by Petrea King
I had barely eaten meat for fifteen years except during my year in New Zealand. And any naturopath knows and enthusiastically proclaims, ‘The whiter the bread, the sooner you’re dead.’ And wine? I had barely touched alcohol, coffee or even tea for the same amount of time. In that precious moment, I realised I knew zip about anything. For all my studies, for all my efforts, I knew absolutely nothing worth knowing. The uncomfortable process of dismantling my beliefs had well and truly begun.
I was humbled to realise that it was more healing to be grateful for what Padre Ilarino had lovingly prepared for me, a stranger, than to adhere to beliefs that no longer served me. While I found this first meal difficult to chew, let alone swallow, Padre Ilarino stood by to ensure I ate. Perhaps he was worried about the pale, skinny, divorced Anglican, holed up in his sacred Catholic cave, and he was determined to make me eat! My dying in the cherished cave would not be tolerated. He wouldn’t allow me to indulge in the many deprivations that St Francis had engaged in, which included fasting, the wearing of rough rope belts against the skin, and having bare feet in the snow.
***
And so my life took on a rhythm. Each day I spent up to eighteen hours in the cave, meditating, weeping, and praying for relief from my turmoil and anguish. I wept for Brenden and my helplessness to help him. I wept for the little girl ravaged by guilt, pain and isolation. I wept for the voiceless part of myself unable to call out or ask for help. The more I looked for faults and failings in myself, the more I found, and I often felt useless and dispensable to the world. Such was my despair, I even felt that my children might be better off without me. The only relief came from nature, music, yoga, prayer and meditation.
As terrified as I was of the gaping black hole within me, I began to suspect that life and healing would be found by embracing this darkness. Brenden had plunged headlong into the black hole, never to resurface, but it seemed that light and peace lay paradoxically close to its darkness. Perhaps I would find the light I so craved by welcoming the darkness that clouded my heart.
In meditation, I clearly perceived the coping mechanisms that I had created to feel in control of my life. Who was I, if not this collection of beliefs and attitudes? And yet they were the very things I needed to release. My trust in life was tenuous, as the belief that I needed to earn my right to exist was all pervading. Letting go of my perceived control was quite terrifying. I had become completely selfish through my total absorption in my own chaotic, unmanaged and judgemental thinking.
When so consumed with my own misery and self-loathing, I could barely make eye contact with anyone. During this time, friends from Sorrento travelled over three hours to visit me and, because I felt so low and loathsome, I couldn’t bear to meet with them. I had described myself previously to them as a ‘rotten miserable worm that doesn’t deserve to exist’. These dear friends left a pile of ‘worm food’ outside the cave next to a little pen drawing of a worm with a halo above its head and flanked by two angels. This picture still sits on my desk.
Occasionally I drew pictures of food for Padre Ilarino or the monks to purchase for me in town, such as a sketch of a pear tree x 6 or a chicken sitting on a nest of eggs x 6. These kindly monks provided for my needs so I didn’t need to leave the quiet sanctuary of the monastery, and Padre Ilarino continued to prepare the evening meal for me. And whenever a monk went into Assisi, he would post off a wad of the postcards I wrote each day to Ada and Simon and purchase more.
Sometimes after the evening meal, Padre Ilarino and I would sit and talk in the sanctuary of the surrounding woods, especially in the long twilights after tourists left for the day. These were strange conversations: he spoke non-stop in Italian, I spoke in English, and we were never sure if the other understood our meaning. But it didn’t matter, as there seemed to be an invisible energy flowing between and connecting us, and I relished our time together. It was easier somehow to pour out my story knowing that he didn’t understand much of what I was saying. Sometimes we don’t know what we think until we hear what we say, so these long conversations were often revelatory to me—if not to poor Padre Ilarino, who at least didn’t seem to mind enduring them.
I would also sit alone in the woods from time to time. One day, I was eating grapes amid the trees while marinating in a wretched self-pity I couldn’t shake. A beautiful blue and black butterfly landed on my knee, so I squeezed a drop of grape juice for this lovely visitor before I quickly returned to my self-inflicted pity party.
To my surprise, an identical butterfly landed on my other knee. Again, I squeezed a drop of grape juice for this beautiful creature. Then it suddenly struck me: ‘I’m good for something. I’m a good place for butterflies to land on!’ Such was my low state at the time, it took some extraordinary events to help me see things differently.
***
While the Eremo delle Carceri opened early in the morning and closed around seven in the evening, most people arrived after 10 am and were gone by 5 pm. Signs that read Silenzio were scattered here and there in the monastery grounds, but total silence was hard for tourists to maintain, so I would hear their laughter and chatter as they descended the stairs towards the cave in which I was meditating.
Many visitors never noticed me in the corner; those who did must have wondered at my presence. Some would arrive eagerly, skipping downstairs on young sturdy legs, barely noticing anything as they passed through the cave. Others would slow their step and stop talking as they entered this sacred space. Occasionally a person or two would join me in silent prayer or meditation, moving on quietly when done.
As time passed and I found more peace, some people would stay an hour or two, and we would soak in the quiet together; these were often people who had softly and reverentially descended the stairs as if they could feel the sanctity of the cave before their arrival. Very rarely, a person with their own burden would join me in the weeping.
Through all of this I kept my eyes closed, as I didn’t want to intrude on anyone else’s experience of the cave any more than I wanted them to interfere with mine.
***
One special day remains clear in my memory—the day I realised there was nothing and no one to blame for how I felt. Disappointing as this was, it was a mighty revelation as I so often blamed events, people or myself for my misery.
I could still be sitting there now, a dusty little pile of bones in the corner of the cave, moaning about my childhood, blaming myself for being inadequate and loathsome, resenting how easy it seemed for other people, blaming myself for the rape and for Brenden’s death, regretting the years of pain, loneliness and hospitalisations, chastising some fundamental flaw within myself, railing at the suffering in the world, tired of existential and physical pain and sickness, sad that I might die and leave my children motherless and my parents suffering the loss of a second child.
But I realised that nothing of how I felt would make an iota of difference to the facts. The fact was, this was my life, my one precious life to live. Those traumas and tragedies had happened.
The weeping had led me to a place of deep acceptance and certainty that it isn’t our traumas and tragedies but the view we take of them that determines the quality—and perhaps even the quantity and direction—of our lives. Once I reached this place, my perspective changed dramatically. I realised that my suffering was within myself, and while I couldn’t change the events of my life, I could certainly change how I chose to see them.
Until we truly awaken, we are governed by the unconscious commentary that constantly judges, criticises, blames, compares, rehashes the past or projects scenarios into the future. Once my tears were shed, I was more easily able to connect with the wonder of experiencing each moment without so much clutter from the past. Life became simpler as I more consciously chose to take care of my physical, mental, emotional and spiritual wellbeing. No longer preoccupied and overwhelmed by a busy unconscious mind, I could make better use of my conscious thoughts.
When I was present and my mind was quie
t, I was able to access deeper qualities within myself. My insight, compassion, wisdom, humour and intuition worked seamlessly, and I knew moment by moment what to do, how to be, what to say. During meditation, I stopped building on beliefs or judgements that distracted me; instead, I challenged them to see if they were useful—and I became more willing to release the ones detrimental to my growth towards a larger version of myself.
Most of us don’t know that we can make these choices. We so easily become helpless victims of our reactions, not recognising that while we may not have control over life’s dramas, disappointments and tragedies, we can have control over how we respond to them. We have the potential to shift from feeling like a helpless victim to being an active co-creator of how our life is experienced. We can choose to see the glass half full or half empty. The perception is entirely up to us.
***
There was no space for yoga postures in the cave, but I incorporated and practised yogic principles as well as breathing exercises or pranayama. As I became stronger, I spent the mornings upstairs in my accommodation space where the sun streamed in, doing some gentle yoga postures or asanas. Swami’s way of teaching yoga linked affirmations with postures, and I incorporated these into my daily practice.
His words to me had lost their sting and, indeed, I began to see them in a very different light. He’d said that no one had ever demanded more from him than me. Instead of seeing this as another terrible flaw in myself, I realised that, given he was a spiritual teacher, as his student I had sought his teachings—and this I had done with diligence and tenacity.
Swami had also said that he’d given me everything he had. I now saw this quite differently too. If he’d given me everything he had, then that was both considerable and more than enough. He had a wealth of knowledge, insight and real wisdom that he had generously shared with me. He’d said it was time for me to go, and he was right.
I was amazed at how the same words could be interpreted so differently; it was simply dependent on how I chose to receive them. If I heard them through the filter of self-loathing, they only added to my shame. If I heard them without judgement, there was no malice in them. And, indeed, they acknowledged the many gifts he’d given me.
***
As I let go of this resentment, the leaves began to turn, heralding the approaching quiet and rest of winter. I started feeling ready to re-enter the world. There was a peace in my heart and almost a spring in my step, and I ached to be with my children once more.
My time at the Eremo delle Carceri had been profoundly healing, not only for my body but also, far more importantly, for my mind. I no longer worried about whether I would survive or succumb to leukaemia. All I wanted was to be with Ada and Simon, and to bring to them—and to my life in general—the peace I had discovered in the Grotto.
At my departure, Padre Ilarino wept and gave me his blessing. He had taken me in as a stranger, and though our conversations were many and varied, and rarely understood by the other, we parted as dear friends. After all, perhaps it’s not so difficult to find peace when no one speaks your language! It’s in our relationships that we rub up against each other’s prickly, twitchy bits.
Leaving my quiet sanctuary wasn’t easy. Stepping through the threshold at the entrance to the Eremo meant crossing from a safe, contained environment out into the hubbub of the world, but I knew I was ready to make the journey back to Australia.
My trip down Monte Subasio felt so different from my ascent those many months before. I felt humble and grateful that so much had been given to me so generously and without expectation. I wasn’t free of my self-doubts, judgements or fears, but they no longer dominated my mind. I had a much greater capacity to witness my thoughts rather than react to them as a helpless victim.
My preference, of course, was to live. But now I had found an unshakeable peace that I knew wouldn’t be destroyed by dying. The peace that passes all understanding was the gift I received in the cave. I fully expected to die and had arranged everything for my departure: my will, my funeral, and the letters and tapes for my children. I was ready to die or to live, but at no time did I feel as if I was fighting for my life. My focus was only on finding peace with my past, peace with myself, peace with life.
Like everyone, I only had a brief moment to grow and blossom upon the Earth, and then I would leave. I wasn’t warming up for the big event. Life is found in each moment, and it’s up to me whether I squander it through fear, worry, greed, anger and resentment, or I let go and trust in the moment.
I had discovered the great joy of living like a tourist. When we travel, we drink in the moment: its sights, smells, tastes and sounds. We travel with fresh and heightened senses. Then we return home, where humdrum routine can numb us, and we sacrifice the moment to our anxieties and responsibilities as if worrying makes a difference. But we are all tourists, just passing through.
When the time came, I wanted to be on my deathbed with a soft smile born of an assurance in my heart that I had lived a useful life, free of regrets—and, hopefully, a life that brought a little love into the world. This sounded like a great way to both live and die.
CHAPTER 20
Home again
My parents had supported me financially throughout this time, because I had signed over all my assets to Leo before I left Australia. I was penniless, and they were more than happy for me to move into their home yet again.
Rae had been looking after Simon one day a week while Leo went to the stock exchange and Ada was in school. Rae often cared for the children on weekends too, which gave Leo a break from the responsibility of being a full-time parent. I was so grateful to her for the love and care she extended to my children during the time of my illness. I had missed so much of their formative years and was eager to rekindle our familial ease of frequent contact and connection.
On my return, I wasn’t very robust but much better than when I had left Australia almost a year before. Blood tests showed that I had a high number of baby red blood cells but no sign of leukaemia. When these results were sent to the United States for Frank Conant to share with the doctors in Sacramento who had made the original diagnosis, their only response was that I’d had an unexpected remission that wouldn’t last more than a few days, perhaps weeks, at most.
I found this challenging, as I had packed up the whole of my life and reduced my possessions to what could be carried in hand luggage. Everything else I’d once owned now belonged to Leo. I was living in the land of uncertainty—how much to unpack from the suitcase and start living? I knew I could now achieve a good death but was still unclear about how to construct a good life, especially given the unpredictability of my health.
However, one of the greatest blessings of nearly dying was that I now knew happiness wasn’t derived from possessions. I had largely lost any desire for ‘things’. They counted for little in the scheme of happiness and, as the German saying goes, ‘The last shirt has no pockets.’
On the other hand, my happiness was certainly derived from seeing Ada and Simon. The children and I clung to one another in delight when they visited on weekends. We enjoyed exploring parts of Sydney and simply being together. Simon had started at the same school as Ada and, of course, they’d both grown so much since I had last seen them. Their company felt like a balm to me. I had no words to describe my inner landscape or the path that had led me to a different experience of myself and my life. But although uncertainty paralysed me from taking action, and nothing stood out as an obvious way forward, I was happy, humble and grateful to still be alive. The joy of being reunited with my children and parents was more than enough for the moment.
***
After about three months, as my health continued to improve, Rae took me by surprise when she said, ‘Have you thought of working, dear?’
This moment was emblazoned on my memory as we drove across the Harbour Bridge. My mother’s question posed the possibility of me actually living.
How could I start my life again if my r
eprieve from leukaemia was only temporary? It was a long time since I’d worked in an office, and the idea of returning to the book-publishing business, while generously on offer, held no appeal to me.
So my answer to Rae startled her as much as it did me. All I could say was, ‘I just want to be paid for being me.’
I knew what I didn’t want, but I still had no clue about what I did want. I didn’t want to say ‘yes’ to things when my body shrieked ‘no’, but I could see nothing to say ‘yes’ to. Not knowing my direction was uncomfortable, as we all like to feel motivated, to have a purpose to our step and, if possible, to feel inspired by what we do.
My stay at the Eremo had been a little like a convalescence. It had given me time and space to reflect, and I’d released a mountain of grief, frustration, trauma and despair. I’d found a pathway home to myself. Now I continued to nourish my body, mind and spirit while I waited for a sign—or my intuition—to guide me forward in creating a meaningful life, for however long I might have it. I didn’t want to just fill in time until I died, no matter how soon or far off my death might be.
The disquieting stimulus of my mother’s question prompted me to call Marcus Blackmore—the businessman at the helm of his family company, Blackmores, well-known in Australia for their vitamin and herb products—whom I had met during my days at the naturopathic college. I explained my predicament to him: ‘I am qualified as a naturopath, a herbalist, a homeopath, a massage therapist, and a yoga and meditation teacher. I was meant to die from leukaemia, but I’m still here in what my doctors described as “an unexpected remission”, which they said won’t last. I don’t know what to do, Marcus. I don’t want to wait around until I die.’
Marcus didn’t seem to hesitate in his response. ‘Don’t focus on what your doctors have said. Go into naturopathic practice.’ A Mosman GP was looking for a naturopath to work in his clinic, and Marcus offered to introduce us.
