The man in the photograph was condemned by the Spanish Inquisition. The Vatican’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (the direct descendant of the Inquisition) have said that this man’s writings could be dangerous. They are right.
Listen to one of his stories. ‘All questions at the public meeting that day were about life beyond the grave. The Master only laughed and did not give a single answer. To his disciples, who demanded to know the reason for his evasiveness, he later said, ‘Have you observed that it is precisely those who do not know what to do with this life who want another that will last forever?’ ‘But is there life after death or is there not?’ asked a disciple.’Is there life before death? that is the question!’ said the Master.’
You can imagine how that sort of story would upset people with rigid religious views. It is surprising then to discover that Antony De Mello was a Jesuit priest.
De Mello collected many stories from around the world ;stories that illustrated some point of awareness, of wisdom. He removed all the cultural references so the readers’ prejudices would not impede understanding. The book was called The Song of the Bird and was published to great acclaim. Other books followed including One Minute Wisdom , Sadhana and the vastly important Awareness
In “Awareness” we are invited to wake up and stop suffering. Reading the book is like attending one of De Mello’s Spirituality Workshops (which were famous for their effectiveness). But I warn you. The book is, as Cardinal Ratzinger , now Pope Benedict said, dangerous.
It could change your life.
For better. For ever.
As De Mello said… _“I challenge anyone to think of anything more practical than spirituality as I have defined it… not piety, not devotion, not religion, not worship, but spirituality…waking up, waking up! Look at the heartache everywhere, look at the loneliness, look at the fear, the confusion, the conflict in the hearts of people, inner conflict, outer conflict. Suppose somebody gave you a way of getting rid of all of that? Suppose somebody gave you a way to stop that tremendous drainage of energy, of health, of emotion that comes from these conflicts and confusion. Would you want that? Suppose somebody showed us a way whereby we would truly love one another, and be at peace, be at love. Can you think of anything more practical than that? But, instead, you have people thinking that big business is more practical, that politics is more practical, that science is more practical. What’s the earthly use of putting a man on the moon when we cannot live on the earth?’
My aunt gave me the book years and years ago. I am convinced I have avoided some terrible mistakes by reading it. Maybe. Maybe not. I promised myself that I would do what my aunt did – introduce Anthony De Mello to someone, someday. And maybe that person would benefit in the way I did.
Well, I spent a dead August networking like a ..er….spider? Whatever. And I’ve been redoing my website. Now in September and the work is coming in so I can get myself back into the saddle. If you’re interested in my new website ( and bejesus why wouldn’t you be?) you can go and have a butcher’s (as in hook as in look).
I walked back from having dinner and passed through one of the arched exits from Avila. The sun was setting and the sky was giddy with swallows (golondrinas in Spanish. Just say the word to feel better!).
The raw thrashed chords at the start of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart‘ by the great Joy Division convey something of the brutality of love. In the foothills of love there are flowers and heart-shaped boxes but at the summit the air is too thin and pure. Only eagles and white light of a perfect sun belong there. And some very special humans. Few. Very few.
What happens is this. You believe at 17 that amor vincit omnia. Love is constantly reinvented on the fumes of cheap perfume and serious dancing. Oh, what it is to be young! But then, first loves fail and you never quite regain the high ground you were walking on. Some people do. Very few.
You compromise. You accept something that is quite good instead of something that is the best. You know the summit exists. You just don’t see the point of climbing back up there. Most people think that ‘settling down’ like an undisturbed packet of cycanide dust is a sign of maturity. Some people think this pusillanimous. Very few.
Good old Corinthians 1:13 says “If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. ”
The even better Beatles aver that “There’s nowhere you can be which isn’t where you meant to be. It’s easy. All you need is love”
All you need is love. Love and a heroic don’t-care-if-I-die attitude to the quest for true, perfect, mountain top love.
“Where will I wander, I wonder.
Nobody knows.
but wherever I’m going, I’ll go in search of the Rose”
Some people keep the faith. Some people hold on to a resolve that makes nonsense of the crashing pillars and delapidated buildings of unsafe constructions. It’s a massive Credo. I believe. And while life may be more comfortable compromising and being what you are not I can think of few reasons not to live life as though perfect love exists. Very few.
We have had some summer storms where the rain punches the streets and the clouds growl like tigers. I like the feeling of siege that a summer thunderstorm provokes. There is something elemental and primitive in it. We need the storms in Madrid because from now until October we are more or less permanently beneath blue skies and a Dalek sun that grates ‘Exterminate!‘ every time you step out of the door.
Being slap bang in the middle of the peninsula means we do not enjoy the moderating effects of a large body of water. When I lived in Donostia the summers were cooler and the winters were milder. The idea of a summer residence makes sense.
I am working a lot in July and so I will be too busy to notice. But come August and a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of ice. It is unbearable. When you get a 38 celcius you can’t sleep. So you wake up tired. And hot. I try to emulate Lawrence of Arabia who, when asked what the trick to tolerating high temperatures was, replied ‘The trick is not to mind’.
That fits in with my general position that it is not what happenes that makes us unhappy but rather our opinions about what happens. Change your mind, change the unhappiness. Summer in Madrid, however, really separates the Masters from the disciples.
Mementos Mori abound. I came across a piece by Tennyson the other day.
Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
Isn’t it easy to lose sight of what excited you and moved you when you were young? We become cynical and dull and think in monthly cycles not of the Moon but of the utility bills. We should make an effort not to be swayed by the vagaries of time as it marches by disguised as money. When I was young I wanted to be always to be able to be touched by art – music, theatre and poetry. I don’t mean touched in a ‘that was nice now put away your bits and pieces’ way but in a ‘two week catatonic deeply disturbed at the roots of being’ way.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Up to now I still navigate the waters around the Happy Isles.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
The whole system is designed to punish you if you are different. Everyone is required to wear similar clothes, wear similar ideas and make the same emetically dull observations on a woefully predictable existence. Is that what you want? Really?
Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
So much has happened since I last wrote that I don’t know where to begin. Whether you are reading this in some academic outpost on the Iberian pensinsula, some military installation in Cyprus or during the night at a hospital in Leeds, bear with me, I pray.
I went to England to celebrate my mother’s 90th birthday. It was the first time the family has been together since my father’s funeral 15 years ago and so that, in itself, was an achievement. As a family we finally put the fun into ‘dysfunctional’ and made sure that the old girl had a day to remember. Two days actually. We had a bash in the family homestead with balloons, candles and some catering. It must have been a posh caterer because the Swiss Roll had a French name. By ‘eck we’ve come a long way from lard and Stork margarine, we ‘ave. We also had an Emmerdale moment and went to the Roaches Tearooms in the middle of the beautiful English countryside. Spring was springing all around and the glass conservatory that we had reserved became a display case of happy campers. She was delighted to be with her friends.
We repaired back to homestead and, after some whiskies and Guinness, we found ourselves in a true Irish session and songs from the political to the emetically maudling were the order of the day. Tom O’Riley and myself gave a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ that will sure live on in the seared memories of those present.
Al in all – mission accomplished. One happy mother.
Then all we had to do was head down to Luton Airport and fly back to the Spain. I woke up on Thursday morning bag packed, passport checked upmteen times and that nervous stomach thing that goes with travel. The BBC informed me that a volcano had erupted in Iceland and all flights were cancelled. It was all a bit Lord of the Rings.
We went to Luton anyway – hope springs eternal – and found that the flight was indeed cancelled. Oh well! Booked into an extortionate hotel that was horrid and waited till the next day. To cut a long short we went to London for the day, tried the airport again, returned to Choke-on-Stench (scene of aforementioned birthday), booked a boat, train to Portsmouth, booked into very nice hotel and sailed to Bilbao. By this point, of course, Britain was flying again but any port in an ash cloud. Hired a car in the Basque Country and so to Spain to unpack and pack again for a next day residential course.
But, here I am. Back in the saddle and hoping to work a lot and recuperate the shedload of money I spent in the UK. I have to say, the authorities and the travel companies were pathetic during the crisis. The England that won WWII has gone to hell in a handcart. No election will change that, I fear
The man in the photograph was condemned by the Spanish Inquisition. The Vatican’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (the direct descendant of the Inquisition) have said that this man’s writings could be dangerous. They are right.
I walked back from having dinner and passed through one of the arched exits from Avila. The sun was setting and the sky was giddy with swallows (golondrinas in Spanish. Just say the word to feel better!).
The raw thrashed chords at the start of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart‘ by the great Joy Division convey something of the brutality of love. In the foothills of love there are flowers and heart-shaped boxes but at the summit the air is too thin and pure. Only eagles and white light of a perfect sun belong there. And some very special humans. Few. Very few.
We have had some summer storms where the rain punches the streets and the clouds growl like tigers. I like the feeling of siege that a summer thunderstorm provokes. There is something elemental and primitive in it. We need the storms in Madrid because from now until October we are more or less permanently beneath blue skies and a Dalek sun that grates ‘Exterminate!‘ every time you step out of the door.
Mementos Mori abound. I came across a piece by Tennyson the other day.
We went to Luton anyway – hope springs eternal – and found that the flight was indeed cancelled. Oh well! Booked into an extortionate hotel that was horrid and waited till the next day. To cut a long short we went to London for the day, tried the airport again, returned to Choke-on-Stench (scene of aforementioned birthday), booked a boat, train to Portsmouth, booked into very nice hotel and sailed to Bilbao. By this point, of course, Britain was flying again but any port in an ash cloud. Hired a car in the Basque Country and so to Spain to unpack and pack again for a next day residential course.
