A Van of One's Own

by Biddy Wells

  A few years before my road trip, I was in the habit of trawling the internet for answers to some questions that were perplexing me at the time. I had put a question into the search engine, though I can’t remember what I asked, and up came a video that introduced me to Mooji: a man whom some refer to as a Zen master. He does not call himself a guru, a philosopher nor anything else, but through his talking points people towards profound realisation. Some people get it, some don’t. There’s no dogma, no affiliation with any church or cult or anything. He asks nothing of anyone, and has stirred a lot of interest in hundreds of thousands of people all over the world.

  Through listening to Mooji over the years via the wonders of the internet, quite subtly, something began to change in me. I was waking up a little bit – beginning to see life differently. The discontent I’d felt in spring before I left Wales was a force that pushed me to decide to go travelling, and although I didn’t consciously think I was going to Portugal because Mooji lives there, I secretly hoped that somehow I might find myself going to one of his satsangs– open discussions. Then time moved on; I sort of forgot about him and planned my itinerary around other things, including nothing at all. I planned to have no plan and see what life would do to guide me.

  Our dinner was not good, but it didn’t matter all that much. We laughed about it, partly because we have a history of duff meals on our birthdays and partly because, for me, anyway, there was something much more important going on. We spent the night free camping in a car park overlooking the beach, along with five other campervans. Next morning, a council official came and berated us all for taking up the spaces in the car park, though it would otherwise have been deserted, such was the wild, wet weather. We were about to leave anyway, and as we slowly drove away, we noticed a car that we realised must belong to Marco. We stopped to say hello, but he and Dominic were not at home. The modest, battered hatchback was covered in colourful stickers, the interior bedecked with rosaries, dreamcatchers and feathers, and the dashboard completely obscured by a host of effigies and religious iconography representing all the religions known to humankind. It was quite a sight. Marco was covering all bases and honouring all spiritual paths, but I doubt he could see the speedometer.

  Later I took David to the little beach that had so enchanted me weeks before when I had first tried free camping. We sat in the van, wipers swishing, kettle singing, and watched the ferocious tide crashing onto the rocks. The drama was enhanced by occasional flashes of lightning. Gradually the rain petered out and we were blessed with a fine evening for our short drive to the fish restaurant, where we would have our faith in Portuguese cuisine restored. We celebrated David’s birthday again, this time with dorado and octopus.

  The next few days were spent wild camping on the coast, where we enjoyed gorgeous walks on clifftops festooned with wild flowers, and inland, where we parked next to a reservoir that looked more like a glorious natural lake than a man-made dam. On the day of our visit to Mooji, we woke early at the water’s edge with a sense of happy anticipation. We heated up reservoir water for a thorough bathing and hair-washing experience. It felt good to get really clean. We drove through some exceptionally beautiful soft countryside to the village we had been told about. I walked into the bar where a few old men stood or sat enjoying a Sunday lunchtime drink, and there, in the middle of the room, sat a beautiful youngish man, who looked at me, stood up and hugged me as though we were old friends and he’d been sitting there waiting for me to arrive. I guessed he was on his way to Mooji’s. He knew the way and we gave him a lift.

  It had started to rain again, this time with determination, and driving up the rough track felt like navigating a small river in places. As we neared the top we were greeted and directed by smiling, radiant people. We parked, entered the building and took our seats. We sat there in silence for a long time while scores of people slowly filed in and settled down. Beautiful music drifted in the air and there was an atmosphere of serenity, mixed with expectancy. We caught a glimpse of Dominic and Marco, but they didn’t seem to recognise us. Eventually in came Mooji, a dark-skinned, Buddha-like man with dreadlocks down to his waist.

  Seeing Mooji in real life was wonderful. He was just as he had seemed when I’d watched him on the internet, but being there in his presence was extra special. As I sat listening to him respond to people asking their questions, I realised that the past few years have been, for me, a time of gradual awakening – a journey that started in turmoil which has gradually ebbed away, almost without my noticing. In its place have come relative harmony and clarity. Everything he said that Sunday afternoon seemed absolutely pertinent to me and confirmed so much of what I had been experiencing. I felt completely peaceful, as though I was in exactly the place I belonged. In that large beautiful room, surrounded by strangers from all over the world, I felt as though I had come home.

  *

  It seems that something was ignited by my so-called breakdown. The path I had been walking had come to a dead end and for a while I was truly lost, the old me gone. There was nothing to do but give in and surrender to the process of falling apart. My children had gone off to make their way in the world, my partner of several years had suddenly left, and I could no longer continue with the work I had been doing for the previous two decades. My home felt like a huge empty nest with only me left in it, and I was an injured, bewildered bird with a broken heart. All the things that I had held on to as proof of my identity simply shattered. I didn’t know how to live any more. For about two years I was often alone, fortunately in a safe place. The only way I could get through it was to stay very still, be quiet, and take each day at a time – each moment at a time. It was a very intense and lonely experience.

  Could it be that the broken pieces of my identity fell into a heap and that, after a long time resting in peace, the heap started decomposing – turning to compost? And, as it decayed, perhaps it got warm, as compost heaps do, silently smouldering until someone opened a window and a breeze blew in – just enough oxygen to feed it. Maybe a little fire started, burning away all the old stuff and blazing until there was nothing left. Perhaps, after a while, new shoots started to appear and grew up into the light, fed by the nutritious waste.

  Life does not stay stagnant for long, and maybe life knew exactly what it was doing. Slowly I recovered my strength. But, importantly, I never recovered the old me – not really. I didn’t try to reclaim the life, the identity I’d had before. I just kept walking. It was as though I had experienced a brush with death – the death of who I used to be – and I didn’t dare look back.

  My breakdown was the breaking down of the false identity I had tried so hard to maintain and to believe in. It was a death – the death of the illusion of all that was not truly me: all the memories, conditioning, experiences and projections that had come together to form what I thought of as myself. It was not as scary as it might sound, to lose this constructed identity. Once I let go – and I had very little choice but to let go – everything gradually got better and better. I discovered that there was somethingthat existed beyond the construct, something that would endure. I was no longer hostage to threats to my identity.

  This is how I now see my breakdown. And I know that this road trip is part of that same journey. I was desperate for solitude, and I think that is because I needed to consolidate the change that has been happening and put it to the test. It is an ongoing process – acclimatising to myself, getting accustomed to experiencing my life in the present. I can see all this from where I am now – the place that Mooji points to. When I was in the thick of it I could not see. I was like a little mouse scurrying around a maze. I didn’t know where I was.

  After sitting with Mooji I knew, not with my mind but in my heart, that I could relax, let go. My experience now made sense to me – it had been explained and validated. I was free of any doubt. Now, rather than trying to live my life and manage everything, I could trust life. I could let life live through me.

  *

 
Before I left Wales, a close friend reminded me that wherever I go, I will take myself and my baggage with me. It is true – I can never be apart from myself. So what about the baggage? The baggage came along with me, of course. But through spending time in solitude I did a lot less talking, interacting. Having less to feed on, my mind quietened down a little. It didn’t crowd me out when it started its routine of chatter.

  *

  I see the baggage carousel go round and round. There’s the battered old suitcase case full of memories; the heavy backpack stuffed with worries; the projector that so often throws frightening images up onto the screen; and so on. Can I simply let it continue without me? Who is me? Who watches the carousel? Is it my mind watching my mind? This was the same conundrum that kept me busy from time to time during my childhood. Can I locate the place I am watching from? Is it a place? Or is it a state?

  Anyway, the baggage will still be there if it’s needed – picking it up again is not difficult, but it’s not attractive, either. It is habit, conditioning, that makes me want to reclaim it – or, perhaps more accurately, let it reclaim me. If I want any peace, I have to form a new habit, a discipline: watching, witnessing the baggage carousel, letting it go by. I have to practise being in this witness state, remind myself to do it. A few minutes spent quietly enjoying a cup of tea might sound like a joke – ‘Start the day with a cuppa and really wake up!’ – but the making and drinking of tea is a little ritual: my way of stopping and letting everything be. My tea ceremony is my practice. And now I notice that it’s not even dependent on tea.

  *

  Something else happened during our afternoon at Mooji’s. David had been unsure about joining me at the satsang, but in the end, he decided to come along. We were sitting side by side on the little bench in the packed room, and an elderly man got up and asked Mooji a question. It was the first of a handful of dialogues that afternoon. As Mooji responded, I noticed that David was very attentive – he seemed moved. Afterwards, he was quiet, thoughtful, and later he told me what had touched him.

  ‘I can’t put my finger on it. I remember Mooji talking about what a huge effort it is just to be a person, to keep up the persona, and something clicked,’ he said.

  The old man said that people sometimes ignored him and that he often felt a sense of rejection: a lack of regard or respect from others. This had affected his whole life, he explained, and he lived behind a protective screen that prevented real contact with people, including himself. He could no longer stand it, but he was stuck, unable to drop the façade and incapable of freeing himself from this pattern, which always led to disappointment and sadness. How could he let go?

  In response, Mooji talked about identity and the ego:‘When we believe ourselves to be a person, which is not a real thing but a constructed identity – the result of conditioning, projections, thoughts, fears, memories – we suffer. The true self is actually at peace, always. It doesn’t need recognition from others – it doesn’t need anything. It is not self-important. It places no importance on the constructed self: the façade.’

  ‘Self consciousness and self-importance – they’re the same thing. Whether we think ourselves to be very grand or very small, we are playing the same game, and my focussing on how I am seen is all about self-importance,’ David said. ‘I’ve always tried to do things properly, to appear capable and in control of things and not to look a fool. I hadn’t really thought it through; it was all unconscious. I could never do well enough – never be satisfied. Why couldn’t I just relax and be real, even if real meant fallible, human, even ridiculous?’ he said. ‘What if I just drop it? What if it really doesn’t matter how I am seen? It’s so obvious, but until you see it, really see it…’

  It was as though David had shown up on exactly the right day; the day when someone exposed something that he recognised was relevant to his own story, something simple yet profound that resonated strongly with him and had been hidden until then. Whilst I had undergone a slow and gradual change of perspective, David had suddenly woken up to this realisation and its implications. Now, it seemed, we were on the same page at the same moment.

  Something had led me to make this journey, and it must have brought David here too. I was filled with gratitude for having arrived at this place, seen and heard Mooji and visited this extraordinary community. I felt very warm, loving and close to David, and after so much doubt it now seemed obvious that our relationship was exactly the right compost for us at this point in our lives. It could support us and we could help one another to remember who we are, and what we are not. It all made perfect sense.

  Part Three

  Today I am sitting alone on my bed, which I haven’t done for some time. I am staying at a campsite at the eastern end of the Algarve’s built-up tourist strip. It’s spacious, homely, laid-back and only a short walk from the sea. Like the one in Sagres, it’s sited alongside a patch of rough land, which is home to a collection of farmyard animals and poultry, along with feral cats, donkeys and dogs. I guess it’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but I have come to love staying next to these noisy creatures as they mingle together in their happy little communities. I like being so close to their world. The air is filled with sound. I hear cockerels and goat bells, a goose or two, the twittering of small birds and flies buzzing around my head. None of this bothers me. A dog now joins in with the cacophony. Through the window I can see sparrows pecking the ground where I shake out my breadcrumbs.

  I have no plans for now, except to be here, walk on the beach and see what happens. From here it’s only an hour’s drive to the border with Spain, which I plan to cross in a couple of weeks. Until then, I am enjoying being settled and cramming in as much idleness as possible before I leave Portugal. Sun pours in through the rear windows and I am basking in its warmth like a lazy cat. I have no urge to move.

  I remember something I had almost forgotten: back in October, the psychic had said, ‘After that…’ He told me that it was not something to fear, just my grandfather’s message. I had a feeling it was significant, but after what? And what after that? I let it go, trusting that all will reveal itself.

  *

  David left a few days ago. After visiting Mooji we spent two weeks travelling around the southwest of Portugal, eating, drinking and being very happy and harmonious. We walked, chatted with fellow travellers, swam, combed beaches, made driftwood sculptures and relaxed into simply being together.

  One of the things we love to do is visit ancient Celtic sites and look at megaliths. We have seen some fantastic menhirs in Brittany – some thirty feet tall – and the amazing system of three thousand standing stones at Carnac. I can really imagine myself becoming a bit of a megalith anorak. One day, driving away from a small village where we had stopped for coffee, we were thrilled to spot a sign saying ‘Megaliths 5 km’ and decided to take a look. I had heard that there were some amazing ancient Celtic sites in Portugal and had a vague recollection of a site in Alentejo that was one of the most significant groups of menhirs in the whole of Europe. What a stroke of luck it was to find ourselves chancing upon something as exciting as this! We turned onto a small lane and seemed to drive for miles before we saw a second sign. Here we turned onto a dirt track that lead to a bridge which had been severely flood-damaged, but we decided to push on.

  Getting across what remained of the bridge was a challenge. We had to drive carefully over broken slabs of concrete which had collapsed into the shallow river, but we were determined to see the spectacle, having come this far, and we made it across. The track was rough and winding and took us far out into the wilds, among gently undulating meadowland and stunted, lichen-covered trees. Just as we were wondering if we had gone wrong, we arrived at the end of the track in a small parking area, and looked around for a path to the site. But there was no path, and there were no further instructions. We stood there casting about and then noticed something among the low trees. There, surrounded by a metal fence with a small information board, were two stones, each about
the size of an adult sheep. We had a good look, giving them as much reverence as we could muster, before getting back in the van, muttering about how size isn’t everything, and returning along the bumpy track, back across the broken bridge and onto the long, winding lane to the main road.

  David had been profoundly affected by the visit to Mooji and told me he felt permanently changed by the realisation that came to him. He was more happy and relaxed than I had ever known him to be – more at home in himself. He had simply dropped the exhausting effort of trying to be someone, trying to keep up the identity of a person who always gets things right. He had realised that there was no fear involved in this. Indeed, what he had let go of was fear itself: fear of ridicule, fear of being inadequate, fear of feeling small – the fear that his thoughts had taunted him with, and in which he had believed. Like ivy on a tree, fear had grown around him and attached itself to him, but was not him.

  Now we were entering a new place: a new mode. The world seemed bright, fresh, and strangely amusing. We laughed a lot, not about anything in particular; everything just struck us as funny. Life seemed enchanted – whatever was happening. It was beautiful to watch David soften and open up. I had thought our time together might have come to an end, and now I saw that it had not; not yet, maybe never, maybe any minute.

  *

  It was my dad’s birthday, so I phoned him to wish him many happy returns of the day. He was pleased and told me he was proud to have such a brave daughter. This is something he has expressed a few times lately in his occasional emails, and I notice that it doesn’t land well with me. In fact, I feel frustration rising each time, even though he is paying me a compliment. At first I thought this was because I felt fraudulent. After all, I was having what might be considered a very long holiday, not doing humanitarian work or serving as a soldier. I wasn’t really sure what my dad thought I was doing.