I’m Losing Interest In Life (as we know it, Jim) – Whoopee!!

The joy of travel is losing its attraction which is the greatest news I’ve ever given myself.

Now, I know we’re in Britain, the land of flat sameness – pretty green fields, little woods, stone walls and crumbling buildings. The most exciting landscape in Britain is the Lakes District which they crow about incessantly. However, to a New Zealander, a few lakes and hills is as ho hum as it gets. However, sameness or diversity is not the issue here.

It’s not only the landscape that’s losing its appeal – most of life is losing its appeal and that is the greatest news of all. Yep, you guessed it – I’ve lost it! Me, the chap who has run AIDS workshops in South Africa, who has taught stock-whip and ridden camels in Australia, who has been an estate manager and teacher of wealthy Africans, Indians and Bangladeshis in England, who has been an accountant, receiver and TV actor in New Zealand, who has written ten books and who has done dozens of fascinating things, is losing the interest for life. The chap who has not lived in one house for more than two years, in the last 18 years, is starting to see no value in the vast variety of a vibrant life well lived. I’m not losing the will to live – just the will for life.

“And that’s good news?” I hear you ask. “The poor silly sod’s depressed, got Alzheimers, lost his mojo and/or blown his foo foo valve!”

Okay, okay, you may be right. However, let me explain from the perspective of two similar journeys.

In June 2009 Anna and I went to Wales for three days. We had no plans – just set off and see where the car would take us. It was so refreshing to be in the Brecon Beacons, so different from England’s green and pleasant flatness. Real bush (not just scraggy woodlands), mountain streams (well, big-hill streams, really) and we ended up at a lovely B&B that was booked out but we got in anyway. We bumped in and chatted with some fascinating people, chanced on many beautiful coincidences (if such things exist) and returned happy in the thought that we had “done” Wales.

Then, in May 2011, we decided on another three-day trip to Wales – to Tenby, a beach-front town in Pembrokeshire in the south of Wales. As we parked our car at the B&B, on the first day, it blew its foo foo valve and had to be towed home the next day by the AA.

As I could have predicted, I had little sleep that night as my mind, preferring to be right rather than happy, found blame for the mechanic who said the car was fine, for my employer paying me late yet again, for bloody England being so difficult to live in, for the universe being so unfair, for me being so stupid and inept, for all the planned things we now couldn’t do and for every other injustice and misery that had ever befallen me.

My ego had a ball! However, as I worked through a grievance, gave it to God, returned to peace, had another hissy fit, gave it to God, returned to peace, had another blast at the universe, gave it to God, returned to peace … as each grievance came and went, the moments and depth of peace grew and grew until there was nothing left but stillness and acceptance.

You see, some people believe in a thing called The Secret, which is that everything in our lives is there because of our thoughts. It is a stepping stone to a greater awareness that everything in our lives just is*. We colour every person, place, thing and event with whatever colours and feelings we choose. Some people like pubs; some don’t. Some people like soccer; some don’t. Some people like snakes; some don’t. Pubs, soccer and snakes simply are. It’s each one of us that give them the labels of great, awful, fun, boring, dangerous, beautiful and so on.

It was Anna and I who gave Wales the label of beautiful on our first trip. It was Anna and I who gave the label of calamity to a non-going car.

When I returned, again and again, to the state of peace, I was able to see with a new experience of clarity that a drive into Wales and a tow home on the back of three different AA vans was simply an event – no better, no worse than the previous trip.

Before we went on this second trip our English friends told us, with unbridled excitement (an unusual state for English people to be in!) what a beautiful and scenic place Pembrokeshire is and we were expecting an exceedingly amazing experience. Despite the unusually sunny day, the return to the seaside was, well, ordinary. Not bad or boring. Not good or amazing. Just the same feeling as driving into our local village. Not familiar or strange – just ordinary.

We were told that the fish and chips in Tenby were the best in Britain but, when we couldn’t find a fish and chip shop and returned to our room for wine and sandwiches, we were neither disappointed nor ecstatic. It’s just what we did.

Now, for most humans, the move away from drama, from the duality of exciting/disappointing, happy/sad, good/bad, fearful/beautiful is the worst calamity imaginable. For Anna and I it’s a life-long dream – to be unaffected by the winds of change, to retain the deep and abiding peace, despite the world’s best efforts to unseat us, to know the peace and joy in the heart of God while the insane world of duality thrashes about blindly and ineffectually.

Yes, I am losing it – I am losing the duality of a world at war with itself. I am losing the transitory fear, excitement, disappointment and buzz as a thrashing tree is stilled by the dying wind. I am learning to stand as a quiet willow, untouched by the raging river at my feet yet giving life and support to all around.

And, yes, I could have more ego moments of blame, judgement and self-flagellation. However, as I experience the peace and depth of God Within, I am more and more happy to give up the roller coaster ride on a trip to nowhere.

I am happy to give it all up! Amen.

* Just is = Justice

On Becoming A Writer. Rule # 2 - Create Spaces

People wonder how the events, characters, ideas and dramas come to writers so they can write them down. I don’t know the answer to this question but, for me, there are some quite specific things I can do to allow them to enter my space, for capture on a blank page of paper. The first is Turning Up At The Page (as per the previous blog) and the second is Creating Spaces, covered here:

 

I loved writing at school and then stopped doing it. Actually, I stopped doing it and also forgot that I’d enjoyed it. I always wrote long, interesting letters home to my parents and enjoyed the process of that. However, I didn’t ever link that enjoyment to any desire or ability to be a published author. I just enjoyed writing letters and got on with the rest of my life.

Then, many years later, I started meditation. The discipline of doing that each morning (early) and evening started an internal discipline – I started listening and being aware of the thoughts, feelings and moments of greatness that passed through my mind.

The daily act of meditation also imbued me with an openness of mind. It dawned slowly and sometimes it didn’t dawn at all! However, there came into my mind, each time I sat in stillness and silence, a reverence and a remembrance of my greater self which floated in and rested there with its graceful presence. Even when it felt tiny, fleeting and distant, its creative beingness moved me.

Then, somewhere in the space this presence created, a recalling (a calling?) started to speak through the clamour of constant chatter. This still, quiet voice of my recall began to speak louder and louder. It felt, at times, as if the large, gentle hand of God was at my back, urging me forward to something. I knew not what this something might be – or was I just afraid of acknowledging I had something to accomplish? – but I knew a presence more potent and knowing than I was urging me on.

As I allowed the daily rush of rabid rubbish to fall from my mind, the void allowed my silent calling to float to the surface. Eventually, that calling voice inspired action.

Initially, I would have a sentence pop into my mind and refuse to leave. It would doggedly nag at my mind till I wrote it down. At times I would leave it for days, challenging it to stay with me – it always did. I hated rising in the early morning – probably because of the freezing mornings I’d had to rise to go mustering or on lambing beats, in my childhood – but that’s when the sentences would climb into my brain and play their constant, cheerful and annoying tune.

Eventually I would succumb. I would get up at five am, sit at my desk and write down the stupid sentence. As I was writing, another sentence would arrive and so I’d write that too … an hour later I’d pull away from that beautiful reverie, mind and pen in holy relationship, and see the pile of previously blank paper, now happily replete with words.

Having little idea of what I’d written, I’d make a space in my day and type my scribbles into the computer. Sometimes, when typing, I’d decide to “improve” the wording. Then, as I read the typed words back, I’d realise the original ones were better – always, the originals were better.

You see, we all have busy lives, things to do, things to plan, things to worry about. We’ve all got incomes to make, families to feed, relationships to nurture, skills to learn, holidays to endure, toys to buy … and on and on the list goes. Our minds are kept conveniently busy with the doings of or little world to help us avoid the bigger world we wish to inhabit. It takes courage to let that rush of rabid rubbish go for a while – even for milliseconds – in order to peer into the void of our greatest possibilities.

Many writers choose solitude – a cottage on a remote coastline, for example – to listen to their muses. There are more subtle and less treacherous ways of letting the clamouring crowd of cackles go, of achieving solitude of mind. Meditation works for me and, with years of practice, I can easily write in a noisy cafe or commuter train. I’m aware of the outer noise but my inner dialogue is never stilled by it, now.

Whether your gift to the world is in politics, art, sport, business or in any other area of life, I’d suggest you find some way, any way, to rise through the daily din to that deep desire of a life lived creatively. Whether it’s meditation, seclusion, music, an absorbing hobby or whatever, find a way to drop the dross and raise the recall – you’ll be amazed at what’s waiting for you from your greater self.

And, from my greater self, is the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins in the blockbuster novel, An Olympic Challenge, continued from the previous blog ... 

 Escape From Certainty
Wednesday, 15th March 2012, 4.00 p.m.
As his eyes drew a veil over a world both thoughtless and fearful, he relaxed into the glow of a home he'd never left. Behind him he left the pale and fading footprints of a dream he knew he'd dreamed but could not remember. As he quietly smiled himself into the growing light, he wondered if there had really had been a him, an Arthur Bayly, a dream, at all. His singularity grew into that ancient and massive oneness that encompassed and nurtured all.

The serenity powered through him as acceptance took his tentative hand to lead him deeper into the light of lights - the shadowless light of peace - which beckoned his heart to approach. As a long-lost son of a loving father, he was drawn to join and extend, to co-create in stillness. Where strength and gentleness met in oneness, he absorbed himself into their sweet and inviting light as his formless smile beamed its extension of acceptance and love, born in the eternal and growing light of forever.

With no doing to interrupt his creativity, he was free to be the ancient greatness he'd never not been … just forgotten while he dreamed a dream now gone. Kindness seeped into him and showered forth in quiet beams of luminescence that warmed the soul of all he ever was.

Decisions rode gently through him and he was free to ride on them to where their creator imagined them to be. Choices were gone and, in their place, was certainty that all was done, all was deeply right and all was being done by stillness and silence. Had his soul a mouth and eyes it would have shed a smiling tear but, instead, he knew with relief, the struggleless life was upon him and it had ever been so.

Then a spark of specialness crept into his mind. A part of a dream returned; a decision to be unique and separate recalled itself and, as the decision was made it was unmade and a veil fell over that microsecond of timelessness, as he returned to the glow of the power and peace of oneness. This was where he belonged, out of time and space, out of control and fear, out of struggle and vanity.

He was in the deep sigh of unity, forever untouched and unmoved but the memory of that desire for separation and control let a small shard of ice slide through him. He tensed himself, fearing expulsion from this ancient arena of awareness and immediately regretted the desire to control … and he was gone, back into the constricting capsule that clumsily plodded a sorry earth. The more he fought his expulsion the more tightly he was tied to the plodding body. As he struggled to remain, that endless expanse of peace was lost to his grasp and the dream of fear, loss and control was reborn.

The grasping fearful mind knows only one direction to go and it took him there - back to the pain and frustration it so feverishly fought against. He knew this. Despite his gentle, knowing strength whispering to him to let go, to let be, the screeching maw of his terror-stained dread yanked him into its ghastly, cobwebbed cavern of restriction and avarice.

He had trapped himself back into this parlous state and, despite his strong and silent knowing, the weak and flailing whimper was what he fell into step with … and that step was a body he fell back into; a body of physical pain with mental guilts and fears.

Miserably, he knew he must open his eyes and feel the loving judgement of those around him. There must, he knew, be physical pain, many questions to be answered and many answers to be questioned. On a one-way trip to the demon of judgement, he knew he must accept his fate and, as best he could, slog through the swamp of desire, plans and affairs of the world of tangible and corruptible form.

He opened his eyes a little, anticipating a strong and stinging light to be adjusted to. It was a bright light, yes, but nowhere as bright as the light in the dream he'd just emerged from. He shut his eyes again, hoping he'd find himself back in that deep and silent light. It was not to be. Noises started up as if his opening lids had flicked a switch on a sound machine. He was trapped in this clumsy body and he knew he must return, for now, to the dream of pain and separation.

As he woke into a denseness, he felt himself a stranger, as did King Harun-al Rashid in The Thousand and One Nights who, as the sun went down, left his palace in beggars clothes in order to mix with the poorer people and hear what they said about him. He really didn't belong. He knew that. He'd always known that and yet, here he was in this strange and straining land again, a stranger in beggars clothes with the burden of guilt, yet again.

With a grim smile he sneaked his eyes open a little and saw a movement and smelled a whiff of familiarity - a fragrance of her, restored to memory.

"Are you awake, Arthur?" asked Joan quietly. Her concern pained him for he knew (or felt) he now had to deal with her pain as well as his. He sighed inwardly and smiled.

"Yes, yes, I'm here, love," said Arthur, trying to lift his arm to pat her hand and finding it trapped in the bed clothes on which she sat.

"Oh Arthur, I'm sorry, I was sitting on your arm!" said Joan jumping up. He eased his arm out, with her help, and took her hand to reassure, while a jangling pain stabbed him in the head and several other unidentified places. He grimaced and gripped her more tightly than he'd meant to.

"Oh dear, did I hurt you, Arthur?" asked Joan, apparently blaming herself for everything.

"No, no dear, just my head a little … aah, wobbly," said Arthur, wondering why his head and some of his body on one side felt either sore or oddly out of sorts. As that question arose, he wondered why he was in a strange bed … a single bed with starched sheets and the smell of antiseptic all around. His hand went to his head and it felt like a bandage there. "Did I hurt myself somehow?" he asked tentatively.

On Becoming A Writer. Rule # 1 - Turn Up At The Page

People ask writers how they come up with their stories, how they pluck characters and stories from thin air, how the ideas come to them. I can’t speak for other writers and I really have no idea how the ideas, plots, people and places bring themselves together for my pen to describe. However, a bit like not understanding how a car works but understanding what I need to do to make it work, I know what I need to do to have the writing happen – here is the first of those things …

Turn up at the page

People tell me that they’d love to write a book, that they’ve always dreamed of writing, that others say they should write a book … and so I say, “Do it!”

And the standard reply? “Oh, yes, I’d love to but I just don’t have the time right now – writing a book takes a lot of time.”

Yes, writing a book does take a lot of time but so does watching your favourite TV soap! However, like watching that important soap, you don’t have to do it all today, this week, this month. You just do a little every day. If you really want to write something – a poem, an article, a book – you have to drop the self-defeating excuses, turn up at the page and start writing.

My second book, Whose Life Is It Anyway?, was written over breakfast, every morning, for a year. A half hour’s writing of 500-1,000 words, every day, produced enough words for two novels – in one year.

Everyone’s busy and we all have the perfect excuses for not doing what we’d really love to do. Why? Because having a project completed then sets us up for fear of failure and/or fear of success. Most people would rather avoid those fears by retreating behind a myriad of inexcusable excuses. However, wouldn’t you rather end your life with memories rather than dreams?

So, think about all the little spaces in your life – over breakfast, while commuting, in cafés, watching TV – which you can turn into sacred writing spaces. Oh, but you’ll then come up with that other Grand Excuse – “I want to write but I don’t know what to write about.” You will never know what to write about till you start writing. Don’t wait for the writing – it’s waiting for you.

If you have a desire to write, you know exactly what to write about – the what will reveal itself when you turn up at the blank page (or blank computer screen) and start writing … “I don’t know what to write but I’ve started writing and, though I have no clue why I’m here doing this I have, at least, turned up at the page and my pen’s moving (keyboard’s clacking) and making word-marks on the blank paper/screen and nothing’s coming to me yet but I’m going to keep writing because Philip said if I did, the what, the subject would come to me …” Just keep your pen moving, your keyboard busy, and, at the start, it could be complete drivel, utter senseless rubbish. You might write about the horrible/beautiful weather, your uncomfortable writing chair, your slow computer, your cranky father, your last holiday, your biggest dream, your worst moment … it doesn’t matter what you write but keep doing it and – on this rock I stand – the ideas will come. You see, there is a theory that thoughts create words. It’s wrong – words create thoughts which create words which create thoughts which create words …

So, chuck out your excuses, substitute waste spaces for write spaces and turn up at the page. You’ll be amazed at what you unleash when you turn up and write something, then something else, then something else …

And now back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

“Old chap,” said Hemi, ruminating on the phrase. “Heh, I never been called that before! Yeah, right, I just want the taonga and get back to decent kai. Bloody crap food here. Dunno’ how you survive on it!”

“And you’ll tell us all you know?” asked Ahmed, his gun still discretely evident.

“Don’t need a gun to convince me, man!” said Hemi, shaking his head.

Ahmed slipped his gun back into the back of his belt and looked around the room to see if everyone agreed. It seemed that they all did and so he nodded to John and Angus who pushed Hemi forward on the chair to untie his hands as a knock sounded on the door.

“Thanks guys, so I can put my pants on again,” said Halee disappearing into the bedroom as Sam leapt up and headed for the door, the man-in-charge once again.

“Oh, hello Hoppy,” said Sam as he opened the door.

“Oh, gosh, Sam …” said an older, suited man who stopped mid-sentence when he saw the others in the room. “Aah, oh, Mr Lord.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Superintendent Hopkins,” said Sam, remembering the form. “Do come in and we can explain.”

“I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smoothing back his straight, sparse hair a trifle nervously. “This must be upsetting for you all but I must ask you all to bear with me. And I know what a difficult time you’ve had of it, lately, Mr Lord.” The superintendent looked evenly at Sam for some moments as if imparting information mentally.

“Yes, Superintendent Hopkins, there have been better times,” said Sam jovially, closing the door and accompanying the superintendent back to the others. “Take a seat and we can explain everything.”

“Thank you Mr Lord and thank you, sir,” said Superintendent Hopkins as he took the seat vacated by Angus for him. “Now, I do not know what happened, though I have some suspicions, but I’m not here to ask any questions right now …”

“But I just shot a man, sir,” said Ahmed, looking surprised. “Surely you want to take me in …”

“No sir, I am not going to question or take anyone in,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smiling as he held up his hand to Ahmed. “This is all very irregular and, believe me, I have been following this case closely, more closely than most of you realise, in fact. Now, bear with me, as I said, and it is imperative, most imperative, that you vacate this hotel as soon as possible.”

“But, what about …” asked Ahmed with his hands clasped as if already hand-cuffed.

“We do not have time for ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ right now,” interrupted Superintendent Hopkins, evenly as he took out his notebook. “I am from Scotland Yard and, to me, your safety is foremost – a consideration you may not receive from either the Metropolitan Police Force or MI5. You must all be gone before anyone from either of those agencies or the tabloid press arrive and, after that, I will have as many explanations for you as you have for me. So, I need to take your names and contact details, one by one, and, in the meantime, you must pack and then leave with me.”

Something in his quiet, factual voice sent a chill round the room and everyone immediately, quietly, packed up and was ready to leave as he wrote down the last name and details in his blue note book. He stood and they followed him to the door, where he motioned them to stop while he went out. There he had a conversation with other people. He then reappeared and motioned the eight to follow him, which they did obediently. They were surprised there was no one around to see them leave the building by the back stairs. He led them up a back alley, behind the food scraps and rubbish of other hotels and restaurants, in the cool, still morning, and stopped before they got to a street.

“From my notes I see the closest residence is yours, Miss Collins,” said Superintendent Hopkins quietly. “I suggest you all repair there and I will meet you presently, with my detective constable, where we will conduct the usual investigation procedures.”

The eight followed Mary to her apartment and, once inside, stood there looking at each other like dumb mules. No one spoke and no one knew what to say.

“This is weird, isn’t it,” said Angus, eventually, dropping his bag and looking out the window. “What you suppose is going on?”

“Dunno mate,” said John, with his arm around Belinda’s shoulders. “Feels creepy, weird, somehow.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on but, while we’re here, we may as well make ourselves more normal,” said Mary, her logical mind returning from sabbatical leave. “You need a shower first, Sam, so get cleaned up and I’ll find some girly clothes for Halee and myself and then Ahmed can have his suit back. The rest of you just help yourselves to coffee, tea and food, whatever you want, huh?” Mary, Halee and Sam headed for the bedroom and bathroom.

“Yes thanks, Mary, I’d love a cup of tea,” said Belinda, heading off to the kitchen. “Anyone else want one?”

“Jeez thanks but I could murder a smoke,” said Hemi with a hopeful smile. “That bloody Michael took my last one.”

“You want one of mine?” asked Angus.

“Thanks bro’ and you’re Angus?” asked Hemi. Angus nodded and they shook hands.

“And you’re Hone?” asked Hemi.

“Yes,” said John shaking Hemi’s hand.

“So you invite a brother in and don’t even introduce him to the whanau, the family,” said Hemi, laughing and slapping John’s back. “What kind of a Māori are you, bro’?”

“Aah, bloody Rotorua Māoris always moan, Angus,” said John, laughing. “Now get your brown behind outside for a smoke and I’ll get some fresh air too.”

“While the little wife stays in the kitchen!” yelled Belinda, laughing, as the men left.

“You may join us if you prefer,” said Ahmed, gallantly.

“Thanks Ahmed, just joking,” said Belinda. “Go and get some male bonding and I can have a peaceful cup of tea on my own. I could do with a little less drama for a minute or two.”

Banks and Government Making Dishonesty Right

When people do something wrong – commit a crime, abuse a confidence, default on an agreement – they know they’re doing wrong. There is a higher intelligence in us all, an intelligence or knowing about basic rights and wrongs.

We know murder is wrong yet people commit it. We know fraud is wrong but people do it. We know these things yet people do them – against their higher knowing – all the time. And I wonder how …

Perhaps there’s a switch at the back of our brains that immobilises that higher knowing. Perhaps we make up some perfectly logical but insane story that it’s okay to scar the world in some way. I’m not sure how it works but there has to be some twisted way in which our minds make the grossly wrong to be perfectly right.

It’s like the Australian chap from The Secret who had defrauded people of hundreds of thousands of dollars and he has neither sympathy for those defrauded nor contrition for his acts. Somehow, in his mind, he has made it okay to take those peoples’ money under false pretences.

Two more examples of this, closer to my world, occurred this week.

For a foreign student to study at private university in England, they must have a student visa from the Immigration Department (ID).  These visas carry certain conditions – having at least £600 in their bank account every day they’re here, passing exams, class attendance and not working more than 20 hours a week. So, the ID and the student agree on the conditions, in writing, and both parties sign on the dotted line. Then, the ID realised it had erred and has now decided the students are not allowed to work. So, part-way through the contract – even though the students are diligently fulfilling their part of the agreement – the ID changes the rules, making it impossible for thousands of students to continue studying and they must return to their homelands.

One student had the £600 in her bank account every single day but one – the bank had taken the money from her account by mistake and had returned it the next day. Despite having an apology letter from the bank, admitting their mistake, the ID sent the student back to India, part-way through her studies.

We all know that reneging on an agreement, as the ID is doing with thousands of students, is wrong. So, is there something in the minds of the ID employees that makes this dishonesty okay for them? I don’t know how they do this, how they can live with their deceit, but they do.

Like the Australian, they seem to be having a conversation with themselves that sounds like, “Oh dear, I’ve stuffed up. That’s okay, I’ll make the vulnerable pay and all will be well.”

Then, mentioning banks, we recently received an overdraft fee from our bank, despite the fact that we had agreed to an overdraft facility with no fees. They tried to justify it by saying that we had been notified of the new charge (which we weren’t) but I pointed out (I had to do this several times) that we had a signed contract and if they wanted to change it, they needed our agreement, in writing. Eventually, the illegality of their action dawned on them and they became embarrassed and apologetic, to the extent of offering to reimburse me for the inconvenience of my trip to the bank. I suggested a bottle of wine and I look forward to a good New Zealand red in the mail soon.

The individual at the bank got it that her bank had tried to defraud us but those higher up the organisation haven’t got it – somewhere in their minds they’ve flicked a switch that makes it okay to go back on signed contracts. Likewise, the minds of the many thousands of meek and compliant customers of Lloyds bank have been similarly switched to illegal is okay mode. This compliance helps to conform to the Lloyd’s executives the rightness of their actions, I suppose.

I don’t know where these illegal is okay switches are so, if you find one, please tell me about it. I’m … aargh! As I’m writing this the courier arrived with a gift-wrapped box of wine and a card that says … wait for it … Sorry. Yes, the Lloyds bank has apologised for its error. I’m flabbergasted and impressed. I am now lost for words, which is a rare thing!

P.S. The two bottles of wines are French, not New Zealand, but that’s OK!

And now we'll return to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins in The Olympic Challenge, continued from the previous blog ...

“Ah, well, we’s got experience of getting’ stuff, you know,” said Hemi, looking sheepish. “Yeah, did a bit of time for it, of course, but got away with a lot of it. Anyway, they put us on a plane with maps and stuff of where it probably was and who might’a had it and we got here. Cor, big bloody plane, huh! Trouble was, me mate, Eru … well, silly bugger thought he’d make a bit of money on the side selling his weed – Māori j’wanna we call it! Yeah, marijuana. Well, I shoulda’ known he’d do something stupid but I’s just so excited about a trip to Ngati Wikitoria, Queen Victoria’s tribe, and to use my skills to honour my people. Anyway, he got caught. I managed to nick his stash off him before he got arrested and mighta’ saved him a few years in clink. So I’s on my own ‘cept for this lanky blonde fella’ I got talking to in the plane – yeah, the one out there now – and he seemed to know lot’a stuff and said the taonga was in this lord’s house so we … well he took me there and I got in and found nuttin’. Then he said there’s this insurance expert, aah, Mr Bayly, who knew where it was and then I’s told the boss of this insurance company, this, aah, Mr Lord … bloody lords everywhere an’ I got confused. Anyway, this blondy – said his name was Michael Summers but I heard some call him Brian so I’s not so sure – said he was after stuff, some plans stolen from someone important and we could help each other get our stuff. Actually, he said this at the start, on the big plane – sorry, getting’ the story arse about face here. So, yeah, we went after this Mr Lord, not the lord, Mr Lord …”

“Sam Lord?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, that’s him, Sam Lord,” said Hemi. “Don’t know what he looks like but he’s supposed to be big in the crime world, according to this Michael or Brian or whoever.”

“He looks like me,” said Sam, smiling.

“Looks like you?” asked Hemi, frowning.

“Because he is me,” said Sam. “I am Sam Lord, crime world boss, no less.” Sam leant forward to shake Hemi’s hand and realised it was tied behind his back. Sam sat back, looking embarrassed.

“You’re a crime boss?” asked Mary, swivelling round to face Sam.

“Well that’s what this Michael or Brian cove says,” said Sam. “However, that’s new information to me, I can tell you!” A relieved chuckle circulated the room.

“Yeah, well, I started having my doubts about this Michael fella but I had no other leads,” said Hemi. “You never know who you can trust, do you?”

“Yeah, not even burglars, Hemi,” said John, punching him playfully on the shoulder.

“Yeah, suppose so,” said Hemi, smiling broadly for the first time – bright, white teeth in a brown face, lighting up the room. “Anyway, you wanna’ know the story or not?”

“Yes, yes, Hemi, keep going, please,” said Belinda, sitting forward on her seat, hands clasped.

“Yeah, well, where to start,” said Hemi, looking up as if for inspiration. “Aah, I discovered – well, I think it’s right – this Michael fella’ is working for, or maybe with, a George Sanderson …”

“George Sanderson?” asked Sam, looking shocked. “The Assistant Commissioner, Special Operations, of the London Metropolitan Police? That George Sanderson?”

“Yeah, could be,” said Hemi. “He’s got something to do with security and police and stuff. Seems to have a lot of strings to pull.”

“You’re dashed right he does!” said Sam. “And he’s the sod who they were taking orders from where I was held!”

“And other things I found out,” said Hemi, warming to his tale. “I went through his stuff once or twice and it could be, not really sure, but this George Sanderson could be paid – paid bloody heaps if the stuff I read was correct – aah, paid by one of the power companies here or the petrol companies. Maybe they’re all the same. Y’know, owning one another …”

“Aha, it’s coming together now,” said Sam with a deep sigh. “God, why didn’t I see it all before? See, they captured me with the plans in my briefcase but, because the plans cannot be seen in artificial light, they thought they were useless pieces of paper. They promised to release me if I gave them the “proper” plans, which is why I got you, Mary, to bring another set of bogus plans, like the ones John and Belinda were carting around.”

“Ours were bogus?” asked John, looking astonished.

“Sorry, John, that was for your protection and I’ll explain it later,” said Sam looking embarrassed. “We need to focus on our immediate situation, I’d suggest.”

“Oh shit … sorry, yes!” said John, slapping his palm to his forehead. “So if you’re right, Hemi, the corporations pay the police to do their dirty work. And if it goes wrong, the government servants’ heads roll.”

“Well, heads are already rolling,” said Angus. “There was a something in yesterday’s paper, at home – someone up there tipped them off about the police holding John’s car without authority. There was even a hint the police may have actually stolen it – bit brash for the paper, really.”

“Oh hell, I did that!” said Mary, feeling flushed and faint.

“Hey, hey, just stop a mo’, guys,” said John. “We’re going to have the police knocking on our door so what do we do with Hemi? I gotta’ say I have a good feeling about him.”

“Look, I just want to get our stolen taonga back and get out of this bloody place,” said Hemi. “Enough rain here to sink a waka!”

“I think Hemi knows enough to help us and we might be able to help him,” said John, excitedly. “I vote we stick together with Hemi.”

“I do too, John,” said Sam. “What do you say, Hemi, old chap?”

The Maori, the Orca Eye and the Miracle

Many years ago I took over a position of accountant from a man who had only been in the job for several weeks. I wanted to know why he’d been sacked. It seems he’d studied accounting at university for five years and had both a bachelors and a masters degree in business administration … but he did not know how to do the daily bankings. In fact, there was a great number of simple, practical, daily tasks he did not know about.

As A Course in Miracles tells us, words are but symbols of symbols. Words are not experience. Words are not knowing.

Having been both a student and a lecturer at universities, I have known some great intellects who have studied the words of the sages and have degrees in philosophy and theology. They can quote with ease from the Bhagavad Gītā, the  Koran, the Bible and many other sacred texts. They can tell me the genealogy of Moses, the eight limbs of Yoga and the story of Mohammed. Yet some of these learned men cannot tell me their experience of God.

Some of these men, of course, have had profound experiences of God – the deep, abiding peace, stillness and oneness that sweetens the soul and brings one home. But some have not.

I have also talked with Maori Kaumatua, Aboriginal Kadaiche men, South African Sangornas and Hopi elders who have read and written few words in their lives and, when asked about God, simply smile and become still. As they do, I feel their experience and realise there are no words for it.

Some time, in the long ago, I was staying in a hostel in Kununurra, in the north of Australia. One of the residents was a particularly obnoxious Maori chap who chain-smoked and swore loudly much of the time. He had a pot belly from too much beer and missing teeth from too many pub brawls.

One day, as I was sitting by the pool, Hone (his name) sat beside me and asked how I was. I braced myself, hoped he’d take his loud, nicotine-stained, beer-smelling self away soon and smiled as pleasantly as I could. He’d recognized me as a fellow Kiwi and wanted to talk about the homeland he’d not seen for too long.

Eventually, the conversation moved on to how this illiterate brawler had been a fisherman in the waters above Australia for nigh on twenty years. He explained how they’d drop one end of the net in the water with a crew member in the water to hold it. The boat would then run out the rest of the net for a mile or so and, eventually, return to the paddling man and trap the fish in the circle of the net.

One fine, calm day it was Hone’s turn and, as he paddled in the water, holding the net as the boat disappeared from his view, he prayed to a God he didn’t believe in for no sharks to appear. His non-existent God complied as no sharks appeared. However, what did appear was a killer whale, an orca. Panic-stricken, Hone’s body went rigid as the orca approached. It stopped side-on to him, it’s unblinking eye within arm’s reach.

As he told me this story, tears started down his cheeks for, as he said, he looked into the eye of God. He said this several times. As he looked into that orca’s eye he saw himself, he saw God. That’s the only way he could explain it and, in that moment, his heart and mine, his knowing and mine, connected. As two grown men shed tears and shared the experience of the Eye of God, no words were necessary. No words were possible. None at all.

When we recovered ourselves and others at the pool stopped staring at us, I asked him what had changed for him, since then. Nothing on the outside had changed – he still liked his beer and cigarettes – but something had changed inside him. As he’d looked into that orca eye, a lifetime’s anger and fear dropped away, never to return. He had hurt no one from that moment on and he even started experiencing more and more moments of peace – the smile on his face described that peace more eloquently than any words could. I’ll remember his cheeky and peaceful smile longer than I’ll remember any fine words. Thank you, Hone, for reminding me of God.

And now to Mary Collins' story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Don't move an inch! Stop, right there!" said Ahmed, evenly, stepping over the sprawled bodies. "Hands up! Now!" The tattooed man obeyed instantly. "Now, into the room here or I blow your knees off. Understood?" The man obeyed silently and walked timidly past Ahmed and into the room.

Angus rolled off the human pile and leapt across to pounce upon a pistol he just realised was lying by the felled man.

"Dangerous place, this London town," said Angus as he stood up with the pistol in hand, gingerly pointing it towards the prone man who groaned and leaked blood into the deep carpet. "Mary, can you call for an ambulance or something!" yelled Angus, recovering his composure and senses.

"Well, don't just stand there and stare!" shouted John, helping Sam and Mary up as curious heads appeared at doorways along the corridor. "Help this man here - he's been wounded. Tell the management, someone, and is there a doctor here?" Most heads quickly disappeared behind slammed doors and one man stepped forth.

"I'm a medical officer," he said as he knelt over the prone and groaning man at Angus' feet. Two uniformed hotel staff members appeared at the end of the corridor, with a first aid kit, as Angus left the medical experts to it and returned to the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Do we need the police as well?" asked Ahmed as he motioned the tattooed man to lie on the floor, face down.

"No, no police, believe me!" said Sam, tucking his grimy shirt in. "They could well be behind this … well, protecting those behind this."

"The police? Behind this?" asked Ahmed, alarmed, as he pulled the man's hands behind his back. "Has anyone got anything to tie these hands together, please?" Halee slipped off her tights and handed them to him. He smiled his thanks to her.

"Look, Sam," said Mary, straightening her suit, "I don't know what's going on with you and the police but we can't keep them out of it, can we?"

"Hardly!" said Belinda. "A gun's gone off, a man's lying in a pool of blood, people have been alerted and the ambulance is on its way."

"And what are they going to find when they come in here?" asked Halee. "A Kiwi tart, a Scottish woman dressed as a man, a Pakistani in costume, a scruffy pommy, a Scot and two M?ori guys. Questions might be asked, don't you think?" Everyone laughed at the strange spectacle they realised they would present.

"Well, we can run and keep running or we can stop and face it all, I suppose," said Sam, plonking himself down in a chair with a weary sigh. "Don't know about you lot but I'm quite fed up with running. Quite fed up, I must say."

"Well, my Da says ye can run but ye can never get away," said Angus, kneeling beside Ahmed as he tied the man's hands. "Yer sins will always follow ye."

"Our Da said that?" asked Mary, surprised. "I never knew he said anything wise in his life! But I have to agree - we're going to be surrounded soon and I don't know about you lot but I'm sick of pretending, sick of acting like I'm coping, sick of pushing against the damned wall, sick of, aah, I don't know, everything. I'm too tired to bother, actually." Sam stood to embrace her and she gave in to Sam's embrace. "But I'm not blooming well going to cry though," she said defiantly into Sam's chest.

"I committed a crime," said Ahmed. "I shot a man. I will not run from that. Never."

"But it was in self defence," said Belinda. "He was about to shoot Mary and Sam."

"Yes, Belinda, you may be correct," said Ahmed, smiling. "But I must let the law of this land decide that. Honesty and openness is peace of mind."

"You're absolutely right, Ahmed," said John. "Koia te kaupapa o te rangatiratanga, o te tika, me te maung?rongo o te ao. It is the foundation of freedom, justice, and peace in the world. So, it looks like we're staying so let's get this brother into a chair, a bit more comfortably because he's not going anywhere either!" John, Angus and Ahmed helped the stocky man roll over and get up into a chair. Sam and Mary sat side by side on one bed, Halee and Belinda on the other bed, Angus sat in the other chair while the two remaining men stood beside the seated man whose scared look was soon replaced by an embarrassed one.

"So what you all looking at?" he asked defiantly.

"Maybe you just tell us who you are and what you're doing here bro'," said John.

"Why should I do that? Who the hell …." said the man, who stopped as Ahmed took his pistol from his belt for the second time that morning.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell us exactly who you are and what you're doing here," suggested Ahmed evenly.

"Ah, yeah, I suppose it won't do no harm, pass the time of day," said the man, more nervous than defiant now. "Well, I'm Hemi Ropata and my tribe is Ngati Whakaue from Rotorua. That do?" Ahmed raised his pistol as if to examine it. "Oh yeah, you wanna' know te korero, the story, huh?"

"Yes we do, bro'," said John.

"Jeez, I could do with a smoke," said Hemi.

"Talk first, smoke second," said John.

"Yeah, right, te korero," said Hemi, squirming to make himself more comfortable. "Well, you see, these pakeha, these English people, stole some of our tapu taonga, our sacred pieces - three of them - and we wanted them back, see. We tried the government and the police and all that official shit … oh, sorry ladies, but they did nothing. Just a lot of excuses about, what they call it, official immunity or something."
"Diplomatic immunity," offered Sam.

"Yeah, that's it, diplomatic immunity," said Hemi, smiling at Sam. "So these diplomatic people took our taonga - pounamu, greenstone, from our tupuna, our ancestors - and the elders wanted to keep doing the stupid government thing but a group of us said, 'stuff that,' and so Eru and I, we's  volunteered to get the stuff."

"Why you two?" asked John, smiling knowingly.