When something difficult happens, my mother encourages me to look for the gift in it.
I have lately been living in the company of sorrow, anxiety and doubt, and struggling to break free of them and return to my normally happy and peaceful state.
Am I normally happy and peaceful? Well, I think of myself that way. I didn't always. As a child reading Winnie the Pooh, it was the doleful donkey, Eeyore, with whom I most identified, not the bumblingly comfortable Pooh, nor the trusting, curious Piglet, nor the irrepressible Tigger.
But in recent years, some shift has occurred in me, and I am conscious of living with contentment and gratitude a lot of the time. I feel present, vital and resilient. It isn't only circumstantial - even in profound grief, I have been surprised to find, at my core, an essential optimism. Looking for the gift in things has become part of my way of life.
Even so, the last weeks have felt heavy.
Oh, I could identify a number of triggers. For instance, a degree of disappointment in my exhibition, and the subsequent weeks of aimless pottering in the studio, trying to be present for a transformation I feel sure must come, but still has not. Or, for example, trying to remain chipper and philospohical about not winning art competitions, or - harder - not being short-listed. This latter wound I bore for my poor, overlooked cocktail umbrella. My pride and joy, shaken adrift even from its high perch in my impressionable esteem. I think these blows are actually easier when one does not try to be too chipper. I might have done better to curse and kick something hard, get it out of my system in a rush of disappointed tears.
The thing is, they don't feel like big hurts until much later, when I catch myself feeling contempt for my drawings and my ideas. And then, sensing an inhospitable space, new ideas and new drawings don't emerge. Finding what I seek through art requires faith in meanings and dimensions insupportable in rational terms - and not crying and kicking things hard demands rationality.
In particular, I have experienced something of a crisis of self-doubt. What is my value in the sphere of Art, and, while we're getting uncomfortable over that thought, what is the value of Art at all? Am I flailing toward excellence in a useless occupation? Here, my rational mind can be helpful, but my spirit falters.
So, that sort of thing, and other things, either too private or too complex to mention here, have sat darkly in my heart for some weeks, and I have felt too despondent to go searching for any redemptive gifts in them.
***
On Wednesday night, another sort of darkness entered my world with a crash.
I blinked open from deep sleep, and listened. My sister, who lives with me, has been having sleepless nights, and often makes a hot, midnight drink in the hope of soothing her galloping mind and restless body. I thought she must have dropped a glass, and I called out to her, "what was that, honey?"
To my surprise, she replied from her bedroom, "I don't know."
Sometimes I have wildly irrational fears. On this night, they did not even occur to me. I was not even mildly afraid. I hopped out of bed and padded out in my socks to see what had fallen in our kitchen. When I turned on the light in the living room, everything seemed normal. I peered towards the kitchenette, and saw nothing amiss. Then, there was another smash. Now, Ellie was coming up the corridor behind me. I walked towards the kitchenette. There was the sound of scrabbling - a sort of fevered scratching, such as the cat makes when negotiating the cat-flap - but then more splintering of glass, and the sound of a struggling creature in our laundry, which is a small alcove off the kitchen.
"I think an animal has come down the chimney," said Ellie.
I thought so, too - it has happened before. I advanced toward the sound, a little wary now, reluctant to scuffle with an anxious possum or startled bird.
What occurred next was so unexpected as to be at first totally impossible to comprehend.
A dark figure, very tall, stepped out of the laundry and stood facing us, without a word.
My first impression was madly illogical. The figure, who appeared in absolute, pitch-black silhouette against the window, reminded me, in height, build and posture, of my old friend, Julian. My brain was clearly seeking alternative ways of computing the facts before me. I was readier to believe that a friend had dropped in for a visit, climbing through our laundry window at midnight in the hope of a cup of tea.
But the figure was also unavoidably spooky. It didn't move, nor speak.
I said, "who are you?"
I heard my sister's voice, an echoing, "who are you?"
The voice seemed to come from the figure. Aha! said my grateful brain, It's only Ellie. I looked behind me - Ellie was still there.
Somewhere around this point, my brain relinquished the possibility of Julian, and coldly admitted, there is a very tall, strange man inside your house in the middle of the night. Dizzying waves of alarm washed around me. He either wanted stuff, or he wanted to harm us.
The next thought, clear as a bell, was for my parents. They must not lose us both.
"Get out, get out!!!" I barked to Ellie, running back towards the front door.
To my surprise, her calm voice said firmly, "It's okay." she hadn't moved. She is a primary school teacher, and usually her authoritative pronouncements are as effective on me as on her young charges. But not this one. I was at the door, "it is NOT okay. Run, get out, get out!!"
She was behind me now, and we ran out onto the empty street. I was ready to run all night in my socks and long johns, but she stopped and peered back through the house. "We're safe out here," she said.
Then I heard her say, "oh, no - he's coming!" and I screamed for help and started running up the middle of the road. Ellie banged on the door of our immediate neighbours. While we waited for an answer, our intruder appeared on our porch. I screamed for help again. It seemed he was indeed after us. What if no-one came? I kept apart from Ellie. I didn't want us to be trapped together. The man now looked towards me and took a couple of steps forward. He had a fine-featured, African face. I ran several paces, screaming, then turned to see him running the other way. Our neighbours were at the door now, and Ellie was explaining the situation in a rush. I watched the man sprint down the road and out of sight. A fine runner. Phonecalls to police, tea, neighbour's jackets over our shoulders. I noticed my little toe was broken.
When the police came, we went back with them into our violated little home. Both our computers were gone, and with them, countless hours of work, photographs, documents, memories and ideas. Ellie's handbag was gone, too. But mostly, our sense of safety in our own home was gone.
***
There is a Rumi poem that I like, called The Guest House.
It speaks of the feelings and thoughts that enter our consciousness like unexpected visitors, and urges us to welcome and entertain them all! even if they are a crowd of sorrows who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture...
Last night, a world away from the morning's adventure, safe in a warm cottage in the bush with my Mum, and lying in a hot bath, I thought of the crowd of sorrows lately troubling my heart, and I saw again that unshakeable image of the dark silhouette in our laundry, featureless and silent.
Sometimes, irrational thought itself is a gift.
In my mind, it suddenly seemed that the dark figure was for me - my crowd of sorrows, embodied in one looming form, living and breathing before me, scaring me for real. Some tiny spark of gratitude flickered inside. I don't fully understand the thought, but it slightly relieved both the terror of my recent memory, and the burden of my current struggle. Embodied, my inner darkness stood apart from me, and I could address it. And the intruder, made figurative, stood within me, and I laid a hand gently on his forehead, called him Habibi, and offered him a cup of tea.
***
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an
unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of
sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still,
treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new
delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide
from beyond.
- Jelalludin Rumi
translation Coleman Barks.
