Female Kundalini

I

Part 1: Journey To Kundalini

1

My Daddy Loves Me More

Give me the child until he is seven and I will show you the man.

~ St. Ignatius of Loyola

D addy loves me more than he loves you, I said.

My mother spun around from the cooker with a wooden spoon in her hand and shouted at me, You little bitch, I had him before you and I’ll have him after you.

I was five years old. In that moment, her expression communicated three things to me that would shape me as an adult:

She doesn’t love me;

I’m on my own; and

(focusing on the wooden spoon) I’m not safe in the big world.

Assimilating these insights intellectually did not occur until many years later. I don’t remember how the incident ended, but do remember feeling separate, as if I was on my own for the first time.

What shaped my view of love thusly?

My mother was pregnant with me before marrying my dad, which in 1960’s Catholic Ireland was a big deal. Out of shame, they left the small village in Ireland and moved to London where I was born. My dad wasn’t happy and would say hurtful things to my mum. I saw how she cried and was sad when he spoke that way to her. I didn’t understand the content, but I understood the impact firsthand. I was Daddy’s girl and whatever I wanted I got. He could get so mad with my mum, but then he would see me and his face would soften and he would smile and give me a hug, all the affection he denied my mum. So, in my five-year-old mind I decided that Daddy loved me more than Mummy and I was testing it out. I could never have anticipated the consequences. The moment I blurted it out, I was no longer a child to my mum. I became another woman, a rival, and a threat.

Decisions we make when we are young have power because they are made in the space of nothing — a vacuum of experience. Looking back at the decisions I made in that space of nothing — no past, no present, no time at all — I am left with the strong belief that we create our lives from the decisions we make.

My relationship with my dad deepened and grew; we were very close. I felt safe and secure with him. He never encouraged me to meet someone. In fact, he would always say, You’re better off without a man, Mag. When I spoke with her about why I didn’t seem to have any feelings for guys, Mum would often say, Dad never wanted you to be with anyone; nobody was ever good enough.

I didn’t know how different he was when I wasn’t at home until one day I was speaking with my teenage niece and she said, You have no idea what it’s like for Nora (my mum) when you come home, Matt (my dad) is like a schoolboy; he’s laughing, joking, won’t let anyone else come with him to collect you from the bus. It’s awful for her.

Shocked I said, What do you mean?

Well, she continued, he’s so different on the day you come home. Normally, he doesn’t talk much, but on the day you come home, he is so excited. He’s never like that around Nora.

For most of my life, I have felt uneasy around adults, preferring the company of children. I hide it well. Out with adults, I am friendly. Only I feel a knot of anxiety within. An invitation out for a drink or a meal sees me meticulously planning how long I stay before saying goodbye. Going home, I once again feel tremendous relief at being on my own. How different it is when I’m in the company of children, the younger the better. With them, I feel free, happy, and myself. I have a rapport with them. I am very sensitive to the hurtful things said to children and am always horrified when an adult doesn’t see the impact such a hurt creates.

My uneasiness with adults continued as I grew up, and I found myself resisting any efforts to put on lipstick or act grown up. When I was a teenager, all my friends were talking about fancying boys, but I never understood what they were talking about. This ignorance or naivety continued well into adulthood. I remember being with a friend once when she was talking about fancying a man at work. I asked her, What do you mean by fancy?

She looked at me strangely and said, Surely you know what it is to fancy someone, that feeling you get when you can’t wait to be alone with him.

I looked at her blankly and said, I’ve never felt that with anyone I’ve been out with.

She named a couple of guys I had brief flings with and I said, It just happened that I was with them, but I never felt what you are calling ‘fancying’ about any of them. You could line them all up against the wall and I wouldn’t feel anything different about any of them.

Her eyes wide as saucers, she then asked, What about sex?

I said, What about it?

She said, How can you have sex if you don’t feel anything?

I shrugged my shoulders and said, Most of the time I wasn’t there, I was in the supermarket buying bread.

And that is how it was. I was a virgin until I was 30, and I only allowed myself to have sex because I thought there was something I was missing and didn’t want to die a virgin. After that, sex for me felt like abuse, yet it wasn’t because I was a consenting adult every time. I didn’t understand my feelings of being violated. It felt like abuse, and yet it wasn’t. I had such a low sex drive as to be almost asexual. When my friends talked to me about needing sex and being irritable because they weren’t getting it, I would look at them like they were from another planet. I had no idea what those feelings and drives were like.

This lack of any kind of sexual radar made flirting or intimacy with the opposite sex a virtual non-starter. Friends would say X fancies you and I wouldn’t see it, never mind coming up with some kind of signal to show I was interested. That type of non-verbal communication, when attraction is present, was missing for me. I viewed every conversation I had with a man as being friendly without ulterior motives. I was the most naïve of the naïve, an innocent mind trapped in an adult body.

And yet this lack of sexual drive enabled me to focus on spirituality. I was largely free to give everything to Buddhism. This wasn’t altogether honest, though. I thought I fancied the Sempai who led the group. He was a big reason I turned up for Buddhist meditation and study every Sunday. Each week, I would plan what I would say to him and how we would get together. And every Sunday evening coming home, I would be annoyed and angry at myself that I didn’t do or say what I meant to. Then the cycle would begin all over the next day, fantasizing and planning for the next Sunday evening, what I would do and say. It was exhausting; I was obsessed.

2

A Single Step

The spiritual journey is all about trusting a force or energy that has your best interests at heart, and then letting go.

~ Author

Idon’t remember much of the conversation or how it ended. But when the nun told me the best I could hope for was a factory job, taking tins on and off conveyor belts, it felt like a punch in the stomach.

I wanted to go to university, study psychology, I stammered.

I know you’re not stupid, Margaret, but these results show you functioning at borderline mental handicapped.

A raise of her eyebrows, an impatient wave of the hand, and I was dismissed. My first major personal crisis, at 15 years old, no less.

The nun had called me into her office to give me the results of an intelligence test that might very well influence my future prospects. My self-esteem bottomed out and I was filled with fear. I didn’t tell anyone, least of all my parents. It was something I had to deal with alone. After all, going away to boarding school had been my decision.

So how did I get there? Ironically, I made the decision when only 11 years old. Now I seemed to be freefalling backwards. Perhaps, I’d outsmarted myself. I had to find a way of getting back on track, taking control of my life.

Closing my eyes, I drifted back to the nine-year-old girl who had first connected with something bigger than myself. I had discovered the ability to tune into that bigger something in times of distress as a child.

Constantly teased in school for my prominent buckteeth, I was deeply unhappy. Every night I implored God to remove them. One day I was running to school, hands in my pockets, when I slipped on an uneven slab of pavement. Before I could free my hands, I crashed down face first. Onto the concrete popped my two front teeth. My prayers had been answered.

This had a profound effect, my first spiritual experience. From then on, I just knew there was a God. When you have a prayer answered this way, at the age of nine, it has a powerful effect.

I’ve had moments of doubt and anger, feelings that life has been, if not worse, at least different for me than for my friends. Feelings of being left out and wondering why. Then I think back to the incident when I was nine and all resentment and confusion melts away. The spiritual path is one of elation and despair, constantly recurring, always uncertain. Many years later, the incident still continues to inspire my confidence in that something greater than myself.

I was born and brought up in my parents’ faith, as a Catholic in London: my mother, always staunch in her faith; my father, a Catholic only out of duty. I don’t remember much about my childhood besides the incident cited above. I do recall loving Enid Blyton’s books, especially the Mallory Towers series that were all about life in boarding school, which I suppose prompted my fascination with boarding school.

I remember having a problem with my right eye, having to wear ugly black National Health Service glasses, which I refused to do. I also remember my mathematics tutor, how I never cooperated with him, despite the fact that my weakness in this subject was identified early on. When my parents realized I wasn’t improving, they let him go.

My eleventh birthday was significant. A friend of my parents gave me a birthday present. Happy Birthday, Margaret, said Betty, handing over a brightly wrapped package.

Thanks, I said. I tore off the wrapping and read the title out loud: A Book of Fortune Telling.

My mother who had watched from the other room came storming in, red faced and shouting, Give me that book, that’s the work of the devil.

No I said, holding the book tightly to my chest.

She turned on Betty, saying, What’s wrong with you — bringing her a book like that?

Seizing my chance to get away, I ran out of the kitchen to my bedroom to read my fought-for treasure. My mother was horrified and tried to take it from me, but the minute I opened the book I knew it was something I wanted to be a part of. I fought to keep it. It gave me a glimpse into a different world. I didn’t know what it was; all I knew was I wanted to be a part of it.

That same year, my paternal grandmother died, leaving the family home in Ireland to my father. My parents decided to move there. The decision was made quickly. I don’t remember my brothers and me being asked how we felt, nor do I remember saying goodbye to my friends in London. In those days, children weren’t consulted; they were simply not included in the process.

Since we went to Ireland every summer for our holidays, it shouldn’t have been a shock. But this event rocked my life — the lack of preparation and not being able to say goodbye to my friends reinforced my feelings about the lack of control over my life. I made a decision to take control. I had no idea what form it might take.

Gradually, I adjusted to my new surroundings. One day, Mum and I were out driving. Two girls were hitching. We stopped to pick them up. They told us they were boarders at the convent school in the next town. I immediately began to pump them on everything the Mallory Towers books said about boarding school.

Do you have lots of midnight feasts? Is it great fun? How often do you get to go downtown? I asked excitedly.

The taller of the two girls laughed and said, Yes, we have lots of midnight feasts. It’s a great place to go to school.

We dropped the girls off and once home, I found the number of the convent, telephoned, and asked to speak to the head of the boarders. Sister Muriel took the call. I explained that I wanted to go to boarding school and asked her if she had a place. Understandably, she was confused, but said yes, then asked to speak with my mother. I burst into the kitchen all excited, explained I had Sister Muriel on the phone and they had a place for me in boarding school. I begged to be allowed to go. Mum dried her hands and picked up the phone. I skipped outside to Dad who was working on his vegetable garden. I told him I wanted to go to boarding school.

He looked at me and said, Is it really what you want?

Yes, I said.

Okay.

And that was that. At the age of 12 I went into an all-girls Catholic boarding school, straight into second year, a situation I came to regret, for the others had already made friends.

3

On Being Alone

Confusion is there for a reason. In certainty, there is no growth.

~ Author

Perhaps my reason for going to boarding school was to feel safe and I justified it by saying that it was because of the Mallory Towers books and midnight feasts which Enid Blyton wrote about.

Or was the truth that I couldn’t face not feeling safe around my mother and I wanted to get away from her? Maybe I saw myself as a source of tension between my parents and believed they would be happier if I wasn’t at home. I honestly don’t know. I don’t remember any closeness with my mother for many years. She made food when I was away in boarding school and always cared for me when I came home, but I had this nagging unease and anxiety whenever I was around her.

The first two years at boarding school weren’t easy. I didn’t start at the same time as everyone else. This marked me as different from the beginning. I had an English accent to boot. I was unaware of the history taught in the National Schools they called Primary Schools. I didn’t know about the English oppression and their taking over certain parts of Ireland.

One day I went to the refectory, to a group of boarders sitting at a table. I hadn’t been at the school long so I walked up to them and said hello.

They giggled and looked at each other.

I’m a boarder here, too, I said, hoping to be invited to sit down.

At first, they just stared at me. Finally, Audrey said, Why don’t you go back to England where you belong.

I stood there for moment, fighting back tears. Then I ran out of the refectory, the words, We don’t want you here! ringing in my ears.

Being ignored meant I wasn’t included in the midnight feasts, which was comical in a tragic way, given that it was my main reason for choosing to go to boarding school. Hearing the laughing and the telltale rustling of forbidden food a couple of cubicles away underscored the extent of my isolation. As a defensive measure, I began to shun company.

Years later, one of these girls said to me, I can’t believe how we hated you when you came here…because of your English accent. When she said that, all the years of hurt disappeared.

It was a Catholic convent so Mass and Benediction and religious matters filled many hours. To cope with my isolation and lack of friends, I tried to decipher the meaning of words in the hymns. I spent hours figuring out what lose yourself in me meant from the hymn of the same name; who the me was, what it meant to lose yourself. I spent hours and days alone. I can remember sitting in my cubicle gazing out the window, pondering these things. I never got any answers, but I received great comfort from doing it.

I felt the decision to leave home meant I was on my own; I would no longer be able to confide in my parents. I couldn’t tell them how miserable and lonely I was during the first two years. Yet I was grateful to them for respecting my choice. In the years that followed, when first-year students cried on my shoulder about how their parents had sent them away, I could never say that. Going away was my