I spent most of the morning reading Anna’s journal again. She had written of pain, exposure, vulnerability and release. She had made herself vulnerable. She had made mistakes. Had it profited her? Or was she just another loser? In the evening, I prepared a chicken casserole and put it into the oven. I lit some candles, placed fruit in the bowl on the coffee table in the lounge and took from my suitcase my gift of books from Ismene Vale.
I took up my copy of Enfolded in Love. I remembered how Anna had described the way she handled the book, her longing to extract its meaning through its physical fabric. I thought of what Anna had written about books bringing messages from places that are difficult to reach to places that are hard to find. What could be more difficult, I reflected, than penetrating the layers of defensiveness and stale habit that surround the human heart?
As I read Julian’s words, I realized that she was saying that we do not think we deserve to be loved, and so we do not accept the love that is freely offered. She was saying that self-acceptance is the first step towards wholeness, the elusive wholeness of which Ismene had spoken.
Julian tells the story of two people, a lord and a servant. The lord, who loves his servant dearly, sends him on an errand. The servant, who loves his master, rushes off at great speed to carry out the task. But he falls into a ditch and is badly injured. He struggles and cries out but can do nothing to help himself. And though his lord is close by and could save him, the servant cannot see him. So he stays in his ditch, feeling wretched and weak. I read that our own blindness prevents us from knowing the goodness of our own souls, so we despair. I read that the love is there for us, but our feelings of guilt and unworthiness prevent us from receiving it. Until the love of God penetrates us so that we know ourselves as lovable, we can find no peace.
When I had first read Anna’s description of the illustration on the cover – the homely figure leaning forward to gather up a child in her embrace – I had been reminded of Rembrandt’s The Return of the Prodigal Son. I had seen the painting several years earlier, at the Hermitage in St Petersburg. I had bought the poster of the painting and hung it in my study, and I had brought the poster with me to the cottage and hung it near a window that looked onto the courtyard. Why had I brought it? I cannot tell you.
In the painting, the father leans forward to embrace his son, who kneels at his feet. The father’s face is a glow of internal light. He is old… he has been waiting a long time for this moment, I thought. He stoops to gather his son to him. The father’s hands are firm and strong on the young man’s shoulder and back. The son has fallen haphazardly against his father’s lower body, after rushing headlong to him and dropping at his feet. If his father moved away, the son would collapse to the floor. Perhaps it was with his last ounce of strength that he stumbled towards his journey’s end.
The young man’s head is turned slightly, resting against his father’s breast. His head is bowed and, though we have a three-quarter view, we can see that his eyes are closed. He has arrived, he has sanctuary, he is home.
In turning his head, he exposes the vulnerable spot at the nape of the neck. The soft beam of light that illumines his father’s face spreads, as though directed from above, through the father’s head and radiates from his hands across that vulnerable spot and the expanse of his son’s back. Within the embrace, I felt, the pain and sorrow and sense of loss were being healed. I felt that this boy had cried many tears and been brought to utter humiliation before he could find his way home. I felt compassion for his pain and brokenness.
What punishment did he feel he deserved? What frailties did he bring with him that his father, but no other employer, would tolerate? What addiction, perhaps? He had spent years indulging in worldly pleasures. Julian seemed to be saying that it is these things that seduce us into forgetting our real selves. I knew how addiction took away control over one’s life.
A friend had been addicted to gambling. Others I knew – among them my friend Alex – were addicted to drugs or alcohol. And what of those who are addicted to people? Anna’s horrible experience with Mark had reminded me of my own reluctance to face the truth about Patrick. I had resisted relinquishing my dream. I had resisted being alone again.
The Return of the Prodigal Son is a picture of someone who has nothing left to lose, someone who has recognized his own nakedness under the sun. How much it means to us to be known and accepted as we really are. I longed for such a homecoming.
As the evening light faded gently, and the birds took over the trees with their evensong service, I looked again at the familiar scene of father and son – and suddenly I saw something else. I looked closely for the first time at another figure, who stands to the right of the embracing couple. This young man is tall and proud. He is well-dressed, with a rich, red cloak around his shoulders, and sturdy boots. He stands rather stiffly, looking awkward, puzzled, uncomfortable, and even disapproving of the emotional scene and what he may perceive as the senile, irrational doting of his father. For this is the other son, the prodigal’s elder brother.
While his younger brother frittered away his time and money, this brother stayed at home and helped his father to build up the family business. He was the one who made sacrifices, who kept the rules, who did what the world expected of him. And what was his reward? To see his brother come back, having contributed nothing, and be given a hero’s welcome.
How unfair. I could almost hear him saying the words. In his eyes I see the hurt, the bewilderment. What about me? he seems to be asking. His hands are clasped together anxiously. Suddenly all that he thought was sure and certain has been put in jeopardy. He thought he knew the rules of the game, the rules of his world, and now, suddenly, the world has been turned upside down. A scene of intimate love is taking place a couple of feet away from him and he feels excluded.
A feeling of profound sadness overcame me as I read this new significance into the scene. I had always identified with the prodigal, the rule-breaker, but suddenly I saw something of myself in the exclusion of the dutiful stay-at-home.
I had taken risks, forced myself to do things that were frightening and difficult, and my efforts had brought me success. But, like the elder brother, I had never risked everything, I had never allowed myself to be utterly vulnerable. I felt excluded. The prodigal must surely have dreaded meeting his brother, someone I imagined to have been less talented, less charming, someone whom he had perhaps teased as too conventional to take a chance in life. In the homecoming, the younger brother, who was once so confident and proud, so sure of his abilities to make it in the big wide world, is shown up in all his failure and vulnerability – and yet, in that moment, there is a nobility about him, because he confesses his weakness and opens himself to receive love.
Now the meaning of the painting became clearer than ever before. It is a story not only of love, compassion and forgiveness. It is also a story about allowing oneself to love and be loved. I remembered the words of a hymn we had sung at school: “Oh, love that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee… I trace the rainbow through the rain…” Suddenly, they had a deeper meaning.
The last few lines in Anna’s journal had been about the necessity to undergo a crucifixion, to go beyond vulnerability and exposure to redemption and release. Ismene had said that if we really understood how others felt about our actions, we would change. There seemed to be some common theme here, about understanding one’s own feelings and those of others, about acknowledging one’s loneliness and longing for love.
But I knew I was lonely, I had always longed for love, so where was I missing the point? Was Julian right? Did I perhaps not feel worthy of love? “You are beloved through all eternity…” the words from Anna’s strange dream about Julian came back to me. Could I believe that I was so loved? Was I capable of believing it?
All of this seemed to connect, too, with an assertion I had heard somewhere that love was the solution to every problem. I wondered, if one dealt with every problem from the standpoint of lo
ve, and not fear, what would change? But a worrying thought nagged at me: had Anna been right? In order to grow, to find one’s true self, must each of us, must I, undergo a crucifixion?
I awoke the following morning feeling troubled. I felt I was not going to be able to relax in my rural retreat. I felt out of place and out of sorts, as though I should be somewhere else, doing something else. It was disturbing to acknowledge how quickly my mood could change. As if in response to my sudden restlessness, the telephone rang. It was Ismene Vale. Even while escaping to the country, the journalist in me had been unable to resist leaving a contact number, in case of a sudden dramatic development in the East Timor story.
“Joanna, my dear, how are you feeling?”
“Oh, better. I’ve had some sleep.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. Now I’m telephoning because you asked me to. The European representative of the East Timor resistance will be in London next week for a meeting with the shadow Foreign Secretary. The Portuguese Embassy is hosting a reception for him. Would you like to be invited?”
“Oh, please, yes. Thank you.”
“Very well, I shall arrange it.” I think Ismene was about to conclude the call, but somehow sensed that I did not want to be tactfully left to my own devices. I invited her to join me for lunch at the cottage. She readily agreed, and then said, “Well, now, would you feel up to feeding three of us? On Wednesday, Paul, Gregorio and I are attending an international human rights conference in Southampton. We could start our day early, join you for lunch and then travel on, if that would be convenient?”
I was taken aback but could hardly say no. In any case, it would be good to see Ismene and Gregorio. I had met Gregorio a few times for a drink or a meal and enjoyed his company. I felt he read people and situations with great perceptiveness. It never ceased to amaze me that this quiet, cultured man had once lived rough in the mountains, as a soldier and bodyguard, his life in danger at every moment. As always, the prospect of seeing Ismene gave a sense of purpose to the day. Perhaps it was the knowledge that I never met her without learning something, without my life making better sense afterwards. As for Paul, well, I would have to simply take things as they came.
On the Wednesday, at midday, I parked in the station car park at Longbourne, a village some five miles away, and walked to the platform to await my guests. Train doors opened and three figures emerged: Ismene and Gregorio, both tiny, and Paul, towering above them. Gregorio and Ismene both hugged me. Paul stood back a little, smiling. I felt uneasy. As I drove back to Littlechurch Mead, I realized that I still felt very tired and really quite unsociable. Much as I enjoyed Ismene’s and Gregorio’s company, I felt I had little to give. I had begun to take time for myself and it seemed that an unravelling process had begun, which would not stop.
I served lunch in the courtyard. As the time passed, I became aware of the deep bond of friendship between my guests. I realized that the bond was strengthened by their commitment to East Timor’s struggle for freedom, the fact of a shared goal that mattered deeply to each. I understood why Gregorio and Ismene would have those feelings – but Paul?
As though reading my thoughts, Ismene asked, “Paul, what was it that motivated you to become a journalist?”
“Ah, well, curiosity, I suppose.”
“Only curiosity?” Ismene persisted.
“Well, I reckon I was always a bit at odds with the world. My family are very middle class, solid, respectable people. Everything as I grew up was determined and clear. There was no uncertainty, no insecurity – a very happy childhood, I was lucky. But I was always dissatisfied, always feeling I wanted to achieve something not predicted and predictable, something of my own. I suppose we’re pretty much the product of our upbringing, one way or another – even if we kick over the traces!
“A new idiom!” exclaimed Gregorio. We all laughed. Gregorio was very fond of practising his vocabulary of English idioms on us. Paul laughingly explained the literal meaning of kicking over the traces. I was impressed. I had no idea what traces were or how they got kicked over.
“You could have chosen a different kind of journalism – though I can’t imagine it!” said Ismene.
“Well, I suppose the work chose me, in a way. I was very lucky – being in the right place at the right time. If I hadn’t been, you and I would not have met, and I would not have had the benefit of your help and kindness when I was green and ignorant. My life has really been a series of coincidences, chance meetings that shaped what was to come.”
“Now you are in Julian’s territory, where nothing happens by chance,” said Ismene.
Gregorio said “Julian of Norwich? I have met very few English people who have ever heard of her.”
“Surely she isn’t well known in East Timor?” I asked.
“Oh, no, not at all. But the Sister I invited to your party, Ismene, Sister Eleanor, she is a great expert on Julian.”
“Oh, I do wish I had known when I met her!” said Ismene.
Gregorio had learned of the Sister’s interest in Julian during their time together at Tyburn Convent, in London, on the day of prayer for East Timor. He said, “Sister Eleanor has given me a book of extracts from Julian’s book. Her words are full of hope. I wonder what lies ahead for East Timor…”
“Freedom,” said Ismene, placing her hand over his.
“Yes, it will come,” said Gregorio. “One day it will come.”
Paul said, “Until that day we will travel with you, Gregorio, my friend, to the end of the road.”
“So I see God’s goodness in the actions of my friends,” said Gregorio, smiling, though there were tears in his eyes.
I was moved by the evident depth of feeling and commitment between the three friends. They had set their hands to a task and it was clear that they would not let go until it had been finished. I discovered that Paul and Ismene had made a valuable contribution to several human rights causes by bringing them to the attention of the world. I admired and envied them. They were doing work that was truly worthwhile. I was making a small contribution through my column – but suddenly it seemed almost insignificant.
I recognized again, just as when we were young, Paul’s talent for connecting easily with others. He empathized with people in a way that went beyond the commonplace. It was a quality that drew people to him: a killer combination, empathy and ruthlessness, I thought, perhaps the perfect combination for a high-achieving journalist. I couldn’t make Paul out. He was an enigma.
After lunch I took my guests on a tour of the grounds. It was a glorious day and the garden was at its loveliest. As we returned to the cottage, Ismene and Gregorio fell behind a little as Paul and I walked on.
Paul said, “Thank you for lunch. This is a beautiful place. How long will you be here?”
“Just this week.”
“Then you’ll be back in the swing of things?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been away for the past few months, on wall-to-wall assignments. I’m going to be around more now, at least for the time being. Perhaps we’ll see each other.” We walked on in silence. Paul asked, “Are you still angry with me?”
I felt irritated. I was not in the mood for a personal conversation and certainly not a confrontation. “Why should I be?”
“I don’t know, but I seemed to have upset you last time we met.”
Was he being deliberately provocative? Or was he just so full of himself that he could not imagine anyone objecting to his playing around? I began to feel so angry and exasperated that I felt sure I would say the wrong thing. It irritated me that I still felt attracted to him and that I was obliged to manage those feelings as best I could, as well as my annoyance at his behaviour. It was all making me feel rather ratty at a time when I felt I had no resources to deal with anything complicated. As I was wondering how to respond, the others caught up with us.
“We should leave soon,” said Gregorio, glancing at his watch. I walked my guests back to the cottage, gave them tea and then dr
ove them to the station. As I drove back to the cottage, I thought what a strange day it had been and how oddly Paul had behaved. I simply could not figure him out. I arrived back feeling distinctly at odds and uncomfortable in my skin. I needed to clear my head. I set off for the lake, walking around the gable end of the house and along the heather-lined path across the top of the lawn.
Everything was quiet now, and still. Everyone seemed to be away, all the doors and windows in the main house closed and shuttered, curtains drawn. I was glad to have the garden to myself. Birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves were all I heard as I walked across the lawn to the lake. I sat in my favourite spot, on the bench by the water’s edge, and looked down into the depths, where dark green vegetation swirled softly, casting rippling patterns that stained the glassy, viscous surface. The wind gently lifted the light branches and sent a soft, hushing murmur through their leaves. I felt in harmony, a part of the spirit of the place, suddenly at ease after the tension of the day. The sunlight broke out from behind a cloud and everything around me shone, each leaf and ripple sparkled and the whole place seemed to be imbued with the radiance of an interior light.
After several minutes I rose and took the path to my left that circled the lake. I followed its contour between trees overhanging with the weight of their shadowing branches, past a rhododendron bush ablaze with vivid purple blossoms. Above me, high up in a tree, a blackbird sang. To my right, the water glowed mellow and still. The song of the bird was following me now, as though calling to me. Now at the far side of the lake, I stood in a clearing before a great redwood, whose outstretched arms reached high, as if in worship of the sky god. I continued on my walk and came to a small wooden bridge overhung by an oak. The bridge led to the little island in the middle of the lake, which I had come to think of as my private sanctuary. The bridge was stained green by the falling leaves and rain of countless years.
The Greening Page 17