When the conventional is no longer sensible
An evening in August
The
sun has set over Phu Quoc island. The monsoon clouds have just gently parted in
three places, the early evening still illuminated by the sun below the horizon.
An obese French sommelier is pouring my wine, and flirting. He fixes me
with beady toad eyes. He doesn’t
see me. Simply a woman, blond and alone, with some kind of light he wants. An
open heart is a honey pot for anyone in pain. I break the gaze and stare back
out to sea. He lingers, and I’m relieved when he goes.
Its
been days and days now of hermitude. Sleazy barmen aside, the staff here are
generally warm and exceedingly friendly, local Phu Quocians practicing their
English and trying dismally to teach me Vietnamese. Their attempts punctuate my
days, a conversation for breakfast, another for an early dinner. In between, I
keep to myself. A sumptuous solitude.
A
new friend of mine who feels like an old one, whispers with longing that once,
perhaps there was a place a woman could go. When all the pieces came apart,
when the conventional no longer seemed sensible. A path we could tread through
a labyrinth. A nunnery to retreat to for repose and communion with the
unconventional.
For
now though, I settle for this rained out bungalow, the thick sheets of weather
drawing over me, and plummeting me further into myself. The days are a sweet
and savory harmony of emotion. There is never ending layers of everything we
can learn from ourselves. The Buddha says we can learn everything we need to
know about life from our fathom-long body. And deep into fathomless day and
night, I am still unraveling endlessly and cannot imagine I will ever know its
end.
Some day, August
The
rain has cleared now, and though drops still fall from my eaves, from my
veranda I can see nature making a break for survival between storms. Almost a
parody of idealism, butterflies flicker against a background of ocean, lush
jungle greens and coconut palms. I startle a lizard as I step down on wet
grass, and he scurries away with his green spine arced. Walking quietly, the grass splodgy
beneath my toes, soaked into marshland. Bamboo waves it’s fronds in silent
greeting, and I draw towards its silence away from two young men, talking
loudly and rapidly, wound still. Even here, in this place of nothing to do.
Their
restlessness stirs me, because it draws attention to my own. That energy coiled
always under my skin. It used to drive me, unaware as I was, of the engine
within and why it was not wisdom. So now I practice each day doing less. Traded
a busy job for a quieter one, my work ethic dwindling, valuing more and more time away, until this, even
less, each day.
Henry
Miller spoke of his transition, of sneaking midweek ‘holidays’ which he whiled
away wandering streets, attending matinees and reading all hours. Eventually he
quit even that charade, and though he was broke and hungry, he turned down even
writing jobs and columns. But he didn’t feel ready yet, he said he didn’t know
how to write yet, there was still so much to read, to formulate. He was
brewing.
“All I ask is to dawdle along in my own
way. I keep telling you people I know what I’m doing. I mean it. Maybe it
doesn’t make sense, but its my way. I can’t navigate any other way, do you
understand?”
He
makes good company, Henry, here in this rainy bungalow. He reminds me that life
just happens, and that I don’t need to ‘do’ it. It turns out too, that ‘I’, whatever
that is, also just happen. And that to remove the stimulus (distraction) of a
full time job; to withdraw from friends and family; to step back from
strangers; to turn off the television; to close the computer; for days and days
on end… that still there it is. Even more so, in generous abundance…
something
at the heart of life.
Another day in August
Waking in the midst of
nightmare, devilish images already fading. Something about ex lovers holding me up for an
appointment with my shrink, and two odd boys from high school crawling out of
my subconscious to bar me with complications.
No matter no matter, already
they’re fading, and it is dawn light here, a bungalow on the beach, and the
soft folds of a white mosquito net protecting me from parasites. Stirring now
for a hot shower in the outdoor tropical garden, then wrapping a towel around
to brew a cup of tea. Shrug into yesterdays clothing and open the computer for
Skype, that wonderful invention that allows intimacy and psychotherapy to chase
me across the globe.
And there he is, just a flash
of visual before the camera fades, the
wizard with his totally loving face that has all the patience of an earth
that has seen five extinctions and five rebirths. Guiding me inwards, past the
errant strains of anxious thought, straight into the heart of it, the old
wounds I’m too frightened to heal alone.
In this greatest of love there
is the greatest of room. Just as I
grow weary, begin to crumple under this heavy heavy furniture, effortlessly,
always when needed, unbidden, a great whale of love surfacing from the depths
within. This love, this love, which has proven just what love can be. Do you
know how epic this ground shifting, earth-shattering force can be? That it can
call up your deepest essence that has also seen 5 extinctions and 5 rebirths?
It can arrest that being within who
is as ancient as the sea. Surprise you in its startling gaze, in the audacity
of being recognised though you have adopted too many guises and humiliations.
Sees through all the rags of this life’s ravaging, and draws you in slowly,
with all the time of wind shaping stone. Gravity. Meeting you, gently,
completely, solidly, with a kiss that expands into the universe. Love that
swells in the blood stream like oxygen suddenly liberated, like helium, lightening,
lifting, so flowing through you is all the hope of a rebirthing world.
August, closing
A
stormy sea and a ranting mind. I clamour rocks, and walk through boggy sand,
step after step after step. Tears and grief, and an endless script replaying. Pleading
with Accusers: It cannot be, must not be selfish to follow the call of one’s
most inward self. Nothing is more difficult, or more necessary. You must allow
any miracle that crosses your path to call this forward in you, and permit
nothing to hold you back. That it is hard enough, without wearying your steps
for popular opinion, or another’s fears or wishes for what you might have been.
Eventually
even this voice falls silent.
I
don’t seek a morality. Only a
sensitive ear, keening inwards for my deepest murmurs.
September arrived
Saturated in Henry Miller, and two
‘Phu Quoc Farmers’, something involving watermelon, lemongrass and vodka. The
sun has so recently set on sea calming from the monsoonal swells, a palm tree
decoratively poising its branches for the paradise
photo. And this moment, just this moment,
my feet are hitting still wet green grass, and the low light in wicker bird
cages are just so ever out of focus.
Today, a day of myself. A day
of ease. Like the most romantic of dates.
Dancing, in sea and shoreline,
bikini and sarong and a big horizon. No one but me. No one I have to be. Forming
and unforming, over and over, just like the waves.
This day
Today,
after 10 days of rain, I woke to sun. The spiky green palm heads reaching up
against blue sky. I headed straight to the sea, marveled at its turquoise
colour come alive with the sunlight. Calm waters, with just one clear line of
break, white wash lapping up to sand. Swimming in its lengths and feeling just
a hint of longing that this is how it must always be in another season. But today
is my last day.
After,
I stood in the shallows looking out. On the horizon brewed the steep purple of
another storm, casting eery light on the sunlit turquoise. The storm moved so
quickly, wind picking up along the seas surface, so momentarily, I have one
shoulder in sun and another in rain. When I walk back to my bungalow the bamboo
fronds are horizontal in the wind and I am already soaked. Such rapid
transformation.
I
sat upon my bungalow steps. From my belly, a muscular imitation of a bubble
rose, up through the diaphragm and shaking loose through the rib cage. Just a
moment of tears that turned to mist before they could fall and join the rain
outside.
My
therapist, the wizard, told me when
he first began deep spiritual work, he did not know the difference between
sadness, and being deeply moved.
It
seems unlikely that I will ever truly share the immense pain experienced during
this unravelling. Meditation has many sides of it that look exceptionally
different to a serene figure sitting on a cushion with their hands in gyan
mudra. As Rohr says, if we knew what the spiritual path would ask of us in full,
we would never have the courage to do it.
What
does become clear is how much less I need. Less food, less exercise, less
activity, less social contact. I begin to suspect that everything was an
effort, to whip life into something meaningful enough to meet a festering
hunger under my skin I didn’t even recognise. A tense energy buzzing along
inside of me, unknown, and wearing down my nervous system whilst simultaneously
driving me to more. Turning to face it, slowing down to meet it, has been
excruciatingly painful.
I
do not know who I will be going forward.
One
should not confuse my hermitage with some kind of pilgrimage to discover who I
am. Or at least, not extrapolate that come tomorrow, or next year, I won’t be
doing exactly the same thing. There is no destination to reach. No identity to understand
or build. I hope to never know. To become quiet is to slow the senses and see
that everything is moving. Every moment is a new one, and in it, so are we,
also new, if we are only open and unbound enough to recognise it.
I
am only pulling back all of the excess, knowing quietly, surely, that I have
been busy out running my life.
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