He went away for the summer to Mexico to see his teacher leaving me in charge of the sweat lodge altar. I cleaned and lit and waved incense and genuflected but the candles turned black. He said it was an attack, he was always in battle with dark forces. I wrote my first novel in those six weeks while he was away, a story of a girl who goes to India and loses her mind. When he returned I put it in a drawer. He and I went to Italy to run a sweat lodge on the shores of a lake near Rome. We went to Wales to collect more basalt for the lodge at home. I went to Valencia for a month in an effort to keep up with his Spanish lover. His Spanish lover came to stay and he ran her about the garden in a wheelbarrow, she screaming with delight. He made coffee and forgot to fill the base with water and the espresso pot exploded hurling burning dry Lavazza all over the ceiling and he laughed and thought it was hilarious and I grabbed cloths thinking this is my kitchen. He said there was a black panther always resting on a branch near the sweat lodge fire. He didn’t identify the trouble in my bones. He had a tall angular helper, devoted, always around to do his bidding. He had legions of beautiful female patients, one I remember, her ankles were causing her suffering, he assured her he could make them slim. These are the signs, not a candle turning black but devotees and lack of care and stupid promises, the keen use of the title Shaman. Because anyone who calls themselves that probably isn’t. Because power without awareness is force.* And force runs out. I was lying in the bath when he came in to talk to me. I don’t remember what it was he said that made the first penny drop, but I remember thinking he’s never going to love me and it was like a revelatory bomb going off in my head. I decided I had to leave. Not him leave, mind. Me. The idea of him leaving was yet to dawn. I was still up to my neck in belief of him. The beautiful patient with the imperfect ankles invited me to Australia, she was from Melbourne, she said there were parties, it would be fun. I bought a ticket, packed a bag, left the boy from Kent with his eggs and copal and lovers at the farm and boarded a flight to Sydney with the fat ankle girl who looked down at me from a willowy six foot height. And while I’m on that flight, because it’s long and there’s time and the choices I made when I landed need context, I’m going to take you to the place all of this has been driving at. Buckle up. Put your seats in the upright position. We’re going back in time, to 1974 and a tall cold house in London.
*I need to credit that line to someone very wise who has his own version of entanglement with a European shaman. It’s a good one and accurate.
P.S. You might remember I don't usually wear seat belts, but I'll continue reading anyway!! :)
What an AMAZING lot of life experience you've had dearest EllaBella. May they and the ones you're still to have all continue to help fuel your wonderful creative powers! xxx