Blogging is so weird.
I don’t mean blogging about gluten-free baking, or luxury
dog wear or organic cosmetics. Those people are the smart ones. They’re doing
something sane and steady, instead of writing about family issues, Mama Greek
and not being able to get knocked up.
I had a thing going, writing about all that stuff on a
(fairly) regular basis, and I loved it. I loved the responses I got, and I loved the
sharing that came back. But I haven’t written in a while. The astute among you
might suspect reasons for that, but I’m not going there now. Suffice it to say,
I reached a place where I had to either allow myself the time and space to
process what was happening, or give you guys, who have been reading and
supporting and cheering, An Explanation. Or just fake it. Which I suck at.
So please, be patient.
I’m in New Zealand.
I arrived two weeks ago, after two amazing months in
Australia.
I didn’t want to come. Well, I did, actually, really badly,
but I had a good thing going in Aus and it was hard to leave behind. I met amazing
people. I ate great food. I ran along the beach almost every day. It was, in a
lot of ways, paradise.
But New Zealand has been calling to me for a long time. One
of the reasons I took this trip was to experience a different way of living: a
way that embraced community, that was more connected to the planet, more about
helping others, and that moved at a slower pace. These two little islands
seemed to uphold a lot of those practices, and so here I came.
I’m spending my first month volunteering at a meditation
retreat center an hour and a half outside Nelson. Since Nelson has a population
of less than 50,000, I am, if you’ll allow the Aussie turn of phrase, in the
back arse of nowhere. There are way, way, WAY more sheep than people out here.
Also wild pigs, a ton of colourful birds, and rabbits that hang around like
they own the place. This centre was built by a meditation community that I’m
part of – a community that supports and learns from two teachers I’ve written about before.
Uh oh, you might be thinking. Granola alert -
soon she’ll be talking about chia seeds and chanting. I’m getting a latte and
going read the New York Times.
I still have two pairs of heels in my
backpack, I promise.
The retreat centre caretaker, a Scotswoman who’s my age,
picked me up at the airport, welcoming me with the kind of warmth and delight normally
reserved for dear friends reuniting after decades apart. On the ride back, she
shared her own quest, which was startlingly, eerily similar to mine. This cheered
me, as did my new digs - a little cabin perched on the side of a mountain,
which looks out onto variations of this view:
The next day, I was cleaning the men’s toilets.
As you might imagine, this brought up a few thoughts. How
I’ve written for some of the most prestigious companies in Canada. How I’m 37
and childless and living on the side of a fucking mountain – by choice. How, when
I tried to explain meditation to my Dad, he asked, “Well, isn’t that just
common sense?” How I’ll probably never be normal, how many people I’m
disappointing, how soon I’ll be even older and closer to death and -
The door squeaked open and my Scottish friend popped her
head in.
“What are you doing?” she laughed. “It’s time for tea!”
They have a lot of tea breaks in New Zealand. I kind of love
it. If you happen to be the sort of person who gets lost in their head a lot,
it helps to interrupt that momentum of thoughts that have you, say, at 10am on
Tuesday in one of the most beautiful places on earth, questioning every single
decision you’ve ever made and imagining your own funeral. Meditation has a
similar effect. It’s just about not believing your thoughts – recognizing that
the vast majority of them don't actually mean anything. Which, to me, is a huge relief.
*
Almost without exception, the Kiwis I’ve met so far have been
freakishly kind, gentle and open.
Meditators tend to be pretty up front, too, so mix the two
together and you’ll suddenly find yourself sharing your darkest
secrets over a cuppa with someone you met three minutes prior. At the centre,
there is an unspoken generosity that people seem to take up the minute they
walk in in the door. Food, possessions, any talents or skills one might
possess - all become something to share,
offer up, collaborate on. I realize this is starting to sound even more hippie
dippie than it already did, but I am also wondering when it became normal to do
everything ourselves. To have people living above, below and next to us, and yet to try
to balance child-raising, working, learning, cooking, cleaning, finances and
emotional support between two people – or by oneself. Who’s idea was that,
exactly? Is it working for anyone?
I got into the swing of things pretty quickly over here. I
work 4 hours a day – which ranges from chopping wood to cleaning (usually not
the men’s bathrooms, thankfully) to starting fires. (In fireplaces.) In
exchange for this, I get to sleep in my beautiful little cabin, pick fresh
vegetables from the garden, use the library, sit in front of the fireplace at
night, go on walks that would blow the most avid hiker’s mind out of their
head, and connect with people so supportive and so generous I don’t know what
to do with myself. At night, I fall asleep to the sound of the rain against my
roof or the wind whipping through the trees.
As idyllic as this may seem, living in a cabin on the side
of a mountain without Internet or mobile access does interesting things to your brain.
I’m learning, with whiplash-inducing intensity, how much sadness, fear and
shame I’ve been unknowingly dragging behind me for I-don’t-even-want-to-think
how long. I’ve faced some truths about myself that had been totally invisible
to me until now. But I’m also reminded daily, if not more often, that
I’m not the only one. Ours isn’t a world where,
when someone asks how you are, you’re likely to answer, “Well, Barry, I’m so
heartbroken about my love life and worried about my daughter’s cocaine habit that I could barely get
out of bed this morning. Yourself?” We so rarely admit to feeling small, terrified,
or – worst of all - lonely as fuck. Sometimes we do, with close friends
or in a therapist’s office. The rest of the time we take medication, drink, do
drugs. We slap a smile on our faces, buck up, and cheerfully talk about
bathroom renos, vacations, last night’s game, tomorrow night’s barbeque. There
are so few avenues that help us find bliss, connection, and freedom from our
thoughts. Most simply tell us we’re living life wrong, but if we just buy this
car, redecorate the master bedroom, tone our abs and find a new partner, we’ll
definitely sort it out one day, soonish, in the not-too-distant future, and on
sale RIGHT NOW. The funny thing is, and feel free to prove me wrong here, that
hasn’t seemed to work so far, for anyone.
More views. Yes, if you can be neurotic here,
you can be neurotic anywhere. (On sale right now!)
I wonder if, whether it’s through meditating or walking or
sitting on a park bench or lying under the covers in the fetal position, the more
honest we were with ourselves, even if it was for 5 minutes a day, the more
honest we could be with each other. And the more honest we were with each
other, the stronger our bonds and the lighter our hearts would be. Our culture
is how it is. It’s up to us to find ways to connect, and to accept ourselves –
not just the Facebook-worthy moments, but the fear, the sadness, the loneliness,
the ugliness. To question whether the stress and overwhelm and pressure is really
because we’re doing it all wrong, or just because the system is broken.
Anyway. That’s all from me, for now.
Let the sheep jokes begin.