The Greening (20 page)

I said, “Everyone is looking for love. People say the passion fades but you grow in its place this deep, abiding feeling – which sounds very much like
agape.
The logical conclusion is that there’s not much point in choosing a partner you feel passion for. On that basis, you might as well pick just about anybody, really, who seemed compatible, and start working on building up the
agape
.”

“That is how marriages have traditionally been arranged in the East. The kettle starts to boil after marriage and not before,” said Ismene.

“Or doesn’t boil at all. I’m good on the theory – but we all want that magic spark, don’t we? The recognition that this person is the one we’re meant to be with. But can it endure?”

“Love does endure. And it is wonderful when you feel you are with the companion for whom you have been searching all your life. The relationship becomes sacred when one reveals oneself to the beloved, by which I mean one’s own Self, which is also the Self of God, as Julian says. When two people connect in that way there can be true love, because all love comes from God. I think when it does happen it may be because we have known that person before, in another life. But in a particular lifetime it may not be part of our life plan to have the continuous companionship of the beloved.”

“I think that’s terribly sad,” I said, hoping I was not intruding on painful territory.

“Well, the purpose of life is not personal happiness. We ask the wrong question: how can I get everything I want to make me happy?”

“What’s the right question?”

“What is my purpose? That’s the right question. The purpose of life is to grow towards the wholeness God intends for us, as Julian promises. The aspiration towards God is common to all the great faiths. We are all going towards the same destination and it is sad that we do not see it.”

“Do you have a faith?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m a Christian. I come from a family that took no interest in religion. My father was a self-made man who founded a business empire and made a fortune. He believed in the sweat of one’s brow and material achievement through one’s own endeavour – worthy enough aspirations if they are not one’s sole existence. He relied upon himself and no one else his entire life. He used to say he felt no need for a god. I never felt moved to take any interest in religion myself – until something happened that made me think again.

“I was in my early twenties, travelling in central Brazil, and I stopped off in a small town to buy food. I noticed a little building at the end of the main street. For some reason, it drew my attention and I decided to investigate. It was a Baha’i meeting place… I knew nothing about the faith and know very little now, but as I entered I felt a deep sense of peace. The atmosphere of the tiny inner room was filled with what I can only describe as a spirit of holiness. I felt I could step out of the preoccupations of my life into another space, another condition, almost. It seemed nearly tangible. That was why I was so drawn to Anna’s description of entering Julian’s church. I know what she felt. Now, how was it possible that such a spirit could exist in a place if it was not a house of God? I tasted something that day and the taste remained with me and slowly became a hunger.”

“I understand,” I said.

“As I continued my travels, I met many people from diverse backgrounds and cultures. So many people who were living in desperate conditions had a faith that brought them through, that gave their lives meaning, despite everything they had to endure. Whether they were Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jewish – they felt a connection with a God who sustained them. I began to want to share that certainty, that sense of being whole.

“What did I believe? I had doubts about the exclusivity of any faith. My experience in the Baha’i meeting place had given me that. My husband was a devout Muslim. I was attracted to his faith, to its spirit of unity. But I was still not ready. Nothing ever quite felt right in my heart till I met Julian. Meeting her was like coming home.”

“Has your faith helped you to grow towards the wholeness you spoke of?”

“Oh, yes, very much so. And we grow by doing the work we came here to do. Each of us came with a particular purpose, a blueprint. But we are in uncharted territory and need to find our route maps! This is where Julian touches a deep chord for me. She speaks of our being fragmented, separated from our real selves. She says that God enfolds and encloses us, but we do not know it because we are not seeing the reality in which we are grounded.

“The earthly personality needs to reach up to the God within us, the higher part, as Julian calls it, to discover where our path lies. Julian tells us that nothing happens by chance, that God’s hand is over everything. He allows things to happen to us only to the extent to which they can be turned to our benefit, so that we may learn and reach our true potential.”

“Look at the candle.” There was a large white candle on a brass plate in the centre of the table. “What do you see?”

I smiled and replied, “Well, wax.”

Ismene struck a match and lit the candle, saying, “Look.” As the burnished flame grew stronger and brighter, she said, “We begin with cold wax and we apply heat. The wax melts and becomes watery. The melted wax rises up the wick, makes contact with the air and bursts into flame. This is a metaphor for the way we are transformed through various stages until we are transmuted into light. We move from limited form to unlimited form, from mortality to immortality, because light never dies. It travels for ever. This is our journey. Candle after candle, we must light more and more, so that the light we create enlarges throughout our lives.”

She asked, “Do you know the story of the phoenix?”

“You mean, rising from the ashes?”

“The story is found in Celtic Christian and Native American Indian traditions. The phoenix burns itself in the fire and is reborn. In other stories, it is represented by the pelican, which pierces its breast to feed its young with its own blood – an act of love, in which it pours out its heart’s love to feed others. It is a symbol of what we have to do and keep on doing. Once you commit yourself to the path of initiation you cannot leave it and everything that comes into your life will test you, until you attain your goal. The lives we construct for ourselves fall apart so easily, at a fingertip’s touch. Eventually, we come to realize that God’s path is the only path.”

After our meal, Ismene made green tea in an old silver teapot with fluted sides and a broken spout. We took our tea into the drawing room and sat together in companionable silence.

She rose and crossed to a small table, upon which was a package. She handed me the package, saying, “These are for you.” Inside, I found a copy of Julian’s book and the small, pale yellow
Enfolded in Love
, with its cover illustration of the homely figure leaning forward to gather up a kneeling child. She said, “That illustration reminds me of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ description of God’s tender, loving, all-encompassing care. Do you know his poem, ‘The Grandeur of God’?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“‘And though the last light off the black hills went, ah, morning at the brown brink eastward springs, because the Holy Ghost over the bent world broods, with warm breast and with, ah, bright wings.’”

I said, “It’s a lovely poem. The teachers at my school were very fond of Gerard Manley Hopkins. I used to think they’d accidentally latched onto the wrong God – like a child, holding on to its mother’s coat in a shop, who inadvertently switches to someone else’s mum. That happened to me once. It took a few minutes for the two mothers to realize that they had each other’s child. I burst into tears. Hopkins’ God is loving but my teachers’ God sounded a nasty piece of work, cruel and vengeful. An angry old man with a bad attitude. I wouldn’t have wanted to go home with him.”

“I think it’s true to say that God has had a bad press!” said Ismene.

I laughed. “Maybe he needs a better press agent!”

“He does have some good ones, I think. Paul’s work often reveals God’s grandeur and his love… he finds God in small places, revealing the divinity in a human soul.”

I felt my cheeks beginning to flush.

Ismene continued, “Paul said you were at university together.”

“Yes.”

“He and I are old friends. We have worked together on many stories. It was through a very old friend of mine that Paul met his wife, when he was out in Kashmir. Ranjit, Sushila’s father, has for many years been deeply involved in human rights and the independence struggle. He’s a truly extraordinary man. Indeed, the
whole family have a special quality about them. Sushila was a lovely and remarkable child, both innocent and wise. And you know, as she grew up she retained all her beautiful qualities, her trusting and forgiving nature and belief in the intrinsic goodness of people. It was like watching the blossoming of a delicate and lovely flower.

“Now that was a love match. I remember Sushila saying to me, just before her wedding day, that, whatever happened, no matter what difficulties she and Paul might face or mistakes they might make, ‘Paul and I will always be together. We cannot be parted.’ Ah yes, yes indeed.” Ismene looked sad suddenly; remembering, no doubt, how badly Paul had let his wife down.

I felt as though I were trespassing on private territory and quickly changed the subject. I said, “I envy you your certainty. I think I wish I knew your God.”

“You will know him, Joanna, if that is your wish.”

“Does your faith sustain you, does it help you to make sense of the past?”

“Oh yes. I was very angry. So much had been taken from me. I felt my life had been stolen. Munir’s life certainly was. It was very hard. It would have been easy to become bitter. But I came to understand that anger would not help me. Anger is corrosive. It destroys one from inside. It is suicidal.”

“But it achieves results.”

“Not the best kind. Love is really the only thing that works.”

Three days later word reached the foreign desk that Paul was on his way out of East Timor. The following day he telephoned the desk from Bangkok. I expected to see him in the office during the ensuing days, but there was no sign of him. I wondered how his wife coped with the long absences.

On the evening of Ismene Vale’s East Timor reception, I parked my car and walked up the now familiar poplar-lined drive to her house. As the maid opened the door, I heard a hubbub of chatter and laughter from within. She directed me to the drawing room, where some thirty people were already gathered. I accepted a glass of wine from a waiter. Ismene spotted me, smiled and beckoned me to join her.

She greeted me warmly. “Joanna, I’m so glad you were able to come. I’ve been looking forward to our having a chat.” She turned aside briefly from the group she was with and said, “Several people are coming this evening who are in a position to help East Timor and I know they’ll enjoy talking to you. There are some other projects I’d very much like to discuss with you. If there’s no opportunity this evening, may we meet for lunch or dinner?” I said I would love to meet up.

I spent the next two hours in the company of people who were deeply committed to helping others. It was a refreshing and invigorating experience. Among them was a field worker for a Christian aid
agency, a member of the International Committee of the Red Cross and a peer, Lord Helpmann, who had dedicated his life to human rights. Ismene informed me that Lord Helpmann often played host to refugees from persecution. One of his regular guests was José Ramos Horta, East Timor’s sole, roving ambassador, who operated on a budget of little more than largesse from sympathizers.

I met and immediately liked Gregorio, an East Timorese who had been imprisoned by the Indonesians and eventually left his country with the help of the International Red Cross. Gregorio was my height, five foot three, with long, curly black hair and deep brown eyes. He had an observant, gentle manner. I was later to discover that he was a deeply sensitive man, whose calm demeanour cloaked the pain of his experiences and the loss of his country.

Gregorio was a teenager in 1975, when the Indonesians invaded. Perhaps unwisely for the occasion, I asked him to tell me about that terrible day.

“We call it the day when death came from the sky,” he said. The Indonesian army invaded by air. Hundreds of parachutes descended onto East Timor. The soldiers landed and the slaughter began. Gregorio saw soldiers murder his neighbour’s two children, swinging them by their legs and smashing their heads against a wall. He saw another neighbour shoot dead an elderly woman, too afraid to refuse the order of a sadistic soldier. He saw a lake that ran red with victims’ blood.

He had fled to the mountains to join the resistance. Later he became a bodyguard to their leader, Xanana Gusmão, the future President of a free East Timor. Now he was studying in London for a PhD. I learned a lot from him about East Timor and felt even more inspired to help. We agreed to meet and exchanged telephone numbers.

Gregorio’s eyes suddenly lit up as someone entered the room. I turned and saw a lady in a nun’s habit. “It’s Sister Eleanor!” Gregorio said. The sister spotted him, smiled and raised her hand in greeting. “Excuse me,” said Gregorio, before hurrying over to greet the Sister. They crossed the room together, in lively conversation. He introduced us, saying, “Sister Eleanor is a good friend to East Timor.”