I was raised in constantly changing and fresh spaces, Mama’s interior designing meant that we moved often and updated styles regularly. My friends always loved to be in the refreshing amalgamations of gothic, minimalist and traditional styles she created. I contrast this with my auntie’s permanent family home which I adored as a child; the biggest change in all these years has been the colour scheme of the cupboards, I could walk through that the kitchen blindfolded and locate everything. However, in terms of a fertile style ground to inspire fresh creations of the wardrobe and ‘the look’, I can see why my Mama could not have inhabited a space like this. It does however not liberate her from my dogged insistence (to this day), that the lack of posters or any adornment in my teenage bedrooms was a serious cause of rebellion!
Perhaps I should not be too hard on my cousin and her friends in America. While visiting her last year, I was glued to the bed with my eyes fixed open as she proudly paraded her collection of clothes – which could pay off my student debt and then some – complete with designer tags. By the time she got to the shoes I was in a state of disbelief; even her favourite pair looked as though they had only been for a jaunt round the shop! All this in a student style, shared flat on an unimpressive income; “Do you think I’ve got the foundations for a decent wardrobe?” she asked me seriously, at the close of the elaborate show. My advice, with a few emphatic expletives, was that she should open a boutique!
I am smiling whilst writing this since I have become a bit of an obsessive dresser! Determined to look sharp in the office, I carefully camouflage the signs of any late nights and over indulgences in wine! I plan my outfits the night before and alternate them with different decoration. I remember sitting in a café in the front row on the Champs Elysées, sipping sugared citron pressé (lemon water) and observing the passing women, all well dressed, exuding confidence and total mastery of their bodies. After all, elegance is a state of mind. As I nurture a fledgling joy in dressing and presenting myself as a grown-up, I realise that I have taken another step on the ladder. The girl becomes a woman and the woman becomes an elegant Goddess – long may it last! I am immersing myself in the meaning of style, fashion and vision for and of women. The story of Coco Chanel is an important lesson on this subject; in breaking the images men and history have imposed on us.
I have so often condemned all these matters as superficial pursuits; however, if you care for and respect yourself; you want to look your best. I cannot deny that I feel amazing when my hair is freshly coloured and I’m wearing a new dress. Ultimately, I can live with the pain, the cost and the time, because the result is brilliant!
I find myself contemplating fashion as I walk through a meadow of bluebells which are extremely elegant en masse; initially, makeup began because women wanted to emulate the beauty of nature’s variety. Incidentally, the bluebell is a symbol of humility, gratitude and everlasting love. Why not say ‘Thank you’ to existence by wearing a flower in your hair? It’s my way of accessorising for spring.
The Bonds of Matrimony
As we enter summer, the glorious sunshine encourages people to tie the knot in inventive ways. I accepted a wonderful invitation recently, accompanying William to a wedding. On a personal note, things between us had been out in the cold. The obvious excuse was simply pragmatic, there was so much for me to do at dad’s office that I was spending time away from home. However, I had moved from my previous focus on William and fears about whether he wanted our ‘experiment’ to continue, into realising that it was me who was not sure. Still in the crux of figuring out if I was ready to pursue this path, plagued by torturous pangs of doubt, desire, heartbreak and optimism, I seized the invitation, although I had no idea what to expect.
It was to be a spiritual ceremony conducted by a Hawaiian shaman and consequently, the question of what to wear was a widespread concern. The weather was scorching in the verdant Derbyshire countryside and several ladies I bumped into at the B&B were eager to discuss outfits. I was sure that the outrageous option would have gone down well, but I decided to stick with a long classic silk dress, cut on a bias, which can never look out of place (thank-you Dariaux!). William looked dashing in a well-cut grey summer suit and we had matching ‘favours’ which are the Scottish equivalent of a corsage –complete with thistles, tartan ribbon and a white rose for the lady.
Whether we think of marriage as warfare or as a delightful adventure; it belongs to the category of the most dangerous and potentially expensive inventions! Isadora Duncan wrote that “Any woman who reads a marriage contract and then goes into it, deserves all the consequences;” I wonder how she would feel about the cult of the prenuptial agreement?! However, the most entertained dream of the majority of little girls still seems to be their wedding day. It certainly was not mine; I remember telling my Mama at the age of five that I hated boys – she sat down in front of me and said: “Darling, I know that there will come a day when you will not feel that way.” This memory often amuses me, as I realise that the anarchist inside me is slowly being eroded, by a more traditional woman who would like to stand against the world with the man of her choice.
The guests were a mix of classic, smart and totally New Age ensembles. The ceremony followed a traditional style at first. The bride and groom both stood under a veranda in their glistening whites, as the first speaker delivered the legally binding: ‘for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; until death do us part’ vows.
It was unbearably hot; people were visibly burning and sheltering their faces under song sheets, when the Hawaiian shaman took the stage in a long-sleeved, embroidered, violet, velvet blazer. He announced that he liked to take a bit of Hawaii with him wherever he went! Suddenly, where we had struggled to hear the words before and sit still with the sweat beads trickling down our faces, it was as though the voltage had been turned up, everyone sat straighter; his voice boomed and held the energy of the clearing where we were seated. Plant spores started to drift down from the sky, creating the surreal effect of a snowstorm in the heat. We recognised his words instinctively as the truth – he talked of the dark nights which are bound to face the couple at some point and about our duty as those gathered to witness their union, to help them in times of need, when the clarity of their decision may be obscured. Tears began to trickle and couples embraced. I sought William’s hand and as we locked eyes and exchanged a tender kiss, there was a recognition of the true feeling between us. Although we did not know where we were headed, my heart sang in the knowledge that he was mirroring my experience and being able to share a moment together, completely vulnerable and unplagued by everyday trivialities was a gift.
The blessings of the four elements were invoked and honoured by sharing a little water, earth, lighting a candle and breathing on the couple (by the shaman). Inhaling another’s breath is a symbol for sharing the spirit of life; the couple rubbed noses and blew on each other’s faces, according to the Hawaiian ritual, which was the greeting amongst all islanders in days gone by. When Captain Cook arrived with his handshake, the white man became known as the “Haole” or those who give no breath (‘Ha’ is the breath of life and ‘Ole’ means no or none).72
Biblically speaking, God caused Adam to fall into a deep sleep and it took marriage to wake him; a man is incomplete until he is married… Then he is finished! The words of American writer Helen Rowland are the most touching I have read on this subject: “Woman was taken out of man; not out of his head to top him, nor out of his feet to be trampled underfoot; but out of his side to be equal to him, under his arm to be protected, and near his heart to be loved.” Unfortunately, marriages are often miserable ghosts of their once romantic, affectionate, mutually supportive relationship-selves. I am in pursuit of a fairy-tale marriage – one that does not end at the close of the wedding party with ‘They lived happily ever after’. I have already seen a few couples who have devoted themselves so completely to the big day, that in its passing they have experienced
an anti-climax and no longer had much to talk about. The process has also been known to end some marriages before they have even begun.
The preoccupation of our culture with marriage is endless; the institution of wedding planners, dramatised films on the subject of cultural weddings, run away brides, wedding singers, party crashers, wedding dates for hire, drunken marriages in Las Vegas and the wedding blues abound! A sweet story on marriage is that of Muriel’s Wedding, about the long-harboured desire of an ordinary girl to walk down the altar – it was a success of course.
With at least half of traditional marriages ending in divorce, with spectacular and vulgar exposition of details if you are unfortunate enough to be a celebrity – why do we do it? The first time round we have the excuse of curiosity and naivety but what about the serial offenders? Zsa Zsa Gabor springs to mind, she used to say that she was the perfect housewife because she always kept the houses (after divorce that is) and never hated the man enough to throw the engagement ring back at him! Say you have landed yourself a dream man: he has chased you and presented you with a rock that made Alcatraz blush, the story is just beginning. After weeks of daydreaming, the reality of organising the actual wedding kicks in: the hen night, the dress, the venue – church or registry office? Should you exchange vows in the open air – in the park, cruising the Thames or go further afield? Then there is the guest-list, the date, the flowers, the hair, the cake, the bridesmaids, the music, the first dance, the honeymoon and then – the bill, it is like taking a dip in sub-zero water! The reality is that this is only the beginning, if you survived it, well done, now begins the rest of your life; you must become a wonderful spouse.
According to Peter de Vries, the American novelist, “The bonds of matrimony are like any other bonds – they mature slowly,” which leads us back to the crux of the issue – those who imagine that marriage is the solution will have a rude awakening! The old Polish tradition of ‘bramy’ or obstacles recognises the partnership necessary in the face of life’s challenges. If we, as the shaman said, keep stepping towards our partner with love each day, our hearts will be opened and we will grow within the most rewarding union possible.
If you, like me, find the ‘til death do us part’ vows a little heavy handed, there are a multitude of interesting strands which can be incorporated into a declaration of commitment. Neale Donald Walsch designed a new marriage contract, in which the couples vow to support the other for their highest spiritual development: unconditionally. The beauty of this is the introduction of selflessness, of supporting and loving the other, however life unfolds. With the current statistics of the traditional approach, spiritual ceremonies may be the way forward. I know that I would like a mix of cultural elements, some of my favourites are the Druid incantation: “We swear by peace and love to stand/ Heart to heart and hand to hand.” The Celtic version of ‘til death do us part,’ which I much prefer: “I will cherish and honour you through this life and into the next” and a vow from a spiritual ceremony: “I choose you as the soul with whom I will spend the rest of this life, I am honoured to tell those present and the whole world, every living creature.” A note of sweetness and sensuality from the Celts: “I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night and the eyes into which I smile in the morning.” Another source of inspiration are couples who renew their vows every year – naturally, this would be a private affair, bringing into consciousness the intent of standing together regularly. We all crave a ‘happy ending’ and know at least one couple who inspire us; there is no reason why we cannot rebel against the statistics and invent new ways of making a commitment to the one we love. Whether we choose to do it with a pledge of some kind, an almighty party, or simply by sharing the way together, I think everyone resonates with Rumi: “May this marriage be full of laughter, our everyday in paradise.”
72 http://www.haskell.edu/red_center/
papers/MALAE_KA_LAMAKU.pdf
Fatherly Love
I recently stumbled upon an old story book of mine, which contained an entry written for Father’s Day. As I read the scrawl and the copious amounts of red ink from the teacher’s pen, I remembered it was around this time that Dad became my hero. Erich Fromm writes that generally, children up to the point of eight years old, are concerned with ‘being loved for what one is’: from this age on, for the first time, the impulse of giving something to the mother or father arises. The child suddenly becomes conscious of ‘creating love’, as another of its mediums of relating to the outer world. This phase is invaluable in the creation of big-hearted adults, who know ‘the potency of producing love by loving’, because, the more you love, the more you become a magnet for love in your world.
People hardly ever seem to ask dads how they cope with the stresses of fatherhood, careers and marriage. This strikes me as a little unfair, although I do not doubt that women have a more draining time with lack of sleep, loss of identity for several years and the hormonal and physical changes which go with the territory. However, fathers are expected to ‘cope’ with not being vital to the child for the first few years. The bond with the mother is incredibly strong and the new-born learns her every movement: she is survival. My dad taught me that a man’s job is to make a safe environment for the woman, for the first couple of years and to protect her from as many of the strains of life (bills, cleaning, mortgages) as possible, so that she can fully be there with the child. It is only when the child ‘learns to walk, talk and explore the world on his own; the relationship to mother loses some of its vital significance and the relationship to father becomes more and more important’. Many relationships do not make it through the first few of years of childrearing and I wonder how much of this is due to a lack of education on the subject. I think any man would be happy and proud in his role as home protector, if he understood that his partner’s sudden shift of attention would soon come full-circle, as the child begins to look from ‘the home’ which is mother, to father; ‘who teaches the child’ and ‘shows him the road into the world’ (Fromm).
My dad’s qualities as I saw them then were: muscles, kindness, strictness, a sense of fun and being silly (a highly attuned sense of the ridiculous is one of things I appreciate most about my Dad to this day). ‘He plays with Mummy’ (in the form of pillow fighting contests); a vital component of harmonious family life – everyone ought to cultivate their playfulness; not just the children. I distinctly remember there being talk of money problems and I could not understand it; I thought Dad along with all men, went to a factory where he made the money himself at a machine. If anyone needed more, I thought they could simply stay at the machine longer! I am sure Dad appreciated my humour when I proudly read him the story on Father’s Day – the description of his eating with his mouth open must have been softened by the qualifying statement: ‘I like his eating habits’! There were fantastic yachting trips, explorations of Florida and brilliant expeditions to the ‘Sweet Factory’ for enormous ‘gob stoppers’ and bags brimming with ‘pick n’ mix’! My five-year-old self’s conclusion on the subject of Daddy is that ‘He loves me and he loves Mummy too’, which summed it up for five-year-old Zosia and for twenty-five year old Zosia!
The missing part of the story is the essence of paternal presence later in your life, manifesting in guidance and wisdom. ‘Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad’ (Anon); never have those words been truer, in our times of sperm banks, surrogates and IVF clinics. Amongst my friends, family is a subject which always seems to present itself after a few drinks. I used to think it was such a misunderstanding in my teenage years, when my friends and I were arguing with ‘the parents’, that they imagined we left the house and forgot about the situation by having fun. This was not the case. When someone had a bad time at home, they were always burdened with troubles – not joy riding or kissing in the cinema! Similarly, if we think that because we are adults; we have dealt with our family issues, it is usually a misconception. We never ‘get over it’ all completely, becau
se the early years colour our character fundamentally. When I look back, I can see the wisdom in the message my Dad imparted to me: “Live your truth without unnecessarily hurting another” and his prescience, in trusting that I would learn my lessons myself. As many a parent of John Ciardi’s ‘unreturned prodigal’, Dad kept ‘his house open to hope’ without judgement. Of course, I could not have lived without my Mama, but Dad helped me to sculpt myself into the person I wanted to become. One of the most important lessons, reinforced by both my parents (from observation), was a healthy dose of rebellion and how to use it to stand my own ground. Naturally, through adolescence, neither of my them believed that I was expressing something from our family system, but I had a genetic double dose!
I phoned around my friends, intrigued, with the question: ‘How important has your father’s presence been in your life?’ Invariably, answers started slowly, people said things like, “It’s difficult to say…” before delivering reports which were profound. Even if, as Nietzsche writes, “One has not had a good father, one must create one” whether this is in the shape of one person in your life, or an amalgamation of many. Alice Walker touched my heart when I read this: “It no longer bothers me that I may be constantly searching for father figures; by this time, I have found several and dearly enjoyed knowing them all;” for me this encapsulates the experience of being a child with several bonus-parents!
It is clear that a staple lesson taught at parental school is that of ‘the disappointed look’. It must be highlighted as the bonus of living through the terrible twos and the rough waters of adolescence – ‘Once an adult stands in front of you; you can play this hand!’ Parental disapproval is somehow more effective when delivered from fathers. Good old dads have few emotional foibles and leave the teary issues to their female counterparts, while they dish out the components of our consciences!
Scotland and Aye Page 11
