I don't care

A story of my very first own grown-up friend.

When I was 11, my mum dragged me to one of her ‘new age’ events.

“New Age” was a movement that started in the late 1980s characterised by an emphasis on the holistic view of body and mind, alternative (or complementary) medicines, personal growth therapies, and a loose mix of theosophy, ecology, oriental mysticism, and a belief in the dawning of an astrological age of peace and harmony. Idk what we call that now, but in my bubble it’s “mainstream”.

From my childish memory, I can’t remember if she was at a weekend workshop to learn how to play gongs, if it was about Buddhism or neurolinguistic programming but what I do remember was that the lady who was hosting the event had a beautiful garden with fragrant Jasmine abundantly throwing itself off balconies and big purple flowers attached to vibrant green tendrils cascading onto the lawn.

I remember a young woman French-braiding my hair during breaks and adorning each cross-section with tiny white jasmine stars. I remember an elderly man who took a particular interest in me and taught me how to read palms after he read mine in those two days.

He told me that I would never break a bone, run out of money, or lack in lovers. He was right.

I lapped up the attention. Like all children, I craved to be seen, heard, witnessed, and acknowledged, but presence and attention were not something readily available in my household.

Sometimes I try to remember why, but all I remember is that my single mum was always too busy, too harried, and too stressed to notice me for long. Now I recognise that she was likely suffering from anxiety, amongst other things.

So when this man came along — an adult who had time for me, who was interested in me, and wanted to talk to me about the world, and the future and the possibilities of life — I was enchanted.

He was old, with white hair and deep lines that crinkled deeper when he smiled and introduced himself as Donald Ingram Smith. I used his full name every time I spoke of or to him from that day on.

He was my very first own grown-up friend.

In a past life, Donald told me, he was a famous reporter and travelled the world. Then, he became the ghostwriter, autobiographer and close associate of one of the world’s most recognised gurus, Krishnamurti.

My mother allowed the friendship. She was charmed by his outward-facing success with dozens of book titles penned under his name and thought he would be a good influence for me.

One day, when I was 12, he invited me to go to a 7-day “new age” festival with him. Krishnamurti would be giving a talk, and he thought I might like to listen to him speak. I gleefully begged my mum to go until she agreed.

In my childish memory, I don’t remember much of the talk.

I remember that the festival seemed huge, with thousands of people everywhere. I remember the woman vomiting in the toilet, eyes bulging out of her head and croaking “What are you looking at?” as she caught my innocent stare. I remember sleeping in a tent by myself next to Donald’s tent and going to the Hare Krishnas for most of our meals, where food was piled high, a four-course meal, on every plate. I remember meeting a boy a year older than me who took me to the circus tent, told me he liked me and planted a kiss on my astonished mouth. I remember being left to my own devices for much of the time and going to every dancing workshop that I could find while Donald went and did his grown-up things.

On the last day of the festival, when Krishnamurti gave his talk, hundreds of people gathered under an enormous marquee and sat on the grass on top of sarongs and shawls everyone brought along. Donald Ingram Smith sat to my right and made sure I could see as Krishnamurti giggled and joked with his audience from where he sat cross-legged, wrapped in a lungi on the stage.

“Do you want to know my secret?” he asked.

This is the only part of that talk I remember and have held close for all of my life.

“I don’t care.”

“I’ve no problem because I don’t mind what happens... I don’t mind if I fail or succeed, I don’t mind if I have money or no money... I have no problem because I don’t demand anything from anybody, or life. I wonder if you understand this...”

“I don’t mind what happens.”

“That is the essence of inner freedom. It is a timeless spiritual truth: release attachment to outcomes, and — deep inside yourself — you’ll feel good no matter what.”

I left that festival with a seed planted deep inside my mind.

Donald Ingram Smith remained my friend.

As I entered a more tumultuous teenage phase, I lost touch with him, which I recovered in my late teens. A friendship that became mostly forged in short phone calls where I updated him on my immature choices and life views, and he offered generous guidance and hearty laughter on the other end of the line, as his ageing body became frail.

When I was 19, I received a phone call stating that he was dying.

I called him one last time, and he told me of his graceful exit plan.

He told me that he was ready to go and that he was grateful for his long and rich life and the short years he was able to share with me. He told me to keep reading and to keep learning and to choose always love. Finally, he told me to trust my life. That it was going to take me exactly where I needed to go. And that he loved me.

Weeks later, I heard that he stopped eating and drinking in the final days before his death, as he told me would, to encourage his body with a rapid and clean journey out of this life, and his spirit the agency to pass into its next carnation.

To mourn him is to celebrate the self-belief he awoke in me, the only tender love that I knew from a man at that time and the seeds he planted in a young girl that has grown into a forest of resilience, wisdom, and compassion, shaping the very essence of who I am today, an eternal testament to the mark he left on me.