Even though I created the novel, it was actually a two-way process, because André also changed me. I became patient and compassionate with André as he endured agonies of changing inner states. (see page 292)
Arnfrid Beier, author of LOVE LIES: A Journal
During the night the weather changed. It rained all the time, with hail, sleet and snow mixed into a wintry cocktail.
An icy wind from the North swept over the unfurling buds on the trees, lashing through the daffodils with sharp, capricious blows, slicing off large chunks of blue spring sky with squally sheets of rain.
It felt so raw and inhospitable outside that people put on their winter coats again.
Oh, not to be in England! I had read on one of the garage doors, spray-can poetry by a graffiti vandal, though temporarily striking the right chord no doubt in all good citizens.
And I was no exception. To bring more warmth and light into my life was all I could think about during those cold days. But I wasn’t dreaming of far-away, exotic places.
I wanted to be in the presence of Dr. Baraka. His warmth was of a different order. He had touched me with his beautiful smile, with his gentle manner, and with his humble spirit.
When I finally found a quiet moment to phone him, I couldn’t get through – the line was dead. I tried several more times, but to no avail. Was I dreaming? How disappointing! No secretary to talk to, no answering machine with any explanations!
What should I do? Put Dr. Baraka out of my mind? No way! I had to ring my GP. He would know what I should do. After all, it was he who had advised me to see Dr. Baraka in the first place.
I decided to make an appointment with my GP rather than try and speak to him on the telephone. However, getting hold of the man proved more difficult than I had anticipated. He was in New York.
Disappointed, I tried the telephone directory, searching through all the areas of London, where I thought a man of Dr. Baraka’s eminence might live. Alas, the Dr. Baraka I had in mind was not listed.
Disappointed yet again, I went on a pilgrimage to various herbal shops and other outlets of alternative medicines and healing methods. I found many interesting books, even some useful addresses and telephone numbers, but no information about Dr. Baraka.
As a last resort, I tried the health centre again. This time I was lucky. My GP was back from New York. Did I wish to book an appointment, the receptionist wanted to know.
As soon as she said that it would take a week, I declined, but asked if I could have a quick word with the doctor on the telephone. I was lucky again. He was available. The receptionist put me through.
When I heard his voice, I got straight to the point of my enquiry – this time I wasn’t going to miss my chance. Could he tell me please how to get hold of Dr. Baraka. His telephone seemed to have been disconnected.
My GP explained that Dr. Baraka usually worked in London between Christmas and Easter. He had a private practice in Santa Barbara and ran most of his workshops in California.
He paused for a moment, but may have heard my faint sigh of disappointment, because he quickly continued to speak with a reassuring, cheerful tone in his voice, suggesting that I could always see Dr. Baraka in California.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to go to California. A consultation or two in London was all I could afford. Still, to have his contact details would at least be a source of consolation and give me hope.
My GP must have guessed what I was thinking, because he suggested that I might wish to book myself into one of Dr. Baraka’s workshops for the following year. Whatever my decision would be, here were his details anyway.
As I was writing down Dr. Baraka’s address in California, my GP concluded our conversation by enquiring about my back and my health generally. Pleased to hear that my back didn’t give me any more trouble, he wished me all the best and said goodbye.
Putting the phone down, I could hear a strange silence all around as well as inside me. I felt like having been given a general anaesthetic, about to go under.
“Pull yourself together! Everything is grist to the mill,” I told myself.
But it was a big struggle for me to stay on top, to acknowledge and accept my disappointments and not to see them as dashed hopes or even failures.
How could my disappointments be grist to the mill, anyway? They were negative emotions, which gave me nothing but discomfort and pain.
Then it suddenly struck me that somehow my disappointments were connected with my attachments … getting hooked on an idea … like wanting to meet Dr. Baraka.
That was how it started. And then, if idea and reality did not match up, disappointment kicked in.
Getting hooked on an idea, getting attached to a thought, to a desire, a memory or a hope, that was how I created my hell.
What an awakening! Out of darkness came light. I could see that I was actually in a workshop. This was Dr. Baraka’s Life Stage School! Here and now, in my flat! And tomorrow, at work! Always!
It was as if I could feel Dr. Baraka’s smile spread through my whole being and radiate out of my own eyes. Perhaps there was no need to write to him in California.
When I am high up on a mountain, sooner or later I have – alas – to come down again. Then the whole world below feels even flatter than before and all bricked up with grey and dull monotony.
Every week that went by felt like moving around in such a grey and soulless world. In the mornings, when I looked out of the window, I saw the same bleak picture. Grey skies. Grey buildings. And people with grey faces wearing grey clothes. Grey. Grey. Grey.
I often thought of my walk in the country, on that beautiful, enchanting spring day. Then, the promise of summer was in the air.
Now the flat felt colder than in the middle of winter. I had only one thought, I should move to a warmer climate.
Apart from Mr. Egwugwu, I did not know anybody else in the apartment block. People kept to themselves, leading quiet, private lives. Even Mr. and Mrs. Smith seemed to be away. What had happened to them, and their Laughing Policeman?
Days would pass without me seeing anybody. This heightened my sense of isolation and the world outside began to feel quite unreal.
At work, things were no different. Colleagues and students alike were all preoccupied with their own routines. There was seldom any time to go beyond the customary greeting rituals.
“Hello, good morning.”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Surviving.”
“Same here.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to dash to the library before my next lecture.”
“See you.”
“Bye.”
