Thursday, 11 October 2007

The open road

“I believe in Michelangelo, Velasquez, and Rembrandt; in the might of design, the mystery of color, the redemption of all things by Beauty everlasting, and the message of Art that has made these hands blessed. Amen. Amen.”

George Bernard Shaw

Naturally the journey is more than just one emotion. A constant inner mantra however, most definitely becomes the core sepulchre of all fleeting feelings thus allowing one to re-balance on that slippery slope of 'purification'. In the great De Niro movie 'The Mission' we see a man who has killed his own brother in a jealousy fueled duel.

The priest, played by Jeremy Irons, gives the 'legal' murderer who 'won' the duel a chance to redeem himself through penance. We then see De Niro with a whole array of pots and pans and metal objects dragging behind him, tied round his waist along rough roads and even up a waterfall. The intense physical effort and suffering involved were devised as ways to literally bring a man to his knees. Only then, at the end of his rope, does he become able to 'atone'. To become at one with himself in other words. To quit posing and get real. Somebody died Jake!

Yet do pilgrims really experience any kind of redemption which is defined as: the act of delivering from sin or saving from evil [syn: salvation]? Surely it is an inherent desire of all on the roads of the world's great pilgrimage routes to come out a better person than the one who first gingerly stepped onto this tedious track. What about another kind of pilgrim, the shaman who consciously journeys into the nether regions of unseen dimensions in search of healing powers, visions and knowledge? Is he any less a pilgrim by virtue of having an immobile body, paralysed by the gravity of other worlds? I think not, since I have also been 'there'.

These are serious questions for serious people and without doubt those who do hit the road are serious. They really do get 'hit' by all manner of both sublime and horrendous personal experiences over hundreds of hours of monotonous walking. There are no flippant people on pilgrimages, there are really no pretenders. The highs and lows of pilgrimage are very finely discernible since it is the moving body, alone in space and time, which is their wide open arena for exposure. In daily life we are so often simply
not here that we miss our own suffering..

One young pretender had joined me. His mother had called in a terrible state. 'He is talking about killing himself, this time it seems serious!" Being a father figure to a grown man whose father had abused him physically had happened quite spontaneously in this country, where mental illness is seen as a 'failure' to properly 'do your best'. "I'll figure something out and call you back" was all I could manage at that moment in Tokyo, only a half hour before giving a three hour lecture on shamanism, in Japanese of course.

He met up with me on that leg of the pilgrimage a few days later. This spoiled young man, still living with his mother like so many millions (yes millions) of other men and women in Japan, was the age of my daughter and outwardly a polite and reasonably intelligent man. Lurking below was a manic depressive, under constant medication, who had been dragging his sweet mother all over (like De Niro's 'baggage') the country in search of a way out of the hell of a self induced narcissism. In short a mama's boy using his father's violence as a cover for never getting his act together. Millions of them in this country. They are now labelled for some obscure reason 'neeto' which may be based on the English
Neet - those Not in Education, Employment or Training and under 25 years old.. Maybe some are overtly fastidious about keeping things in order...

I like this 'kid' of 30. He was trying. At least in his manic high periods. Then, on the downs he would retreat into his room for days and watch videos, blaming everybody for his woes. His mother was nearly a saint. A single parent now she had her own pilgrimage to endure as he told her they were moving to yet another 'haven', this time in Okinawa. He was sensitive to many deeper issues than the average modern Japanese 'youth' who seem about as far away from spiritual concerns as it is possible to get. Superficial in relationships, emotionally shallow in general and intellectually inert would be my branding of them. Especially the guys, having being raised by absent landlord fathers and over indulgent, over compensating mothers who whip them through cram schools and super indulge them every other way. In a consensus society like Japan that is not a criticism so much as a generally recognizable fact of life. Study, or fall off the edge of society. Fail, and you are literally on your own, so then you kill yourself. Simple really!

He broke by evening of the first day. Cursing me for making him suffer, threatening to call the police to arrest him before he killed himself and generally behaving like a two year old on a tantrum I was thoroughly disgusted with my pilgrimage protege. The wizened old hen who ran the inn where he had his meltdown (arriving three hours after me though 25 years younger) was in no mood for such behaviour. " Go kill yourself you useless dope! You are a shame on your parents and a waste of society's time and money." I think this is what we need more of in our socialist states (which means just about everywhere as nanny government keeps us all on her sweet teats with promises of 'protection') where we need so much 'help'.

Yes I may sound too severe. But this kid really did need a good slap around the face. He will forever continue this behaviour until he gets serious enough to embark on the real journey of life and death i.e. humanity. And yes, all the social services people will say he can't because of this and that. Go tell that crap to a Rwandan who fled from machetes, rape and burning alive and who today lives and suffers and works and dreams still. Go tell that crap to to your analyst baby. Go tell that to any pilgrim and he will answer the same.

"Get out on the open road and pray for redemption because you are already far beyond all mortal help.." That is the surest way to open the door to that other world, the place where
the redemption of all things by Beauty everlasting is actually possible. Because it is only in the wearing down of those soles (sic) that the meat of our inner design is revealed.

Friday, 5 October 2007

The field of angst

Brother stand the pain; Escape the poison of your impulses. The sky will bow to your beauty, if you do. Learn to light the candle. Rise with the sun. Turn away from the cave of your sleeping. That way a thorn expands to a rose. A particular glows with the universal.  RUMI

Apparently the great sage Kukai, whose name means sky and sea, had meditated in a cave here at Muroto at the tender age of 19 . Through reciting a mantra a million times he had 'broken on through to the other side' and seen the light. Having really pushed myself that morning by the time I got to the base of the mountain atop which was temple number 24, Hotsumisakiji, my impulses got the better of me. Anger in particular. To think that here I was approaching a cave made super sacred by arguably the greatest saint in Japan's history, and was foaming at the mouth.

Pilgrimage can be seen as a great leveler for the human psyche. No matter how well behaved and spiritual one may be in the confines of the church, the brotherhood or the political party, out on the open road the far wilder character, lurking only nanometers below the surface inevitably comes out to 'play'. Indeed this is the very reason that individuals across the Earth have embarked upon pilgrimages. They saw that moral training in any system was lacking the real bite that only a wandering through the 'matrix' could offer. What use is it keeping a smile on your face in the ashram, only seconds away from the divine guru, when a quick trip into Delhi will quickly reduce your spiritual life to wet knickers? As Thomas Merton found out when he was in his early fifties a life commited to prayer in a monastery is no guard against beautiful young nurses.

The signal was weak as I climbed. Having a large Japanese readership of my blog I was fairly devout about providing information via cellphone to my wife who would then input it directly to the blog. She is a busy woman. She does not wait with baited breath for my updates. She has not walked 13 kilometers in a two and a half hours this morning. She has to hold the cellphone in one hand and type with the other. I look over the grey ocean and feel a bit of the winter chill, tapping my foot to dissipate impatience. The signal gets lost three times so I redial.

" Fuck it! If you don't want to do this I'll get somebody else!" Here was the most important person in my life being told to fuck off at nine in the morning by her itinerant husband who was quite sure that his suffering demanded more attention than her morning schedule. I walked on a few hundred meters until the imposing view of the crashing waves hitting Cape Muroto was revealed in all its ragged beauty. Astonished by this outburst which may have been understandable in my whisky days, in my thirties or even forties, I decided to take my pack off, roll a handmade smoke from my Drum packet and take stock.

Yesterday a guy had looked at me with murder in his eyes. Today I yell at my wife of 32 years. Is this just tiredness from the long road? Or is this the road beginning to drop its masks-its pretensions about being 'sacred' ? Have I unwittingly entered an invisible stream of emotion and left over disappointments streaked with angst that has formed over hundreds of years and hundreds of thousands of aching feet and hearts? Is there really a 'field' left behind that taints even the most boisterous of pilgrims? The short answer? YES.