And so, one day, instead of engaging in battle, I decided that I was, in fact, the boss. The next time Frank arced up, here’s what I said: ‘Fuck off, Frank. Go sit in the corner.’
And lo and behold, for a second, my busy mind fell quiet.
That’s the day I got it (although I often forget, and still need to practise): I am the boss of my brain. Inner critics can be tamed. Although occasionally Frank said something useful, mostly, he was just being naughty. The words ‘Fuck off, Frank’—or FOF, as my friends and I call it—is, quite literally, the secret of my success.
I didn’t realise this at the time, but it’s clear to me now—Frank was never really my enemy. Frank was just my survival brain, gone rogue. Somewhere in that heady mix of genetics, circumstance, imagination and expectation, listening to Frank had become a familiar habit, and that was pretty much the sum of it. All I had to do to start my recovery was to disrupt my old habit of listening to my fear.
Now, when Frank popped up, I just named him, then dismissed him. As I practised, as I grew more skilled in my ability to deflect his arguments and drama, I started to feel lighter inside. I wanted more of that in my life—less worry, more play. I saw my habit of worry was like an addiction—reminding myself of what was wrong with me, instead of what was right with me. Jack, and Buddhism, spoke to that in a way that I could understand. His writing reminded me that, as a human being, I was not just an original sinner, I also had access to original goodness, to dignity, to nobility of spirit and to humour. He reminded me that despite the rigidity that our inner critic tries to impose, we can be reborn every single morning at breakfast. In this new day, he would ask, who is it we want to be?
The Dalai Lama was once quoted as saying that, where possible, don’t change religions. All religions have within them a path to wisdom. He said to stick with the religion of your childhood, which is easy for him to say, because he wasn’t brought up a Catholic.
I used to tell myself I wasn’t allowed to have my own relationship with God—that if I thought differently to my parents, I was doing it wrong. I don’t feel that way anymore.
When it comes to spirituality, I changed my story.
I am not at peace with the religion of my childhood. I’m not sure I will ever be, not unless something drastic changes. I am tempted, quite often, to completely overlook its good deeds—the way it remembers people that the rest of society, and governments, would rather forget. The way it cares for them. That is still going on, even today, and I’m glad it is.
But I want the Catholic Church to be different, and it seems to want the very same thing from me. Neither of us seem to be budging. We are like members of family who don’t really see each other, except at Christmas, where we try our best to get along. And I feel sad about that sometimes. I really do.
Probably worth noting, my feeling about the church is quite different from my feeling about Jesus. I will always have a crush on Jesus. Just the idea of the man, of his pace. He was loving, and brilliant, and radical, and he wasn’t scared of dresses—just my kind of guy. But I no longer worry myself about whether or not he was The One, The Only, because that’s just not an argument which makes any sense to me. As with music, I think it’s actually okay to appreciate both classical and jazz. I don’t see the point of arguing over which is better. Shit hot music is shit hot music. And I have the same attitude to my faith.
I suppose this makes me one of those much derided cherry pickers. I light candles in churches all over the world, of all denominations, and I attend philosophy classes and, when invited, I join my friends to eat dates at Iftar, to eat challah on Shabbat. And most days of the week, you’ll find me sharing my meal with a bunch of heathens, atheist, free-thinkers. I’m good with all of that.
Is it possible that, with my open attitude, I am missing some additional layer of religious richness, and joy?
I may well be, and if I am, well, who knows what might be ahead for me and the Big G. I’ve already warned my husband: enjoy me now, my love, I could turn pure at any moment! I could wake up one morning, sit up in bed, with the spirit of the One True Catholic God so big inside me, I would never question it again. And then you could come to mass with me! Would that be fun?
My husband doesn’t say much, just clears his throat. Changes the subject. God bless the man, and what he puts up with.
For now, however, when it comes to questions of faith, I guess I just think of myself as a bit of a bower-bird: I hunt, fossick, find the blue things, the bits that make sense to me, the bits I love; I test them, keep what I like, and I waste no time arguing with anyone about what’s blue, or what’s not, because isn’t that kind of obvious?
And I’m not asking anyone to agree with me. I’m just asking that you respect my nest, the same way you want me to respect yours.
9
Empty pockets
I think I found a path
Won’t you walk with me
Said the fox to the prince
You tamed me, now I’m lonely.
‘EMPTY POCKETS’
(Red Raku, Sweetly Sedated, 1999)
You know how much I adore my parents, and they me, but it
