Day 28

An excess of constraint extinguishes the value of a personal existence.

Leslie Devereaux 

Even as I am sitting here in the morning light, my mind is back in darkness, communing with the movement of my body to the drumbeats. It still feels very strange and even uncomfortable to me to accept that I have such an affinity for this strange activity. It isn’t a graceful or beautiful dance; it is certainly not a performance. I don’t even move all that much. I just allow myself to be carried into something I don’t understand, a place with no words. It is an emotional experience, but not a painful one. I discovered that when the shaking comes or the great pain following a new experience, the best thing I can do is to move. Whatever fills me with dread seems to express itself through my body. And the more I allow my body to move and shake, the more reassured and centred I seem to become. Choosing to deliberately face into the storm seems to be the best possible way to weather it. At some point I cease experiencing it and instead I become it. I become the storm. I am the storm. And there is no fear in it.

I also become alive in it. And not only when I dance. The memory of dance travels with me, so that I feel and appreciate my body in an entirely new way every time I walk or sit or breathe. I have an awareness of being alive that I didn’t know it was possible to have. It truly is a mysterious thing, to know ourselves alive, isn’t it?

I drew another Sacred rebel and it fits perfectly with my mood. It says “Defend to the end, the worthwhile.” My first reaction was one of guilt. I immediately thought of the person I ought to be. The environmental, animal rights and human rights activist, working tirelessly and ceaselessly for a cause. Very definitely not the person who withdraws from life in protest and who merely dances in the darkness and walks in the time of approaching light. But Alana Fairchild appears to make no distinction between the value of the person and the world. There is no judgement here about “ought”. There is only that deep conviction of selfhood and the what it is we stay alive for. She says:

All that is genuinely and truly essential for the heart to throb with life is worthwhile. Anything that dulls it or suffocates its vibrant aliveness, must be questioned, challenged, and more than likely, cast aside, for the heart is our key to living an authentic life. What is there once that is compromised? Without its foundation of truth, we are to be forever lost in confusion, doubt and despair!

What a strange, off-beat echo to my own thoughts and questions! I have asked what it means to be myself, when not just experience but hormones, accident, medication, illness – any and all can change who I am and who I believe myself to be. When a man can be lost forever in rage – a torment as great as any doom I have ever read or seen depicted in science fiction. Do I continue to follow my heart? Is there something beyond the heart which remains the same? Or is there only how I feel right here and now? How can I trust my own feelings and beliefs? How can I know this to be me? But I feel the pull of Alana Fairchild’s words and want to enter deeply into them, believing that my heart can be trusted and that to follow it is to follow truth. Or does it even matter whether there is any “truth” to follow? Does it matter whether there is, somewhere, an immutable and unchanging essence to my being? Or is it my choice to be guided, not by logic and the values that I consider unchanging, but by the feeling of the moment?

As I stood and walked on the beach this morning, marvelling at the fact that I never tire of this view and of this assault on my senses, I found myself wondering whether I could appreciate it in the same way if I did not have the benefit of my memory. The beach would hold the same, stunning beauty, but would it be the same if I did not know that? If I did not meet myself across time every morning when I stand in the same place and commune with past, present and future? All the “me”s who stand on this beach together, reverencing the rising sun? I felt the soft caress of air and wondered what it would mean if I did not know how different it feels from Canberra air. There may be no particular scent to the ocean here, but the difference in the air is undeniable. You can feel it touch you in the same way you feel the water. It is thicker, heavier, somehow, than Canberra air, and yet it brings with it a cleansing, a nurturing and a refreshing of life that Canberra air cannot offer. Here, the wind truly does come to greet me, just as much as the waves do. Would the raindrops dancing like gentle fairies on my upturned face and lips be the same if I did not remember all the times it did not rain? If I did not remember who I am?

So I look at my Sacred rebel and wonder at her secrets. She is rather dramatic, this lady. She appears to be crying tears of blood, but the effect is muted, softened, made more palatable by the fact that this particular card has been rendered in black and white. And so there is ambiguity. But the tears (if tears they are) in fact only add to her beauty and her power. She is crying for all that is lost, in herself, and in her world. She is a warrior, not of rage, anguish or hatred, but of love. Her fierce strength lies within her love and compassion. She wears a “battle helmet” of feathers, crested with the figure of a swooping owl. Both woman and owl look at me directly. It is a powerful image that makes me shiver. And one, unaccountably, that reminds me of a poem in David Almond’s book, My name is Mina. I only just saw the connection. Mina wrote a short poem about an owl. It is a child’s poem and yet I found myself copying it down because it seemed to mean something to me. Something I still don’t understand. Something that now connects itself to the idea of “Defend to the end, the worthwhile”, as though the owl might help me to become a warrior as well. Mina / David Almond wrote:

Owl

You fly in the velvet night.

You see what can't be seen,

you hear what can't be heard.

Lend me your feathers

and bones and wings.

lend me your eyes

and ears and claws.

Lend me the heart

to leap like you

into the astonishing night.

If I were to leap into the astonishing night, what could I take with me? What would I be forced to leave behind? It makes me curious to look around my home and think about what really does matter to me, what I really do consider to be worthwhile. And as I look, it all (nearly all) feels dead to me. Or at least, none of it belongs to me. Unlike my memory, I cannot think of a single thing here (even including my beloved Tarot and my newly-acquired Sacred rebels) that would mind too much if I abandoned it. The closest I can come to a sense of connection and need, to my surprise, is not my books or my cards or my photos, but Horatio, my little golden bear, given to me by Ms Crane. If my books are each individual stories, Horatio is the essence of story. The soul of story, I am tempted to say, in defiance of my phenomenally intelligent university lecturer! Ms Crane and her passion for literature all live within him. But even Horatio does not truly need me. And, ultimately, even though he is a physical memory of who I am, I do not need him to be completely myself.

That’s something I always struggle to understand when I hear of people’s devastation after losing all their possessions (by fire or flood or war). I try really hard to imagine what it must be like, but I fail. I can imagine it being very hard to see a beautiful place destroyed, but the idea of the possessions confuses me every time. Perhaps it is because I don’t feel like I really own anything. Am I missing out on some hugely important part of life by not “owning” anything? Or does it simply free me up and give me more options? If I am to find what matters most to me, I must look inside myself.

When I was young, I was really weird and used to wish that I would become blind. I don’t know why. I don’t think I even understood it then. But it felt very romantic and like I would have to “see” the world in an entirely different way. I think perhaps it felt more focused to me, as though, if I were blind, I wouldn’t have to face everything at once. Yes, as I imagine it now, I can be that child again and imagine myself becoming blind. That child, in my mind, gets to focus on one thing at a time and truly absorb it. She doesn’t have to take on all the responsibilities a “normal” child would have to face. In her imaginary world of darkness, she can absorb herself in learning how to read all over again and all her focus is on books. Being blind lets her off the hook in terms of school and work. And now she has a reason to be different. No one is looking at her and wondering why she’s so weird. It’s obvious. She’s blind. She’s not meant to be the same as all the other children. She’s not meant to want all the things they want or do all the things they do. She’s allowed to be different and just focus on feeling words with her fingers.

Right now, though, I am very glad that my fantasy never became reality. Because I know now what I can least afford to lose. Even more than memory, what I fear most is losing my ability to be independent and make my own choices. Perhaps that is because I have only lived alone for two years so far and it still feels very new and novel to me. I still feel a little as though I am playing “house”, and even though I keep so little in my apartment, I take great delight in arranging it just as I would like, moving things around because I want them there and even, occasionally, making something deliberately messy, just “because”. Because it feels like a fun thing to do at the time and no one can tell me to tidy it up. It just. Doesn’t. Matter.

More than that, I love the fact that, on my own, I can think. There are no other thoughts and words and demands crowding in on me. My brain is not being hammered and confused; it is freer than I have ever known it to be. And most especially now, when I have taken time away from work. Being alone is my sanctuary. If I had to think of what is “worthwhile” and what is worth defending to the end, it is that. It is the blissful free expanse of being myself, alone and unfettered.

There is a guy at work who was telling a story about his past. It’s hard to believe in this former person now, because he’s a complete and total “suit”, bound and determined to “climb the ladder” to the top. He’s as grey and plastic as they come. But once he was more. He has mobility issues and I think he’s on loads of medication. Has been all his life pretty much. And yet, as a teenager, he ran away and lived on the streets. He somehow survived there without his medication and with little ability to walk. It was when he described this that I finally understood what “disability” can truly mean. I saw the prison sentence it could become. Once again, I was the odd one out, though I was smart enough not to say anything. Everyone was horrified that he was on the streets. They were feeling sorry for him and were glad that he found a way to go home again. Not me. My heart was pounding at the thought that he might not have been able to do it in the first place. Imagine it. What if you were in an unbearable position and did not even have the choice to run away from it? I know it’s politically correct to say that children shouldn’t be on the streets. But why is it politically correct to condemn them to having no rights, no choices, no ability to determine their own lives? It’s a bit like euthanasia; we’re more afraid of people choosing than we are of anything else.

This particular guy lived on the streets and in abandoned squats for a couple of years. A whole two or more years – all the time I have lived independently! And he survived. But what if he hadn’t been able to? What if his health had prevented him from making that choice? The idea of that horrified me more than anything else. If I were to advocate for anything, it would be the right for everyone, especially those challenged by age or health or anything else, to be able to make their own choices and live with dignity.

What if I developed a disability now that prevented me from being able to do everything for myself? I would have to return home, to my parents and to Canberra. And that, I think would be a prison sentence for us all. They kept me carefully bound to them all the time I was at home. They lightened up a fraction once I turned 18, because I was then legally an adult, but they continued to monitor me closely, to ensure that I behaved with due decorum and did not give the neighbours or their colleagues reason to think ill of us. But, even though they kept me so closely connected to themselves, I think they were every bit as relieved as I was when I finished uni and asked if I could try for the job option away from Canberra. My father in particular tried very hard to look neutral, as though it didn’t matter which option I preferred, but there was a real gleam in his eye and I’m sure that, when he put the options to me in the first place, that was the one he emphasised the most. He rang his old friend with alacrity and was quite eloquent on my behalf as he asked if casual work could be found for me, the kind that didn’t require a formal selection process. No. I don’t think they want me back. They have done their job and are now quite relieved that I can go and “adult” somewhere else, where hopefully not too many people will know if I’m a little strange.

You see? You see the dreadful way I paint my parents and the horrid way I talk of them? I truly am a heartless, unfeeling daughter. But right now, I don’t care. I care only that my independence is by far the most valuable and cherished thing I “own”. Even more than memory, I want only to be away. Away from where other people get to decide how and why I should live.

Reading would be something that would be very hard to lose, as would any of my physical senses and my ability to know the world through my body. Reading, most especially though. Imagine never again knowing the delight of exploring the words and worlds of others, seeing those worlds through other eyes and bringing them into your own. Reading is like all five senses at once and more. It’s like having more than the senses you were born with and finding yourself in a world that is bigger and grander than your five senses could ever know. But what if we were forced to choose? Imagine if we were lined up and told that we could each choose only one thing to keep. Everything else must go and we would only get to keep one thing. Which would you choose? For me, the choice would be hard, but would really be no choice at all. I know now that, despite all the shaking of my body in response to my night adventures and all my trepidation at heading into the darkness of the unknown for reasons I do not understand, I fear dependence more than any other thing. If I had to choose, even over reading, even over safety itself, I would choose the ability to remain alone.

Dance.

Wildly dance.

In this place no sorrow comes.

Not fear.

Or pain.

For here no words intrude - 

lost and swept away as

thought dissolves with every step

and breath calls to the night.

The body is the victor now:

to stars it calls,

to sky and tree and moon.

Its rhythm is the universe

dancing with itself

the song of life.

So dance.

Wildly dance.