Chapter Four of my book From Credit Crunch to Pure Prosperity.   

(a few layout glitches because I took this from the proof copy – but it should read okay. I hope you find it helpful).

It seems strange in our celebrity and media-led world that there should be such a thing as a fear of success hidden in the heart of so many of us.

But fear of success is an even stronger form of resistance than fear of failure.

Failure is a good place to hide and it has the comforting companions of “It’s not my fault; I did my best’ and ‘If it weren’t for him/her/them/the economy/the government etc. etc. I would have succeeded.”

So an economic downturn is quite a comfortable place for people to hide. “Oh I can’t do it now because of the economy.” The Soul can do anything, anytime, anywhere but the Ego will run with the pack.

It’s worth mentioning here that sometimes “the pack” will be the pack of rebellion. Joining an holistic centre, becoming a Goth or a rebel or a Buddhist generally just means joining a more unorthodox pack. Certainly when I began to be interested in holistic health, I did the equivalent of a (very) late adolescent rebellion along the lines of: “I’m going to be nice to people differently so there!” Whenever we do anything to make a point, we do it from Ego.

Even before the lives and loves of the famous were paraded before us in magazines and on the Internet, from our earliest youth we have been trained how to think. Usually, we were taught to put others first; to do what our mothers, fathers, teachers and peers wanted us to do.

The trouble is: they all wanted us to do – or be – something different. And doing what pleased one of them may have displeased another. And they were allowed to be selfish when we weren’t. No wonder we are confused. So it is easier to do nothing much at all.

It’s less so in the USA but in Europe, we have what is known as “tall poppy syndrome” where a flower that grows taller than the others in the field risks being cut down because it doesn’t fit in with the rest. That cutting down can be seen in the way magazines and entertainment shows focus on what’s allegedly wrong in a celebrity’s life from their relationship to their cellulite. In a world that worships youth and beauty it would be hard for any woman to have her flabby upper arms or under-eye bags plastered across the media or for any man to have his bald spot or his beer belly paraded for people to deride.

It may be for that reason that reality TV has been so popular. Instead of the particularly talented or brilliant being the ones who are the most famous, it is the amateurs who are prepared to show off their personalities rather than their attributes. That way, we can all hope for Andy Warhol’s famous “fifteen minutes of fame” without undue criticism. Even so, the folk who do stand out in the shows are still chased and paraded and mocked. So the search for celebrity is, nowadays, just as much an Ego-calling to be insulted in public in order to prove our lack of worth as it is a search for the admiration of others.

Ouch.

There is also no possibility of actually looking like the computer-enhanced, hair extensioned, Botoxed, face-lifted, professionally made-up beauties (of both sexes) that we see in the media. Or, if we can, then our lives are devoted to physical enhancement and very little else which, to the Soul, is deeply unfulfilling.

Happily, development of the Soul leads to an inner beauty so that, no matter how much of a wattle you may be developing or whether your tummy has seen more slender days, there is a light within that still makes you beautiful to any observer (and more importantly to yourself).

Fear of failure and fear of success both keep us paralysed in the safest position we can find. To try and to fail (in the UK though not as much in the USA) is to invite derision from others and possibly even the horribly levelling “I told you so” but at least you can justify to yourself and to others that you tried. But Yoda in Star Wars has it right: “There is do and there is not do. There is no try.”

Having “tried and failed” quite dramatically in several places in my life – including a marriage, an emigration, and running a company, I have avoided success in many different ways. I didn’t for one moment think that I wanted to fail – consciously I didn’t. But it was going to stick my head firmly above the parapet if I did succeed and the Rats in my head believed that was a dangerous thing to do.

Subconscious Resistance.

Here’s how subtle this resistance can be:

The last couple of times my husband and I moved house we had the new place Feng Shui-ed by an expert. Feng Shui, like Astrology, operates in the psychological world. In Jewish mysticism this is known as the world of forms, emotions or illusions. It can be overcome by free will — where you make a conscious decision and act on it.

But if you don’t use free will, then the world of forms will operate according to its innate energetic tendencies. It will work from its default position.

This is the same as the human Ego. And our subconscious will do all sorts of things that we, consciously, don’t know about or even approve of simply because of old conditioning.

The ‘chi’ of land is basically old conditioning from the way the world turns and the landscape was formed. You can raise the ‘chi’ in a house by light, sound, images, invocation and scent but unless you make significant chances or unless you keep raising it consciously, it will revert to its normal energy level. And one of the reasons that you will be attracted to that house is because its energy level reflects yours.

The most significant change that our Feng Shui practitioner told me to make was to move my work desk. Obviously, not knowing the Feng Shui of the house, I hadn’t intended to put my desk in a place which signified bad energy in fame/reputation. But I did. And, as she pointed out, I had done that in two houses running.

So why would I, subconsciously, put my desk in a place where the natural energy of the house would try and thwart my building a good reputation in my work? Do I want that consciously? Heck, no!

However, what I also had was a childhood memory of being told not to try and outshine other people; not to show off; not to demonstrate that women can be successful (for fear of showing up my very talented but then agoraphobic mother). And an adult injunction not to stick my head above the parapet (that one came from my spiritual teacher no less!)

So the ‘safety stand-by’ or default position in my psyche has been ‘don’t make yourself too visible’ — and that’s where it was going to stay unless I made conscious efforts to change it.

Further evidence of this within my own Ego? I had my first book published and made a TV documentary on China in 1988 and then married a man who became sick with terminal cancer within months. Bless him, my life changed for the better because of his love and presence in my life but the situation also gave me a great excuse for failing in a promising career by choosing to focus all my attention on Henry’s health rather than applying a little balance and developing my career.

By the time my husband died, the world-famous Beijing revolt in Tiananmen Square had happened and China was strictly off-limits for books, TV and documentaries. And I had no other career up my sleeve…

Ten years later, at the time when my first novel was published, my second husband and I decided to emigrate to Montana, USA, effectively removing me from all promotional activities for the book and taking me away from my publisher, the magazine I ran and a whole career that I had built in England. I chose to go — no blame is implied here. It was all me. The second book in the trilogy, which had been accepted and praised by my publisher then failed to make it into print.

Oh come on, you may be saying. These are all external events. They can’t just be you scuppering your career subconsciously! Believe me, they can.

What have you done to scupper yours?

That I’ve done well, and become happy and prosperous despite this earlier inner default position — is due to learning and teaching on the prosperity work, that is now becoming ingrained in my psyche and operating on default. That’s how to use the Rats in our heads for good. The deeper our knowledge of the Law of Attraction the more we will understand that there is always enough for everyone. You don’t create less for you by teaching others how to prosper; rather the reverse is the case.  By re-training our Egos into prosperity consciousness we can relax, understanding that the flow of abundance is constant.  But even so, it is still important to seek out the remaining unconscious scuppering techniques because they can be tricky little devils.

Checking out your own resistance.

So, do you have to have your house Feng Shui-ed to overcome fear of success so that you can be prosperous and follow your life’s path? No. But it would help if you did the following:

1/ Check out your childhood conditioning about success.

What did your parents believe? Did they criticise other people who were a success? Did they say phrases such as “I would have been successful if so-and-so hadn’t happened?” Do you think it might hurt them if you succeeded where they failed? Would they resent you or think you had it easy when they had it hard? Were they “top dog” and very successful themselves and you felt that you couldn’t attempt to outshine them? Did you succeed in something and they criticised or mocked you for some aspect of your success?

And if they did want — and even push — you to succeed and you haven’t done so, is it possible that, subconsciously, you punishing them by making sure you fail to show them that they are failures as parents? That’s just as big a block to prosperity as obeying parents who didn’t want you to succeed.

2/ Move the furniture around and clear out the clutter in your home!

‘Chi’ energy needs to flow around rooms so it get blocked if there is no way that it can go.

Try and arrange your home so that it is not full of objects that energy

can’t get past. Imagine that energy flows in circles around the edge of each room. Is there something obvious that would stop it dead?

Clutter clearing became very popular on TV over the last 10 years but it has tended to focus on physical clutter. What emotional clutter do you have? Old angers, hatreds and resentments are also energy blocks to prosperity.

3/ Bless and cleanse your house as often as you can using flower remedies,

holy water, aromatherapy oils, smudge sticks, Tibetan singing bowls, drumming, candles — whatever appeals to you. That’s because such a conscious action over-rules the natural energy of your home. If you did that every week then you would never need to have the house Feng Shui-ed and never have a problem with energy flow because you would consciously be creating good energy on a regular basis.

4/ Check the pictures on your walls.

Your life is created by whatever it is that you put your attention on. If you want love in your life, then have pictures

on your walls depicting couples in love; if you want wealth, have images of lovely, beautiful things. Never, ever, ever, have pictures on your walls that depict poverty, grief or pain. When I was a young, single woman I had pictures everywhere of young, brave, single, lonely women. I had to spend six weeks in China, totally away from my home, in order to reprogramme my Ego enough to recognise a man who could commit to me! And, believe it or not, the picture hanging over my bed was John Byam Shaw’s “The Boer War” which depicted a sad young widow – which is what I was to become within a year of my marriage.

5/ Watch your idle words; they are creators.

If you are in the habit f saying you are ‘sick and tired’ of something…or you are ‘fed up’ with something,

guess what you’ll get?

A friend once knew a man who was enjoying a holiday away from his work stresses so much that he said, repeatedly, “For two pins I’d stay here for a month.” After the next day’s skiing accident, he had two pins in his right leg and was in hospital for a month.

And never, ever refer to any credit crunch (let alone giving it capital letters!). Every mention of it as being real or difficult strengthens the belief in it.

It is always worth considering the wonderful words written by Marianne Williamson and quoted by Nelson Mandela at his presidential inaugural speech in South Africa:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

(A Return to Love, Marianne Williamson, Harper Collins)

The whole purpose of prosperity work is about choosing happiness. Although we all want more money usually the truth is that we want the experiences that more money can bring rather than just the money itself sitting and doing nothing in the bank. We want the lovely home; the relaxed lifestyle; the wonderful holidays and the ability to say ‘yes please’ to things that we want to purchase whenever we want them.

It is lovely to have the cash in the bank but it’s experiences that make us

rich. And if we feel rich in any other way, the cash will follow. It’s

Universal Law. Love the road and the destination is a delight. Moan and fret

about the road and the destination is poor — or non-existent.

Two years ago I had lunch with a friend who was about to marry a millionaire and it was both lovely and sad that she confided in me that she was having a hard time coping with people’s reactions to her good fortune. Lovely because she could talk to me about the delight of having her fiancé buy her a brand new state-of-the-art car as a gift and talk about the fabulous wedding they are

planning — and know that I’d celebrate with her – and sad because she feels

she needs to hide her prosperity from some other friends and family because

she is afraid they will sneer at her or say things like, “well it’s all right

for you…”

Famous people get a lot of reaction from people because of who they are and

what they’ve done and very often it’s hard for them to make friends. Every now and then, they are pining for someone just to chat to them about the weather or the news. I got to date TV chef Keith Floyd for a while simply because he was staying overnight in Birmingham to do a show that I was a part of and I took him home and gave him baked beans on toast and a night in watching the telly. Most people cooked him elaborate meals and fussed over him in those days and it was a huge relief that someone treated him like a normal bloke.

Incidentally, the lady who’s marrying the millionaire did a lot of prosperity work — not to catch a millionaire but to create enough space in her life for a partner. She had been single for a very long time and until she realised that she had filled her life up to the point that there was no room for a lover, it was barren of potential mates. Once she cleared the space and started putting herself in places where she could meet people it only took nine months for the love of her life to show up. Then, of course, we had to work with her resistances to love. She wanted him to look different; act differently; respond differently but it was all resistance to her own good fortune. Once she gave in and allowed him into her life as a friend and then a lover the transformation was complete.

I’m not surprised he’s so wealthy; this friend has always selected the best.

She cut corners when she felt broke but always made sure that her hair was clean and her (very simple) make up was immaculate. She didn’t buy many clothes but the ones she bought were classic and good quality. She looked like a millionaire, she walked like a millionaire and she believed in her own prosperity whatever the outside circumstances.

From Lack to Abundance.

Here’s an example of turning lack consciousness (Ego) into prosperity consciousness (Soul):

Some years ago when my husband, Lion, and I were feeling less prosperous than today, we went on a city break to Florence, Italy. We selected a lovely-looking restaurant for our last night there – and I went in and ordered us a glass of red wine each while he found somewhere to park the car.

The wine arrived – but you had to look for it! It was a medium-sized glass with less than a third of it filled with liquid. As I looked at it and thought about the price I started getting resentful. Lack consciousness was fervently pursuing the following thoughts:

It’s not fair; we can’t drink much because we are driving  but this is ridiculous. I’m not paying another huge amount for a second glass of this. It’s not worth the money. It’s a rip-off. This is our last night and we’ve chosen the wrong restaurant. It’s all ruined. I’m so angry. Who do they think they are? I’ll have finished this before the food comes and then I won’t enjoy my food…etc. etc.

But a little warning light went on in my head. I knew I had a choice to think thoughts that would hurt or make the effort to think thoughts that would feel good.

The first would colour – and even ruin — the evening that we had planned. The second would make it a lovely evening. It should be a no-brainer really – our thoughts create our experiences after all. But it wasn’t easy but I gave it a go.

I decided to think about the fact that the wine was there, now, and waiting to be drunk. It was silly to fuss about there not being any more to come as I hadn’t tried what there was! Instead I decided to focus on admiring the beautiful colour of the wine. It was a glorious garnet colour and, as I looked at it I could see how beautiful it was and how the light glowed within it with different hues as I turned the glass around. And I smelt it, as an expert would and let my senses soak in its scent. Each inhalation was different and without following it with a drink, I could appreciate it fully. And I looked through the glass at the lovely restaurant noticing the distortions of the light that the glass caused and became so interested in the fact that it was obviously a hand-made glass presenting different facets that I didn’t even take a sip until Lion had arrived. He raised his glass and toasted us and we drank – and it was perfect.

I took great care to make that glass last until we had eaten and I treasured every sip. And you know what’s really amazing is that it’s the only glass of

wine I’ve ever drunk that has stayed completely in my memory. I can still see, smell and taste that one glass of wine in my mind nearly a decade later and it is that memory that comes into my Ego’s thoughts every time anyone mentions red wine. Now that is value for money…

 From Credit Crunch to Pure Prosperity is available from Amazon.

Chapter Nine – On Living Alone; the Celibate Life.

(Please note that Jesus is given his Aramaic name of Yeshua).

Fictional Narrative:

For Yeshua, the time spent alone in prayer and contemplation after Tamar’s and Sarah’s deaths was both terrible and glorious. Apart from the world of family, away from the conventions of synagogue and Temple, he could unravel layer after layer of illusion, pain and doubt.

For the first days of his journey towards the Jordan he was still too confused to see the world of abundance around him, hardly noticing that when he needed water, he found it; when he required food, it was there. He had always known that passing holy men were fed by farmers and homesteaders and, as a child, he himself had often taken out offerings of bread, cheese and fruit to place on fig leaves in the crook of an olive tree on the road that passed by Nazareth. He had thought it a delightful custom; Simon and Yacob thought it a waste. ‘It will only be eaten by animals,’ they said. But their father was firm. ‘And so what if it is?’ he said. ‘It is an offering to the Lord to do with as He will. It will feed the passing man, angel, bird or beast. The point is to give without expecting an outcome.’

The other boys thought that silly but Yeshua and Yuda liked the practice and it became one of their regular routines. Mary and Salome often wanted to carry the food too but they would be tempted to feed the birds and goats along the way and, anyway, the boys thought their sisters silly and soft.

It was the sight of a mother and baby Oryx bursting through a grove of carob trees that brought memory flooding back. His mind leapt back to childhood, seeing, clearly as if it were happening that very day, his sister, eight-year-old Salome holding out bread to a young Oryx, totally absorbed in its beauty while a leopard crouched, hidden in a grove of mustard and oleander, waiting to pounce. In those days, lion, leopard, cheetah and bear were still common in the hills of the Galilee and shepherds had to be both brave and observant to preserve their flock.

He was twelve; fast enough on his feet to get to his sister and to frighten the animal. His shouts shocked the little girl so she lost her balance and fell. The leopard hesitated, then backed away, wary of the boy’s noise and waving arms. The Oryx bounded off and Salome, horribly shocked, burst into tears. Yeshua picked her up and held her in his arms, turning her face towards him so she would not see the leopard leap, race and catch the Oryx in one, smooth movement. Part of him wondered why he kept the sight from her; she had to grow up, had to know about life and death and the survival of the fittest but he also knew that her innocence was precious. There would be enough blood later on.

This time though he saw no pursuing beast; perhaps his presence had scared it; perhaps it was a false alarm. But the experience opened his eyes and he looked around him at the abundance of life and glory around him.

He was nearly half-way between Nazareth and Bethsaida, walking on paths made by goats and sheep driven by the local shepherds. The landscape was filled with trees and bushes all budding as the spring season was born and, if he paused and breathed deeply, he could just catch a trace of the honeyed scent of the beautiful white and pink almond blossoms on the hillsides to his left.

Something told him to observe and remember. He did not know yet that there were so few years left of his life on Earth or how incredible would be the demands on his time and energy. This might be the last time of complete leisure, of being free.

Below his feet, cyclamen, yellow daisies and red anemones peeped out from the newly sprouting grasses and in every direction he looked there were trees and plants that offered food or medicine; olive, fig, carob, mustard, mint, pistachio, date, wheat, barley. Galilee was bursting with the energy of spring.

Looking up, he saw the distant snows on the crown of Mount Hermon and above that the vast, clear and endless sky and the sun blazing over all Israel.

A kite – or was it an eagle? – soared high overhead and the calls of birds lower to the ground entered his consciousness, calling his attention back towards the ground. A flock of goldfinches was dipping and diving between olive trees and a robin’s clear voice rang out from the heart of a carob bush.

All day he remained in that one spot, almost breathless with the beauty and the wonder of it. He watched bees, ants and beetles in the dry dust, felt the velvet and silk of the flower petals, marvelled at the colour of their stamens and laughed as yellow pollen stained his fingertips.

He saw a pair of storks searching for a place to build their nest and the courtship of two wrens. Below him, on a better-used path, a goatherd and his charges wandered by, the animals taking their time and grazing their way along with bells clanking. The boy’s tuneless whistle caused the birds to cock their heads on one side in wonder and flutter farther away for safety. Then a young couple, the girl pregnant and sitting on the back of a small donkey, the young man slightly anxious and nagging at the beast to walk faster, passed along the pathway.

Yeshua watched it all, seeing the interweaving of life, the pattern of the seasons and feeling the joy of being a part of it all. The goatherd reminded him of his son; the young couple of himself and Tamar, the goldfinches of Sarah, the wrens of his mother. He thought long and hard about his father, Yosef, who had guided him and taught him the value of faith and strength. Now, he could feel the grief as a part of the joy; knowing what he heard, saw, smelled and felt on this day could only be so wonderful having known the life he had lived. At one time, tears coursed down his cheeks but he hardly knew if they came from grief or wonder. At another, a roe deer and her calf walked by, so close he could have reached out and touched them. The baby looked him in the eyes with pure trust and the mother did not swerve on her path.

‘I am so grateful,’ he said at last, causing a grey dove to fly, wings clattering as she rose into the air in surprise at the unexpected voice. ‘I am so glad to be a part of this. We are all treasures held close to one heart; none greater, none lesser. Whatever is to come, I will always have this understanding.’

He was to need it in the three years left to him. He had direct contact with the Divine; every sight he saw, every sound he heard, every word he spoke, every scent he inhaled, every texture he felt was experienced by his God-self and his human self simultaneously; he knew of no difference between the two. And wherever he went there was a companionship of people, the land or animals whenever he stopped and turned to look for them. And in his heart and mind there were memories to comfort and to remind him when his teaching grew too intellectual or too fierce. Then he would see the faces of Tamar, Sarah, Judith, Yosef, Miriam, Susannah and even Leah looking back at him, their stories living in his mind so that he could temper judgment with mercy, wisdom with understanding.

The disciples did not understand his willingness to allow women to join them along the way; they thought it was a weakness in him until he allowed his eyes to flash anger and his tongue to cut their traditional, unthought-through remarks to shreds. Once he had disciples, he was no longer Yeshua the carpenter but Jesus of Nazareth, no longer the husband, father, brother and kin of many but a teacher of souls. No matter how he loved them, Peter, Andrew, John – even his earthly brother Yacob when he joined them – he could not be fully their companion nor they his; he was too close to the Lord and they could not fully understand him.

The relationship with the Divine was all-embracing, filled with mystery and delight but also with awe and, at its heart, a deep loneliness for someone who could truly share his thoughts, beliefs and knowledge.

The disciples, male and female, had each other. They could talk and argue and rest with each other but, to them, he was special and different. They loved and respected him; came to him if they were afraid or confused but they were not his equals in faith nor knowledge.

He wondered often if God were lonely too. Misunderstood, misinterpreted and derided by most. Of course that was a ridiculous thought; God was All, everything and complete but if we, on Earth, reflect the Divine back with our every thought, he considered, perhaps our loneliness is felt above as well.

To walk the Earth without an equal is to be alone no matter how you are surrounded by others. It meant that he could think uniquely; meditate deeply, communicate fully with God and the angels whenever he was alone and had given himself the time to do it. But when he was immersed in the crowds or teaching the men or women who surrounded him more and more as each day went past, there was no one to whom he could confide his human heart; his fears and his everyday wonder at what was happening to him and with whom he could discuss the day with thoughts shared without words and where there was a gentle hand to hold his and offer support, belief and comfort.

Non-Fiction Section:

Religious ecstasy is quite as powerfully blissful as sexual orgasm and it comes with the advantage of automatically equal joy for your Divine partner. It also comes without any need for compiling joint Christmas card lists; worrying if your spouse is in debt or the need to take out the trash (physically, at least).

So there are advantages to celibacy as well as the obvious disadvantages.

For the majority of the under 40s in the 21^st century where sexuality is the prime mover of nearly all advertising, the idea of living forever, or even for a specified time, without sex is challenging to say the least. But we forget how many long-lasting marriages are lived in quiet, unheralded celibacy for whatever reason and which still survive and maybe even thrive. The sexual urge may be very powerful but it is also very much a part of our nature-soul rather than our spiritual essence. A celibate life, lived with passion, may be far more fulfilling than a marriage where the spark has died.

For women, in particular, celibacy has conferred power for centuries – and not just in Christianity. Vestal Virgins, the priestesses of the Roman Goddess of the hearth and fire, were all celibate and they had more power and influence than any other women in Rome.  It’s logical to say that, given the fact that there were a maximum of six of them at any one time, they didn’t affect society’s attitude to women and celibacy much but their image was incredibly powerful and even today most people know the appellation ‘Vestal Virgin.’

A chosen virgin, aged between six and ten, had her hair shorn and, from that moment was under the protection of the Goddess rather than her family. Unlike most Roman women, she was not subject to the pater potestas – the father’s right of life or death over his daughter – and could own her own property, make a will, and vote.

She had one other amazing power, which was to nullify a sentence of death on any criminal met accidentally in the street. However, anyone who pushed to see or speak to her deliberately faced the death penalty.

The Vestals were required to take three vows; the first was allegiance to the Goddess Vesta, the second was to keep the Temple’s flame constantly alight. The third vow was of chastity – emulating the goddess herself. If a Vestal Virgin broke this vow, punishment was severe. She was executed by being buried alive in a small underground room where she had room to move, light and food. It was ruled that a body that had been consecrated to sacred service could not be allowed to starve to death. So, the transgressor presumably just waited until the air ran out.

Roman records show that just eighteen of the Vestal Virgins across nine centuries took lovers and suffered this horrible fate. The others either got away with it or counted love well lost in return for service to the goddess and, quite possibly for power.

The vows of the Vestal Virgins were not taken for life, but for 30 years. For the first ten they were students, the second ten they tended the flame as priestesses and for the last ten they trained their successors. At the end of their time in service, aged between 36 and 40 they were free to marry. Very few indeed are on record as having taken up this opportunity, maybe for as simple a reason as they would have to give up all their long-held rights in return for a sexual relationship. For a man, marrying a former Vestal Virgin was highly prestigious; for the woman it would have been a strange experience indeed.

No one has ever recorded whether the Vestals were lonely. They had the company of five peers and despite the normal bickering between colleagues, they were all at the same level; they had the same goals. But were they true companions? Could they share hopes and fears and trust in each other’s kindenss?

What we do know is that being alone is not the only source of loneliness. Many people are bitterly lonely in a bad marriage and many who have been widowed or divorced would never even consider risking another bad bargain.

Early Christianity was a welcome refuge for widows in the Roman world who could ‘take the veil’ of Christ and claim a religious privilege to avoid the Roman requirement for re-marriage for any woman of still reproductive age. Later on, nuns, particularly Prioresses and Abbesses carried great influence in society and they still do in Catholic countries. Many an ex-Catholic school pupil can attest to the power of even the lowliest nun.

Even though they had taken a vow of poverty, in the Middle Ages senior nuns and monks often represented great wealth within their convent or monastery. Until Henry VIII of England’s dissolution of the monasteries in 1538, a great many of the ecclesiastical centres were incredibly wealthy – and many were also corrupt both financially and sexually.

Nowadays, there are numerous bad-taste jokes about the sexuality of Catholic priests who are frequently tarred with the brush of paedophilia and it is also certain that many men have taken to the celibate priesthood as a way of addressing unwanted, unacknowledged or feared homosexuality. So celibacy can be used as a form of life to hide yourself in rather than addressing your true character – although actively homosexual priests are now being ordained by more liberal dioceses.

There is a common belief that ancient Rome was rife with homosexuality but in fact bisexuality was far more the norm. Aristocratic Roman men had the right to have sex with their male slaves – the penetrative act being acceptable while being penetrated was seen as being effeminate – but openly loving homosexual relationships between men were rare and all men were expected to marry and have children. So the lamentable incidents of Catholic priests and young boys that are reported in the press nowadays are no different from the activities of powerful men in ancient Rome. However, openly homosexual relationships between priests is a much more modern phenomenon.

The word ‘celibacy’ from the Latin caelebs, meaning unmarried, used to mean just that. Given that pre-marital sex was common in ancient Rome, particularly before the Augustinian laws on marriage, you could be a fully sexually-active celibate. However over the centuries the word has come to mean someone who has renounced sex and marriage, especially for religious purposes.

Celibacy was not actually required of Catholic priests until the late Middle Ages although it has been practised voluntarily for 2000 years. Religious groups have included celibates since the principle of withdrawing from the secular world began (the Alexandrian Therapeutae are a good example).

Judaism has always frowned upon celibacy as it banishes the hope of begetting the Messiah. The Essenes embraced it, but only for an inner core of men.

Jesus did not prescribe it although he did say that marriage was not for everyone. His famous speech about eunuchs has been used to justify many forms of celibacy.

What he is reported to have said, in Matthew 19:12 is: “For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.”

The word eunuch has several meanings. It is the guard of a woman’s bed-chamber; a man who cannot have children for natural reasons or who has been physically castrated or a man who abstains from marriage for any reason whatsoever, religious or not.

As the saying follows directly from the disciples’ comments that marriage was more difficult than they thought it is perfectly fair to say that Jesus is replying that some people simply cannot or do not want to be husbands or wives. He is not saying that marriage is wrong; simply that it is challenging. He is also not talking about homosexuality although it is perfectly understandable, given the bad rap that all forms of homosexuality are given in the Old Testament — and later from St. Paul —for gay people to seek some kind of benediction.

Jesus says nothing against homosexuality in any of the Gospels.

Both men and women who do not feel the natural sexual urges of the average human often find themselves called to the spiritual life but, if they are withdrawn from the world that the rest of us live in, how can they empathise with our worldly problems? The answer given, of course, is that they are inspired by God and that may well be so.

But the urge for celibacy is not common among humanity; sexual drives are natural and powerful. So, apart from the desire by Roman widows not to marry a second time, why did celibacy become so essential part of the early Roman Church?

We are told that the first Christians were inspired by Jesus’ example and St Paul praised virginity as being better than marriage (1 Cor 7) but Paul also made it very clear that he had no instruction from Christ concerning celibacy and all the views he gave were his own.

Virtues of self-control and self-denial and the freedom from family cares which would leave more time for prayer, contemplation and apostolic activity were certainly praised throughout the early church but that’s not all the story.

It’s very important here to look at the context in which any of the New Testament teachings about marriage are couched. In a nutshell, they believed that the end of the world was nigh.

Whether or not Jesus himself actually believed during his lifetime that ‘the end times’ were coming, there words attributed to him imply that something like that was thought to be in the wind, if not immediately:

‘When you hear of wars and revolutions, do not be frightened. These things must happen first but the end will not come right away.’ Luke 21:9.

A decade after the crucifixion however, the end of the world was being prophesied in a big way – and it was coming sooner rather than later. The early Christians genuinely believed that Jesus would come again in their lifetime and then the day of Judgment would follow: “But the end of all things is at hand: be ye therefore sober, and watch unto prayer.” 1 Peter 7:7.

Paul himself wrote “For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.’”1:4 Thessalonians..

Later, he urges readers of this letter to be alert at all times, because the second coming and the end would happen within their lifetimes. When the Christian Thessalonicans were persecuted by the Roman Empire, they, quite understandably, believed the end had begun

So, all Paul’s teachings on marriage and celibacy have to be interpreted with that view in mind. To marry – and to beget children – when the end of the world was nigh was a bad idea; it could only cause pain especially if the partner were not a believer and was going to be taken away to hell on the Day of Judgment.

So, this exciting new celibate option of ‘brothers and sisters in Christ’ was not expected to be a long-term thing.

“Yet those who are married will experience distress in this life and I would spare you. I mean, brothers and sisters, the appointed time has grown short…For the present form of this world is passing away,” says Paul in 1 Cor 7:28. Often this section is translated without the rider about the end of the world which makes it look simply as if being married meant trouble. The translation above is from the Revised Standard Bible – the King James says: “But and if thou marry, thou hast not sinned; and if a virgin marry, she hath not sinned. Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the flesh: but I spare you.  But this I say, brethren, the time is short: it remaineth, that both they that have wives be as though they had none.” As with everything Biblical, it’s all in the translation. But the context is clearly there for those who look for it.

Paul is often lambasted for his attitudes towards women but, again, within the context of the times, he was not as bad as many think. For example, his injunction to women to cover their heads and not to prophesy in the streets was given at a time when the cult of Cybele of Magna Mater (Great Mother) was at its height in Rome. The great goddess’s priests were called the galli – they were self-castrated, wore women’s clothes, shaved their bodies and had long hair. They were viewed with horror by many in Rome particularly during their parades and feast times when they danced in the streets and shed their own blood. At their major festival in March they mourned the death of the Goddess’s son Attis and then danced with joy at his resurrection. This was all too worryingly similar for it to be safely associated with Christianity, which it might be if any other long-haired, feminine creatures started proclaiming death and resurrection in the streets.

Women were a very useful part of the new Christian community; they provided homes where the travelling preachers could stay and these rapidly became recognised centres of the new faith. As well, many wealthy, independent widows were more than generous financially to any group that assisted them in avoiding the trials of re-marriage.

Despite the fact that the end of the world did not come, the cult of celibacy endured. It had already attracted those to whom the idea appealed – and they were the ones in charge.

However, no strict law of celibacy existed in the first three centuries of Christianity even though the idea was honoured by members of the new church’s clergy who probably wanted to disassociate themselves from every other available religion.

Tertullian admired the number of celibate clergy and Origen made a distinct contrast between the ‘carnal paternity’ of the Levite priests and the ‘spiritual fatherhood’ of the New Testament Priests.

Clement of Alexandria, however, approved publicly of priests who were married – as long as they intended to have children and St John Chrysostom wrote texts that said a bishop should have a wife. This interpretation was revived in the 16^th century by protestant reformers

The first time that an actual law of celibacy was proposed was at the ecumenical council of Nicea in 325. Paphuntius, a celibate Egyptian bishop opposed it strongly saying that the ancient tradition that opposed marriage after ordination to the priesthood should remain but that there should be no bar to ordination after marriage. The council agreed – and added a rider that clergymen should not have any unmarried women in their homes who were not near relatives, in order to remove any temptation.

The idea of clerical celibacy developed during and after the 4^th century although its practice was far more stringent in the West than the East. The Eastern Church’s council of Ancyra in 314 allowed a candidate for the deaconate to choose between celibacy or marriage and bound him to keep that decision. A few years later the council of Gangra condemned any distain for married priests within the Church. Bishops however, practiced what’s known as ‘continence’ within marriage and this custom passed into Church law at the council of Trullo in 692. From then on, a man could only be raised to Bishop if his wife agreed to retire to a monastery. Ordained priests, deacons and sub deacons could not marry but they were free to keep wives married before ordination. This law has remained the same since then – but the true practice is only to ordain unmarried priests to the level of Bishop.

In the Latin church the pattern was similar: at what was really a provincial local council of Elvira in Grenada in or about the year 300, Bishops, priests and deacons in that area were prescribed continence (sexual abstention) and, although no further legislation was passed  for a further 86 years the Pope Siricus made it a universal practice in the Roman Church. Councils in Carthage in 309 and 402 prohibited matrimonial intercourse for deacons and priests and so it went on with ruling after ruling.

The wives of clergy were treated as sisters and were actually called deaconess, priestess or episcopes. The wife of a priest or deacon remained mistress of his house but the wife of a bishop had to live in a separate home or retire to a convent.

However, the proximity of man and woman (who were, presumably fond enough of each other to marry) continued to cause problems and by the 8^th century, violations of the law were known to be commonplace. Partly this was due to more and more people joining the clergy because the pay was good rather than through vocation.

The observance of the rules varied according to which Pope, Emperor or state was the most powerful until by the 10^th century married priests were more common than not.

Finally, the first and second ecumenical councils of the Lateran (1123 and 1139) removed the possibility of clerical marriage after ordination to the lowest state of sub deacon by making this and any other higher orders a lawful impediment to marriage.

From then on, despite debates and blips, this was the state of the world – you could just about be married but you couldn’t have sex.

Finally, in 1918, the code of canon law prohibited marriage at all without special Papal dispensation. Such dispensations were given to dissenting priests who transferred to the Church of Rome after the beginning of ordination of women in the Anglican Church in the USA in 1974.

It is difficult to separate out the religious view that a celibate life is better than a married one for those in holy orders from the strong line of misogyny that has developed from many religious texts over the last 2000 years.

For the mystic, it is fairly easy to distinguish between the diatribes against women per se and the definitions of basic masculine and feminine principles. Kabbalah teaches that pure masculinity is as out of balance as pure femininity and that a balance is required between the two. All men have a feminine side as all women have a masculine side; the priority is to create a balance within the self. Where there is a physical marriage this balance also has to be worked out between the couple (whether or not they are of opposite sexes) and this is often the cause of much marital discord.

From studying and observation I would surmise that living a life of devotion to spirit is much easier as a single person than it is as part of a couple. The only exceptions to this would be a relationship where both parties were equally committed to their spiritual growth or where one was totally supportive of the other’s quest.

Many of the companions with whom I have worked have complained of the impossibility of morning meditation or ritual when there is a partner or a family to engage with in the morning. Some do wake earlier than the rest of their family but, even so such discipline is difficult to maintain at times of family sickness or holidays. And a spouse may resent never having their loved one with them when they, themselves wake.

Those who are truly committed to a spiritual path do find the time – even two minutes of prayer or meditation are infinitely more value than none at all – but without the outside support and guidance of companions on the same path it is only a saint who can significantly advance their spiritual growth when there are children to nurture and deadlines to meet.

The issue of companions is one of the reasons why the monastic life was so successful for many generations – and continued to be so in Europe even after the dissolution of the monasteries in England. So celibacy is good for the spiritual path as long as there are equals with whom to share your religious life. Religious hermits are very rare and frequently have psychological issues which make it impossible for them and for others to live comfortably together.

Another reason for the success of monastic life was that the life of a religious in olden days meant comparative comfort; food might be basic in the communities committed to poverty but it was always provided. Likewise medical care and spiritual and personal guidance. Not to mention hard work and routine to keep the mind focussed. For those in the wealthier orders or higher up the pecking order there was also the lure of education. Women in convents had the opportunity to read, write and study and to become artists of calligraphy as well as musicians, herbalists and farmers. Yes, they had to have a man present in order to celebrate Mass but in all other respects they had autonomy over their own lives.

That said, it is not easy to live in a community of your own sex where the habits of others may be a constant source of irritation but it is equally not much worse than an unhappy marriage with a partner demanding sex and the constant addition of children who would be loved but who could barely be afforded even if they didn’t threaten life itself.

For centuries, men and women would be placed in monasteries with or without their consent but nowadays very few people embrace a religious life involuntarily. Therefore, celibacy is a choice that can be made with due consideration. But even so, companionship is necessary; spiritual work is rarely comfortable and never convenient and the support of ones’ peers is essential for the inner strength required in difficult times.

For those teachers who have risen above their peers and who are always expected to lead rather than to lean on others, the price of leadership is high. A deep, abiding, loving relationship with God can fill all the gaps. But a companion soul to smile at you in the physical world is a pearl of great price.

“I am very curious to know more about your being a Catholic priest. It is so brilliant that you are. How does that work then? How did you become one? Were you raised a Catholic? Why did you choose to become one?” Anna.

The Short Answer:

How does that work? In a kind of mystic-without-a-monastery or Wandering Jew kind of way. And through gifts of Grace and earning money by doing what my mother would call ‘getting a proper job.’

Why did you become one? Because they asked me.

Were you raised a Catholic? Hell no!

Why did you choose to become one? Because standing outside the fence yelling ‘You’re doing it all wrong!’ is far less effective than standing inside it, wearing the Collar of Anubis and saying ‘It may take a while but I think we can fix this.’

The Long Answer:

All my childhood I went obediently to church with my family and, being at a Church of England school, with my classmates. It was simply what one did. Back then (in the Stone Age) it was a much more closed-in world where we were taught that Christianity was it and everybody else was a heathen. I never even thought about it.

And yet, when I was nine, standing in a pew and apathetically singing the Magnificat at Edgbaston Old Church — “my soul doeth magnify the Lord” — a Beingness of colour so vibrant you could taste it enfolded itself in and around me in a warmth so cold I could hear it. It wrote four words in fire in my soul: “You will do this.”

Do what exactly? I had no idea and, once normality had re-established itself, frankly, I didn’t want to know.

I never mentioned it to anyone mainly because, at that middle class, middle England school, a long time before the New Age obsession with angels, pronouncing that an Archangel had enfolded you in its wings in church was a sure way to find both your head and your homework down the lavatory. I would never have mentioned it to my parents who would have punished me for arrogance.

Time passed and I mostly forgot it. Just in case it had anything to do with virginity I disposed of mine rather judiciously as soon as was practical and stopped going to church. I still put “Church of England” on relevant forms and got on with life as a journalist and would-be trollop (failed).

In my 33^rd year I met my first husband, Henry Barley, while filming a documentary for ITV in China. Because of “stuff” in his family, we decided to get married in the Seychelles. Two weeks before we were due to leave I discovered that the word “minister” for a beach wedding meant “registrar” and something within me rebelled. I wanted to be married in the sight of God. This wasn’t about the big posh wedding because it would be just Henry, me and two witnesses we didn’t even know. I wasn’t quite sure what it was about.

I didn’t have a church so I was aware of appearing to be a complete hypocrite and it seemed to be impossible. Being an atheist, Henry didn’t give a damn but he was concerned that I was upset.

I prayed. And on the Sunday before we were due to leave, as I waved Henry off on his way home in London, I heard the bells of St. Peter’s Church, Harborne, Birmingham, ringing for Evensong.

Something made me go. And halfway through the service, Rev. Michael Counsell said, “And prayers for our sister church, St Paul’s, Mahé, Seychelles.”

You’ve got to hand it to Rev. Michael. When he was buttonholed by a wild-eyed stranger ranting on about a wedding and a miracle after the service, he didn’t blink an eyelid but invited me round for tea. And when he heard my story he gave me the phone number of his old school-friend, French Chang-Him … who turned out to be the Archbishop of the Indian Ocean.

Whom I telephoned.

And who listened kindly to this total stranger and said (I’m paraphrasing a little) “If, when I’ve met you both, I decide you’re not totally bonkers, I’ll marry you.”

I did ask Michael later whether he always did prayers for the Seychelles church and he said, “No, never. It just came into my head to do so.”

Henry and I turned out not to be totally bonkers and were married in St. Paul’s Cathedral, Mahé.

One year and sixteen days later, Henry died.

As I sat by his hospital bed the night before his death, the RC hospital chaplain came round and asked what our faith was. I said I was C of E and Henry was an atheist and he said, “Oh, I’m so sorry my dear. If he’s not a Christian, your husband can’t go to heaven.”

Back then (in the Bronze Age), there weren’t so many options on a funeral for a widow from a C of E family. I asked the vicar not to say the “I am the resurrection and the life…” bit as we went in to the crematorium but he said, “That’s what’s in the funeral service.”

So I walked up the aisle after my young husband’s coffin, hearing him damned to hell.

And I threw that mean bastard Jesus and everything he stood for right out of the door.

But every time I looked out of my lonely bedroom window during the nights when I couldn’t sleep there was always a lamp lit in a terraced house whose garden joined the end of mine. There was something offering hope.

I took up alternative medicine, healing, chakras, Buddhist tendencies etc. which was all very helpful but, ultimately, I was hiding the problem in the corner and covering it with a pink cloth and a lighted candle. I had a problem with the God of Christianity and his boy, not with the Universe, Source, Spirit or whatever other euphemism I chose to call it.

Then I met and married Jonathon, a Jewish man. At the time were both at the furthest end of the rope from our respective religions and it was through my teacher of healing that the two of us were introduced to Z’ev ben Shimon Halevi, a Sephardi Jew who teaches Kabbalah.

Not the Kabbalah of Madonna and the Kabbalah Centre, I hasten to add. A much older Jewish system based on the oral tradition in the Bible and the Convivencia (coming together of souls) in Medieval Spain under Moorish rule.

It enabled me to understand God, Judaism and the teachings of Jesus (he being a Jew and all that). It turned me upside down and inside out and inspired a trilogy of novels — The Chronicles of Deborah — about a fictional wounded and bitter little girl who came to live with Mary, Joseph and Jesus in Nazareth; who married Judas (probably not the best career move) and who, after the crucifixion, became a spiritual leader in her own right. As Deborah grew up, learnt and understood, so did I.

Jonathon and I divorced after a series of adventures including a year of learning New Testament Greek, teaching in a Russian hospital and emigrating to Montana, and my mother said “At least you can give up that Kabbalah rubbish now.” But I didn’t. I ended up (so far) as the author of 17 books on Jesus, Bible history, mysticism, Kabbalah and spirituality. That’s not to brag; I love writing so much that if I were shipwrecked on a desert island I’d probably write a novel in the sand.

I was also a funeral minister. So often as part of our healing we try to ensure that others don’t have to go through what we did. So I wrote and facilitated bespoke funerals for whatever level of faith people required.

I knew by then that a vocation had been stalking me for some time and had investigated ordination. Back then (in the Iron Age) you had to renounce all other religions to become a C of E vicar so that was out of the question and Unity — a wonderful New Thought Christian Church — wouldn’t have me because I was a) too weird and b) didn’t have a degree.

Then Jon Taylor, my third husband Lion’s best friend, was murdered. I led his funeral and my Bishop was in the congregation. He telephoned a few days later saying that God was prompting him to ask me to consider ordination as an Independent Sacramental Minister in the Apostolic Church of the Risen Christ.

This movement is a part of the Apostolic Liberal (or Old) Catholic Church which broke away from the Roman Church at the end of the 19^th century over the matter of Papal infallibility. I won’t bore you with details — lots more information here.

I resisted. It seemed far too “Christian.” But once I had got to know the Bishop better; once I understood that he was leading a deeply mystical branch of the church, and once I’d realized that this was a gift (and a huge challenge) from God, I accepted and began to train. The Church’s teaching and my Kabbalistic training enabled me to understand the Mass and the sacraments in a completely different way from the norm and I could both make peace with and be inspired by it all.

However, the demons that showed up in my mind the night before my diaconate were enough to show me that this would not be a sinecure. And inviting friends and family to my ordination in 2007 was pretty scary as they had never heard of this church and didn’t know what to make of it.

Five months later, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith with the authorization of the Pope decreed that all women Catholic priests were automatically excommunicated at the moment of their ordination, even retrospectively (you’d think they would at least have the courtesy to send a text, but no). So I am now, officially, a heretic. Luckily, God doesn’t seem to be bothered by that…

Change is coming to the Catholic Church. It is coming from the grass roots. It will grow in its own time until homosexuality, married and women priests, contraception and all kinds of other developments will be accepted as totally normal. No fighting or pushing is needed. It probably won’t happen in my lifetime but it will come to pass. No one ever forbids anything unless there is someone already doing it.

I am a Catholic priest — just not a Roman Catholic Priest — and my work includes salving the wounds that have been experienced throughout orthodox Catholicism, from families dealing with suicide through the death of unbaptised babies to the equally important “What is God and why is this happening to me?”

My faith is summed up by these quotations:

Hafiz: “It is a great injustice and a monumental act of cruelty for any religion to make someone fear God.”

Ibn Arabi: “My heart has opened unto every form: it is a pasture for gazelles, a cloister for Christian monks, a temple for idols, the Ka’ba of the pilgrim, the tables of the Torah and the book of Qur’an. I practice the religion of Love; in whatsoever directions its caravans advance, the religion of Love shall be my religion and my faith.
”

The Dalai Lama: “My religion is kindness.”

Jesus of Nazareth: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength: this is the first commandment. And the second is this, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. There is no other commandment greater than these.”

May God grant me grace to be of service (and funny with it whenever possible. But that’s another story).

This is an excerpt from a very old diary (1998) that I’ve just been reading again. Every word is true – and although the Montana adventure did not work out as planned, I don’t regret a moment of it.

Sunday May 10th (In Montana on my own, doing final negotiations to buy the cafe. I’ve booked a ride at a nearby ranch)

I always smile when I drive through Manhattan, Montana. Three bars, a grain silo and a railway line – a far cry from its namesake to the East. Today, I think I’ll have breakfast there as it’s on the way to the stables. I park by the railroad and, as it is getting hotter by the minute, I take off my cord shirt and put it in the boot. Then I shut the boot. With the key in it. And I have locked the car doors.

It is one of those moments when you just don’t believe it.

Manhattan on a Sunday morning is shut but four cowboys are walking rather oddly down the main street so I ask them if they can help. They are not exactly sober, having been on a stag night which hasn’t yet stopped but they are charming and offer to break the car window for me (!) and when I politely decline, they take me into the only open bar and get the barmaid to phone the police. They say that the cop can get into cars and he’ll come round.

No he won’t. Of all the people I’ve met in Montana, that cop was the only one who didn’t want to help. He is fairly curt (after all, it is Sunday morning) but he does give me a number of a local man who has a garage.

The cowboys are outraged that the cop won’t come and help and offer to start a fight or a riot so that he’ll get called out anyway. I say that is thoughtful but in sorting that out, he probably wouldn’t have time to deal with the car. They agree, sagely, and offer to buy me a drink.

I tell them that in England it is customary to put the bridegroom on a train to the other end of the country or to tie him, naked, to a lamp post. They all think both of these are excellent ideas. Only two problems. Not having a station, they doubt they’d manage to get the train to stop  -  and they don’t have any lamp posts.

I call the guy from the garage and he says he’ll be round in five minutes. All this time I am sitting at the bar with the cowboys around me being so sweet and helpful (in a sweet, unhelpful sort of way) and the barmaid dialling the numbers for me on the phone on the wall at the back of the bar and then handing the phone across the counter so it’s at the end of its curly cord and she has to duck underneath it all the time.

Randy arrives very swiftly with his car-breaking equipment. A load of wedges to get down inside the window seals and coathanger-type things to hook the locks. But he can’t do it, try as he may. He suggests I phone Hertz at the airport and ask if they’ve got a spare key. They might bring it out. I said I doubted the latter and was there a taxi in Manhattan?

‘No,’ he says. ‘But someone might drive you there. I would be happy to.’ And he means it. So, I go back into the pub and look up the Hertz number in the phone book and the cowboys talk about getting in through the sunroof. ‘There isn’t one,’ I say. ‘Well we can make one,’ they say, adding thoughtfully: ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

The Hertz man says, no, they don’t have spare keys; I’ll have to call a locksmith. He gives me a number and I go out to tell Randy that I really appreciate his time and kindness and what do I owe him? And he won’t take a dime. Not a dime. He just smiles at me and touches his cap and wishes me luck and a better day, and gets into the truck to go back and finish mowing his lawn.

I go back into the pub and the cowboys are discussing taking up piracy on the Yellowstone River to get themselves a little extra cash. As I dial up the locksmith’s number, Lee, the most charmingly drunk, comes over and shakes my hand for the second time and offers to lend me his horse to get to wherever I’m going. I could bring it back tomorrow, he says.

I try to answer him and talk to the locksmith at the same time, just as someone turns up the juke-box so loud that you can hardly hear yourself think, and I totally confuse some very pleasant lady who’s never been a locksmith in her life, nor been married to one and can’t for the life of her think why Hertz should have given me her number. She hopes that my day will get better.

And the barmaid dances back and forward under the wire until I accidentally let go of the phone and it shoots back across the counter, missing her by inches as she carries two more beers and ricochets up the wall.

I drink my orange juice and ask her for the phone book again. She says, really nicely, that she’ll get it in a minute, but the waitress hasn’t turned up and she’s got to take some orders for lunch.

The guys start talking to me about horses and what I was planning to do today so I tell them and they say that I shouldn’t ride up at Gallatin River Ranch right now as it’s rattlesnake season. I say that it doesn’t really look as if I’m going to ride there anyway, thanks all the same, and realise that I had better call the Ranch to cancel. Thank God local calls in America are free.

Then the barmaid brings me a portable phone with a big smile and I consider recommending her for a sainthood. There are three locksmiths in Bozeman (at least 20 minutes away) and they all open car doors. I pick the one I like best and dial the number. As it rings, someone turns up the juke box again so I go out and talk to him on the pub doorstep. His name is Dave and he says he’ll come immediately. For $60. Pretty much the cost of a three hour ride at GRR. Okay. He’s actually quite pleased to come as he was going to have to paint the guttering otherwise. He’ll be here in 20 minutes.

So I call the Gallatin River Ranch and tell them what’s happened and cancel the riding and it’s time

for another orange juice and a spirited discussion with the guys about why I won’t have a beer. Their plans for piracy are beginning to form nicely. I choose my moment, when they are all fiercely debating who’s boat they’re going to steal to start their career of piracy (Joe’s is nicely painted but it won’t deal with the rapids. They think that perhaps they’ll steal the cop’s as it would serve him right) and I slip outside to wait for the locksmith.

He’s kind and tells me I haven’t done anything that anyone else doesn’t do and gets out all his coathangers and starts work. It won’t take long, he says.

Three quarters of an hour later, I ask him if he’s got any optimism left, and he says ‘enough,’ and I really admire him for that. We have a brief discussion on how inconvenient it is that they make cars so burglar-proof nowadays and I go for a walk.

A lovely old mixed-breed dog comes up to me and starts licking my hand and his owner, who is sitting at the edge of the green area by the railroad greets me and we start talking. She’s from Nebraska originally and says the winters here are better than there and that the cold is good dry cold and it simply isn’t a problem and I’m not to worry about it. She also loves the idea of an English Teashop. Really loves it.

‘You mean somewhere we could take our kids in nice clothes where they’d learn proper games and good manners?’ she says. ‘Somewhere we can go and feel special and have a good time on a Sunday afternoon? Oh that sounds great. I can’t wait to tell all my friends. When are you opening?’

Then Dave shouts to me across the grass, and the car doors are open.

I pay him and he drives off wishing me a wonderful day, and I go back into the pub to tell them that all is well and they give me a round of applause and shake my hand and make me promise to come and be honorary female on the pirate ship when I come back.

As I drive off, I realise that if we don’t come to live here I will find myself thinking every day of my life ‘Today I could be in Montana.’

(For those who aren’t from the UK and never knew him, Keith Floyd was one of the originators of the flamboyant chef-on-the-TV genre. He died four years ago).

To be honest I met him quite a few times. We went out a bit. Not a lot you understand; just a bit. As a part of a life with four wives, and a long-term live-in partner, five months of dating between wife no. 2 and no.3 doesn’t really count. But I did meet him. And it was all because of the baked beans.

I was an assistant producer on a no-sooner-started-than-forgotten afternoon TV show called Pamela Armstrong based at Pebble Mill studios in Birmingham. Keith Floyd was booked to come and cook live on air.

This particular week it was my job to buy the ingredients for what the famous TV chef wanted to cook. Keith had specified that he needed fresh chives and green peppercorns but, in the winter of 1985 in Birmingham, neither were readily available. The best I could do were black peppercorns and frozen chopped chives from my Mum’s freezer.

When Keith arrived, I explained this and he seemed fine about it and once Pamela had announced him, he swung into the routine we all knew so well (including the famous glug of wine). But when it came to the peppercorns and the chives he said “What kind of lousy researcher can only get black peppercorns and frozen soggy chives when they’re asked for green and fresh? She’s called Maggy if you want to know!” and threw the ingredients over his shoulder.

Afterwards, he was slightly sheepish. “Was that incredibly rude?” he asked the researcher who took care of him once his stint was over. I wasn’t around; I was taking care of another guest up in the canteen but, to be honest, I wasn’t that bothered. It had made good TV and that was all that mattered.

But later on, when I went back up to the canteen for a last cup of tea after a very busy day, Keith was sitting up there, all alone, staring out of the window.

He stood up when he saw me and offered me a chair. The chive-throwing incident was not mentioned. It turned out that he had another engagement in Birmingham the following day and had arranged to stay overnight but he had nothing to do in the meantime so was killing time.

“Well you could come and have supper with me, but I warn you I’m only having beans on toast,” I said as a kind of throw-away remark.

His face lit up. “I love beans on toast!” He said. “If you only knew what a wonderful invitation that is. Everyone tries to show off when they cook for me. Just the chance to go and relax and watch TV and eat beans on toast with someone would be really nice.”

So we went home together and we had Heinz beans and pork sausages on toast and we watched Felicity Kendal in The Mistress. Keith fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. When I woke him he took a taxi back to his hotel. It never crossed my mind that the next time he was up to do the show, he would want to come home with me again. And again. I did venture to cook him some decent food but I always kept it simple; nursery food such as fish pie in with mashed potato or a kedgeree with tinned red salmon and hard-boiled eggs.

The first time I visited Keith’s home in Bristol was not auspicious. He telephoned at about midnight one Friday night, when we were still “just friends.” He was in a terrible state. Now, I realise that he was what they now call bi-polar. Then, it was a real shock to hear this shy and amusing man in such despair. Everything, it seemed, had gone wrong. He couldn’t sleep and he was deplorably unhappy.

“Do you want me to come down?” I said, foolishly (I was definitely a co-dependent type in those days).

“Would you?” his voice lit up. “Oh would you? I’d be so grateful.”

So I got in the car and drove to Bristol. I had his address and an A-Z but even so, it was after three o’clock by the time I found the flat. And of course, by then, Keith was sound asleep. It took nearly 15 minutes of ringing the doorbell to rouse him; I was just about to turn around and go back. I suppose I should count my blessings that he wasn’t grumpy that I was there at all.

In the morning, we were both apprehensive to find the other in the same bed (though nothing at that stage had happened) but co-cooking a breakfast of everything he had in the fridge had us hiccoughing with laughter and suddenly we were in a relationship.

It was an unlikely partnership though, and I think we both knew that. Keith was incredibly set in his ways. His Saturdays were dedicated to watching a rugby match and drinking with his cronies in The Greyhound in Clifton — both of which bored me senseless. But his mum was nice. Keith adored her and took me round several times. She would serve us a roast dinner from the freezer — individual platters of meat, vegetables and gravy placed on a plate, covered in clingfilm and frozen. Keith loved them; even after the revelation of the baked beans, I was amazed.

He never cooked puddings and I did. So, once we were officially an item, he organized a dinner party for all his friends where he’d do the starter and main course and I could do dessert. No pressure then! I did a lime syllabub and, through nerves, over-beat it. Keith’s best friend lambasted it and I felt totally crushed. Keith didn’t notice; he was happy and he wasn’t good at picking up subtleties.

Such a vulnerable, public-school-damaged man; he had no idea how a relationship actually went. He was enchanted when I made a special occasion of his birthday but ignored mine completely while ranting about other people’s neglect of him.

It’s odd to admit that I got bored with dating a celebrity, but I did. And he got bored with my boredom. It never really ended; it just faded away three months after Pamela Armstrong was axed. Keith didn’t make efforts to come and see me and I got fed up with going down to see him.

But I learnt to cook with panache and verve; I learnt that no recipe was more important than the ingredients and, that if the ones you thought you wanted weren’t fresh and succulent enough, you threw the recipe out of the window and cooked with what was good.  I learnt to be brave with wine and garlic and ginger and my stir-fry became a meal to die-for.

Even now, I can’t see a can of Heinz baked beans with pork sausages without thinking of the funny, sad clown who cuddled up and fell asleep on my shoulder on a sofa, in a terraced house in Birmingham when he could have been out in his Bentley painting the town red. I’m not surprised he went through so many women and I’m so glad he found happiness in the end.

Mike Dooley refers to the human desire to know exactly how things can possibly work out as the ‘cursed hows.’ He’s right. So often we think of a desired outcome and then scupper our ability to attract it by trying to work out how on Earth it could possibly happen.

We fuss about possible outcomes, what other people have to do to make it happen (and often don’t trust them to do their part and even try to take control ourselves) and we so often come to the conclusion that it is impossible.

Thirteen years ago, I did the impossible by legally bringing the first ever dog back from the USA to the UK without quarantine. It was about the time that Passports for Pets was setting up in the UK – but only for animals from Europe; America was excluded. This is how it came about…

For the Love of Dog.

‘Don’t make me choose,” I said miserably.

‘You shouldn’t even be thinking of choosing!’ he answered.

But at that horrible moment I knew that a psychological life-or-death decision was necessary. Life meaning my authentic self, death being the life another person wanted me to choose – no matter how well-meaning he might be.

He wanted me to take my 10-year-old beagle, Didcot to the Humane Society to be re-homed, then come home to England and forget our ‘failed venture’ of emigrating to Montana.  Bringing the dog home was not an option.

The only available answer was the one so often quoted in spiritual circles – ‘Let Go and Let God.’

But how?

To cut a very long story short, we had emigrated to Bozeman, Montana from London, England to run a cafe. But my husband’s US business visa had failed after less than a year and he was back in England. I had my own visa and could stay in the USA while he tried to sort it out with the American Embassy in London. The phone call that day was to tell me that their answer was ‘No.’ As a couple, we had no alternative but to try and sell the business and go back to England. If I chose to stay, the marriage was over.

In those days, the Passports for Pets scheme which enables a pet to change continents without six months in quarantine was not available from the USA to England; the scheme was due to set up in Europe only in one year’s time. So, Didi could not go from the USA to England without six months quarantine in a cage. She was too old to cope with that even if I could.

I bought Didcot, Didi for short, two months after my first husband died. She was a sassy, loyal and incredibly cute beagle – and she was an immutable part of the package when I got married the second time. And I knew, that if I left her, and the marriage – which had been badly scarred by the Montana experiment – failed anyway, then I would lose on all counts. Much as I loved my husband – and much as his intentions were honourable – this was an impasse. I was not leaving Didcot behind.

Since coming to Montana, we had both attended Unity Church in Bozeman every Sunday and loved its energy and the vibrancy of the minister, Philip Zemke. In the UK we’d heard of Unity – and read a lot of Catherine Ponder’s work – and this particular church was truly inspirational. After putting the phone down on that horrible call from England, I went to see Philip.

He listened to my tearful ranting and then said: ‘Honey, don’t tell the Lord what you don’t want. Tell Him what you do want.’

‘I want to get Didi back to England without quarantine,’ I said. ‘I want to sell this cafe in less than three months. I want someone to help me run it in the meantime because it was my husband’s cafe and I have no experience.’

‘Well let’s pray!’ he said and we did.

But it was at the end of the prayer when I started the worrying and fussing again that Philip said the words that I will remember forever – and I always pass on to anyone who might be in a similar situation.

‘Honey,’ he said. ‘Get outta the Lord’s way! You’re standing right in his way and he can’t get around you if you block his path. All you gotta do is ask for what you want; then you just gotta let go and have some fun. Go riding quarter horses in the sunset and watch the eagles. Just get outta his way and your prayer will be answered.’

On this particular occasion, as everything I wanted was verging on the impossible and I was so terrified that I hardly knew how to breathe, I didn’t really have much of a choice. It was trust or give up.

So two days later, on Sunday morning at Unity in Bozeman, I stood up and said:

‘I need a buyer for the cafe; I need a cafe manager to help me run a business that I don’t understand with the Taste of Bozeman Festival in two weeks’ time. My dog can’t go to England but she could go to Europe, so I need to find a dog-lover who lives in Europe who would look after her there while I go back home and work something out. I need somewhere to stay here in Bozeman as I have to move out of my house in a week. I need help to work out US to Europe immigration for a dog. And I need someone to lend me a quarter horse so I can go riding in the sunset and watch eagles.’

A hand went up at once and Charles Carrell, the Unity Musical Director, who had catering experience and didn’t need to earn money at that time, volunteered to act as unpaid manager for the cafe. And beautiful Robin, the actress, offered to introduce me to her friend Charlie who need help exercising his three quarter horses.

What a start! Emboldened, I started talking to people on the backstreets of Bozeman when I walked Didi in the mornings. ‘Cute dog,’ they’d say.

‘Do you know anywhere we could rent?’ I’d answer. ‘Do you know any dog-lovers in Europe?’

Within two days, two people had offered us accommodation, and someone’s cousin had telephoned me from Spain to say she would care for Didi, She said something very important too: ‘Now you know someone can help, you can relax. I don’t suppose for a moment your dog will need to come to us but the fact that you know she can means that something better can turn up.’

She too was saying ‘Let go and let God.’

And each evening, Charlie and I rode his quarter horses in the sunset, watching the eagles.

But the cafe didn’t sell.

I telephoned the Ministry of Agriculture in England and asked whether taking a dog to Europe from the USA and then registering it as a European dog meant that Didi could be eligible for Passports for Pets when it started up.

‘We’d never thought of that!’ said the woman at the other end. ‘I’ll check.’

She called back, quite excited. ‘We’ve had a lot of Americans upset that the scheme doesn’t work for them,’ she said. ‘But your idea of taking your dog to Europe and staying there for seven months while the process goes through is fine. I’m telling other Americans that already so thank you.’

My goodness – we were even helping others!

That very night, an old friend of my husband’s emailed out of the blue, revealing that he actually owned a little house in Andalucia, Spain. I phoned him asking if I could possibly rent it. He was outraged. ‘Rent?’ he said. ‘Rent? Mi casa es su casa! I will not charge you rent! You stay in my house for as long as you need. And your husband too if he wants to. Rent indeed!’

I booked a flight from Seattle to Malaga for two months’ time.

But the cafe didn’t sell.

There was another problem: Charles the unpaid cafe manager was doing brilliantly but he was away at a convention for the weekend of the famous Taste of Bozeman and neither I nor the cafe staff had the slightest idea what to do. We couldn’t pull out – I desperately needed the revenue to make the wages and the cafe’s rent. We could sort out food but knew nothing about Heath Inspection requirements or what equipment to use outside.

On the morning of the great event, Katerina, one of the Unity church congregation came in with a card for me – nine years later, it’s still in my treasures box. It said ‘God is looking after you. Just trust. Let go and let God.’

I think I was just about getting the hint.

An hour later, Al Kilmurray, a former chef and a member of Unity Church, walked into the cafe and simply took over. He organised it all; we just had do what he told us to do. By lunchtime he’d sorted it and gone.

Apart from accidentally shutting the Health Inspector in the freezer for half an hour (she had gone in to test the temperatures) we were all set. But just as we were about to put up our stall in the street, it began to pour with rain. A total disaster for The Taste of Bozeman as not a single stall could go up. Oh God! What was I going to do about the wages and the rent?

As Robin, the staff and I watched the floods in the streets, Al walked in covered in plastic sheeting.

‘Tea!’ he bellowed. ‘Make tea! People need tea not coffee at a time like this and you’re a Brit; you know how to make tea!’

He went outside and started yelling ‘Warm yourself up with a cup of English tea!’

And they came – the people whose dinner had been rained off, came in for a cup of tea. And stayed and ate all the food we had prepared.

Robin, Al and I worked like ten people and by midnight, the rent and the wages were paid. I never saw Al again. He just went back out of state. He died last three years ago, and by one of those strange sychronicities of life, I was privileged to be able to attend his memorial when I returned to Bozeman.

And every night, I rode Spuds the quarter horse with Charlie and watched the eagles fly.

And every Sunday I went to Unity where Philip and the congregation continued to pray for Didi and me.

But the cafe didn’t sell.

Let go and Let God…

All the officials taking care of Didi’s paperwork were so helpful (although every bit of it was new to them). When I realised it all had to be translated into Spanish, Katerina from Unity translated it for me. When I found out that we were six days out of time for Didi’s required Rabies vaccination, the kind vet ‘accidentally’ back-dated the certificate.

‘Your dog is already immune from the vaccine she had less than a year ago in England,’ he said. ‘It’s not a problem. It’s obviously God’s will that you are going to Spain.’

One hitch – completely my fault – I forgot to send the $3 dollar fee to the Spanish Embassy in California for Didi’s export visa. Without that, they couldn’t issue it and we had only three days left before we flew.

My loving hosts, Ris Higgins and Joe Esparza, who run Leadership Outfitters, an amazing executive coaching business that includes horse whispering, tried everything – they called everyone they knew in LA asking them to drive $3 round to the embassy; they phoned a flower delivery company asking for a bouquet with $3 in it to be delivered. They asked a courier company to courier round the cash if we paid for the courier price plus $3. Everyone said no.

We were stuck.

‘No we’re not,’ said Ris. ‘We pray! And then we call the Embassy lady back.’

So that’s just what we did. And when I called her, she said that she’d been thinking about the sweet little dog. And if we FedExed the $3 to her with FedEx reply-paid and faxed her a receipt proving that it had been sent, then she would release Didi’s visa.

The next morning my ride to the airport in Seattle arrived … Of course we had a lift for the two-day drive to Seattle! I hardly even bothered worrying about that one. My friend Lisa Jeffers from Unity offered to drive us – and Didi’s huge Sky Kennel – in her 4×4.

Just as we were loading up, there was a phone call from the Real Estate Broker.

The cafe had sold.

There was just time to stop off and sign the sale papers before I left Bozeman…

Seven months later, Didcot the beagle was the first dog ever into the UK from the USA, via Spain, on the British Passports for Pets scheme. She lived happily with me in London for four more years.

Thank you Silent Unity and Unity of Bozeman. You taught me how to let go and let God.

In loving memory: Alan Kilmurray.

When you’re ordained into anything approaching a ‘normal’ church you start to wear a dog collar. While my Church — The Apostolic Church of the Risen Christ — is not normal, it is in the Apostolic Succession and a part of the Independent Catholic Church movement. The difference is that we acknowledge all faiths and creeds as equal paths on the way to God which is not exactly a popular idea with the Roman Catholic Church.

Of course there are hundreds of paths – unfortunately, someone left a rake on most of them…

In my church wearing a dog collar all the time is not encouraged – mostly because we are slightly heretical and like to do our spiritual work behind the scenes rather than in front. However, there are two places where we are told the dog collar is a Very Good Idea. Firstly a hospital or hospice because then you can get to the person who has asked for you without worrying about visiting times or any other impediment. Secondly, on a long-haul flight. If anything goes wrong on a flight then the crew and the passengers will know how to find you for prayer or help (or perhaps a bit of blame!).

If you don’t wear it all the time, then when you do wear the collar it is an enormous wake-up call. For a start, it’s never quite comfortable so you are always aware of it; it keeps you on your toes; helps you remember that you are a keeper of souls. I know that may sound strange in a world where so many Catholic priests are in so much (invited) trouble. Perhaps if you wear it all the time it’s easier to disregard its meaning?

Its meaning is a lot older than the Church. This is a very ancient and very important symbol. It is the Collar of Anubis.

I’ve taken the story of Anubis from the website Egypt for Kids because it’s so simply put:

People in most ancient civilizations were afraid of their gods. This was not true in ancient Egypt. The Egyptians loved their gods. They had little fear and great wonder. 

There was one exception – the god Ammut. Almost everyone in ancient Egypt was afraid of Ammut! Ammut was the Devourer. The ancient Egyptians believed if you did something bad, your heart would be heavy, and the god Ammut could suddenly appear and gobble you up! 

The god Ammut had a big part in the weighing of the heart ceremony. When you died, the ancient Egyptians believed you traveled to an afterlife, a heavenly place where you spent eternity. You had to earn your way. There were rules. To enter your  afterlife, you had to have a light heart. Light hearts were earned from a lifetime of doing good deeds. 

To find out if your heart qualified for the trip to the afterlife, your spirit had to enter the Hall of Maat. The god Anubis weighed your heart. The god Thoth recorded the findings. (In ancient Egypt, everything was recorded and written down.)

If your heart was light, lighter than a feather, you passed the test and entered your afterlife.

BUT, if your heart was heavy because your deeds were dreadful, the god Ammut would suddenly appear … and eat you up!

No one wanted that, so nearly everyone in ancient Egypt did good deeds to keep their heart light. 

So, the Collar of Anubis is for weighing the souls of the dead to see if they were lighter than a feather. Which means that the duty of the priest is to lighten hearts — to help the soul to rise into its own beauty, glory and peace as a reflection of the Divine. And there’s the trick — each person will have their own path to God and from God. Each person is a unique reflection of God. And any priest who doesn’t help them on that unique path — in whatever way they are guided to do it — is forgetting a sacred duty. We should not be here to frighten people but to inspire them.

How do I do that? I tell jokes, I listen, I learn, I perform services, Masses, facilitate Julian Quiet Days, I pray and meditate, I laugh, I have a Facebook Page and I run courses. If you want to know what online work I do, please visit my Workshop Page and see what calls to your heart. They say tha Knowledge Is Power; I say that Information is Power but Knowledge lifts the heart.

Let’s face it, God has had some very bad PR. Interpretations of the Holy Books haven’t helped. According to the Old Testament, God’s fond of mass genocide (Noah’s Ark), destruction of idolators (Exodus, Kings), flattening of cities (Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis) and sundry other atrocities. Even worse, we’ve got that Old Man in the Sky Watching Us image from Christian art. Consider the Sistine Chapel…

But here’s a thought – what if God is exactly what we think God is? That’s the way many modern mystics interpret the Bible nowadays: that God reflects the state of mind of humanity at the time. The ‘real’ God is Divinity in our own hearts but the ‘oppressor’ God is a projection of our own fears and hatreds.

So how are we doing with the God Thing nowadays? Basically a lot of us are confused. Apart from anything else, we have political correctness and there are serious gender issues around God. Is God a She? A He? An It? So what’s to do?

Try going out on a date with God to find out for yourself.

No, I’m not joking. It’s fun. If we believe (which most of us do) that our good comes from God, then making friends with God is only going to help. It doesn’t affect God whether we love Him/Her/It or not – whatever God is, is stable – in the words of C. S. Lewis ‘prayer doesn’t change God; prayer changes me.’ And all of life is a prayer. Every thought we think is a prayer – a request for joy or pain.

So, back to the date with God. Be warned up front that you may have to pay because God’s a bit like the British Royal Family in that that He doesn’t carry cash but you’ll get the money back later – promise. And you’ll get some pretty amazing other prosperity too.

Here’s a story of one of my dates with God:

I was heading for London on the train for a day of business meetings. Every single meeting got cancelled as soon as I arrived. I had choices: I could go straight home – or I could spend a day being free in a big city in a smart business suit. I knew I needed a holiday and I had been fussing about not having enough time for one, so I swallowed the guilt and decided that this was as good a time as any for focusing on prayer. For once, I would allow God to be in charge of my life. I would go where He wanted me to go and do what he wanted me to do.

So I asked God to take me out for the day.

We met up at Euston Square tube station and he offered to buy me some lilies from the flower stall outside but I declined as I didn’t want to carry them around with me all day. I worried a bit about that — was I turning down prosperity? God said I shouldn’t worry about it; frankly I shouldn’t really worry at all…

We took the tube into the centre of London and I asked God to draw my attention to an advertisement to tell me where we were going on our date. That was quite easy because I assumed that it would be something like a lunchtime concert at St. Martin in the Fields at Trafalgar Square.

The first advertisement I saw was for the Victoria and Albert Museum. Resistance set in at once – it was a long way away; not at all spiritual; probably rather boring – and suddenly I wanted to go shopping… ‘We’re going to the museum,’ said God. ‘Trust me, you’ll like it.’ Trust God? What an interesting concept.

On the way, God had a go at disconnecting my ego consciousness by suggesting that I looked at the people in the tube train carriage in a different way. ‘Let me look through your eyes and tell you what I think’ He said (God’s only a He in this story because I’m a girl by the way). So I did – and I got a completely different perspective on several people whom I would have judged automatically. Interestingly, no one except God sat next to me all the way to South Kensington…

We got to the museum and went in by the entrance that has a lot of crockery from the Middle Ages from all around the world. I really am not a fan of crockery but, do you know what? God and I looked at two blue and white plates for a whole 20 minutes. Every time I tried to move on I saw another fascinating image in the glaze. I looked for beauty instead of passing by on the other side – and I found it. I thought about the people who had made the plates and God told me how much He had enjoyed making the plates with them. I became a part of how their hands had moved; how different their pictures were; how they might have reflected their lives; where they lived; what kind of lifestyle; how they painted; what they used for colour; what their workplace, if any, was like. After two hours, God and I were about a quarter of the way down the gallery.

‘Hey God,’ I said. ‘We won’t get round the museum at this rate.’

‘Why do you want to get round the museum?’

‘Well, to see everything.’

‘You won’t see anything Maggy,’ said God. ‘You’ll just browse and move on.’

We had a brief argument at that point because my persona wanted to disagree with this unpalatable truth – and it had had enough of blue and white plates. After five spirited minutes (fortunately with no one else in the gallery at the time), we came to the resolution that we would move on – but that I was to signal one thing in each gallery that I was willing to look at with God’s eyes.

Fabulous.

I have never seen so much beauty; craft or delicacy. I have never had so much fun in a museum. I saw things that I never would have noticed alone and thought thoughts I’d never thought before. God and I even told each other jokes in the Roman section while we were having a sit down and a muse. God knows all the best old jokes and, apparently, they’re even better after a couple of hundred years of rest.

At 3pm I was tired. ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ said God.

‘Yes please. Where?’

‘Fortnum and Mason. Afternoon tea.’

Oh boy, the resistance! It was miles away; too expensive; I didn’t want to have that much to eat; I didn’t want to sit on my own in a restaurant – especially without a book or a magazine. It was simply not on. But we went to Fortnum’s – God does a neat job of temptation sometimes, promising me that we could just go and look and, if it was too scary, buy some chocolate instead.

The restaurant at Fortnum’s is on the top floor and it is very elegant. You can have a full afternoon tea for about £25, with enough food for a small army with very delicate manners. I truly didn’t want that much but there was always the possibility that they’d let me just have a cup of tea and a cake. In through the swing doors I went – and straight out again. The room was full of suave-looking people in groups, enjoying themselves and it felt really intimidating.

‘Stop!’ said God, as I was half-way down the stairs. I stopped, reluctantly. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m not going in there alone.’ ‘

You’re not alone,’ said God patiently. ‘You’re with Me.’

You know when there’s a turning point in life? That was one of them for me. Did I want to believe what I was experiencing or to turn away from all this fun and abundance because I was embarrassed?

Oh bother.

We went in together, God and I, and there was a little table with two armchairs free. The waiter was charming and sat me down there, and bought tea and two tiny, exquisite cakes. And I sat there, to all intents and purposes, entirely alone, dealing with all the suppositions that I had inside me about middle-aged women alone in restaurants. And after I’d dealt with all the rubbish, I suppose I did a kind of sacred idleness meditation with chocolate cake. And it was fine. After all, nobody else there cared who I was or what I was doing there; it was only my stuff. And it was very nice cake.

God and I had a good chat during tea. I learnt a lot about self-esteem and not putting myself down and how I often used bravado instead of bravery and things like that. And we decided that we’d like to see each other again – soon.

Then it was time to pay so I paid – about £10 so not too expensive! And then I made my way to the station to take the train home to Worcestershire. God saw me onto the train and let me go with a kiss (I had a good book to read and I wanted some time on my own). I said no again to the lilies he offered me at the station because God didn’t have any cash and I’d spent my spare money on the tea. He promised he’d send them later.

As I took my ticket out to show to the inspector, the receipt for Fortnum’s came out of my bag too. I looked at it idly, preparing to scrunch it up to throw away. ‘Tea and cakes for two,’ it said. God had landed me with the bill for his tea!

But how amazing that the staff at Fortnum’s knew that I had had a companion sitting with me in their restaurant. I had not been alone for tea and cake just as God had promised me. And how lovely it was to come home to my husband Lion who greeted me with a big bunch of lilies. ‘I just got the urge to buy them,’ he said. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Thank you God.