​                            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.

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        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.
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      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.
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      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.

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​​      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.
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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.
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    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.
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    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.
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    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
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    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.
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   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

1. Causation: How did I win the lottery and contract GBS? It remains a mystery. The heavy cold in mid-October may have contributed. Perhaps there was an undetected virus in the stomach (bearing in mind it’s still unclear what precipitated the pain in my upper right abdomen). Did the shoulder issue have anything to do with it? It’s hard to join the dots.

 

1. Symptoms: My initial symptoms – numbness in the feet and pins and needles in arms, legs and hands, together with unsteadiness when walking – are consistent with rapid onset GBS. I did not experience pain from muscle cramping between the shoulder blades or in the lower back or thighs that Parry and Steinberg say is present in 30% of GBS patients. Yet I did have an antecedent issue with my left shoulder and I did experience pain in my calves when walking. I still wonder whether there is any connection between the shoulder complaint - which we have assumed from the MRI to be a nerve issue stemming from the C6/7 bulging in the neck.

 

1. Diagnosis: Is it 100% clear I have GBS and, if so, is there a specific form? Again, clinical findings and the range of tests seem to leave room to move. On my discharge summary the ‘principal diagnosis’ is given as acute inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy – and under ‘comments’ it states: ‘? Early Miller Fisher variant of GBS’. Further in the report it states the MRI of my spine is consistent with AIDP. Yet, when I had the nerve conduction study, the attending neurologist dismissed the idea of Miller Fisher. And my reading suggests the condition known as chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy (CIDP) could constitute a revised diagnosis if a relapse occurs over time. I raised this on 16 January when I returned to Fiona Stanley as an outpatient. Dr Y, the neurologist, examined me and later went from the room to consult with Dr J. Her view, as related to me by Dr Y, was that I did not have the Miller Fisher variant and neither was it likely my condition would be chronic. Usually, a relapse within the first four weeks after initial treatment would be an indicator of CIDP and in my case that had not occurred.

 

1. Recovery: What factors are important? Parry and Steinberg say ‘recovery of strength typically begins 2 to 4 weeks after maximum weakness is reached. It may begin without an obvious plateau of weakness in mild cases. The patient may remain quite weak for several months in severe cases. Severity of weakness and the rate and degree of recovery vary enormously…… In mild cases, complete recovery may occur over a few weeks, while in other cases it can take years.’ When I read that, I queried Dr K’s classification of my condition as ‘mild’. I am unsure where my recovery is at. Though I have noted a ‘huge improvement’ in the fortnight following my exit from hospital, the symptoms I currently experience are numerous:

 

• Lack of mobility – a big issue for one who loves to walk. I still use a stick on longer walks, mainly for a sense of security. But my legs – the right one in particular – are weak and wobbly;
• Lack of energy – not much change in fatigue levels over the past couple of months;
• Lack of balance – not a big issue but I need to be careful walking down the stairs or on uneven ground. And to put on a pair of pants I need to sit down – I can’t balance sufficiently on one leg.
• Numbness prevalent in feet and toes – the left foot more than the right. When I wake up this feeling is much more obvious – something of a ‘clubfoot’ which seems to abate to some extent when I start moving about. As things stand, I am not up to driving a car;
• Tingling in the legs, arms and fingers – moving my arms into certain positions exacerbates this – and brushing fingers or toes against something feels as if I have sand paper on my skin surface;
• Weakness and soreness in the left arm, particularly the muscles in the upper arm;
• Pain in the thighs and hamstrings when I attempt to squat or bend down low.

 
    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.

1. Nerve function: How does repair occur? There seem to be two aspects – the myelin sheath and the axon. The latter is an electrical cable or nerve fibre that transmits messages from the brain to the muscles in the form of electrical impulses. The cable is protected by the myelin sheath, which is not continuous but consist of multiple segments of myelin, each separated by a tiny gap. A ‘short-circuit’ occurs when the myelin sheath is stripped away from the underlying axon. The message fails to reach the muscle, causing weakness. In recovery, the myelin regenerates – at first thinly and then becoming thicker over time and more effective as an insulator. If damage has occurred to the axons, repair can take much longer. How much longer is a question mark?

 
     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.

1. Rehabilitation: When to push and not to push? The consensus seems to be that while it is important to rebuild and retrain muscles, GBS patients typically fatigue easily and it’s counter-productive to exercise once fatigue sets in. Certainly, this has been the advice of my physiotherapist and reinforced by the neurologists. But it’s a delicate dance. Perhaps I have erred on the side of caution and yet at the same time, I managed to wreck my ankle when I became inattentive and overconfident. I suspect each person will find an exercise regime that fits their particular situation. My daily routine, apart from the early morning swim, is somewhat erratic but in the first two months after release from hospital, I have built up my walking from ten minutes to half an hour while maintaining short sessions of undemanding yoga.

 

1. Other issues – the heart: I had an ECG both with Dr G and again in Fiona Stanley. On both occasions there was slight irregularity. Parry and Steinberg mention that with ‘patients with GBS, the heart may beat too slowly, too rapidly, or it may beat irregularly.…… This is not, in itself, dangerous, but it is an indication of autonomic nerve involvement that may precede a more dangerous abnormality of cardiac rate or rhythm.’…… And further on: ‘rates that remain consistently above 130/140 beats/minute can be dangerous.’ I note no mention of my heart appears in my discharge records. At the outpatient appointment on 16 January, Dr Y indicated it was not unusual to have irregularity in the course of treatment and there was nothing I need to be concerned about.

 

1. Diet: Are there foods or beverages to be avoided? This was not covered in my time in hospital and neither have I found mention in the literature. I have read or heard that people with a good immune system can actually be candidates for conditions like GBS. It seems counterintuitive but can be explained along the lines of the efficient immune system trying to correct something swiftly – and then taking a wrong turn. A less efficient system may not react so promptly or in that same manner. Away from hospital I have had all manner of advice on diet. One friend, whose husband was belatedly diagnosed with lupus, has found the Wahls' Protocol to be of immense benefit. This comprises a large intake of vegetable and fruit juices, as well as good meat products. It eschews grains and dairy, much like the popular Paleo diet. I have not gone down that route and while I am open to taking products like Floradix to help with iron levels in the blood, and magnesium tablets to correct an imbalance found by the naturopath, I have not been convinced to move away from a regular, healthy food intake.

 

1. Other modalities: What might speed recovery? A friend who teaches Qi Gong swears by this practice which, apart from the physical movements, also involves using the mind to send positive signals to affected areas of the body. It’s not my thing but it could work for others. My wife’s yoga teacher reckons his practice can assist in ‘firing up the nerves’. It sounds like a good idea, if only I knew what it meant. The same applies to Pilates. Prior to my shoulder issue, we went to Reformer Pilates once a week and I found it both enjoyable and beneficial. I’m contemplating a return, perhaps with a modified regime. Certainly, my physiotherapist is in favour. But the ankle has held me back for the moment.

 

1. GBS research: How can I be of use, if at all? This long account of my experience to date could form the basis of a case study. I’ve not come across any GBS support groups in Western Australia and neither am I aware of any current research project. This is an area I would like to explore. When I raised this with Dr Y, and she consulted with Dr J, I was told that GBS was adequately researched and my proposed case study was not required. I must say this surprised me, and I intend to look into it further. If there have been around 90 cases of GBS in Western Australia every year, then that amounts to 1800 over the past two decades alone. One would think that  represents a significant enough figure to warrant interest from the medical schools of our universities, not to mention our hospitals.

       
       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.
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    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.

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Trigger warning: what you are about to read contains no references to super sex, super consciousness, or super-ego, and minimal references to who or what was responsible for the demise of a much-discussed commune in central Oregon. However – there are frequent references to obscure concepts like ‘waking up’ and ‘growing up’…….. And also some discussion about ‘cleaning up’ and ‘showing up’. What’s more – and the ghost of a dear departed American sannyasin-prankster may well be smiling – we will try to keep in mind that oft–forgotten attitude – ‘lighten up’.

Many readers will be familiar with these terms. Others may not. Yet I think the ideas behind such slogans can be extremely helpful to those who have an interest in or impetus towards spiritual exploration.

Why am I writing about this? The raging debate following the release of the documentary Wild Wild Country is a major prompt. The legacy of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh – later known as Osho - is at stake. Many people have posted quotations from Osho to support their opinions. Others have taken the view that no matter what their Master said or did, his presence in their lives was a huge positive and they have no regrets. Across the orange divide, some folk have debunked or devalued the experience or expressed their chagrin they were foolish enough to get involved in the first place. And a growing number of correspondents have tried to bring the conversation back to the present and ponder what, if anything, has been learnt?

My broad interest lies in the last-mentioned category. What follows will be an attempt to evaluate Osho’s teachings in so far as they apply to me personally and (gasp, gasp!) how they have been received by others with whom I share this common (and complicated) past.   Let it be said at the outset my glasses are anything but rose-coloured. While I have no regrets having been part of a somewhat spectacular shindig, I believe there were key elements lacking in what was communicated or encouraged by the guru himself and these had a lot to do with Osho’s own background and preferences.

Waking Up

When we are attracted to a spiritual teacher our primary focus is usually upon some form of ‘awakening ‘or ‘enlightenment’. This is the carrot the teacher dangles in front of us. We might glean this initially from the teacher’s words or writings and it can be confirmed when we are physically present with the teacher. Something ineffable draws us like moths to the flame. A mysterious transmission of which we may have a ‘felt sense’ (to misappropriate Eugene Gendlin’s phrase).  A resonance with both the teacher and his or her message, and simultaneously a kind of disappearance into a deep silence in which time and space are absent. Broadly speaking, we are being urged to ‘wake up’ to the true nature of Reality.

Now, while those of you who have been on a spiritual search may not take issue with that last sentence, there are many folk for whom the expression ‘the true nature of Reality’ will be at best woolly metaphysics and at worst completely meaningless. (Most of us have friends and relations who fall into that category.) It’s not my intention here to delve into this subject but simply to acknowledge that the promise of awakening or enlightenment is a promise of transformation – a transformation generally highlighted by an individual recognising on a deep level that he or she is not merely a separate body-mind organism but exists as formless consciousness, outside of time and space. Part of the role of the teacher is to guide students towards that goal and offer techniques (of which meditation practices are normally front and centre) designed to make those students more ‘enlightenment–prone’.

This focus on the ‘waking up’ is not accidental. It is the bedrock of the great wisdom traditions, going back thousands of years. ‘Reality’ is not simply what we humans apprehend with our senses or think about with our minds, but is composed of various levels – from matter to body to mind to soul and to spirit. In the evolutionary process, we can evolve within and from each of these dimensions - and if we are lucky, through some kind of divine grace, we will awaken to our true nature. This worldview was dubbed ‘the perennial philosophy’ by Aldous Huxley who noted the many similarities between religious and philosophical traditions spread across different epochs and cultures. Perhaps Socrates sums it up best: ‘Know thyself’.

‘The Good’ - Rajneesh Ashram – Poona 1974-1981

Osho, who states he became enlightened when he was twenty-one, left an academic career in philosophy to become a spiritual teacher. By the time he took up residence in the Poona ashram in 1974 he had numerous Indian and Western disciples. He had also developed and refined a range of radical meditation practices, of which Dynamic Meditation was the most prominent.

Within the ashram, these practices were supplemented with therapeutic or quasi-therapeutic group work (along with individual sessions). Many of the group leaders had honed their skills in personal growth centres such as Esalen in California. Complementing the therapeutic work, ashram attendees could be allocated meditation-style groups such as Vipassana and self-enquiry groups such as Enlightenment Intensive.

This smorgasbord was designed to cover all spiritual and psychological bases. Osho had the insight to recognise that Western disciples, in particular, were not steeped in a culture where meditation was given prominence. To expose them prematurely to contemplative practices could be counter-productive.  As a first step, they needed to be shaken out of their ego-centred, individually-oriented conditioning. Hence the therapeutic focus.

I think the general consensus among those of us who spent time in what is described as ‘Poona One’ is that we benefited immensely. I certainly did. Prior to arriving in the ashram I’d done some yoga and psychodrama as well as therapeutic and self-enquiry groups at the sannyasin centre on the outskirts of Perth. But it was in Poona – with groups like Encounter, Tantra and Awareness – that I was shaken loose from my moorings. It was as if one was put through a crash program in psychology, bodywork and energy experiences. A program that was confronting, exhilarating, frightening yet ultimately liberating. In a very short time I learnt more about myself than I had in the previous thirty years.

For most of us, group work had a short life span and only formed part of our Poona story. Those who stayed for longer periods usually worked in the ashram. Our day began with an Osho discourse. Here we would sit in silence for an hour and a half. This was no ordinary silence. In an auditorium containing a thousand or so individuals a deep peace descended. It was as if we shared a common vibration. In Osho’s presence a hidden transmission seemed to be taking place. One felt enriched and whole; emptied and energised.

At the end of our working day, we might sing and dance at Music Group. This moving, pulsating, free-flowing expression came as a perfect finale after a period of focusing on our particular jobs. And then, intermittently, we could attend an evening darshan – which meant sitting in the presence of Osho as well as communicating with him directly at short range. Later, the introduction of ‘energy darshans’ added another dimension to the raft of experiences available to the disciple.

I cannot overstate the importance of this period. It was not simply the sexual feast that outside commentators tended to focus upon – although the opportunity (and necessity) to explore sexuality and relationship attachments was integral to the teaching. As a diverse collection of folk from many countries – most of us relatively affluent and certainly fortunate in our circumstances – we gelled together within an open-hearted community. It is no exaggeration to say it felt like a homecoming.

Of course there were downsides. Those of us who had children were not always as attentive as we should have been to their well-being. Recent stories from the children themselves confirm this and they also have exposed a shadow side that did not necessarily augur well for their future development. There were also those not suited to the in-your-face nature of some of the group work and they became psychological casualties. And, convinced we had found the path to the truth, many of us neglected family and friends in our countries of origin. Unsurprisingly, our spiritual arrogance created a gulf.

In summary, I surmise that most who dived into that well would claim the Poona experience changed them irrevocably – and changed them for the better.

Poona – The Warning Signs

In those days I think the vast majority of disciples who lived in or around the ashram had no doubt Osho ran the show and knew what was needed for us individually and collectively. We accepted that he saw beyond what we could see. If anything felt amiss or questionable we reassured ourselves (or were swiftly told) this was a ‘device’ – a test Osho had put in front of us. If we felt inclined to argue the toss, this was our ego getting in the way. We were not ‘surrendered’.

It is worth spending a moment or two talking about ‘surrender’. Like virtually every idea or concept in spiritual circles, this notion is frequently misconstrued. To some people it might be reduced to a mere ‘do as you’re told’. You follow willingly, assuming you are responding to an unseen or higher purpose – even though that purpose appears obscure or absurd. (One thinks of Gurdjieff’s students being asked to dig a huge hole and in the next breath being instructed to fill it in. A seemingly meaningless exercise and a waste of energy – yet providing those students with an opportunity to look at whatever resistance or mind-commentary arose.) Around Osho, the bogey of ‘resistance’ was often bandied about, particularly in the workplace. Men – ruled in the main by ashram women – were particularly susceptible to that pernicious label.

But how one responded or reacted to apparently bizarre instructions is crucial. Satya Bharti (Jill Franklin) in her book Death Comes Dancing offers an explanation:

‘Surrendering to a situation, surrendering to existence, doesn’t mean you just stop functioning. It may mean surrendering to the conflicts that arise, surrendering to your own power trip, your own resentments, your own ugliness. Surrender doesn’t mean avoidance. Sometimes it may mean confrontation. Surrendering to what’s inside of you so you can get rid of it.’

I would add one caveat to Satya’s comments. It is relatively easy, particularly in a spiritual community, to assume someone else knows best. After all, you are there to learn and potentially transform. You place your trust in the hands of your guru and those appointed to carry out their work. But, I would argue, it is fatal if this trust becomes unquestioning and unconditional. Your inner authority will be compromised and, if this becomes a pattern, so will your connection with your guru. We will return to this subject when talking about the Oregon commune.

In the initial incarnation of the Poona ashram, some disciples experienced situations, received directions or knew about matters that stuck in their craw. Rumours swirled that the ashram heavyweights turned a blind eye to drug smuggling and prostitution by sannyasins who donated money as a result. A purported sexual assault upon a sannyasin woman and a fire in a warehouse containing Osho’s books seemed suspicious, to say the least. We – the disciples – tended to shrug off these rumours. In the broad scheme of things, such activities, if they were true, seemed relatively innocuous and any overtones of criminality or unethical behaviour were subsumed to the greater good. The same was true for sham marriages and the ashram playing fast and loose with its charitable status (in order to avoid significant tax on its earnings).

Meanwhile, relations with the Indian authorities and the populace at large grew worse. Osho stirred things up by criticising the Hindu religion and political and religious figures, including Mahatma Gandhi. There was a certain truth in his observations, however intemperately expressed. We listened, laughed, and applauded his jokes and his jibes.

I’m not sure many of us, even if we had known the full extent of the mischievous goings-on, would have protested. We were in a mystery school, as it was called. Our spiritual growth was of paramount importance and we were sure Osho kept his hand on the tiller. If it was all right with him, then it was all right with us. In a very real sense we were co-creating the conditions that took abhorrent behaviour to extreme levels in Oregon.

Rajneeshpuram – ‘The Ranch’ 1981-1985

Early in 1981, Osho went into silence. We were told he had reached the final stage in his work and would not be speaking in public again. This came as a huge shock. We were addicted to the morning discourse and could not easily contemplate an eternally silent Master.

Word got out the withdrawal was a result of Osho badly hurting his back. He remained immobile in his room for a month before sitting with his disciples in silent satsang. Unbeknown to almost everybody, a major, unthinkable move was afoot. In the middle of that year Osho left for America, ostensibly for back treatment. We then came to learn that a new commune would be established in central Oregon.

Much has been written and shown about the rise and demise of Rajneeshpuram. It will probably become a textbook case in the annals of spiritual literature. Certainly it is already in that bracket for those who dismiss all new religious endeavours as intrinsically cultic. My purpose here is not to cover well-worn ground. Rather it is to examine whether and how Osho’s teachings were enhanced or diminished in the commune phase that followed his departure from India.

I arrived at the Ranch in September 1981, after a couple of weeks at the castle in New Jersey. Conditions were primitive. As winter approached I recall us eating outside, dressed in thick jumpsuits, and trying to catch our mugs of beer as they slid on a layer of ice that formed on the plastic tabletops. Somewhat different to the laid-back canteen in Poona!

No morning discourse, no evening darshan, no music group, no sitting on the ashram wall waiting for a date. Work, work, work. I loved it! For months, if not years, we had been fed the dream of the ‘new commune’.  Here it was – 126 square miles of sagebrush and juniper and rocky outcrops, scoured creek beds and splendid isolation. We – less than a hundred of us at that time – took it all in, alternating between excitement and apprehension. This was our new reality. If we were to have a new commune, we had to build it ourselves.

That, of course, is what happened. Those of us who lived and worked there became justifiably proud of our achievement. One thing the WWC documentary has brought home to others who were not there is the scale of the project. Various people have commented that, although they had read about the Ranch, they had no clear idea of the physical dimensions and the amount of work carried out.

Yes, I loved those early days. Never much of a meditator, I had no need for quiet times. Work, eat, love, sleep, felt like a pretty fulfilling cycle. And to see trailer homes installed, roads built, a new dining hall, a factory churning out A-frames, and other evidence of progress, brought a great feeling of satisfaction.

But I was just a rough Australian. Many more sensitive souls found the emphasis on physical work overwhelming. They badly missed the quiet, reflective times of the Poona ashram. The extremes of climate in the high desert of central Oregon were a test. Stinking hot summers and freezing cold winters. And our Master still in silence. We were debarred from asking questions and sitting in his presence. A daily drive-by when he would sit smiling behind the wheel of a Rolls-Royce seemed small compensation. This ‘absence’ affected all of us – but some much more than others.

In truth, we were building a house of cards. As the months and years turned over this became more and more obvious. Our cavalier attitude towards land-use regulations and immigration law was never going to cut the mustard with the regulatory authorities. Exemplified by Sheela, our disdainful and aggressive attitude towards those who did not share our vision was a failed public-relations exercise when a more conciliatory approach may have reaped a better dividend. The abrupt departure of old friends perplexed us, as did their subsequent demonisation. The sudden appearance of thousands of homeless people, recruited to vote rather than for their interest in spiritual investigation, shocked and jarred. And, slowly, slowly, an undercurrent of concern, bewilderment, and fear took hold.

What did most of us do? Though some folk saw the writing on the wall and left, the vast majority clung to the hope this experiment would work. We had invested our lives and not many had a fallback position. Open discussion was impossible. Instead of the trust and joy that permeated our time in Poona, we tended to share confidences only with close and trusted friends. Even this was risky. If word got back up the chain of command, you would cop the dreaded negativity label and told to shape up or ship out.

The ironies are palpable. Here we were, in a so-called spiritual community, seeking transformation and with the expectation that, on a mass scale, this would have a positive impact on the world at large. Yet the atmosphere had become poisoned; our operative state had morphed from openness and sharing to a kind of gritty confusion.

Was this Osho’s intention? Was it part of a grand plan – to build a castle in the air in our minds and hearts – only to actively facilitate its demise or stand by and allow it to evaporate?  To obliterate any idea it was up to him to lead us to the Promised Land? To self-amputate ‘the finger pointing to the moon’ and leave us to discover our own way?

Who knows? And does it matter?

Personal journey

I guess one way to approach this conundrum is to look across the wide spectrum of sannyasins who participated. How have we all scrubbed up, down the years?

Here, I am again obliged to forsake the royal ‘we’ and speak only for myself. My exposure to Osho re-aligned my life. Had I not stumbled upon this strange path, my gut feeling is I may have ended up a relatively affluent yet thoroughly disillusioned lawyer - in all probability, a divorced cynic with a drinking problem. As a young bloke I wanted to change the world – but didn’t have a clue I might be better looking in the mirror. Having ‘taken sannyas’ and embraced the psycho-spiritual rollercoaster, my seven years in the commune opened me to experiences and insights which would not have occurred had I stayed in ‘normal society’. This is my source of gratitude. Yet, as I imagine with almost everyone who participated, by the time Rajneeshpuram imploded, we had a truckload of unfinished business.

During the last thirty-three years, I have had to do a lot of growing up in a spiritual and psychological sense. A panorama of teachers and teachings, along with various writings on psychology, philosophy, religious traditions and spiritual issues have helped immensely. And in the realm of relationship, my intimate partner, my children, together with friends and family have provided – and continue to provide – countless opportunities to see whether my inner clarity stacks up against my outer behaviour.

Everyone, as Rick Archer likes to say on Buddha At The Gas Pump, is a work in progress. And that, day by day, moment to moment, seems undeniably perfect.

Osho’s Legacy

Earlier, I wondered whether it was Osho’s intention to leave ‘his people’ to find their own way. Certainly it can be implied from things he said – not dissimilar admonitions to those from other teachers across a range of traditions. Ultimately it is up to the disciple to emerge from the chrysalis. In our case, we had the cocoon of the commune offering us some protection from the vicissitudes of the regular world. But it was into that world we were flung. Were we adequately prepared?

Each of you who were there will answer in your own fashion. Many, I know, floundered as I did. Even if some of us were primed to get on with our lives away from the Master, other devotees had to deal with confusion, betrayal, disappointment – a veritable flood of emotions - and pass through some sort of dark night of the soul which almost seems to be a rite of passage around charismatic leaders.

Now that nearly three decades have elapsed since Osho’s death, it’s possible to step back and attempt to evaluate what kind of legacy he has left. This can never be a purely objective or detached inquiry, and we will each have our inclinations and prejudices. Nonetheless, there are a number of observations worth pondering.

      1. How many of us could claim to be ‘the new man’ or ‘the new woman’, if we use the criteria of awakening or enlightenment? I certainly can’t. And if we can make such a claim, would we attribute our transformation to Osho’s work or to something or someone else? 

      2. Even if some kind of transformation does take place with a student or disciple, it may go unsupported or unacknowledged by the teacher. Around Osho, we used to joke that he seemed happy to have a devoted audience but heaven help anyone who declared themselves enlightened and beyond the need of further teaching. This potential anomaly came home to me some years ago when I interviewed Andrew Cohen. He had written that ‘the teacher’s living example only becomes superfluous when and if the student equals or surpasses the teacher’s attainment’. I asked him whether his own students might leave because they’ve got to that point or because they can’t stand the heat in the kitchen. He replied it was the latter – exclusively. Since then, Cohen has abdicated his teaching role, following pressure from his students who had been pointing out to him that his own behaviour did not match his fine words. 

       3. What purpose does the Osho International Meditation Resort in Poona serve? For those who run the show, the answer would surely be positive. Thousands of people from across the globe attend each year, to participate in meditation and other activities. They have been inspired to check it out or to return and clearly regard it as an opportunity to advance their spiritual growth. (Well, perhaps some of them are there for other reasons.) Conversely, it could be said, the main organisation that supports Osho’s legacy is a kind of closed shop, immune from self-examination and any critique of their departed Master. In this way it resembles an established religion where criticism of the founder is strictly off the table. I am not privy to the intrigues and machinations that have taken place within and around the Rajneesh organisations since Osho’s death. Disputes have raged over the exclusivity of trademarks, an allegedly forged Will and the commercialisation carried out in Osho’s name. As was the case when Osho was alive, court cases have become the norm rather than the exception. This fractious, dispute-oriented, and often righteous residue can be seen as another instance where early harmony has dissipated into hard and fast positional attitudes. Osho’s legacy, at least in so far as it applies to the various power groups, seems to have little to do with caring and sharing. 

     4. Do Osho’s recorded talks, appearing in videos, books and translated into many languages, contain all the spiritual answers one needs? There is no way I can judge that. But I do know lots of people have sought out practices and teachings that have either augmented, polished, or extended whatever it was they learnt around Osho. 

     5. If we gaze back with fresh eyes, what do we make of Osho’s penchant for elaborate dress, Rolex watches, and Rolls-Royces? Did he need more than 90 expensive vehicles to make a point about American values, as is sometimes argued? I don’t think Savita, the commune accountant, would be quite so charitable. After all, she had to find the money and was known to roll her eyes whenever a new demand came in. Meanwhile, our burgeoning volunteer workforce was hardly overfed! Could an alternative explanation be that Osho liked these baubles for their intrinsic value and display? Was there something lacking in his own childhood or culture that left him susceptible to ostentatious acquisition? 

     6. Did Osho’s use of Valium and laughing gas compromise his judgement and his message? I would like to see something appear in print from his former dentist and doctor. Both have written laudatory accounts of their time with Osho but to my knowledge neither has disclosed detailed information about Osho’s habits or possible dependency on substances. Others who had personal access have provided observations and their disclosures are important enough to warrant a detailed response from those entrusted with their Master’s physical care. 

   7. Did Osho have sufficient understanding about relationships? In Poona, he orchestrated people hooking up with one another and people splitting up with each other. Even though this created, at times, painful situations most of us saw this as a valid function – designed to reveal our attachments, possessiveness, jealousy and co -dependence. Personally, however, I came away with a big issue around commitment and, despite the commune years of sexual experimentation, a fear of missing out on some as-yet-unexplored delicacy. Spiritual work invariably led me to a dead end and it was not until I was cornered into psychological investigation that a few pennies began to drop. And I suspect, in the aftermath of the commune, I was no orphan in this regard. 

    8. Continuing the psychological theme, mapmakers such as Ken Wilber have drawn from developmental research and, through this prism, looked at states of consciousness, and levels and lines of development. Some states of consciousness are normal, available daily to all of us – waking, dreaming, deep sleep – while others are ‘non-normal’ or ‘altered’. These can range from drug-induced or near-death experiences to meditative states to direct spiritual realisations which differ in intensity, duration, and significance. Wilber makes the point that ‘a persons’ overall development follows no linear sequence whatsoever’. They may have undergone altered states of consciousness or had peak experiences but this can happen at any stage of their development. (Reports abound of people having ‘oneness’ experiences when still quite young.) But a maturation process is needed – a kind of ‘growing up’ – where any spiritual awakening is integrated with other important developmental lines or streams, such as cognitive, affective, moral, interpersonal, and artistic. A person can be highly developed in a spiritual sense – even enlightened – but less so in other aspects. Hence the proliferation of issues around sex, money and power. A potent example, when we look at spiritual teachers, is the moral/ethical line. Often, this seems to take a back seat around charismatic teachers, particularly those who seem to embrace what has been termed ‘crazy wisdom’. In my mind, Osho falls fairly and squarely in that bracket. His vision contained much of ‘crash or crash through’. Leaving aside how much he knew or didn’t know; how much he instigated or tolerated, we can still conclude that ethical behaviour was not high on his agenda. And the fact he attracted a  rich harvest from the rebellious folds of the 60s and 70s was a marriage made in heaven. We were busy overturning the conventions and values of our parents and societies, and ethical behaviour may not have topped our bucket list either.  

As far as I recall, Osho did not put any emphasis on developmental states or stages.  He may not have had enough information. Researchers like Piaget were well-known but it was not until the 1990s that Wilber began synthesising the findings of Susan Cook-Greuter, Robert Kegan, Clare Graves, Carol Gilligan and others – and mapping trends and similarities in human spiritual and psychological growth patterns. Wilber concludes it is no big deal to wake up – we can do so at any stage of development – but the growing up part takes spiritual intelligence which boils down to cognitive understanding and a discerning exploration in order for us to integrate any awakening or spiritual experience we might have. He adds: ‘the practices that led to waking up are not the same as those needed for growing up.’

    9, Flowing from the above markers, did Osho’s understandings, attitudes and behaviours denigrate from his impact or legacy? One way to look at this is to view him as a leader. Certainly, he wasn’t running a profit-oriented business or a people-centred NGO. His spiritual role was markedly different and yet he stood at the head of the hierarchy - a position that afforded him considerable power. He chose his secretary and set the policy tone. Even if he was not across the fine detail, his input was considerable and I think it is wishful thinking to believe otherwise. However, it is unlikely there will ever be any consensus about the effects of his choices. Individual sannyasins will weigh up the costs and benefits and come to their own conclusions. Recently I watched an interview in which a former disciple was asked about his association with Franklin Jones (Adi Da). He basically said that the fifteen years he spent with this teacher were invaluable and irreplaceable, despite the fact that he recognised behavioural flaws and, eventually, his inability to influence his teacher to act differently. I can speculate about Osho and proclaim that had his pronouncements been more inclusive and less about his chosen people versus the rest of humanity, not only would he have been better understood and appreciated but also more effective – both then and now. But as soon as I make a judgement of this nature, somebody quite rightly will ask: how the hell do I know?

Enough for Today?

While breakfasting recently with friends – all of whom had a sannyasin past – I asked them how they would describe Osho’s legacy. Some threw up their hands or fled from the table. One person commented to the effect her spiritual enquiry began with Osho and this underpinned her ongoing journey into self-discovery. Another said the lessons learnt stood him in good stead for acting with greater discernment. A third enthused that the greatest reward was the depth of our friendships – which came out that morning as the volume rose while eight of us with different memories, anecdotes, and perspectives laughed and talked over each other for a couple of hours, before breaking into couples and retiring to the sanctity of our respective homes.

The comment about the discernment resonated strongly with me. Mariana Caplan’s book Eyes Wide Open is worth reading and re-reading. The subtitle is cultivating discernment on the spiritual path. Over the years Caplan interviewed over one hundred spiritual teachers who considered themselves enlightened. She found that though there was some general agreement about the nature of the ‘non-dual experience’, there were ‘clear differences in the level and calibre of their teachings in terms of both their psychological and spiritual maturity.’ So it is up to students to exercise clear judgement and develop their own inner guidance. Caplan concludes – as many of us have done – that ‘growing up is a fundamental task of spiritual discernment and means that we take full responsibility for our existence here on earth.’

Taking responsibility means cleaning up our act. Yeah? Easy to say; harder to do.  In a way, this means applying our awareness to corners where shadows still lurk – and seeking support and feedback from trusted friends, trained professionals and/or spiritual teachers. None of these developmental steps – from waking up onwards - seem to involve any endpoint and perhaps that’s the leela – the play of existence. While we are in these bodies we can continue to evolve in the many ways that are open to us. I find that exciting and at the same time enormously challenging. Only the other evening, we were watching integral thinker, Terry Patten, being interviewed. He argued, forcefully and passionately, that waking up and growing up must be complemented by ‘showing up’. By this he meant we need to get involved in worldly issues and not turn away, no matter how tempting it might be. As many commentators have remarked, our future on this planet is at stake. We, particularly those among us who are relatively affluent and consider ourselves committed and aware, are impelled to find ways, great or small, to give back what our fortunate lives have given us. In this respect we can all be leaders and instigators of change. This, I believe, is our ultimate spiritual challenge.

I know I keep banging on about behaviour. Some folk argue you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. This doesn’t wash with me. Our actions and intentions affect the quality of the omelette. But how do we find our way? Duane Elgin in The Promise Ahead puts it quite beautifully:

‘A form of natural ethics accompanies our intuitive connection with the living universe. When we are truly centred in the life current flowing through us, we tend to act in ways that promote the well-being and harmony of the whole. Our connection with the Mother Universe provides us with a sort of moral tuning fork that makes it possible for individuals to come into collective alignment.  An underlying field of consciousness weaves humanity together, making it possible for us to understand intuitively what is healthy and what is not; what works and what doesn’t.’

Elgin, also the author of Voluntary Simplicity, is both realistic and optimistic about our collective futures. He too urges we grow up – in order that humanity at large mature from a teenage state into adulthood. And for this to happen, each of us must participate.

 It is in this realm of influencing others there is scope for Osho’s legacy to be rejuvenated. If I am right in assuming that most of us who went through those tumultuous years would not have exchanged it for all the tea in China, then there is really no excuse for us hiding under our bushels. In deepening our own friendships and embracing multiple perspectives, we may be able to resurrect and embellish the heart-melting connectivity that was a hallmark of our early commune days. This time round, however, we are invited to act from our maturity and the wisdom that hopefully the years have brought. Then, perhaps, our children and grandchildren will be able to look back at us with pride and gratitude.

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