurious, and itâs still possible to find rustic, traditional Maldivian beach huts or water villas. They are all so expertly designed that they feel so incredibly quiet, you could be the only couple in the world a lot of the time, winding paths through lush vegetation screening the essential buildings, staff housing, laundries and activities of running a resort all crammed together on an island the size of a football pitch, but itâs so cleverly done youâd never even know it was there. The planting, if you didnât have a garden and know whatâs entailed, is casual, effortlessly jungle chic, but in reality is incredibly controlled, constantly pruned and rearranged, and barefoot staff quietly and constantly sweep and rake the paths and the beaches, so everything looks picture postcard perfect. Thatched roofs and wooden panelling, large open reception and dining rooms, open to the elements to the sides, huge domed roofs with ceiling fans gently stirring the air, sand underfoot. It reminds me so much of Kenya, where I grew up, that I feel instantly at home.
An 8-hour flight to Dubai, a few hours in the airport there, even though Dubai is not my cup of tea, it was surprisingly welcome to be in an airport where everything works. Nothing is shabby. Edinburgh Airport seems to be falling apart, cubical doors not fitting, every other sink broken, stained. Apologetic âout of orderâ notes scribbled on various toilets, cupboards, doors, lifts. The hospitality staff bored, rude, indifferent. The security staff with that special brand of Scottish dourness that seems to have returned to all staff serving the public since COVID. Or is it just that the more pleasant, possibly more appreciative immigrant staff have all been chased home? The food bland and expensive. Generally extremely irritating given that you have to pay a fortune just to drop someone off at the airport never mind set foot in it. Inexplicably run down. Annoying. Grubby. After an 8 hour flight, sometimes you canât get to the loo until baggage claim because theyâre out of order. Obviously Garyâs relentless complaining has rubbed off on me, and I know I shouldnât let it, but the last couple of times Iâve been through the airport I canât help but notice how shit it all it. Scotland. Best little country in the world screams the advertising. Most shit airport in the world though. In contrast Dubai is gleaming. Shiny. Beautiful. High lustre. People gliding through the mirrored halls, floors polished to a high glassy sheen. Expensive, but you can see where the money goes. Glossy, smiling, helpful staff. Capitalism as its fragrant, blatant best, but somewhat comforting when youâre tired. Canât afford to buy anything there, but they at least offer free drinking water. And reclining seats. Spotlessly clean, sparkling toilets, and bizarrely, hot water in the toilet bowl. It must be cheaper to let it run hot than cool it down, but itâs an odd experience feeling steam on your ass in an air-conditioned cubical.
A few hours drifting through Dubai, another 4 hour flight, when tired and crabby you step out into Male airport, busy, bustling, a wave of humid warm air smacking you in the face. Crowds of cheerful, noisy people ferrying you to and from the seaplanes, transfers in small air-conditioned buses, hordes of hotel reps, travel reps, dazed tourists and nifty, wiry little men who dodge through the confused crowds, spiriting your luggage between the tourists, man-handling you through the crowds. Itâs overwhelming, but it all just works, you just need to smile and go with it. A bit like crossing the road in Vietnam. If you hesitate, youâll be crushed by a million cyclists, mopeds, donkeys and cars, but if you just keep walking theyâll part like the red sea around you. Theyâve eventually opened the shiny new sea-plane terminal, which is a shame. Whilst itâs as glossy as Dubai airport, I miss the sand-floored, palm-frond thatched open sided building that used to stand there, open to the sea, where the frenzy of seaplanes fills the air.
There is nothing as fun as a seaplane, and the best job in the world must be a seaplane pilot. Often young, inevitably barefoot, wearing baggy shorts and mirrored shades, the pilots and crew are cool as fuck. The whole seaplane experience ranks up there in the world for me, and this journey was no different.
What happens every time, is a wave of emotions so strong I have to fight tears. Flying has always been emotional for me, though Iâm not sure why. As a child, travelling to the UK was a huge excitement. Was it the only time we banded together as a family? Was it the proximity of Dad being involved? Was it that there were relatives in the UK who offered me the sort of love I realise now was never offered at home? People who indulged me, looked forward to seeing me, hugged me and kissed me? I donât remember Granny much, Grandpa no doubt loved us dearly but he was a bit weird, Aspergers in the extreme I wonder now, but certainly Aunty Ruby and Uncle Claude vied for our attention, delighting in us kids, making us feel special and loved in a way we never were anywhere else. Aunty Ruby holding my hands in both of hers, asking why we didnât call her Granny (Dadâs way of punishing his foster parents for sins only he remembers) and being delighted when we obliged as long as our parents werenât around. Itâs all so sad looking back, so many broken hearts, so many hurt people, but I was young enough to be oblivious to it all. Sitting next to Uncle Claude whilst he played the organ, the wheezing of the bellows, his shaking hands making the notes tremor, I marvelled at the music, lapped up the attention, and buried myself as close to him as I could. Getting in a plane, flying up into the skies to this faraway land full of people, food and things, my God, so many things, we never had at home made it seem almost magical, I was convinced England was a fairyland in the skyâŠ.
You can see into the cockpit of the seaplane, see the hairy knees of the pilots, their bare feet on the pedals, a million miles from the barricaded cockpits of commercial flights now (I remember when they let kids sit on the pilotâs lap on long haul flights, I did a few times and I donât remember anything Jimmy Saville about it. I also remember air hostesses brought us colouring books and crayonsâŠ. different times!). The sheer plethora of switches, knobs, buttons, dials, flaps, leversâŠ. itâs all fascinating. Both pilots have to hold their hands one over the other when they commit to take off, Iâd love to know why, is it the physical strength required to hold the throttle? Is it a psychological check that ensure both commit to it? I Googleâd it but lost interest in the smug nerdy answers picking apart the technicality of the question. Gary and I always sit on the column of single seats on the left, all the better to see out of the windows. The humming of the fans, the throb of the propellers, watching the crew nimbly untie the plane, and climbing back into the plane as it roars off, much to the shock of newbies who hear the door behind them open up as the plane appears to be taking off.
As the engines roar and we finally lift off, the emotion is palpable for me. Iâm choking back tears. Abraham Hicks talks of how people get emotional at rainbows, sunsets and whales. Apparently with whales itâs the sheer presence and volume of unconditional love because of their size that attracts people, a real life example of the impact of a huge presence of high vibration. I canât remember what she said about rainbows. Abraham says crying can be because youâre full of joy, but youâre not used to that feeling. Neale Donald Walsh says crying is your soul recognising the truth but either way as the plane rises up I am completely overwhelmed by the beauty of the Universe. Infinite blue seas, graduating from the deepest blue itâs almost black, to the palest turquoise as the shallow islands are visible through the water. White froth cresting like lace across the sea, areas of bizarre glassy flatness, ripples, textures, but mostly the incredible beauty of seeing all these islands, some above the water with their dark green bristling interiors, a border of blistering white sands, pale sandy shores and bright translucent emerald green water, to the submerged islands, “thilas”, a whole complete underwater world visible from the sky. Deserted islands, a tangle of green jungles, looking completely untouched by humans, to the busy populated islands, with harbours, tennis courts, veg gardens, water plants, all tiny and fascinating, and then the tourist hotel islands with antenna of water villas gracefully arching into the deep blue. They are obviously all designed with a view of how they appear from the sky and they donât disappoint. Tiny beach villas nestled between palms trees, endless white beaches. Skies stretching timelessly, so clear theyâre eye-watering, streaks of misty clouds flashing past, huge fluffy cumulo clouds so opaque they look solid. Flashes of sunlight off the propellor. Gazing down to see the shadow of the plane skitting across the surface of the water⊠But for me the underwater worlds, so visible from the sky, the texture and contrast of the corals, seaweed, sand, the colours of the water as the seafloor drops is simply overwhelming, but in a good way. Looking out of the seaplane, with tears running down my face, face pressed to the glass like a kid, I feel the presence of a greater force. A force of love and abundance that dwarfs anything man can accomplish. A tsunami of wellbeing; a manifestation of everything that is good, beautiful, inspiring and passionate. A wave of appreciation and I have a knowing that this is what drives people to paint, to draw, to write poetry, to compose music, to sing songs, to express. To express the inexpressible. To witness the glory and beauty of a world that we did not create, nor can we destroy. We are tiny, powerless, honoured guests in this incredible creation, here only to experience the magnificence and glory of this Universe.
And thatâs just the seaplane journey – wait till I tell you about the fish!
