"Follow me - I'm right behind you" - the Good Guru Guide

Let’s get one thing straight right from the start. I don’t hold with gurus.  It’s a purely personal thing so if you have a pet guru and the relationship works for you, then great, tickety-boo (but try to choose one that doesn't have a fancy car habit, okay? And I'd steer clear of ones that advocate only one colour of clothing - particularly if that colour doesn't suit you).  Otherwise, go for it. But me? I run a mile.

Another thing I don’t like?  Spiritual self-help books.  Yeah, yeah, the irony doesn’t escape me.  I have, for my egotistical sins, written twenty or so books on natural health and spirituality. In my defence I try not to spout my own non-existent ‘wisdom’, I just report or maybe ‘translate’ what other people say.  Which, I suppose, when you look at it that way, is even worse. J

Anyhow, I have read thousands of books, literally thousands – including hundreds upon hundreds of New Age, spiritual, and self-help guides. As a journalist I interviewed a holy and unholy host of so-called ‘gurus’ and experts. Many were great people, with great ideas, but I was never tempted to lay my hat at their door. I have never been a follower; I have never even followed one particular ‘path’ or creed or religion or therapy. There’s a lot of stuff out there, some good, some bad, some blissfully bonkers. Probably way too much stuff. Maybe I got lost in the sheer volume of it all. Or maybe I just felt that there wasn’t a One Size Fits All answer to the seeking.  I was fed up of people saying with total egocentric certainty ‘do this’, ‘be that’. 

But this year I started a sort of process of distillation, of figuring out what works for me, what chimes for me.  And I started listening to people, really listening.  Okay, so a couple of those people were dead but, hey, let’s not let that get in the way of anything, right?  But one of them was very much alive and kicking (except when he died, but that’s another story).  Time to introduce you to Marek, aka Ma.Ste. Aka…nah, let’s keep it simple.

Marek and I started talking on the Labyrinth thread.  He posted chunks of his book Symphonic Bridges and I found they chimed chords. You could argue that I had found someone I could project upon (and, by heck, I’ve got a PhD in projection). That, in Marek, I found someone on whom to project my subconscious knowing, my inner guru, if you like (alongside a whole host of other projections). And, bless him, the poor guy  never took advantage of that – he just patiently (and, let’s be honest, sometimes impatiently!) held up the mirror. 

    

Anyhow. I thought that maybe one of the edgy, far-sighted spiritual publishing houses would snap up Symphonic Bridges but the daft fools didn’t.  It’s funny really how traditional people are when it comes to spirituality.  Even in this field, surely the one that should be the most fluid and experimental, there are rules and formats and genres and slots. And Symphonic Bridges doesn’t fit into any slots.

It isn’t always easy; in fact it can be downright perplexing.  A lot of people run flinching from it, saying it’s ‘self-indulgent’ or ‘crazy’.  I can sort of understand those reactions.  It isn’t a ‘safe’ book; it doesn’t play by the standard rules; it doesn’t do what it’s told.  Maybe that’s partly what delights me about it.  I used to want to edit it, to cut and paste and add and splice; to wrestle and reduce.  Then the former Daily Mail journalist in my head kicked in and I nagged Marek to write another book, to condense it, to make it all ‘simple’. ‘Tell people this stuff in easy-to-get language, in seven simple steps,’ I said.  He didn’t reply.

And no surprise because, really, what a stupid idea. The language of the soul can’t be squeezed into seven easy steps. The language of the soul is like a half-remembered tune, catches heard on the wind. Maybe its language is poetry, music, feeling, scent; maybe it’s found in the dancing interstices, rather than in stolid prose.

‘Follow me!’ says Marek.  And then swiftly adds, ‘I’ll be right behind you!’ 

Anyhow. It’s not a book for everyone, that’s for sure. A lot of friends have read it and shaken their heads at me.  But hey…I said I’d tell you what worked for me and this was a large part of it.  So make up your own mind. Or rather listen to your own soul.

Here’s a chunk of what I wrote by way of a blurb/preface when Symphonic Bridges first came out (you can buy it on Amazon or CreateSpace, b(u)y the way...just follow the links...)

“You can drive yourself crazy going round in circles, reading, researching, trying to understand, trying to be clever, making spiritual truth all very complicated.  But, at heart, it is probably very very simple. Do you want to live a more balanced, spiritual life?  Everything you need is here, pretty much.  This book set me back on the right path and, when I’m feeling very dramatic, I say it saved my life.  Do I agree with it 100 percent? Not quite yet.  *smile*

But Marek won’t tell you what to do.  And that – I think – is why I really love this book so much.  He wraps the spiritual stuff up in the fabric of his own life, splicing it into a sort of apologetic autobiography.  In many ways it reads like a love story:   about divine Love mirrored in the very human love he feels for his wife and soul-mate (a lovely and loving microcosm of the macrocosm). 

He tells you about what he believes, what he does, and what he hopes he will get out of it.  But he never ever says “you must do this”.  And that is so right because everyone has to find his or her own way; you can lead the proverbial horse to water but horses can be bloody-minded. Ultimately we have to choose for ourselves – we can control our bodies, our minds, our destiny – or we can float.  No judgement if you float...floating is fine.

It’s not a worthy book either and, dear God, do I loathe worthiness.  There is humour and fun and lightheartedness and sex mixed with sadness and frustration and anger (mainly directed at himself). It’s human, so human. 

Finally, if you love language, surely you have to smile at the way he plays with words, constructing and destructing them, pulling them apart to tease out meaning, to release, to reveal?  And (okay, so that wasn’t the final finally) if you have a mystic’s soul, doesn’t that soul soar when it peeks over ego’s shoulder and reads something like:

“The true nature of Time and Space cannot be known. It can only be heard. Do you see?”

Personally, I reckon it’s got the makings of a cult spiritual classic.  But what do I know?”

What indeed?    For those patiently waiting for the ‘how to lose four stone’ bit, it’s coming, it’s coming. But, see, this is all part of it.  Am I saying Symphonic Bridges should be renamed ‘Four Stone in Four Months - The Ma.Ste. Way to Magic Weight Loss’?  Nah.  Though, hmm, maybe he’s missing a trick. J

Not so social media

Hello online world.  Did you miss me?  Did you miss me at all?  No, thought not.  And it’s okay.  It doesn’t remotely matter. 

I’ve been in one of my bad places…possibly the worst one for a very long time.  One of those declines – oh, okay, let’s not mince words – it was freefall skydiving without checking you’ve got a parachute first.  Which is a really fecking stupid thing to do.  At first I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get my fingers to type. Couldn’t do anything much really.  And as I sat at my desk, doing nothing, I watched social media drift by for a day or so.  And I wondered…what’s it all about?  What is it all about?

Yeah, I could have tweeted.  Yeah, I could have put out a ‘poor little me’ yelp on Facebook.  I could have written a ‘hug me’ blog.  But, you know, that’s not my style.  Anyhow at first, I really didn’t have the capacity.  And then, as the days went by, I began to wonder. 

Does anyone even notice if you’re not there? 

Bald answer?  No. 

I had to laugh really.  I was the online equivalent of the old lady in the council flat, lying on the floor being eaten by her cats.

I tell you, it’s a good lesson for the ego.  Bottom line, if you’re not out there shouting or wailing or emoting or waving your arms in the air, nobody notices.  And, let’s be honest, why should anyone?  We’ve all got so many ‘friends’, so many followers and followees, how on earth can we keep tabs?  Would I notice if one of my online *friends* wasn’t around for a week or so?  Probably not.  I’d assume they were busy or on holiday or just going ‘dark’ to get work done.  One shouldn’t take these things personally.  Yet one does. Stupidly. And I take first prize in stupid, I really do.

Social media does have strengths. It's a virtual water cooler. It’s great for wasting time, for procrastination – superlative in fact.  It’s incredibly useful for driving traffic to your business (if you use it right).  

Twitter can be fun. Sometimes it’s downright funny.  And I still hold that, if you look or if you get lucky, here are some gems of people to be found.  There is inspiration; there is information; there is interconnection.  And there are messages – there are always messages.

lonelypierot @ deviantart

But, but, but…is it any good if you’re low?  Now I am just not convinced by that.  Because when you’re way down low, when you’re really in the pit or hanging on the meat-hook or the black dog is slowly and methodically chewing out your throat, you don’t have the energy to make contact.  You watch people ‘being normal’, laughing, joshing, discussing minutiae or whatever and you simply can’t join in.  Because none of it makes sense.  It’s like they’re talking a totally different language. 

Anyhow, that’s it really…  Just an observation.  What do you think?   Maybe it’s just me.  After all, I just don’t talk about my “stuff”, not to anyone (though sometimes, in the very dead of night, I whisper in the SP’s velvety ear).  I know talking is supposed to help but hey…I’m not big on talking.  I did do a whole bunch of therapy many years ago but, when I think back, it was hilarious really - we would settle down in our chairs with the box of tissues between us and my therapist would tell me about her problems and then we’d spend the next hour brainstorming how to fix them.  Then I’d get up, hug her, tell her it would all be okay and then I’d say ‘thank you’ and pay her thirty quid or whatever. 

What a prize plonker, eh? 

Mice biting, dogs peeing, tum-ti-tum

This was going to be such a good day. James is off having a sleepover with a friend and so this was going to be the day I salvaged from half-term to get through my Sisyphean list of Things To Do. I was going to write two features; bang off lists of scintillating ideas to my editors; do some invoicing; and all before lunch. Then I was doing to spend the afternoon resurrecting the children’s novel, washing my hair, painting my toenails and maybe, just maybe, making up a new batch of rhubarb syrup. I was going to launch into the weekend feeling productive and positive and pretty fabulous. Yup, well that was a silly idea.

It’s 11am and I still haven’t had breakfast. Mainly because Adrian and I, demob happy, went out last night to see Angels and Demons (total and utter tosh – we kept whispering to each other things like ‘he’s got ten minutes to save the cardinal from being toasted and he’s changing his suit?’) and then had an immense curry. We were the only people in The Ganges which was a little disconcerting and so I think we felt honour-bound to order more than we really needed. The waiters were so impressed they gave us free lager. Hence spent a long uncomfortable night balancing on my belly and dreaming of stomach ache.

Quite apart from feeling queasy (had to stop reading Sea of Poppies as they kept talking about dhal and chapattis) the morning has gone wrong in about six directions at once.
Adrian woke me up to tell me: ‘There’s a leak in the kitchen…under the sink.’
That would be the new kitchen and the hand-built sink unit with the water seeping into the new oak flooring.
Tracked down Percy the plumber who turned up with his usual knowing grin.
‘Been having a good time, I hear. Off on trips to Disney. Was reading your blog…’
What? Is nothing sacred? Now I can’t even moan about plumbers online.
Turned out that mice had eaten through the piping. Nice. And Percy couldn’t fix the pipes until Brett, the cabinet-maker, came back to take the sink unit to bits. So the whole morning has vanished in phone calls, and people racing over the moor and narrowly missing each other, pretty much like a Laurel and Hardy farce.

Meanwhile the dog has been barking his head off and I just caught him sliding down the stairs having peed up against the bed – again. The friend’s mother has just rung to say could we pick up James early (I’m not even going to ask why) and so my beautiful organised productive day has descended into chaos.
Never mind. As Adrian said, ‘Nobody’s died.’
‘Wish the bloody mice would die,’ I muttered in return.
‘Nobody’s in hospital.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s still time for an assault on A&E.’
So far James has managed to get through half-term without concussing himself or spraining an ankle – though he has a cracking black eye courtesy of cricket (no, not a ball, fell over on a piece of rope) and a graze over his nose (Butlins water slide). The first thing his maths teacher said, on seeing him in the park, was – ‘Still in one piece, James?’

Anyhow, here I am blogging when I should be working. Why? Because it’s good to write. I still think blogging is great therapy and that, when the mice are eating through your pipes and the dog is peeing against the bed; when every travel editor in town has no budget and you're STILL feeling overfed at 12 noon, at least one can still moan and gnash one’s teeth and whinge online. Yes, of course I should be doing something constructive, like heading into battle against the weeds or even sponging down the bed but frankly I can't be bothered. Is it too early for a rhubarb bellini?