My Mother My Mirror Read online

  We talked a lot about the little princess: the child who felt alone and who had nothing to go on when it came to finding a partner except a bunch of vague, romantic ideas, and a certainty about exactly what a man should look like that was so important that it blinded her to anything else that was lacking.

  In one session we were talking about how I stop myself from enjoying life. Perhaps I got it from Shelley: being strict with myself, being economical and frugal and holding back on pleasurable food or other treats for the body. My old bladder problem was still niggling me, and it was closely connected with sex. I often thought that if I didn’t have a knowledge of anatomy, I might believe the bladder and the womb to be the same place; and sometimes my nagging bladder felt as if it wanted some intimate attention to diffuse its anxiety and calm it down.

  Throughout the Humaniversity Training I had been very clear that I didn’t want to go to bed with anyone, even though there was a fair amount of pressure from both peers and teachers to explore my sexuality with different partners. I felt I could do this quite adequately without actually having sex; in fact to put myself in that vulnerable situation felt wrong. It would betray my soul and defile my body.

  Now, however, I decided perhaps I was being a little too strict and should allow myself some comfort in the arms of a man. So the next time I went to Leela I approached my old friend Clive at breakfast and asked him if I might come to his caravan that evening for a cuddle. When I climbed the steps and knocked on the flimsy door later that day, he was as warm and welcoming as his little home. There was an aroma of incense combined with the exotic oil that he rubbed on his body; and the colours of the bedspread and the wall hangings glowed warmly in the candlelight. Clive had French ancestry: everything he did had a sense of style and good taste and a little luxury. We had a cup of tea and a chat about the people we knew and the ups and downs of life, then slowly he drew me on to the bed at the far end of the caravan and we began to caress each others’ bodies.

  Clive was a beautiful lover: caring and strong. He was a Shiatsu practitioner with a real gift of healing and a confidence in using his hands to bring life and pleasure to another human being. For a while I went to Leela every month or so, and each time spent the night in Clive’s fragrant little womb-home, talking til the early hours about our dreams and fears and everything we knew and thought, and all the funny people that came to Leela.

  We also became dynamite on the dance floor. Clive was spunky: he had a fine upright posture, and he sure knew how to strut his stuff. His confidence inspired my confidence, and I discovered a foxy lady in me that could match and meet him at every move. We would circle one another, locked in a gaze, making suggestive little movements and brushing up against each other from time to time – sometimes turning away for a moment, then coming back – pushing each other away, wriggling hips, stroking thighs, spinning round... The energy between us was like a gorgeous, sinuous piece of elastic: one moment unbearably taut, the next moment pulled together with a hot out-breath and a sensuous rush of release. I was learning, at last, that there was more to me and to other people than a two dimensional image: there was a huge amount of energy to play with.

  At the end of the summer he went away to Holland to do something called the ‘WOW’, which was an even more extreme Humaniversity workshop. When he came back he had been initiated as a follower of Osho and given a new name: Rajan, meaning King of Love. This rather went to his head, and heralded a period in which he suddenly felt the confidence to explore his sexuality like never before.

  Rajan was discreet, and seemed to genuinely love an enormous variety of women, all of whom to begin with were as discreet as him regarding their secret liaisons. But slowly the women began to talk to each other, as women do, and, “How extraordinary: you slept with him too!” soon became, “Not another one!” Rajan was truly playing the field. I had known to begin with that it was unlikely to be a serious, committed relationship – I don’t think I even wanted it to be; but now it became obvious.

  The last night I spent in his caravan, I was in huge conflict: I so much wanted to open up and enjoy the deep pleasure of surrender, yet I felt so unsafe that my body would not allow it. In other words: orgasm was impossible! It was obviously time to say goodbye. It wasn’t easy: for months afterwards I felt painful pangs of longing; sometimes I would talk to him about it.

  After a while he finished his promiscuous phase and found a permanent partner. One night I watched them performing on the catwalk: they were truly impressive. I was so jealous; I found myself thinking, “I can’t possibly compete!” then, “Why should I want to compete?” and suddenly I knew that even this was connected with my mother: the pain of feeling that I was never as good as her, the desire to be joyful and alive but the feeling that she would crush me if I revealed that side of myself. Understanding the roots of my distress made it more manageable: I had been here before, and I knew what to do. The next day I used the anger and sadness in the AUM to cut the final ties with Rajan, and since then we have been warm, uncomplicated friends.

  39

  Tim

  That Christmas I went to a party in Torquay held by an old premie friend. Judy came with me; and Mark was there with his new wife. I felt a sense of possessiveness as he walked in the door, as if he was mine and she had no right to claim him.

  Judy and I wandered into the kitchen for a drink, and here we met an odd character with dyed blond hair and shoes of different colours: one purple, one green. He was in his late fifties, a little stooped, with slightly rabbitty teeth; he was also warm and engaging, and seemed very interested in Osho Leela, which he had heard about but not yet visited. This being my favourite subject, I told him all about it with great enthusiasm.

  He said he had been living in a community himself, a residential psychotherapy centre just outside Totnes called Venton Manor. The therapist who ran it had retired, but they had tried to keep it going without her. He told me how healing it had been for him living there, and what amazing potential there was for growth and learning. I listened with interest, then we went back into the living room where Judy and our new friend Tim sat on the floor and got to know each other, whilst I sat on a chair and talked to Mark until I felt warm and comfortable with him again.

  A few days later my host told me Tim had been asking for my phone number: should he give it to him? I hesitated, then decided it wouldn’t do any harm. I obviously had no romantic feelings towards him, but he might be nice as an occasional friend. So Tim rang me up. I went to visit him in the flat attached to Venton where he still lived at the time. He turned out to be an unusually kind and empathic man.

  Around that time I developed an enormous crush on Dhyano, the founder and manager of Osho Leela. He had become a familiar, benevolent presence over the years and I was impressed, and slightly awe-inspired, at the powerful way he ran the whole ship, always dashing around organizing things, strong and efficient yet with a huge, warm heart. Sometimes he told us his life story and I was touched by his humility and the pain he had suffered. Occasionally I tried to talk to him, but he seemed strangely shy with just one other person. Then I went to one of his workshops, and suddenly fell for him: his warmth, his power – and probably his unreachable-ness.

  So I told Tim all about this, and cried, and discovered he was an amazing listener and didn’t seem to mind my tears at all. My mind wandered up to his bedroom under the eaves, trying to persuade myself that such a very nice man might possibly be attractive. But although we shared a good hug from time to time, I really couldn’t imagine ever going to bed with him.

  A few weeks later, I went to Leela again. I was feeling lonely and depressed and knew that a visit would bring me back to life, but the only thing happening that weekend was a new brainchild of Dhyano’s called the ‘Entrepreneur Training’. Dhyano was always having brainchildren. He was a fascinating mixture of ruthless, determined businessman and soft-hearted guru, and the workshops he thought up were often an attempt to marry the two: how to be sensi
tive yet successful, soft yet strong. This particular one leant more towards the worldly side of things. He believed that ethical, conscious business could create a win-win situation, that anything was possible through positive thinking, that becoming rich could be fun. And he always made sure that, however materialistic and goal-orientated, his groups were liberally sprinkled with good old Leela dancing and hugging.

  However, I had been to the first one, and if I was honest I knew it wasn’t really my thing. The attitude tended to be, “Fuck your feelings: just go for the goal” when I was much more of a “Understand your feelings, go right into them then come out the other side free to pursue your goal” kind of person. So I was only going to the second one because I had a crush on the teacher. What is more, part of his cunning scheme was to get us to pay for the next two weekends if we wanted to go on this one. But I went anyway.

  An hour or two in to the day, I knew I had made a huge mistake. This was not for me; and I had wasted so much money. I became more and more upset, until I was beside myself with heartbreak. My feelings for Dhyano were still strong, but my grief towards my bank balance was even stronger! As it happened, Tim was on this weekend too, and in my humbled state I really appreciated having him there to talk to. It was embarrassing: I couldn’t stop crying. I struggled through the day, feeling more and more unable to relate to it all, then after supper went to one more meeting, in which a smart businesswoman was enthusing about wealth and success.

  Stepping outside in the break, Tim turned to me and said, “Would you like to sleep with me tonight?” He told me later that this was an unusually bold question for him, and largely the result of the fact that his friend Sally, with whom he was sharing a mobile home, had just elbowed him out of the way in a cold huff. But this being an altogether unique situation, I gave an unusually bold answer. I thanked him and trotted off straight away to fetch my nightie and toothbrush.

  I was so unhappy that all my defences were down, and if he could offer me a little respite from my pain then I wasn’t going to refuse. So we went back and snuggled under his duvet, on a lumpy sort of converted couch affair where I always seemed to have the ridgey bit under my back. To my surprise, he was very much at-home in his body and embraced me with a warmth and confidence that eased my anguish. I had been here before, in this heartbroken place, and it wasn’t all bad, at least not if there was someone there to hold me. In fact it could be a relief when my everyday ego lost its grip and I was forced to acknowledge goodness in places where I had previously been too proud to see it.

  One exchange flowed naturally into another, and we made love. Again I was surprised at the warmth and the ease of it. On the second night we found a better bed, and again had a close and happy time. Strangely enough it was May 1st 2004, exactly seven years from May 1st 1997, which was when I had left Sam.

  The weekend came to an end, I went home to work and the children and my normal everyday life, and almost immediately my old self came back. What had I been thinking of? How could I? I didn’t even find him attractive! He phoned me, then came for a cup of tea in the summerhouse we had installed in the top garden... But it only confirmed my feelings: this was not going to work; he just wasn’t my type. Yes, he was a nice man, but no... I just couldn’t go there. So I avoided him. I wriggled out of any more suggestions of meeting up. If I saw him on the street I pretended not to and scurried away.

  As time passed I began to feel lonely again, and sometimes wonder if it couldn’t work with Tim, but then dismissed the idea: it would be stupid and impossible to try to force it. Then I thought about the other men I knew, and concluded there was nobody who could meet me in all the ways I needed to be met: physically, emotionally, mentally... Here I was back again in that sad place. I railed at God: I simply wanted someone to love... Was that too much to ask?

  I was still seeing my woman therapist. I told her everything: about Rajan, Dhyano, Tim; and we looked again at little Andrea and her ideas about the perfect prince, and suggested to her that true love may not always come in the ideal package. Then one evening, six months after my encounter with Tim at the Entrepreneur weekend, I went to supper with my friend Judith in Plymouth, whom I had met at the therapy group on the moors where I had been thrashing out my feelings for Jamie.

  Judith is a bright, perceptive woman with plenty of knowledge about early trauma and the tangles we get ourselves in as a result. I told her about my latest dilemma: about Rajan, whom at this time I hadn’t quite let go of – how attractive yet emotionally unavailable he was; about Tim, who was a lovely man and had told me he would like a relationship with me, but whom I couldn’t really consider because of his appearance. Judith looked me straight in the eyes and said, “When are you going to stop playing this game?” And suddenly something clicked inside me. She was right: I had been playing the same game all my life: pushing away love in preference for a fantasy, an ideal, a two dimensional idea that gave me nothing but hopeless hope and flimsy dreams.

  The next morning I gave Tim a call.

  By now he was renting a bungalow in the village of Liverton, up the A38 close to Trago Mills. He invited me to supper with a couple of other people. I spent the evening looking at him and wondering, and when the other guests had gone we sat together by his gas fire and talked deep and long.

  I liked his mind. He seemed to draw things out of me that I didn’t even know where there, and I could sense that there were no no-go areas, there was no judgement: everything to him was fascinating and worth investigation, and he seemed to take things in and genuinely understand. I found myself telling him all about my life, my history, my struggles and triumphs. Then he told me again about Venton Manor: how deeply he believed in the work that went on there, how misunderstood he felt in his attempts to keep it on; about a lady he had been in love with, about his difficult experiences at boarding school, his distant father and cloying mother.

  I felt equally matched with him: he had done as much cathartic work as I had, had a profound understanding of what made us tick and a healthy curiosity and openness to all the convolutions of the human psyche. Above all he listened intently, which I loved, still feeling a little starved in that area. But it was far from passive listening: some of his responses were extraordinarily perceptive and unusual, as if he was tuning in to his deep intuition.

  When he listened and talked, he fixed me with his strong gaze. He had beautiful eyes. In fact, looking closely, his face was quite handsome. He had a strong male energy; he was kind and warm, and intelligent on many levels. By the end of the evening there was a tangible hum of magnetism growing between us.

  Tim was working in a care home at this time, and finished work at nine o’clock in the evening. A few days later, when the children were at their father’s, I invited him round after work. I wanted to make it special, so I lit candles - dozens of them – and placed them on windowsills and little tables all around the sitting room. The log burner was glowing warmly, and I made it comfortable with cushions, throws and blankets.

  In the end we only spent about half an hour there, and then went upstairs to my bedroom. But it was an appropriate doorway into the rest of our lives, and he told me later how amazed he had been as he walked through the door: how moved he was to find the temple of the goddess so beautifully prepared, all for him.

  40

  Tantra

  Tim was a wonderful friend and lover to me for the next nine years. I went through wobbly patches, especially at the beginning, but whatever doubts, fears and criticisms I sent his way he was always solid as a rock, sure in his love for me.

  One of the first things I loved about him was his attitude to women: there was a deep respect and honouring, an understanding of how women work and a willingness for me to take the lead, to be the one to invite him to come close. He said it was a law of nature, and it worked so much better that way. Of course he could do all sorts of things to make me feel warm and attracted to him, but in the end he respected the fact that the temple of my body was not somewhere
he could presume to visit without my invitation.

  The second most beautiful thing I noticed about him was his hands: he had such special, healing hands; I loved to be touched by them. If I was uncomfortable somewhere in my body he would lay his hand there, still and warm, sometimes for a long time, and the pain or tightness would slowly ebb away. When he stroked me it felt lovely, and he had strong, gentle arms to hold me close. He told me that my hands and body were healing and loving for him too.

  For the first time in my life, with Tim I felt that he and I were really making love. I no longer had to fantasize. I could feel him right there with me, loving me with his body and soul, and I loved him in the same way. He told me that in Tantra, a teaching with a deep understanding of life, the Sanskrit word for the female genitalia is ‘yoni’ and for the male is ‘lingam,’ meaning ‘wand of light.’ Early on in our lovemaking I had a profound experience of that miraculous wand which can infuse a woman with life itself: it was as if my whole womb was illuminated with soft white light: expansive, gentle and powerful.

  We went on a Tantra course together. It was fascinating to learn about the male and female energies and the perfect way they compliment each other, each with their different areas of giving and receiving. Its obvious just in the physical act of sex that the man is the one who plays the more positive, outgoing role and the woman is the one who receives, but this pattern continues up the body in beautiful, harmonious alternations.

  In the lower belly the woman is especially powerful in her ability to create new life in her womb, whilst in the man this is a softer place to which he draws the female for comfort. The man is strong in his solar plexus, the area associated with will, drive, a sense of purpose and direction: he is the one who goes out into the world, fighting for and protecting the women and children. The woman is most at home with the energy of the heart, and teaches the man to tune in to the more fluid world of emotions.