Jesse is a christian and I am an atheist. we have had many philosophical discussions that have left us feeling like we were on opposing sides and as his mum I want better for us. What I want him to know, What I want you to know Jesse is that we are not so different. I suspect you already know that because I have seen you over the years show more tolerance than I have when we have butted heads over religious matters. Anyway....this post is about how I lost my faith and then found it again.
I was 18 in 1988 and I was dabbling in speed use, using needles, smoking a lot of pot and behaving in a way that doesn't make me proud. Bravado will have me speak of these times occasionally with a toughness like I think I was... Well I dunno what I think I was.... I suppose I was Usain Bolt in the way I was running as fast as I could away from reality. It was 5 weeks before Christmas and my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was shocking for me. I was close with my dad, he wasn't perfect but I always forgave him his shortcomings and enjoyed being able to bring a smile and hear laughter from my WW11 veteran, too much booze drinking, not much for speaking old man, smiles and laughter that i knew how to evoke from him with my combination of whimsical girlish charm and defiant, determined attitude towards tasks that were traditionally reserved for my older brothers. I was the last of 7 kids and the only female born post the feminist revolution. So my dad found me amusing, endearing and good company as did I him.
In the 5 weeks of my dad's life that followed I visited him daily in hospital as fear and a desire to shut out reality started to grip me. I met my 3rd eldest sister for the first time as she was summoned from her estranged status to make peace with her father. In her company I was made aware of our uncle's abuse and in the weeks that followed, I listened as one by one all of my 6 siblings disclosed his abuse of them as children as well. knowing that he had had custody of me as a baby left me to wonder no longer why, when each time I was touched inappropriately as a child it felt as if I was wearing a neon sign on my forehead that said "victim". Those feelings of confusion and fear and betrayal felt all too familiar to me. I believe I was too young to have been able to articulate abuse by my uncle but my body held it's own memories. Along with what was beginning to feel like an ongoing spiral of trauma, my eldest brother decided it was time for him to disclose our youngest brothers HIV+ status. So dad was dying, quickly, mum was dropping serapax like tic tacs, all the kids were talking about how uncle Bob was a bit "funny like that" and my big brother, best friend, confidante, and hero was gonna die. Punch me in the fucking gut already......I was hurting.
We watched Dad die. It took 5 weeks. My sister and I were with him as he took his last breath. I like to think of us as his favourites. I can never really remember him speaking much to my other siblings, I don't remember him saying their names lovingly but he had pet names for my sister and I, Mick and Brigid, and it was us who held his hands as he passed at 5.32 on a Tuesday morning. It seemed fitting to me. It also seems fitting to me Jesse that you were born at 5.32 on a Tuesday morning. I don't believe in other worldly experiences but i do believe in the power of connection and the power of the mind. I think you were delivered onto this earth Jesse at that exact same time as your grandfather left the earth because we just need that connection, Humans need to feel a part of a tribe, and our minds and our bodies are forces to be reckoned with. Speaking of forces to be reckoned with, Neil young was playing as you were born. I like to think, as I was too preoccupied to precisely remember, but I imagine that you were born to Cortez the Killer. like Cortez you are big and bold and fierce and menacing and triumphant and courageous. Your grandfather would have got along with you well. Both sturdy and strong, quiet, still, deep and committed to those you love through everything life challenges you with. I will tell you more about him as time goes on...You would have learned a lot from him.
The next few weeks are a blur to me. I bumped into an old friend who was going to India in 5 weeks. I asked if I could tag along. She said that would be cool.So that day I picked up a second job working the register at a fruit and veggie market and I worked 7 days a week for the next 5 weeks and I didn't look back as I got the hell out of dodge and left my troubles behind.
India was beautiful. Awful and beautiful. I spent Christmas laying on the beach in Goa, soaking up the bohemian atmosphere that attracted so many iconic rock stars and celebrities from the 60's to make their pilgrimage there and leave their mark. I traveled over most of the country for 2 months, loving it all but adoring the desert. I don't know what it is about the desert that intoxicates me. The simplicity? the isolation? The brutality of conditions maybe. Maybe the little surprises, like when you are walking across a sand dune and you see a figure in the distance and as it draws closer. In stark contrast to the red, baron sand that goes on and on and reaches the horizon, you see a woman wearing bright colourful fabric who walks by steadily with a huge pot on her head and smiles. I think the desert breeds madness, and you know I love madness. Maybe its the lack of water. But there is definitely more madness in the desert.
Jesse if you ever travel to India please go to the desert in June. there is a 2 day festival of lovers. When you fall in love take your lover there and be a part of this celebration. It is about Layla and Magnun. Magnun means madman in Arabic and it was a name given to him as he was so deeply in love with Layla, so taken by her, he spent his days writing poetry about her. I like to think that the villagers labeled him as a madman but he was really a man with an eccentric artistic temperament, swept up in the throws of love. When Layla's father learned of Magnun's request for her hand in marriage he was furious as no daughter of his would be betrothed to someone who was considered mentally imbalanced. Layla's father did not hesitate to have her married off to someone more respectable. Magnun was devastated and was said to have left the village and roamed the desert scratching poetry to Layla in the sand. Some say they died separated from each other. Some say Magnun died at Layla's grave heartbroken. Some say they re-united and lived their lives as lovers in Rajasthan in the desert of India, where the festival is celebrated. When you go there with your lover, dance to Eric Clapton's "Layla"with your girl in your arms, this song was inspired by the story of magnun and Layla. if you go there I have a request of you. scratch a spontaneous poem in the sand for me. Thanks.
The next best place I went to in India was definitely Calcutta. I remember the train ride to Calcutta, Reading city of joy on the way and feeling so excited. I knew I was approaching a city of something, I didn't know what, contradictions, paradoxes, confusion and spirituality. The city where the leprocy colonies lie on one side of the train tracks and the rest of the bustle of the city went on at a rate of manic speed on the other side. I almost went to the leper colony. I decided against it in the end. I had no basis to go...I don't know enough about the religion I was raised in to understand what I think about how these people are treated. all I know is that all people are equal and those people deserve the treatment for their disease. The religious approach confuses me. I don't understand what the bible would have us do.....Feel sorry for the poor unfortunates? Pity them and allow them into heaven? I really don't know. When Bono was campaigning for funds for drugs for people living with AIDS in Africa he approached George W Bush and the religious right with a proposal that they consider these people as god would have the people in biblical times consider the lepers as poor unfortunates who were to be charitably given passage into heaven. I watched my brother die a long, slow, painful and terrifying death from AIDS and I listened to him and looked at the fear in his eyes as this man who was once a good little alter boy doubted that he was welcomed into heaven. It was cruel death, and it still makes me angry. He was no poor unfortunate. He was not a leper. Even if he was he would have deserved better. Anyway....enough about that. We'll talk about that another day.
It seemed that everywhere I went in Calcutta and almost everyone I spoke to had been personally touched by Mother Theresa. Everyone had a story about her. I was struck by the depth of compassion and a collective sense of solidarity and spirituality that I felt in Calcutta and I reflected on my reasons for being there. I remember calling home and crying tears of yearning down the phone line as I spoke to each person in the family home. I woke up one morning and jumped in a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the Sister's of Charity's convent. I stood at the door wondering what I would say when someone answered my knock when a nun opened the door and asked if I wanted to meet Mother. I said yes and she took me in.
Mother Theresa walked into the entrance way and greeted me, took my hands in hers and smiled sweetly. I told her I was from Australia and I was very pleased to meet her. she spoke to me for a few minutes. handing me a card, a religious card that she blessed. She also blessed me. As she held my hands I searched for something in that experience to give me hope or faith or understanding or something that 19 years of Catholicism had lead me to believe was available to me when I needed it. I needed it more then than I ever had before. I needed to reclaim some of my fractured childhood innocence and I needed to believe that my world was going to be okay. She asked me if I would like to pray with her and took me upstairs to a large room with lots of travelers kneeling down behind all the sisters of charity. The thing that struck me the most was the women, women from all corners of the globe in white linen Saris. They were beautiful women. They looked like they would be more suited to the pages of a vogue magazine. I was amazed. In this dirty, poor, starving city where children chase you on the street putting their hands out for coins, I was in awe of these stunning women, maybe they were looking for the same thing I was. I don't know. I hope they found it anyway. I listened to them pray and sing beautifully and I left. I didn't feel any fuller for the experience. maybe I felt a little less desperate. I received a few hours of respite from my feelings. It felt as if there had been an enormous build up to that experience and then it was over and I closed the door on my desire for a fairy tale existence as the nun closed the door behind me that night.
I left Calcutta. I flew to Thailand. I began drinking heavily and smoking a lot of pot. I spent 2 weeks on the island of Koh Samoi, drinking, drugging and screwing other backpackers. I was filling up on everything as there was a hole inside me. When I tried to leave Koh Samoi I realized that I had lost all my travelers cheques and had no clue when or where this had happened. I realized how desperately sad I must have sounded to the lady on the telephone at the bank, Answering her questions vaguely. Not having any details to give her. Wondering why she was being so nice to me, Inquiring about my well being and if I had someone who could pay for my meal and accommodation that night when I must have sounded like a drunk, stoned, badly behaved teenage brat making an arse out of myself in someone else's country. I was ashamed and I needed to fill myself up more with substances and behaviour. I got back to the mainland and caught a bus north.
I got to Chang Rai in the north of Thailand and made arrangements to trek into the hill tribes. I set off the next day and began the walk through the hills, Stopping every few hours to meet with a new tribe and share a cup of tea and admire their wares. I settled for the night with a tribe whose women wore steel necklaces, elongating their necks with each additional necklace. The tribe was located next to a poppy field. We were in the golden triangle. It was time to fill that hole inside me. I settled in for a couple of weeks, gathering my poppies each day, scraping the resin from under their skin and smoking pipe after pipe until I was anesthetized enough to pass out. I was comfortable. looking back now it makes me sad to see myself searching for comfort-ability. I wish I'd set the bar higher. I still feel sad for that girl with the emptiness inside who just wanted to believe in something and be okay.
I'd lost track of time and smoked myself into a routine with the locals. I needed to straighten out and go back into Chang Rai for some supplies. Cleaned myself up, fresh clothes and a clear-ish head and off I went. when the bus stopped on the main street of Chang Rai I wondered what was going on out there. People were all over the street. travelers were smiling and hugging each other. Young people were dancing in the street. Everyone was celebrating. I got off the bus and said to a passing backpacker "what's going on?" he looked at me and smiled "Nelson Mandela's been released!". I stopped dead still and sucked in the air like it was filled with sweetness and light. It felt like I was in a bubble. I watched everyone, so happy, sharing their joy. It was in that very moment that I realized... People can do anything. People can do absolutely anything. what a man this man was. what a hero to us all. What he represented. He changed the world. I felt like we could all change the world. I was full with excitement and full with belief. I had found my faith. On that very day I found what I was searching for. I had been running so hard, away from my family, away from my problems, away from my feelings. In that moment all I wanted to do was go home, hold my family close and love them and believe that everything was going to be okay. Of course everything was not okay, not for a long long time but I never stopped believing it would be, ever again. It still really is not okay but I have 2 kids who have traveled this road with me and they are more than okay. They are exquisite. and they have their own versions of what faith is to them, and that's okay. I get that. so Jesse... Hold your faith dear. I will try to understand you more than I have and help you understand my heavily swayed and tightly held convictions. Just know that I love you and respect you.
Love from mum.
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