It is lovely to approach Bedford town centre along the River Great Ouse. I had plenty of time to notice things, like the view of the church from that bridge, or the knitting dressing the lampposts and benches. The woman I asked said it could be something to do with the Race for Life at the weekend- or just joie de vivre.
Bedford has three amateur orchestras and a chamber music society, and sufficient shops and facilities for reasonable needs all within walking distance. London is close enough by train. I put off writing this post for two days, unable to face it.
What did I expect? What would anything else look like? I was in a rush for the bus, then hot in it, and a driver shouted at me after I crossed the road too brazenly for her. I shouted back. I got to Godfrey’s house, west of the park, at the time agreed. He got it in 1970: it called to him even from the newspaper. He lives there with his male “friend”-
-Partner? he repeats, non-committally.
I sat in the large living room with its grand piano, a classical sonata of Beethoven on the stand, chatting, after we had effectively agreed to go our separate ways. So much for mentoring with the Friends Fellowship of Healing. Well, he was appointed my “mentor” a year ago, and I have not done anything to contact him, really, before today.
We went up to his healing room, and I talked of my ambivalence. There is a definite experience of warmth, and it seems little more than placebo. I do not like the showmanship, claims spoken in apparent certainty.
Do I want to exercise my compassion? That feels wrong to me, egoist, it is as if I step out of the way when healing, it is not my gift to my patient but a phenomenon which feeds and delights me as I share in it rather than give it. Though that might just be a hand-me-down idea I have picked up somewhere, not what I think at all but something shiny that seemed attractive- so I pretend to it, not recognising my own hypocrisy. Oh, I am so confused.
Why have I not been in touch? Oh, I did not like the course, or Elizabeth leading it, and Claridge House appeared stuck in the 1950s, though there is hope with its new manager. He mentions the lack of money for en-suite rooms, but it is not just the bedrooms. Feeling the need to justify myself to him, though I do not know anything I want from him or this meeting- “see what happens” is not good enough-
I explained to him about my sensitivity. I am not seeking to suppress it now. That feels like greater understanding and freedom. Justifying to myself: I am doing something worthwhile, now.
One other thing, he said something about “protection” when outside. This revolts me, actually. Outside, I am safe. There are few lost, violent souls about, more dangerous to themselves than to me, needing my compassion rather than my fear. (Acting good to myself, again?) No. No protection: I want to perceive the light and glory and beauty and darkness, I want to be Open not closed, even walking down the street.
I suppose I wanted rescued and to be told what to do, and as I did not ask for anything I have severed the link myself. He surprised me- “Can I see you again, if I feel the need?” Of course, he said- but it is I who have left him. As I had an hour before the bus, he told me the less direct and prettier route to the bus station.