by Petrea King
But although everyday life wasn’t difficult, I remained troubled. Leo hadn’t been in contact, and I felt lost, rudderless and unsure of what to do next, still quite numb with grief about Brenden, the packing up and sale of our home, and my sudden separation from my husband. Not that anyone would have known what was going on for me, as I barely knew myself and was so used to keeping my polished facade in place. I appeared content as I engaged fully with my training, a great distraction from my inner torment.
The following Sunday, Swami again asked whether I had made my decision. I repeated what I’d said before, but this time he invited me to his home to discuss why I wouldn’t say yes. On overhearing this conversation, one of the parents invited Ada and Simon to return home with her for lunch and to play with her children, and another person insisted I take his car as mine had been written off in the accident.
Swami lived a fifteen-minute drive from the main community in a majestic geodesic dome overlooking the Yuba River far, far below. We settled ourselves on the deck with the distant roar of the river reverberating. Swami waited and said nothing.
Finally, I spoke up. I told him I didn’t want a guru in my life and I couldn’t agree blindly with everything he said. There, it was out. Having been involved with a male-dominated spiritual hierarchy in the School of Philosophy, I wasn’t about to repeat the experience. Surely now he would realise I wasn’t what he wanted and he’d send me away. Instead, he threw back his head and laughed heartily as he said, ‘That’s why I want you to work with me. I want someone with whom I can have a conversation, someone who thinks for themselves. So, now you’ll work with me?’
I was floundering and stupidly said, ‘I can’t laugh at all your jokes, Swami. Some of them aren’t even funny.’
He overlooked my rudeness and laughed even more heartily.
Wiping away tears, at last he stopped. ‘That’s fine. Is there anything else?’
I knew that Swami had some health issues and was very fond of rich Indian food that wasn’t sensible for him. ‘I can’t cook what you like to eat, Swami. I’m a naturopath and the food you love isn’t good for you.’
Again, he ignored my rudeness and asked what I would cook for him instead. I rattled off a few suitable dishes that were fairly plain and simple, and he said, ‘That’s fine. I’m happy to eat what you prepare.’
Now, Swami was a truly extraordinary man with incredible talents. Prolific in his creative pursuits, he was an accomplished musician and composer, a keen photographer, an artist, an inspiring teacher and the author of more than a hundred books. I respected him and was touched by his insistence that I work with him.
My other reasons for not accepting his offer were my need to return to Australia and Leo, as well as the fact that my children needed me. Swami’s lifestyle was intensely focused and productive, and having young children underfoot wouldn’t be possible.
To my astonishment, he said, ‘I think your husband has made his decision,’ and then more astonishingly, ‘I’ll get used to having children around.’ I knew this wouldn’t work, but before I could say another word, he asked, ‘Is there anything else?’
I could think of nothing further.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s settled. When can you start?’
‘Tomorrow?’ I hesitantly replied, and so began an amazing chapter in my life.
CHAPTER 15
Out of the frying pan
When Leo left so abruptly, I felt confused, abandoned and lost, and was unsure about what to do. I still felt an inner turmoil due to grief about Brenden, and Leo’s sudden departure compounded my feelings of failure. I held a deep need to earn my right to exist and still felt very much a voyeur of other people’s lives, still deeply unsure of how to live my own.
The very first morning I began my work with Swami, he informed me that an Indian saint was coming for afternoon tea and there would probably be about six people attending his auspicious visit. I cooked some banana bread and cookies, made sure there was enough milk, and found where cups, saucers and teaspoons were stored.
An hour later, Swami returned and sweetly said there may be as many as ten people for afternoon tea but definitely not more than fifteen. I happily prepared extra food, and ensured there were sufficient provisions both to eat and drink.
An hour later, Swami returned and—with a hint of humour and his characteristic sweetness—told me there could be as many as twenty people but definitely not more than twenty-five.
This continued, with Swami popping in every hour or so until he declared with certainty, ‘I promise there’ll be no more than fifty people for afternoon tea.’ I accepted his promise, as surely a swami’s promise was an iron-clad guarantee.
Later that afternoon, eighty-five people attended the afternoon tea. Perched on stairways, and in every seat and space on the floor, they sat enjoying the conversation between Swami and the saint. I looked down from the elevated kitchen in the dome at the scene before me. Somehow, everyone had a cup in hand and something to eat, yet I knew I hadn’t prepared enough food for the number of people present.
Swami and the white-bearded saint in his Indian garb sat side by side, smiling sweetly at each other or talking intently. Just then, Swami caught my eye and smiled. In that instant, I realised working with him wasn’t so much about housekeeping and secretarial duties as about responding flexibly and good humouredly to changing circumstances, even if they involved a broken promise. The alternative of reacting in a frustrated or grumpy manner would surely bring no joy to me or him, and it wouldn’t change the fact that eighty-five people came for tea.
***
Swami regularly caused me to question my beliefs. Through his patience and perseverance with this wayward student, I could see I had collected many beliefs—about myself, life, love, God and other people—and then lived as if they were true. Swami taught me that there is no solid ground, and the only way I can have peace and good humour is for me to respond moment by moment to what ‘is’ rather than my version of how things ‘should’ be. But while it can be easy to understand another perspective, this is often not sufficient to change what has become second nature to us.
Most days I didn’t go to Swami’s residence until 10 am, when I took his mail and any messages from the community that needed his attention. I would prepare his lunch and then he’d give me some secretarial work: perhaps typing up his handwritten notes or answers to letters requesting his spiritual direction. He would often ask me to compose these answers for his perusal, correction and embellishment, and this gave me a wonderful opportunity to adapt the theory of yogic spirituality to its practice.
Swami sometimes shared the evening meal with members of the community, usually the male and female ministers who worked closely under his guidance. I would prepare the meal but leave in time to be with my children, prepare their dinner, and tuck them up for sleep and our nightly ritual of being wrapped in the rainbow.
Swami and I often shared lunch on the large deck perched far above the river, overlooking miles of mountains and forests. These were precious times when we discussed all manner of subjects, and he shared his knowledge and perspective with great generosity. I was inspired by his intellect and his ability to make profoundly complex spiritual topics easy to grasp.
I had only been cooking for Swami for a couple of weeks when he informed me that he intended to go into seclusion to meditate and fast.
The first morning of his fast, I went as usual at 10 am to Swami’s home to deliver mail and messages and pick up any work. When he opened the door to my knock, I inquired whether he would like me to make him a juice. He gave me a cheeky smile and replied, ‘I’d love a cup of coffee!’
‘No, Swami,’ came my quick reply, ‘you mustn’t have coffee. You’re on a fast. I’ll make you a fresh juice.’
He dutifully drank this while mocking ‘sad eyes’ at me. The next day, the same thing happened. And the next.
After the third time, a discomforting thought occurred to me. Swami had u
ndertaken many fasts and, indeed, had also written extensively on yogic diet and fasting. Who was I to tell him how to fast? I tried to ignore the thought, but it hounded me for more than an hour and I could no longer ignore its insistence.
Each morning after my visit to Swami, he would go to his meditation room—a dark, windowless internal room—and remain there meditating for the day. When I finally understood my presumption in thinking I knew what was best for him, I almost ran from my office to his residence. The moment I knocked on his door, he opened it as if he was waiting for me.
‘Can I make you a cup of coffee, Swami?’ I asked.
With the sweetest of smiles, he said, ‘Thank you. That would be wonderful.’
For me, this was a lesson in not presuming to know what was best for another person. It was humbling to understand my beliefs were just that, beliefs, and I had no right to inflict them upon another.
In the fifteen months I worked with him, every day Swami did something to turn my beliefs inside out and upside down. Just when I thought I understood something, he would challenge it. The training he gave me was profound.
***
Weeks flew past and then months. My father came to visit on one of his business trips, and Ada and Simon loved reconnecting with him and showing him around Ananda as well as introducing him to their friends. The children were cheerful and content with their daily activities.
I was feeling settled in Ananda with Ada and Simon, but then came a disruption. Leo was finally in touch and wanted to visit the children, whom he missed terribly. I felt trepidation about this, as I had no idea what state he was in and whether his visit would upset or please the children, or be a confusing combination of the two.
When he arrived, the children were overjoyed to see him, but it was clear our marriage of seven and a half years was well beyond repair. Leo was still furious with me and not interested in any discussion about how things might be peacefully resolved, if not mended. He had begun divorce proceedings and cited to his lawyers that I was mixed up with a weird cult in America. They had assured him there was a good chance he would get custody of the children, a thought that sickened me as I knew the impact of his anger on me, an anger that would no doubt negatively affect the children.
He saved his bitter outbursts until I was alone with him, only to switch the moment the children were on our near horizon. He was threatening and hostile towards me, convinced that I intended to separate him permanently from his children. No amount of reassurance from me made a difference, and he wanted to take them back to Australia then and there.
Since just before Leo had arrived in late July, I’d been feeling more and more tired. I was covered in small bruises and any cut took an age to heal. In one of his heated outbursts, Leo grabbed my arm from behind; the following day, the bright red marks of his fingers were clearly delineated on my skin, and they gradually took on the blue, green and purple smudge of deep bruising—for a few days, I kept my arms covered so as not to alarm anyone. I knew it wasn’t right to bruise so badly from such a minor trauma. And my cycle, though regular, was now completely exhausting as my period became much heavier than usual and went on many days longer.
I was at pains to hide from Leo that I felt so unwell, knowing he would use any weakness on my part as a weapon against me. He badgered me relentlessly to let the children return with him and threatened that he wouldn’t leave without them.
I felt paralysed by the unravelling nightmare of Leo’s harassment and my exhaustion. I couldn’t even let my close friends at Ananda know what he was doing and saying, as he was always charming around them and I was still trying to maintain a facade of coping. Here I was again, unable to ask for help that would have been happily given, too afraid that I would expose the shame and embarrassment of my failed marriage and my fears of reprisal from Leo.
I did speak to Swami, who listened to me but didn’t provide any guidance about what I should do, as he believed I needed to make my own decisions. While he would readily advise other members of the community when they sought his advice, Swami only ever recommended meditation to me as my answer.
Overwhelmed and exhausted, I finally relented to Leo’s demands. I was sure he wouldn’t harm the children he so loved. I never witnessed any violence from him against them, though his frustrations often bubbled over into angry outbursts.
The children, particularly Simon, were reluctant to leave me, but I reminded them that I would now be at the end of their rainbow and they could send me their love every night, just as they had been doing with their father. They were happy to be reunited with him, and I promised I would follow them home soon.
There were many tearful goodbyes as the children took leave of their teachers and friends. My heart was heavy when I packed their bags. Leo had found a house to rent in Mulgoa near where Jenny the donkey had lived with our friends, and he had already spoken to the local school about midyear admissions. He’d had a clear plan before he arrived for his visit, and I was helpless to stop him from implementing it. Perhaps it was the best solution, as I couldn’t see another way forward.
CHAPTER 16
A good death
Swami had gone into seclusion for some weeks, which freed me up from most of my duties. He spent his days meditating and writing but was seeing no one, including me, except for the delivery of his mail and messages each mid-morning at an agreed time.
I used this time to focus on regaining my health, but in the following days I felt no better at all. Finally, and reluctantly, I made an appointment with a local gynaecologist, Frank Conant, to sort out why I was so weak. I put my exhaustion down to anaemia because of the heavy loss of blood from my periods.
Frank was a gentle older man, and the moment he examined me and saw the bruising, he said he didn’t believe my problem was gynaecological in nature. He sent me to a clinic in Sacramento, the nearest to Ananda for a bone biopsy, which they repeated two weeks later—first from my sternum and then, when they had difficulty accessing marrow, from my pelvis.
My mother became concerned when she spoke to me during those difficult weeks as she felt that something wasn’t right. Geoff had reported back to her that he was worried when he visited me; he thought that I didn’t look well and had lost a lot of weight.
I maintained my facade, knowing my parents were still grieving terribly for Brenden. I didn’t want to add to their burden by alarming them about my health. But my mother decided to visit, arriving a few weeks after Leo and the children had departed.
I was so relieved to see her but also terribly conflicted that I was to be a source of worry instead of support. She wanted to know what was wrong but I fobbed her off, saying I needed to attend an appointment before I could talk about anything and that I was just missing the children. Rae knows me too well and saw through my fumbling explanations, but she waited until I was ready to talk.
When I visited Frank for the results of the bone biopsies, he broke the news to me as gently as he could. I was already feeling woozy, so it was hard for me to concentrate on what he was saying. He told me that the tests confirmed I had an aggressive form of acute myeloid leukaemia. The doctors in Sacramento had suggested some experimental chemotherapy that would extend my life, perhaps by some weeks, but a remission wasn’t likely and a cure was out of the question. I wouldn’t be here for Christmas. If I wanted the treatment they suggested, it would need to be paid for given I wasn’t an American citizen. And I remembered little more after that.
I returned to Ananda in a daze with the dreaded task of telling Rae.
***
I’ve often thought my mother should be the one who gives lectures and writes books because she’s had more suffering in her life than most. She has been my backbone on more occasions than I can count, and she has always been my greatest ally and friend. She has fished me out of some painful pickles, and we have always loved and cared for each other deeply. Telling her this news so soon after Brenden’s death was agonising.
For just a moment wh
en Frank gave me the prognosis, I had felt relief. I could finally go. I was exhausted by life—exhausted by grief, by pain and by myriad unresolved traumas that I’d never discussed let alone integrated. I’d spent my life trying so hard to get everything ‘right’ and had failed miserably. I didn’t have a clue how to do a good life. Perhaps I could do a good death instead.
This feeling came and went as I struggled to come to terms with the enormity of what Frank had told me. Rae packed up my belongings, and I said goodbye to my friends, including Swami, who were all as shocked as I was. I was born twenty-one months after Brenden and now I would die twenty-one months after him.
Rae and I travelled home in a state of numb silence, barely knowing what to say to each other. Again, I moved into my parents’ home, this time taking the bedroom overlooking Middle Harbour because the view was spectacular and I was destined to spend a good deal of time in bed.
***
I was loath to let Leo know of my prognosis as I knew he would certainly use it to his advantage. It was impossible to hide my illness, though. When the children came to visit me, I was often unable to get out of bed. They were used to me being active, and I ached to be the mum to them that I had always been. But I wasn’t much fun, so these visits were often stressful all round. I found it difficult when the children asked my mother for a peanut-butter sandwich when I was so used to doing those things for them myself. I tried to be grateful because Rae was so willing to help, but found it hard to relinquish any sense of control or contribution.
The children were happily enrolled in Mulgoa Primary School, and Leo brought them to Mosman on weekends. We took it in turns to ferry them back and forth, but usually it was Rae—occasionally Geoff—who returned the children to their father on Sunday afternoons, as I was too unwell to drive.
