Red Dress

by Bridget Finklaire

  “I see what you mean,” said Katy. “And no amount of tinkering or worrying is going to make any difference – or make it grow faster. You’ve got to plant it, give it what it needs and have faith it’ll grow.” It was starting to make sense now. “And you know it’s going to be an apple tree, even when it looks like a stem and a couple of leaves.”

  “Quite so. Think of your dreams as seeds being planted in the womb of time. You nurture them, tend to them and let nature take its course.”

  “But they’ll come to fruition in their own time and in their own way? Like a baby taking nine months in the womb – you can’t make it come sooner?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Otherwise you’re trying to open a rosebud with your fingers, rather than let it unfold in the sun. I use that metaphor with my clients sometimes.”

  “I know...and it’s a good one. Many people are either planting seeds then forgetting to water them, or losing faith when you don’t see immediate growth, or planting what’s already in the garden!”

  “Or letting it self-seed! What about the weeds? They just keep growing!”

  “If you’re spending all your time weeding, the apple tree isn’t going to get planted, let alone come to fruition!”

  “What are the weeds, metaphorically speaking?”

  “All the thoughts that sabotage you – mostly fears and doubts. But some weeds condition the soil. Pull out the big thistles and thorns but leave the rest.”

  “And if you ignore the weeds and plant a tree, you’ll get fruit.” She laughed. “The weeds will grow, but who cares when you have an apple tree?”

  “Less so when you have a whole garden of beauty! Some people swing between the thing they want, and the doubt they’ll get it!”

  “Big weeds and a small apple tree?”

  “Yes!” the Voice chuckled, “They plant a good idea, the doubts creep in and it withers, so to speak. You need consistency.”

  “And I guess you have to give things time and space to grow. It takes a while to cultivate a mature garden.”

  “And don’t forget to enjoy the process! A tree doesn’t strain and flowers don’t stress!”

  “Don’t try too hard?”

  “Take delight in each stage, in each season, in each cycle, just as a child does, just as the gardener does!”

  * * *

  “Blimey, Kittykat, you look like the Jolly Green Giant!” said Richard, leaning in to peck her on the cheek. She looked down at her outfit. Olive, linen trousers, spring-green t-shirt, and a sage, wool jacket with a bottle-green and lime scarf.

  “I should be back around eight-ish. I’ve left a lasagna in the fridge. Tilly can heat it up and steam some veggies. Freddie’s seeing Tom later – his mum’s collecting him after rugby, and he’ll get the bus back.”

  “Drive safely, Kit – I know what you’re like with the loud pedal.” Richard smiled, more at his own wit than at Katy.

  “I will. Thai takeaway later? I won’t have eaten. They’ll probably go to the pub afterwards, but I’ll head back.”

  She wished she could stay at the B&B that Jane had recommended, but how could she desert her family? The drive home would be tiring but Richard was rubbish at anything domestic, and she didn’t want them to think she didn’t care. She’d been let off the leash for a while but had to stay in Richard’s good books.

  Katy threw her mac over her arm, picked up her new khakigreen handbag and left, whispering, “Bye-bye, Constantine!” to the house. “Look after the kids. I’ll be back later.” She had a habit of naming houses and cars, then talking to them as if they were people. Richard ignored her. The children thought it was fun at first, but they’d long grown out of it.

  The car, Beauty, purred into action, and Katy took off through the manicured streets of Turnham Green, crossing the river and negotiating the metropolis of sprawling South London.

  She was compelled to press on with this spiritual stuff, regardless of guilt, seemingly spurred on by the presence of something – like a loving hand gently urging her forward. It felt lately as if invisible tracks kept her fixed to a course that was not hers to determine. Her life had become an unpredictable ride that she had to see through to the finish. She’d spoken to Shanti about it over a soy latte in town. “You’re being fast-tracked,” she’d said. What did that mean exactly? Shanti always said ‘spirit are’ like it was a collective that was helping from some unknown vantage point. Surely ‘spirit’ was singular? It ought to have been ‘spirit is’ – like the Holy Spirit – a singular entity that permeated everything. Shanti had said, “Spirit are taking you to where you need to be – lining you up for the next step.” Whatever that was! Katy was enjoying herself. It was an exciting new game and she was learning the lingo and rules of engagement.

  As she approached the M25, she slipped an Eckhart Tolle CD into the narrow slot on the dashboard. A soft, even monotone filled the car. Her mind wandered. She loved her new group of friends. They were the few, she thought, the ‘elect’ that ‘got it’. She fancied they were all part of a parallel world of alternativeminded, conscious people – awake, aware of something more – inhabiting a reality that others neither saw nor recognized. It was like being part of a secret society: The New-Age Masons. No. She didn’t want to be associated with the Masons. It was mostly men and weird handshakes, wasn’t it? She grimaced, turning her attention to the road for a moment. Eckhart was still talking in the background as she overtook a stream of cars, ever watchful for speed cameras.

  A private club, she thought. Now, what would the admission criteria be? You’d have to have heard of the Bhagavad Gita – maybe read it, or at least listened to an audio version – and you probably needed to read Power Versus Force so you’d know what level of consciousness you were resonating at. And all members would have a pristine copy of A Course in Miracles on their bookshelf – even if they’d never studied the lessons or looked at the text. Perhaps they’d have read A Return to Love instead and got the gist of it. Of course, they’d all know it was her – Marianne Williamson – who’d penned the famous quote that everyone thought was Nelson Mandela’s: ‘Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate...but, that we’re powerful beyond measure.’ Something like that. Katy thought she’d got it wrong – her own deepest fear really was that she was totally bloody inadequate – a fraud who was about to be found out!

  Eckhart Tolle was still droning on in the background. Something about the pain body. Katy made a mental note of her surroundings. Two more junctions till the M23.

  They would all struggle to understand Krishnamurti, she thought, picking up her train of thought, and pretend to hate The Secret (but secretly watch it – ha!) What else? They’d all know about the Mayan calendar and 2012 and they’d all pretend to understand what Bruce Lipton was talking about. Actually, epigenetics made total sense to her as a therapist.

  Junction 7 was looming. Katy indicated, slowed down to the speed limit, and began to cross to the inside lane. Eckhart was saying something about the past and the future.

  Back to her friends. Some of them had seen strange apparitions at night. She wasn’t sure how she’d feel about that – it could be scary. She’d sensed the presence of angels but she’d never seen a UFO or anything. Tara and Ben had – they’d shown her a picture of three pyramidal formations of light which they said had hovered over a field near Stonehenge before mysteriously disappearing. Her new associates loved crystals and they could tell you their individual properties: citrine was for abundance; rose quartz was for love. They knew all this stuff, and that brought comfort to Katy. It meant she wasn’t going mad. She knew it was odd, a psychotherapist with voices in her head, but it was a single, loving Voice – compassionate, wise, informative – and she was lapping it up.

  Katy exited the slip road onto the M23. Eckhart had faded into the background and her thoughts took over again. She’d put her cynicism to one side and decided to embrace this roller-coaster she found herself living. It was fascinating – all these ne
w insights – and she was beginning to share her experiences, one or two even with Richard. Of course, she still worried people might think she was bonkers, but friends like Shanti and Tara helped her to see it was the rest of the world that was mad, not her. Of course, she’d never, ever tell her family – they’d humiliate her, tearing her beliefs to shreds. And she’d never tell anyone about the Voice.

  Eckhart was talking about being intensely present. She couldn’t concentrate – perhaps it was his tone and the fact he kept repeating himself. How many times had he said, “in this moment now”? Katy’s mind drifted to the exquisiteness of the English countryside. The morning light drew her attention from the invariable pitch of Mr. Tolle, and the sporadic traffic that trundled along the M23. A soft bank of late autumn mist spread itself across the South Downs where treetops punctured the lowlying fog, appearing to float trunkless above it. Swallows, their silhouettes darting across the palest blue, swooped and circled before landing on a wire. It arrested her. She was frozen in time at the breath-taking beauty. A car cut in front, sounding its horn, the driver shooting her the customary two fingers. “Fuckwit,” she said out loud, swerving across two lanes to a chorus of hooting as she realized she was about to sail past her exit.

  Eckhart had stopped and she ejected the CD, replacing it with Handel’s Messiah. She hadn’t got a clue what he’d been talking about anyway. A crescendo of orchestral sound filled the car. She listened with grim determination. It would raise her vibration ready for the SRT course, she thought, trying to appreciate what she could only think of as bombastic classical. She should have brought Bach’s Cello Suites. They were more her style. On the way home, she’d listen to her music, cool music, the stuff her inner boho loved.

  As the road ahead cleared, Katy slipped the convertible into sixth gear. Above the strains of the Hallelujah Chorus, her mind raced. She thought about her secret club, her clients, her family, and how much she loved driving the open road, especially unencumbered by children or anyone else for that matter, and especially fast. She’d have made a good Formula One driver – maybe a female Stig – or a ‘star in a reasonably priced car’ – her name up there on the board with Gordon Ramsey’s. Blimey, over a hundred, she noted on the speedometer, she’d better slow down.

  Winding through the villages just outside Brighton, her mind was smoothly ticking over. The secret society was like a shoal of bright, spiritual people, tumbling along the same crystal waters. They gathered at seminars, read similar books, discussed metaphysics and mentors, and saw the importance of connecting with nature and sitting in silence. The waterway was peppered with crucial co-ordinates which they swam towards, mysteriously guided by intuitive forces, each following their unique path through the rapids and into deep pools and warm shallows. Not everyone would read the same books or attend the same lectures, but they’d all be led according to their needs. They might swim alone then re-group, only to split and re-join later. Alone, yet in the same shimmering stream, alone, yet part of the shoal – the current carrying them towards the Light, taking them home. It was all about learning, growing, and discovering.

  We’re never truly alone, she thought, and with that came the realization that everything was connected. She remembered something Thich Nhat Hanh had said: “See this blank piece of paper? Can you see the cloud in it? No? If you look very carefully, you can see. Without the cloud, there would be no rain. Without the rain, there would be no tree. Without the tree, this piece of paper would not exist.” We do nothing alone. We’re inter-dependent...but we need to be self-accountable, otherwise, we’d become the spanner in the works.

  The car stopped abruptly at a T-Junction. Katy had lost track of where she was and had no idea which way to turn. ‘Left,’ she heard the thought as if it had been planted there, clear and certain. Following the road through, she picked up a sign for a familiar-sounding village and glancing at her hand-written directions, she sped off.

  It was dawning on her as she drove that fellowship, sharing and co-operation were more important than grabbing what you could. We need to work together, she thought, but we can’t do that until everyone’s ready – till we’re all consciously aware. You had to be awakened to the bigger picture, to the invisible threads that connected each pearl – had to realize the cloud was right there in the paper! Everybody had to play their part, but many were still stuck in the old paradigm: Pass go, collect £200, buy a better box for yourself. Win, lose, compare and compete.

  Katy slowed down, looking for the Jolly Farmer sign that Jane had said was about a hundred meters from the entrance to her cottage. Having parked the car, she picked her way along a small, brick path, leading up to a chocolate-box thatch with its half-timbered upper floor and red-brick base. The windows were tiny, the chimney stack tall, the flowerbeds awash with roses, lilac, and lavender. There was a kitchen garden to the side, well stocked with herbs, vegetables and poles on which runner beans must have grown. She took a deep breath before lifting the forged iron door knocker.

  A slim woman in an expensive trouser suit, sleek cropped hair and a horsey silk scarf draped loosely over her shoulders, opened the small cottage door. Jane Joyheart was nothing like Katy had imagined. “You must be Katy? Come through to the kitchen and make yourself a drink,” she said in BBC-perfect enunciation. “We’re just waiting for a few more before we start.”

  There was a vast choice of herbal teas, a jar of instant coffee and a box of regular tea bags. Katy made herself a ginger and lemon before taking a shortbread finger from a plate of biscuits. She noticed a tray containing various types of milk: goat’s, rice, skimmed and organic full cream. One or two of the group were already chatting as the others arrived in ones and twos.

  “How was the journey?” said a small, Indian woman. “The one here, I mean.” She smiled. “Not Brandon Bays’!”

  Katy joined in the pun. “The spiritual journey or the one from London this morning?”

  As they gathered in the large kitchen, conversations were struck up. It was as if they’d known each other for years. We’re all part of the shoal, thought Katy. She felt connected to them in a way she didn’t with the mums at school and her old book circle friends.

  “I think we’re all here,” said Jane. “Let’s move into the sitting room.”

  The group were about to learn the art of dowsing with a pendulum. It was a necessary requirement before moving on to the complex charts, numbers and detailed sheets that formed the core of Spiritual Response Therapy – SRT. Katy diligently took it all in. Do it with the intention of succeeding beyond expectation, but don’t let perfect be the enemy of excellent – her motto and her hallmark – it won her the results she craved, but at a price. By tea break, she could feel a stiffness in her shoulders.

  Lunch was a vegetarian buffet. I’m not sure I belong here, thought Katy, oscillating between a sense of homecoming and a feeling of hovering on the margins. It seemed almost mandatory in spiritual circles to stop eating animals. Katy wasn’t sure if she wanted to be part of this club. The last thing she wanted was to be one of those kooky-types that stuck out like a mutt at Crufts – but if she was going to be aware of the cloud in the paper, she’d better start thinking about what she was eating. Her mouth started watering at the thought of succulent steaks, oven-roasted lamb with rosemary, pan-fried seabass with capers. Shanti had told her meat was bad for the colon – it was too dense energetically, she’d said, and you needed to lighten up to become enlightened. Besides, you took on the energetic stress of the animal when you ate it. Katy hadn’t taken it too seriously at the time but now she was having second thoughts. Having helped herself to the buffet, she munched her way through raw broccoli with chili and sesame, shredded beetroot and cashew salad, fried tofu in tamari and a generous helping of salad. She felt bloated and full, yet curiously hungry.

  “We’ve decided to go completely vegan,” said Jane. “It’s the only way to go if you care about the planet.”

  “And if you’re serious about your work!” said
a tall, skinny man with a beard and ponytail.

  Work? Thought Katy. Surely this stuff’s just a hobby – something to keep us from going insane.

  “When I was a lawyer in the City,” said Jane, “we used to dine out a lot on meat – and a quantity of red.” She helped herself to a huge pile of watercress. “We’ve cut out the meat – but still quaff the vino!”

  “What made you quit town?” asked the Indian lady.

  “Came to our senses. We realized there was more to life. This cottage, the work I’m doing now, the garden – it’s a million miles away from our old London life, and I love it. We’ve never once regretted leaving.”

  “We?”

  “My husband, Barney and I – and the dogs of course.”

  “Were you always Joyheart?” asked Katy.

  “My maiden name was Hamilton – changed to Joyheart when I married Barney.”

  Katy could feel the beginnings of a migraine. The stiffness in her shoulders had crept up the right side of her neck to the base of her head. She took two paracetamols.

  The group carried plates into the kitchen before resuming.

  “Now you’ve learned the basics,” Jane said, “I want you to go through the first eight charts, dowse for blockages and clear them for yourselves. I’ll come around and check accuracy as we go.”

  The group bent over their workbooks, pendulums in hands.

  “Remember, we’re clearing from soul level! This stuff’s been around for aeons. You’ve all incarnated for hundreds, even thousands of lifetimes.”

  “Do we have to prep to work every time?” asked a shy young woman.

  “Yes. You need to make sure you’re aligned with High Self. It’s the part that’s guiding us – when it can get past the ego – like a puppeteer that’s pulling the strings.”

  “Why High Self?”

  “It’s the greater part of us that has a higher perspective,” said Jane. “Imagine you lived in a block of flats. If you lived on the top floor, you’d see a lot more of the surroundings than if you lived on the ground floor. High Self is on the top floor. You’re in the basement.”