Up Until Now

by Petrea King

  I visited our family GP, or more often he’d visit me, but I was too despairing to contemplate treatment. I felt I would rather die from the disease than die feeling sick from any treatment, given I’d been told there was no hope of a remission or a cure. The experimental treatment available in America wasn’t available in Australia. Like my beloved Granny, I preferred to let nature take its course.

  I was painfully aware that my spiritual aspirations were being thwarted by my trying so hard, probably too hard, to realise them. I was exhausted from living. The thought of being with Brenden, or at least free from pain and my inner turmoil, was a comfort. Life had defeated me, and I felt that all I could do was surrender to my fate.

  CHAPTER 17

  Finding a way through

  Rae and Geoff were amazing during this time, given their hearts were no doubt overwhelmed by grief and foreboding. If I managed to shower myself sitting down, my mother would have to dry me as I didn’t have the energy required for both showering and drying myself. It was a comfort knowing the children were being cared for by Leo and were happy with their daily routines. Given I became very sick and weak so quickly, and my death was on a near horizon, living with my parents was a blessing.

  My days were often spent reflecting on my life while I rested in my bedroom. Around this time, I started calling my parents by their first names, rather than Mum and Dad. In thinking about my life, I wanted to fathom our family by understanding who they were and what their journey had been as people, rather than as my parents. They had both lived through the Depression and World War II, which Geoff had experienced firsthand. Rae had given up her career because of Geoff ’s lack of support. She had lost her father, her mother, a brother at only twenty-one and her son at thirty-two—my death would be yet another loss, but she never faltered in her loving care of me.

  During my reflections, I realised two things: one, no one is perfect and there are certainly no perfect parents; and two, as parents they had always done the very best they could. Wanting them to be any different from who they were was a sure path to suffering. When I came to this understanding of their lives and motivations, it brought me compassion and a softening of the boundaries of love.

  ***

  For two decades, I had studied many of the great masters who purported to have the answers to some of life’s most fundamental questions, and yet I wasn’t at peace with myself, with my history or with my story.

  I had a rich theoretical understanding of God, the Absolute or whatever holy name was used to describe the Supreme Being. For me, that unfolding creative energy was equally—and preferably—expressed as life, love or light. In my spiritual and out-of-body experiences, I had glimpsed the invisible and beneficent force that vibrates material into being. I knew this to be an indestructible, eternal, energetic force that enlivens us all—that blindingly beautiful light I encountered at seven. However, those words don’t begin to adequately describe the experience of it.

  I was acutely aware that only my ego persisted in believing I was separate from life, unworthy of love, beyond redemption. But knowing this didn’t change it or shift my reality, and only heightened my spiritual anguish and despair. I had no trust in life, in myself, in others. I clung to the patterns I’d developed in childhood, such as my belief that I was fundamentally flawed. I felt responsible for Brenden, and for causing so much of my physical pain and disability through the harsh way I treated my body, but all the while I’d been projecting a ridiculous pretence of coping with everything.

  When our local minister at St Luke’s in Mosman offered me a laying on of hands, I chose to participate because I thought it might give my mother some peace. She was a regular member of their congregation and parish council, and her faith was a sustaining force for her. When the minister placed his hands on my head, I was overwhelmed with a sense of profound love, but my mind resisted receiving the gift because I was so wedded to personal condemnation. The tussle within my mind—as my belief in my unworthiness tried to surrender to the presence of love—seemed intractable.

  Our suffering moulds and shapes the life force within us. Sometimes we succumb to resentment, rage, blame or self-pity—but eventually, if we are willing to sit in the presence of suffering, it can lead us home to the wisdom of simply embracing life and being an expression of its love.

  Through meditation, I understood the fickle nature of my mind. As I meditated, into my mind would come the thought, ‘What if I’m not here for Christmas?’ Other thoughts would crowd in: ‘How will my children cope? How will my parents cope? How will I cope? Who’ll come to the funeral? I wonder what they’ll say? Who’ll be wearing my clothes in six months?’ These thoughts plagued me. I could feel myself go down the emotional gurgler, over and over again.

  After a time, I liberated myself from the power of this inner tumult. And, with practice and tenacity, I finally witnessed the thought, ‘What if I’m not here for Christmas?’ and let it go without giving it any attention. This felt like a victory over the wayward nature of my mind. My health seemed to stabilise during this time, though I was still troubled by night sweats, tiredness and terrible bone pain, particularly in my thighs.

  ***

  On one of the children’s weekend visits, Ada came and stood by my bed. I hadn’t told my children the name of my illness, as I didn’t want Leo to hear it, still fearing he would somehow use it to wound me further.

  Ada took my hand and earnestly said, ‘Mum, you’re sick. If you need to meditate to get well, I think you should go back to Ananda.’

  Her words felled me—I thought I had come home to die. Ada knew the people at Ananda well, and she knew I would be loved and cared for there by many friends, but returning had never occurred to me.

  It was now late November 1983 and, after much discussion with my parents, I chose to go back to Ananda. I wrote letters to Ada and Simon for the future, in case I never saw them again, so they would know some of the things that were important to me. I recorded tapes so they could hear my love for them in my voice.

  When we said our painful goodbyes, I was unsure if I would ever see them or my parents again.

  In the weeks before my departure, the harshness of dealing with Leo’s lawyers had taken a further toll on my emotional resilience. At my request, we’d sat around a table to finalise the arrangements, instead of our lawyers arguing at a costly distance. Our family’s solicitor, while competent, was no match for the family law specialist Leo had employed. Too sick to care much, and against my solicitor’s advice, I signed over everything to Leo: all of my possessions and assets—such as they were—and custody of our children. He’d threatened to take Ada and Simon away on a long holiday, returning after my death, unless I complied.

  When I sank into my seat on the plane, it was with a heavy heart to be leaving my children and parents, but I was also relieved that I might never have to deal with Leo again.

  My return to Ananda was a happy reunion. I stayed with friends who looked after my physical needs as my mother had done. I could simply rest, reflect and meditate while the fire crackled, and while Christmas baking smells filled the house with cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice.

  When strong enough, I sat or walked among the manzanita trees with their shrivelling bark rolled up into tiny scrolls. The colours of their branches and soft sage-green leaves were heightened by the contrast of fresh snow. Occasionally, while I sat meditating outside, a deer or two would step quietly by with no sense of fear. Manzanita trees grow in barren and rocky soil, and the deer blended in with them effortlessly.

  These quiet moments in nature were so precious to me. I treasured the solitude as I endeavoured to merge into the landscape like the deer, quietening the heaviness in my mind and replacing it with the whispers of nature around me.

  Christmas came and went. While perhaps I passed some sort of psychological hurdle, my weakness and exhaustion continued, and each day became an opportunity to slow things down to the bare minimum. At times, my connection to life felt so
tenuous, so fragile, that I simply focused on following the sensations of the inward and outward breath, too weak to do anything else.

  ***

  Swami Kriyananda and several of my friends were soon to leave for Italy, where he would teach meditation for the summer. He suggested I accompany him and his entourage. Some weeks later, when I felt able, I embarked for Frankfurt. From there, a few days later, I was driven by some of the Ananda German community to Sorrento, where a charismatic Catholic congregation had invited Swami.

  I was still tired from the journey, so I was happy that my four companions in the car left me to rest while they spoke animatedly in German. I didn’t know any of these people, as my transport had been arranged from Ananda, but I was more than content to relax and be looked after.

  At one point, the fellow sitting beside me stopped speaking in German, turned to me and said, ‘You will heal people with your voice,’ before he went back to chatting with his friends. I had no idea what he was talking about and no idea if he knew I was meant to be dying, but for a moment his words nourished and gladdened my heart.

  I stayed in Sorrento for some weeks, living in a little room in the home of a congregation member from the charismatic Catholic group. There was a disco above, beside and below this room, so while the days were quiet, the relentless beat of the music made it difficult to rest at night—the walls literally vibrated with noise.

  My hosts were so generous and kind to me, a stranger in their midst, and I loved their laughter and animated discussions, though I spoke no Italian and they spoke little English. Sometimes I couldn’t tell whether they were arguing or just speaking passionately, but given the amount of laughter that peppered their conversations, I decided it was the latter. Their culture was so different from the one I knew, where appearances were everything and what lay in the subterranean depths was better left undisturbed and certainly undescribed. Here, everything was out on the table. Meals were happy and boisterous affairs, and not knowing what was being discussed allowed me to simply marinate in my hosts’ good cheer.

  The charismatic community had experienced many extraordinary events, which included speaking in tongues and profound healings. However, under the direction of Padre Luigi, they wanted to internalise this energy instead of only its outward expression, which is why they had invited Swami to teach them meditation.

  Swami’s form of meditation, taught to him by Paramahansa Yogananda, used Kriya Yoga as a path to enlightenment. He spoke of the communion within the Christian tradition as being an outer symbol of the inner communion that results in divine experiences. Kriya Yoga fosters and trains, through the breath, the rising of the Kundalini energy in the spine to meet and connect at the third eye, which is between and behind the eyebrows. In the ancient Sanskrit Vedas, which Swami drew from in his teachings, this is described as ‘inner communion’—a spiritual awakening to the interconnectedness of life that all human beings are designed to experience. Humans are designed to spiritually awaken.

  In the local church where this congregation met, I attended extraordinary services. I was familiar with the Anglican Holy Communion and other traditional rituals, but they were incredibly restrained and formal compared to this.

  Swami had taught the congregation several Indian chants, and they did with them something that none of us had ever heard before. After a time, their free-flowing harmonies, backed by ten guitars, had everyone on their feet swaying or swooning in bliss. The devotion to, and love for, God was palpable. I was content to immerse myself in the music and meditate as these holy sounds reverberated in my body.

  ***

  The congregation kindly prayed for me, and I was invited to a special service in the chapel of a magnificent home in the hills that overlooked Sorrento and the sea beyond. I had no idea what was happening most of the time, but I decided to attend the service, happy enough to be swept along in the loving energy of this group.

  Before the service, we gathered together in the dining room for lunch. I was relieved not to have to participate much in the conversation, resting quietly in the atmosphere of camaraderie.

  When our appetites were sated, we silently descended the stairs in single file to the beautiful chapel, richly painted with frescoes. I settled myself out of the way where I could meditate while the service unfolded around me.

  I had no idea it was a special healing service for me.

  As I sat there, lost in the heavenly harmonies, seven hands were suddenly upon me—on my head, shoulders, heart, back, forehead. These, I learned later, were the hands of the six church leaders and Swami.

  My head fell backwards, and I was transported to a place of profound joy and peace. Brenden and countless others were present in this blissful experience, and such was its power that I couldn’t move a muscle for well over four hours.

  By then, everyone else had left the chapel, had another meal and were waiting to drive me back to where I was staying. I was aware of all these facts, and yet I was deep below the house in the chapel and completely unable to move. Coming back into my body felt like stepping into a cloak of cement. The light, bliss and freedom of the experience was too tantalising to resist; it took some time, in and out of the experience, before I could fully take on my body again, let alone move it.

  The liberation from my body brought a reassurance that the reality of my existence wasn’t dependent on being enmeshed in a physical form. And, while it makes no sense to me now, I knew in those sublime moments that we were all born of the same light, and my children would be fine whether I lived or died, as nothing could ever truly separate us. Death entailed no separation from life.

  Even after I could move again, I couldn’t speak for many hours.

  ***

  I was staying a short distance from the Sorrento Cathedral, where Padre Luigi served as a priest. Each afternoon I walked over to meditate there, and while I wasn’t familiar with the Catholic mass, I enjoyed the ritual of the repetitive service.

  Sometimes I sat in one of the disused little chapels in order to be uninterrupted by the comings and goings of the congregation. In one of these chapels, tucked out of sight, stood an ancient bronze crucifix some 2 and a bit metres tall. It was blackened with age and lack of attention, so I asked Padre Luigi if I might be allowed to clean it. I felt that this was something I could do to repay the kindness of the congregation in allowing me so generously into their hearts, prayers and homes.

  Padre Luigi needed to go through quite a rigmarole to obtain permission from higher up—all the way to the Vatican. Apparently, this was a strange request from a non-national, not to mention a pale, divorced Australian Anglican who was born Jewish, but finally permission was granted.

  I had learned a great deal in the School of Philosophy about the privilege of restoring something to its natural beauty. Stripping away all that had accumulated through neglect wasn’t dissimilar to what I endeavoured to do within myself: the releasing of all the beliefs that diminished me as a person and made me feel loathsome.

  The School had treated cleaning as an exercise in being totally present, so I would pause and bring myself wholeheartedly into the moment before beginning to clean. This brought a reverence to the task. It wasn’t about ‘getting it done’—the journey was every bit as important as the destination of a shining revelation.

  I stood on a stepladder to reach the top of the cross, the crown of thorns on Christ’s head, and his sad and tortured face. As I listened to the toothbrush gradually removing decades of grime, I reflected on what I knew of Christ’s life. There must have been times when he desired nothing more than to live an ordinary life, yet he was driven by the urge to spread the ‘good news’: we are not separate and isolated from love, or God, except in our own beliefs and thinking. Surely the life of a simple carpenter held some appeal to Christ, given the approach of his undignified end on the cross.

  Underneath the blackened grubbiness was a deep, burnished, golden bronze. It took me several weeks to expose its full splendour. During that
time, many of the women who were regular devotees at the cathedral would come in their black dresses and scarves to kneel around the foot of the crucifix. They would gently touch me and make the sign of the cross, and I was grateful for their blessings.

  When my task was complete, the crucifix radiated a golden light. After a reconsecration, it was moved to have pride of place in the main cathedral. Several friends have visited since and told me they have continued to care for the crucifix, and that it still graces the front of the sanctuary.

  I moved on to clean each of the small chapels lining the main cathedral and polish the little silver doors behind which the host was kept.

  During the week, the cathedral was shut from midday until four o’clock, as the town closed for its siesta. Sometimes I secreted myself in a recess so I would be locked in during siesta and have the whole cathedral to myself. I relished these times—the quiet was palpable, and I could meditate, pray or clean.

  One afternoon, as Padre Luigi went to retrieve the host for blessing, I witnessed the smallest hesitation in his step when he saw the brilliant sheen of the silver door gleaming at him in welcome.

  Later he quietly said to me, ‘There must be angels at work during our siesta,’ but he never did anything to interfere with my private time in the cathedral.

  ***

  On the other side of town, close to the coast, stood a church where the English mass was held by a visiting Irish priest for summer tourists. I occasionally attended just to meditate; regardless of whether the mass was delivered in Italian or English, I participated in neither as I wasn’t a Catholic.

  One afternoon the sky was dark and threatening due to an approaching storm, and I decided to remain on the couch rather than venturing out for the evening mass. But as the time drew closer to the start of mass, I had a strong urge to go to the English-speaking service. I tried to toss the idea out of my mind, but because the urge was so insistent I finally decided to follow it and made the journey across town.