Borneo Journal
We landed at the jetty on Manukan and saw swordfish circling in the aquamarine water. We found our chalet, a two-storey wooden house, simply constructed from dark hardwood, and then we were like children in a playhouse, exclaiming at the discovery of light-switches, sitting on each rattan chair, throwing ourselves on the beds, marvelling at the comforts provided, spartan though they were, as if we had never known such accommodation before. In fact we had stayed in one of the neighbouring chalets two years ago, and half the pleasure was in recognition. Just as last time, there were various things that didn’t work. We called up staff who cheerfully fixed them, or made promises to do so later. The bathroom was flooded, due to water leaking out from the shower pipe. So we showered by holding up the toilet douche, that feature of Muslim households where toilet paper is against their religion.
Last time we were here, my illness was about the same, and I’d walked from the jetty to the chalet, which was exhausting enough, and then instantly ran to the beach to bathe. I trod on a sea urchin and its spines broke off under the skin of my heel, leaving me hobbling in pain. That and all the exercise finished me off and I spent the rest of the trip lying on the balcony almost as still as someone in a coma, whilst M and the children wandered the island in the evening, had food at a barbecue and made new friends.That was then. Let me tell you about our latest visit. We spent much of the afternoon snorkelling amongst the most beautiful and colourful tropical fish you could imagine. You can buy hard biscuits and they’ll come and nibble it from your fingers. And when the food ran out they still came boldly. You could almost seize them in your hands. If you had nothing to offer, they would bite your fingers or nibble your knees. So this is my journal for the first day.
Next morning: woke at 7.15 after a deep sleep of perhaps 10 hours. Aching, not able to do much, but at least feeling fortunate! I’m on the balcony of our cabin. Birds sing, people are starting to stir. At first it was just the staff, now guests too. An ample-breasted girl walks along the path, smiling up. I wave back and we exchange “Good mornings”. Workers saunter past, carrying tools. Through the casuarina trees that give shade to the beach, I see that the tide is slowly receding.
This journal was drafted from the balcony on the far right
Here on the upstairs balcony, I’m level with the unripe fruits of the betel-nut palms, and the cheeky birds which chatter, chase each other and swoop through the spaces between. And, when I tune to it, I hear the sound of little waves lapping and breaking on the beach. Their refrain is almost unbearably sad, the sound of seashore everywhere: insistent, yearning, a long-lost lover whispering in my ear “Find me! Find me!” Somehow it avoids being monotonous, each wave washing away memory of the last, each wave making its own fresh appeal. This is the heartbeat of eternity, directing its message to any shipwrecked mariner on the ocean of life.
“Your life is running out, like this swiftly ebbing tide. Find me! Find me!” The voice of love itself, the voice of an aspiration not yet incarnate, not yet clothed in form: all the more beguiling for that. For I cannot imagine what to do if I find it. What happens when one finds what one has always sought? Must one then abandon the quest, the greatest thing one has known? The answer to this question, with complete precision, is pronounced by the sound of the waves on the beach. For they give, and then they take back. They approach and then they retire. They roar like percussion instruments, and then again they are stilled. This repeating pattern is embroidered profoundly into their rhythm, into my understanding of their message.
Manukan Beach, with feathery fronds of casuarina above
The enticing plea, “Find me! Find me!” comes not from a being as mysterious and distant as the Holy Grail, or a maiden locked in a tower, waiting half a lifetime for me to reach her. No! The pathos of the little waves lapping and retreating on this serene and pretty beach is this: “Find me now! If you don’t find me in this heartbeat, in this wave, in this breath, then try again in the next. If you do find me, then still you must find me again in the next, or you will lose me. For you cannot hold me, handcuff me to your soul. I am forever free. When you are in remembrance of me, in consciousness of me, precisely then am I faithful to you. I hold your hand and gaze into your eyes, giving all. But the moment you forget me, take me for granted, deny me: then I just as surely will betray you, flee from you, be unfaithful to you, abandon you . . . at least in your sight. For in reality it’s only you who abandon me, you who lose me. It’s you who in grasping instead of trusting, fearing instead of loving, unsettle the universe. You stir up the water and make it cloudy. Your senses which are made for joy have become clogged and foul. At that moment you who are meant to be the glory of creation become a mockery of your true nature. Find me! Find me!”
Postscript
Eighteen years later, I look back at this piece and pity that poor helpless struggling fellow. What advice could I give him now? I can’t think of any. He got there in the end, the hard way. There may be short cuts, but I never found any. Except not to bother with the curse of breath meditation. (What a sinister notion, to have to hang on to the next breath! “If you do find me, then still you must find me again in the next, or you will lose me.” Sounds like a form of addictive dependence.)
8 thoughts on “Borneo journal, January 2000”
Well done, Sir! You got there the hard way, but it made you a wise man and a splendid guide who can be trusted. Metamorphosis complete. No manipulation in you. No evil psychology. You've overcome contamination of people and places and ideals and too much society that got into your blood and poisoned it at times. You have even been imprisoned in the cruel and painful cocoon of Fibromyalgia and kept your wits about you until you found your way out. You have a lot to be proud of in yourself and how well you have lived and live your life.
Thanks for these kind words. You must have been on a similar journey, to understand so well, or else a deep empathy. I don't know about “metamorphosis complete”. It continues. Richard Bach says “Here is the test to find whether your mission on Earth is finished: if you're alive, it isn't.” But here you see there are two things: (1) a metamorphosis, (2) a mission. Not the same thing, but they run in parallel. There are many many loose ends . . . In any event, there is much more to say!
Isn't the secret in saying yes to the tide as it comes in and as it goes out; to the rising sun and to the setting sun. Through knowing that all is gift, and that the ability to receive is among the greatest gifts, we gather in the scattered pieces however worthless they may have originally seemed.These days I seem to spend a lot of time searching for a scrap of paper, for a name or address, for an idea or picture or quote. Perhaps they all want to be found as much as I want to find them. Or perhaps they have gone to a place where the belong and will resurface through another mind or body. We desire order not entropy but in the time/space continuum entropy wins. In time the tide ebbs and flows; in Eternity Jesus walks on water.
Once again your remarks seed my imagination, dear Ellie. I feel a new post germinating. Only that will do justice to your first paragraph.And as for your second para, it seems to be answered by the first. The receding tide cleans up the beach. The new day puts a closure upon yesterday. Then as the high tide turns, it leaves its treasure trove of new-old flotsam on our shore, perhaps restoring the disappeared, perhaps not. Thus the temporal renews itself with its own automatic housekeeping system, while the Eternal holds everything in memory, pristinely.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indra%27s_net“Imagine a multidimensional spider's web in the early morning covered with dew drops. And every dew drop contains the reflection of all the other dew drops. And, in each reflected dew drop, the reflections of all the other dew drops in that reflection. And so ad infinitum. That is the Buddhist conception of the universe in an image.” –Alan Watts[1]We engage in a colloquy reflecting one anothers light through the jewel of our own perception. Thanks for your beautiful reply.
What I learned from facebook yesterday about our middle son:”Through a random set of events, I have arrived at Court 1 [Wimbledon] for an afternoon of tennis. Row five, in line with the net. Just behind the umpire chair.”Larry says “That rascal.”
Thus spake paternal pride.
The secret of renewed life lies within the long, long trail of these paragraphs.Idyllic pictures.