'The Actual Artical' that was written for the Daily Mail by Rachel Hoffman before it was edited and then appeared in the edition on 10/10/06.
ROCK legend Dave Davies, 59, suffered a stroke two years ago. The Kinks founder and lead guitarist had been in touch with his spiritual side for nearly 40 years, but having a stroke provided him with an epiphany; illuminating and confirming all he had ever believed in even more. The devastating condition left the father of eight without the use of his right-hand side and affected his voice, but amazingly, he's now fully recovered. Here, he tells RACHEL KAUFMAN how he feels his stroke was meant to be.
IT HAD been a hectic morning crammed with radio interviews. I'd been doing these rounds for more than forty years, so normally, I took it all in my stride. But that morning, I remember I was stressed, edgy. I'd recently finished a tour and I was tired. Also, in the back of my mind, I knew, for the first time in my life, that my physical health was on shaky ground. It was June 30 th , 2004. I'd had the warning signs just a week ago. My partner Kate [who is my manager,] was in LA setting up a tour for me. I was due to fly there after my interviews. Kate knew just how hard the publicist could push, squeezing in as much as possible to promote my latest solo album Bug, so she'd organised my son Christian, 30, to go along with me, just in case.
Following Danny Baker's show and an interview with presenter Phill Jupitus, the three of us, my publicist, my son and me, stepped into the lift at the BBC around 10am. Someone pressed the button. Then it happened. My brain blew up. All those years spent on the road all over the world with The Kinks; the drugs, the drink, the highest highs, the lowest lows - my life - exploding - in a cataclysmic instant in a stuffy elevator in London's west end. I think it was a culmination of a lot of things. Soon after I founded The Kinks back in the early sixties, which my brother Ray joined, we were catapulted into the limelight with our hit 'You Really Got Me.' I was just sixteen years old, and found myself suddenly at the forefront of the music scene. It was exhilarating. My life changed overnight.
I'd gone from strumming my guitar in the modest front room of my parent's house in London's Muswell Hill, to the addictive adulation of being on the world stage. Suddenly, there were parties, music, spontaneity, excitement, glamour, girls. It was awesome - really, really awesome. It was hard to be healthy back then. It was compulsory to take drugs. Looking back, people thought you were a pariah if you weren't stoned. From 1963 to 1968, my life was total madness, wonderful, joyous, happy madness. I was only 21 years old in 1968, but I was utterly run-down.
You can only live on pizza, drugs and alcohol for so long. The lifestyle - moving from city to city, living out of the same suitcases in different hotels, was ripping me to shreds physically and mentally. It's also impossible to switch off the creative side. It's always there, inside, niggling, like a restless child, making you driven, anxious. I know this personality type is quite a handful to deal with and to be with - always searching for something creative to fill life's void. I had to save myself from myself. I was too much in my own face. That's when I found yoga and meditation. I discovered spiritualism and a greater meaning to life. On our days off, I tracked down health food stores in the big cities like New York and Chicago and ate fruit and vegetables. On tours, I was still involved with all the obvious things associated with rock and roll. [I never drank on stage.] I'd drink after a gig, but I made sure I took this relaxation time away from everything every other day. Even during a long flight, I'd sometimes meditate in the toilet. I focused on my breathing. It helped me to detach from my emotions, to detach myself from events and put things into perspective.
I had to be really quite disciplined about this, because I knew that if I didn't, I would start getting fluffy-headed and crazy. I hate to think what I'd be like if it wasn't for the yoga. It was a real lifeline. But in a strange way, I think it pushed me more, because I didn't feel so tired. When you do yoga, it's totally your own time. It builds you up on a physical level as well as a mental one. When you do the exercises, you get more oxygen in your brain; thoughts are clearer; the body is healthier. Up until two years ago, when my stroke put a temporary stop to it, my entire life had been spent touring. The Kinks toured constantly up until 1996, and then I went on the road with my own band called - Dave Davies and Band. I don't mind hotels now. [I used to hate them, especially packing suitcases.] But at the same time, when I wasn't in them, I didn't know what else to do. Back home, I was lost, restless and didn't know what to do with myself.
Of course, I never got used to sleeping in strange beds and dealing with the mind-numbing fact that every hotel is the same as the last, but the buzz I got from being on stage overshadowed all that. I loved the travelling. Never being in one place. A week before my stroke, I experienced two mini strokes - Transient Ischaemic Strokes, [TIAs]. I was staying with my sons Christian and Martin when they happened, at their house in north London. I woke up one morning and I couldn't move my right hand properly. It felt like I had severe pins and needles. It was rigid. I tried to pick up the telephone with it, but I couldn't. I called Kate, who was in the States. But when I opened my mouth to speak, the words wouldn't come. However hard I tried, I couldn't speak properly.
Kate felt helpless on the other end of line on the other side of the world. All she could do was listen to my mumbling. At the time, I was conscious of feeling odd, but I wasn't aware of how bad I sounded. Christian called an ambulance. The paramedics arrived. They were worried because my blood pressure was high. In casualty, as soon as the doctor began to exam me, my symptoms lifted, almost as if it had never happened. She told me I'd suffered from a TIA and gave me some medication.
The carotid arteries are two large blood vessels on either side of the neck that carry oxygenated blood up into the head. They branch off into smaller blood vessels that carry blood to all parts of the brain. If one or more of these get blocked, by a blood clot for instance, the blood supply to the nearby brain cells may be disrupted. If the disruption is temporary, it's a TIA [Transient Ischaemic Attack]. If it's permanent, it may result in a stroke. TIA's can last for any time from ten minutes up to 24 hours.
I remember thinking it was weird, because I ate healthily. I had been a vegetarian for 30 years and I eat organic food. Five hours later, the same experience happened again. Again, the symptoms passed as almost as quickly as they came. At the time - I was busy launching my solo album, Bug and had just finished a tour. My last gig, just a couple of weeks before, was in Germany. I pressed on with my schedule. A week after the TIAs, my stroke occurred, following my interviews at the BBC. In the lift, I didn't lose consciousness, but I lost my speech. The entire right-hand side of my body seized up; semi paralysed. I felt limp. I semi-collapsed.The first thing that went through my mind was: 'oh God, it's that TIA thing again.' I wondered how long it was going to last this time.
My son and my publicist struggled to get me outside to wait on a corner of the street. Christian called an ambulance. I wasn't in pain, but I couldn't stand. I couldn't walk. Despite the physical disabilities that hit me like a hammer-blow, my mind was razor sharp. I experienced a heightened sense of awareness. I was suddenly very conscious of the vibes people transmit. Strangers passed by me; some sent out negative feelings, which made me flinch. Others were positive. On one practical, medical level I was reassured because something was being done, but I also felt a surreal sense of something else going on too.I felt as if I was treading familiar territory. I was calm, strangely comfortable. It was as if I was watching an edited film played back. I knew the ending, and I knew it would be ok.
I knew every single person at the scene; including the ones in the future who were going to be in the hospital when I arrived. Someone, somewhere in my splintered head was watching over all this and they knew that this wasn't how I was meant to die. It was as if, out of the corner of one eye, I saw the past, and out the other corner - the future - all at once. I liken it to science fiction. I felt reassured. In retrospect, maybe that was my inner strength - my inner God. I've always believed in some kind of cosmic good force or energy. Something within that helps you. We all carry it within us. It's internal, but connected to every single thing that goes on in our lives; places, events, people.
When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics put me in a wheelchair and took me to a hospital. It was awful there. I was left stranded on a trolley in a ward, with loads of people with blood pouring out of their heads. I was there for over an hour, before Christian, sensing my hatred for the place, arranged for me to be taken somewhere else. I was finally admitted to the National Neurological Hospital in Queen's Square, London; reputed to be one of the world-leaders.
I don't know why, but all sorts of illnesses irrationally slipped through my mind. Cancer of the liver, even. I had a brain scan and a brain test. I was in a small ward within a larger one. The next morning, after the consultant had studied my X-rays, I was diagnosed with having a stroke. I couldn't move my right side. I couldn't move my right leg at all. I didn't feel that terrified. It's only really when I look back now and think to myself, God, that's scary.
Christian stayed with me. I was so glad he was with me when it happened. We've always been close and even though I couldn't speak he seemed to know exactly what I was trying to say just by looking into my eyes and reading my thoughts. Christian stayed with me all day on the first day. He was so sweet. He massaged me and made me feel reassured and needed. A stroke happens when the blood supply to part of the brain is cut off. Without blood, brain cells die or are damaged. Because the brain controls everything the body does, bodily functions are affected. For example, if the stroke damages the part of the brain that controls how limbs move, limb movement will be affected. A small section of brain tissue died on the left side. This is called cerebral infarction. An infarct is an area of dead tissue.
The dead scar tissue blocks pathways, so the brain has to try and find another route. It's a bit like a traffic jam, when the car has to make a diversion - taking a different way, to get to the same place. These were the pathways that controlled my speech and the movement on the right hand side. It was probably triggered by stress, the doctors said. They told me I had high blood pressure and had probably had it for at least 10 years. This had caused my stroke. I was stunned. I always knew I was intense, hyper, busy-minded. It's part of my creative character. Being creative is my lifeblood. It's what I am, what I do.
In the past, I'd never trusted doctors. I'd lumped them together with all the other authority figures I didn't trust such as the police. I am still like that now. I was a rebellious sort of kid and it stuck. I always wanted to find out information for myself. That's why yoga suited me. It's the perfect tool for self-instruction. Kate jumped on the next flight from LA and was by my bed on my second morning in hospital. She was devastated when she saw me, sitting propped up in a chair. She dedicated herself to helping me get better. She would stay with me in the day, and head off to her hotel to sleep.
I first met Kate twelve years ago, back in 1993. I was performing in Manchester with The Kinks. Kate was there, amongst a crowd of people. I asked if she fancied a coffee after the show. I sat at one end of the table. She sat at the other, in a hotel lounge. We'd started talking around 10pm. We chatted beyond the sun coming up the next day, when guests drifted in for breakfast and we've been together ever since. During the first couple of days a stream of specialists including psychologists, doctors and therapists visited me. They wanted to try and determine which pathways had shut down in my brain and work out the best rehabilitation process for me. My rehabilitation wasn't about taking medication or having operations, it was about exercising both the mind and body in order to try and rebuild those dead pathways. As I lay in bed for the first few days, I found being in the presence of men much more helpful than professional female company. I don't know why.
I still had that finely tuned sense of awareness. People and the environment are vital to people who are ill. It's simple. You see a tree, you instantly feel uplifted. You meet a positive or a kind person and you're elevated. It's like trusting your gut instinct about someone. We should pay more attention to these feelings, without letting others colour our thoughts.
Our minds should be our own, not somebody else's. Sometimes, it's even difficult to define our own thoughts from other peoples, but this brain attack seemed to make my own mind as clear as the day. I later spoke to other stroke patients about this and they also felt the same broadening of perception. I couldn't bear some nurses to come near me. They made me feel physically sick. Others, like my key worker, were like angels. They're born healers; people you love to have around. There was a wonderful male Asian nurse. I'd catch him out the corner of my eye and instantly felt relieved. He came to take my blood pressure and fix the glucose drip I needed to feed from for the first the seven days, because I couldn't swallow properly.
After a few days, I just about managed to eat some mushy peas. And when I did start to eat solids, I had to use my left hand. After three days, they moved me into a wheelchair. I also started to take a few tentative steps, with someone supporting me, but my speech was still screwed up. The first seven days in hospital were the most difficult, even though I progressed quite quickly during this time. I remember I told the doctor: 'It's such a paradox, but ill people shouldn't be around ill people. It makes them worse. If I have to stay in this place with these ill people I'm going to go downhill.' Thankfully, they gave me somewhere to meditate; a little room at the end of the ward. It was when I was alone in that room that the reality first started to dawn.
I knew then, hard work was in store if I was going to get better.
Through the windows, I caught glimpses of the grounds near the hospital. The sun was shining on the flowers and trees. I was frustrated, desperate to get outside. I knew that if I could be near nature - it would help the inner healing as well as the physical. A week after my stroke, I had a brain scan. Medics also checked my other vital organs. I was actually deemed pretty healthy, despite my stroke. I was also allowed outside for the first time, albeit in my wheelchair. I couldn't speak properly, but that didn't matter, I was just happy to feel the air on my face. As I lay in bed, I imagined myself playing the guitar, riding, walking - doing all the things I used to do only days before. A part of my brain still knew how to run and talk. I thought that if I visualised myself doing these simple actions hard enough, it might jog some memories in my flagging brain.
My key worker who helped with my rehabilitation was amazing. Her father was a Hindu priest. We clicked immediately. She conducted my physiotherapy exercises, through manipulating my hand. When a part of the brain dies, a tiny part of the tissue dies. Part of a pathway dies. So they had to devise new avenues - build new pathways in my brain. It's like learning your Xs tables at school. You can't learn them at once. You have to go over and over them for it to sink in. About a week after my stroke, my key worker said: 'You should try and pick up your guitar Dave.' To be honest, I was scared of that. I didn't think I'd even be able to hold it properly. With my left hand, I started to write down ideas for a song called, God in My Brain, which I later released as part of another album.
The idea was born from that feeling I had just after my stroke that lasted for the first few days; the overlapping brain, seeing the present and the past and future out of the corner of each eye. I imagined my brain being healed by a power much greater than me. Then I realised, I'm part of that power too - whether I like it or not. It's about the acceptance that you're a part of a much greater thing and the fact that everyone else is as well. Some people couldn't handle this idea, thinking it weird. But considering we're living in an age of communication, how many of us actually communicate? Two weeks after my ordeal, I picked up my guitar. I didn't have much movement at that stage, but fortunately, my left hand was fine. I placed my fingers on the strings. I stroked the guitar; I smelt the strings; I was trying to make the links in my brain, the new pathways, through association.
I took my guitar to bed. I placed it under the bed. During the day, I would rest it on the bed and hold onto it. I couldn't play it, but I was hoping that by living and breathing my guitar, playing might all suddenly come back. My arm and leg felt really stiff and painful though they hung limp for about three weeks. After three and a half weeks in the ward, the doctors moved me to another section of the hospital - the rehabilitation unit. It was like a commune, with 20 other inmates! I had to take blood pressure tablets every day.
Four weeks after my stroke, I began to paint. Creative use of my imagination could only be constructive for my healing. Idle imaginations run wild. If you think about it, lying there, with nothing to distract you, your illness is bound to be worse. I paint like I play the guitar, spontaneously. I couldn't paint quickly. I held the paintbrush in my right hand and then guided it with my left.
When you're lying on your back in hospital, inevitably, you analyse things. I felt like part of my head was missing. But through painting, making coloured marks on a blank canvas, I was somehow filling in the gaps, drawing it in. I thought if I persisted, I could paint that part of my head back. Through everything, I didn't fear death or dying. I wasn't anxious about the future. I didn't worry that I would never speak or move my right side properly again. It may sound clichéd, but I remained positive and very much in the moment, living through the day to day and my rehabilitation regime. Kate and I were always laughing. She would push me in the wheelchair and crack jokes. Luckily, we could still laugh. I suppose we never thought that this was it; we went through the days with a sense of moving forwards. We always thought we'd get through it. On one occasion, she even wheeled me off to her hotel room to check that everything was still in working order! It was! Things were looking up!
You actually go past the point of being anxious. Besides, what's the point in being frightened? It only makes you feel more ill. There's an ancient yoga saying about the centre of a candle flame being the coolest part. It's like that with everything. When you're on the outside, anticipation and waiting is often harder to deal with than the reality. You go beyond being scared. When you're afraid you won't heal. Laughter and music is healing. Music is evocative of memory. I could play a Kinks song and I'm back in pub somewhere, thirty years ago. You just have to get on with it, even when the doctors tell you they can't promise a full recovery. I did have a lot of anger and anxiety deep inside. And in many ways, I think it escaped and flourished in my art. I painted a series of artworks relating to my stroke. Some of the images were dark, sinister and disturbing, even though others were colourful and bright.
The doctors were amazed at my progress as I began to recover the use of my right side, through constant exercise regimes and playing my guitar. The right hand side of my face had also been affected too. It was drooping, numb, but through facial exercises, pulling funny faces mainly, I began to build the muscle movement back up again. In the gym, I did press-ups and stretches. The process is gradual. It's hard to pin down exact moments and days of improvement. I know one thing though - that I'd been given a second chance. When I saw some of the other people around me in the rehabilitation unit, I knew I was one of the luckiest. As a result of their strokes, multi-strokes and cysts on the brain, many were left with terrible conditions. I firmly believe that my yoga and meditation background helped when I had my stroke. I had already built in a coping device that helped me physically and mentally.
Kate was an incredible support too. Hour after hour, she sat with me in the hospital gardens making me read stories she'd made up to help me with my speech.The first film I watched in the ward was Cinema Paradiso. It's an emotive film. Shortly after, my blood pressure was taken and sure enough, it was rocketing. I've always been emotional. I get affected easily. I cry easily. That's another reason I took up yoga. I'd become too sensitive for my own good. I was born old. My mum used to tell me; 'You're an old head on young shoulders.' Being in hospital opened my eyes to many things, one of them being that people with disabilities are the most inspirational in the world. Whenever I saw someone in a wheelchair, I felt like getting down and worshipping him or her. It takes so much courage. But people dismiss them.
When I went out the building for the first time since my stroke, I was in a wheelchair. I went to the supermarket. I felt so angry towards people who walked past, staring at me as if I wasn't there or wasn't meant to be there. People with disabilities I'm convinced have an extremely sharp consciousness of life. Maybe they can see something the rest of us don't and can't. A friend of mine has a daughter who is disabled. When people are in her presence, she has a healing effect. It's sad. We don't know what emotional treasure we have in our midst because we're too busy driving around, drinking caffeine and working out what clothes to buy.We've run as far as we can from our spiritual nature today, we don't know how to get back and society doesn't encourage us to. The whole world is ****-eyed. It was so gratifying when I was lying in hospital talking to people, family and visitors, experts, specialists. A part of me just identified truth from untruth.
The only thing that God cannot do is remove himself from the human type. To hear that, should make us happy. Some people say you need to experience the bad times to appreciate the good. That's not true. I grew up with this notion. With my family, bless their hearts and I love them dearly, there was this awareness of doom lurking on the horizon. Mum would warn: 'Things are good, but something bad might be round the corner.' We should strive to be individual and not all the same - not all one big blobby blancmange. But at the same time - we are all interconnected and part of the same universe. At the end of August, after two months in hospital, I was discharged. At that stage, I had some movement in my right side, but my speech was still bad. That was the hardest part to get back. I could walk though. Looking back, it was a fantastic hospital; a great place to be ill! I initially went to stay with one of my sisters, Dolly, in Kettering for a month. I needed to make regular fortnightly trips to the hospital for check-ups, so it made sense to be nearby. I was given a machine to monitor my blood pressure.
Dolly was wonderful to me. Nothing compares with being in the presence of someone who genuinely and unconditionally cares. It's like gold dust, but we so often take it for granted. It's only when its gone that we realise how much it really meant. I actually became quite spiritual when I was very young. Churches were always gothic and scary. I remember when I was six years old, walking down the pavement, with the devil on one shoulder, saying, 'go on, do it,' whatever it was, and the angel on the other side, saying, 'no, you mustn't.' But I can say in all honesty, I'm a good person.
Although I know I can be excessive, I cannot deliberately harm people. It's not in my nature. There are people who do that - those who are psychotic or a sociopath. We have to help heal them. In my opinion - George Bush is a sociopath and Tony Blair is too, to a lesser extent.
When I was eleven years old I woke up in the early hours to the sound of my mother screaming and wailing downstairs. My dad walked up the stairs and came into my room. 'Your sister Rene's died,' he said. Rene, my wonderful sister, died from a heart condition aged just 33. In an instant, the safe rug of my childhood was snatched from beneath me. That moment changed my whole life. From that day on, I wanted to find out why people died and why we were here. I knew there had to be more, so I set about investigating life after death. I didn't trust authority figures, apart from my mum. I didn't trust teachers and as I grew older, I didn't trust politicians either. At school, you can pick up a book on history and quickly learn dates of who lived and when. But a spiritual learning curve takes time. It takes time for things to absorb and register on the subconscious level as well as the conscious mind. It doesn't happen overnight. Through writing, I set about trying to find answers. I was 20 years old when I took up astrology. I went to psychic mediums. It's fascinating. Everything is magnetic. If someone has worn an object for a long time, like a ring for example, then that object is carrying around all the person's misery and happiness. Plato injected great philosophies into society years ago. Why don't we read him now? He, along with many Indian mystics, knew just how we should function in the world, with the environment, with the animals and with technology.
Fortunately, my lifestyle afforded me the time to delve into these things. If I toured for nine months of the year, I might have three months off. Regaining my ability to speak was the most difficult part of my long haul towards recovery. I started to make trips to see a speech therapist in London's Richmond. She was a speech therapist for singers. I went to see her every two weeks over a period of six months. She was wonderful. When you talk, you're only using a certain segment of your brain, but when you chant or sing, you are using more of the brain - using energy from both sides of the brain.
On every visit, she made me sing/talk. She'd be on the piano, while I sang. She'd have me singing songs such as Unchained Melody . When you do this, you automatically project more. Singing is good for blocking out other thoughts too. A voice began to emerge. The only way I could talk properly was to annunciate every word in a very slow voice. She made me pronounce my 'Rs', which I never used to do before. The speech therapist recorded my voice. When I heard it played back, I didn't recognise myself; I thought, who is this? I didn't know who this person was?
I sounded like an English country gent and the residue of this way of speaking is still with me now. I don't talk like I used to. I used to sound more like a Londoner. My speech is still quite slow now. In the early days out of hospital when I was around groups of people in a social situation, I found it really hard, mixing with people. I was trying so hard to be understood clearly, but was speaking so slowly. You can't expect people to sit there and wait ages for you to finish a sentence. My beautiful son Simon said he was sure my voice was a person from one of my past lives coming to help me out. I love that idea.
Soon after I arrived home, I began researching about the brain. We only use a tenth of it. I'm not an intellectual type and really prefer gaining my information from feelings and from other people. We have a lot more chance of getting information from our eyes and through our fingertips, rather than the intellect. I like tarot cards, because you get feeling from them. I discovered that the brain is part reptilian; it exists solely for our survival. The 'reptilian' brain is the original. As we evolved, our brains grew and other parts were added. This reptilian part of the brain senses things before our conscious minds do. It senses fear. It can sense fear from a long way off and it makes us flight or fight. When the brain is in reptilian mode - [fear mode] - the rest of the brain shuts down. We can't think creatively. Fear stops us doing things. But we shouldn't be afraid. It's fear that prevents us from looking inside the brain. We don't look into anyone's soul to find out what the hell's going on inside.
The scientists know this. The government agencies, people who run and rule our lives; the military, the medical profession, they know this. They keep us in fear to keep tabs on us and control us. They like to keep us stupid. But we're not stupid. We're living in a fake society that's not really our own, made up of people who want to make the whole world some sort of corporate device. We really don't need it. It doesn't do anything for us spiritually. We've been playing mind games and been manipulated for too long, that we think it's normal. It makes me so angry and so anxious.
Learning and reading about all this in the weeks that followed my stroke was like gaining actual confirmation and realisation for all the things I have felt for years. All the things I'd learnt spiritually leading up to my stroke, afterwards, suddenly seemed so true. I began to realise it was all true, like Karma, for instance. I believe in Karma, even though I can't prove it. But not being able to prove something doesn't mean it's not true. It's as real as gravity, like an apple falling on the ground when it drops from the tree. We don't need to justify or explain gravity anymore, because we know gravity exists, without question. We know it holds life together on this planet, as does the energy from the sun, the air and what's contained in our breath. What we give and take from each other is the most potent form of energy we can muster. What we give changes us.
We carry around so much information on so many different levels of consciousness, and subconscious. So much of this information is untrue, but a part of us knows what's true beyond doubt. I don't know what part of the brain operates the conscious mind, but it must be really tiny because all the really good stuff is going on underneath, in the subconscious. It was important I had that experience with the stroke for many reasons. Everything that went before me; everything I had learnt in my life, I suddenly realised was necessary. I realised I have to trust everything I have learnt in the past and to act on the information and experience I have gained. Sometimes, the information we carry around with us, we don't need. I think we have to shift out the rubbish. We're always looking for spectacular events. Then maybe when they happen to us, we wish they hadn't. We need meaningful events and they don't occur that often. Some of the cause of the stroke I think goes back to when I used to take amphetamines when I was a teenager. They made me feel wretched afterwards. It's the residue damage - the balancing out of good and bad over years and years.
It's the first time I've been seriously physically ill. I've had an emotional breakdown, but then many creative people have. We're all barmy! It's the thing that makes us tick. Creativity changes the world for the better; the way we use our imagination. What would Albert Einstein have been like if he didn't have a creative mind? He'd have been a librarian. It's the creative part of his mind that made everything work. I've known lots of creative people, crazy people. The really creative ones are the ones who want to help and nurture other people. This really is the ultimate form of creativity; to nurture and to make things grow around you instead of grabbing hold of them, suffocating and controlling. We should use our creative minds for growth and learning, not for taking and controlling.
People have long perpetuated this mystery about the rocky relationship between my brother Ray and me. The fact is, which I have come to accept more now - we are two different people. It serves no purpose going over old ground with Ray because he's not going to change. You can't make people change. And why should they? Maybe they can't help the way they are. You have to accept relationships for what they are. Ray's a dog and I'm a cat. You can't make the dog into a cat and vice versa. It's fundamental. We're just simply two different species, who fortunately, do some great work together.
A lot of modern day relationships are founded on abuse. It's not what I consider appropriate behaviour for any kind of human being in any age. They're controlling purely to get what they want. Why can't we grow up? Why do we always want something from someone else? Then, when it falls apart, we end up blaming everything on the outside, when the problem is within. Some people only seem to be able to function through the energy of other people and that's called dysfunction. It's not functioning on your own. But I'm convinced we can function together in a harmony.
Everything is made up of energy and we have the ability to use that energy in both positive and negative ways. My stroke was meant to happen to me for a reason. This stroke was meant to happen to me to slow me down. I've always been aware of how time slips through our fingers. I have always felt that I haven't even started what I want to do yet. I haven't done enough. I've always had this feeling that there's never enough time to do what we want to do. Just getting up, getting dressed and going to a meeting can take a whole morning, or day even. In fact, I'm still waiting for that one-piece suit you can live in!
My anxieties about not getting things done aren't so bad since my stroke. My expectations aren't so high. It's taught me to be a lot more relaxed, not to fight time so much, not to get so stressed about it and wound up. A stroke can happen to anyone, regardless of gender or age. I feel like a different person now. I hate getting ready and I hate preparation. I've never found it easy to finish things. If my emotional attachment goes, I'm not interested in it anymore and I move on. That's my nature. But I'm working on it now. I'm trying to be a better version of myself.
I find many things that were previously natural to do, harder now. I've put a lot of work into my new voice. I couldn't drive for a long time and only started again last November. I'm about 8% away from being back to how I was. In fact, the doctors have been amazed at my recovery. I remember other stroke patients saying: 'I'II have what Dave's having!' I've become quite proficient with my left hand and I still use it today in preference to my right, for things such as cooking. I can sign cheques with my left hand. The stroke taught me to utilise my body differently. I now also know how to reduce my blood pressure on my own. I have trained myself to get it down, by breathing. I'm still taking the tablets, but they're not beta-blockers, because they're bad for you. I can reduce my blood pressure in 20 minutes.
It's based on meditation. I breathe in four slow breaths, and then hold in for the count of 16. Then let it out for eight. It's based on a yoga breathing exercise. Imagine how many things pop into your mind during the course of a day - all those anxieties, Tony Blair etc. It's frightening! I imagine I'm in Devon - in a high up place, watching the view of the woodland overlooking the sea. I'm looking at the soft hazy sun in the blue sky and it's slowly wiping away all my anxieties.
Currently, I'm working on a new CD and DVD. I also paint meditation images for people. They send me their birth information. I make up an astrological chart. Then I study it for a day before painting what comes into my head.
I haven't toured since my illness. That upsets me. One day soon, I hope to go back on the road. But for now, I appreciate leading a slower pace of life. I'm more relaxed than I've ever been. I suppose what is interesting, after my stroke, I know the next time if I'm faced with a serious illness or even death, is that something else inside you takes over - an inner strength.
Copyright: Rachel Kaufman, 2006
