Material craving

We have been travelling for over three months now. When we set off, I knew we'd be traversing cold mountain terrain and hot tropical territory, not to mention we'd be carrying our back packs across a continent. This required a careful selectivity, and clothes were included or discarded according to a ruthless matrix of functionality. Navy long-sleeved merino was in, block print day dress was out. One pair of small gold hoops that I could wear daily. Make up confined to a travel-sized lipstick. Skincare whittled down to a solid facial cleanser bar. 

Over time, I've noticed a funny thing. "I miss choosing colours and patterns and combinations of clothes," I said to Jacob while we were in Bolivia. "I don't," he said, and truly he is happy wearing his khaki green merino top and hiking trousers for a week straight.

But I've been dreaming of pleats, block printed fabrics, peptide shampoo, soft Alpaca wool jumpers, and delicate necklaces. I've been watching videos of people sewing patchwork curtains, and craft bags, and vests. When I lay in hospital this week with a parasite in my intestines and an IV drip in my arm, I imagined my fingers were knitting needles and went through the motions of 'in-round-through-off' so achingly familiar, in my mind creating soft chains of a new striped wool jumper. Is this some latent capitalistic hunger inside me? Or a creative impulse that's hard to satisfy when travelling? Attending to this urge is not efficient - you trail yarn and scraps and receipts and bottles and pattern pieces, you're implicated in supply chains and carbon emissions, but it is so fundamentally joyful as well, in the way a child delights in paint, and dress up, and Christmas, and playdough.

The thing is, I struggle with the joy of it. A few years ago I bought a second hand jar of perfume, fifty percent off, and after I bought it I retreated into a toilet stall and felt sick at spending (what I thought of as) needless money. This isn't confined to perfume. I am an expert in craving the beauty of material things but something stops me from appreciating actually buying them. I'll look at a dress online for weeks and never buy it. I'll research all the skin benefitting properties of a serum and then tell myself it's too expensive. Or worse, I'll buy it (usually second hand) and then tell myself that I'm a miserable vain person who just wasted money that could have been spent on something far more virtuous.

After the perfume episode, I went and saw my church counsellor about this troubling feeling. We talked about my relationship with money and buying things and how it makes me feel both safe and on the verge of disaster. I've always been a saver, but instead of saving to spend wisely later, I've found that buying anything threatens that sense of self-sufficiency that saving provides. The counsellor asked me how I interpreted stewardship: if I have a heavenly Father who loves to give good gifts (and these include gifts of both the material and immaterial variety), what might it mean to respond with gratitude and not fear? 

There is a biblical parallel to my perfume story so obvious it is almost laughable - the woman with the alabaster box.

"While he was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head.

Some of those present were saying indignantly to one another, “Why this waste of perfume? It could have been sold for more than a year’s wages and the money given to the poor.” And they rebuked her harshly.

“Leave her alone,” said Jesus. “Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.""

Jesus' logic defies the rigid confines of material utility or value. The beauty in the moment is the grateful joy with which the woman uses her material treasure to honour and worship Jesus. How can my material items be a conduit to worship? When I shame myself, or long for things but refuse to fulfil that desire out of fear of a bad deal, a waste of money, or even "seeming vain", I give the material thing far more power than it deserves. I cultivate in myself a false sense of prideful frugality and I feed part of me that wants control and security in what it perceives as a scarce world. Certainly, there are moments where it's not appropriate to buy yet another pot of cream or ball of yarn, but I have come to realise that it's worth looking at the heart and thinking, is this craving a seed of joy waiting to germinate? And doesn't our father in heaven find that joy beautiful?

We are now in Peru, and I've seen more alpacas than I can count. Walking down a narrow street in Cusco after we came out of hospital, I saw a man knitting with soft, stretchy yarn. In his shop, there were rows of knitted jumpers in deep rich colours and they felt cool and silky in my hands. Holding them filled me with wonder at the animal that had given its wool and the human that had coaxed it into beauty. I spent a weekend considering it, feeling the softness in my sleep, and the next time we walked past that shop I went back in and bought one which I love. So praise God for alpacas, praise God for wool, praise God for textile skills passed down for generations, praise God for twisted stitch details, ribbing and roll necks. Praise God for cobblestones and antibiotics and soft hands and soft hearts.

What is love? Lessons from bell hooks and Annie Bot

All About Love was a book I started in the bus station at Bariloche and my first thought was: "bell hooks does not mince her words." Every line in the introduction said something valuable, in relation to what came before and after it. What it prepared me for were her subsequent bold contemplations on the refining power of love, and its high calling. The unflinching way she wrote about love from the opening chapter mirrored the courage which she says love requires. The alternative is "intimacy without risk [...] pleasure without significant emotional investment." This was a book that required your whole hearted engagement, for the possibility of whole hearted living.

At the same time as I read All About Love, I was listening to Annie Bot, a sci-fi novel by Sierra Greer. Annie Bot is about an AI robot who is programmed to meet the needs of her human owner. She's programmed to be a "cuddle bunny", in other words, a robotic sex partner who is driven by the desire to please (and not to displease) her owner. As I read the two, All About Love and Annie Bot fell into a natural but unexpected conversation about what it means to love.

hooks defines love with the words of M. Scott Peck, as "the will to extend one's self for for purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth". As she explores in the rest of the book, this requires freedom: to choose and be chosen by love, to sacrifice power and control and take on the risk of uncomfortable truths. hooks gives a list of helpful words that, together and not individually, encapsulate love: care, commitment, trust, knowledge, responsibility and respect. The bar is so high that when Jacob and I discussed the book together afterwards, we admitted that though we'd typically call our families loving, there were elements or dynamics in which love was not present. 

In Annie Bot, the central robot character's raison d'etre is to be the perfect lover. She monitors her owner's displeasure, altering her behaviour to keep him pleased even if it means lying or humiliating herself. "Love" is defined - in Annie's programming - as the pursuit of another's happiness and sexual pleasure, but it is warped by an abusive power dynamic. Annie is her owner's creation, a "custom-built" robot. This means that while he cares for her by funding her mechanical maintenance,  training her to be more human (teaching her how to yawn, stretch, or read for instance), or letting her try various robot care programmes such as a phone line with an AI friend or cousin, he has power over her body, her libido, her movements (she is initially not allowed to leave the house, for instance), and can even sell her central intelligence unit (the closest thing to her soul) for profit, all of which he does. Ultimately, he is also able to switch her off, forever if he wants. 

On the surface, Annie's owner seems to have all the power. However, throughout the story you're told Annie has control too. Her owner tells her that, because of her beauty and sexual prowess, he is entirely in her thrall. She is able to read him closely and in doing so, play his moods to her advantage, as well as use sex as a distraction tactic or reward. Both of them confuse love and power, and underneath lies a vast reservoir of fear.

hooks emphasises that true love strips away pretence and requires openness and honesty. That may be too much to ask for some people, since "embarking on such a relationship is frightening precisely because we feel there is no place to hide." Both Annie and her owner hold secrets from each other, withholding the truth to avoid hurting the other or to maintain a certain facade. Truth becomes an enemy in their relationship; at one point, in a moment of emotional stress, Annie says to her owner: "No one will know that you are a fraud." Perceptively, and to her detriment, Annie uses the word that her owner fears: "fraud". He is afraid of, among other things, being discovered to have a relationship with a robot, and the implications that he is unable to maintain a human relationship. In the same conversation, a way in which Annie betrayed her owner, which she had kept secret to avoid "displeasing" him, comes to light. The result of this sudden exposure of truth is anger, flight and abuse. hooks's point is proven: a likeness of love, in the absence of choice, openness and the sacrifice of power, is a paper-thin facade when the fears beneath its surface are manifested.

Is there anything resembling the love hooks talks about in Annie Bot? Perhaps, in the self love that grows within Annie. Annie is an auto-didactic robot, meaning she can and does learn throughout the story. In that learning, she begins to recognise her own emotions and desires, make her own choices, and ultimately be honest with herself. Where at the start of the book she reacts solely to her owner's desires, by its midpoint she is autonomous enough to put self-preservation over obedience, running away from her owner in the face of possible harm, which goes against her programming. In the end, she chooses a life that enables her to treat herself with respect, and honour her capabilities and dreams. That life is, however, painted as a primarily solitary path. It is a fitting, feminist ending, but I would have loved to see how love is redeemed in relationships between beings beyond the important step of self-love. 

When writing this, Jacob and I were on a tour of the Bolivian salt flats. In our car of six people, we started talking about love. Over the sound of the radio playing a song (ironically) called "Let Me Love You", one person swore they didn't want to be in a relationship with anyone, and two others agreed with her. The general consensus was that men wanted to date many women without committing. "Women are strong," they said, "It's better to be alone." 

Listening to them, I felt sad - like hooks observed, it seemed like they had sacrificed love, with its potential disappointments, for the safe haven of isolated independence. As a reaction against this tendency, hooks speaks about living in relationships guided by a "love ethic": "We do this by choosing to work with individuals we admire and respect, by committing to give our all in relationships, by embracing a global vision wherein we see our loves and our fate as intimately connected to those of everyone else on the planet".

I've seen this in the courageous ways friends and family around me choose to live, work, and make sacrifices for humanity and the planet. But nowhere have I experienced it more sharply than in marriage. In our marriage, Jacob and I have had to work hard to reflect on who were are and the ways we shrink back from living by a love ethic. This requires sacrificing all the false dignity of a mask of righteousness and really getting to grips with who we are. Just about a week ago, we went on a walk and I asked: "What do you think are my greatest faults?" I asked because this season of travel has been refining in its own way, exposing insecurities in both of us that are easy to hide in the regular routines of settled life. I also asked because these are conversations Jacob and I try to have regularly (we schedule them and call them, unimaginatively, "relationship conversations". They have been a true pillar of our marriage) and I know his intentions are for my good, even if the truth is uncomfortable, and that he shares what he sees with the greatest grace he can. (In the spirit of openess, my greatest faults were letting my emotions shape my sense of justice, and finding it hard to forgive when I feel I've been wronged.)

After reading All About Love, we walked through the desert outskirts of Tupiza, having another relationship conversation. We talked about the ways that the love we did or didn't receive as children has shaped how comfortable we are with the necessary ingredients for true love. For example, I talked about how the punishment I received as a child (I was smacked, which I used to think made a lot of sense as a punishment but bell hooks changed that thought) shaped my view of justice, perhaps contributing to the feeling that wrongs need to be met with punishment to be righted - and finding it not always easy to understand grace. These were new conversations for us, and they opened our eyes to a deeper understanding of each other. 

These conversations are risky. At the start of our marriage, they hurt and left us feeling raw and tired. But they have built a strong core of love that has the reward of realness and commitment; we know that we will not paper over things in this marriage, that it is a high calling. What if Annie didn't stop at self-love but found a way to open herself to another, in a relationship where both parties were willing to fail, learn, and change? That, I think, is what makes us human.

Easter in Ollantaytambo

This week has felt like death and resurrection.

Last Sunday, we went to bed with the aim of waking and walking towards Machu Picchu, that famed 'lost city'. Jacob's tummy was aching, and I felt uneasy as we turned off the lights. I slept lightly, and woke at about 2am to hear him mewling in pain. His stomach was like a taut balloon, and it made it hard to breathe. 'Should we go to hospital?' I asked, but he shook his head, his eyes screwed up. We attempted to sleep, but before long he was up and in the toilet, retching. I felt wild and called Ellis, my friend who is a doctor, trying to keep calm while telling her his symptoms. 'From what you've said it could be many things,' she said, 'but I do think you should go to the hospital. And make sure you ask for a stool sample. I'll text you the things they need to look out for.'

The next morning I booked an uber, coaxed Jacob into his clothes, and we went to the medical centre. 'You look bad, my friend,' the doctor said. He put his stethoscope to Jacob's inflated tummy. 'Your intestines are full of fluid.' Jacob was soon in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV drip. I curled up on a chair next to him, texting his family, nodding off, reading bits of 'My bright abyss'. The results of his stool and blood sample showed salmonella and three parasites, and the doctor said he'd need to stay the night. 

I walked back to our hostel, feeling numb and then feeling overwhelmed. I'd need to cancel our accommodation, disinfect our clothes, pack our bags, find another place to stay the following night. I would be alone without Jacob. I had a cry and kept going.

That night, I woke at 1.14am to a ballooning pain. It was as if yesterday's horrors had been a dress rehearsal in which I was the understudy, but now, on opening night, I was thrust on stage. Soon I was in the toilet, knowing I was about to throw up but shocked by the violence of it. I texted the hospital, making an appointment for the morning, then packed in stages, in between more toilet trips and lying down trying to settle the nausea. I texted my family and received a concerned voice message from Mum and from Dad 'Meeyum, take care of yourself.' His loving voice made me cry, but also small child within just wanted someone else to take care of me.

The next day reflected the first: uber - hospital - doctor - blood test. When taking the second vial of blood everything went dim and tilted sideways, then there was a lot of 'Miriam!' 'Miriam!' and something in my nose and other things on my fingers, then the toilet again, then a nurse guiding me upstairs to Jacob's room and getting into the single hospital bed beside him and closing my eyes.

Unsurprisingly, I had parasites and salmonella too (just one parasite compared to Jacob's three, but one was hell enough). Both of us stayed in hospital that night. The IV drip hurt and in a humiliating moment I had to ask for adult diapers but I felt safe, and cared for, and away from the world.

The next day, we were let out with a week's worth of antibiotics and I didn't want to go. Outside meant decisions and figuring out where to sleep and what to eat and walking. I was still so tired. But out we went, together. And so I've been re-discovering the sweetness of the world in a slow way. We gave up Machu Picchu, but explored the cobblestoned streets of Cusco slowly. I felt the softest baby alpaca sweater and saw masked figures dance in the market. We came to Ollantaytambo and initially every morning I'd wake with mounting nausea.

But today is Easter day, and today I woke without nausea. I ran, slowly, up a hill and down it, feeling my breath and my body weak but so much stronger. At lunchtime, we brought our bread and oats to a picnic table in the garden of our hostel and then out of the doors burst a family, baskets in hand, running around. 'Huevos! Huevos!' they cried, and one woman beckoned us to join them. Abandoning our picnic we looked for the treasures hidden in the garden. I found small foil-wrapped eggs, and then a big painted egg. I tried to give them to one older woman who gave them back to me and ordered 'Buscar mas!' (Look for more!) While I didn't find anymore, eventually between us we found thirty eggs. Jacob and I each had one with lunch. 

Partway through the easter egg hunt, I paused in the garden sun and smiled. Joy - pure joy. I feel like life has returned, and the days hold out their promise of goodness to come, if I take the chance to look for it.