She pressed herself against me. I was sitting on the massive stone railing of the Malecon, Havana’s waterfront promenade, with the sea to my back, and in front the pastel-colored colonial buildings. She was poor, pretty, and young, a black girl from the Cuban countryside, without resources or skills, despairing of her life and aching to escape from it. She had latched onto me: a dream of opportunity, an object of hope. She pressed against the railing and me, facing the sea, and gathered up my arms, placing them around her back.

It was the founding of a relationship in need and longing: murky with motives, seething with sensuality and ambition. Founded in the self, revolving around the demands of the self, it was sadly limited and incomplete.

Here in Havana, the sensual pressure of needs is out in the open. As I walk through the sweltering old city, I pass the doors of living rooms which open right onto the streets. The buildings are rundown, but they are beautiful old structures, built for rich colonial masters, and claimed after the revolution by the workers who divided them into small apartments. As I pass by I see the inhabitants splayed out on their chairs, barely covered by thin cotton clothes, fans whirling nearby.

It’s good to see a people with the fierce independence that Cubans have. Most of the rest of the world is under the shadow of a single cultural, economic and political idea (known as ‘globalization’). This country is not a servant of materialism and global capitalism, and the people know this and are happy about it. According to statistics Cubans have accomplished a great deal. The satisfaction of basic needs is guaranteed. Food stables and housing are provided. Consultations with trained doctors and education is free. These are the successes of the ‘revolutionary’ government. Still, the actual life of the majority of the population is desperate. The political system is not very vital. Life under communism is dull, worn out, lusterless. The ideological pattern has little life remaining in it.

Cubans are proud and exhibit self-confidence, but the sullenness and hardness of their lives is also evident. This is particularly apparent in the relation between the sexes: women flaunt their bodies, men hiss and call after them. Though so different from the system and culture of my own country, Cuba is bonded to it in mediocrity: in its devotion to solving problems that are outer, not inner. The life and the energy I sense here is not beautiful, inspiring, or transforming, and it is certainly not transcendent.

Of course, there is a great deal of beauty here. At dusk throngs of Cubans come out to sit on the stone railing of the Malecon. Magically shaped clouds rise up over the city, and the red rays of the setting sun illuminate the great stone fortress across the bay. In front of me is a decaying colonial building, shored up with recycled timbers. A child skips happily among broken architectural objects. My mind swirls. It cannot comprehend the natural beauty which surrounds me, and the disjunction with the world we humans have created.

Is there beauty in society itself, in the actions and relations of human beings in organized life? Unfortunately, the question is ridiculous. The establishment of beneficial institutions is one thing; real love or vitality is another. What we have is a tainted mixture: love and hate, beauty and ugliness.

Why is life so complex and difficult? Why are relationships mediocre and confused? Why are experiences ephemeral and illusory? It’s not because of life, or love, or nature. Truth is simple – this much is obvious. The tremendous, essential realities lay in front of our eyes at every moment. It is not that we can’t see: we must and we do see, but we persistently refuse to look. Our eyes are shut, and our heads are twisted away.

We are filled with a multiplicity of instincts and ambitions, which swarm about us like flies. They are held in by our thick skull – our persona – which sets a limit to our vision. Beyond the swarming mass nothing is visible. This is the origin of small-mindedness and hard-heartedness, which is the central truth of our diminished existence. From it floods the stream of enigmas.

We are reared in smallness. Our natural vitality is sedated. Business is ruthless, politics is manipulative, bureaucracy is numbing. Cultural industries are vehemently profane, fomenting desecration. There’s no telling whether innocent souls can withstand this assault.

The ultimate in materialism is sex, when it is fixed on sensation. Physical intimacy could be an intimation of holiness and life’s bounty. But at the moment of capitulation, the body is primary, and the heart is hardened. We fortify and wield our power over other living beings. Our central attitude is permanently resolved.

I want to discover the original attitude of life, love, and nature, which resolves enigma, and neutralizes complexity. From this simple and beautiful center flows the stream of answers. I hesitate to describe it, because I don’t want to trivialize or sully it.

Unmediated, elemental vitality can exist and does exist. Almost entirely absent from established culture, it does not (and cannot) be formed in any political, legal, or social structure. But it exists in nature, in animals, and even in human beings in the most ordinary situations. Standing in line at the supermarket, pushing a cart full of boxes, you glance into the eyes of a stranger. At that moment – in the flicker of the eyes – the whole truth of the relation is revealed.

It’s in the smile, in the voice, in the eyes. Entirely obvious and sufficient, it acts through its own intrinsic nature, resolving problems by re-forming the elements and dissolving them. There is no cleverness or manipulation or concealment. There is only true seeking: in every event and situation, to discover the deepest layer of reality.

Her name is Yarelis. I hold her at arm’s length, and look at her deeply plunging blouse, her cheap necklace, her fake, shiny rings. She looks up and smiles, and the whole sordid enterprise is momentarily forgotten. In her smile is something unsullied.

I gently take her hands, and remove them from my back. I hold her at arms length, looking into her face. ‘Quisiera abrazarle,’ I say, in my awkward Spanish. ‘I wish I could embrace you. I wish I could hold you tight.’ I search her face, a perfect shell for a beautiful spirit which I know is there but cannot engage.

Some things one should never think: to want a human being primarily as the means to satisfy a need. And some things one should never do: to satisfy one’s need at the expense of the integrity of another person. The beautiful center exists. It can be protected and nourished. Its efficacy is incalculable. In the midst of profanity, it survives.