If I Had a Pile of Money
HAVANA TIMES – In the 1990s, thanks to a painter friend, I discovered Enya, the Irish singer. That cassette, which contained Watermark and The Celts, in imperfect audio quality, spinning on an even more imperfect tape recorder, I can honestly say changed my life.
Enya became part of a mental world where she blends with my own stories. Her songs, with their layers of superimposed sounds, creating an almost astral reality here on earth, have been my background music when writing my own books. No other music fuses with me like that.
I often think of this as an example of how we never know the reach of what we create, especially once a work becomes public. What does Enya know about me? Nothing. Yet her work exists in a dimension that goes beyond her.
Because of this widespread myth of fame, we tend to think that it (along with a lot of money) is proof of total happiness. We forget that excessive can also lead to other extreme outcomes.
I knew that Enya had bought a castle in her homeland, which she named Manderley—like the fascinating and even haunting mansion that is practically another character in the novel Rebecca. There she lives with a troop of blessed cats, and she continues creating her unique music.
By that chance that is the internet, a few days ago I learned that her isolation was due to a traumatic incident at the height of her fame. An Italian man, after being expelled from a bar owned by Enya’s parents, stabbed himself while wearing a photo of her around his neck.
I immediately thought of The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, which gave a psychopath the courage to kill John Lennon, and of something I once read about a Neruda poem that inspired a suicide.
Goethe’s excellent epistolary novel Werther caused a wave of suicides in Europe.
Thus, creators end up carrying the weight of others’ destructive actions, even though in Enya’s case, nothing could be further from the effect of her music than disturbing thoughts.
Human beings are so complex. I recall that in his book Before the End, Argentine writer Ernesto Sabato confessed that he received letters from anguished young people, overwhelmed by social and existential challenges, who in their desperation asked him for arguments not to kill themselves.
What an enormous responsibility falls, then, on someone who is simply shaping the whispers of the Universe into a re-creation.
Speaking of this with my son, he told me that these terrible events surrounding celebrities are the result of oversized egos. With economic power and media influence (with very rare exceptions), they do nothing to make the world better.
It seems that money, when not used for necessary expenses, turns into poison. Betrayals, illnesses, drug addiction, tragedies… A reality that mystics warn about and propose to reverse through actions such as tithing. Unfortunately, this too has been corrupted by the impurities of too many religious institutions.
Mystics also warn that if God grants you a power, it is to serve others. That’s why, in ancient traditions where self-realization is sought, the priority is seva, or selfless service. It may be physical, intellectual, or financial. The purpose is twofold: to objectively support the functioning of a humanitarian cause or enterprise and, at the same time, to reduce the ego or false perception of the Self.
In my youth I admired so-called “stars” for their artistic ability, their physical beauty, and the magnetism of their personalities.
How much one suffers in this short life trying to imitate those standards imposed by the media in a globalized culture.
And although I belong to a time when natural beauty still prevailed, even then one was dazzled by an aesthetic ideal that was rarely accompanied by commendable qualities. Now, when everything seems to come out of the same factory and even the same mold, so-called “beauty” is as artificial as chewing gum. And what can be said of the values that such increasingly unconvincing forms should hold—forms that are less and less human.
Seeing photos of the interior of Enya’s castle shattered part of the image I had built around her legendary life. It is not a cloister where she lives simply while creating her art in the mysterious company of her cats.
Sumptuous halls literally recall the luxury of Manderley, social gatherings of high rank—even if Enya only receives occasional visitors.
The world is in such bad shape. There is so much to alleviate. How can millions be spent on antique décor and security when elsewhere a child dies from a lack of food or water?
Everyone is free to indulge vanity or greed to the fullest. Yet, with all certainty, selfishness is not the path to happiness.
Even in Cuba I have seen artists reproduce that frivolity, even on a minimal scale. Some say that Fidel uprooted the concept of philanthropy from education and culture. He himself dismantled the Bando de Piedad, founded by the US citizen Jeannette Ryder. And yes, I remember how international prize money was once donated to the Territorial Militias. Philanthropy became a (self-serving) political show. But there always were, and still are, those who contributed to compassion silently, from their limited power. Charity is practiced even in times of war.
With or without economic or media power, life sweeps us all through diverse experiences of pain. And if I’ve learned anything from them, it is that happiness is only complete when shared with others.
Today I am grateful that I never had the pile of money I longed for in my youth. I wasn’t ready then to do something very good with it.
If I had it now, I would create a sanctuary for rescued animals. I would harness everything good that can be bought or achieved with my skills. I would create a bubble of protection and love greater than the one I have been able to conceive with my limited resources.
But, just as then, only the universe can and does know if it is the right time to materialize my wish.