As I entertained these thoughts, a broad shaft of sunlight blazed across my closed eyes and my head felt as though it were full of light. I opened my eyes and found myself looking at the white cover, with its black inscription, of Julian’s book. In the foreground is the figure of Jesus on the cross, with the risen Christ above him and a bird swooping earthwards.
Julian’s first editor was Serenus Cressy, an English Benedictine monk. He writes “I was desirous to have told thee somewhat of the happy virgin, the compiler of these Revelations, but after all the search I could make I could not discover any thing touching her, more than what she occasionally sprinkles in the book itself.” So he, too, had been curious, but had not had his curiosity satisfied. Was there something about this piece of work that made the individual want to shrink away into obscurity? For Anna, like Julian, had drawn back into the shadows.
Clearly, Julian had fascinated many people across the centuries. One expert describes “the sheer integrity of Julian’s reasoning, the precision of her theology, the depth of her insight and the simplicity with which she expounds profound truths”. In the language of my profession, her story carries conviction. So, when she speaks of God’s abiding, unconditional love – is it true?
Cressy introduces Julian’s book with a quotation from her last chapter. After her many years of patient contemplation, Julian received one final visitation. She was told, “Would you know your Lord’s meaning in this thing? Learn it well: Love was his meaning. Who showed it to you? Love. What did he show you? Love. Why did he show it? For love.”
Love was God’s last word to Julian, the most persistent of questioners. The inimitable Julian had questioned Jesus’ assurance that sin was inevitable but that “all shall be well”. She had asked how that could possibly be, when sin causes so much pain. She had at last accepted Jesus’ second assurance that what is impossible to man is possible to God, who will “make all things well”. But the last message – love is his meaning – appears to be the most important of all.
Julian appears to have travelled beyond the limitations of her intellect to a place of greater understanding. Was this the place of the heart centre, the place that could be reached in silence, as Molly had shown me? I was curious. How far might I travel if only I had the courage? When it came to courage, Julian was a shining example. Julian the gentle revolutionary was my kind of heroine. She embodied the characteristics I admired most – courage, compassion and honesty. The more I saw of her, the better I liked her. How I would have loved to interview her.
I studied the books for three days. In the evening of the third day I looked towards the vase of tulips. I saw that the flowers had at last succumbed to the passing of the time they had occupied. Their deeply purpled fragile flesh had become almost transparent in places, smeared with goldened cream. In some parts, the glorious, brazen red had matured to a deep, dense plum colour; in others, the liberally spilt, thickly coated cream adorned the scarlet, silken velvet, falling like the folds of some rich magistrate’s cloak, each tulip dropping its papered trumpets to the floor.
I lift one flower gently. It does not break. It curls, unyielding, against my palm. I place my finger within the bell, and touch that most exquisite, private softness, which lives still within the heart of the flower; but at the lightest pressure of my finger its integrity is broken, and, fragmented, the flower falls to the floor.
I felt the need to share my thoughts with Ismene. I dialled her number and felt comforted, as I always did when I heard her soft, melodic voice – a voice that conveyed great warmth and wisdom. She accepted my invitation to visit me the following weekend.
It was a glorious day, high summer, hot but with a gentle, cooling breeze.
“Have you seen anything of Paul?” Ismene asked, as we enjoyed an al fresco lunch in the little courtyard. I felt myself beginning to blush. Did she know about the difficult situation between us?
“He doesn’t seem to have been around very much,” I said. “They’re keeping him busy.”
“I have a lot of respect for Paul,” said Ismene, “and, of course, great affection.”
I was curious about her good opinion of Paul. She had known him a long time; yet she seemed not to know his real character. But then, I reminded myself, Paul always had been able to win admiration and approval, especially from women. Not that I imagined any such interest on Ismene’s part. She was to Paul, as she was to me, a kind, wise guide and mentor.
I shared with Ismene the thoughts and questions that I had been pondering while reading Julian’s book. I said, “Julian somehow was able to accept things that really didn’t make sense to her. I could never do that. I always have to understand how things work!”
Ismene said, “She reported conscientiously what was revealed to her and accepted the validity of the message in faith. Not at first, of course, because she questioned things just as you do, just as I did. ‘Sin is inevitable but all shall be well…’ I wonder if we can make sense of that statement by learning from other cultures and faiths. Reincarnation and the outworking of karma, for example, might explain how someone can lead a wicked life – and yet ‘all shall be well’. If we are given opportunities in future lives to learn by experiencing the behaviour we have inflicted upon others, then would that not be possible?”
“So it could be a long, long journey through many incarnations,” I said.
“Through hundreds, perhaps thousands – leading in time to the perfecting of the human soul. It is the journey that we are all embarked upon, to be filled with the Christ, the pure force of love that was manifested through Jesus, and which can manifest through each of us, if only we will let it, so as to raise our consciousness and make it possible for us to enter the state of bliss called Heaven.”
I said, “The most important part of the message was the last: ‘Love is his meaning’”.
Ismene said, “Precisely. Not retribution, because God is not angry with us. Just love, because only through love can we can follow his path, striving towards what the Book of Ephesians calls ‘the perfection of the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ’. Love is his meaning and Jesus’ mission was to show us the example of a life lived in perfect love. When we emulate that, we find salvation.”
I asked, “What about this really weird assertion of Julian’s that the more we suffer for our wrongdoing, the greater our treasure in heaven?”
Ismene said, “That quotation continues ‘… for those that shall be saved’. Perhaps that means that when we become truly aware of the mistakes we’ve made, we have a choice. We can accept and assimilate what we have learned, and change, or we can choose to ignore it and carry on in the same old way. If we choose to change, we are the wiser and stronger and it has all been worthwhile.”
I asked, “And yet she says God doesn’t blame us and we’re not meant to blame ourselves.”
“Quite so. He looks upon us with pity, not with blame. Guilt is absolutely pointless. God wants us to simply repent and change. If we punish ourselves with guilt, Julian says, we dishonour God, because we are his darlings and he is sorry to see us giving ourselves a hard time. She also refers to each of us having a ‘godly will’ that never assented to sin, and she says that God and we are of one essence. Now, would you consider the possibility that the earthly self, which is separate from God, does things it would not do if it were fully conscious of its real self? Is it possible that the shame we feel when we do wrong raises our consciousness and opens our hearts and makes us more loving?”
Before returning home, Ismene joined me for a walk in the grounds. The heat of the day was cooling and the shadows were lengthening into evening. Everything was very still. Ismene took my arm as we walked. She said, “Joanna, I’m so very glad that we’re friends. I know you’ve had a very difficult time recently, but you have behaved honourably and you will be the stronger for all that you endure, and endure well.” She turned her head and smiled at me and said, “Love is his meaning. All will be well. Just keep those thoughts in
your heart and they will sustain you through everything.”
Later that evening I walked out again and looked up at the sky full of stars. Did I want to follow in Julian’s tracks? If I did, it was clear that, if I must, like her, go forward in faith, and perhaps by grace, I must accept that there were places to which my intellect simply could not take me. Julian had found her path through suffering and sacrifice, of that I was sure. Nothing less could have brought her to such a depth of understanding. But Anna’s gentle voice still haunted me. Do I dare to believe that I am beloved through all eternity? Is it true that Calvary is a place to which each of us must come?
The cedar of Lebanon outside my window inclines its lustrous branches. Each gently curving arc, shimmering with frosted paler green, is held in soft quiescence, tenderly reaching to keep me safe from wind and weather, with the quiet solicitude of a considerate friend.
There is a sense of knowing, of things understood, of something magical, perhaps… The trees are shadowing into night, surrendering their sunlit daily watch to the landscape of the stars.
The birds are resting, enfolded in their tiny wings. The trees come quietly in around me, and I know that it is safe to go to sleep. Gently, softly, I feel my heart begin to open. At its centre is a rose. I close my eyes, and drift into the place where dreams are made.
After I had been living at Rachel’s cottage for a few weeks, writing and filing my column without difficulty, I decided to buy a place of my own and settle there. I put my house in London up for sale and had soon accepted an offer. I found a new home that was perfect. It was an eighteenth-century cottage in a quiet lane, a little way along from the church, on the outskirts of the village. It had a large, secluded garden and an organic vegetable patch. I made an offer and it was accepted. We arranged to complete the sale of my house and the purchase of my new home at the end of September. In the meantime, I remained at Rachel’s cottage.
It was, a beautiful, hot August day. I worked at my computer in my room with its view of the wilderness across the courtyard and the high trees beyond, grateful to be away from the stultifying stuffiness of the city. The telephone rang, and I picked up the receiver to hear the affected, sexy tones of Felicity Garner, the Features Editor.
“Jo, sweetie. It’s Fliss. How are you surviving down there among the Crimplene and cowdung set?”
“Oh, wearing it well!”
Felicity laughed. “I make a point of avoiding wide-open spaces. One breath of country air and I put on five pounds. Listen, darling, I’d like you to do a job for me. Interested?”
“I’m sure I shall be,” I replied.
“Super. There’s a two-day international conference of East Timor supporters next week – activists, non-governmental organizations, some notables, including a few celebs. What I want is a colour piece, people’s stories, human interest, that sort of thing. Will you do it for me?”
I wanted to go. I was keen to work on the East Timor story again, and it was an opportunity to keep my name in the frame at the office. I said I would love to do the job.
“Heaven on a stick, darling! Knew you wouldn’t let me down. I’ll get back to you with a briefing. I’ll want you and Paul to work closely together. We want a dramatic words-and-pics job. We’ll talk later.”
“Do you mean Paul Huntingford?”
“Yes. It’s really to promote his exhibition of East Timor pictures at the ICA. That’s why the Editor wants to cover the conference. It’s all PR, darling, but isn’t everything?”
I replaced the receiver with mixed feelings. I had not expected to work with Paul again. I had not known about his exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. I was getting out of touch with events in London. Having accepted the commission I could hardly withdraw because of Paul. It seemed that Felicity was being businesslike and setting her feelings aside. I could do worse than follow her example.
I spent the next couple of days bringing myself up to date with events in East Timor. The brutal oppression by the Indonesian army had intensified since the massacre at Santa Cruz Church in Dili, which Ismene and Paul had witnessed.
Many of those who had survived the army’s bullets and beatings were languishing in prison, facing long sentences and even death, simply for participating in the peaceful protest. Indonesia continued to defy ten United Nations resolutions calling upon it to end its illegal occupation. Nonetheless, the government – which had managed to ride the storm over the arms scandal revealed by Dr Newell, and even his death – was continuing with its programme of aid and cheap loans. And it was still allowing the sale of Hawk jet fighter aircraft, which were being used to bomb East Timorese villages. The more I read, the angrier I became.
As I stepped out of Westminster underground station into bright sunshine, I was looking forward to my assignment, though a little apprehensive about seeing Paul again. I passed through groups of tourists, who were busy taking pictures of the Houses of Parliament, on my way to the Queen Elizabeth Conference centre, where the event was taking place. Paul had arrived before me. He strode across and greeted me in a warm and friendly manner.
We worked well together. Paul moved unobtrusively among the delegates. It seemed hardly possible that he was getting good material with so little fuss. He never got in my way. Indeed, he helped interviews along with the odd word and welcoming smile. I enjoyed working with him. Occasionally he would direct me towards someone whom he knew to have a story to tell. At lunchtime we snatched a hurried sandwich, as we talked over the material we had so far and considered our coverage for the rest of that day.
At six o’clock delegates began to drift away to their hotels. Paul asked, “Shall we have a quick drink to plan our tactics for tomorrow?” I agreed and we walked to a nearby pub. I sat on the terrace, which overlooked the slow, grey River Thames, and waited for Paul to bring our drinks.
He joined me and we sat quietly together for several minutes, looking out across the river. I wondered what he was thinking. The initial awkwardness when we met that morning had evaporated during the busy day. It was pleasant to sit together, sharing a companionable silence.
I glanced at Paul and saw a faraway look in his eyes.
“Are you tired?” I asked.
“Tired? Me? Never,” he replied, pulled suddenly from his reverie. “This is luxury, compared to what I’m used to.”
I realized that to ask a war photographer if he was tired after a day photographing a conference must have sounded quite stupid.
“I know you have an interest in East Timor, but this must be boring for you,” I said.
“Taking pictures is never boring. There’s always something new and different, something one has never seen before. I don’t even know sometimes why I take a particular photograph. I just know I have to. Later I find out why.”
We chatted for several minutes; then he suddenly looked embarrassed. He said, “I mustn’t keep you. You must have things to do.”
“Yes. I mustn’t keep my TV dinner waiting.” It was my tiredness that caused me to make the remark. I regretted it immediately. Why had I made myself an object of pity to Paul, of all people?
“Well, you’re welcome to share my boiled egg,” he said. “Now I’m waiting for you to shout at me. And if you don’t, I’m going to invite you to dinner.”
“You know, Paul, I simply don’t understand you. You’re married – happily, from what I understand. You’re not interested in me. You never have been. I don’t know if it’s some insecurity or whatever that makes you need to collect female scalps, or whatever it is you do, but it’s childish and silly, and frankly you should grow up.”
Paul looked dumbfounded. He said nothing. I thought I had said too much. There was a silence between us. We both stared across the river. Then Paul said, “This is very strange. It sounds as though you’re talking about someone else.”
“Come on, Paul; don’t be cute. How do you suppose your wife would feel if she knew you were having this conversation with me?”
“Sh
e would feel sorry.”
“Sorry?! I think she would put it rather stronger than that!”
“She would feel sorry that we’re arguing. Jo, I was happily married, it’s true. But my wife died three years ago.”
For the first time in my life I knew exactly what people meant when they said they wished the ground would open up under them. I did not know what to say. Eventually I said, “I’m terribly sorry, Paul. Please forgive me.”
Paul smiled his familiar smile and said, “Nothing to forgive.” He paused. “Shall we have that boiled egg?”
I said yes, because I wanted to be with him. He suggested going to a restaurant but because I was tired and we had an early start the following day we agreed that he would rustle up something at his house in Islington, a ten-minute drive from my home.
Paul lived in a three-storey Edwardian house. The house was quite sparsely furnished. There was very little clutter and a feeling of space and light. On otherwise bare white walls hung beautiful photographs, many of indigenous people from Third World countries. He led me into the kitchen.
“It’s a bit blokeish, I’m afraid,” he said. “But there should be something edible around here.” He peered into the fridge. “I seem to remember a scene in James Bond where he takes two eggs and a carrot from a lady’s fridge and serves her up a mouth-watering soufflé. I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen.”
I laughed. “Just scramble the eggs.”
“I would if there were any.”
He peered further into the fridge. “There’s some smoked salmon. There’s also lots of salad. And there’s some soup, delicious home-made vegetable soup from the kitchen of Ismene Vale.”
“You’re joking.”
“She sent her maid over from Hampstead with it. She’s convinced I don’t eat.”
The thought suddenly crossed my mind that no woman, not even the brilliant and sensible Ismene Vale, was invulnerable to Paul’s charm. My mood was broken as I remembered how he had stood me up all those years ago, how he had betrayed his wife and let Felicity down.
The Greening Page 19