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clausvonbohlen · 6 years

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Where I am; a manifesto, memoir, and auto-analysis.

I haven’t posted on here for a long time. This was intended to be a brief update, but has turned into something much longer, a sort of summary of the last 10 years. Perhaps that’s fitting, given that I turned 40 a few months ago. It will, however, require more commitment from you, my cherished reader.

But first, a disclaimer of sorts. This is about the ups, but also – and perhaps primarily – about the downs. And yet I know I am lucky. Indeed, I won a sort of birth lottery: I am white, male, educated, and have never suffered from lack of anything. If you don’t think that I should have downs, or if you think that if I have them I should not write about them, then you should stop reading here. This has been my experience, I promise to relate it to you with as much honesty as I am capable of. If that is not enough for you, then we cannot be friends.

This is also, in a sense, the story of my continuing search for happiness. When I say ‘happiness’, I mean it in the deepest sense – a life that is fulfilling, and meaningful, and conducive to continued growth and flourishing. There is nothing unique about that; it’s a journey we are all on, in one way or another. And I also feel a certain duty; if I, with all my advantages, can’t be happy in that deep sense, then what hope is there for those less fortunate? And if no one can be happy, then what, really, is the point of human existence on earth? Is that too grandiose an extrapolation? I don’t think so.

In fact, I do now feel that I am on the right path, but I lost it for a while, and I could lose it again. That’s what I now intend to write about.

I am not the first to have been at a loss, and particularly not at this stage. Seven centuries ago, Dante Alighieri wrote:

‘Nell’ mezzo del camin di nostra vita

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura

ché la diritta via era smarrita.’

When I had journeyed half of our life's way, I found myself within a shadowed forest, for I had lost the path that does not stray.

In my case, I began to find the path harder to follow about ten years ago. At that time I was living in London, writing, going out, occasionally hooking up with girls, going to rugby training during the week and playing matches on weekends. For years, rugby had been a big part of my life. I was only ever competent, but since my work life was solitary, I loved the team side of it, and the physicality too. But then, to my surprise, I found myself enjoying it less and less. The training was predictable, the games often disappointing; only the friendships kept me going.

My life in London also felt predictable and uninspiring. I had finished one novel and had not yet started on a second. I was serving part time as a Special Constable – a volunteer Police Officer- in the borough of Wandsworth. It was generally dull work, though I had signed up for it in the hope of excitement, and to get me out of my apartment, which was also my place of work. Then the opportunity arose for me to change tack and work for a German film director in Los Angeles, as his assistant. I took it. From one week to the next, I handed in my police badge, hung up my rugby boots, and moved to America.

I have recently been listening to some podcasts by the psychologist Richard Alpert, later known as Ram Dass. My experience of ceasing to enjoy playing rugby – a very small thing, in itself – gave me my first inkling of the much deeper changes that he describes more dramatically as ‘the dark night of the soul’. This is from a talk he gave:

‘And you will go through a period, some of you have already done it, where you are horrified by your dying, the dying of rushes you were previously getting from life, that you tried to hold on to something that was giving you a rush before, because you couldn’t ever conceive that it wouldn’t always give you a rush, but it doesn’t, and the lag between when you stopped having the rush and when you are willing to cop to it, see, that’s how bad you want to get done. A lot of us are clinging to rushes we are already done having, partly because we don’t know what to do next, or partly because we are afraid of what happens next, because “lest ye die ye cannot be born again”… and that is the “dark night of the soul” in St. John of the Cross, where you have lost the fun of the world and you haven’t fully tasted the divinity.’

There is a lot more in that talk, much of it still mysterious to me. But I would have to say, other ‘rushes’ then started to fall away too. Drinking. The Cresta Run. One night stands. Not to say that they couldn’t be enjoyable on occasion, but there was certainly no reliability in it. Not as there once had been, and not as other people seemed to experience.

Recently I had a very clear perception of the diminishing returns from ‘rushes’. I was walking home here in Athens, having smoked a joint. The whole way, I was focussed on the next sensory pleasure that I could give myself. I got home and drank a glass of wine. Then I ate some chocolate. Then I surfed the web. The dissatisfactory quality of each gratification was almost immediately evident; the pleasure lasted just moments, and as soon as it was over, I was casting around for the next one. The balance between enjoyment and dissatisfaction has shifted over the years, or maybe I now see it with greater clarity. In any case, I couldn’t help wondering, how long will I continue with this pattern? How long until the dissatisfaction outweighs the enjoyment? And what then?

A Western psychologist reading this might think, aha, sounds like you were/ are depressed. But I don’t think Richard Alpert would have said that. Or, if he had, he would have attributed very little significance to the term. It might be an accurate description – in terms of box-checking - of a certain pattern of feeling and behaving, but it says very little about the meaning and deeper purpose of that pattern. And I am sure that there is both meaning and purpose.

But to resume the narrative – the narrative of my life! – I moved to Los Angeles and very quickly realised that I was completely disenchanted with both the industry I was working in, and the city I had moved to. I met many talented, attractive, successful people, but they all seemed so unhappy, so anxious, so neurotic. In fact, the film industry and the city – hard for me to differentiate the two – seemed to suffer from a collective neurosis. I wanted to understand it.

At the same time, I had started to realise that the traditional goals were not going to provide me with the ‘rushes’ I had lost. I came across a quote by Helen Keller that resonated with me:

‘True happiness is not attained through self-gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.’

And with that in mind, I decided to become a psychotherapist. I applied to graduate school in San Francisco, quit my job in Los Angeles, and embarked on a doctoral degree in Clinical Psychology six months later.

At first, it was exciting to embark upon a new field of study, in a new city, with a sense of purpose. However, little by little, the disenchantment set in. Not so much with the absence of rushes, but rather with a sense that the material I was being taught, and the perspective I was being taught it from, were misguided. The information was accurate as far as it went, but it was based on a contracted view of what human life could be. I have written about this disenchantment in other places (e.g. my blog at that time, www.icanseealcatraz.blogspot.com). Eventually I found a happier home at Saybrook University, formerly the Humanistic Psychology Institute of California State University. Here I was able to take courses in the Psychology of Shamanism, Eastern Psychology and Existential Psychology, amongst others. I was encouraged to look at human life from a broader perspective.

I graduated with an MA in Existential, Humanistic and Transpersonal Psychology, then I went to work for the Gaza Community Mental Health Programme, a Palestinian NGO in the Gaza Strip. But with only rudimentary Arabic, I soon reached the limit of my usefulness. Following the kidnapping and murder of one of the very few other non-UN foreigners there, I moved to Beirut, to study Arabic.

My short time in Gaza made a big impression on me. Despite the poverty, the nightly sound of drones overhead, the sonic booms of Israeli fighter jets on daytime fly-bys, and the fact that ordinary Gazans cannot leave their tiny strip of land (no airport or port, closed borders), the people struck me as happier, on the whole, than the average American (yes, yes) in San Francisco. That impression deserves an essay in itself, and it is something I rarely talk about, since it is easily misinterpreted. It also has to do with the bonding effect of shared suffering and a common enemy (similar to the Blitz in that respect), as well as more tightly knit families, and minimal materialism. But in short, and as idealistic as this may sound, it made me realise that human relationships make people happier than constant material consumption ever can.

When I first arrived in Beirut, I taught English to Palestinian students from camps in Lebanon, through an NGO called Unite Lebanon Youth Project (ULYP). Then I heard about a vacancy for a full time teacher of English Literature, and also Philosophy, at Brummana High School, in the mountains above Beirut. I applied, went for an interview, and was offered the job.

I worked at Brummana for two years. Some of those experiences are detailed elsewhere in this blog. But in short, I was teaching subjects that I found interesting, to students that I liked. I had a lot of freedom and was even allowed to design and teach a Creative Writing elective that turned out to be more like group therapy, with some poems and short stories on the side. I was living in a beautiful place, with sweeping views over Beirut and the Mediterranean. I was doing the kind of work that is generally thought to be worthwhile, to accord with Keller’s ‘worthy purpose’, and to be fulfilling. And yet, having settled into the daily and weekly routine, it was not long before I once again started to feel restless.

I left Brummana, and Lebanon at the same time. I was not sure what I wanted to do next, but I thought that a cure for my perpetual restlessness might be a long walk, so I walked with Finny – my Lebanese foundling dog – from Salzburg to Santiago de Compostela, along the old medieval pilgrims’ route. The walk took us six months, and I wrote about it here – www.onehundredwordsaweek.blogspot.com

The walk gave me plenty of time to think. I limited my access to email and internet to once a week. One email I received along the way was from an old school friend, organizing a dinner for a group of us who had left school exactly twenty years before. It made me think back to that period of my life, and these lines from the Frank O’Hara’s poem ‘Animals’ came to mind:

Have you forgotten what we were like then

when we were still first rate,

and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth?

I was reminded of certain mornings as a teenager, perhaps during the summer holidays, when my body hummed with energy, and when the future filled me with a sense of tremendous excitement.

And I thought of Housman’s lines from section XV of ‘A Shropshire Lad’, lines that more accurately reflected my own experience of recent years:

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows;

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went,

And cannot come again.

I had hoped that the pilgrimage would allow me to work out what I wanted to do with my life. It didn’t. Or at least, not in any long-term way. However, it did make me think that after almost a decade away from the UK, I should return there to spend some time with my parents, and also to put some energy into maintaining and renovating parts of our family home in Sussex. It is an old house with a lovely garden and I have memories of a very happy childhood there. But it had started to look a little neglected, perhaps more obvious to me since I would just see it once or twice a year. The place has given me a lot, and I felt a responsibility to it.

So I found myself back in a place that I loved, channeling my energy into a project that felt worthwhile, and spending some time with parents who will not be around for ever. Ideas of nostalgia were still in my head, but not in the way they had been during the walk. Now I became aware of the second meaning of the term – not homesickness so much as a more literal ‘nostos’ and ‘algos’, the pain of returning home (an insight that I owe to Rory Dunlop and his very enjoyable novel ‘What We Didn’t Say’). Because I did now feel pain; home was not the same, my parents were not the same, and nor was I.

At first I minimized all this. People close to me endorsed my renovation project, and my decision to spend time with my parents. I knew I was lucky to have grown up in such a beautiful place. But the problem was that I was struggling to see the beauty, or feel the luck. Wherever I looked I just saw problems, endless menial maintenance tasks with no end in sight, like one of those bridges – The Golden Gate, the Severn - where as soon as the painters finish painting one end they need to start at the beginning again.

What’s more, I was drinking a couple of cocktails every evening, then passing out as soon as I lay down. But I would wake up feeling exhausted and achy, and my tiredness would only increase throughout the day. I also felt a tightness in my throat, and a general lack of enthusiasm. I thought I might have contracted a virus, so I went to see my GP. He did some blood tests but couldn’t find anything wrong.

Throughout my life, books and literature have always provided a refuge. But no longer: I was struggling to concentrate, and I wasn’t enjoying any of the books that I picked up, despite the fact that they often came highly recommended.

In a last ditch attempt to lift myself out of this slough of literary despond, I made a larger order of carefully chosen titles, from Amazon. The first book to arrive, clearly addressed to me, was ‘What Matters Most’, by Dr. James Hollis. Bizarrely, I had never heard of it. There was no receipt, and when I viewed my account online, I found no record of having ordered it.

That night, most unusually, I woke up at 2am and couldn’t get back to sleep. I picked up the book and started reading. I read for 3 hours straight; it felt as if the book had been written specifically for me. Dr. Hollis’ thesis, based on his Jungian training, is that there is something beyond the Freudian id-ego-superego structure, and that is the soul. The soul needs to grow, needs to feel that it is expanding and developing, and if that does not happen, then sooner or later we will experience symptoms – lack of energy, frustration, anxiety, indecision, and physical ailments too.

Despite the somewhat pop-y title, Hollis is a serious Jungian analyst. From his perspective, the book’s mysterious arrival would not be an accident, but an instance of synchronicity. The following morning, when I woke, I saw a whatsapp message on my phone from an old friend with whom I communicate about once a month. He told me he had just woken from a dream in which I had recommended a book to him. I told him of my experience of the night, and recommended Hollis’ book to him.

‘What Matters Most’ made me realise that my malaise had a meaning, that my body was the means through which the soul and the unconscious were trying to communicate with me, and that those deepest parts of me were frustrated because they did not feel they were growing. Most people my age are married and have families; many have their own businesses. These are all creative acts. I, on the other hand, was trying to patch up my childhood, to preserve my parents’ vision, and – essentially - to hold onto the past. The book also drew my attention to the way that it can often be fear – fear of change, fear of failure, fear of what other people will think – that holds us back from being all that we can be.

In the summer, I attended an Ayahuasca retreat in Scotland, something I was quite apprehensive about, since I have long questioned the value of de-contextualised shamanism. But the retreat was guided by an inspiring individual who was himself deeply rooted in a specific tradition, and it rekindled my own interest in plant medicine and Amazonian shamanism. I felt that the time had come to delve deeper into that world, so I interviewed the shaman about where it might still be possible to find uncontaminated shamanic practices in the Amazon (without risking one’s life), and based on his information, I planned a trip for the end of the year.

I went to Peru with my mind open; I wanted to see whether it would be possible for me to communicate with the plants in the way that curanderos and vegetalistas describe. I took Ayahuasca twice a week over a period of two months, as described in previous posts on this blog, but the plants did not communicate with me. Or, at least, that is what I thought at the time. They certainly did not teach me their healing and medicinal purposes, nor the songs through which this information is said to be relayed. But, in restrospect, I think they may have had a message for me, namely that it was not the right time for me to explore that world. I needed to ground myself in this world more firmly first, to feel that I had a home of my own, an Archimedean point.

My Ayahuasca trips are rarely very visual, but one mental image that kept coming back to me was of an empty white room, with a view of the blue sky and the blue sea. At the time, I thought this was probably a reaction to my life in Sussex where, in addition to feeling lethargic and unwell, I had felt oppressed by ‘stuff’ – the accumulated clutter of my lifetime, and my parents’ lifetime, and the clutter of previous generations. So many things, and they weighed on me, as a sense of family history also weighed on me. The empty white room was the opposite of that: a space in which to let go, to de-clutter, and to create.

I was able to experience a pared down, de-cluttered life in a Zen monastery in Japan some months later, and I found it very rewarding. But it was brutal too – the monastery was freezing, I was not allowed to wear socks or a hat, and the obligatory 4.30am morning meditation was followed by hours of floor cleaning, with a cold wet rag. But I soon felt calmer than I had done for years, though I also realised that I was not ready to make a longterm commitment to that kind of a life, though at some future point, who knows.

Back in Europe some months later, I joined a few friends on a short hiking holiday in Crete, inspired by the Patrick Leigh-Fermor and Stanley Moss’ kidnapping of the German General Kreipe in 1942, and their subsequent march across the mountainous centre of the island. General Kreipe had been dragging his feet, expecting to be rescued at any moment. On the first morning of his abduction he observed the sunrise on Mt. Ida and quoted the first verse of Horace’s ‘Ode to Thaliarcus’, describing a similar sunrise on Mt. Soractus in the Apennines. When he had finished, Patrick Leigh-Fermor – a classicist blessed with an excellent memory - quoted the remaining verses. The General was impressed and stopped dragging his feet from that point on. In his memoir, Patrick Leigh Fermor wrote, “…for a long moment, the war had ceased to exist. We had both drunk at the same fountains long before.”

I was blown away by the area of Crete that we were hiking through. The walk across Europe had re-sensitized me to the beauty of landscape, but these Cretan mountains were, I felt, the landscapes that I wished to get to know deeply, and one day to paint.

I won’t pretend that I found the actual empty white room of my Ayahuasca visions, but this place definitely had the right feel. It was here that I could imagine building that white room for myself, with its view of the sea and the sky.

I returned to the UK with a sense of excitement about the future that I had not felt for some time. I was finally finding some direction, even a sense of purpose.

Some readers may be thinking, fine, but what about teaching? What about psychotherapy? What about helping people? Maybe you should be less selfish, maybe if you had committed to those things, you would have found that sense of purpose?

I hear you, friend reader! But I felt I did commit, to the extent that I was capable at those times, and yet I was restless. Not despairing, but not exactly happy either. Does that matter? Should it not be enough just to feel that you are doing something worthwhile? I think it does matter. Happiness creates ripples, and if you are happy in yourself, then that will have a positive effect on all the interactions you have, and on all the people you meet. The uplifting interaction with a stranger in a supermarket may have more impact than the worthiest acts that are performed by someone who is profoundly miserable. We are not the originators of love or positivity; rather, we are conduits for those qualities, and we channel them most effectively when we are happy in ourselves.

Happiness, in this deep sense, is not a purely selfish thing. It benefits others too, and in some mysterious way it may even shape the world we live in. So do what makes you happy, but make sure you understand the distinction between sensory gratification and real happiness.

But isn’t the pursuit of happiness always self-defeating? We are happy until we ask ourselves whether we are happy, and then we realise we could be happier, and that makes us unhappy… Happiness is, in the words of Oliver Burkeman, a ‘delicate two-step’: aim at it too directly, and you will lose it.

There is truth in that. But at the same time, I think that there are certain constituents of happiness that will never let us down. Two of the most important, as Freud stated, are work and love. Work, at its best, should provide a sense of purpose, and also allow us to experience a state of flow, that sense of being fully absorbed in a task. Seen in this light, work can be very similar to concentration meditation; it allows the restless mind to settle.

To be in that state of flow and get paid for it is perhaps the holy grail. But even if we don’t get paid for it, we still need it. We might then describe it as a ‘hobby’, or perhaps it is simply unpaid work (like my mother ‘working’ in the garden), but the important thing is that we are having that experience.

We also need to feel love, or else we become brittle and emotionally atrophied. But that need not necessarily be romantic love. We can love our friends, or music, or a pet, or nature, or God; the important thing is to remove the blockages from that channel.

To return to my own story, I have known for some time that I need to rediscover the state of flow. My walk across Europe had reminded me of the power of landscape to move me. Crete’s rugged beauty impressed me deeply. When I was younger, I used to paint a lot. But in my 20s and early 30s, I did not find it dynamic enough. Now I think differently; the calming, meditative quality holds an appeal for me that I was not conscious of before. I made up my mind to return to Crete and devote myself to painting landscapes. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed the right thing to do.

I remembered a piece of advice from a letter that Hunter S. Thompson wrote to his friend Hume Logan. Logan requests career advice, to which Thompson replies: ‘…beware of looking for goals: look for a way of life. Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life.’

When I imagine my future, I do not aspire to being surrounded by flapping assistants, chauffeured from meeting to meeting, plied with rich food and drink, signing cheques for the maintenance of houses and expensive toys. And estranged wives. No, I would much rather spend time in the landscapes that I love, building a relationship with them through meticulous observation, and recording that relationship through the act of painting. A direct relationship, not mediated through a digital screen, and – crucially – free from distractions. Hemingway said: ‘The man who has begun to live more seriously within begins to live more simply without.’ I want to live seriously within.

I have also been inspired by the film Jiro Dreams of Sushi, about an elderly Japanese sushi chef called Jiro. In my own life, I have not observed many people ageing well, by which I mean being happy and at peace with themselves and the world as they grow old. Jiro, though rather a tyrant in his restaurant, seems to me to be that rare bird: a happy old man. He still works every day, as he has done since his earliest youth, and he is driven by the same goal: to make the perfect mouthful of sushi, just a tiny fraction of a degree more delicious than anything he has ever made before. He has no interest in retirement, or even in holidays; what can they offer a man with so clear a sense of purpose?

Jiro is an artist. Perhaps he is lucky to have been born with a fine palate, and with so clear a sense of purpose. But perhaps we can decide on our purpose, and thereby make our own luck.

In the Amazon, the plants had not spoken to me, at least not through the medium of song. And yet, more and more, I feel that they are alive, and maybe that they do have spirits. Indeed, that all of nature is animate in that way. Painting is a way to concentrate on the natural world, and to explore these intuitions more deeply.

I know that landscape painting is not really part of the dialogue of contemporary art, but that doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think I prefer it that way. If you have got this far, you will have realised that I prefer the monologue anyway. In addition, landscape painting could have a moral dimension, since the more we appreciate the beauty and harmony of nature, the less likely we are to destroy it. Painting has the capacity not only to open the eyes of the artist, but of the viewer too. That is a worthy goal; to communicate something of the vision and the sensitivity.

Finally, perhaps I am starting to see painting as a secular form of worship; through it, I can express my gratitude for creation, and for the fact that I am here to appreciate it. And maybe that is our collective human purpose: we are nature becoming conscious of itself.

Back in London, I started taking Greek lessons at the Hellenic Centre. Then I bought a second-hand motorbike, tidied my affairs, and set off by motorbike for Crete. I took the ferry to Santander, arriving by night in the middle of a rainstorm, then crossed the north of Spain to Barcelona. I stayed with my old friend F, whom I had got to know 20 years before, when we both played for a rugby team in Barcelona. On the last night of my visit, his wife gave birth, two weeks early. He just managed to get her to the hospital in time, and I said goodbye to him and his wife, and their newborn baby, in the maternity ward the following morning.

I spent a week with other friends in France, then continued into Italy in the crucible of a heat-wave. Biking long distances is tiring at the best of times, but exhausting in 42 degrees, when the heat radiates off the motorway and you are clad in black leather. I had planned to bike through the Balkans, but there were wildfires in Albania, and I was finding it increasingly tough going. I crossed the north of Italy and then decided to take the ferry from Ancona to Greece. While biking the final leg from Patras to Athens, I felt euphoric; I had a strange sense of having finally come home. I thought of Cavafy’s poem ‘Ithaka’:

Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Greece is not my native soil, but I am beginning to feel that my journey has been a long one. Perhaps that is enough; anywhere can be home if we choose to make it so.

Except for the touristy areas, Athens in August is something of a ghost town. I only stayed a couple of days before continuing to Crete. I was afraid that it would not live up to my idealised recollections, but I need not have worried. I returned to the area I had visited in the spring, and it was as wild and beautiful as I remembered. I hiked, swam in the sea, painted watercolours, and observed the old men in the taverna at night. But despite the inspiring landscape, I soon realised that, at this point in my life, I would find life in this remote area of Crete too lonely. In addition, I am still a very long way from possessing the technical skill to paint the kind of pictures that I have in my head.

In September I returned to Athens. I started a course of intensive Greek lessons, and I spent my days crisscrossing the city on foot, getting to know different areas and looking for an apartment to rent, as well as a space to use as a painting studio. It was still very hot, and at times the language barrier could make life difficult. But things seemed to fall into place: I met good people and found spaces that far exceeded my hopes, both in terms of charm and affordability. I felt that I was experiencing first-hand my theory about positive energy: when you are happy and open to the universe and to others, then good things often fall into your lap. It seems more than just coincidence.

There are many things I love about Athens. Above all, I feel that people are less neurotic than in any other place I have ever lived. There is not the same restless quality. At times this can be challenging too; it often makes me realise how impatient I am, but that is a valuable lesson. At least once a day I have to say to myself, ‘You can’t hurry the Greeks.’

I love the absence of billboards and advertising in the city generally, and particularly on the underground. My mental space is more protected here, my consciousness not constantly invaded by disingenuous images telling me what products I need to buy in order to be happy, or what I should look like, or the kind of life that I should aspire towards. It’s very pleasant, but most Greeks are unaware of their good fortune in this respect, because it is all they know. I am tempted to draw a parallel with colour perception in the ancient world. There is no word for blue in ancient Greek, perhaps because, with all that immensity of sea and sky, the colour was so ubiquitous that the ancient eye was not trained to pick it out.

I love the fact that the bars and cafés are crowded with cheerful, attractive Athenians who will sip from one or two glasses of iced espresso all night. Their pleasure comes from conversation, from each other, and not from getting wasted.

I love the fact that this is not a nanny state. Occasionally you will see someone riding a motorbike, no helmet, cigarette between his lips, holding a phone to his ear, and with a dog perched on the fuel tank. Dangerous, yes, but free too.

There are many beautiful Greek girls. In some ways they are similar to Lebanese girls, but they are more natural looking. I love the sound of the language as they speak it. It has a delicate, tinkling quality, like a clear mountain stream.

I love the exaggerated respect that you are shown when you have to enter a PIN number anywhere. As soon as a shopkeeper or waiter has given you the portable terminal, he will retreat into a corner, closing his eyes and turning his back, as if you were handling a vial of anthrax rather than a credit card.

I love the fact that in a spinning class I went to, the strapping instructor came round before and after the class offering everyone chocolate truffles; during the class, he projected a sequence of Victoria’s Secret videos, which was an excellent distraction for me, and which the rest of the class – all girls - appeared to not to mind.

As a single person, I love the fact that in Greek the same word (‘ελευθερος’) means both ‘single’ and ‘free’.

I love the fact that internet dating has not caught on in Athens. Greeks prefer to speak to each other in person, and will still start conversations with strangers in a queue, rather than focus all their attention on their telephones. They think that there is something a little bit sad about conducting the affairs of the heart through an app, even when real world interactions mean running the risk of rejection. And, because they are less neurotic, the belief that the perfect partner is just one more swipe away has less traction.

Of course there have been challenging days too, particularly while I was struggling to find a place to live, owing to the boom in Airbnbs, and consequent dearth of furnished apartments on the domestic market. But often things felt not quite real. On one occasion, when I was frustrated after yet another rejection from a prospective landlord, I looked up to see a clown on an oversize unicycle cycling down hectic Piraeus street; as if the universe were telling me to take a deep breath and lighten up.

That is a just a very small moment, but it does tap into a much bigger question about the reality of the external world. For some time now I have wondered about the extent to which we are involved in the co-creation of what we perceive to be reality. I don’t think it is possible to take psychedelics and shamanic entheogens without at some point asking oneself these questions.

There is a famous thought experiment in philosophy: can we ever know that our experience is what we believe it to be, or could we just be disembodied brains in vats having our neuronal circuitry manipulated by mad scientists? In light of last year’s American election, when a clown in a toupée was elected President of the United States, the brain-in-a-vat theory suddenly seems quite plausible.

I am neither a solipsist nor an idealist in the Berkeleyan sense: I do believe that other people exist in meaningful ways, and not just because I have an idea of them. However, what interests me is the extent to which my ideas shape the experiences I have, and how they contribute to creating my ‘reality’. This is a big, and possibly unanswerable, question for metaphysics, but its implications are perhaps most evident in the field of psychology, where it has arisen in an pointed way for me in the context of making choices.

Choice is a sword with two very sharp edges. One the one hand, choice is a luxury and a privilege; the richer, more talented, more successful a person is, the more choice they often have. But on the other hand, it seems to me that nothing is quite as likely to cause neurosis, dissatisfaction, and avoidable suffering. To give a very simple example, I can find myself paralyzed before a supermarket shelf of different washing-up liquids: which is the best? Which is the cheapest? Which smell do I like best? Which colour do I prefer? What can this one do that the others can’t? On a bad day, the decision-making process is painful, probably because this one choice carries with it a little bit of all the other unmade choices in my life. However, if I go into the local corner store which stocks just one size and type of washing up liquid, I will buy it and be perfectly happy.

In small ways, I can find myself undone by choice. I am now consciously attempting to prevent those small ways from becoming bigger ways. For instance, I attend Tai Chi classes here in Athens. There are mornings when I don’t feel like going; I’m tired, or it’s raining, or I just don’t feel like it. I am currently experimenting with pretending that I don’t have a choice. I don’t allow myself to go down the decision-making path. Just do it. And I have to say that so far I feel much better for it.

Washing-up liquid and a Tai Chi class are of course very small things, but it is good to practise with the small things. The bigger things are, perhaps, choosing to move to Greece. I have moved to different countries and different cities in the past, but always in a provisional, transient way. I feel differently about this move, and that is having a beneficial effect on my own habitual inner restlessness. It is also, I think, the right kind of preparation for committing to this new career, and possibly even to a person.

Maybe I have just been rather slow to adopt this strategy. Years ago, I joined a Canadian-American friend in a cross-country skiing marathon from Norway to Sweden. My friend is affectionately known as Captain America, owing to his chiseled chin and robust all-round competence. I had flu on the day of the marathon and was running a temperature, not at all pleasant in -20 degrees. My progress was very slow, also because the phlegm in my lungs kept making me retch. My friend stuck loyally by my side for the first 30 kilometers or so, then – in a moment reminsicent of a Vietnam movie – I persuaded him to push ahead at his own speed. Captain America’s parting words to me were, ‘Remember: failure is not an option.’ I am not sure whether I found it all that motivating at the time, but now I recognise the effectiveness of that attitude.

But for me there is one problem with this approach, and it is a problem of intellectual consistency. Unfortunately, the pretence that I don’t have a choice does not sit well with my commitment to the existential perspective, as formulated philosophically by Sartre and psychotherapeutically by Irvin Yalom. Central to the existential perspective is the recognition that we have total choice, and total responsibility for our lives. There is no human ‘essence’; it is up to us to make of ourselves what we will. We are ‘condemned’ to be free, and any attempt to shirk that freedom is intellectually dishonest, personally inauthentic, and breaks faith with life (Sartre terms it ‘mauvaise foi’, bad faith).

Is my pretence that I don’t have a choice an example of bad faith? I’m not sure. It is a strategy that enables me to circumvent my own neurotic tendencies, a strategy that would have prevented Buridan’s ass from starving. Indeed, Buridan’s ass may have had a very happy life had he adopted it. And in my own case, it has not made me shrink from life. Quite the opposite: I have committed to Greece, to landscape painting, to learning Greek, and to practicing Tai Chi… all of these are slow processes, and this strategy helps me get over the little ups and downs. But I would not have been able to make these changes and commit to these things if I had not recognized my essential freedom in the first place.

This conflict is just a shadow of the more serious one that arises from my growing conviction that there are karmic principles at work in our lives. I am increasingly persuaded by the sages, mystics and monks who believe in reincarnation and who say that the point of our many lives is to lead us, finally, to liberation. There are many things I don’t understand: what aspect of ‘us’ gets reincarnated? How is it all organised? How can there be more people alive today than ever before? But what I like about reincarnation, and what seems intuitively correct, is that there is a point to our lives. Every new incarnation gives us the opportunity to burn through the accumulated negativity of past incarnations. Nothing happens by chance. The relationships that we have in this life are reconfigurations of similar constellations from the past; they repeat themselves until they have been fully resolved. When ‘bad’ things happen to us, they present us with the opportunity to resolve the blockages that are holding us back, and to grow in precisely the ways that we need. This is the amor fati of the Ancients; but is it true? Or is it just wishful thinking, the Panglossian optimism that Voltaire ridicules in ‘Candide’?

A part of me wants to follow Pascal and his wager: we can never know for sure, so why not believe what is most beneficial? There is no doubt that I am happier believing that there is a point to my life, that it is one of many lives, and that suffering has a reason and a purpose. Of course, one cannot choose to believe just anything. But I don’t have to try to force myself to believe this; it is in line with my intuitions.

As I have already indicated, I am increasingly persuaded by the idea that we are involved in creating the reality that we experience. Convince yourself that failure is not an option, and you are more likely to succeed. But does the same hold in the field of metaphysics? Do our thoughts, either individually or collectively, create the ‘reality’ we experience? I think that probably is the case: in significant ways, we think the world into being. The objective and subjective worlds are not completely distinct; if they are separated at all, it is only by a porous membrane. If you believe in reincarnation, then the belief alone may be enough to make it true. This is the perspective of many peoples and cultures down the ages: thought is primary and thinking (or dreaming, ‘dream-time’) creates the reality we experience.

Interestingly, there is no way to disprove this theory. If Western science looks at indigenous beliefs and shows them to be false – i.e. a mistaken representation of the way things really are – this is in fact exactly what the indigenous perspective would expect, since Western science is also just another reality that has been thought into being. There is no ‘way that things really are’; there are just different ways of thinking, and these create different realities.

Belief in reincarnation and the doctrine of karma also seems to presuppose a deterministic world. I once consulted a Vedic astrologer in South India; his reading of my natal chart was astonishingly accurate, and specific. I questioned him about the assumptions underlying the reading. He confirmed that, from the Vedic perspective, the world is fully determined. The outcome of this life, and of all future lives, is already known. We will never change the course of our lives – even the changes that we think we make have already been determined – but we can watch our lives unfold with curiosity.

Does this make life pointless and boring? Not at all. The Vedic astrologer drew the following parallel: Harry Potter’s life has been fully determined by the author, nevertheless, Harry himself does not know the outcome, and his life in each book is still vitally interesting to him - he believes that he is meaningfully shaping his future, although the author has already decided it.

What to make of this parallel with a fictional character? If thought creates reality, then in a sense we are fictional characters, either created by ourselves, or by some much greater ‘author’. Can this parallel shed light on the question of how to resolve the conflict between the radical freedom of existentialism, and the determined universe of reincarnation and Vedic thought? I don’t know, but I feel that resolving this conflict – at least to my personal satisfaction - may be the major intellectual task of the rest of my life.

In fact, it is a task that I have already embarked upon. Part of the reason why I am attracted to Zen Buddhism is because it appears to take one beyond rationality, to a world of pure awareness, a world that is not subject to the rules of thought, and that transcends conflicts of logic. The point of the Zen koan, as I understand it, is to shake us out of our ordinary way of thinking, and to give us an intimation that the world in its suchness is not as we assume it to be. These ideas are hard to frame in language, because language is itself a function of the rules that govern thought (non-contradiction, identity and so on); what Zen attempts to convey is a different perspective, beyond reason and hence also beyond ordinary language.

In the end – at the end of life, at the end of thought – perhaps the best model is provided by the ancient lama in Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Kim’. At the end of his pilgrimage, he returns to the mountains and says: ‘These are indeed my hills. Thus should a man abide, perched above the world, separated from delights, considering vast matters.’

I am finally content where I am, and not ready to perch above the world, separated from delights. But nor am I free from all anxiety. I do, for instance, wonder whether I will ever be able to paint landscapes that will match the images in my head. But here again Jiro Dreams of Sushi has provided me with inspiration. From that film, I learnt that a sushi chef in Japan spends the first two years of his career just learning how to make rice. One cannot rush things. Start small, and stay the course. In my own case, I will start with still lives, and little by little, improve my technique (should you wish, you can follow my progress via instagram: konrad_ratibor_bohemian). If I find flow, and practise diligently, then I am hopeful that one day I will create work that I am happy with. But perhaps, in order to retain the sense of purpose, one must always keep aiming a little bit higher, as Jiro does.

The life of an artist may seem very self-involved to you. It often does to me. But then I think that perhaps the greatest contribution that anyone can make is to find a way of life that makes them happy, and to share the path that got them there. Maybe in the end it can be the artist’s life that inspires others to follow their own passion, whatever it is, and realise happiness for themselves. I will conclude with Dr. Hollis’ formulation of the same sentiment in ‘What Matters Most’:

‘Maybe all of us will learn to grapple with the paradox that living our lives more fully is not narcissism, but service to the world when we bring a more fully achieved gift to the collective. We do not serve our children, our friends and partners, our society by living partial lives, and being secretly depressed and resentful. We serve the world by finding what feeds us, and, having been fed, then share our gift with others.’

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