Call of the Bell Bird

by Jennifer Kavanagh

  We arrived off the train in the early morning, with nowhere to stay. We had phoned a dozen or so Servas hosts the previous night from Moscow – phoning from Moscow had proved extremely difficult until we got to Leningradski station. But it was to no avail. The Servas list was out of date, and those hosts who were still at the same numbers were otherwise engaged. Before booking into a hotel, we tried just one more name: that of the co-ordinator of Servas, St Petersburg. Vladimir understood our predicament entirely. He explained in perfect English that he couldn’t put us up, but at least we could leave our luggage. He had to go to work, but his daughter and father would let us in. He would see us in the evening and find someone to put us up.

  And so it transpired. Vladimir actually popped back soon after our arrival to check that all was well – and we found a meeting of minds and spirit. He admired Quakers; he wanted us to meet his friends; at least we could all have supper tonight. And so, after a delightful harmonious though footsore walk round the town, Stephen and I shared the evening meal of soup and cottage cheese with him, his warm wife, Olga, their daughter, Lisa, a very articulate girl of 13, and Vladimir’s father, who attended to his vodka as we talked. Of personality types – Olga’s current preoccupation – of globalisation, of the real unity that binds people of different nationalities. This family too shared rooms: the father in one, and Olga, Lisa and Vladimir in the other. Not surprising that the parents did not get on too well. They were envious of our ability to travel even a day together, let alone a year. So perhaps we weren’t doing so badly! Again they were two scientists who had given up their original callings. They seemed to enjoy their jobs, but it was such a waste. Vladimir asked if we would give a talk to Lisa’s class at school. We were happy to agree.

  What a man, what generosity of spirit and genuine interest in travellers and their needs. A true practitioner of international friendship, another whose service is in hospitality.

  The first stay that he fixed up for us was in a children’s art academy, a foundation which was trying to make a little money by letting out rooms, since they had no State support. It was a massive eighteenth-century building, in the process of being restored, but it was obviously a slow and expensive enterprise. We had a long thin bedroom on the third floor, up some very grand stairs, with a bathroom along an L-shaped corridor of dusty largely unused classrooms. We were the only people there apart from a woman on duty. There were no pupils, though I gathered a class was expected in the evening. We were able to wander around and look at the galleries of art but it all felt strangely empty and unfinished. We had agreed a price for our stay, but no one seemed to know to whom to pay it or what was due. I finally had to push money at them in what felt, despite my best Russian, like a sea of mutual incomprehension, and we swung the huge heavy door behind us.

  Our next residence was chez Ekaterina, not a Servas host, but a friend of Vladimir’s who generously allowed us to stay for several days in her large ramshackle apartment that used to house six families. She was a handsome woman in her forties who had travelled widely, principally in India, Tibet and China. She was influenced by Buddhism and tried to draw the best from all religions. Poor Ekaterina, who shared the flat with her daughter and a younger friend, Svetlana, was in a very difficult situation. One of her neighbours had knocked down a wall, actually appropriated part of her flat, and included it in her new enlarged kitchen. Ekaterina had called the police, been through all sorts of legal hoops, and got court orders that had not been implemented. It was probably another case of no bribe, no result. Having failed to get compensation, she was now struggling to get some paperwork to show her entitlement to the rest. But the owner of the building was now trying to sell and Ekaterina was frightened that she would not get all she was due. She was being bullied out of her flat, which with its generous proportions and high ceilings would evidently, once done up, be sumptuous. Ekaterina was a peaceful woman and simply did not want to spend any more of her depleted energies in contesting further.

  Like other Russian hosts, Ekaterina would not eat with us, but served us excessive amounts in a flustered frenzy, saying “It won’t be long”, and deprecating everything she produced. Having tried to help, we were reduced to sitting idly by. We did finally manage to take her and Vladimir out to a local café, The Idiot, to say thank you.

  We were living just a block from the Maryinski theatre, home to the Kirov, and were able simply to walk round to book for the ballet. Here, at last, was the city culture Stephen had craved; a city to walk in, to breathe in, and to feel the balance of its eighteenth-century buildings and streets; the beauty of its baroque churches. And I was revelling in War and Peace, so many of its scenes set in these buildings, when czars held sway and the grand houses opened their doors to the gentry for parties and evenings of cards. In the blue and white glory that is St Nicholas, Stephen and I came upon a funeral service, with two bodies lying in open coffins; I only caught a glimpse of one serene face, then withdrew, not wanting to intrude.

  As far as we could tell, there were only two Quakers in St Petersburg, and we had supper with one of them. Peter is an English composer, who had got a place at the St Petersburg conservatory six years ago, and had decided to make it his home: “a big fish”, as he put it, “in a small pool”. With a long bushy beard, he looked every inch the Russian intellectual, and had obviously established himself well: he had been a judge for various competitions, and had recently had a big premiere in Murmansk that was filmed by Swedish television. He had had great problems in getting a residency permit, and was not allowed to earn any money, so he taught a course in British contemporary culture free of charge. His service was, he felt, in sharing the everyday struggles of the Russian people. Half-Russian myself, I have always felt touched by that struggle that continues, unchanging, over the centuries. Under Czar or Bolsheviks, Stalinism or perestroika, the lot of the Russian people seems to be that of endurance.

  From St Petersburg we flew to Stockholm, another fine European city on the water, and the scene of the last of those encounters with women that had been so rich for me throughout the year: Susan, Marion, Beth, Karol and now Margareta.

  We had been bounced off our flight, and arrived in Stockholm four hours later than planned. I felt cheerful – perhaps the warmth of early spring in St Petersburg, perhaps the familiarity of Europe. I certainly had more energy, not having to struggle against adverse circumstances. Then we hit a blank wall at Stockholm station. Unable to get in touch with my singing teacher, who had said she might be able to put us up, no phone number for our Servas contact, too late to buy a phone card, we were saved by an English passer-by who spoke Swedish, and Directory Enquiries, and made contact with our Servas host.

  After one night in Jerry’s delightful artist’s flat, up a little pine ladder to a charming attic and a mattress on the floor, we went to Meeting with our luggage, and found that there was a room to be had in the Meeting House itself. Peace, no demands, self-catering, and the run of a splendid library 24 hours a day. The tranquillity that a building put to prayerful use has acquired over the past two hundred years. It was so good to be in a Quaker environment for our last three nights, to centre us again and prepare us for our return and all the adjustment it was going to call for. The only other residents were the warden, Margareta and her partner, Gerhard.

  I felt that Margareta was where I wanted to be – in a life devoted to God – but she had been faced with much greater challenges. Having moved to Ireland many years ago, and married to an Irishman, she felt a strong pull to leave her husband and child and move back to Stockholm to introduce AVP to Sweden, which is what she was now doing. I cannot imagine such a terrible decision, but she said she felt called by God, that this was her mission. She had given up her house and all her possessions. This flat came with the job. When it was over, she had no idea what they would do, and she didn’t mind. She had let go. She and Gerhard were the very day we met them in the process of giving away their car to someone who needed it more than they.
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br />   I don’t like zoos, and it was somewhat by accident that I visited the one at Skaren, the first open air museum in the world. We watched the animals being fed, many of them not actually that keen – food comes too easily for wild animals in such circumstances. I found the sight of a large grey owl with a mouse hanging from its mouth repellent. I realised that I was developing what Quakers call a “Concern” about animals. Many years ago I wrote a piece for Woman’s Hour against the keeping of pets, and that Sunday at Stockholm Meeting I ministered about our hypocrisy towards animals.

  There are, of course strong feelings about experimenting on animals and the wearing of fur in many countries, but our year of travels has heightened in me a wish to be close to the animal kingdom. The sightings we have had of wild fauna on our journey were some of the most wondrous events – monkeys, alligators, otters playing, the dignity of elephants – and in New Zealand I saw for the first time how birds (and I understand some animals in other parts of the world) behave when they are not afraid of human beings. What have we done to the animal world? Bred species only fit for our laps, or to be eaten – that could not now survive in the wild; shot them to stuff them and pretend they are alive; hunted them for fun – quite apart from the understandable killing for food. We rightly pay attention to factory farming but ignore the fish caught on a hook or, as we saw in Tonga, flailing on the decks of fishing boats, drowning in air. No one turns a hair.

  It was cold in Stockholm. Spring deserted us until, on April 17th, 2002, a year to the day from our departure, we came home.

  I had been dreading it, filling my emails with fears of a year’s paperwork, the descent of responsibility. And typically, as I took the tube from Heathrow home, we were stuck for an hour and a half by a train breaking down in front of us outside Acton Town. Nowhere in the whole of our world travels did we endure such a delay – only for a demonstration in Bolivia or the rough waters of Lake Titicaca. What a reflection on London Transport!

  But we were greeted by the most beautiful English spring, the loveliness of which I had forgotten: the greenness, the freshness of the trees, and the birdsong. I felt as if I were seeing England anew. Even London, which I had been so keen to leave, so sure that we would move from it on our return, was a pleasure. The multi-cultural richness that we had spoken of abroad, always with some secret negativity about the noise, dirt and overcrowded transport, seemed to be a real wealth, with a texture and variety that was wholly appealing. My flat, which I had always felt had its limitations and was a temporary measure, felt indeed like home. The blackbirds are still here in my little garden, and have been joined by a pair of robins and a pair of wrens; shopkeepers ask if I had a good time. Familiarity is very attractive. How easy it is!

  Before we arrived, I felt a strong need to spend a few days alone in the flat, to sit, as it were, in the desert of my empty rooms, to adjust to being here. It was a spiritual need for space and contemplation that Stephen gracefully understood, and I think we both needed to think about things. We had agreed not to make any hasty decisions about continuing to live together, though much of what happened between us on the trip had been bruising. He agreed to spend a few days with his son and sister in Bristol while I found my feet here.

  Of course it did not turn out like that. My daughter was the only one with a key, so I had to collect it from her, and at the same time, foolishly picked up my mail. After the first chilly night on my bare bed, wrapped in all my clothes, I had to collect some bedding from my mother’s house, so arranged for all my belongings to come back – I did not in case feel happy at burdening my mother any further, though I was not sure what I would do with all those books and clothes and ornaments. After a year living out of a rucksack I fully expected to want to shed a good deal of what I own. But, sadly, as soon as I opened the boxes I was delighted at the sight of such old favourites, things I had forgotten I had.

  May, 2002. A purpose-built room in a garden in Kent. I had gathered with a few other people, mostly strangers to me, for a seminar on one of the Upanishads. A couple of weeks earlier Stephen and I had attended a talk in London arranged by the Alistair Hardy Association and given by Brother Martin from Santivanam. I had been invited to continue my interest in the subject for this more intense study session.

  And it certainly was intense: quite hard coming to grips with the concepts underlying these mainstays of the Hindu scriptures, written over two thousand years ago. We began by reading an excerpt from Bede Griffiths’ autobiography about a peak experience he had had as a child: an experience of the unity of nature. I had been reading a great deal of Bede Griffiths, and felt very close to this experience both through the reading and in my own path. We then read some moving accounts by “ordinary” people of their peak experiences before analysing the Kena Upanishad. Ken, our facilitator for the day, reads Sanskrit, and was able to interpret much of what we studied.

  It was when we were discussing the breaking down of boundaries between the viewer and the viewed, the merging of sensibilities, that I felt an overpowering recognition. Ken said that when someone is asked to draw a tree, they usually begin by drawing their remembered concept of a tree, starting with the outline of a trunk, leaves and so on. But if they actually see clearly, feel one with the tree, they will indicate shade and colour quite differently, without boundaries. As he spoke of merging our sensibility with the tree, I felt such a merging quite powerfully. Drawn to the tree outside, I felt myself a part of it, at one. I at last understood why it is that I feel as I do in the desert: my soul is expanding into the space, out to touch the horizon. I am part of that space, one with it.

  This feeling of unity was so powerful that I was quite overcome. Knowing that tears were about to burst from me. I had to leave the room and lie down on the grass outside. I did indeed weep, sobbing with the intensity of the experience and with gratitude. I continued to lie there, breathing deeply, until I was ready to return. I had to go round the world, and come back to England to have such an experience.

  So, our travels were over. We were welcomed into the embrace of our families, friends and our Meeting. Much had happened and three members had died in our absence and, although we had been kept in touch by email, it took a while to settle back. It felt strange, especially, as two active Friends, not to be given any jobs to do, not be able to be of service to the Meeting. We were grateful to be given a breathing space, to let the effects of our trip sink into our deeper consciousness. We presented our Travelling Minute with its 27 endorsements to the Clerk of Monthly meeting, and gave slide shows and talks at our own Meeting and at several others, sometimes together, sometimes separately – trying to share a little of what we had experienced.

  The full quote of the extract from George Fox that is quoted on the frontispiece of this book begins, “Be patterns, be examples in all countries, places, islands, nations, wherever you come, that your carriage and life may preach among all sorts of people, and to them; then you will come to walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone.”

  I like to think that we walked cheerfully over the world, and tried to answer that of God in everyone. Where we failed was in being patterns and examples. If God is love, and love is about relationships, then ours was not an example of unity. Stephen and I argued throughout, our egos and the strife between them often getting in the way of spiritual progress. We put on a brave face, indeed were harmonious, a good double act, when we were out on show: in our work and in our talks. It was in private that the problems arose. Shut in a single hotel room, we would bicker over the fan or the radio; with decisions to make every moment of the day, there were potential pitfalls every step of the way.

  We often got to a point when separation seemed inevitable; indeed, it was often only practicalities, and the need to fulfil a commitment that kept us together. It is easy to blame the menopause, even easier to blame each other: the fact is, it was a real failure in a journey that otherwise taught us a great deal and changed us considerably.

  In many
relationships it is hard to get the right balance between independence and togetherness. For some individuals it seems there has to be a choice between a life of faith and one of emotional fulfilment. On our return to England I rang the Quaker solitary I had thought of in India. She told me a delightful story.

  Much had happened to her since we had been in touch. She had had a particularly dangerous form of cancer but had survived the operation. She had then, in her sixties, received a phone call from a man to whom she had been engaged in her twenties. He had married someone else, and was recently widowed. He and my friend were now blissfully together.

  “So, you’re no longer a solitary,” I said, somewhat ruefully.

  She replied, “I was very happy then; I am very happier now!”

  To the surprise of our closest friends, Stephen and I are still together, though the relationship has changed, inevitably. Sharing such a journey is a bonding experience and, with more space both literally and figuratively, we are less under pressure. I did not feel stressed while we were away; I felt stimulated; but there is no doubt that life at home is easier, and, even if I do not know what the future holds, staying put seems fine for the moment.

  Before we left, I wrote that I hoped

  “To gain a new perspective, from seeing how life is in developing countries, away from the spoilt affluence of this insular part of the world; to learn to be less busy, to respond to the Spirit, to be more spontaneous; to be useful, humble, learning and contributing, to try to live in the present and respond to the needs that present themselves. It will change us – who knows how?”

  I certainly have changed. To quote Tom Dooley, “I [have] become more aware of myself and my soul’s adventure”, I have gained a new perspective, have become less busy and more spontaneous and have become a vegetarian. I am clear that I want to learn more from developing countries, to continue to listen to what other ways of life have to teach us. I have confirmed that for me faith is not just in “sacred” places but in the everyday, and heightened by encounters with people made extraordinary by their faith and by their lives, by our fellow creatures, and by the wild and elemental landscapes of the world.