A Van of One's Own

by Biddy Wells

  It rains on and off for five days. We are philosophical about it, agreeing that, although we would love to lounge about in the sun, rain is something to be grateful for.

  ‘Being Welsh, we can handle this sort of weather – as long as it’s accompanied by tea and cakes,’ Martin says. He has brought in supplies of pastéis de nata, Portuguese custard tarts, which everyone loves. We all know each other fairly well, apart from Alys, and she is pretty laidback. There is an easy companionship between us all.

  Sometimes we play Scrabble, sitting on the terrace under a canopy. In the warm evenings we talk, eat and drink excellent Portuguese wine. We visit local towns, markets, cafes and a wonderful restaurant in Tavira, a town not far away, built on both banks of a tidal estuary and connected by bridges. It is both elegant and unpretentious, with fishermen bringing in their catch just a stone’s throw from the smart, newly refurbished plaza.

  One day, my friends suggest a yoga class in a nearby town, and I decide to go along, though I haven’t done any yoga for about ten years. The teacher is a firm, business-like woman of sixty-something. After some stretching and breathing, she gives each of us a small stack of foam blocks to help us with our headstands. I know I won’t be able to do this. She comes over and I tell her not to waste time on me, and that I’ll sit this one out. But she is quite sure I am going to do it. I am worried that this will put my neck out, but she gets me semi-inverted with the blocks under my hips in no time and suddenly I am completely upside down. It feels wonderful! I stay there for what feels like a long time in an effortless headstand, seeing the world from a new perspective. After the session, I feel that I have indeed stretched myself, mostly just by saying ‘yes’ to something I could easily have rejected as being contradictory to my commitment to idleness.

  The next afternoon was slightly weird. I decided to tag along to a clairvoyance circle, which some local friends of my hosts had joined very enthusiastically. We went in the spirit of openness and without cynicism, but we took some salt, too, so that we could take a pinch at any time, if needed. Where clairvoyance is concerned, I find myself a bit sceptical. Even if there is a message, it won’t be for me.

  Einstein said that ‘everything in life is vibrating,’ and that what we call ‘matter’ is actually energy. Nothing stays still – even seemingly solid things like tables. I feel the energy in my own body. I know myself to be in a state of constant movement, however tiny those movements are. Otherwise, I guess I’d be dead. But even then, my body would change and become part of the ever-evolving environment. What about my consciousness? Would it continue vibrating? How would I know?

  I think we all sense changes in human vibrations. We feel the subtle force of what is going on inside another’s being without a word being spoken.Through practice, perhaps we can begin to recognise and filter the data. It’s only when we communicate our findings that we get feedback and find out if they are accurate. I guess this is what clairvoyants do, either by reading the person in the room or picking up something emitted from those who have ceased to be alive. The idea that dead relatives are sending messages to the living could be a load of hokum, yet it’s not unusual to experience instances of suddenly knowing something previously unknown. Sometimes information seems to come from nowhere, or somewhere beyond the mind, as if everything that has ever happened is stored out there in a cloud to be brought into use as needed. Still – I was sure that there would no messages for me.

  During the session I wondered if there was a slight desperation to fit messages to people in the room. At one point, Bert, a keen trainee clairvoyant, reported that he was seeing large cloths, which were draped over what looked like fences – possibly to dry. He said this was taking place in Yorkshire.

  ‘Anyone have relatives from Yorkshire?’ asked the group’s teacher, Dilys.

  I kept quiet. Bert went on:

  ‘It’s definitely Yorkshire, and there are all these huge cloths, like blankets; some of them are dark.’ I asked if they were made of wool, and Bert said he thought they might be. I started to think of my grandfather’s woollen mill in Yorkshire. Did they hang large pieces of woollen cloth out to dry, or something? I wondered. It occurred to me that perhaps he was seeing the frames where the woven fabric was displayed, so that the menders could examine them for defects. My mother used to tell me about the ‘invisible menders’ and their incredible skill. As a child, I thought she was talking about people who were actually invisible, like the shoemaker’s elves.‘Does anyone here relate to that?’ Dilys asked. Again I kept shtum. After a pause, she said: ‘I’m getting a word very strongly… yes, it’s clear now… it’s “picture.” Yes, that’s it: picture – I have no idea why.’

  Picture? Pitcher! My grandfather’s name was Pitcher. Oh no! I had to own up.

  ‘It’s me!’ I confessed. ‘I had relatives in Yorkshire, lots of them. My mother’s whole family came from Yorkshire.’

  Dilys shot me a slightly irritated look. I told her about my grandfather’s name, and she said, ‘Did he have a lot of trauma in his life?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but didn’t everybody? My grandfather; his name; his woven woollen cloth; Yorkshire. I had to admit that my attention had been grabbed.

  Bert said the message was for me. ‘Whatever is happening now, however difficult things have been, the important thing is after that. After that. There’s nothing to fear; something significant will happen… hang in there, because after that is the important thing.’

  After the long session I couldn’t wait to get away, and we left feeling ‘a bit queer’, as my Yorkshire grandma would have called it. Was that really a message meant for me? I never knew my maternal grandfather; he died a few years before I was born. Was he looking out for me? Had he been watching my life unfold from some other realm? If so, he would have seen me walk a pretty troubled road. His own life had not been easy, surviving, as he had, his father’s untimely death, great poverty, service in the First World War and the death of his twenty-nine year old son, among other things. He must have been a strong character, just as my mother had said. He would have understood some of my tribulations. I wish I had known him.

  After arriving back at the house I went to get something from the van and the heavy sliding side door came off in my hands, nearly knocking me over. Was this significant – symbolic? A door opening that cannot be closed? What did it mean? Probably nothing more than the fact that the van was old and rusty – but I was experiencing an eerie sense that every little thing could be a message, just for me. That night, I felt a lot of old stuff from my past surfacing. As I drifted in and out of sleep I felt the presence of a friend who had died some years before. I wasn’t sure if it was a dream, but it was as if she was right there in the van, visiting me, standing close to me, larger than she’d been in life and translucent. She was very calm and seemed to be communicating with me without speaking. What did she want to say? As I focussed, her presence subsided and I was left only with the feeling that she was at peace. It was as though she had come to tell me that I needn’t carry any despair about her and the violent way she had ended her own existence. I’d felt guilty that I had not been able to help her – though I tried, as did all her loved ones. But now that guilt had gone.

  Next morning, I awoke to find maggots crawling around my cooker, which I hadn’t used since arriving as I had been eating with my friends on their terrace. There was no food in the van, so it was easy to clear up the creatures and clean the tiny kitchen area. Still, I have a slight phobia of maggots, and it gave me ‘the willies’ – another granny word. Was this retribution for killing all those flies a couple of weeks before? Maybe not, but it was probably the result of their invasion. Things improved as my friends and I spent the day walking, swimming in the sea and playing music together. I forgot about maggots and messages from the other side. We also went to a local garage to get my door fixed. The mechanic was really helpful and friendly, and did his best to make a temporary repair, for which he wanted to charge me a few euros. Amusi
ngly, I had to argue with him that it was too cheap. Later David rang and told me the sad news that a friend from our village had died – she was not much older than me. Though expected, it still came as a shock. I felt sad and very far away from home.

  I am noticing that the more I talk, the more off-centre I become. It is subtle now, whereas in my youth it was hard not to feel spun-out a lot of the time. I love the sharing that goes on between the five of us here, but there comes a point where I begin to feel self-conscious again. I seem to become someone I am no longer sure is really me – a person I don’t really like, who might be competitive or show off or talk too much, when what I really want is to be quiet and do nothing. We have been singing songs together accompanied by banjo and guitar, which I love, and yet, I want a break from even this gentle and nurturing activity. I notice the mantra in my head: ‘Must do, must keep doing.’ That is exactly what I want to break with.

  *

  For the first time in a while, I start to sleep through the night: six or seven hours of deep sleep. How different it feels! Those wakeful hours between three and five can seem such a waste of time. I try to stay relaxed and to manage my mind as it starts to whizz. Thanks to Eckhart Tolle and others, like J. Krishnamurti, I am learning to handle it better. I watch the mind, knowing that, contrary to appearances, it is not me and I am not it.

  This morning I am enjoying a really good pot of tea, thanks to David having sent reinforcements with Chris. The making and drinking of tea is a big enough activity for a sleepy October morning. Tea is a serious subject – sometimes a controversial one. Tea must be made properly. The pot must be warmed thoroughly and the water has to be at a rolling boil as it’s poured onto good quality tea, preferably loose-leaf. And then it’s all about time. The pot must be covered with a cosy and left to brew for five minutes. Welsh water, generally speaking, is ideal for making tea, due to its softness. There is, of course, the question of milk, and that’s another thorny issue. I have had to get used to UHT milk – it’s a matter of survival.

  Sometimes the topic of tea can precipitate heated discussion in the domestic arena. David has said he thinks I am a tiny bit obsessional about it. It’s true that I tend to supervise or even micro-manage the process. Well, it’s important to me. Actually, he makes a perfect cup of tea.

  In my life, tea has evolved from a simple beverage into a ritual, even a sacred ceremony. More than anything, it is a time of total avoidance and indulgence. Some people naturally take the time they need for relaxation and enjoyment; others of us have had to learn this necessary art. My method is to avoid, when possible, all contact with anyone between waking and finishing my third cup of tea. Never cram three cups into a few minutes. Time is crucial.

  Now I gaze upon the cracked white teapot and beyond it, to the still misty world outside: a reality distinct from the cocoon of my duvet and my solitude, where I am slowly coming alive as I progress from zero to three cups in approximately forty-five minutes.

  From my earliest memory, I was catapulted, like so many other children, from deep sleep into the realm of doing, with no time for adjustment. I cannot know what effect this has had on others, though I suspect there’s a correlation between this and the state the world is in. For me, the pause between sleep and activity is sacrosanct. After all, what is sleep? Where do we go? What happens there? Are we changed, recharged, reset or returned to something? Sleep might be so much more than just a rest from all we do. It could be a journey to another realm – ‘time out of mind,’ as Bob Dylan might say. It is the mind that keeps us from sleep, and sleep that frees us from the mind. The computer is off – so what is operating the system?

  Back to tea: I am feeling so glad and grateful to have slept well that I am celebrating with a second pot. This is the advanced level. Not everyone is capable of a long sit. The mistake a lot of ‘spiritual seekers’ make is to believe that they have to be uncomfortable or get up in the dark, say three a.m., to sit. I am sitting in my warm bed, however, at nine thirty, with my huge duvet wrapped around me, and I don’t even have to leave my bed to make the tea. The possibilities for indulgence are much enhanced in a little camper van like mine. Later I might well be in a suitable state to meet other humans, even to stay relaxed and centred when talking happens. My brain will be empty, receptive, calm. I won’t feel grumpy.

  In my little van I can indulge one hundred per cent my needs and desires, which are silence, time and tea. Anyone who thinks I am lazy simply misses the point. Those who envy me get the point, but fail to understand the work that has gone into gaining this ability to listen to my soul. It was extremely difficult for me to find peace, to know what I needed, to give myself any space at all. The pressures and constraints that modern life inflicts upon humankind were pressing hard on me. In a way, it was lucky that I cracked under the pressure and collapsed. I had no choice but to rest, and it took years to learn to live, to be, and to resist the urge to try to snap back into the old shape, or to rehabituate myself into the mode I had known and been trained in.

  In order to ensure I have the space I need every morning, I employ a bit of rebranding to help people to feel really good about not disturbing me, and to make me feel righteous about avoidance. I tell them: ‘I must do my meditation first thing, and I’ll see you later.’ What I leave unsaid is: ‘Do not disturb me or judge me as a lazy slug, a shirker or a habitual hangover-sufferer.’ Everyone seems happy with the meditation label, or at least willing to indulge my indulgence.

  *

  Today has gone quickly. I left my dear Welsh friends at midday and drove north through the Algarve hinterland, which involved lots of ups and downs for Myfanwy. A few hours later, I arrived at Bob and Jenny’s place, which I had found on the internet. It rests on a plateau in a range of small mountains like little volcanoes, and is very pretty. The recent ten days of rain have made everything very lush and green. I was welcomed and shown around a basic campsite with taps that didn’t work and no loos. The hub of the community was a plastic marquee. This makeshift building was where food was stored and cooked. There was a small table with chairs over which hung a single light bulb, which attracted all manner of flying bugs at dusk. It was a practical solution, though not a beautiful one. My hosts had offered food and somewhere to camp in exchange for work improving their site. It was not clear exactly what this place was going to be, neither to me nor to its owners when I asked them. It was work in progress. There was one other voluntary worker staying: a handsome young Portuguese man, Felipe. I found a spot and set up camp, then joined the others for dinner. Apart from the four of us, there were dogs who were in charge of guarding their home, and after barking a lot when I tried to approach the marquee, they settled down and we became friends. It was a convivial evening, and I felt comfortable and welcome. After enjoying food and wine with my new friends, I picked my way through the pitch dark and the scrub along the stony path to my van, which felt very much like home.

  *

  I wake in the middle of the night from dreams which are mundane, yet strangely powerful in their ability to grip my psyche. I open my curtains whilst still lying in bed and through the tall back doors I see more stars than I have seen for years – even decades. They are bright enough to illuminate the moonless night. Some constellations are huge and complex, appearing only in the periphery of my vision. When I look at them directly they are invisible. Gazing at the night sky makes me think about the philosophy of the music of the spheres, and the science of the harmonic series. That leads to thinking about all the things that seem fixed – the firmament, mathematics, the laws of physics and nature – and things that seem changeable – our evolution as a species and as individuals, and the way we transform our environment and language over time. In fact, nothing rests. Everything is moving, always.

  Music is sensual, emotional, yet it belongs in the realm of mathematics. We make patterns using the fixed physics of music – scales, pitch, intervals – either consciously or unconsciously. Everything is vibrating; that is what ph
ysics tells us. Human beings can attune, creating change in vibration through singing, chanting, meditation, and so on. Perhaps we are the only lifeform on Earth that can make that choice. That is a pretty amazing thought, even though it might be inaccurate. Gazing into the heavens changes my perspective. All of life seems so completely magical. At three in the morning, my mind can ramble like this and it all makes perfect sense. Eventually I fall back to sleep, and I wake once the sun has already reached its mid-morning position.

  The van is hot and airless. I wake with a question: am I getting homesick? The truth is, I have not felt homesick at all so far. I have missed almost no one and nothing. Nourished by the warm sunshine and new vistas and occupied by the whole business of being on the road, I have a lot to fill up my senses. The days go by quickly and I rarely find myself idle for long. I feel great love and appreciation for my family and friends, and even wish that they could share all this, or part of it. I miss the comfort of my partner and the familiarity of our relationship, but at the same time I enjoy the freedom to think only of myself, to drop the mind with its nagging voice urging me attend to what others might need, might want, might think of me. I am free of the urge to appease, please and gain approval. So, I don’t feel homesick right now, but I recognise that there’s a state I have found myself in a lot throughout my life: I have longed for home. But what home? Where? Maybe I have longed for something else – something I don’t even know. Perhaps I yearn to find a sense of belonging, sanctuary and peace, in the way one can long to fall in love. It is not a person I miss but a state; a state I don’t experience but recognise all the same.

  Now I begin to understand that this sense of belonging does not exist in a particular location, building or person, but is rooted inside my being, regardless of where, when or with whom I find myself. Interestingly, I am starting to find it easier to remain rooted in this state whilst travelling alone, without much of a plan or destination. I am finding something deeply peaceful and secure in what Joni Mitchell calls the ‘refuge of the roads.’ I leave home and find home in every place and no place – and, perhaps, within my self.