Wednesday 21 August 2013

Lessons for Hippies


I say goodbye. To the iridescent water. To the red squat succulents spread all over the hill. To the fortresses high above and the rocky architraves over the water. To glowing sunsets every night, cool sand between my toes. To chestnut red beers and tangy goat cheese; rosé and my crappy straw hat. To the sounds of tent zippers and our raucous teens on the beach, waves riffing the sand and almost washing thought away.

A long drive across the top of Corsica to the ferry and the Italians are driving me nuts at the port. All lined up preening, checking out each other's tatts and tans. It's a hundred degrees.

And then - as a vision - three divine-looking shirtless German guys ride up on motorbikes and my stomach does a turn. Older guys, sharp faces. Probably gays. Gorgeous.

They have this red-headed hippie momma narrowing her eyes under her hat.

Then I am revving the car on board the mammoth ferry, into her bowels on rattering iron ramps studded with bolts and thick yellow paint. It's a furnace. You can't help thinking of the Costa Concordia lurching over, water spilling at you horizontally.

But I love ferries. Vessels. Hulls. Sails

My son finds a seat next to an older tanned Italian couple with a bulldog playing with a lime green plastic ball. Everywhere I look there is patterned carpet. Screaming kids. A low ceiling with silver ridges. This hippie momma shakes her head.

I go upstairs to find the Germans. They will be somewhere and I can study them from afar. Or perhaps I can ask them for a fruit knife. A woman can always ask for a fruit knife. And a European man will always have one.

And there they are. They are not like Italians talking incessantly, or badgering their children, or stretching out their bodies for the edges of the sun. They are plonked on deckchairs reading hefty books, one of them is sleeping.


I sit down on the rusty deck painted bright blue, the same blue as my nailpolish. I bunch up my bag and pull my hat over my head. I fall asleep remembering all the times I have slept on the ground in faraway places, usually with a belly ache clutching a sleeping child and a bag of travel documents.

This is the quote from John Burnside's introduction to his wife Iris Murdoch's mesmerising book, The Sea, The Sea. I have read these words endlessly, running my tongue over them, smelling them. 

The temptation to withdraw, to achieve a seeming detachment, to be above or beyond the cacophony of 'the world' may be an attractive one, but it usually has nothing to do with a spiritual path, or - the search for wisdom, or  heaven help us - saintliness. To practise detachment one must be in the world, in the chaos of emotions and needs and conflicts that make up ordinary life. If that world is sometimes disappointing, so be it: a just life is one that must be lived in the midst of disappointment. Withdrawal can provide the illusion of perfection - self-governance, order, a quietist's idea of peace - but it is not, for most us, worthwhile. The example of the saints, of the Bodhisattvas, of the Sufi masters, is that mere withdrawal from confusion and misery is not enough; how can I enjoy my peace, if others are confused, hurt and in need. What distinguishes the Bodhisattva is the decision not to leave the circle until all sentient beings attain enlightenment; the saint who has shed the illusions of the world returns to that same world in order to assist others. This return is not that of a cool, detached, superior being; it is a return to the thick of things, to the chaos and pit of the human condition. To accept imperfection - this is the key. To engage, with compassion, in the serious game of being, is the only acceptable choice.


12 comments:

  1. I've returned to Burnside's words on numerous occasions Cat. Turning them over in my mouth. There have been so many times I've craved that detachment. Usually because I'm in selfish pain or self-absorbed turmoil. At some point in that chaos I've brought upon myself I remember that death will bring detachment aplenty. And that I love this imperfect life and all its imperfect beautiful people.
    This is a beautiful touching post. You have such acute skills of observation - coupled with your writerly skill it makes you devastating to read.
    Sounds as though you had the best of times. Yx

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    1. Ahh Yvonne. I've always felt like an observer, always watching. When I read these words I felt a deep peace descending. I am forever trucking between detachment and chaos. It just seems to be my voyage. And Burnside's words just make it all slot into place, no?
      Twas goood. Da bikini. De swimms. Oh and those Germans.
      xxcat

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    2. Oh and those Germans! I could just about taste them. Yx

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  2. You should be a writer! Joking apart,I was right there with you...remembering two German girls I 'met' on a North Sea ferry (Harwich-Hoek van Holland...six hours!...you can learn a lot about German anatomy & psychology in six hours!).I'm glad you were so stimulated by the world of other people.What else is there to write about which isn't self-indulgent navel-gazing? It always seems a paradise to be out of the mainstream; but it's an illusion, a chimera...which will devour you & spit you out in tiny pieces on some lonely,rocky outcrop in a wine dark sea! (STOP NOW,ANDY!...you sound ridiculous!).

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    1. No Andy, not ridiculous at all but it seems you would enjoy Murdoch's book! About retired theatre actor Charles Arrowby who buys a remote stone house by the sea to revel in his solitude and thoughts, and finds himself crammed by both these and the obsessions of his life - in fine physical form. Dyou like Iris?

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    2. I've only read 'A Severed Head' & 'The Italian Girl'...though I've caught some dramatisations,& the films about her.She writes a very dense prose,I seem to remember, layered & resonant...& a tinge of sadness & regret...not P.G.Wodehouse!!.

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  3. Thank you, thank you for that quote. Thank you.

    And also for your own quote: "A woman can always ask for a fruit knife. And a European man will always have one."

    You teach me about the world. xo

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    1. Yes Hannah, you pick up a few unexpected things along the way.

      And the quote is to treasure Xcat

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  4. This is some really beautiful writing here, Cat. And makes me so want to escape my little Midwestern United States life... Thanks for sharing!

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    1. So glad you like Sherry. Man! I am missing that place already! Already dreaming about next year.. Xcat

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