Suddenly, the 2012 prophecies do not seem a far-fetched fantasy of the doom-mongers. A couple of simultaneous natural disasters like erupting volcanoes could paralyse all air travel indefinitely. Volcanic fall-out could then prevent us from being outside because of pollution – in Scandinavia people with asthma and allergies were told not to leave the house due to the ash. Thousands of people have been grounded for days all over the world, trying to get home – a country’s whole political elite were wiped out on a historical remembrance day – suddenly there is a sense of camaraderie and connection as we unite to face this. (Naturally, this applies to the general public only, as travel companies have shamelessly hitched their rates in a desperate attempt to make back some of their losses.)
Experiencing grief allows us to see life more acutely and we learn to connect to the wider world at a deeper level, as Oscar Wilde said; “Pain wears no mask.” It encourages us to become lovers of what is happening in any given moment because we have no power to affect it – what can we do but surrender wholeheartedly? The work of Byron Katie has inspired many people in this way of perceiving the world. Her theory is: ‘It simply is, until it isn’t’. It does not sound like rocket science, but when fully realised, this is a real tool for freedom in the present moment. In the end, our need to have answers for things cannot change what has already been. There are reasons which explain and reasons which justify, but at some point, we have to stop searching for a cause. To quote James Baldwin: “People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them;”69 for how long must we keep digging before we allow the grace of trust to wash over us? Let us not repeat Pandora’s mythical situation. After opening the forbidden box, she allowed horrors man had never experienced out into the world, but Hope was left inside the box. Euripides said human hope and courage enable us to “bear what heaven sends.”
It is no wonder that in times like these people turn to God, the Universe or their faith in humanity. When we are thrown from our delusions of grandeur we must bow our heads and wonder suddenly; ‘there must be more than this…’ Whatever we believe affects our reality directly, so it is worth having a think about what you really turn to when you are deeply touched. People who believe everything to be arbitrary also find their own freedom in using this belief to seize the present moment and enjoy it. So, whatever stories your mind is feeding you, remember that you are the narrator and you can change the script, or simply adapt your interpretation of it.
I have been spending much time at my father’s house lately, as my role has become a full-time job. I have ample time for reflection and William and I have the space to miss one another and the excitement of being reunited – something which is so necessary in a relationship (especially once clear of the honey moon period). I have been avidly reading the spiritual seeker’s bible – it is called A Course in Miracles, and I found that I was nourished in faith after finding this passage: “What could you not accept, if you but knew that everything happens, all events, past, present and to come, are gently planned by One Whose only purpose is your good?”70 Whether or not one believes this, it is a comfort and new opportunities can present themselves. For example, Poland will have a whole new political elite, perhaps we will change the way we travel and begin to take the ferry which is more natural for body, as it has time to adjust to different climates and time-zones; appreciating the journey more than the destination.
After the recent events, I was in need of a mood enhancer which I found at the stables. Larry-the-lamb was rejected by his mother at birth. She had twins and when there is a long gap between the first and the second lamb, the mother often rejects the first born. In cases where the lambs are stillborn, farmers often skin a dead lamb and cover a rejected lamb in its skin. The mother sheep will then accept it as hers and begin to clean it; the skin can then be removed and disposed of. It seems rather bloody and gruesome, but it guarantees survival for the cutest little creatures. Larry was not so lucky and he was left without a mother or a surrogate – the future was bleak – until the ladies at the stables got involved and decided to rescue him. Since then, Larry has been living at the stables with the cat and the horses. He is bottle-fed several times a day after demonstrating his thirst by pulling back his little lips to expose two tiny teeth. Feeding Larry is like having a hit of endorphins! It is magical and I walk down to feed our new friend each day with my brother. Clearly, it is obvious that I am a London girl – people who have grown up in the country have seen so many Larrys that they cease to be a source of boundless curiosity and joy!
There was a national tragedy and a natural disaster which shocked us. Yet a tiny life was saved and it brings causeless joy to all those around it. I am a part of that. What if a life of meaning is as simple as that? Forget grand schemes of saving the world, or even your family, and simply get involved in something which makes your heart brim over with compassion… When one of my father’s best friends died a few years ago, we decided to plant a tree for him. We never fail to think of him when we walk past the tree and tend to it. Hamish, Marta, William and I all planted some remembrance trees in the woods where we walk the dogs, to commemorate this event. The act itself brought us closer to each other because we worked towards a higher goal. I hope that we as a people manage to find a way forward which is marked by positive learning and not compounding tragedy. My thoughts go out to all of you.71
69 James Baldwin in his essay “Stranger in the Village”, first published in Harper’s Magazine, 1953.
70 Helen Cohn Schucman, A Course in Miracles, Lesson 135
71 Since the writing of this article in April 2010, there are still many unanswered questions about the accident in Smolensk. It has added to the smarting wound in the Polish psyche which Katyń already was.
Message in a Bottle
When my phone began to buzz and bleep in the middle of the night, I had forgotten that I was on ‘duty’ – I was sure it was another call from one of my friends who had been having relationship trouble lately. A classic case of low moods and wine induced crying – just what I needed at 5.30 am! I had to re-read the message five times. Slowly, I shrugged myself free of the sleepy arms of Morpheus to arrive in a space of surprise. It was a friend who was going out for a run at this ungodly hour “in gratitude for life.” I was impressed – not only did he wake up with a profound thought, he also acted on it.
As a species, one of our quirks, or what I am tempted to call malfunctions, is that we seem to be unable to fully appreciate anything we are blessed with unless it becomes threatened, or we lose it completely. Our best teacher of this is: death. Most people remember everything about the first time in their life that someone was taken from them. How the loss changed their world and how their childhood innocence was somehow never quite the same again; after the finality of death had found its way into thoughts, dreams and nightmares.
I was forced to become conscious of the cracks that had begun to show in this dream world William and I had created. Even our idyllic country life, far from the ills of civilisation, with only our love and our pets as company, was not able to sustain us. I had done such a good job of ignoring this fact that it came as a sudden shock when everything was revealed at once. It seemed as though we were so far up the stream that nothing short of a tsunami would shift our dynamic. A paddle (chat), was not going to get us very far at this stage I thought; because the fear of losing any part of this dream inhibited me from seeing its flaws. I did not want to admit to myself that this – our life together – was not enough as it was.
So began a long few weeks of searching and not finding. I went to the closest thing to home – being so far from Mama, I felt further than ever from my beloved Polska, where my heart sings in connection with the people and the land. My ‘mini-Zakopany’ in the next town, where Marta is to be found pulling pints of real ale behind the bar was going to have to do. A whisky was under my nose before I had a chance to take off my jacket – clearly my inner landscape was displaying itself on my brow. I tested Wojciech M
łynarski’s theory I had heard in a ballad once, to look for truth and happiness in the bottom of a glass.
There were many glasses and bottoms of bottles. I called for the gypsy of the ballads, but an Irishman on a flute had to do. My conclusion; drinking is like dancing – we drink either to remember or to forget. Seems like I have been doing both. Many tears later, Hamish just ‘happened’ to walk into the pub for his nightcap; ‘accidentally on purpose’ I think to myself, he sits down next to me as if we were strangers. I am sure William has sent him to work out what is consuming my joy of life.
The scene seems completely surreal to me as I stagger home in my high-heeled Belstaff Boots with Hamish padding along in his sandals by my side, along the muddy and meandering path. I am crying, Hamish is singing something under his breath. I do not pay any attention to him, I did not ask for his company and even under the influence of the elixir of truth, I find myself unable to express the cause of my malaise. Hamish directs me to my favourite bench at the foot of the garden. “Listen lassie,” he begins, “I know you’re having a rough time right now and that’s ok, but you need to know what is really going on here,” I made no attempt at making this into a conversation. It would be a monologue. Hamish was used to those. Unabashed he continued as the words poured over me like water off a duck’s back…
“Happiness is a choice. The only question here is: are you willing to accept your partner completely? If you are able to do this, then you accept yourself one hundred percent and the uncertainty will fade. You will find the conviction to iron things out as they come up. There is no way however to avoid that which drives you mad about your partner; they will always be themselves. Can you give them and yourself the permission for once, to actually be that which they are?”
He was not getting an answer, the only thing on my mind at this point was the gourmet snack I was going to make myself as soon as I walked in the door… “Think on it lass.” As he said the last words, he helped me to my feet and escorted me to the door, before turning on his heel and vanishing into the night.
Marta’s attempts at words of wisdom in the vein of “William is a lovely guy but there are plenty of fish in the sea,” were not conducive to my current state. I decided to go to my dad’s for a few days to try and make sense of the unease which was coming closer to panic and devastation every time I checked my internal thermometer. It was definitely time to face the internal music. Everything I seemed to pick up echoed Hamish’s words which I remembered somewhat hazily. Rumi assailed me: “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” I remembered Isabel Allende writing about the notion of expecting someone to give you love wrapped as a gift, and it’s impossibility – you have to cultivate it and work on it every day. Somehow the phrases: ‘Have fun, life is short’ and ‘carpe diem’ seemed to fall on their faces, empty of value – because actually, life is long – we need a plan! We cannot simply flit like butterflies; a degree of commitment is needed to make anything seem worthwhile. I felt I was catching my breath.
My heart began to speak to me, now that it was quiet enough for me to listen. Gratitude for life seemed like a pretty good place to start – ancient peoples have always worshipped life in all her might as an anecdote to heartache which can become all consuming. A line of communication opened between William and I, it seemed clearer than in the last couple of months. We must have exchanged hundreds of emails and text messages over the past few weeks, some even of poetic value – I giggle as I imagine the collected emails of Lord Byron!
A bluebell field
The Price of Elegance
While having a casual conversation with my London girlfriend Marianna who works for a fashion magazine, we broached an ever present problem – the dwindling budget. I am realising that the cost of being a well-manicured 21st century female is immense: “I never seem to be able to get my hands on my money!” I complain. “Half of it is gone as soon as it comes in, because it is owed and today I’ll be hit badly again – it’s maintenance day!” My girlfriend is sympathetic as she has to keep up with an impeccable standard at the magazine, her suggestion: “Talk to your boss, give him the figures, its £5,000 per year to be respectable in the office, that’s the average.” Marianna knows me well enough from our student days to know that unless she backs up her latest fashion update with a book, my concentration span is shorter than a goldfish. “There is this slim, grey volume in a satin cover, entitled A Guide to Elegance by Genevieve Antoine Dariaux; her mission in life was to transform a plain woman into an elegant one, clearly she dedicated her life to the likes of you Sophia!” Now I was hooked, the description of the book was intriguing; when I heard ‘out of print’ in Waterstone’s, the bibliophile in me went into rapture!
I am on a pilgrimage again, for the Holy Grail of fashion. I head straight for my version of paradise: Scotland’s book town, Wigtown. My obsession with second-hand books is well documented by my friends as a spiritual illness, which cannot be explained to the unafflicted. I carefully pull out the book, causing the dust on the shelf to rise in puffs; it was exactly what Marianna promised. The book oozed charisma and respect, with the title sparkling like a glistening coin surrounded by the intoxicating smell of the mould and mildew inseparable from the unevenly stacked volumes. Elaborate script announces: “Elegance is rare in the modern world, largely because it requires precision, attention to detail, and the careful development of a delicate taste in all forms of manners. It does not come easily to most women and never will.” Great, how will it ever come to me?! I think quickly, utilising my IQ of 100-plus (I am not prepared to reveal all my secrets!). If you, like me, may fail here disastrously, then do not panic – there are personal stylists who shop with you and wrap you in flattering fabrics for all occasions, match your hair to your skin tone and makeup; creating a masterpiece!
In the past, housewives or to my mind - ‘House Queens’ – operated in a well-planned week; there was washing day, ironing day and shopping day (for necessities). All these duties have become somewhat haphazard, as three decades later find a day in the monthly planner which may soon appear in Filofaxes: maintenance day! In order to be presentable, at least one solid day per month must be dedicated to keep up with all that is necessary. Hair must be either coloured or styled, nails must be painted, tanning (if you like being orange). Excuse my cynicism but I simply cannot understand why being pale is unfashionable and forms of hair removal must be performed. Exfoliating and moisturising are an essential part of the routine, as well as hundreds of extras such as face masks and hair treatments. I am reminded of a Sex and the City episode when Carrie asks her partner: “Do you think I wake up looking this good?” as she points out her well-manicured nails, flawless makeup, styled hair and artfully chosen dress complete with Jimmy Choo heels. Imagine Carrie jumping out of bed without any grooming – scary if you ask me!
Women are constantly bombarded with the ‘new’ way of doing the same thing in the aggressive language of advertising – “You’re worth it!” - until you have handed over your money and then you are condemned to call centre customer services manned by a computer! Make no mistake – maintenance day is the most costly in the monthly planner, when credit cards are red-hot! Just in case you hadn’t had enough yet, there is the lower region of the female body, an arena where designers and style opportunists have found a niche to torture us and our purses. They set trends, and open endless, easily accessible beauty parlours to have a ‘Brazilian’ or a ‘Hollywood’. It’s just like ordering a coffee in America – a hundred different options – it is a conspiracy against the modern woman!
This is only the actual body itself – now imagine that you have to clothe it! We live under constant pressure to update and accessorise our styles. Even when you have saved for a special garment, instantly, another trend has ousted it from its place. Call me old-fashioned, but I still think that a little black number with a string of single pearls can never look out of p
lace and is always elegant. Drawing on my new-found style bible, it seems that a French woman’s wardrobe is not typically enormous, she will however have many accessories in order to remake her outfit each time she wears it. They also rarely deviate from darker colours, remaining within the black to grey spectrum. With less experimentation in bright colours which are difficult to wear, there is less room for mistakes. We are so daring in the UK, embracing every fashion, even when it is completely unsuitable for our climate – regular calamities are inevitable!
I love the fact that in Newton Stewart, the biggest town close to my father’s house, women of all ages congregate at ‘Claire’s’, the best hairdresser’s and beauticians, for a good ‘pick-me-up’. It never fails to be an uplifting experience of endless cups of green tea, head-massage and a drop of red wine on a Friday afternoon, whilst listening to the latest intrigue in the town. Forget the pub – this is the place to be – you can come on your own and not get bothered by sleazy men! Even the most fragile grannies come in for their regular curlers and blue tints, which is a testament to the spirit of women that I so admire – you have to keep making an effort, otherwise we might as well live in tracksuits, slob around on the couch and stuff ourselves with sweeties!
Scotland and Aye Page 10
