Return Ticket - Jon Doust, published by Fremantle Press
I wrote this appraisal in response to a request to present a book to an old blokes’ book club (where I was a former member). We met at a café in Claremont on 30 June 2020. Discussion was lively and opinions, as usual, were many and varied. Some members took issue with the structure and found trouble with the shifts between present and past tenses. Others found the story interesting but having too many strands, some of which were not developed. And some, like me, thought the inner world of the key protagonist, Jack Muir, could have been explored in much more depth. But the book, overall, stimulated everyone and all of us were familiar with the era, although the trajectory of our lives differed greatly from the physical and emotional journey of the author’s alter ego. ѽ ѽ ѽ First a confession. I know Jon. Not well – but well enough that I could invite him to do the Denmark launch for my first novel, Absence Makes. This was seven years ago. Prior to that, I attended the launch in Fremantle of his second stanza in the Jack Muir trilogy – To the Highlands, where Jack is a young man in New Guinea, doing a boring job and living it up. Before that there was the acclaimed Boy on a Wire, an excruciating account of being a boarding student at a Perth private school. That semi-fictional memoir captured what it was like to be sent away from home, allegedly for the purposes of education – only to be confined in an institution where bullying was rife and empathy for young, developing boys was almost non-existent. We have been waiting some years for Return Ticket. Whether that reflects due diligence on the part of the author – or being distracted by other more pressing matters – is an open question. He may give some sort of answer but in the end it doesn’t matter a damn. The book is the best by far of his work. Why do I say that? For starters, we have moved from tortured adolescence to indulgent youth – to a maturing and evolving Jack Muir. He begins the book in his home town of ‘Kincannup’ in 2018. In other words it is contemporary, as he writes. He is washing dishes – and we are introduced to the theme of the compulsive dishwasher, which recurs throughout the book. Before the end of the first page Jack is taking us back to Israel in the early 1970s where he supported himself washing dishes for an Israeli baker. And then that short introduction ends. The real story begins on page 10, with Jack looking back over his shoulder half a century when he climbed aboard the Fairstar in Fremantle, bound for the UK – but he is waylaid, so to speak, in Durban, South Africa. There he develops a political and social conscience, and experiences the contrasting story of life under apartheid with what he has been accustomed to in the comfort of his home country. Eyes wide open, he experiences brutality and near misses, while introduced to drugs and sex. He is on the bones of his bum but somehow scrapes through. By 1973 the scene shifts to Israel. He is a volunteer on a kibbutz. By then we get a sense of his idealism – much as it affected many of us at that time. Yet, in contrast to South Africa, he is now forced to be responsible and he takes to that with a relish, unlike other volunteers who he describes as ‘spoilt, self-indulgent, pretend hippies’. None of them have cleaned a toilet in their lives and they have to learn to get down and dirty. Slowly the veils fall off Jack’s eyes when he sees the kibbutz is not living up to his concept of a socialist dream. But he does find Israeli friends who he respects and he earns respect from them. Many conversations take place as he learns about the intricacies of the Middle East. He also manages to fall in love or in lust, whatever. Neeva is an Israeli. Jack’s friend, learning of the relationship, called him a ‘brave man’. There is indeed a problem. The family for starters – Polish survivors of the Holocaust, who will disown their daughter if she remains with Jack. She also has a boyfriend – all in all, complications that paint a gloomy future for the relationship. Indeed this is so. As Jack describes it, he ran away from South Africa because of hate and he runs away from Israel because of love. Back in Australia, he is in turmoil – raging ‘against himself, his parents. He hated everybody he met, in the bakery, in the front bar of the Freemasons Hotel and at the Kookaburra Café.’ Basically, Jack came home unannounced and within a short period of time he is amongst ‘idiots who had no idea what was going on in the world, the wars, assassinations, mass murders, invasions, suppression of freedom.’ He misses the intensity of his conversations when he was away and now he finds that people just make statements, without the experience or the depth of understanding. Or they talk about the weather, the stock market or the Potato Marketing Board – the latter a reference to the south-western region of Western Australia where our author grew up, and potato farming was all the go. Lonely and bored, Jack realises the only thing he can do, in a nutshell, is work. Which he does, with an energy bordering upon compulsive. In the course of family gatherings his mother talks to him about her own past. Jack admits to being depressed but says it ‘won’t let him down’. He wants his mother to admit her own depression but she says she hasn’t got time for ‘that sort of thing’. Besides, his father ‘would not allow it.’ As for old school friends, they are mostly in real estate and property development and the thought of spending time with them ‘repulsed him’. Then there is an interesting event – a kind of moment where the light bulbs go off, if only momentarily. Jack is taken by his father, Andrew, to the Rotary Club in the Freemasons Hotel. He is nervous, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He will talk about his experiences in Israel. When introduced, he is asked whether the people he has been with (in Israel) are Communists and whether that crushes individuality. Jack ends up giving a neat comparison between ‘totalitarian bullshit’ and a kibbutz movement which ‘believes in the education and improvement of the individual because if the individual achieves, this will benefit the collective.’ On that note he asks whether they think his father – who is definitely all about improving the collective through his individual actions – is a Communist. That draws laughter and an approving hand on the shoulder from his dad when they go home. This is the approval that sons – perhaps all sons – seek from a father. Meanwhile, his Israeli girlfriend is back with her boyfriend and tells Jack to find a new love. A second magic moment occurs when Jack’s parents – and Jack – surprise themselves by engaging in a ‘kind of hug’, before breaking off quickly and going in their own directions. He goes to bed that night ‘his eyes full of tears, his heart full of love and longing’, and he mulls over his mother’s suggestion that he see a psychiatrist. Jack goes back to Israel. He’s received a letter from Neeva that indicates her parents have come around. Upon arriving, he is soon back working in the kibbutz. When he meets up again with his girlfriend it is awkward. She goes back to the army and he continues working, this time armed with a pistol, as the security situation is fraught. But his depression has lifted and he feels at home. To cut to the chase, Neeva gets pregnant, baby gets aborted, both leave Israel, get married in Scotland, return to Australia, marriage flounders. Those of us who have had partners with different cultural backgrounds will appreciate how the scene in Australia can both attract and repel. It is, as the expression goes, laid-back – and while this has its positive aspects, it can also drive Europeans screaming up the wall. Neeva leaves, but not before they have had ‘vigorous and sweaty sex’ on the last morning together. Jack is ashamed and keeps his shame to himself, not wanting to tell his parents about his ‘latest failure’. He lets himself go, drinking heavily, and full of remorse for not being perceptive enough to make it clear to himself and to Neeva he would have wanted the child. Jack goes back to Israel in 1976. (Another 'return ticket'?) Things don’t work out particularly well. He spends time with his girlfriend and has a couple of flings. He does a lot of talking and the political situation gets canvassed. He meets Americans and Dutchmen and other nationalities. They also talk a bit about religion. One American thinks he is Jesus and that get up Jack’s nose. Religion, as such, gets short shrift. Through the story, Jack regularly returns to the present – 2018. Three quarters of the way through the book he talks about his friend, Hansie, a psychiatrist who was ‘once a South African’. There is discussion about the collective shadow and Jungian psychology. They also meet with Lester, an Aboriginal man – at a café in Kincannup. Hansie also introduces Jack to the notion of our shadow – the denial of those aspects of the unconscious that get projected onto other people on a collective basis. Jack doesn’t need formal sessions – the coffee meetings with Hansie are enough. He is also pleased Hansie is not omnipotent – he too makes mistakes in his relationships and ‘falls victim to a desperate need to be loved.’ Jack is a bit of a literary person. He can quote Kahlil Gibran and Herman Hesse – almost compulsory reading in 'alternative' circles in the 1960s and 70s. After another visit to Israel, Jack seeks out a cousin at Pinjarra with whom he feels confident he can unburden himself. The conversation ends with a hug and tears – no words are needed. This feels like a bit of a tangent in the book, as the cousin doesn’t feature otherwise in the story. But in Israel in 1977, Jack meets the woman who will stay with him and meet him in all respects. She is of Dutch extraction and they go to Amsterdam together. The reception at the airport leads him into detention until he can get clearance – but his new love’s father hates him, mainly for the fact he will entice his daughter to Australia. Back in Perth Jack goes to university and finally gets himself an education. He is still married to Neeva, and has to get divorced with the self-help Australian divorce laws that came in 1975. His Dutch lady has yet to arrive and Jack has to get a job to support her and him. She does show up – and gets pregnant – and a child is born. But Jack is a mess again, drinking too much and smoking. He goes to an AA meeting and weeps. After that he doesn’t smoke or drink again. Those who have worked with addicts might find their eyebrows heading skywards. It ain’t always that easy. As a reader, I would have liked more detail about the effects of going cold turkey. Years later Jack meets up with Neeva in Israel. She asked him why he’s come and he says he has come to apologise. It is a nice moment of reconciliation and redemption. Important to the book, I thought. Throughout the story we are treated to Jack’s musings about the state of the world and humans in general. As the book draws to a close he acknowledges he and his wife are ‘romantic socialists’. They like to give money to people or to do shopping for others and have a sense of community and kindness. Jack revives the old quote that if ‘you were young and not a socialist you had no heart, and if you were older and not a capitalist you had no sense’. As they had accumulated enough to live on, he and his wife could still afford to be generous to others less fortunate. The book, in its present setting, is very aligned with contemporary Albany (‘Kincannup’). Jack is still enamoured with the concept of the kibbutz but he distinguishes the toughness and resilience and ability of the Israelis from the totalitarian regimes that permeate the world. He is also very tuned into Aboriginal issues and culture. And, to top it off, he goes to Iran to look up an old friend who he met on the kibbutz. He is surprised about how open people are with him. Not the fanatical place he expected. These diversions – the indigenous associations and commentaries, and the journey to Iran - feel extraneous to the main story. It’s as if everything in Jack’s life has been thrown into a pot – to melt, boil, or evaporate. As with the interlude with his cousin, William, these strands are a bit like stray cobwebs. Perhaps a more stringent editor would have ruled them out. In the last pages, Jack acknowledges the socialist experiment is over and that parties of the Left in most modern democracies have become shadows ‘and only inhabit stories told by ageing baby boomers with beards and memories’. Israel is included in that category – and Jack gives a bit of a breakdown of countries that are not really countries and the aftermath of colonialism where lines were drawn in the sand. And Jack reflects on his own insignificance ‘even less than an atom in the history of the universe’. Again, this opens the door to more in-depth reflection but Jack chooses not to enter. It’s a good line about the ageing baby boomers and their memories – and has current ramifications in our polarised world where liberalism is under attack on many fronts. Having introduced the subject, I wanted the author to dig and speculate and expand. But instead the story winds down, and the moment is lost. Jack’s mother dies before his father, which was how they thought it would happen. Before she dies his mother comes out with the statement ‘I wasn’t much of a mother was I?’ A statement Jack describes as a ‘ glorious and painful moment when a person you have known from the beginning of your time opens the heart and soul and all you can do is hold them and thank them for honouring the relationship.’ This is a gem of a statement – one that gets to the heart of the pain and glory inherent in our connectivity with other humans. As for his father, Jack describes a combative relationship that reminded me of my struggle with my own father. His dad tells him, not long before his melanoma diagnosis, ‘you were a cantankerous, argumentative boy.’ Jack tries to deny it. His father affirms it, and Jack tries to deny it again – thus, in a humorous way, confirming what the father has said. But their aims were different. Jack’s father wanted his son to agree with him but Jack says that ‘all I ever wanted for you was to accept who I was, that I might hold a different view, sometimes, perhaps, even agreeing with you, but from a different perspective.’ He then watches his father reflect and to soften in his final days. They hug ‘the hug of the quick and the living’. Jack wonders whether he would need that length of time before he is able to share secrets with his own son. Coincidentally – if there is such a thing as a ‘coincidence’ - on the very day I wrote this review I watched two YouTube videos where the protagonists, from childhood, had been dissatisfied with their circumstances and wanted to find their place in the wider world. The first was the singer/songwriter, Joni Mitchell. She grew up in a small town on the bleak Canadian prairies. She escaped – but only by getting pregnant and running away to hide her shame. Yet it led to her development as an artist and the documentary was beautifully crafted, revealing her struggle with the ‘alone time’ needed for her art and also for her desire to be loved and to love. Then I watched a documentary about the physicist, David Bohm. He had grown up in the back-blocks of Pennsylvania, a coal mining area, where his father ran a small business. From an early age he gazed at the stars and speculated about the universe. But he too had to get away – to get away from his father’s expectations that he would into the business. Being a physicist was not considered quite the same thing. Jack Muir exemplifies this deeply held desire to find meaning and purpose – and to turn one’s back on both upbringing and locality – a kind of fumbling and bumbling path into the wider world that you know will offer its fair share of disappointment and heartache but at the same time represents an invitation to find out who you really are and what you can contribute while you are here on Earth. I found the book got more powerful as it progressed. Sometimes the political discourses struck me as a bit naïve – but that was the idealistic, romantic socialist that Jack acknowledges. I guess you often want the characters in the book to turn out the same values as you have – and the same conclusions about life. But they’re not designed to do that and you can’t argue with an author for not fitting them into your mould. It’s an easy read. The narrative, although it skips around in time, is coherent – and the dialogue is pretty straightforward. Jack’s internal life is crucial to the book and I kept hoping the author would plough deeper into that fertile field. There is so much rich material around the way we come out of a family, with all our expectations and the expectations of others – and how we find our place in the world, navigating new relationships and finding a productive and satisfying way of living. For some, this seems to come comparatively easily although I would surmise such folk are in the minority. Even for privileged baby boomers there have been challenges – and, in some cases, tragedies. How we have met these challenges has formed us, and how we have evolved and grown in our understanding is something Jack Muir would be interested in but did not really articulate in any detail. Is there any place for hope? Are we just a minuscule part of a tiny speck, a brief spark in the unfolding universe, destined to be birthed, to die, and be forgotten? Or is there some greater purpose with which we can wrestle as individuals and share collectively? Quasi-autobiographical books such as Return Ticket provide an opportunity for an author to delve into these realms and although Jon Doust makes it clear he is not Jack Muir, I’ll wager there is enough in Jack’s reflections and conclusions that Jon will find aligned with his own. ѽ ѽ ѽ Nine months have elapsed since the launch of my memoir. I shall never grow rich on book sales but have been encouraged that my scribblings have found an audience, both here in Australia and overseas. Overwhelmingly, responses have been positive. Most people engage with the content, in particular my life story, and there is praise for my writing. But before I wallow in self-congratulations, it should be acknowledged that folk who are less enthused are prone to stay silent. Feedback may be skewed for that reason. In any case, I thought it might be useful to summarise what readers are saying. On one level, it’s shameless self-promotion – and I won’t shy away from that. If the endorsements that follow provide an incentive for others to purchase the book, that’s great. Hopefully, the comments will also be of interest to those who have already read Whirlpool. They may be able to reflect upon where they find themselves on the bright spectrum of opinion. One of my aims was to reach a broad audience, not only those with whom I have shared a guru and communal past. And this seems to have been achieved, drawing from the spread of readers and the comments I’ve received. Some people confided they always wondered what the attraction was to an Indian guru, plus taking sannyas and upending one’s life. My memoir has given them some understanding. Alternatively, there are those who identify as sannyasins but are open to hearing fresh perspectives. Their feedback suggests the book has given cause for reflection. In quoting from people who have contacted me, I’ve been mindful to keep the comments anonymous, unless given the green light to do otherwise. So here we go, with responses from those who have been or remain under the sannyasin banner: ∞ ∞∞ ‘I've just got out of the Whirlpool, which to me was a very fine read. I'm most impressed with what I've gone through. I might call it a sober and seminal contribution of what it takes to go your own way - with spiritual teachers, masters and stuff. Your style of writing is a pleasant, flowing one; it seems like writing is an effortless thing for you to do.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘I’m touched by your bravery, in being willing to look at all sides, all issues, and hold a respectful and wide place towards all of it, while not dodging the exposure of your own conclusions. I also valued your wide reading of many sources, most of which I have also read. And I enjoyed your intelligent and idiosyncratic style of writing. It’s good. I agree with you that many of us in the 70’s were exceedingly raw material. Immature, idealistic, cocky, angry, lost, disillusioned…..and we were also a bunch of very lovely souls, brave and heartful, mostly pretty intelligent, and so diverse. And the humour and playfulness! To share our lives with such a gathering was, in itself, such a privileged and unique happening. I’m glad others, like you, have done the work of examining and writing of it all.’ {from Nirved} ∞ ∞∞ ‘I just finished reading Whirlpool and like it. You are an excellent writer and address many controversies in the second part of the book.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘Reading your book I felt your energy was sorely missing in the entire narrative. I perceived you as having written your memories in a controlling sort of way, there was no inner juice I could detect and relate to. Also, to have other people’s comments excerpted and collected in the last part of the book, wasn’t happy reading for me. I usually enjoy inserts about other people as you go along writing, it makes it rounder, more alive! All in all, I felt the book rather flat and unnecessarily overly cautious.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘I appreciated and learned much from your book both historically and heartfelt. I love that you were honest in your examination of Rajneesh, the human being. I am most attracted to his early works when he was Acharya until the ranch years. He changed so much during his silence that he seemed like a completely different person... The chapter ‘Other Voices’ was a bit challenging for me to read. This was possibly due to how it was arranged and my thinking process. I started to lose track of who was saying what. I love that you did the interviews/surveys that you did. I love how your book was arranged in the chapters and subjects addressed. Your life story, the experiences as a sannyasin, examination of Osho and the movement, and the ending portion of spiritual/philosophical ideas. Thank you for sharing your life and your reflections on Bhagwan and the sannyas community. I hope that more people will be as reflective as you have been about the wonderful and the dark parts of life as a sannyasin. It is easy for me to love the mind and heart of Acharya Bhagwan Rajneesh Osho and his teachings/philosophy and still question the decisions that were made while he was alive.’ {from Champak} ∞ ∞∞ ‘I just finished your book and thoroughly enjoyed it. I must say that I found we are pretty much fully aligned on both our views of what happened and why it matters. I am glad that new light is being shed on the dynamics of the master/disciple relationship in general. The argument that it is a time-honoured tradition doesn't wash.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘I agree with a lot of your conclusions, but there is a big difference: responsibility and becoming better people are not in my equations. The name of Mr Schnarch (means snoring in German). But also the understanding that you describe after working with him is very important in my eyes. Awakening doesn’t fix your relationship or improve your working skills. This applies in fact to all areas of our worldly lives. It's always, when you are getting into moral issues, that I find your book weak. In those cases (also on your blog and in some of your FB posts) I feel there is a stretched out second-finger rising, telling everybody to repent and behave decently from now on. I certainly wouldn’t do the same things again, which I did in my RNS time, but why should we feel sorry for it? I agree mostly with your recollection and analysis of Osho’s work and its consequences and you’re giving a good overview over some of the post Osho/post Papaji teachers. I’m still with you when you describe that awakening and ethical conduct has nothing to do with each other. I cannot agree, when you bring in ethics through the back door again in later parts of your book, but I still would recommend it to friends as a valuable eye-opener in many ways.’ {from Mahendra} ∞ ∞∞ ‘I’ve finished the book and so much to say. It moves from a great yarn into a serious case for the prosecution. Well presented in a lawyerly way at that! If I were on the jury I’d probably be convinced as you present a compelling case. While you might not have been in the cauldron you were certainly in the fire with all its consequences, while I was merely scorched - peripheral but nevertheless memorable and defining the second half of my life to a large extent. At the point you propose that Osho knew and in fact was the driver of everything, it occurred to me that I’d never lain in bed at night pondering this and if I hadn’t totally believed the official version I’d surrounded it with enough fuzz that it somehow didn’t emerge as something to bother myself with. Although I spent three months on the ranch leading up to the 1985 July celebration I had stayed fairly incurious to the politics and immersed myself in work. My own thoughts later were that it was the best and worst experience of my life, though having to reassess ‘the best’. I haven’t read widely on the issue or even discussed it with someone who thinks like you so I was pretty shocked to be confronted with a version that had a ring of making sense. I may have said it in response to your questions but whatever Osho’s ultimate weaknesses may or may not have been I believe that the act of ‘taking sannyas’ or being initiated was life changing. It felt profound and I think it changed me in some fundamental way. I don’t think it’s any accident that most of my friends are or have been sannyasins. We have shared something that other people haven’t which is impossible to define but you obviously know what I mean. It doesn’t mean I don’t have other friends and networks that I value highly. And maybe it’s something to do with belonging to a loose tribe…we recognize something in each other like distant cousins. There were lots of other thoughts that came and went as I read your book. One is that the whole ‘Osho experiment’ belongs to a particular time. It pushed boundaries but wasn’t totally out of sync with the mores of the day. For instance ‘free’ sex in the suburbs was a thing. Under-parenting, as opposed to today’s over-parenting was a thing. We were really in rebellion to the straight laced-ness of our parents who hadn’t been blessed with the easy life we had. Osho was made for the time and filled a niche. It’s interesting to speculate on what Osho would be like in today’s world.’ {from Bhavan Marshall} ∞ ∞∞ ‘I just finished Whirlpool. Couldn’t put it down, as they say! You have written the memoir people tell me I should write, so now I don’t have to. While I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, including the bibliography, I was surprised that you did not reference one of the most complete and thoroughly documented works, The Osho Sourcebook (a bio-bibliography 25 years in the making, compiled by a Danish librarian, and free on the web) on the life of Osho.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘I couldn't agree more with your characterization of Wild Wild Country, which was a rip-roaring good yarn but did little to explain Osho's pull. I think it was a good documentary for sannyasins, giving much needed material on Sheela's state of mind, etc., but not so good for newcomers, who probably just ended up conflating Osho and Sheela and thinking the whole thing was a crazy cult and that was pretty much it.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘Having now had a chance to give your new book a thorough perusing I just wanted to congratulate you on a job well done. It manages to straddle the tricky divide between a personal memoir and a documentary account in a deeply informative and un-self-serving way. It’s also a real page-turner. The inclusion of ‘Other Voices’ was a stroke of genius and the positioning of the views of the true believers with those of the no-longer-enchanted was particularly poignant.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘Thank you so much for writing it. For me it is the first step in reconciliation. I was utterly depressed at certain moments, horrified to learn of that which is public about Osho. But the strange thing is the idea of reconciliation is being expressed in me. I have a renewed sense of being okay, and all that I have done in this life to this moment here is just perfect as it is. And to also add it is clear the presence of the master is just that; still present.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘I have been meaning to write to you. This is just a short one to say, I loved your book. It was good for me to see that my old friends feel similar about certain things in the past. So thank you to you.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘Last night I was sleepless and I got caught up in the Whirlpool for three hours (since I have not really time to read thoroughly, out of curiosity I started in the middle - Rajneeshpuram). Amazing to read your description, I love it! Amazing the details you remember. I share especially your analysis of the events 100%.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘I just finished your book and thoroughly enjoyed it. I must say that I found we are pretty much fully aligned on both our views of what happened and why it matters. I am glad that you have put that out in the ether, though I doubt it will change many minds among the faithful.’ ∞ ∞∞ ‘I found the structure of Whirlpool to be quite effective in that the commentary grows out of Bruce’s narrative of his own search for meaning at a time in history when there is a decline in organized religion in the West and an increase in inner exploration. In the first part of the book, Bruce writes with candour and clarity about his life and relationships and succeeds in capturing ‘the flavour of the era,’ the youthful idealism that led many young people to take the ‘road not taken.’ I am very grateful to Bruce for using his memoir as a basis on which to explore the master-disciple relationship. In his analysis of this complex situation, he asks some very pertinent questions as he identifies the flaws in the fabric of the Rajneesh movement that led to its downfall. As he points out, unless spiritual movements are based on an ethical foundation and discerning wisdom, they will flounder. One lesson I learned from my own experience is to be aware of my tendency to reify spiritual teachers and the organizations around them. The teachers themselves do not exist in the way we imagine them to exist, and the organizations they represent exist within the constraints and demands of the world. It is sad that we didn’t wake up to the fallibility of our teacher sooner, but it is never too late to learn important lessons from our experience. Those lessons form part of Osho’s legacy, along with innovative meditation techniques. This is the first account I have read that was written by someone who was involved the movement that takes a critical look at the situation, and I am convinced that in doing so, Bruce has accomplished his goal of facilitating ‘a deeper understanding of what . . .a search for meaning may entail.’{from Claire Lamme} ∞ ∞∞ ‘A most interesting read. A book with not only, intimate personal exposure, but also with great richness of information and analytical discussion, provoking much fodder for reflection. I certainly enjoyed the language and writing, which was of such an impeccably high standard. It was because of the exceptional writing that it was a pleasure to read. One of the many aspects that appealed to me was the brilliant use of adjectives and metaphor, which are peppered throughout the book. I particularly liked the phrase ‘crush the stalactites of the incipient ego’ (just to quote and single out one). It was also pleasing to read work that was always so grammatically correct (something that does not seem to occur in other recent publications, despite employing an editor). I particularly enjoyed all of Part One. The detailed account of your family background, your earlier years and all the experiences that you had growing up in post-war suburban Perth, as well as your education, work experience and marriage. I also really enjoyed reading the trajectory of your ‘journey’ and your involvement with sannyas. As the whole story unfolded, I found it most absorbing, and the story flowed so easily and engagingly. I certainly did appreciate, and revel in, Part Two. Written more in essay format, with quotes, references, philosophies and discussions, of so many teachers, theories and concepts. What I found most interesting were your dialogues about ‘Enlightenment versus Personality’, ‘crazy wisdom’, the ‘Three Magi’ and the integrity of spiritual masters and teachers. Over-all, I did find some of the points that you were proposing, somewhat disturbing, and they re-aroused some concerns that I had at the time, but certainly don’t concern me now. Sannyas was always considered to be ‘an experiment’, one of which I was passionately involved, and have absolutely no regrets. I can appreciate your point of view and ‘observations’ (P.258 – 261), which do ring with some truths. However, I also had my own experiences, the positive ones which I treasure, and the negative ones, with which I have come to terms. The most endearing part of your story, for me, was the account over time, of your relationship with Daniele. I was deeply touched by your open-ness and honesty in revealing the progression of your involvement and evolution within the relationship. Despite all the difficulties and conflicts, you appear to have come through with such loving resolve. I was poignantly moved by the last page of your book. There were things that provoked and inspired me, but I also respect and admire your ‘courage to be fully human’ in the writing of Whirlpool.’ ∞ ∞∞ I especially liked the snippets about commune life, because it was something we all shared and it was amusing to see someone else’s world within my own world. Other parts were probably better for those closer to you. Having worked closely with editors over the last twenty-five years, I have come to appreciate their understanding of how to move a narrative along while keeping the reader engaged in the flow rather than skipping around. I did find myself skipping around a bit to find areas that spoke to me. The rather granular descriptions of particular relationship dynamics don’t quite do it for me. I liked the comments section at the end. It was an interesting mix of really quite thoughtful remarks based on ongoing life experience, mixed with what I can only call sort of culty stuff about how ‘He’ could never do anything that wasn’t perfect. But I guess this reflects the very broad community that we were and shows how, while some people strive to keep learning, others take refuge in admitting no fault. (And as an aside, I see this quite a lot on Facebook. I have become horrified by how many sannyasins, thinking they are being great rebels, embrace conspiracy theories and anti-science. Wow, I think! The ultra-right has won. They have co-opted the flower children!) I did enjoy the book overall. I think I would have liked a bit more ‘big picture’, but perhaps that wasn’t what you had in mind. {from Krishna Gopa} ∞ ∞∞ ‘I loved the ‘voice’ that was afforded to those who contributed to share candidly in the latter section of the book; my impression was that the responses were measured and honest. I also felt that it scratched the surface of what was evidently for all a powerful experience. The sense of place that was achieved in the more biographical and early life chapters I also enjoyed. The thing that resonated very strongly with my own experiences was that the experience was significant, meaningful and powerful in all of the respondents lives, also that the experiences were collectively viewed as both positive and negative; the experience of sannyas and commune has become part of the bigger picture and understanding in the ‘search’ for meaning be it intellectual, emotional and/or spiritual. I felt that the text flowed well and was for the most part engaging. I enjoyed all of the Chapters of Part Two but especially the Other Voices chapter. I felt your exploration and analysis was balanced and was not stridently pushing any agenda other than seeking/presenting understanding and insight. I felt that the way you tied up the ‘loose threads’ was an important inclusion. Your focus on the broad picture as well as the mundane/individual experiences was valuable and held the reader’s interest. Balance was achieved in relation to controversial issues. Although I fear those who are still in thrall of the (so-called) Master will disagree, but then that is the nature of the beast isn’t it? And a defining feature of being in a cult. (I think that as we seek freedom unless we have maturity we fail to understand the responsibility that is inherent in that quest, and there are certain truths about us humans that are universal no matter how much we might as individuals chafe against that.) I reckon that you could do another instalment dedicated to ‘Other Voices’ as it felt as if you had scratched the surface of what was there.’ {from Shanti} ∞ ∞∞ ‘Thanks for sharing your life, your thoughts, your insight, analysis and questions in, Whirlpool. The title itself is a good starting point; interesting and apt. How can one come to grips with anything when sloshing around in a whirlpool? The washing machine metaphor is interesting too, in view of cleansing and renewal. You see the phenomena of Sannyas as a whirlpool; a force greater than the self (with a small s) that sucks one into a state of either grim hanging on or ecstatic let go! Chaotically alternating between these two states! From the title I get a certain feeling – a feeling of being out of control! You have encountered a force of nature, and one that one falls into accidentally unless one is a particular kind of thrill seeker. A whirlpool sucks you in and throws you back out again, it’s radical, unforgiving, ‘dynamic’, dramatic…..surrender or die!! When you’re thrust in a whirlpool there’s no chance of reasoning, having a calm discussion over a cup of tea! I see how this reflects in your book. One moment you are flung into the deep end and the next climbing out and evaluating the experience. Yet always being changed in the process. And here we are now gripped by the whirlpool of Covid 19. Not being able to see clearly ahead, the ground ripped from under our feet and occasionally coming up for air as we adjust to the ‘new normal’. It’s finally given me the chance to finish reading your book!! I salute and admire your book. I feel you genuinely and honestly try to come to terms with the contradictions you encountered. It’s ordered and clear in its layout. It’s an offering of your experiences and I appreciate all the effort you put into it. You have a great gift with words, able to express your thoughts clearly. Most of all I love the honesty, how you’ve shared difficult issues like, sex, parenthood, complicity, loyalty and spirituality. I think you said that there are as many stories as there are Sannyasins and we all experienced the phenomena differently depending on ……well an infinite number of factors, including conditioning, expectations, imagination….Past Lives!! I think for me the greatest gift was having permission to be a devotee – to dance, celebrate, be a mad Bhakti Yogi, freeing myself from a repressive childhood, to celebrate and express myself in ways I’d never have thought possible. Osho spun my romantic heart (in a whirlpool!) into a vortex of longing. And now I see it’s not ‘him’ but the longing that is the treasure. Sannyas gave me a Wild Ride, life-long friends, countless lovers, amazing insights, unimaginable experiences, a spiritual education; taught me meditation, painting, calligraphy, Tarot - and is still teaching me Trust. When I took sannyas, a typewritten message accompanied the letter with my name written in His beloved hand. The message read; ‘Initiation into sannyas is initiation into trust. It is the beginning of an inner journey…….a flight of the alone to the alone. It is going into exploration within the very core of your being. Only trust can become the boat to the unknown’ As fresh, relevant and mysterious today as the day I received it over 40 years ago.’ {from Anudhara Rolph} ∞ ∞∞ As the above accounts make clear, there is a wide residue of opinion among those who have a sannyasin heritage. This is to be expected, and if my book has achieved anything, it may be to do with inducing some readers to think more critically about that important time in their spiritual journeys. I’m not under any illusions my account may change the way others regard the guru/disciple relationship – particularly, those who are wedded to an idealised version of Osho and whose identity may still be symbolically wrapped in an orange shawl. These folk tend to dismiss any critique as irrelevant or, as one old devotee informed me – an attack on the guru. And then there are some, including those who have been close friends, who ignore the book or maintain their distance, in part, I assume, because they have already pigeonholed my views and don’t want to engage. I guess when any writer or commentator ventures upon the delicate territory of personal belief structures, there is bound to be resistance. It makes me laugh (or cry). The spiritual search, if it means anything, implies a willingness to investigate anything in us that might trigger a reaction. That is how we get to learn about ourselves – an ongoing process – and to grow. Most of us who encountered Osho in the 1970s and 80s are now at a rather advanced age, and it can be hard to re-examine, let alone re-evaluate, the spiritual edifices we may have built for ourselves. By the same token, those who dismiss or negate their early explorations may not give enough credit to their younger, more innocent selves. It took courage and trust to turn away from the mainstream - just as it takes a certain humility and ongoing awareness to see whether the love affair that flowered has become embedded in our day-to-day activities and attitudes, as we continue to enjoy the extraordinary gift of life. ѽ ѽ ѽ Holocaust survivor, psychiatrist and author, Victor Frankl tells a lovely little story around the concept of collective guilt. Sometimes, he says, it takes a lot of didactic tricks to detach people from their superstitions. When reproached by a woman for writing his books in German - because it was ‘Hitler’s language’ - Frankl enquires if she has knives in her kitchen. Puzzled, she says yes – and he then asks: ‘How can you still use knives after so many killers have used them to stab and murder their victims?’ After that, he reports, the woman stopped objecting to him writing in German. Whether or not his accuser really got the point is debatable. She may have simply buttoned her lip and backed off. But Frankl’s rejoinder goes to the heart of this essay. We can convince ourselves of the truth of what we think and articulate, and are taken aback when someone questions the validity of a particular belief. Sometimes – rarely, I would contend – we ‘get it’ immediately - accepting our assumption has been challenged, and we are honest and reflective enough to rethink our position. But the majority of us are not so easily swayed. Our vast collection of beliefs – which can be called our worldview – has infiltrated us since childhood and grown more entrenched as the years pass. Normally, we don’t surrender a single one without something of a struggle. Why does this matter? As one of my more loquacious friends is apt to say: ‘I’ll come to that in a moment’. First, however, let me hasten to assure readers this is not a philosophical treatise. I am not intellectually equipped to bore you in this way. Perhaps I will bore you anyway but that’s the risk a writer always runs when he or she ventures onto paper. It goes with the territory, you could say. No, the impetus for writing about ‘beliefs’ has a mixed origin. We have a small group who meet regularly and talk about topics that could be broadly termed ‘psycho-spiritual’. In Corona-time, we are now confined to Zoom and I’m under the pump to come up with something that engages the others. Having worn many hats over the years – including agnostic idealist, spiritual seeker, lawyer, counsellor and mediator – I’ve experienced the shifting sands of my own belief systems and the varieties of experience that comprise seventy-four years in human form. I’ve seen how beliefs can be useful for structure and sanity while at the same time how they can constrict and divide. Many of us have made similar observations over the course of a lifetime. As we read something that purports to be authoritative or we listen to somebody state their opinion with a conviction that brooks no argument, we may wonder to ourselves as to the origin and veracity of the beliefs being expressed. We may find ourselves nodding in agreement or expressing a counter argument or simply acknowledging we haven’t a clue. Far too often the discourse will disintegrate into the slings and arrows of ‘my facts’ are superior to ‘your facts’ – which carries a clear subtext of ‘I’m right’ and ‘you’re wrong’. And of course this plays out collectively with competing political ideologies, religions, cultural practices, and group allegiances of infinite variety. All of which can add up to reflexive hostility and disagreement rather than understanding and cooperation. Also, in the world of mental health, particular attention is paid to a person’s beliefs. Part of the challenge for the therapist is to unlock and explore unhelpful constructs and ideas that act as an unseen operating system within an individual mind. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, for example, employs sophisticated techniques in this arena. So beliefs – at least in the way I am using the term – do matter. They inform how each of us think and act from day to day – or, more precisely, from moment to moment. Before continuing, it may be helpful to drill down into some categories of belief. Collins Dictionary and Thesaurus offers four meanings, where the word is used as a noun: 1. A principle, accepted as true or real, especially without proof. 2. Opinion, conviction. 3. Religious faith. 4. Trust or confidence, as in a person’s abilities. Here, I will concentrate on the first two categories, as well as touch on the third. Learned Experience First let’s dispatch one issue that is not expressly covered in the above definition. This is the issue of learned experience. If I flick the light switch I can be pretty confident my room will be illuminated. Or if I hop on my bike and begin to pedal, I can anticipate the wheels will begin to turn. These are activities I have undertaken countless times – activities that involve cause and effect. There are certain principles involved and if I was scientifically adroit I could articulate the physics or the chemistry or whatever process ensured that if I did ‘A’ then ‘B’ would normally follow. The proof, in each case, is in the pudding. We don’t usually think of examples like these as beliefs. They fall more in the realm of what we have learnt in the past and what we can place our confidence in the future. So we can exclude them from our definition in that they are not merely our opinion, and nor are they ideas we might have imagined but not tested, let alone proven to the satisfaction of both ourselves and others. How do beliefs arise? It’s sometimes said we arrive in this world as a tabla rasa – a blank slate. As innocent babes, our minds are undeveloped. How we progress from childhood to adolescence to adulthood will depend in part to the nature of our upbringing and the circumstances in which we live. We will learn the values of our parents and of the society into which we have been born. Often we inherit the religion and habits of those around us. We are conditioned during childhood – and it will be some time before we can think for ourselves and hold independent opinions. Some manage this far quicker than others! Now the notion of a tabla rasa might make more sense to a psychologist than it does to those who look at ancestral influences or 'inherited' traits - or to a geneticist. Our genetic make-up is imprinted prior to birth and will be a determinant in our appearance, our health, and perhaps in other ways. But it is not usually held responsible for what we believe or come to believe. This process – the acquisition of our basket of beliefs - also carries an evolutionary flavour but has more to do with what we absorb from other people – their beliefs or worldviews, augmented by what we begin to figure out for ourselves, usually by the onset of adolescence. Passing through normal developmental stages, we begin to question and to argue and to doubt. All healthy qualities in their own right. By the time we are technically adults, we have something of a notion of what the world offers and our place in it. But the story does not end there. In the passage of time, our viewpoints can change as we become exposed to other influences, whether they are people or ideas. We also use our ears and eyes to observe and tune into society, as well as respond emotionally to situations and events. Indeed, feelings and what we might term intuition can play a hidden part in the formation of our belief structures. These responses and observations help to cement, undermine or modify our ‘younger’ opinions. In other words, the beliefs of mature adults are not normally an exact replica of the beliefs of their childhood. Well-founded beliefs as against ill-founded beliefs This is a minefield. But it goes to the core of the topic. Throughout the ages there have been many beliefs that appeared very well-founded at the time, given the state of knowledge of the universe and the means to investigate whether alternative explanations might be more accurate. The most famous example is the belief that Planet Earth was flat. When I studied history this was held up as a pre-scientific belief and it was only 400 years ago or thereabouts that Galileo and others debunked the idea. Having the telescope at their disposal played a pivotal part. Ironically, modern scholarship suggests that, going back to the ancient Greeks, most educated people thought in terms of a spherical earth. In the 17th century, when science and religion began to clash, vested interests propagated the fable of a flat earth in an effort to impugn the beliefs of pre-modern civilisation. If so, this is an early example where misrepresenting what others believe is a tried and tested tactic for dismissing their opinions and ideas. Science has come a long way since the 1600s. But there is recognition that scientific enquiry, too, is built upon shifting sands. Newtonian theory gave way to quantum physics – and many of today’s scientists are quick to acknowledge that their field carries as many questions as it does answers. Nonetheless, rationality and the methods by which information is processed remain key to sorting the wheat from the chaff. If I look down at my desk and believe it is made from the finest oak rather than plastic-coated particle board then I only need to chisel out a piece to reveal I am deluding myself. Patently, my belief was ill-founded – a hope, or a figment of my imagination. In less obvious examples, it is much more difficult to determine which set of beliefs carry more weight than others. Different political ideologies are a case in point. Those with a capitalist orientation put their eggs into the market. They believe in growth and globalisation. Those whose orientation is more socialist in nature are apt to emphasise state intervention and welfare. Meanwhile, green groups believe the focus should be upon the health of the planet. Each camp can mount strong arguments. Whether we are talking about individuals or groups, the principle is the same. What might appear well-founded to some will be poorly conceived and anathema to others – and vice versa. One of the challenges – which I will address a little later – is whether and how it is possible to build bridges between these contrary and contrasting beliefs. The connection between values and beliefs If we deconstruct why people prefer one point of view over another, it will usually have something to do with what they hold important. They place a higher value upon what they believe than they do upon a viewpoint that differs. By way of example, many people prefer regular exercise to no exercise at all. Just why they value exercise can be simple or complicated. ‘I feel better’, would be a straightforward, simple response. ‘I hate jogging but I’ve been told by my doctor I need to get my weight down’. Slightly more complicated – with the underlying assumption this person, though they don’t value exercise per se, they do value improving their health and by implication, living longer. Another, somewhat deeper, example has psychological and existential roots. Generally speaking, we like things to be predictable. Sudden, unexpected changes can throw us off course. We struggle to adjust. This can be as straightforward as the loss of a job or the breakdown of a relationship. Or, shifting from the personal to the universal, the rapid descent into the abyss of a pandemic. Put another way, we value certainty over uncertainty. We believe we will be better off emotionally, physically, economically, and socially as long as there is a fair measure of stability within the external world to which we awaken each morning. Normally we are not even aware we hold such a belief. It seems so obvious. Given choice, who would want to wake up in a war zone or in a drought-ravaged land where the rains had become unpredictable? The existential fear of uncertainty has a lot to do with survival. Though we know we will succumb to death one day, we usually hope that day is far off. Meanwhile, we seek happiness and prosperity and keep our fingers crossed that nothing will rock our particular boat. But – surprise, surprise - our boats are there to be rocked. While death and taxes may remain certain, the normal vicissitudes of life guarantee an ever-changing ocean. While we value stability, we are acutely aware that illness, injury or impoverishment can lie around the corner. On a macro level, our global village of more than seven and a half billion inhabitants continues to revolve on a wheel that contains cataclysmic climactic events, warfare, poverty and pestilence. In the Information Age, if we are not facing the prospect of one disaster or another, we are hearing about them ad nauseam. Our beliefs can become our life rafts, especially if we are able to adapt to changing circumstances. Alternatively, if our beliefs remain inflexible, we may find ourselves on the ocean floor. Science and Religion One of the key areas where opposing belief systems come into regular conflict occurs in the realms of science and religion. For most of human history the operating belief systems would now be described as magic or mythical. In order to make sense of their worlds, homage was paid to ‘Gods’, animals, objects, or entities such as the moon and the sun. With the onset of established religions in Europe and Asia, these representations of the divine were incarnated humans – Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, Lao Tzu and more. In other societies – the Americas, Australia and the Pacific, and Africa – so-called primitive spiritual beliefs remained the norm. Then came scientific method. Through the processes of reasoning, hypothesising, deducing, testing, and calculating, the new men of science began to dismantle cherished beliefs and the ancient texts in which they had been recorded. The fight was on. I won’t go over that ground here. What is more interesting is to fast-forward to the present. Many of my contemporaries have shucked their religious past, if indeed they had one. Most are keenly rationalist, well and truly ensconced in the scientific camp. Some may pay heed to the edicts of the Ten Commandments but that is a faint hum in the background. In their eyes, spirituality is conflated with organised religion – and neither has any appeal. On the contrary, those who hold different views or are more open to spiritual exploration are often indulged with politeness at best – or, less charitably, with condescension or outright disdain. A public example who comes to mind is the veritable Phillip Adams, still writing for The Australian. In my youth, he was a must-read – an intelligent larrikin of the Left. Now he has become a bore. I quote from his column in a recent Weekend Magazine: ‘Meditation? Like masturbation, that’s always seemed a form of self-abuse.’ Adams may be tongue in cheek but his words and opinions are typical of chest-thumping professional atheists who propagate their views with conversation-numbing certainty. Another of life’s ironies. These are the same people who are given a pulpit allegedly for their great minds and breadth of experience. Yet there is a realm of experience they routinely exclude or denigrate – the world of metaphysics – because it is a world inaccessible to the dictates of logic and thus has no value. You can see where my sympathies lie. Once upon a time I was an armchair agnostic. Logic and common sense formed part of my bedrock of belief. With certain qualifications, they still do. But happenstance and experience has taken me a different route to the likes of Adams. Not that I fell back into organised religion. The belief system around Christianity – the faith of my forbears – reached its use-by-date before my first pubic hairs emerged. But it took nearly two more decades before I could embrace spiritual longing and value the mysterious path along which I was drawn. Little did I know about the many traps that lay ahead. These have been covered in my memoir, Whirlpool. One of the traps that lay hidden – and may not have been articulated in my book – was the potential to swap one belief system for another. Today, a combination of experience and understanding sees me hold a firm belief that the gap between science and religion can be bridged. They can be seen as complementary rather than at odds with one another. Some with skin in the game, including spiritual leaders and scientists, recognise this. The Dalai Lama has been very proactive over the years, facilitating discussions between scientists and his Buddhist brethren. One of the key points revolves around the way in which we claim to know things. Scientific method is well understood and the findings of various branches of science can be regarded, at least temporarily, as ‘knowledge’. Mystics use other methods, usually involving forms of contemplation such as meditation. These are inward looking rather than outward facing processes. Necessarily subjective, spiritual experiences or insights cannot be ‘proved’ through objective approaches – and therefore lend themselves to being brushed off as inconsequential or illusory. ‘Scientific’ investigation, by my reckoning, then topples into its own trap. It excludes a form of evidence that it refuses to regard as evidence. And so the divide continues. Spiritual Authenticity opposed to New-Age Wishful Thinking One of the main reasons for the brush off referred to above is the relatively recent preponderance of New-Age ‘spirituality’. Often spruiked by charismatic pseudo-visionaries, whose messages often invoke the term ‘holistic’ and a promise of material prosperity and lasting happiness, the New Age movement has a whole subculture of believers. If they follow the precepts of their latest marketing guru, abundance and good health will follow. Perhaps I am being too harsh. Some of the messages contain an invitation to re-examine one’s life, work out what is important, and what might be standing in the way. No problem with that. Problems only arise when the promises fail to deliver. It’s not portrayed as the fault of the guru or his or her teaching. It’s the follower who falls short – either not being earnest enough or positive enough to merit success. And that’s not the only source of confusion. New Age ideas are often glad-wrapped in the language of spiritual traditions and practices. They are seductive, appearing to address deep-seated human needs – whereas in fact they tap into the frothy delusions of the young and virtuous. How often have you heard somebody say ‘I’m a spiritual person’ – and then you look at their life and wonder what the hell they are on about. For most of us, the spiritual road is arduous and unending. True, there are moments of exhilaration, bliss, and profound recognition. Yet we also come to see there is ongoing work to be done, especially around the difficult aspects of our relationship to ourselves and to others. This shadow work is often neglected – especially so, I would say, in New-Age circles. What then happens is what the late John Welwood called ‘spiritual bypassing’ – a form of jumping over the challenges rather than embrace them and see what they are made of. This seems to apply to those who want an instant recipe for personal transformation and avoid doing the hard yards. It can also apply to long-term meditators who take refuge in their meditation practice, and ignore or deny issues that arise in daily life. Beliefs and Information From the areas I have been canvassing it’s easy to spot a link between our beliefs and the information we receive and process. Ideally, before we form an opinion, we will have explored all the bases – reading, listening, or researching - so that we have enough detail at our disposal to come up with a ‘well-founded’ belief. In practice, however, this is absurdly difficult. On any contentious subject, there is information overload. Even if we have time and inclination, we can’t address everything. Sometimes, we can barely scratch the surface. Yet we form opinions – and so we must. We don’t want to be doormats, trampled by the certainties of others. We don’t want to be uninformed and appear ignorant. We’d usually prefer to be part of the show rather than a dumbstruck bystander. In pre-Internet days much of our childhood information was obtained from parents and teachers, and – within religious households – from church leaders. As we grew up we began to read books, as well as to ingest news and current affairs from the daily paper and on television. If we were lucky, we were taught to discriminate – or we eventually began to teach ourselves. If we were lucky enough to receive an ongoing education, this discerning quality was refined, as we thought, studied, and argued our way within university and beyond. Today, that pattern has been arguably obliterated. Authority, for want of a better word, is at our fingertips – the authority of Google and Wikipedia – and the opinionistas and influencers who range far and wide on social media. From this churning morass, we are invited to inform ourselves and to fashion our beliefs. Crazy, when you think about it. I’m not yearning for the past. 20th-century media had its biases. But we tended to trust our journalists even if we were uncertain about the proprietors of the papers for which they wrote. Here in Western Australia, before we gained a national newspaper in the mid-1960s, we had a morning newspaper and another one in the evening. There were good journalists around – but the number of in-depth and penetrating articles was limited. When television descended upon us, it brought expanded opportunities for commentary and opinion-making. If you could wade through the dross of popular entertainment, you could find excellent, penetrating analysis, particularly on the ABC. And if you were inclined, you could settle down in the university library and read high-quality foreign newspapers, magazines and journals. In short, you could get a reasonable picture of the world. And unless you were already something of an anarchist, you tended to trust that picture. Today, trust has evaporated on many fronts. A significant number of people, particularly the young, don’t read newspapers or watch news programs on television. Many don’t seem to have imbibed much history and have limited interest in politics. Opinions are shaped online. From the plethora of information available, choices are made about what to believe and what to discard. It’s very much a 21st-century phenomena – one that has attracted the attention of many commentators. Which leads me back to the subject of whether a belief is well-considered or ill-founded. Conspiracy Theories The corona-virus has infected more than our bodies. It has sucked conspiracy theorists of all kinds out of the woodwork. These folk have long made an art form of a worldview that sees sinister motives in government policies and pronouncements, particularly in the USA. Through selective ‘research’ and interpretation, they seek to convince others that 9/11 was an inside job, orchestrated by some form of Deep State that acts as a puppet-master behind the scenes. They tend to believe the world is controlled by a shadowy few, and the rest of us are automons, blithely unaware we are being manipulated. Those in the conspiracy camp adopt the high moral ground, although they, too, tend to operate in the murky twilight, behind the protective walls of the Internet. What motivates these people? It probably varies from individual to individual – but I would hazard a guess there is a shared psychology that may have something to do with fear and control, as well as excessive self-importance and its flipside – lack of self-worth. But that’s just my two bobs worth – and I may well be off the mark. What can be seen, however, are the pernicious effects of these beliefs. In the case of Covid 19, the conspiracists snipe at the government and pluck at straws in an attempt to devalue the seriousness of the pandemic. Early on, the spread was blamed on an American (or Chinese) experiment gone wrong rather than an emergence from a wild animal market in Wuhan. Alternatively, it was a deliberate act on the part of the Chinese or the Americans. Now, 5G technology has been roped in. Its release in China is supposed to have caused the virus. (Conveniently ignored are the similar origins of previous outbreaks, such as SARS and Asian flu.) Many of these theories are emanating from anti-vaccine circles. Bill Gates, presumably for his interest in wiping out malaria, is a fall guy, a regular bête noire. He wants to control the vaccine market and make more money, cry these voices from the dark. Others try to poke holes in the accuracy of the testing methods, the mortality rates and the infectious nature of the disease – often claiming it is no worse than the flu. These arguments are patently selective and often demonstrably wrong. To be sure, governments around the world have had to learn on the job. Mistakes have been made and decisions, when we have the luxury to review them further down the track, will be seen for what they are – the best attempts under urgent circumstances. At the time of writing, it seems pretty clear that those who denigrate the government and try to play up so-called ‘fear-mongering’ are pushing their own barrows, aided and abetted – unconsciously – by their belief systems. In the main, they completely ignore the spread of infection and the horrendous death rates that took place in Wuhan before the clampdown – and continue to occur in Europe and America. And I suspect they are not tuned into what might be happening soon in India, Indonesia, the African continent and throughout South America. On the face of it, their compassion for those who die – and could otherwise have been saved – seems non-existent. What do we get for holding a belief? Now is the moment to explore this question. It’s not a question we think about very much. ‘What do we get?’ Do we have to get something out of maintaining an opinion? Ralph Lewis, University of Toronto psychiatrist, states that beliefs are ‘energy-saving shortcuts in modelling and predicting the environment’. He then goes on to talk about the brain – much as you might expect from a psychiatrist. The brain, he says, is a ‘prediction machine’ enabling us to take shortcuts in processing information. ‘In jumping to conclusions, our brains have a preference for familiar conclusions over unfamiliar ones. Thus, our brains are prone to error, sometimes seeing patterns where there are none. This may or may not be subsequently identified and corrected by error detection mechanisms. It’s a trade-off between efficiency and accuracy.’ I broadly agree with Lewis that ‘we give our subjective experience too much credence, and so too our beliefs. We will more readily explain away evidence that contradicts our cherished belief by expanding and elaborating that belief with additional layers of distorted explanation, rather than abandoning it or fundamentally restructuring it’. Lewis points out we might resist changing our beliefs because they are fundamental to how we define ourselves – our self-concept. We get nervous if that’s brought into question and it may embarrass us. And, of course ‘people have a lot invested personally in their belief system. They may have staked their reputation on a particular belief. Not infrequently, people structure their whole lives around a belief.’ James Clear, author of Atomic Habits, relates that there is a certain logic behind false beliefs. ‘Humans are herd animals. We want to fit in, to bond with others, and to earn the respect and approval of our peers. Such inclinations are essential to our survival. For most of our evolutionary history, our ancestors lived in tribes. Being separated from the tribe – or worse, being cast out – was a death sentence.’ Clear observes that, while it is important to understand the truth of the situation, social connection can actually be more helpful in daily life. He quotes Harvard psychologist, Stephen Pinker: ‘People are embraced or condemned according to their beliefs, so one function of the mind may be to hold beliefs that bring the belief-holder the greatest number of allies, protectors, or disciples, rather than beliefs that are most likely to be true.’ From these observations we can see that ill-founded or false beliefs can ‘give’ something to the person who holds them. They are a psychological bulwark – a protective strategy that can bolster our sense of self-esteem and our desire to belong. We can see this on the relational level when somebody expresses something we consider erroneous or misguided. If we value the relationship over being truthful, we may choose to stay silent or pretend to agree. Within organisations – particularly those that do not encourage plain speaking – there are great incentives to agree with one’s superiors. Often it takes courage to be the odd person out – the one who puts up his or her hand and says: ‘well, actually, I don’t think much of that idea. I reckon there’s a better way.’ Strategically, these carefully-calibrated approaches might appear to work. But they can also lead to inertia and overly conservative mindsets. And, on an individual level, they may act as a brake on fulfilling one’s potential. Are there ways out of this type of impasse? I would answer in the affirmative. Yes, there are a range of applications that can be added to our belief-busting toolbox. Rational–materialists would apply the blowtorch of scientific enquiry and logical thinking. Psychologists might help us unwind unhelpful patterns. Mystics come from a different angle. In relation to life’s big questions, they invite us to ‘let go’ of beliefs and to explore for ourselves. This can involve processes of self-enquiry where our own experience is the determinant – not what we have read or heard from others. One such teacher – Byron Katie – employs a useful strategy. When we put forward a particular proposition, she has us answer the following four questions: Is it true? (Your thought, idea, opinion, belief etc) Can you absolutely know that it’s true? How do you react when you think that thought? What would you be without that thought? Katie then asks that we turn that original thought or belief around. For example, if my initial thought is along the lines of ‘I don’t like her because she criticises me all the time’, my turnaround would be ‘I don’t like myself because I am self-critical’. The invitation then is to check out which statement is more true for me. If you think this is too simple or even a bit wacky, try it out the next time something comes up that disturbs you. For most of us there is usually plenty of opportunity. In essence, we are shown that thoughts and beliefs, while they can be benign or even helpful, can also lead to suffering when we hold them too tightly. Of all the religions, Buddhism appears more attuned to this kind of psychological enquiry. In a sense, the teachings are prescriptive – in that they tell you what you should do if you are serious about transforming – but in a wider sense you are being urged to find your own way. In his book, Buddhism Without Beliefs, Stephen Batchelor includes a beautiful quote from the Kalama Sutta: ‘Do not be satisfied with hearsay or with tradition or with legendary lore or with what has come down in scriptures or with conjecture or with logical inference or with weighing evidence or with liking for a view after pondering over it or with someone else’s ability or with the thought: the monk is our teacher. When you know it in yourselves: these things are wholesome, blameless, commended by the wise, and being adopted and put into effect they lead to welfare and happiness, then you should practice and abide in them.’ Batchelor attempts to bring the focus back to the core teachings of the Buddha. He fully acknowledges that, like in other established religions, original teachings have become creeds (‘isms’) just like scientific method has degraded into ‘scientism’. A better approach, he contends, would be to begin with a base of ‘I don’t know’ – the stance of an agnostic. ‘And agnostic Buddhist eschews atheism as much as theism, and is as reluctant to regard the universe as devoid of meaning as endowed with meaning.’ This is the stance of the seeker – whether he or she be scientifically or spiritually oriented – or both. From this place, beliefs may form but they are grounded in exploration and direct experience. And in many cases they are held as likely or probable rather than cemented in stone. Batchelor recognises this when he says ‘deep agnosticism is an attitude towards life refined through ongoing mindful awareness.’ There is always light at the end of the tunnel if we allow our minds to unblock and be receptive, rather than cling to the safety of a belief system that may have served us well but can now be discarded or modified. A Final Vignette The other night I tuned into an episode of The Drum – a panel discussion on our ABC, the national broadcaster. The conversation focused upon what it is to be a man today. The topic itself made me smile – for there have been many discussions about Australian manhood in my living memory. Perhaps we should blame (or thank) Germaine. Anyway, the talk turned to feelings and whether men were getting any better at sharing what was going on for them. One panellist observed that, in his experience, men were still very reticent when they were in the company of other men. Though he did not say so directly, the inference was men were uncomfortable with appearing vulnerable. He did say, however, that men were prone to offer their opinions whereas women were more inclined to listen and seek the opinions of others. That too made me smile, for it confirms much of my experience around men of my vintage. To me, it’s an indicator of how entrenched our beliefs can become, and how difficult it is to shift position. Perhaps vulnerability is a keyword in this discussion. When we soften our position, take a deep breath, and embrace the possibility our belief castle is constructed upon dissolving sands, we open ourselves to change. If this is a shared approach, we tend to listen more and better. We are not thinking of making the next point. We can disagree without offending, and relish the flow of information from a place of curiosity, daubed with the light touch of humour. Therein, I reckon, rests a framework of a bridge. The Japanese writer, Haruki Murakami, makes a poignant observation: ‘Always remember that to argue, and win, is to break down the reality of the person you are arguing against. It is painful to lose your reality, so be kind, even if you are right.’ Beautifully put. I suspect many, like me, are repeat offenders. Murakami’s message, like Leunig’s cartoons, will hang on my wall – teachings of the highest order. So I believe! ѽ ѽ Bruce Menzies April 2020 Iain McGilchrist’s marvellous book, The Master and His Emissary, takes us on a tour of the brain, with particular emphasis upon the relationship between the two hemispheres – the so-called Left and Right Brains and their functions and interactions. But McGilchrist’s mission is not that of a technocrat or a scientist per se. We are not getting an anatomy lesson or asked to become experts on the myriad of details, relationships and structures that make up a human brain. Rather, the author wants to advance a philosophical thesis on the state of the world and explain it, at least in part, by the imbalance in Western culture and contemporary society which he attributes to an overreliance of functions that are essentially Left Brain oriented. He contends that the subject has been largely ignored by neuroscientists, probably as a reaction to the simplification of ideas relating to the two hemispheres of the brain which has led to popular misconceptions about the Left being ‘hard-nosed, logical and somehow male’ and the Right being ‘dreamy, sensitive and somehow female’. McGilchrist infers this neglect has thrown the baby out with the bathwater. He wants to examine the differences in function between each hemisphere while at the same time acknowledging there is interdependence, and noting ‘every identifiable human activity is actually served at some level by both hemispheres’. At the same time, taking on board the conclusions of Joseph Hellige, he declares: ‘There are some very striking differences in the information–processing abilities and propensities of the two hemispheres’. Flowing from that, McGilchrist believes that differences between the two hemispheres contain meaning – from which we might learn something about ourselves. He explains: ‘Not only is there a coherent pattern to the differences but that coherent pattern helps to explain aspects of human experience and therefore means something in terms of our lives, and even helps explain the trajectory of our common lives in the Western world’. Unless the hemispheres ‘cooperate’ they will continue to be involved in ‘a sort of power struggle’, and that such a struggle ‘explains many aspects of contemporary Western culture’. In his introduction the author states: ‘This book tells a story about ourselves and the world, and about how we got to be where we are now. While much of it is about the structure of the human brain – the place where mind meets matter – ultimately it is an attempt to understand the structure of the world that the brain has in part created.’ When you read that sentence, it is clear you are about to be taken on a great journey, motivated by McGilchrist’s desire to set the record straight and, by implication, to offer us greater insight into what makes us tick, both individually and collectively. But before embarking on that journey, we are treated to a succinct definition of the brain itself: ‘the place where mind meets matter’. Now normally when I’m reading a book which I know will be full of scientific detail and analysis, I tend to gloss over the technical stuff and try to get a sense of what the author is talking about. The story I’ve told myself for years is that I’m no good with scientific thinking and it’s all too hard at my age to try and retrain the brain, for want of a better expression. But I have learned to pay attention to key words and try to winkle out any assumptions or beliefs that underline important statements that an author is making. So I found myself wondering if that was accurate – to describe the human brain as the place where mind meets matter?’ And then flowing on from that internal query, what does McGilchrist mean by ‘mind’? Flipping to the index, I discovered the only reference containing the word ‘mind’ is one headed ‘mind-brain relationship’. Thinking I might get some insight into what the author means by ‘mind’ I turned to those relevant pages which are found early in the book. McGilchrist quickly makes it clear that the ‘mind–brain question is not the subject of this book’ but he does acknowledge it is legitimate to ask where he stands on the matter. He offers a definition drawn from American psychologist, Robert Ornstein. ‘One could call the mind the brain’s experience of itself.’ In the next breath, however, McGilchrist calls such a formulation problematic ‘since the brain is involved in constituting the world in which, alone, there can be such a thing as experience – it helps to ground experience, for which mind is already needed.’ Already we seem to be getting into murky water. Or, switching metaphors, each time McGilchrist dips his fingers into the honeypot of his subject matter, he encounters sticky cul-de-sacs. While the brain, being made of material ‘stuff’ and observable to the human eye through technology, can be defined in terms that are easily understood, our notions of ‘mind’ are much more elastic and elusive. Rather than acknowledge and comment upon this, the author switches terminology. In the paragraph following his flirtation with ‘the mind being the brain’s experience of itself’, he introduces the word ‘consciousness’. Again, no real attempt to define or contextualise but simply an outlining of his position: ‘The fundamental problem in explaining the experience of consciousness is that there is nothing else remotely like it to compare it with: it is itself the ground of all experience.’ Now when I read that, having been interested in transcendental realms and spiritual investigation for many years, I could identify with his description. And I further appreciated his thinking when he goes on to say: ‘……there is nothing else which has the inwardness that consciousness has. Phenomenologically and ontologically, it is unique. As I will try to show, the analytic process cannot deal with uniqueness: there is an irresistible temptation for it to move from the uniqueness of something to its assumed non-existence, since the reality of the unique would have to be captured by idioms that apply to nothing else.’ I can appreciate McGilchrist’s reluctance to pin himself down to definition. And he makes perfect sense when he describes ‘consciousness’ as having a uniqueness. But unfortunately he continues to dip fingers into that honey jar without perhaps really realising how the stickiness may well obscure his overall thesis. ‘Is consciousness a product of the brain?’ he then asks, before making the point that if anyone thinks they can answer this question with certainty they have to be wrong. His reason for this conclusion is that: ‘We have only our conceptions of consciousness (my italics) and of the brain to go on; and the one thing we do know for certain is that everything we know of the brain is a product of consciousness. That is, scientifically speaking, far more certain than that consciousness itself is a product of the brain. It may be or it may not; but what is an undeniable fact is the idea that there is a universe of things, in which there is one thing called the brain, and another thing called the mind, together with the scientific principles that would allow one to emerge from the other – these are all ideas, products of consciousness and therefore only as good as the particular models used by that consciousness to understand the world. We do not know if mind depends on matter, because everything we know about matter itself is a mental creation.’ Wow! On the face of it this sounds like very persuasive reasoning. But again I find the red flags going up. How do we define ‘things’? The brain, being material, can be in layman’s terms included in the world of things. Less obvious, the notion of ‘mind’. If you ask a dozen people to define that word you may will get a dozen different answers – if you get answers at all. Most people probably haven’t thought about it. They will talk about it as if they ‘have’ a mind – and that mind is personal to them. But if you ask them to define it – to put it into words, some will be struck dumb and others will fumble about or look at you as though you are asking a completely unnecessary and ridiculous question. However, pretty much everyone will agree we are talking about something internal. Some folk might point to their head as if there is an entity living inside – a nebulous ‘thought container’ we could call the mind. In that sense I suppose it could be labelled ‘a thing’. But it is not a thing you can come to grips with any of your senses – you can’t see it, touch it, smell it, taste or even hear it (although that last sensory category may be disputed by those who hear internal voices or even those of us who refer to the chattering of our mind as if it is something we can listen to). Now McGilchrist first published his book in November 2009. As I often do with academic tomes, I turned to the list of references at the back, in order to see whether I recognise any names and to get a sense of the influences that affect the author or upon which he relies. Immediately I was struck by the absence of folk whose orientation might be found within what we could call the spiritual arena. This may or may not have been deliberate, for I cannot believe McGilchrist is ignorant of spiritual traditions and the deep analyses from the many strands and traditions that examine human consciousness and contain concepts of ‘mind’, and of experience that can be best described as transcendental. Does the author consider this irrelevant to his subject matter or are there other reasons for the conspicuous omission? Whatever the case, there is – and was at the time of the release of The Master and His Emissary – plenty of contemporaneous material that could be brought to the table. For example, Dan Siegel had published The Mindful Brain in 2007. While that book is aimed at underscoring and expanding upon the idea of ‘mindfulness’ which Siegel states ‘in its most general conception offers a way of being aware that can serve as a gateway toward a more vital mode of being in the world: We become attuned to ourselves.’ Described by Jack Kornfield, himself a Buddhist practitioner and author, as ‘a brilliant and visionary wedding of mindfulness and neurobiology’, Siegel’s book – and others like it – surely must have come to McGilchrist’s attention. Yet they are absent from his commentary. By the way, Siegel offers a very clear simple definition of mind. He describes it as ‘a process that regulates the flow of energy and information.’ Expanding on that, he describes energy and information flowing within the body (including the brain) and between people – the relational aspect. Rather beautifully, he addresses the reader: ‘Even I as I am imagining who you might be and your possible response, I am changing the flow of energy and information in my brain and body as a whole. As you absorb these words your mind is embodying this flow of energy and information as well.’ This strikes me as a much more helpful way of defining the mind. A process – one that is invisible in the ordinary sense but may well be capable of accurate mapping through a study of the brain. Ordinarily, we do not think of a process as a ‘thing’. Perhaps I’m being bit unkind to McGilchrist. He may well include intangible processes in his basket of things but, if so, I wish he had said as much. Also absent from discussion in The Master and His Emissary is the work of developmental and integrative theorists such as Ken Wilber. Again I found this surprising, as McGilchrist is something of a polymath – like Wilber he has interests stretching across many disciplines. Certainly there is a focus on philosophy and neuroscience but clearly he has appreciation for other areas of knowledge and a recognition that they impact upon his specific subject matter. And indeed he makes that point in the early pages of his book. Would some mention of Wilber helped augment the picture? After all, over many decades, Wilber has attempted to draw connections between interior and exterior aspects of human life. His four-quadrant model contains (in the upper quadrants) stage-by-stage correlates between the interior mental processes (mind) and exterior material entities (brain). He does this individually and then, in his lower quadrants, Wilber looks at how there are collective, cultural stages of development. The idea of stages of consciousness is integral to his central thesis and this is shared by the great wisdom traditions which, as Aldous Huxley pointed out in The Perennial Philosophy is shared and has been shared across traditions down the ages. Wilber is extremely adept in focusing upon the apparent schism between science and religion. He highlights the different epistemologies. Science is primarily grounded in observation and measurement of material objects and conceptualised through logic and reason. The epistemological approach – in other words how knowledge is gained and understood – is through a combination of, in Wilber’s terms, ‘the eye of flesh’ and ‘the eye of mind’. On the other hand, a religious/spiritual explorer will say that he or she can know something which cannot be proved by observing the external world or conceptualising the internal. That knowledge will only arise through some kind of revelation or realisation that may occur unexpectedly and spontaneously, or may result from meditation or other contemplative practices. Thus, there is third string to knowledge, achievable through ‘the eye of contemplation’. McGilchrist devotes more time to the notion of consciousness than he does to the concept of mind. On page 87 he notes that ‘conscious awareness of the self is a surprisingly late development in evolution.’ As we might expect from a researcher in this area he brings out interesting facts – such as chimpanzees and orangutans are capable of self-recognition while monkeys are not – they fail the mirror test. But whereas spiritual teachers and psychotherapists spend a lot of time explaining and defining what they mean by ‘self’, McGilchrist describes and categorises. There is a self that is ‘intrinsically, empathically inseparable from the world in which it stands and relation to others’. This ‘continuous sense of self’ is more dependent on the right hemisphere. On the other hand ‘the objectified self, and the self as an expression of will, is generally more dependent on the left hemisphere.’ To be fair, McGilchrist acknowledges 'the self' is a complex concept. He lists the various areas which make up a ‘sense of self’ and attributes their origin to either the left or the right hemisphere. For example a personal, interior sense of self is largely dependent on the right hemisphere. Also, aspects of self-awareness – how we are likely to see or come across to others – also depend on the right hemisphere, as do qualities such as empathy and the ability to identify with others. I have no problem with these findings – in fact I find them interesting. But I wish when McGilchrist articulates that what we call ‘the self’ is a tricky concept, he would attempt to explain why it is complex and may mean different things to different people. The same goes for 'consciousness'. On page 220, McGilchrist says ‘it seems to me more fruitful to think of consciousness not as something with sharp edges that is suddenly arrived at once one reaches the very top of mental functioning, but as a process that is gradual, rather than all-for-nothing and begins low down on the brain, rising up from below the level of the hemispheres, before it reaches the great divide.’ Again, McGilchrist is doing his best to explain using language, a limitation in human communication that has tested the best of thinkers. Here is where imagery is important – hence the insertion of the word ‘process’ for the word ‘thing’ – and a description tantamount to movement or flowing – a process without ‘sharp edges’ but involving a ‘gradual arising’ from beneath the hemispheres and then reaching ‘the great divide’ – in other words the Left Brain and the Right Brain. On the next page there is a further flowering of poetic language. McGilchrist endorses Panksepp’s concept of consciousness ‘as something that is not all or nothing, but has a continuous existence, transforming itself as it travels upwards, through the branches, to what he calls, by analogy with the forest canopy, the cerebral canopy, until in the frontal cortex as it becomes high level cognitive awareness’. McGilchrist likes this image because it gets away from the ideas which he says are promoted in the literature that consciousness is something of a bird – hovering, detached and alighting at tree level in the frontal lobes of the brain. Rather it is more of a tree with its roots deep inside us and reinforces ‘the nature of consciousness not as an entity but as a process.’ Nowhere does McGilchrist, as far as I can tell, consider the point of view that consciousness is what mystics might call the ‘Ground of Being’ – that everything arises in what we might call Capital ‘C’ Consciousness - and it is the fundamental, non-material, non-quantifiable, non-observable (at least through the human senses) ‘stuff’ in which the manifest world – and indeed the entire cosmos – appears. Taking this a step further, it could be described as ‘God’. Through the centuries of recorded history, countless sages, mystics, spiritual teachers and many others have articulated experiences that back up this point of view. In fact, it is misleading to call it a ‘point of view ‘– it is better to talk in terms of ‘awakening’, ‘enlightenment’ or ‘realisation’. None of this, of course, convinces the strict adherents to modern scientific investigation. And although thinkers such as Einstein accept there is an enduring mystery that surrounds human existence and indeed what we might call the cosmos, the bulk of scientific opinion tends to negate any lines of enquiry that present Consciousness – with a capital C – in the terms I have just described. Their difficulty is understandable. It is a problem - a 'hard problem', as David Chalmers articulated in 1995: 'It is undeniable that some organisms are subjects of experience. But the question of how it is that these systems are subjects of experience is perplexing. Why is it that when our cognitive systems engage in visual and auditory information-processing, we have visual or auditory experience: the quality of deep blue, the sensation of middle C? How can we explain why there is something it is like to entertain a mental image, or to experience an emotion? It is widely agreed that experience arises from a physical basis, but we have no good explanation of why and how it so arises. Why should physical processing give rise to a rich inner life at all? It seems objectively unreasonable that it should, and yet it does.' Having read and listened to McGilchrist, I have the sense he would like to take a leap out of this abyss but is somehow constrained. He quotes a number of other thinkers when he is writing about the self and consciousness but conspicuously omits, as I have emphasised, those who might be said to be in the spiritual camp. As I turned the pages of McGilchrist’s book, I began to wonder how these omissions would impact on his overarching thesis. After all, I fully support his contention that the world has become far too Left-Brain oriented. I’ve watched online presentations of him speaking at conferences and other gatherings and applaud his focus and passion for asking folk to wake up to how much we are caught in this trap. Clearly, he sees how detrimental such thinking is to our environment and to our collective future as humans. Clearly, he is also aware of nuances and complexity, and he does not try to propagate magical solutions for the multiplicity of dilemmas facing us. I wonder whether the very thing of which he complains – the enculturation of Left Brain dominance – has had an effect on him of which he is unaware - an effect that leaves him either not open to, or dismissive of, spiritual exploration and metaphysics in general? If there is to be a conversation about how the Titanic of contemporary Western human thinking can be raised from the murky depths – or, to float another shipping analogy, turn the Queen Mary towards more productive course, I would hope those who think like McGilchrist will invite those who have a transcendental inclination into their tents. I’ve no doubt that would enhance and deepen the conversation. ѽ ѽ ѽ ѽ B
Preview Medical discussions are not my forte. When I hear people talking about their ailments I tend to tune out. Drama-infused television shows based on hospital emergencies leave me cold. I’m a wimp. The internal apparatus of the human body is best left unseen. As long as everything functions, it is also best ignored. At 73 – going on 74 – years of age, these attitudes of aversion and denial seemed to have served me well. Ostensibly, I was fit and healthy. A non-smoker, eating mostly organic food, enjoying the occasional glass of wine, a regular walker and swimmer – in short, coasting along in the complacency of rude health. Regular visits to my GP usually resulted in him giving me a quick once-over and indicating I should come back only if I got properly crook. Change, as they say, happens. The Shoulder Early September 2019. Spring-time in Australia. We intend to make the most of it, packing the car with picnic gear and heading up into the Perth Hills for a bushwalk with our friends. I had woken with a sharp pain in my left shoulder. No big deal – the shoulder troubled me periodically but the pain usually left after a few days, especially if I behaved myself and kept away from the computer. But, as we followed the trail around Serpentine Falls, the pain grew worse. My backpack didn’t help and I later discarded it before we changed location and walked the circuit near Kalamunda. My wife drove us home. The previous day I’d been up the ladder and felt a slight tweak while taking down chairs and boxes of books from our garage loft in preparation for the launch of my memoir. The following morning I rang my GP’s practice but he was unavailable for a week. Nearby, in South Fremantle, I was able to make an appointment with another GP. She noted I had ‘severe left sub-scapular pain’ with occasional pins and needles in the fingers. Lifting my arm above my head afforded some relief. I was sent for an MRI and prescribed painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Two days later I had an MRI of my cervical spine and brachial plexus. Basically, most aspects of the spinal cord and joints appeared normal. In a few of the vertebrae, disc degeneration was present, and with C6/7 there was some mild bulging and spurring impinging on the C7 nerve. This was presumed to cause the shoulder pain. On 13 September I saw Dr C, my GP in East Fremantle, and again two weeks later to get another painkiller prescription. Pain was manageable during the day but intense at night. A hot water bottle and my wife’s massages afforded some relief and I began a regime of Fenac (anti-inflammatory) and Endone (oxycodone hydrochloride – a morphine-like narcotic). Supporting my arm in a borrowed sling helped to some degree. Over the next week I had two sessions with our osteopath and an acupuncture session. On 1 October, we left for Brunswick Heads in New South Wales for a visit with my sons and their families. In the two weeks we were there, activities with the grandchildren were restricted. The shoulder wouldn’t allow free movement and for the most part I took an Endone and a Fenac tablet twice a day. Conscious of the strong painkillers , I tried reduced the intake to half a tablet twice a day. By 10 October, I ‘d stopped the Endone. Pain was less but still an issue. Three days later I caught a head cold which persisted for a few days. Daniele also had the cold but was less affected. Back in Perth I had another acupuncture session as well as manipulation with the osteopath. Shoulder pain eased and I stopped taking anti-inflammatories. The Stomach On Sunday, 3 November both my wife and I woke with stomach aches. We wondered about the small left-over pies from the book launch we had frozen and then defrosted. Her symptoms eased during the day but mine intensified. However, food poisoning seemed unlikely as neither of us had diarrhoea or nausea. My limbs had been aching for a couple of days and Daniele speculated about a virus. I had poor appetite, skipping my usual coffee at breakfast but made up for it at morning tea (along with a piece of apple pie). That eased the incipient headache but I stuck with miso soup for lunch. By mid-afternoon my head was pretty good, my legs didn’t hurt much, and the stomach was a lot better. The same applied to the shoulder although there were still slight pains in my arms and pins and needles. I also noticed that when I put my hands under cold water, it felt as if I was dipping them into an ice bucket. The sense of relief was short lived. That night I was in considerable pain – located in the upper right abdomen. Two Panadol and two Codapane (paracetamol and codeine phosphate) afforded slight relief, as did a hot water bottle but I found myself waking up in pain at regular intervals. Tuesday morning, I checked in with Dr G, a GP in South Fremantle. Blood tests were carried out at her practice. We decided to put an ultrasound and anti-acid tablets on hold. I began a diet of broth, miso, muesli, and ginger and peppermint tea and had little appetite. Three days later I saw Dr G again. The blood tests were in. Apart from slightly elevated lipase, nothing unusual and no trace of helicobacter pylori – the bacterial infection that lives in the digestive tract. (The lipase protein level was not considered significant or an indicator of the stomach pain.) We elected to get the ultrasound which took place that day. Meanwhile, I began taking Somac (Pantoprazole - antacid tablets). By Sunday, 10 November, there was a pattern of largely pain-free days and intensely painful nights. By then I was taking one Somac and one Codapane tablet each day. However, my left arm felt weak, there was tingling in the hands and tap water felt cold. Also, my legs had become wobbly and weak and there was tingling in the tips of my toes. On Monday, 11 November I saw Dr G. The ultrasound had been clear. There was no obvious problem with any of the organs. She thought the symptoms were stomach-related. An ECG at her practice showed a slightly irregular heart-rate. Dr G wrote a referral to Access Cardiology for an electrocardiogram. A B12/folate test was scheduled. She also referred me for a CT scan of the abdomen and chest. Afterwards, I decided to defer the CT scan and the electrocardiogram, and see what eventuated. I appreciated the GP’s caution but I – perhaps foolishly - remained optimistic whatever was affecting me would pass. At that stage, the focus was on the abdomen and not much attention given to the wobbly legs and tingling in the extremities of the limbs. On 12 November, I noted it was painful in my thighs when I squatted and in both calves while walking. I had become unsteady on my feet but was able to ride my bicycle as long as I had support when I mounted and dismounted. I continued to go for morning swims but had little energy. The GP had wondered whether my B12 level was low because of the thinning of the stomach lining due to whatever I had caught. Perhaps, we mused, my changed diet might’ve exacerbated that deficiency. During the night I found I could reduce the pain if I ate a small amount of food. So each time I woke up I took a few mouthfuls of muesli and sipped herbal tea. That, and the hot water bottle, reduced my reliance on painkillers. I continued to take Somac. Early on Friday, 15 November I saw Dr G. She wrote a referral to a specialist gastroenterologist. The blood tests had revealed no issue with my vitamin B12 and folate levels. Later that morning I visited my own GP and managed to get a CT scan of the abdomen the same day. He rang me in the evening to say the scan did not show anything serious. There were traces of diverticulosis and a slightly enlarged prostate but nothing out of the ordinary. He advised that if the pain and my symptoms got worse over the weekend I should go to ED. He speculated it could be something ‘weird and wonderful’ - like Guillain-Barre Syndrome (GBS). By that stage I knew what he was talking about as I had already done some research and GBS seemed a distinct possibility. On the night of Saturday, 16 November, the stomach pain was intense and I’d become very worried about my numb and wobbly limbs. Early that morning I had a talk with Daniele and at 7.00am she drove me to the Emergency Department of Fiona Stanley Hospital (FSH), twenty minutes from where we live. Emergency Department – Fiona Stanley Hospital Other than visit my aunt in nearby St John of God’s Hospital and to attend an ear specialist appointment, I was unacquainted with the vast medical complex that has arisen in recent years between the Kwinana Freeway and Murdoch University. As far as admission went, I could recall a visit to Fremantle Hospital in 1988 to surgically remove an ingrown hair at the base of my spine, and an appendix operation two years before that. Otherwise, I was a hospital neophyte. After missing a turn, we found our way to the Emergency car park. A short walk took us into the waiting area where about two dozen people were already seated. We took a ticket designed for newcomers and after a short wait were interviewed at the desk. The triage nurse handed us another ticket and we join the group awaiting attention. About twenty minutes later we were ushered through to a way-station, adjacent to the bank of cubicles lined with blue hospital curtains. Soon I was lying on a bed in one of those cubicles. Daniele sat alongside. Around us, the smells, sights and sounds of ‘ED-in-Action’. An eye-opening world into which most newly-admitted inhabitants are reluctant participants. Ten hours later I was admitted to a room in Ward 6 – the neurology ward. In the meantime I’d been attended intermittently by nurses and hospital registrars, culminating in an examination by the duty neurologist. He put me through a vigorous program of exercise, flexing my legs and arms and urging me to push as hard as I could against him. Augmenting this physical examination, he tested for reflexes with his rubber hammer, in similar fashion to one of the hospital registrars earlier in the day. At the conclusion of his examination, Dr H informed me he was going to do a lumbar puncture or spinal tap. I scrawled my signature on a consent form after he outlined the risks. I was given a local anaesthetic at the base of my spine and a long needle was inserted to draw out a sample of spinal fluid. This would be tested to see whether there was an elevated level of protein, an indicator of GBS. Lying on my side, I experienced very little discomfort and the procedure was short and swift. I asked Dr H to give me a preliminary idea of what might be amiss. He indicated in the order of five possible issues, of which Guillain-Barre Syndrome was the least serious. In the course of the brief conversation, I asked him how long he’d been on duty. ‘26 hours’, he replied. Despite his absolute focus and clear competency, I was glad I did not know that prior to the physical examination and subsequent lumbar procedure. At that point – around three in the afternoon – Daniele returned home. I remained in ED for a further two hours until a bed became available in the ward. During that time I was able to get out of bed unaided, and to walk the short distance to the toilet. Luckily, we’d packed provisions before leaving home, including a thermos of tea, some slices of home-made bread, and a piece of apple pie. In any case, I was not particularly hungry. Room 637 Ward 6 When the hospital porter wheeled the gurney into Room 637, I felt blessed. The room was spacious, with a large window looking out to the south. Below, I could see patches of garden dispersed between various buildings. To the left, if I twisted my neck, I could catch a glimpse of the Perth Hills. A side door led to the bathroom. And to my unmitigated surprise, it was a single room. Later, one of the nurses told me 80% of the rooms at Fiona Stanley are for one occupant. After my long day in ED, it felt like a homecoming in a high-class hotel. Perhaps I should mention private health cover. At reception, I’d been asked whether I wanted to be admitted as a public or private patient. At that time of the morning and in my relatively confused state, any implications did not really sink in. I said ‘private’, as we had private health cover – albeit on one of the lower levels. As it turns out, this made no difference to the room I was allocated or the costs of all services. Everything was free. However, the private health insurance entitled us to a daily $10 voucher to be used at one of the ground floor restaurants, plus a free parking coupon, and – of dubious worth – a free copy of the West Australian each day. I was not thinking of these privileges as I lay back in my bed on that first evening. Dog-tired after a poor night’s sleep and my time in ED, I was ready to crash. But that was not an option. Treatment was about to begin. It had been explained to me I would receive daily infusions of the blood product, immunoglobulin (IVIG). Hooked up via a cannula inserted in my arm, I would be injected with this extraordinarily expensive fluid for about three hours on each of the following five evenings. A nurse wheeled in a portable stand containing plastic bags of the precious immunoglobulin. On the opposite side of my bed another stand was positioned, supporting a machine for recording observations or ‘obs’, as the nurses call them. Blood pressure, temperature and heart rate needed to be regularly monitored during the infusions. By now it was early evening. Daniele had returned, with broth and other goodies. I remained cautious about food but realised I hadn’t had any stomach pain during the day. In fact, the stomach pain disappeared and hasn’t been an issue since. Hours went by. The infusion procedure was delayed. I was told a consent form had not been co-signed by a doctor. The upshot was that by the time I began my three-hour procedure it was around 12.30am. This in itself was unusual. These infusions preferably take place in the daytime when more nursing staff are available. Every half an hour, after a beeper sounded, two nurses – one of them a senior – arrived to connect a new bag of the immunoglobulin. One of them also conducted a round of observations but I noted they were both standing together to check that I received the right amount of the blood product. My consent form stated there were small risks of side effects including allergic reactions. I was also cautioned the cannula inserted into my vein could cause an infection. Happily, nothing adverse occurred during the five days of infusions. On that first night I was absolutely exhausted, finally drifting off to sleep at around four in the morning and waking at six. But there was plenty to cheer about. My night nurse – an African-Australian – entertained me with a tale of her journey as a 12-year old from Uganda to Kenya where she became a refugee, before Australia accepted her three years later. How my circumstances paled before her hardships! And I had already begun to note the efficient teamwork on the ward, where busy nurses exuded efficiency while simultaneously appearing relaxed and at times light-hearted. A good workplace, I surmised. By the time my breakfast arrived, I’d successfully negotiated a shower (sitting on a plastic chair), employed my stuttering fingers to operate both my razor and toothbrush, and dressed myself. Daniele brought in bread and muesli, and I suddenly found myself with appetite. Hospital baked beans with tomato sauce are far from our usual fare but went down a treat. Unlike many GBS sufferers, I was never unable to walk. That first morning, when the physio visited and put me through my paces, he assessed I was fit enough to proceed solo on twenty-metre strolls in the immediate corridor but barred me from meandering further without assistance. Diagnosis of my condition remained uncertain. When Dr J visited on her morning round, she put me through the physical tests I had endured in ED (albeit with not the same degree of force). She surmised I might have a milder version of GBS called Miller–Fisher. As soon as it could be arranged, I would have an MRI as the spinal tap had not shown elevated protein levels. Later in the week, they might also carry out a nerve conduction study. Daniele came and stayed four hours. I was impressed when she secured a wheelchair and took me downstairs where we explored the hospital grounds and rested at the Jamaica Blue Café. Enviously, I watched and inhaled while others consume aromatic lattes. But, showing unexpected good sense, I decided not to rock the boat. Stomach pain was too fresh in my memory. By the time the second evening rolled around, I was feeling something of a veteran. I also observed I was perhaps the fittest on the ward. Most occupants seemed to be stroke victims and more or less immobilised. At least I could periodically wander the corridor and joust with the nurses. And I had managed to operate the multifaceted screen suspended by a retractable metallic arm. Both TV and radio were available, as was the daily menu. As long as I ordered in time, I could choose from a wide range of food and beverages. A far cry from the old days of hospital mush. My evening meal – fish with herbs and garlic accompanied by steam rice, beans and broccoli – proved to be an inspired choice, as did the feta and spinach omelette for breakfast the next morning. Again, due to the lateness of the infusion, the night passed with a modicum of sleep. When the tubes were removed around 1.30am, I was still bright eyed and bushy-tailed. From the books by my bed I picked up Elliot Perlman’s recent release, Maybe The Horse Will Talk. Nearly two hours later I’d read half the novel, imbibing the story by one of our favourite writers. Things were looking up. I’d been told that on each succeeding evening the infusion would begin two hours earlier – a 22-hour interval being deemed adequate. This meant (potentially) two hours more sleep, and by the time I completed my final infusion on the Thursday evening, it was only around 7.00pm. Meanwhile, I received emails and phone calls from friends, keen to hear about how I was travelling. And Daniele continued the supply of miso broth, kimchi (for probiotic value), and vegetable juice. Each day, she escorted me along the corridors, where I generally kept one hand on the railing, and then I would board the wheelchair and she would take me in the lift downstairs and into the grounds. I did not mind the air-conditioning and Fiona Stanley smelt less like a typical hospital than I imagined but I was always happy for the fresh air. Tuesday passed. The MRI was delayed until the following morning. When the results came through before lunch, our anxieties eased. The roving neurologist said the spinal cord appeared normal but there was some inflammation of the nerves in the lower back – the lumbosacral plexus, to be technical. We gathered that was where the peripheral nerve system exited from the central nervous system. This was good news in that it seemed to rule out more serious conditions and more or less confirmed the GBS diagnosis. It was probably good news for the hospital. One of the nurses had told us of the congestion downstairs in the ED and of the ambulances having to ramp. Beds were at a premium. And yet the nursing staff continued to work with calm and focus, as did the other medical representatives. Over the week I was seen by three different female neurologists, all of whom were attentive to my questions and anticipated what I might need to know. There was little interaction with other patients. Most were inert in their beds. Visitors came and went, often unsmiling and clearly worried. My next-door neighbour was sufficiently mobile to wander about. ‘Hello, I’m Bruce,’ I introduced myself as he stood my doorway. ‘What’s your name?’ He looked puzzled, mumbled something and shuffled away. Not for the first time I considered myself fortunate. I could write a book about the nurses. In my short stay, I counted at least a dozen possible countries of origin. Most looked to be in their twenties or thirties. Others were older, including a couple of Aussies who had been in the system for some time. One had a rough exterior but a golden heart. She urged me to question the doctors and make sure I got the answers I needed. In truth, I didn’t need much encouragement. I’m not noted for being shy in coming forward – but in any case the doctors who did the rounds, as I’ve mentioned, were ever helpful and did not maintain any need to appear as knowledgeable ‘experts’. By Thursday morning – my fifth day – I had worked through the menu, relishing asparagus soup and lentil pie, lemon chicken (twice), together with repeats of the feta and spinach omelette and the fish, herb and garlic, not to mention an array of deserts including pannacotta, lemon cheesecake, and apple crumble. Feeling more confident in the belly, I tried the ice cream but it paled beside the other sweets. Usually I stuck to white or herbal tea, especially after I tested the coffee and found it undrinkable. My reintroduction to the joys of caffeine came that final morning when my four regular walking mates visited. One wheeled me downstairs to Jamaica Blue where I embraced my first Long Mac in what seemed an eternity. A telephone call interrupted us. The physio was waiting. I was whisked upstairs to be re-examined. ‘We need to test you on the stairs,’ said S, well aware our townhouse had two stories and it was not an option for me to reside at the bottom. In the stairwell, he hovered behind me as I held the rail with one hand and a crutch in the other. Following his instructions, we went up and down a couple of times. I must’ve received a tick of approval. Later in the day, a senior nurse approached me somewhat bashfully. ‘We would like to make room for a stroke victim,’ she said. ‘You have your final infusion this afternoon. Would you be okay with going to a shared room for that to happen – and later you can be checked out.’ No argument from me, as I had anticipated a few more days and was pleased at the prospect of an early discharge. The twin room was a far cry from my palace. A curtain separated me from another patient. But by 8.30 that evening the infusion was over, I’d received my discharge papers, and was taken in the wheelchair to the waiting area outside the main entrance. Daniele collected her car from the car park and then collected me. We were homeward bound, both awash with relief. Recuperation – the first two months. With my hospital crutch in one hand and the other gripped to the railings, I eased my way up the stairs. Daniele hovered behind me, lest I stumble. Hospital had been fine – an altogether better experience than people often paint – but I was glad to be home. As a so-called ‘retired’ person, there were no work obligations. Our bedroom, offices, and bathroom were on the upper floor. I could limit my use of the stairs, coming down for meals and exercise. My discharge papers confirmed I would attend the hospital as an outpatient for a nerve conduction study. This would be followed by an appointment with the neurologist within six to eight weeks. Adding a personal touch, I was wished the best of luck with my recovery and urged to return to ED if my symptoms became worse. Exercise began with short, ten-minute walks. After two days I felt confident enough, using the crutch, to negotiate the sand and to swim at South Beach, our regular habitat for eight months of the year. Supported in the water, the body felt at home. Saltwater therapy had helped with the shoulder and I felt sure it would assist muscular recovery following GBS. After consulting with a physiotherapist friend, I began to practice specific arm and leg exercises in the water – a version of hydrotherapy. Within a week of leaving hospital I was walking for twenty minutes at a time. Although I was quite numb in the feet when I woke up each morning, my legs felt stronger – but unequally so. The right leg lacked power and my left arm was considerably weaker than my right. Being predominantly left-handed, I found tasks like using a screwdriver, cutting bread, and trying to write legibly presented considerable difficulty. Regarding the rest of the body, I still noticed some slight residual stomach pain and a sense there was a belt or band around my upper abdomen. But overall I felt a huge improvement. On 28 November I went to see a naturopath, some five years after a previous visit. His tests relating to the health of organs and the presence of viruses showed a reduced number of adverse readings. But he noted the presence of Ross River virus which had not showed up during the previous test. I came away with assorted homeopathic pills and liquids aimed at eliminating toxins. (Homeopathy has been part of my life since I lived in the countryside from 1990 to 2005. Hay fever in spring and early summer greatly affected me. A local homeopath carried out tests and prescribed a range of pills. After two years, my symptoms had all but vanished and have never returned. When I encounter critics of homeopathic medicine, I raise this experience as there was nothing else obvious that might have been responsible for this relief from hay fever.) On 3 December I attended Fiona Stanley for the nerve conduction study (NCS), carried out by Dr K, assisted by Dr H. From what I’d read and been told, this test involved the electrical activation of nerves by pressing a metallic pulse against various points on the skin, and measuring the responses obtained. The readings would indicate how well the nerve was functioning. For the patient, there would be some discomfort but no after-effects. Some discomfort? I found this to be a grand understatement. Each time the device pressed against my skin, I felt a shock akin to touching an electric fence. To be clear, it was painful – not just ‘uncomfortable’, a euphemism designed to reassure those who undergo the test but, in my experience, not at all accurate. For about twenty minutes, Dr K took readings from my feet, legs and arms, while he and Dr H watched them graphed upon a screen. He then inserted needles to obtain a reading of the electrical activity within the muscles – a procedure known as electromyography or EMG. I was unable to get much information about what the tests revealed, other than they provided a baseline against which future recovery (or deterioration) could be measured. When I asked Dr K whether he thought I had the Miller–Fisher version of GBS he was strongly of the view this was not the case. Asked to rate the severity of my condition, he described it as ‘mild’. One week later I attended Fremantle Hospital as an outpatient for a physiotherapy session. D, the young physiotherapist, worked with neurological patients and had an outline of my situation, including the findings of the physiotherapist who had examined me twice in Fiona Stanley. She put me through a range of exercises involving physical and balance tests. These showed an improvement on those carried out in the hospital a fortnight beforehand. I was given a rubber strap and a series of exercises to strengthen legs and hips. A day after seeing the physio, I had a setback. The author of my own misfortune, I was on my regular Thursday ramble with my mates and attempted to walk down a sand embankment to the beach. My walking stick gave way and I rolled on my ankle. From the resounding ‘crack’, we were sure I’d done some serious damage. I walked gingerly into the water and soon after made my way back to the change room, before being driven to our regular café. Later, I began a regime of rest, ice and elevation, and made an appointment to see Dr G the following morning. After examining me, she concluded it was a soft tissue injury, not a break. Dr G also drew my attention to the earlier CT scan. She did not think the diverticulosis was responsible for my stomach pain as the pain was on my right side and diverticulosis usually occurs on the left. She thought it was worthwhile to get a specialist opinion, and also have my GP monitor the enlarged prostate as PSA tests are not always conclusive. Upon my return to the physio, I confessed I’d done my ankle and not been capable of the leg exercises. She suggested I concentrate on the arms until the ankle recovered. By late December, swelling in the ankle had subsided slightly but was still tender. I also experienced significant tingling in the feet, arms and hands. My legs remained wobbly and I couldn’t detect there any recent improvement. As at 4 January 2020, two months had elapsed since my initial symptoms. I was undertaking short walks, restorative yoga at home, and sporadic exercises for my arms. The ankle was slightly swollen but much improved, while the GBS symptoms remained unchanged. I grew easily fatigued – and was unimpressed when pain returned to my left shoulder. On 7 January, I had a massage with a Chinese medicine and acupuncture practitioner. She speculated my blood might need boosting, and more red meat and red vegetables, as well as Floradix could be given a try. (Floradix is a natural liquid iron supplement that reputedly allows for high absorption of iron.) I’ve since followed that suggestion, taking two teaspoons of Floradix morning and evening before my meal. Guillain-Barre Syndrome – My Research As you do, I initially scoured the Web. From Harvard Health Publishing (Harvard Medical School) I found the basic information: ‘Guillain-Barre Syndrome is an uncommon disorder that causes damage to the peripheral nerves. These nerves send messages from the brain to the muscles, instructing the muscles to move. They also carry sensations such as pain from the body to the brain. The nerve damage often causes muscle weakness, often to the point of paralysis, and can cause problems with sensation, including pain, tingling, crawling skin or a certain amount of numbness.’ The article goes on to state GBS ‘is an autoimmune disorder in which the body’s immune system attacks and destroys the myelin sheath, which wraps around long nerve cell bodies much like insulation around a water pipe. Myelin protects the nerve and helps to speed the transmission of electrical impulses down the nerve. If myelin is destroyed, nerve impulses travel very slowly and can become disrupted. If muscles don’t get proper stimulation through the nerves, they will not function properly.’ Why does it happen? Causes of the syndrome remain unknown but ‘many experts think the immune system is trying to fight an infectious organism (bacteria or virus) and accidentally injures nerve tissue in the process.’ I learnt from that initial article that, in more than two thirds of patients, GBS occurs one to two weeks after a viral disease, including the common cold, flu, or infection. Occasionally, it followed immunisation, surgery or bone marrow transplants. The incidence and severity of GBS varies widely. I have read estimates it affects between one and four persons per 100,000 of population per year. In Fiona Stanley, Dr K told me there were around 90 cases annually in Western Australia and Fiona Stanley Hospital dealt with about one third of them. I was lucky. Symptoms were confined to my legs and arms. They did not occur in the upper body or affect the respiratory system. According to the US National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke, GBS ‘can be a devastating disorder because of its sudden and rapid, unexpected onset of weakness – and usually actual paralysis. Fortunately, 70% of people with GBS eventually experience full recovery.’ According to the Harvard article, death occurs in 3-5% of cases – usually those with severe respiratory issues, where patients ‘develop paralysis of the chest muscles before they have reached the hospital’. Yes, I seem to have been lucky but at the time of writing – two months after leaving hospital – the recovery process has plateaued out. There is a question mark about how long it will take and whether I will be left with any residual symptoms. Support Early on, someone mentioned that the musician, Lucky Oceans, who is well-known in Fremantle, had contracted GBS in 2008 while visiting his mother in Philadelphia. Oceans, the host of an ABC music program, The Planet, posted his story on the ABC website. Subsequently, he was interviewed by Dr Norman Swan for the ABC Health Report. Links are given below. http://www.abc.net.au/health/yourstories/stories/2009/03/09/2509436.htm https://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/healthreport/lucky-oceans/3094752 I found both the personal story and the interview extremely interesting and helpful. It’s one thing to be given information from medical sources; it’s another to hear about a condition from a fellow-sufferer. Initially, Oceans’ main concern was that his livelihood was at stake. He could not play his guitar. But as far as I can tell he has made a complete recovery (although the time-frame is unclear). Likewise, there are a range of personal accounts given on the New South Wales website mentioned below. These stories give something of the spectrum of experience for those who have contracted the condition. Sometimes there might be similarities; on other occasions the experiences differ in content and severity. https://www.gbs-cidp-nsw.org.au/ I also came across the GBS Foundation of Australia whose mission is to ‘advance health by supporting and improving the quality of life of patients and families, and to be recognised as the Australian resource for GBS and related illnesses of the peripheral nerves. Increase public awareness by educating both the professional and lay communities and raise funds for the research & treatment of Guillain-Barre Syndrome until a cure is found’. http://www.guillainbarresyndrome.org/ The Foundation has produced a range of information booklets that provide practical advice in easily accessible language. Literature I also unearthed a very informative book published in 2007 by the American Academy of Neurology. Authored by Gareth Parry and Joel Steinberg – both neurologists – this excellent work not only goes into great detail about GBS or acute inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy (AIDP) as well as chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy (CIDP) but it contains helpful diagrams and reference material. Furthermore, one of the authors had contracted GBS and was able to bring his personal experience into the equation. I will draw material from the book under the heading below ‘Questions Remaining’. Emotional Challenges Thankfully, modern medicine has begun to embrace the reality that physical improvement can be helped or impeded by the attitudes of patients and their ability to deal with the mental and emotional stress of whatever condition affects them. Holistic practitioners within and outside the mainstream have recognised this for a very long time. For them, it’s a no-brainer. All components of body – mind – spirit need to be embraced if recovery is to be accelerated. Broadly, this was my intellectual understanding well before I contracted GBS. But I had never had to deal with the reality of something life-threatening and potentially permanently debilitating. In the days and weeks after the onset of symptoms, my intellectual appreciation was put to the test. Could I deal with the actual experience with acceptance and equanimity? Would I deny or dismiss any fear that arose? Would I fall back on my prior aversion to medical detail and avoid trying to understand, let alone come to terms with, what was happening to my body? On some level, I knew this was where the rubber hits the road. One of the initial tests – a challenge that preceded the GBS – came with the pain associated with my shoulder and my stomach. It was new to me, constant pain. Very soon, I gained some appreciation of what those who suffer from a chronically painful condition must experience. The pain absorbs you; it detracts from your ability to think straight or to settle into any activity. You want to curl up and hide or you become abrasive and lash out in frustration. As I dealt with these issues, I wondered whether I could live with chronic pain for an extended period. I doubted I could do so gracefully and gratefully. Any spiritual concepts around ‘acceptance’ looked pretty hollow. I could see myself failing badly and wallowing in self-pity. Thankfully, these painful conditions abated. But then I was left with symptoms that at first were unexplained. Neither the numbness nor tingling nor the loss of mobility was particularly painful. But while they were unexplained, anxiety hovered. Somehow there was a sense of ‘this may be serious’ but some kind of hope hung about that the symptoms would abate by themselves. When this did not occur and various tests were inconclusive, uncertainty reigned. This was the most difficult period. Just prior to my hospitalisation, I awoke one night and had what my wife described as ‘a panic attack’. This was completely out of character but I was a gibbering mess and felt completely lost and helpless. Having her support helped immeasurably. In fact, I could talk at length about her role as a carer but may come back to that a little later. Ironically, once we had made the joint decision to check into hospital and place ourselves within the medical system, much of my anxiety drained away. Not so for Daniele. Until the actual diagnosis was made, she remained in an underlying state of worry but concealed it effectively from me. Meanwhile, I was too busy immersed in moment-to-moment life as a patient, increasingly appreciative of the level of care and the degree of expertise to which I had surrendered. Since leaving Fiona Stanley I’ve had my mood swings. For the most part I’ve been okay with progress – and even okay with no observable or felt progress. But frustration can arise, along with a tendency to get ahead of myself, ruminating whether I will get to be ‘normal’ again. I catch myself doing this and usually manage to smile. The mantra, ‘Be Here Now’, never appears more relevant. Most stories I have read involved much more serious cases of GBS. This puts my situation in perspective and increases my sense of gratitude that, while I have been dealt some potentially serious cards, others have copped far worse deals. On the other hand, it’s difficult to get a handle upon week-to-week recovery – whether, upon leaving hospital, you progress, remain static, or regress. Most stories don’t go into fine detail about the stage-by-stage evolution, or attempt to qualify and quantify any changes. And ‘mild cases’ are rarely reported in detail. A couple of items in Lucky Oceans’ narrative caught my attention. Firstly, he described being left-handed and how that side was affected more than the other. He was told this is often the case with GBS. With me, it’s six of one and half a dozen of another. I’m predominantly left-sided (I kick with my left foot, played tennis with my left hand, write left-handed and hold tools in the left-hand – but I throw right-handed). From the time in September when my shoulder issue arose, I felt some weakness in the left arm which was exacerbated when the more definitive GBS symptoms arose. The arm has remained much weaker than the right. But it is opposite with my legs – the right is considerably weaker and lacks ‘oomph’. Lucky Oceans was also asked about the cost of treatment. ‘$240,000,’ he answered, ‘and of that amount $160,000 was for the immunoglobulin!’ Bear in mind we are talking about US dollars. Lucky was lucky, at least in the monetary sense. His American Express card contained insurance that covered the whole of this expenditure. And his experience also highlights how comparatively lucky we are in Australia with our public health system. Notwithstanding Obamacare, illness in the United States can be financially disastrous. Questions Remaining
None of these factors prevent me from leading a reasonably normal life but I remain constantly aware of the physical sensations and the reality of being restricted in what I can do. At my outpatient visit, I asked Dr Y about whether ‘mild’ was a correct description. She indicated it was accurate because my symptoms were much less serious compared with those on the opposite end of the spectrum. By implication, it did not mean I would normally have recovered my strength within the first few weeks.
I posed this distinction to Dr Y. She said the nerve conduction study was designed to address the issue. But she did not distinguish between repairs to the myelin sheath and the axons. Neither had she seen the nerve conduction study which she told me remained unavailable and might not be ready for a couple of weeks. I needed to enquire from the outpatients’ reception to obtain a copy. At that point I asked her if I would have another nerve conduction study at a later date because Dr K had indicated the first one was simply a baseline and progress (or otherwise) could only be measured by a subsequent study. Dr Y took this up with Dr J and reported that it was not felt necessary for me to return to the hospital unless deterioration occurred.
The Carer’s Role Along with my aversion to medical matters, I’ve always imagined I would be a bloody awful carer. Daniele and I are used to living independent lives but also doing many things together. With the onset of GBS, I became extremely dependent upon her. I couldn’t – and still can’t – drive our manual car with any confidence. She has done all the ferrying to and from medical appointments, hospital and social outings. We have avoided going out of town and evening outings. In the immediate aftermath of hospital, she was at my side as I mounted and dismounted the stairs, walked in the neighbourhood, and wobbled over the soft sand to the beach. Thankfully I can now manage these meanders without assistance, save for my Dad’s walking stick which I use for longer strolls. My wife has also had to assume most of the household tasks, particularly those that involve much bending down. She has experienced her own challenges – Ross River virus being one – but manages much better than one dare to hope. Nonetheless, I have had to urge her to take care of herself. Neither of us is always on the money when it comes to self-care, despite our affirmation of the need. Having a partner in these circumstances makes an immense difference. Apart from practical matters, we can talk and share concerns and ideas. I don’t know how I would have managed by myself. People do – single people. Hopefully they have friends and relatives to call upon but this is not always the case. I can now see that support around severe medical circumstances is never guaranteed, and I’m doubly appreciative for the way in which Daniele has embraced this role. It’s been helpful, too, to have input from family and friends. Strangely enough, everyone I know seems to know somebody or have heard of somebody with an auto-immune issue. I get the feeling it is one of the big medical sleepers, public awareness buried beneath the publicity for cancer and heart disease. However, it is unsurprising our immune systems are under constant threat. Modern industrial life – with pollution, processed food, plastic-infested water, and the ubiquitous ‘stress’ - presumably play some part, along with genetic predisposition in certain cases. At least, from what I’ve seen of the medical profession, they are largely upfront about how much remains unknown. The Takeaway When anyone is stricken with illness, there are both personal and public implications. In something of a forensic manner, I have tried to outline the events and opinions as they have unfolded, and at the same time express how it has affected me. But my eye has also been on the bigger picture. Hospital systems worldwide are under extreme pressure, as are the governments that fund them. To my untrained eye, bearing in mind I spent a mere five days in Fiona Stanley Hospital, I thought those at the coalface who form part of the system are performing exceptionally well. However, I appreciate there are inevitably background pressures that would not be always obvious to a patient. Returning as an outpatient, my experience was somewhat different. It appeared I was regarded more as a former patient, to whom a fixed amount of time could be allotted, than a person in the process of rehabilitation, and with questions relevant to that aspect of the journey. As I mentioned, it surprised me the hospital would not want to monitor progress of a GBS person–in–recovery but perhaps that simply reflects their sheer caseload and inability to bite off more than they can chew. If I reflect on what might have done differently, the most obvious aspect relates to the initial symptoms of numbness and tingling. Distracted by the stomach pain, neither I, nor the two general practitioners who examined me, was able to pick up on the potential seriousness. Otherwise, I might have got to hospital a little earlier. Whether that would have made a great difference is a moot point. In toppling from my complacent pedestal, I’ve had the opportunity to contemplate what it is like to live with diagnostic uncertainty. In seeing my body plummet from outrageously good health to something far more precarious has been a major wake-up call. I hope I can respond wisely, no matter what unfolds in the future. Thursday morning. Here comes the rain again. Oh dear. The sandwiches are freshly made, the thermos filled, backpacks, umbrellas and raincoats ready. We are about drive a short distance from Ménerbes to Oppède-le-Vieux, where we hope to walk and check out churches and castles. Rain is one thing; thunder and lightning another. We recalibrate our plans decide to wait it out for an hour or two. Crazy weather is getting to everyone. It’s market day in Ménerbes. Fewer stalls than usual. We spoke with the lady selling vegetables. She has plots in three different places outside the village. With the lack of sun and warmth, her broad beans have not matured and she has 600 tomato seedlings waiting to be planted. The wet Spring has caused much distress among the farming community. We buy white asparagus, lettuce and strawberries. At the honey stall a buxom madam offers us samples. We try lavender and then chestnut honey. I pump for the latter. Danièle cannot resist purée de châtaignes – a delicious chestnut spread. The weather has improved by the time we make the trip to Oppède. Parking is easy – we are down on the flat and the old town is somewhere up the hill. A young fellow speaks to us in English while we are examining the noticeboard. He’s Andrew – an Australian pastor from Geelong. Pushing four-year-old Jessie in a pram while his other son, Elijah, walks alongside, Andrew is also heading for the old town and makes it well before we do. As often happens, this village contains its share of surprises. The highlight is the partially-renovated church which exudes simplicity and a certain beauty, both inside and out. The village itself, hugging slopes of the Petit Luberon, gives the impression of a secluded getaway. Yet it is not dead by any stretch. Just off the neat town square two café-restaurants offer sustenance to walkers after they have made the obligatory trek up to the church and castle ruins. Andrew tells us he has five children. His wife and three of them are in Paris, taking advantage of cheap rail fares. They were all staying in a country-style house outside of Bonnieux when the rains came and a ceiling collapsed. The apologetic owners put them up in a hotel while repairs were effected. I make friends with young Jessie who trusts me enough to jump from a rock on the basis that I catch him. He would continue the game for ever but I plead old age. ***** You cannot spend time in the Luberon without visiting the ochre hills of Roussillon and Rustrel. Until the commercial production of synthetic dyes, the region around these two towns was the largest source of ochre in the world. Today, the former mines are a tourist attraction. With Jules and Jan in tow we pull up in the Roussillon car park. From a nearby viewpoint we can see the town perched on the cliff. To our right, the exposed hill-face glistens like an over-ripe papaya. We take off in this direction, entering the carefully preserved site set aside for visitors. The trail takes us through forested areas but great triangular chunks of ochre and the excavated slopes dominate the landscape. Bared hillsides reveal hues of red, orange, and vermillion. We proceed leisurely, keeping an eye on the weather. After congratulating ourselves we’ve avoided gabbling tour groups, we gravitate towards the town. Suddenly the skies open. Within minutes the sloping, cobblestoned streets are running rivers. We huddle in doorways until the rain abates. At the ice-cream kiosk a forlorn couple in shorts and sandals peers anxiously at the heavens. The experience at Rustrel is altogether different. You pay five euros to enter a large car park situated a short distance from the village. The walk is longer as it takes you through an extensive area that has been mined. From vantage points along the way you can take in the vivid range of colours and form an impression of the scale of the past enterprise. Now the scarred landscape has been allowed to revegetate. You pass through shaded areas of pine and oak. The path bisects the ochre deposits which arise like stalagmites from the floor in a kind of lunar landscape or, better still, the glowing reddish surface of Mars. ***** I go through swings and roundabouts when writing about experiences of day-to-day travelling. Moments of inspiration followed by periods of flatness where I indulge in a bit of self-flagellation for playing the dilettante wanderer. Today I was sitting in one of the local markets waiting for Danièle to complete negotiations for various items at various stalls and watching the passing parade of shoppers and gawkers, and marvelling what a strange species we are. The world seems to be going to hell in a hand basket and here we are shopping and enjoying ourselves. Well able to afford food and wine for the next meal – and well able to indulge in food for thought. It's now evening in Ménerbes. I’ve cooked Chicken Dijonnaise from our recipe book (complemented by green beans and roast potato). The three of us – Danièle 's friend, Michèle, arrived this afternoon – sat on the terrace under a darkened sky, quaffing a local rosé, while the light faded over the hills. They are now watching the news (in French - no English channels on our TV) and I have retreated downstairs to something of a sanctuary. I'm in the mood to slow down and the urge to explore new villages and new trails has somewhat abated. Danièle says I perk up when there are people about. In this French village, with my limited language skills, it is hard to strike up a conversation. Without fluency, small talk is about as far as I can go and that places a great limitation from the start. In an English-speaking climate I can communicate as I please but here I do a lot of smiling and nodding and coming out with a few stock phrases. The conversational ease that we take for granted when meeting up with a friend is conspicuously absent and this would be a great deterrent to living here – or anywhere where one is deficient in language – for any length of time. ***** Monday afternoon. Guess what – I am staring at cloudy skies. The new norm for Provence, it appears. To provide a writing space, we have rescued a small table from the cave downstairs and positioned it outside the glass doors that lead to the terrace. Until a few moments ago one of these doors was wide open allowing the cool air to flow in. But the road workers have started up after lunch. A front-end loader churns up and down the road, moving material to and from a trench. Some kind of pipework is happening – a perpetual challenge I would reckon around here – or for that matter in any of these hilltop villages. Sewerage, drainage and water supply. Old pipes are being replaced with new ones. We go by in the car every day. On the edge of the road are mobile stop lights that count down the seconds until you are given an amber signal to proceed. It’s a two-way street up and down the hill on our side of the village. With the work going on, it’s single-lane only on this already precarious approach - and hence the lights. As it is, we have a tight squeeze. The machines don’t always cease operation as you pull over to pass but the operators and road crew are not phased, jibing and waving at hapless drivers. At lunchtime we listen to them bouncing off one another, shouting and laughing non-stop. The lilting accents that rise and fall remind me of the two blokes who appear on screen each French Film Festival to advertise the merits of Alliance Francais courses. The same intonation – a playful, musical rise and fall far removed from the guttural Dutch, the teeth-shattering Swiss-German or the over-amped and unceasing drawl of the Americans. (And we won’t even mention those nasal lawnmowers from Down-under.) Here, as we tune in to the workers below, it doesn’t come across as a philosophical discussion - probably more to do with women and football but they do strike you as a tad more animated than a bunch of their English equivalents, huddling in the mist somewhere outside Birmingham. **** Thursday afternoon. The (female) chef is in the cuisine – which we now refer to as ‘our’ kitchen. Yesterday felt like something of a homecoming even though we’d only been away for a day and a half, after driving down to the Camargue and spending the night at Arles. We entrusted the route to the GPS – our dear Audrey – and she took us along the D900 towards Avignon and through a complex series of roundabouts and underpasses which were meant to avoid the freeway – for which you have to pay a toll – and for that we were prematurely grateful. But when we approached the town of Chateaurenard we encountered a series of deviations for which Audrey was quite unprepared. After much gnashing of teeth, we eventually found ourselves on the D570 which took us south to the Musée de la Camargue where we hoped to stock up on maps and brochures and brief ourselves about the region. First things first. Out came the thermos and cherry pie and we sat down on a wooden bench not far from what appeared to be composting toilets. (No running water inside – you had to hunt for a tap thirty metres away.) Refreshed, we entered the museum where a thickset and rather bombastic gentleman relieved us of a few euros and handed over a guide in English. We managed half an hour. The museum was underwhelming as was the short ‘historic’ walk afterwards. But a real treat was in store. We continued south to the Parc Ornithologique - a vast bird observatory covering a sprawling area of marshy land just north of Saintes Maries-sur-la-Mer. The parking area was crammed but we found a space close to the entrance. Going through the usual mental and emotional gymnastics about value for money, we parted with €7.50 each. No worries – I would have paid double. An unforgettable experience for anyone who likes birdlife. Armed with the walking map we proceeded from station to station along a carefully laid-out trail, circling the shallow waters and a number of strategically-located islands. A movable and unforgettable feast. Flamingos in abundance, a family of storks nesting, numerous heron and egrets with young chicks – often well-grown chicks on the verge of flight, caterwauling away as their parents flew hither and further on a frenetic food run. And not only birds were on show. At a fork in the path we chanced upon a large beaver-like animal. He looked up at us casually, ambled a few steps and scuttled into the water. A little further on we saw what appeared to be a scorpion but upon closer inspection it turned out to be a small crustacean – possibly an estuarine crayfish. Then, in a brown pond, appeared the nose and forehead of the same animal we’d spotted on the path. This time there was opportunity to photograph and film – and while doing so, a second animal swam alongside – either a female or a baby. When we got back to the information panels we identified our sighting as a coypu or ragondin – a humongous water rat that I later read was introduced from South America in the 19th century for its fur. Two or three hours slipped by, including a coffee break at the Rottnest-esque cafeteria overlooking one of the ponds. We then drove on to the town of Saintes Maries-sur-la-Mer, instantly characterised as a seaside tourist refuge of dubious aesthetic appeal. Avoiding theme parks, gaudy bars and side streets full of souvenir shops, we stretched our legs on the waterfront, taking in the cluster of swimmers sampling the Med. This, like the rest of Saintes Maries-sur-la-Mer, did not tempt us. After a thirst-quenching citron pressé, we proceeded to Arles. We’d booked a hotel on the right bank of the Rhône river for around €70 a night. A selling point was the free roadside parking compared with €15 per night had we booked accommodation on the other bank. When we walked across the bridge into the old town and saw the narrow streets and the lack of parking opportunities, it confirmed our choice was a good one. And the hotel itself – although rated two-star – was more than adequate. Initially, we could not find any street parking and positioned the car in front of a closed garage. The receptionist, a pleasant smiling woman, assured us there would be spaces available as soon as children were collected from a nearby school. Her faith was rewarded. Twenty minutes later we had a spot almost within touching distance of the hotel entrance. That evening we wandered the old town, stopping in the Place du Forum for a meal at Café La Nuit – otherwise named Café Van Gogh – the very café painted by the great man in the late summer of 1888 during his creative burst in Arles that produced over 300 works of his stupendous art. Danièle ordered a chicken dish with vegetables and I was entertained with casserole de taureau, alias bull stew. Washed down with a carafe of rosé, the meal rose to no great heights but, as I was gently reminded, we had plonked ourselves in tourist heartland – so haute cuisine was unlikely. Surrendering to the sweet tooth, I took a Café Gourmand – coffee accompanied by small portions of a variety of desserts. Nothing like the magnificent selection I consumed at Bistro Le 5 in Ménerbes but we paid significantly less and, after a long day driving and exploring, we were relieved to be off our feet. Next morning, after a forgettable hotel breakfast, we headed back on foot across the bridge to the Arles amphitheatre. Bypassing hordes of school students, we purchased the €12 pass which entitled us to visit four monuments and two museums. Climbing the tower at the amphitheatre gives fine views across the river, nearby countryside and the rooftops of the city. Scaffolded seating (the amphitheatre is still used for bullfights) compromises the impression inside but you can stroll the circumference under an arched passage way and better appreciate the original structure. We then walked the short distance to the Roman Theatre Antique - in far greater ruin than the amphitheatre yet fascinating (and actually enhanced by running commentary offered on a standing screen near the entrance). After some searching we found the crypts, which turned out to be accessible from the passageway near the Hotel de Ville. These extensive tunnels and former storage areas are well worth a decko. Completing our Roman tour, we had a quick squizz inside the Baths of Constantine – whose remnants convey a tangible sense of Roman life over a century before Christ was born. After browsing in a wonderful bookshop – where Danièle confessed she could have spent a lot of money – we returned to the Hotel Dieu, stumbled upon by accident earlier in the morning. This former hospital (which had Van Gogh as a patient) has a beautiful garden set under lindenbaum trees and surrounded by a quadrangle adorned with yellow and blue painted arches. We ate lunch at a creperie, while a posse of teachers tried to inhibit noisy school children from nicking postcards from the next-door gift shop. For a grand total of €10 each we dispatched a sour and then a sweet crêpe, washed down with traditional cider. Heading home we ignored Audrey’s instructions and took the D99 the direction of Cavaillon. A much more pleasant drive, long stretches of the road lined by imposing platanes – the stately plane trees that form long avenues in the French countryside. After crossing the bridge over the River Durance and bypassing Cavaillon, we pulled up at the Bio-Co-op - our preferred organic store. Selling everything from fruit and vegetables to meat products, cosmetics, pharmaceutical items, an array of cheeses, yoghurts and other dairy produce as well as beer, bread and wine, this unprepossessing shop has been one of the finds of our travels. Unlike in Australia where organic and preservative-free wines are tucked away in a corner of the average liquor store, this Bio Co-op displayed the full face of two walls crammed with organic and biodynamic vintages. I found myself sneaking a different brand of rosé into our trolley each time we called by. **** We close and lock the door to 30 Rue Marcellin Poncet. The street is silent. A giant forklift stands stationary in the parking space adjacent to the tourist bureau, its long arm bent in a V shape. Soon the workmen will arrive and resume re-tiling of the roof. The door to Monsieur Auguste’s epicerie is open. Yesterday he appeared in loafers, stylish shorts and a pale-yellow shirt. Add a panama hat and we could imagine a quintessential dapper Frenchman, cruising the Aegean Sea. Yet it is not his holiday time. Save for Sunday, when the green doors are closed and the awning retracted, he is always open for business. Over the weeks, though our conversations have not gained traction, the impassive face that first greeted us has softened. Now and then we even get a smile. It’s 8.30 in the morning, not a soul to be seen. We walk past the other epicerie and the corner restaurant before swivelling sharp right up the hill, past Maison Jane Eakin – former residence of an American painter who came here as a young woman and remained for forty years. We are on our morning walk – a leisurely amble around the hillside at the eastern end of the village. A flagstone indicates we are on the Chemin Pieds des Moustiers. Flowering jasmine and wisteria clamber for sunlight. Wooden shutters and entry doors are painted a uniform lilac, softening the grey walls. The sun is up but for the most part we are shaded, first by the houses and terraces that hug the left-hand side of the path and then by dry-stone walls and clumps of foliage, as the path takes us out of the village. Much of the greenery is chêne blanc – the stunted white oak prolific throughout Provence. Its sharply-pointed leaves and grey-brown bark reminds us of banksia. Often the oak, as with many of the larger trees, is strangled with ivy. Much of the foliage has that dark-green European look. My Swiss companion identifies houx (holly) and buis (boxwood). Occasionally she stops to pick clumps of rosemary and thyme. There are still coquelicots (red poppies) on the side of the road but the orchids appear to be finished. A few weeks ago they were everywhere – three or four species along this walk alone. As we come over the rise and the bitumen surface gives way to white limestone, the road is blocked by a compact tractor with an extendable arm. We smile at the young man as we ease our way past. He is trimming the grass on the edges – and decapitating Danièle ’s stocks of herbs in the process. Down in the valley all is still. Through the trees we can see farmhouses and vineyards. In the more spacious areas along the ridge there are olive groves. Most properties have impressive iron gates, strung between formidable stone pillars. Tucked out of sight are residential villas, some of which we speculate have absentee owners. Trolling property websites I’d came across one such property for sale at 895,000 euros. Described as ‘very bright and pleasant to live in’, this extensive villa, with swimming pool, is set on five acres of land containing fig, olive and cypress trees. Probably owned by a Parisian, if Peter Mayle’s assessment still holds water. Rounding the corner, we are afforded fine views of forest and farmland. Somewhere in that direction stood Mayle’s original house. Having finally succumbed to reading A Year in Provence, I now know he did not live in the village itself but somewhere between Ménerbes and Bonnieux. And I must confess to deriving a modicum of pleasure from the book, probably because much of what he describes rings bells for us. We head down the slope through the heavily wooded section, mostly pine and beech amongst the ubiquitous oak trees. Here, on the darker side, it’s more humid and the trees are significantly larger. The old stone terraces are overgrown. Fungi the size of saucers burst through the moist earth. Each day I seem to encounter a bunch of imitation midges in the same spot. For a few metres they surround me, and then are gone. In the farm above, a dog barks once or twice and wags his tail. We wish the abandoned hound who inhabits an enclosed garden below our bedroom and persistently yaps in the dead of night would learn similar respect. We re-enter the village above the car park. The German Volvo, British van and one or two French cars occupy their usual spots on the edge of the embankment. Grapevines twist vertically upwards alongside downpipes. Most houses have large flowerpots containing roses, bougainvillea, hydrangeas or various kinds of shrubs. Our walk lasts three quarters of an hour. Apart from the man on his tractor, we have seen neither person nor animal nor vehicle. **** Sometimes in the evenings, after our meal, we wander up through the village. Ménerbes has its human roots in the Neolithic (late Stone) Age. Dolmen or stone shelters, capped with a large single stone, have been identified. A classified monument, the Dolmen de la Pitchoune, can be found nearby on the Chemin des Renards, just off the D3. As the Roman occupation spread west, the village became a stopover on the Via Domitia, linking Rome with Cadiz on the coast. As with other villages in the region, there is ample evidence of fortification. The grey tower of the former castle looks impregnable. We thought we would pop in for a visit but the chain across the small courtyard confirmed the building is in private hands. Standing slightly to the west, the Church of St Luke was rebuilt in the 16th century. Its doors are also closed. From 1573 to 1578 the village was under siege. A small group of Protestant Huguenots rose up against papal rule. For five years they literally held the fort until overwhelming Catholic numbers forced them to come to an accommodation. We are not sure what that involved. None of this is evident today. Yet walking the narrow streets, you cannot help but get a good sense of the historical past. Houses have been meticulously restored and maintained. (Apprenticeship as a mason would seem to be an enduring path to job security.) Villagers dwell behind closed doors and often the only sounds that we could hear those of a TV, albeit thankfully muted. Tiny courtyards are tucked away like treasures, adorned with flowers and herbs. Some houses have terraces facing into the valley. One or two even have swimming pools although this comes across as an aberration. Action (for want of a better word) occurs in the Café de Progrès where locals gossip at the bar and tourists make for the outside terrace with the panoramic views. In our self-contained luxury we are not drawn either to the bar or to the view, preferring the morning conviviality of the Café de la Poste in Goult when we felt like a touch of vicarious socialising. With long hours of daylight these evening strolls seem very European. Although it is mid-June the streets are not crowded. In fact, we find ourselves worrying about the cash flow of some of the small businesses. Perhaps we need not concern ourselves. Either the proprietors are adept at putting on a display of stoicism or they are quite relaxed in the expectation the tills will start ringing come July and August. Like all French villages and towns, Ménerbes has its memorial to fallen soldiers. Early on, I also noticed a couple of streets bearing men’s names and dates of martyrdom. These turned out to be French resistance fighters who were either killed in action or executed by the Nazis. Our own street is named after a local Frenchman, Marcellin Poncet, who became a ‘victime de nazisme’ on 26 April 1944. While in Cèreste we walked past the birthplace of French poet, René Char – a respected Resistance leader, code-named Alexandre. These historical indicators are found across the region, especially as guerrilla fighters - the redoubtable Maquis - were extremely active in this part of France. **** It’s an easy half-hour drive to Lioux. I am now navigating without Audrey. We – the humans in the car - find there is more value in arguing with one another than berating a GPS navigator who has a quaint idea of direction. Audrey, in our short experience with her, is inherently confused by the complex country road network, not to mention the plethora of obscure chemins and paths that twist and snake off in improbable directions. We can’t blame her. Barely a day goes by we don’t get lost. Often, we arrive at what appears on our map as a well- marked parking place only to find we are on the wrong road. We consult the map, turn around, retrace our route, scratch our heads, and bemoan the inevitable fact that whatever has been shown on the map has not been translated into a sign on the land itself. C’est la bloody vie. We repair to the nearest village, hoping there is a café open, and reconcile ourselves to our regular walk in Ménerbes, if a fallback position becomes necessary. But on this morning we are in Lioux by 9.30. In a fit of optimism, we have eschewed the usual thermos and sandwich. In our collective heads we will walk for a couple of hours, drive on to Murs where madame has her eye on a piece of pottery, then head back home for a leisurely lunch……. Well, that was the plan. As we approach the village via the D60, our goal looms high and undeniably handsome. The Falaises de la Madelaine, a sheer rock escarpment that rises sharply from the valley floor and spreads north-east for a kilometre or two, casting a long shadow over the fields and farmhouses below. It looks like a first-class base camp for trainee mountaineers. Danièle noses the car cautiously through the village. Nothing to be seen until we turn a corner to find a workman in a fluorescent shirt blocking the road. We can’t go any further. Resurfacing is happening. Unfussed, we park in the shade, swap our sandals for walking shoes and head back on foot. I am already of the firm view there is no way you can get me to the top of this mini-mountain. Besides, there is a pressing need that calls me into the bushes, bypassing an elderly nun who is attempting to soothe her cat; neither human nor feline accustomed to the sight of a wandering Australian heading downhill with a certain urgency. A little later we resume our perambulation which leads us past the cemetery and up to a bulky stone tower which had been signposted as a ‘moulin’. Expecting another ancient mill, we are surprised by the ‘private property’ sign and the chain barring the entrance. Clearly the mill had been rejuvenated into either a holiday cottage or the home of a local resident. At that point I am under the clear impression we would do the sensible thing and return to the vehicle. As luck (or ill-luck) has it, a robust bunch of senior citizens emerges from the bushes. They seem to be mostly American and assure us the walk along the ridge at the top of the escarpment is both enjoyable and easy. My dearest needs no further encouragement and strides off ahead. Grumbling about the lack of consultation, I lurch along in her wake. Already I regret we’d not brought the thermos as it was obvious there was not an open café within a 5 km radius. We walk for the best part of an hour. I am obliged to admit the 360° views are stupendous. To the south, the blue contours of the Petit Luberon and to the north the more heavily forested slopes of the Vaucluse. In between, a series of hills interspersed with large swathes of vineyards, lavender fields and hedgerows. To the west, we make out Gordes – an overrated town, in the eyes of some. Happily, the rocky path is set well back from the precipitous edge. Most of my resistance stems from anticipatory vertigo, and as we proceed I began to relax. A perfect Provence day, with a gentle breeze and full sun. Along the ridge the scrubby vegetation and pink pig-face gave way to larger trees. We keep lookout for a path down to the village. Nothing to be seen – just a sheer drop. We press on, sweating and keeping bad thoughts to ourselves. Finally, the track heads left and downwards. We emerge adjacent to a farm, encountering a handful of fellow-wanderers. Danièle checks up on our whereabouts while I hold a silent conversation with a couple of goats penned nearby. ‘You have a chauffeur’, calls out one of the ladies as I approach. It is true. We are driven back to Lioux by a French holidaymaker who makes light of the mammoth machines and freshly rolled bitumen. He and his family, he tells us, are renting a place with a swimming pool down in the valley. If we want somewhere to eat, the bistro in Joucas is just the ticker. ‘Our lucky day’, we chorus in unison. A cool breeze ruffles the broad leaves of the tree shading our lunch venue. Our view from the bistro’s terrace stretches across a sea of vines, flanked by deep green hedges. Yes, it is a lucky day. While I had gone back to move the car from sun to a shady spot, my adroit companion manages to snare a table just ahead of a group of wannabe diners seeking places at this popular eating outlet. She obviously charms the dapper wait-person, for a few minutes later he offers us a place with an improved vista. A couple have cancelled because it’s ‘too hot’. We accept with alacrity. Obviously, we missed the correct descent to Lioux and had it not been for our friendly chauffeur, we would have faced a long, hot walk back to the car. And his tip for lunch is spot on. When he shows up later with his wife and child and another couple, we give him the thumbs up. ***** Not all of our walking adventures have turned out as well as the one described above. I still cringe when I think of a warm afternoon at the cedar forest, on the summit of the Petit Luberon. Our friend Kim had suggested we park halfway up the road after turning off the main route to Lourmarin. That would leave us an ‘easy stroll’ to the top and from there through the forest to the lookout point. Accordingly, I parked the car and we set off on the hot tarmac. It turned out to be nearly 4 km uphill. At the peak, the good woman was in full throttle and wanted to press on but I had had enough. Leaving our bemused friends, I marched tersely back down the hill to fetch the car. On the drive home there was an irresistible urge to sulk. Navigation, as I have alluded, has rarely been our strong suit. We make a habit of losing ourselves in the vicinity of Buoux. On one occasion we drove in circles looking for the start of what should have been a pleasant walk. Eventually we consulted a middle-aged woman leaving a driveway. She turned out to be a Jehovah’s Witness and my wife came away with scant information about the walk but a handful of religious tracts. She was more successful with two men who were walking a couple of kilometres into Bonnieux to buy bread. They directed us to the start of a little chemin where we left the car and headed off between stone walls and properties until the path narrowed and became a rocky track heading downhill. When Danièle stopped to take a photo, I continued ahead. Of course, I managed to get off course, while she spotted the yellow signs and followed the correct route. For about half an hour we lost one another and this did nothing for anxiety levels. Yet there were other instances where all went well. I think of our trip to the Fontaine de la Vaucluse. With Michèle, we walked along the rushing Sorgue River to its source – a silent pool that emanates from far beneath the earth. The pool itself is nothing special and the walk from the village is short. But the towering cliff face and the power of the river are captivating. After a coffee-break we started our proper trek, a circuit that meandered through forest and rocky outcrops before winding its way back to the village. We hardly saw anyone – another couple and a lone cyclist, if my memory serves me. At Vaugines, east of Lourmarin, we set off with great assurance and missed a left turn. Twenty minutes down the track we consulted with some bike riders who were also examining their map. When we did find the correct trail we enjoyed a flat cross-country amble to Cucuron, pausing briefly to converse with a bronzed paysan tending his vines. He confirmed it was a lousy Spring for farmers. With the unseasonable amount of rain, the cherries would burst and the grapes lacked sunshine. In a well-shaded central square, sitting by a walled pond or etang, we broke open the morning provisions before exploring the village. Like some others we’d visited, Cucuron - for whatever reason - was verging upon dormant. Our two bread-seeking benefactors near Bonnieux had given us the tip: Your walking map is useless. Get one with a scale 1:25000 – which we duly did. It didn’t solve every problem but it sure helped. From Céreste we drove up the Grand Luberon and actually found the proper parking place at the start of a designated walk. We set off in good spirits but soon found the signage deficient. Relying on our new map we took an unmarked trail and eventually linked up with one that carried the normal markings. It had only taken us a month to get properly prepared. Closer to Ménerbes, we explored Les Travasses, a labyrinth of ancient terraces and stone shelters near Goult. On an earlier walk with Jules and Jan we bypassed this short detour, thinking we had enough on our plate. But we were glad we went back. Private ownership has restored the terraces – replete with olive trees, wildflowers and other vegetation. Again, we were left marvelling at the ingenuity and perseverance of the folk who worked and lived on these slopes in centuries gone by. It may have helped that I was already fortified with coffee and croissants from the Café de la Poste. **** We have two days left here. I still feel a stranger to the culture and the people but the physical impressions, after nearly six weeks, are much stronger and clearly formed. When you are in a place for a couple of days a few things may stick in your mind. But often the impressions fade quickly once you leave. That’s the nature of being a tourist. Here, having sat outside on our terrace each day and gazed down into the valley, having walked our regular circuit through the village and around the hillside, having driven each Sunday to the Coustellet market, having wound our way up to Goult and to Gordes, as well as negotiated the local roads and travelled down the D900 to or through Apt - there is much that I can see clearly in my mind’s eye. Many of these images are bound to fade; others may not. Some of the memories are very specific. The Corsican who bowled up to us when we arrived at Viens. In mock formality he sought my permission before kissing Danièle and telling her what a fine specimen she was. Fifteen minutes later he was still spouting away. It took all of our strength – there were four of us at the time – to make our excuses and proceed with our expedition. There is also the wizened old lady with short cropped hair who we met on our longer circuit from Ménerbes. Accompanied by a boisterous black dog on a leash and another more elderly canine who followed at a safe distance, she carried an overflowing basket of lucerne. ‘For my rabbits’, she told us. ‘I still follow the old ways.’ On the other side of the ledger, Michèle took us one evening to the fancy Bistro Le 5, overlooking the valley north of the village. With white tablecloths and smart wait-staff, this eating establishment provided a quality of food that even the French consider top shelf. We settled in for an extended stay, culminating (in my case) with coffee and a selection of delicate and exquisite desserts. Michèle’s influence – or was it mutual? – took us to Domaine de la Citadelle, an organic winery on the doorstep of our village. We sampled with abandon and came away with half a dozen bottles and a pink apron. I don’t think it had anything to do with my rosé intake but there have been occasional events in the kitchen that had my wife splitting her sides (or tearing her hair, depending on the circumstance). Unfortunately, the house sports an oversensitive smoke alarm that we have managed to set off on a regular basis. Doors are opened in a hurry, hands flap uselessly at the smoke, and we anticipate the imminent arrival of the Fire Brigade. Thankfully the noise disappears before the villagers descend upon us. Pasta, you might think, is the simplest of meals. I agree. But, in poor light, one should wear one’s glasses when pouring tomato sauce into the pasta. Sans spectacles, I poured away merrily until I abruptly realised I’d emptied half a jar of honey – expensive chestnut honey at that. Though I served the results up without a word spoken, it took my beloved about three seconds to exclaim: ‘What the hell have you done to this meal?’ Needless to say, she is not an admirer of sweetened pasta. Well, I’m happy to report we have since moved on from that minor domestic interlude – and soon we will move on from Ménerbes, the Luberon and the delights of Provence. Will we return? I can only respond with a Gallic shrug. Qui sait? Who knows? ***** Percolating in Provence – Part One
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