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| The path between the huts |
The ashram is quiet and peaceful, with both familiar faces and new guests. All are looking for the serene calm they have experienced on a previous visit, or have read about, and are searching for.
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| On my verandah |
I've been here a week, and it’s not been quite what I expected. It’s not that the ashram has changed; it’s because this past year has had a big effect on me, and I am now in a space where I can reflect on the events of the year.
I arrived at high speed because life has been like that for months. There had been no let-up of pressure of work in Bangalore: quite the reverse, in fact, as James Ambat had tossed over proposals that needed editing, and pitches that needed drafting, together with copy-writing that needed creating – and even a short autobiography that needed ghosting.
Some days, my total exercise had been to come out of my room and descend a single flight of stairs to the dining area for the daily ritual of chicken curry, which is the mainstay of the Ambat residence. (I am mainly carnivorous at home, but I shall never understand the addiction to meat, here in India, - a country where the range of vegetable dishes is so extensive, varied, and delicious.)
I put myself under continuing pressure after arriving at the ashram in the wee, small hours of Sunday morning, by immediately writing the previous blog-post and then catching up with friends and family.
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| Ongoing education for these children from the slums of Bangalore, - all funded through my charity "Escape from Poverty." |
Then I started cataloguing my photos of the previous month and working on redesigned paperwork to cope with the nine pupils whose scholarships Escape from Poverty has so far raised. With a target of another dozen scholarships to be sourced within the next 4-6 months, I must have good paperwork in place, and it sends me into mild panics just thinking about it. I am now wondering whether Jeanette, my volunteer helper back in Lincoln, has had any luck sourcing a volunteer who can control and administer a system of documentation.
And then my body caught up with me sometime on Saturday, with all the certainty of a sand-dune bringing a runaway car to a decisive stand-still. There was no crash, no physical breakdown, and no metaphorical air-bags ballooning out to save my life. The physical symptoms were neither dramatic nor violent; no raging temperature or nausea, and no shivering or dizziness. There was just a painfully clear, still, small voice in the tone of nanny being sensible with an over-excited little boy. “Why don’t you have a lie down? You’ll feel so much better.
Since then I have tried to approach each day with renewed optimism, telling myself I felt much better and that it was probably the change of water affecting my gut, and sending me hurrying to the en-suite, but each day the symptoms reappeared, and the invisible nanny tucked me up mid-morning or afternoon, with soothing words of nothing to worry about and assuring me that all I needed was a good rest, because I had been overdoing things. I tried to argue that I have always been overdoing things, only to receive the unwelcome rebuff, that I am not as young as I used to be.
I have never believed in coincidences, and have always believed that everything happens for a reason. I think I was being strongly encouraged to look at the issues that have been worrying me, especially the arguments that have caused so much pain. It was time to take a critical look at my role in all of this, and accept some responsibility for the events, and accept that to a significant extent, I had brought all of this upon myself. I doubt if I would ever have thought about this if I had not come away to the peace and solitude of my hut in the banana grove, and I shall always be grateful that I discovered the Saccinananda ashram at Shantivanam, three years ago.
There is no compulsion to be involved in any of the services here, but I find it worthwhile to attend at least midday prayer and evening prayer. Sometimes I go to the early morning prayers and Eucharist, but I have never been a great enthusiast of daily Mass, as I think that such a practice detracts from the underlying message of that liturgy, - but that could be a whole book, and I am not going to go there today!
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| Brother John Martin |
Breakfast follows the morning service, then guests are expected to help prepare vegetables as a practical contribution to the life of the ashram. It's just like old times in the kitchens of my restaurants, but I do wish I had remembered to pack my sharp chef's knife and a flat, level chopping board.
Some people gather for a gossip over morning coffee later, and in the afternoon Brother John Martin, the theologian president of the community, hosts a talk and discussion, which is always interesting, and often controversial.
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| A corner of my "garden." |
As I while away my time, I am reminded of a quip that my father used to love to tell, about the elderly Yorkshireman, who was asked how he passed his time.
His answer is perfect:
“Well, sometimes I sits and thinks, and then sometimes, I just sits.”
Me too. Here, at the ashram,
...sometimes I just sits.
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