A big, fat, dark-brown grain of rice appears in the exact same spot on the floor under my Dalek painting every morning when I wake up. To people from warmer climates the problem is clear. It seems that an OCD-suffering gecko has been lining its scaly sphincter up every night and using the far end to the wall as its toilet. This morning I wake up and peer at the poop with the usual acknowledgement of this regular new item on my morning routine (clean teeth, drink coffee, get rid of the gecko’s poop). But this time there’s something different. This time it feels like someone else’s distant, reverberating laugh in some distant corner of my head, like the deafening silence of a clock ticking in the dentist’s waiting room or the crushing boredom of Monday morning’s commute to work on the Northern Line.
Why does the poop make me feel this way? I get to wake up every morning in India with the excitement of knowing I’m doing exactly what it is my heart has been wanting me to do since I was little. Not many people have that honour – some people even live their whole lives having never experienced that honour. For the answer, I will have to take you back a few weeks.
My holiday in the UK was a long one. I was recording some amazing singers, learning about my father in his homeland of Scotland, reuniting with friends and family, sharing stories from the past 7 months and eating proper British fish and chips. But not all experiences in the UK were good; there were some serious all-time lows (of those experiences, my friend, I shall not burden you with) contrasted with some dizzying heights. A wonderful human-being offered to play violin for my upcoming album, I got to serve alongside my fam at Hillsong London, and I was overwhelmed with joy on hearing a close friend share with me how he had been given a new lease on life and had begun to see the world with child-like wonder.
My flights back to Goa were the beginning of the real reason for my flashback. A 4am alarm-call on the morning of one’s flight is cause for tiredness in any self-respecting individual, but I missed a pre-flight early-morning alarm call in 2012, which has made me panic before every early morning alarm-call ever since. So I didn’t get to sleep until 2am the night before my flight because I was planning what would happen if I slept through the three alarms I had placed around the room. Travelling on two hours sleep is a nasty business, but having to travel for nineteen hours on two hours sleep is the devil’s business. I envy those who can sleep on planes.
I arrived in Goa at 3am local time (GMT +4.5 hours) the following day (Sunday). Stepping off the plane and knowing I’d arrived back in Goa, I felt alive, like every cell of my body was having a party. I felt like I was home. I got into bed around 4.30am after killing a few mosquitos in the room, but I wanted to be up for 8am so I could get to church and see my friends and my boys again, so I got up a few hours later and drove to church and upon entering the room, I was set-upon by the senior boys from BLC. Group hugs are never cheesy when you’re in the middle of one. After the service, I mingled and caught up with all the lovely people, then I was offered a lift all the way back to Candolim to my apartment where my bed was crying out for me all the way across the Mandovi river. Thanks to Dan for the lift.
But my bed would have to wait. When I got to my apartment I discovered that it had been ravaged by monsoon mould. Damp had caused green fungus to grow on the windowsill, clothes were covered in white mildew spores, the walls were crawling with tiny insects hungry for the layer of mould that had spread everywhere and the air was thick with living things. Pillows, cushions, clothes, curtains, walls, doors – everything was infected. Thankfully I have truly wonderful friends – my dear Sharon offered to pick me up and gave me a place to stay for the night. Monday and Tuesday would be devoted to cleaning and throwing things out.
I never really got my sleep back. There was so much to do that my brain was engaged even before I was awake. Gradually I was able to make the place clean and feeling like home again. But over the past two weeks I’ve had a string of instances of things not working. The electricity wasn’t working in the apartment when I first got back, the gas wasn’t working in the kitchen, neither was the microwave (after Sharon got the electrics back on), my favourite clock was running at half speed, my laptop battery was running down every couple of hours, and just recently my iPhone has died. Then I found out that the two boxes of possessions I had couriered from the UK got lost as soon as they got to India. I felt like Charlie Brown.
All of this stuff wears away at a person’s psyche. Even small things like a match not being able to light become a big issue. It’s the sand between the toes.
I’ve also noticed that a lot of Indians stare as I walk past, some even laugh and wave, some want to take their picture with you. One day, as I was leaving my apartment to walk to the supermarket, I heard a voice shout from a passing car “GORA!” (which I know from the boys to mean ‘white person’), then as I was coming back, a man getting off his bike said one word to my back after I had walked past him: “taklaa” (which I know from the boys to mean “bald”). Now, don’t get me wrong, saying that kind of stuff to someone you’re friendly with is fine, but these are racial and personal things. Not something to be shouted by strangers.
I realise I feel like an outsider – someone who doesn’t belong – a lonely pleb in a sweaty apartment half way across the world. I would call a friend in the UK to chat but my phone doesn’t work, which also means no Internet. I would go for a spin in the country but I don’t have my own wheels yet. I don’t even know what time it is because my clock is wrong. I feel displaced, alone.
And then there’s this poop.
This little poop on my floor.
Then I’m reminded of that first Sunday back. After the service, I was surrounded by some of the senior boys and talking to someone about what it felt like to get off the plane in Goa and how it felt like I was finally home again. As I said that, I could see that one of the boys had begun to grin from ear to ear and he put his arm around my shoulder. He was full of joy.
Remembering that little moment led me to remember something vital about our lives. We’re so saturated in tough-thinking mentality: “when the going gets tough, the tough get going”; “what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger”; “I get knocked down but I get up again”, and they’re all very good and stir the heart to do what needs to be done, but I’ve found that real depth, peace and joy come in a counter-intuitive way.
We think that life is for living, but actually there’s a more wholesome life that begins after dying. We think that tough times exist to make us tougher, but actually they’re meant to make us softer. We think that the distractions are meant to make us focus, but actually the distractions are just the wider magnificence of life happening in all its ways and colours and sounds and smells and heartache and wonder and joy and pain. Hillsong UNITED sang it best when they sang “I found my life when I laid it down” (Touch The Sky, 2015). Real strength is counter-intuitive – you’ve got to let go to find it. That’s not to say that you’ve got to become passive – bills must be paid, work must be done, real life goes one – but you’ve got to stop striving for everything to be under your own control. When we’re so determined and focussed our eyes narrow and our mind becomes one-track and we lose sight of the awe and wonder that we’re so privileged to be on Earth to experience.
And that is exactly why I’m here in India. In Goa. In Candolim. In my bed. Staring at tiny poop. All the difficulties, prejudices, rejections and failures have made me softer and softer to the point where I questioned the very nature of living for myself, and eventually moved to India. So I say let the poop hit the fan because I can take it. If I have personal stuff shouted at me then I won’t allow it to make me put my earphones in and go in on myself. I’m going to marvel at the fact that I get to live life.
Broken phones will be fine.
Mould can be cleaned.
Lost boxes of stuff can be replaced.
Loneliness will fade away.
Softness is the new toughness.
Sidenotes:
- I’ve put up a string of Christmas lights in my living room to cheer me up.
- This week I’m trying a new tact for study time at the boys home. I’m going to do Question of Sport style rounds pitting teams against each other to see who has learnt the most. Just to make learning fun. This week I’ll be doing a quiz on Einstein with the ninth standard boys.
- Every year on September 5th India celebrates Teacher’s Day where all students throw parties for their teachers. The senior boys put on a big presentation for all their BLC tutors. Some of them sang and played instruments, some of them performed skits, there were challenges and awards and speeches. Most importantly there was cake. Head over to my Instagram for videos of how the boys gave me the cake.
- I am in need of donations. If you feel compelled to give to help me teach here, you can do so by heading over to www.willadammusic.com/support where there are a number of ways to give.
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