BY JO ST LEON
“Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are” — Mason Cooley
This week I have been to many places, entered many worlds. I have read books that I never want to end: the bookworld became mine, and I wanted to stay.
Last night, I began two novels, and put them both down again – I didn’t want to enter their worlds. I realised the time has come to return to my own world, and to give some thought to how I can live more effectively.
We are still in virtual lockdown, but I can change my reading material so that instead of existing in fantasy worlds, I immerse myself in countries I have never visited, whose customs are foreign to me. In the coming week, I plan to read Arundhati Roy and Isabel Allende. Roy will be new to me; Allende less so. Other worlds, but still mine.
And I can sort out the mess that is my internal filing cabinet. The jumble of thoughts, emotions, facts, and fictions that swirl around my consciousness is my only companion in this isolation. It seems to me that a little discipline is called for so I can put myself to better use. In my bookshelves, I have a vast array of Buddhist books – time to actually read them to give my internal world some shape and meaning.
This brings me to meditation: Buddhist, transcendental, whatever… I can’t do any of them. Thanks to my particular cancer, sitting still and entering a meditative state is impossible. The itch takes over and consumes me. Who knew that itchiness could be the opposite of silence? Before – when I was healthy – I studied meditation, went on retreats, did all the things one was supposed to do to become an enlightened human being. I had varying degrees of success but I did, from time to time, achieve that inner silence that is now beyond me.
Instead, I shall return to my morning pages: three pages of longhand written first thing – before breakfast, although not before a cup of tea. It doesn’t matter what you write: it can be profound, trivial, even just a to-do list. It takes a certain amount of dedication to devotedly never miss a day. I know from past experience that if I persevere, my mind will clear, making way for new thoughts, new ideas, and occasional serendipitous happenings.
In other words, the pages promote internal change – not unlike meditation.
In the United Kingdom, sufferers of my disease (Sezary Syndrome) have all had letters from the health minister telling them they are seriously vulnerable and must completely isolate themselves for a minimum of 12 weeks. I don’t feel that level of vulnerability, but I appreciate the safety offered by my home. I can regard another eight or nine weeks spent here with a reasonable degree of equanimity.
I compare my isolation to that endured by prisoners for months on end, without paper, pens, reading materials, televisions, or radios. How do they emerge from this with any degree of sanity? How do they cope with the noise and busyness of the outside world? What has happened to their inner world, their inner chatterbox? Has it gone quiet? Ceased its litany of self-criticism and not-good-enough thoughts? Or do they persevere mercilessly – without respite, even in silence?
So, finally, I conclude that this isolation is not something to be endured; it is not a period of waiting, of marking time, until real life can resume. It is a different reality – one in which reading provides our travel, television brings the outside in, and social media offers companionship. As time goes on though, less and less of these last two, as I learn to enjoy the silence, the companionship of myself and my books.
After four weeks, I am ready to use isolation as an opportunity for growth, discovery, and a new way of being.
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Jo St Leon is a Tasmanian musician and writer. Catch up on her third pandemic diary entry, Journey into solitude.
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