A Convoluted Beginning

MATERNAL  GRANDFATHER

The ancestors of my Maternal Grandfather owned vineyards in Portugal until 200 years before his birth, when the Portuguese invaded India.

Wealthy Portuguese families then relocated to India, creating lavish homes in Bombay in which their culture, language and religion could flourish. Many of the marriage and business alliances between neighbouring Portuguese families, that began in 18th century, are still alive and well today.

Stanislaus - as his family's second son - was sent to study for the priesthood in a seminary in the family's ancestral land. 

After 7 years, and on the verge of taking his vows, Stanislaus realized he didn't want to be a priest. He also realized his refusal to take his vows disgraced his entire family and therefore he would not be welcomed back into the bosom of his family in India.

So the 20 year old decided to run away to make his fortune in South America, where the official language was Portuguese.

But Fate had other ideas! The merchant vessel upon which he booked passage, was, in fact, bound for Goa, which lay on the Arabian coast of India, not far from his home city of Bombay.

Stanislaus thus found himself back in the land of his birth, India. But having scandalized his family, he was shunned by them and left to make his own way in the world.  Not speaking Hindi and with little money and even less worldly experience, my Grandfather spent a further seven years reinventing himself.

With the help of his future bride's Father, he created and ran an import-export business while continuing his education and learning English for the first time, from the Jesuit's St. Xavier's College in Bombay.

Eight years later, Stanislaus married the daughter of his generous business benefactor, building for his bride an impressive Art Deco home, where they both lived happily till his death in 1953.

 MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER

Through St. Xavier's college in Bandra, Estelle's  father had obtained a degree in History and, along the way, had also learned English.

Involved in finances, her father had many political connections through which he became a vast land owner of one-third of Bandra island.

It had been through her Father's considerable influence that the financial endeavours of Estelle's future husband had thrived, providing him with sufficient financial security to be worthy of her hand in marriage.

By the end of World War 2, Estelle and Stanislaus were parents to 6 children - three boys and three girls. Stanislaus was a conscientious businessman, and the family enjoyed the profits from his thriving import-export business, which connected him to the frequently explosive Indian political scene. 

Estelle herself was a small boned, delightfully frivolous young lady, who enjoyed  the intrigue and glamour of the many house-parties she attended in the company of friends and family.

She rarely troubled herself with thinking too deeply, as Indian society of her day frowned on learned ladies.  Her gifts were social and musical,  and her much vaunted beauty was counted as an asset and comfort to all who were privileged to spend time with her.

PATERNAL GRANDFATHER

John, my Paternal Grandfather, had been the tenth child of another John, a highly regarded Suffolk coachman and his country sweetheart, a Suffolk girl named Ellen.

His ancestors had previously worked as labourers on the land, for several hundred years in the English county of Suffolk. They were literally surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins, with whom they shared both hardships and joys. Their bucolic lifestyle had been hard and humble, but honest.  And the family dynamic had remained the same for centuries.

But John Senior had a rare and natural gift with horses that was to radically change his young family's fortunes.

At the turn of the 19th-20th centuries, the Elder John was 'head-hunted' by a wealthy Yorkshire landowner to oversee the care and conditioning of his many fine carriage horses.

John had accepted the offer and his employer had borne the cost of relocating him, and his wife and children, from rural Suffolk to Sowerby Bridge, Yorkshire, England.  From then on, the family lived near the stables, on the grounds of the grand estate.

My Grandfather was the first child in 400 years of our family's history to be born in the Yorkshire dales.

Once relocated to the city of Halifax, the transplanted family were no longer able to share their hopes or fears with their extended family, John Junior had thus been forced to learn 'town' ways.

New social and work skills led him to accept employment as a "sugar stirrer" in the Rowntree Sweet (candy) factory.  Then John married young, and sired two daughters before World War 1 broke out.

In 1914, he joined the Army, but suffered prolonged bouts of malaria caused him to spend the war alternating between the unforgiving cold of Crimea  and the relative warmth of the Army hospital.

Choosing to be de-mobbed in India, where it was always warm, John sent for his wife to travel to India.  In those days, that involved a 6-week journey in a crowded ship via the Suez Canal.  Florence had been ill on her arrival in Bombay, having contracted what was termed 'the plague' on board ship.  She died six weeks later, far from her home in England, a victim of the post WW1 Spanish Flu pandemic

Fearing for the health of their two small daughters, John made the heart-wrenching decision to leave them in England to be raised by their Maternal Aunt.  He was never to see them again.

Ironically, John, himself, chose to remain in India, for his own health's sake.  He continually suffered from debilitating bouts of malaria which restricted his ability to work full-time, despite the warmer climate of India. Nonetheless, John persisted, eventually becoming well enough to be trained as a seller for the Army and Navy stores, in Bombay.

In England, during the late fifties and early sixties, both Grandfather John and Grandmother Rachel lived in my family home in Ealing, London.  Then, he'd been a short, stout, jovial man with a florid complexion and thinning hair, who suffered from deep vein thrombosis.

There was nothing pretentious about John Junior.  He meant what he said and said what he meant! Despite his many health issues, he continued to drink liquor, smoke cigarettes and enjoyed gambling on horse races till his death at 75.

Granddad had learned a lot about horseflesh from his talented father and we both shared a deep love of horses. He would often recall his brief time as a jockey in Yorkshire - an event he was to remember  fondly for the rest of his life.

In his latter years, Granddad and I would watch horse racing on television together. In a thick Yorkshire accent, he'd share with me all the equine skills and knowledge that his father had once taught him.  In return, my keen eye helped us both to pick race winners on a regular basis. Without my parents' knowing Granddad's 'flutter on the ponies' would often augment my weekend pocket-money !

PATERNAL GRANDMOTHER 

Antoinette Rachel was one of eight children born to a French-Indian medical doctor on a Mauritius sugar plantation and a female domestic staff member.

 

French, was, and is still, the official language of this tropical island nation, in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So Rachel (as she was known) spoke only French until she left Mauritius.

Before WW1, society did not consider that girls had any merit. Although Rachel and her sisters had all been taught to read, write and do arithmetic - which was a rare privilege for any girls born in the late 1800s - their education did not include going to college. 

Only Rachel's brothers were afforded the opportunity of a higher education. Each in turn was sent to Bombay, where they all became trained as a doctors.

At 26, Rachel, her sisters and their Father travelled together to India, staying with her elder brother, who was in General Practice. Thus the whole family was together when their Father suddenly died.

As the offspring of a house servant and a staff doctor, each of the doctor's children had been treated well on the Mauritius plantation, only because of their Father's status in that household. When he died, Rachel and her siblings found themselves no longer welcome there, even though their several Mothers continued in service on that same plantation. 

Thus, in their twenties, and speaking no English or Hindi, Rachel and her sisters were left homeless and motherless, and had to fend for themselves in the early 20th Century in Bombay.

Fortunately, Rachel was a keen student with a good mind plus the discipline to teach herself English from a dictionary. Assiduously, she learned 10 new words every day till she became fluent enough to enter the job market. Years passed, as she grasped the intricacies of the business world, by importing from her beloved Mauritius, shipments of vanilla and tea - aromas that reminded her of a home, for which she yearned but would never again see.

Rachel remained in India, excelling socially, as well as in business, and eventually selling to Army and Navy Stores, where she met her future husband. And a few short years later, she married the short, stocky Yorkshire man, and bore him two sons, though only one survived. That was my Father, Maurice, who was born in the mid nineteen twenties.

Tall and willowy, Rachel had the regal bearing of a Masai tribeswoman.  Trained to be subservient, she was a quiet and observant girl who rarely spoke, unless spoken to.  She had grown up with her siblings in the tropical paradise of Mauritius.  But, after their Father's death, none of them was ever to return to their  island in the sun.

Fate once again separated the sisters, as their adult lives revolved around each of their own marriages and children. One by one, the sisters emigrated to England, where they reconnected, and maintained close ties with each other's family until Rachel's death in 1965.

DAD 

Jack enjoyed sports, despite having poor eyesight.  Boxing was his first love, but it damaged his eyes so Jack hung up his gloves.  After time off to heal, his love of sports re-surfaced in table tennis, through which he strengthened his hand-eye coordination and regained his confidence.  

He then concentrated on studies in accountancy, although he never abandoned his love of sports. His determination to be successful resulted in his winning coveted trophies for all his sports. Jack's billiards team represented the Bombay Presidency, the government boundary of western India, in tournaments all over India.

With both of his parents separated from their own homelands and families, Maurice, aka "Jack",  had grown up with a keen desire to succeed at everything, but especially at being the beloved and admired head of his own large family.  

Just prior to meeting my Mother, Jack took a job for TWA,  a job that would allow him to travel abroad, as well as live permanently outside of India.

MOM

Mother grew up in India, during the twilight of Britain's imperialism.  Her Father was a shrewd business-man, who was well regarded by India's indigenous and political leaders. In the days leading up to the quest for Independence, he was thus often invited to the home of the Viceroy and his wife.

Yvonne, was a natural scholar, who thrived in private school in the Himalayas, as well as later at the University in Calcutta. She was socially adept and a popular student, with an irrepressible sense of humour which kept her in touch with many of her old school-friends well into her 80s.

Being first born, she benefited directly from her Father's Jesuit education. During holidays at home between term times, she and Stanislaus enjoyed many discussions about philosophy, science and metaphysics.

Yvonne's sports' endeavours built stamina rather than testing her for speed. Rather perversely, her convent nuns, while permitting competition did not applaud winning. Her physical sports thus included horse-trekking up the Himalayas. And her mental pursuits were those sanctioned by strict Catholic boarding school rules.

As her parents' beautiful and brilliant first child, Yvonne was groomed to entertain dignitaries, and often accompanied her father to diplomatic parties and political gatherings. But she had a yen for medicine, which she was able to indulge by tending to hospitalized wounded WW2 soldiers during her long boarding-school holidays.  At 15, Yvonne expressed a desire to become a surgeon.  But her father flatly refused to entertain the idea that a woman could ever be a surgeon. It simply wasn't done.

During her teenage years, Yvonne was disappointed by her Father's denial of her 'calling'.  To appease his daughter, her Father would sometimes ask her to accompany him on political visits to the Viceroy's Delhi residence. It was there that she listened intently as Nehru, Djinna and Ghandiji proffered their vision for India's freedom from British rule.  Despite their diverging viewpoints, Mother knew she was a was a witness to history in the making, and that it would leave an indelible imprint upon her psyche.

It was through her Father's Ambassadorial and political connections, prior to India's partition from England in 1947, that my Mother-to-be met and talked with Mahatma Gandhi. During those last gasps of British rule in India, Mrs. Nehru, the wife of India's first Prime Minister, sensed a kindred spirit when she actively took Yvonne under her wing.

Perhaps incongruously, it was in this magnificent residence of historic significance for the identity of India that Mother was carefully groomed in the correct way to set a genteel table, complete with damask tablecloth and fresh flowers, for a proper English tea!

It was Mrs Nehru who recognized Yvonne's value as a diplomat and encouraged my then teenaged Mother to think for herself, and to trust the conclusions she drew.  That was a radical idea in those post war days of transition - and one that she gleefully passed on to her three daughters.

ME 

Dad and Mom enthusiastically started on their plan to begin a family, as soon as they were married in 1947. But instead of their much longed-for first-born son, a first-born daughter entered the world, via the hospital for British Veterans (and their families) in Bombay.

At the precise moment my body entered the physical world, the electricity failed and all the lights went out, or were dimmed, even in the hospital's maternity ward.
It was the middle of the monsoon season, less than one year after India had wrestled its independence from the British, yet already the infrastructure was being sorely tested.

I was thus welcomed to a world made gentle by candlelight, and cradled by capable hands, two hours after the sun had sunk into the Arabian Sea. And I'd barely uttered my first sounds, when the door to Mom's delivery room opened and a soft voice asked for verification of my time of birth

Nobody knew to whom the voice belonged. But one of the nurses verbally confirmed the time. This is quite normal in India, where many parents arrange for Astrology charts to be drawn up for their newborns, so the request for such information, though unexpected, raised no alarms.

ASTROLOGER
The next day, a very ancient man hobbled into my Mother's room and requested some time with her. Knowing he was an Astrologer, and thinking that he must have been sent to her by my Father, she permitted a short visit. The old man stayed two hours, outlining the events and circumstances of the life Mom's infant was destined to live. He also told her of my accomplishments in past lives, as a holy man in India.

Only later, when thanking my Father for such a thoughtful gift, did my Mother realize that Father had NOT sent the Astrologer. Apparently the old man had sent himself!

Having been raised as a Catholic in the Himalayan Mountains, Mom was familiar with the customs and beliefs of the Buddhist monks who lived in that area. She knew, for instance, that these monks often donned disguises to deliver important messages. Yet she had not been prepared for this stranger to insist that her child had a spiritual mission to accomplish in this current life that would intertwine not only Western and Eastern faith but also their cultures.  I was not yet one day old when all this information was revealed to my somewhat astonished 21-year old Mother.

The venerable old man also suggested that she not divulge the details of my pathway to me, personally, until after I had found my own way to that conclusion. He then told her cheerful yet cautionary tales about what karmically befell those who interfered with a Lama's will. And my Mother, being both a wise woman and a citizen of the world, well-versed in reading between the lines, clearly understood!

Beyond being loving and conscientious parents towards me, she and my Father were merely to guide my footsteps towards the Light. Apart from providing for my physical and educational needs, they were not permitted to decide my fate for me. And despite much cajoling, trickery and outright begging, on my part, Mother has yet to divulge the details of my fate, as told to her by that old Lama.

Maddeningly, she will only say...so far, so good!

The photo of my parents and me, taken before my sisters were born! We lived in a basement at 20 Wright's Lane, Kensington, London. The year was 1953 and I was almost 5 years old. This is my most enduring memory of our first real family home in England.

In the year before this photo was taken, I had cuddled my first puppy and ridden my first real horse - the cart-horse that pulled the milk float! I had also visited, with my Mother, every museum, park and art gallery in central London during our afternoon "adventures" in the heart of London's Kensington district.

I will forever fondly remember the smell of leather sofas when I shopped with Mom at Barkers and Pontings; and the heady scent of flowers when we treated ourselves to tea in the Roof Garden at Derry and Toms.

Later I was to take my own daughter to feed ducks at the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, just as I had done with my own Mother 20 year earlier.  But before that day dawned, I was to encounter many weird and wonderful psychic experiences. 

Later chapters will reveal more about my psychic evolution during my early years

Spiritual Art and Apparitions

[the names of individuals and farmhouses in this section, have been changed to preserve the anonymity of their owners]

ZACHARY
The artist, Zachary was Tom and Trudy's long-time friend from Stateside, who created magnificent, luminescent works of art from fragments of glass and tile. When his eyesight began deteriorating several years earlier, and he was officially legally blind, Zac's creative talent would still not let this artist rest. If anything, his determination to create beauty through his handicrafts had actually increased as his eyesight failed, more especially so after he had embraced Buddhism, when he learned to see with  his inner eye. Upon relocating to Scotland, he had become even more determined to share his amazing inner visions through the colourful, intricate, awe-inspiring Buddhist mandalas he created.

Tonight, Zac had brought Tom and Trudy their very own mandala to be hung in their soon to be re-modelled Meditation Room. But before I could feast my eyes on Zac's unique creation, Trudy left the dining/meditation room and nimbly climbed the stairs to the next floor. I quickly followed her and remember being quite surprised at the generous width of this country staircase. Trudy assured me that the staircase was indeed original to the house, allowing for the easy navigation of the ladies' skirts of latter days. The top stair opened onto a wooden landing that gave access to four large bedrooms and a second, narrower and steeper staircase that led up to the attic.

THE LIBRARY

At a shout from Tom, Trudy and I descended the main staircase and entered a huge furnished living room. A large fire roared in the stone hearth, and, along with several lit candelabras, lent a romantic, almost cosy, ambiance to the library. Built-in mahogany bookcases lined the walls on either side of the fireplace and the wall opposite several casement windows, which were generously swathed in heavy brocade fabric that looked old enough to also be original to the house.

This library lay adjacent to the entrance while, across the entrance foyer, lay another room, of equally vast proportions. Most of the guests had settled in the library on one of the over-stuffed chairs or sofas; while others sat cross-legged on the floor, as if about to meditate. A couple of the men had brought along their guitars and one woman produced a sweet sounding flute.  The musicians were tuning their instruments by the grand piano that, almost inconspicuously, occupied one corner of that large room.

Upon my return, my boyfriend handed me my refilled wine glass and I then settled on the rug next to him to await the start of that evenings festivities. I looked around the room and listened to crackle and hiss of the fire logs and the murmur of old friends sharing their lives and thought how lucky we were to have found this community growing right here in the Scottish wilderness.  

TUNES

Tom and Trudy's daughters unanimously chose to bid us goodnight and disappeared upstairs to their rooms before the singing began. Each guitarist took turns to introduce a selection of sixties folk songs, soft rock and ballads. Those of us who knew the lyrics were encouraged to join in, and those who didn't know the lyrics were encouraged to sing anyway, which we did. As the night progressed, our little band got progressively noisier and noisier, completely drowning out those sports die-hards in the room across the hall who insisted on discussing football - and American football at that!

APPARITIONS 
After an hour or so, Trudy went upstairs to check on the girls. From my vantage point near the back of the room, I could see her begin to ascend the staircase. But I was definitely not prepared to see the two pale, ghostly figures that accompanied her. The apparitions seemed to be matronly ladies dressed in the fashion of the early 1800s. Perhaps they had been nannies to the family's children at that time and were thus keeping an eye on the children in this era too.

When Trudy returned, I told her, with some trepidation, what I had seen. But she merely smiled and nodded, saying that she had seen them too and that they were quite benign, even reassuring to her. Then she asked if I would mind tucking in her youngest daughter, with whom I had formed an attachment during our Thanksgiving supper. I obliged, of course, and told her little one a bedtime story before returning to the party downstairs.
 
Maybe I'd drunk too much wine, or maybe it was the uneven flooring in that old farmhouse that caused me to lose my footing when I stepped onto the staircase from the top landing. To this day, I cannot be sure. All of a sudden, my arms were flailing wildly, hands desperately seeking a banister, yet grasping only air. Unconsciously, I braced myself for what I was sure would be a nasty fall all the way to the bottom of that long broad staircase. But I did not fall! 

GHOSTLY HANDS
At the utmost moment of peril, I both felt and saw two sets of strong hands materialize out of thin air! One hand braced my shoulder and the other steadied my elbow, on either side of me, so that I did not fall.
"Careful, dear!" whispered a kindly but discarnate voice in a soft Scottish lilt
"Watch your footing or these stairs will be the death of you!" I had the distinct impression that these strong, capable hands belonged to the same "nannies" that cared for the children. How reassuring to know that they also cared for house guests!  And having steadied me, both sets of hands vanished, leaving me to walk downstairs unaided.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully for me, as I was quite preoccupied after my ghostly encounter. I wondered what other secrets this old farmhouse held and looked forward to many visits here with Trudy and her family in the future.

Little did I know, at the time, that my boyfriend shared neither my enthusiasm for my newfound friends nor their beliefs.

ZAC's MANDALA 
My boyfriend and I slept surprisingly well that night beneath Zac's colourful Mandala, which had earlier been hung in the window of the family's official dining room. It caught the first light of that wintry morning, scattering warming scarlet and rich purple hues throughout the room and awakening us to their jewel tones along with the aroma of freshly brewed java. 

Trudy and her daughters had already collected fresh eggs which they were scrambling and serving on toast for all those hungry enough to do them justice. I did notice, however, that some of the guests looked a little green and seemed extraordinarily grateful for that strong black coffee! 

RETURN TO WHITEYETT
Around noon, Daniel loaded our sleeping bags into the back of his van and drove my boyfriend and me back to our humble Castle O'er abode. Tigger greeted us enthusisatically at first, and then, remembering that he was angry we'd abandonned him indoors overnight, acted very aloof for a day or so. He eventually did forgive me when I told him, in great detail, of my adventure with those ghostly hands that had prevented my falling downstairs. Tigger was, after all, one very cool, very Scottish cat!

I was to enjoy precious few visits to the Old Duncan Farm or with the NASA crowd following that early December evening. As winter approached, our local roads often proved unreliable, somewhat like my relationship with my boyfriend.  His mood had become more and more sullen and gloomy as winter closed in, a classic symptom of SAD - Seasonally Affected Disorder.

In his depressed state, my boyfriend resented my friendship with the Americans and I, in turn, had objected to his resentment, which served only to increase the friction between us. Thus it was that I chose to visit England to celebrate Christmas with an old school friend, rather than provide Christmas fare for a man who did not seem able to notice, much less appreciate, my domestic efforts.  But I did return in plenty of time time for Hogmanay (December 31). To live in Scotland and miss the ancient rites in celebration of Hogmanay would have been considered sacriligious

ZAC'S STUDIO

Shortly after my return but before Hogmanay, Daniel arranged for me to visit Zachary's art studio which lay a good hour's drive up the valley. His house was even more remotely situated than my own little cottage, yet he and his wife, Mary, managed to make it warm and welcoming. 

I was delighted to discover that the inside of the house gleamed like an opulent jewel box. And I was particularly impressed by the simplicity and beauty of a tiny back room that Zac had turned into his private Meditation Shrine. The walls were painted black so, at first, it felt like you were stepping into a cave. But once your eyes adjusted to the unexpected darkness, the semi-precious stones and glass ornaments sparkled all the more in the faint light.  

Zac's living room was incongruously paved with 2ft square black and white tiles, set on the diagonal, that seemed out of place with the delicacy of his creations. But Mary explained that those tiles enabled him to manoevre around the room without bumping into things. Indeed, he did seem to manage locomotion so effortlessly that it was difficult to remember that he was blind.

EXIT STAGE LEFT 

When I returned from my trip, my boyfriend announced that he was driving me back to my Uncle's home in central England and that we'd be leaving early in January. So if I wanted to remain in that area, I was told I should make alternate living plans immediately.

His announcement was cold, but efficient, much like his demeanour had become! He no longer wanted or needed me in his life. And I surely could not remain where I was not wanted. And though I had felt very much at home in Samye Ling Monastery, I did not feel the urge to shave my head and become a Buddhist monk. Neither did I want to impose myself on my new found American friends who all had their own partners, and were in the process of establishing their own lives in a foreign land. Faced with my boyfriend's timetable, my choices seemed woefully scanty.

That week, therefore, I made one last sad pilgrammage to the Samye Ling Monastery, bidding a tearful farewell to my new friends, perhaps knowing in my heart that I would never again seeTrungpa, or the Nasa "Brats".
 

The following weekend, I packed my few personal belongings and reluctantly bid adieu to my handful of neighbours in Eskdalemuir and Castle O'er and to my delightful feline friend,Tigger, before being driven south to stay with relatives in England's East Anglia region. 

POSTSCRIPT

Less than a month later, unable to feed himself or to keep the cottage warm whilst working full time, my boyfriend abruptly quit his Forestry Commission job and also departed the Scottish Lowlands.  Tigger had run away from home mere days after I left Castle O'er. But, Old Ned kindly agreed to look out for him, should he ever return to our cottage. I like to think that my beautifully proud, half-wild friend found a mate and that now his little Tiggers populate that area.

All the furniture and fittings of our economically furnished home were left for whomever rented Whiteyett next. I sometimes wonder if that demented Bendix was ever bolted down and used, or if it lived out its days, as I had done in that cottage - in quiet contemplation, listening to the cacophony of sounds that accompany winter in the Scottish Lowlands; from the unforgiving icy gusts that  mercilessly blasted through both stone and bone, to the  lyrical River Esk that meandered endlessly past my kitchen window. 

The following summer, my boyfriend and I reunited for a few months in London. But our separate Scottish experiences had resulted in us seeing life from different viewpoints and we soon decided to end our tempestuous relationship.  

Some relationships happen for a reason, some for a season and some forever.  Ours was not destined to be a forever union.  Being together had goaded us to examine our needs and stretch ourselves beyond our comfort zone. And we were both the wiser for it. So, even though we were never to see each other again, our parting was amicable. 

My spiritual journey continues in 

Section 3 - Chapter 1: 
 1972 Overland Bus Trip to Morocco

the bizarre events that prompted my impromptu trip

   My Road to Morocco Days  - Prologue

Living La Vida Local

THE OLD DUNCAN FARMHOUSE

[the names of individuals and family abodes in this section, have been changed to preserve the privacy of their owners]
The week following Thanksgiving, the pipes thawed at the Old Duncan Farmhouse, which had originally been planned as the celebration centre for the previous weeks' guests. Trudy and her three daughters, who had been staying with friends, promptly moved back home to be with Tom and the cats.

Theirs was a traditional, stone-built, farm house often found in the Scottish Borders, and thought to date back to the 1700s. Square in aspect, a now-defunct barn had once stood adjacent to the house, enclosing a rough courtyard, where horses and carriages had once stood.

As dusk fell, our new friend and amiable chauffeur, Daniel, dropped by the cottage I shared with my boyfriend to collect us both for the planned evening's entertainment at the Old Duncan Farmhouse.
"They're having a pot luck dinner followed by a folk evening in the library which will probably last till the wee small hours; so do bring your sleeping bags with you!" he advised.
I grabbed a biscuit tin already filled with baked goodies from my larder as my boyfriend picked up our sleeping bags.

Daniel then drove us there, talking a mile a minute, as was his way, so that, by the time we arrived, we'd learned that our hostess, Trudy, was another of the NASA 'brats' who had retired from mainstream insanity soon after the famed Moon Walk of July 20, 1969

TOM AND TRUDY
In the States, her tall, athletic husband, Tom, had been a stay-at-home Dad for years. Whilst he had researched his PhD thesis, he'd also taken care of the domestic needs of their three grade-school daughters. Meanwhile, Trudy, alone, had brought home the bacon. Decades before it became "fashionable", Trudy was already a self-made woman!

But since they had all relocated to Scotland, their non-traditional roles had reversed, becoming more traditional - at least to the untrained eye. Trudy was now 100% in charge of the home front, which left Tom free to peruse his passion in faraway Edinburgh's ancient libraries. Thus the renovation of their farmhouse as well as the care, feeding and home-schooling of their family had been left totally in Trudy's capable hands. According to Daniel, this amazing woman managed to look as young as her eldest daughter even as she rose to such a Herculean challenge.

Prior to their family's arrival, the Old Duncan Farmhouse had stood empty for many years. So almost immediately upon purchase, Trudy had organized some knowledgeable friends and local contacts to renovate the farmhouse's wiring as well as much of its indoor plumbing.

TWO BATHROOMS
The indignity of herself and her three daughters having to use outdoor facilities in the chill of a Scottish Fall must certainly have spurred her ambition. For, within a fortnight of their arrival, they had installed two separate indoor bathrooms, both downstairs.

Trudy was an excellent cook and original thinker around whom people had always flocked, in her Stateside home. Matters proved no different here on the farm for Trudy, who had been determined to re-vitalize the farmhouse in every way possible. Apparently her plan included the wining and dining of the community and much trade and social interaction with the locals.

BARTER SYSTEM
Those who lent their expertise and/or muscle power to Trudy's renovations were rewarded by a hearty and delicious home-cooked meal followed by an evening of local home-brew, much laughter and more song. And anyone who imbibed too freely was invited to 'sleep it off' on foam mattresses on the living room floor - hence Daniel's suggestions that we pack our sleeping bags.

This particular Saturday, Tom, and a dozen or so of his American ex-NASA friends and neighbours, had just completed a busy work-day schedule at the farm. Following the last of the plumbing renovations, their elbow grease had made the house presentable, while Trudy had been busy in the kitchen, preparing a much belated Thanksgiving meal for everyone. Now as darkness cloaked the valley, and Daniel parked his van in the courtyard, everyone was famished, ready for supper and some home-spun fun.

ANCIENT WHISPERS
The exterior of the farmhouse looked quite imposing. And, standing in that old courtyard, one could easily imagine being there, 300 years before, when a more ancient set of friends and neighbours had gathered. Was that a horse's soft neigh, a long sigh or distant laughter I could hear? In this place, what whispers might my inner ear hear and what sights might my 3rd eye behold through the mists of time?

Before I could enquire further, our hostess greeted us warmly and bid us enter her home. Trudy looked much younger than her 35 years, and standing next to her 15 year old daughter, Daniel had been right, one might have mistaken them for sisters.  Even though she had fed a houseful of helpers during the day, while managing her 3 daughters and preparing a full evening meal, her smile revealed  serenity and her movements were vibrantly youthful. Such is the effect of true inner contentment.

Daniel and my boyfriend had by now disappeared through an inner door and into the dining room with our sleeping bags, where he remained chatting with Tom and an artist friend. I stayed in the kitchen, finding a platter for my iced fairy cakes, and then one of the girls sounded the large bronze supper gong. As in the monastery, everyone ate together, this time gathering around the huge rough hewn wooden table that fitted comfortably into Trudy's country kitchen.

TRUDY's COUNTRY KITCHEN
The centrepiece of Trudy's kitchen was her enormous Aga cooking range. Fed by seasoned logs gathered at the end of summer from their own woodlot, this range was well used, producing not only the day's  meals but also heating much of the house. Trudy served everyone a country portion of healthy pea-soup with freshly-made whole grain buns, that were still warm from the oven.   A steaming succulent honeyed ham, no doubt procured from a local farmer, dominated the table -  and our appetites - along with the au gratin potatoes and a variety of hot vegetable dishes.

As in the monastery, everyone paused before the meal to give thanks to the Creator for bringing us all together in love, peace and harmony. My boyfriend and I were also welcomed and thanked for joining the group for this auspicious celebration.  Then Tom made sure that every volunteers received an extra measure of beer, which had been made and amply supplied by their nearest neighbour. There was also a flagon of red wine for those of us who preferred imbibing the grape. We all drank liberally, toasting everyone's health, catching up on local news and enjoying the ambiance.  I personally was most grateful that Tom and Trudy's two new indoor toilets had been properly installed and were also fully functional.

For dessert Trudy provided crisp red apples plus an assortment of cheeses. I suggested that my fairy cakes might be added to the few dozen oatmeal-raisin-chocolate chip bars someone else had brought for sharing. But Trudy just winked at me and set my biscuit tin aside: "to save for snacking on later, when we adults will be able to appreciate them more". 

After dinner, while several volunteers, including my boyfriend, handled the kitchen clean up, while Tom led the crowd into the library where he dispensed drinks.  Trudy chose this transitional time to give me a quick tour of her wonderful old farmhouse.

FARMHOUSE TOUR
We had entered the house through a side door that connected kitchen to the courtyard and adjacent barn. From the kitchen, a passageway split into two around a centrally located ascending staircase, joining up again at the base of the stairs at the wide front-entrance hallway.  From that tiled foyer one could enter on of two huge 'reception' rooms that overlooked the grounds at front of the house.

Two smaller side rooms, adjacent to the kitchen, each faced a different side of the ascending staircase. One had been divided into two separate rooms, each containing the newly installed  bathrooms. The other room was a formal, empty dining room, that had been designated as our sleeping area for the night. The bathrooms and dining room were warmed by the heat radiating from the Aga in the kitchen. I remember counting at least half a dozen sleeping bags stacked next to a pile of foam mattresses.

Trudy told me that their kitchen was so large she had no need of a formal dining area, and was planning to turn the dining room into a Meditation Room.  This would house her collection of fine, local and largely donated artwork, that she promised to show me later. It seemed Daniel had already mentioned my interest in Fine Arts. So Trudy happily told me more about the incredible artist.  

SECTION 2 Chapter 6  Spiritual Art and Apparitions  More about Daniel and the ghostly happenings at Trudy's Farmhouse

Thanksgiving in Scotland

[the names of people and their houses have been changed to preserve their privacy]

TREACHEROUS WEATHER
It was the last Thursday in November, but already the frost had frozen the ground in the Eskdalemuir valley. To warm up the cottage as well as myself, I cooked up an early supper, stoked the fire and then wrapped up warmly and left for the day, a note to my boyfriend on the mantle.

By mid-morning I was ready for a bracing 7 mile walk to the Monastery, yet dressing warmly in layers somehow provided little defence against that bitingly cold north wind. So I picked up the pace, just to keep from freezing. At the time, I had no idea that the lowest temperature in all of Britain had been recorded in Eskdalemuir. But the wind surely felt colder than any I'd ever experienced growing up in the city of London.

After walking for about an hour, a van came barrelling towards me and stopped. The driver rolled down his window and I was pleasantly surprised to see Daniel, the cheerful young good samaritan who had driven me home from the Monastery.

"What are you, crazy?" his American accent conveying surprise.
"Didn't I say I'd pick you up at noon? Why are you walking alone, on such an auspicious day? Get in!" he commanded, opening the passenger door of his van.

Too numb with cold to argue, I meekly complied.

Through shivering teeth, I thanked him for fetching me.
"What makes today so special" I asked
"You really don't know?" He looked at me as if I'd just dropped in from Outer Space.
I shook my head, still shivering, and still none the wiser.
"It's Thanksgiving Day in America. Don't tell me you don't celebrate Thanksgiving over here?"
Without waiting for an answer he continued excitedly.
"No broth and bread at the monastery for us today. Today is for FEASTING! So we're having turkey with all the trimmings up at the old Duncan Farm. And you will be sharing our Thanksgiving Meal!"
"But I'm not American" I objected weakly.
"To share this occasion with friends and family, is all that is required" he countered "Nationality is irrelevent!"

"In that case, I accept" said I, smiling. But inwardly I wondered what I was getting myself into.

THE OLD DUNCAN FARM
The Old Duncan Farm was located several bumpy miles up a long-abandonned farm road. Upon arrival, we discovered a hastily printed note, pinned to the front door that read cryptically:

TURKEY DAY
EAGLE's NEST
LOVE & PEACE

Daniel turned the van around and drove like a maniac back along those frost-heaved roads till we arrived at the base of a large conical hill. During our journey towards "Eagle's Nest" I had learned that Diana had been one of Daniel's assistants in their NASA days. But she had travelled to Europe in the summer of 67 and had now made her home there!

The late sixties were the height of the Free Love era, when the Beatles and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi introduced Transcendental Meditation to the West. Diana had met Ted whilst travelling with a dozen others, by overland bus to India.

Ted, by contrast, had been an architect, living and working in the States. But he'd shared Diana's dream about building a home in the wilds of Scotland. And he had contributed fully to making their Scottish adventure a reality. They had scouted the area, on their honeymoon, and had immediately fallen in love with this sleepy hamlet and its budding Buddhist centre.

Eventually, we entered a barely visible driveway that wound its long way to the top of the hill and then we two were finally able to exit that van. The view from "Eagle's Nest" was indeed magnificent, with the entire moor spread like a carpet before us, the Esk river snaking through the centre of it. But howling winds discouraged lingering, so I turned towards the house and gasped.

HEXAGONAL WONDER
Before me stood an amazing modern marvel of engineering - a brand new eight-sided abode, gleaming pale gold in the low winter sunshine. The large tinted plate-glass windows had narrow posts separating each section, giving the impression that the dwelling was constructed entirely of glass! With a location that commanded such a magnificent 360 degree view, why not make the most of it.

A door opened and our hostess, Diana, emerged, greeting both Daniel and me like old friends. To my heart she did seem familiar, even though I'd only just met her, at least in this lifetime.

"Come on in and have a hot toddy, Ted is making them now. Go on through to the kitchen"

I had entered through one segment of the house, which contained a combined entrance-utility area attached to a laundry-powder room. Removing my boots, I now walked through the opposite door, into a central section, built around the core of the octagon. This all-important hub supported the roof and also serviced the open plan living-dining-kitchen area, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, utility-entrance and a small powder room.

Following the mouth-watering aroma of roasting turkey, I arrived in a modern, open-plan kitchen/dining/living room, that comprised three full sections of the octagon. Gleaming custom units, wrapped around the centre hub against the inner living room wall, with a door or two for access. A curved melamine kitchen island demarcated the kitchen and provided counter space which now supported the hot rum-toddy bar. Extending through two entire sections of the large living room, was an enormous dining table which had been lavishly set to feed 20.

RUM TODDY
Ted greeted us, a steaming drink, complete with cinnamon stick, in each hand, and bid us welcome to his and Diana's home. Daniel and I gratefully sipped our hot toddies and toasted frequently to their health.

"What happened up at the old Duncan Farm? Why the change of plans, Ted?" asked Daniel

"Their water pipes froze" explained Ted "There's no insulation in these old Scottish buildings!"

"And then, when Diana had a premonition that we'd be having a crowd here at Thanksgiving there was just no stopping her." said Ted, sliding a loving arm round his wife's thickening waist. From the way Diana rubbed her belly, I surmised the couple were expecting their first child. I smiled at Diana, sharing in her happiness

"It's a beautiful home" I chimed in "Did you build it yourselves?"
"Not exactly!" replied Ted "We bought it, almost complete, from a fellow whose wife changed her mind about moving here when she learned that Eskdalemuir was on record as having the coldest weather in Britain! So you could say that we got lucky!"
"We are lucky OUR pipes didn't also freeze!" interjected Diana
"If they had," agreed Ted "we'd no be having a Turkey Day!"

I cringed as Ted attempted to mimic our local Scottish brogue. 
  
CONGENIAL COMPANY
The afternoon passed in a blur of delicous food, endless libations and interesting conversations that ranged from oriental travel tales to Thanksgivings past, all in an accent I could readily understand.

Diana's friends and estwhile colleagues turned out to be some of the more well-established NASA pensioners, who were clearly very much at home around her table. But other neighbours were also warmly greetly when they dropped by for a chat after the meal. Apparently Ted's Toddies had already become legendary, even amongst Scottish locals. 

I'd met and shared adventure tales with a fair cross-section of Eskdalemuir's new American-Buddhist community. So when Daniel drove me home that evening, I had quite a few invitations, complete with intricate travel directions, tucked safely in my pocket. 

It was not the kind of 'meditation' I'd anticipated having when leaving my cottage earlier that day. But sharing Thanksgiving with friends of my own age, who shared my spiritual aspirations, in this wintry back country in the Scottish Lowlands had been, in its own way, the perfect meditation. 

Certainly Ted's ever-present Rum Toddies had helped me to see things from a slightly enebriated 'altered state of consciousness'. Yet, had I arranged matters myself, I could have scarcely ordered a more perfect result. My Angels had known that what I'd really needed to warm my heart was congenial company and intriguing conversations. My days of solitude had ended.

When Angels help provide for our real needs, we should rejoice for the best is yet to come!
SECTION 2 Chapter 5 Living La Vida Local More Eskdalemuir Adventures with the NASA "brats"

Chogyam Trungpa Rimpoche

For several minutes, I stood gazing at those living pink roses growing in the snow. My feet were slowly freezing to the ground beneath them, yet I was able only to stare in disbelief at those impossible roses. Suddenly I felt, rather than saw, a presence next to me. Even though he was dressed in long pants and a thick woolen jacket, I somehow knew that he was a Tibetan Monk.

For a few moments, this monk watched the roses with me, then enquired, telepathically,
"Would you like to come inside where it is warmer?"
"Yes" I nodded gratefully, still only half-believing that either he - or those impossible roses - were real.

I was, slowly but surely, slipping into a different reality.

JOHNSTON HOUSE
We entered the house through a side door and the monk escorted me to a large, bright room beyond which lay a verandah that overlooked that magical garden. In the centre of the room was a large, highly polished, wooden table which I knew, beyond doubt, had been a gift from a student.

How had I known such a fact when nobody had mentioned it. Nobody had spoken verbally to me yet. Though it should have been confusing, the room, the monk, even the garden had felt somehow familiar to me. Stated more accurately, it felt familiar to a part of myself that had been sleeping for a long, long time and was now ready to be awakened.

To steady my mind, I scanned the room. A mis-matched array of old chairs were placed against the walls beyond this central table, and along another wall stood a tall bookcase containing some ancient Tibetan books. Trungpa bid me browse through the literature while I warmed up and then abruptly left the room to let the kitchen staff know that there would be one more guest for the evening meal that day.

SANSKRIT
While he was gone, I spied a large dusty book, beautifully bound in intricately tooled leather. It reminded me of an old and venerated family bible, in which you'd expect to see listed generations of births, deaths and marriages.

I took the heavy book to the table and opened it carefully. Each half of the book must have measured 4-5" thick, when open. I remained standing so as to see the text more clearly, and was poring over its contents, nodding and murmuring to myself at different passages when Trungpa returned. Noting my concentration, he smiled and commented - out loud in perfect English:

"How is it that you read Sanskrit?"

My face must have been a picture of pure astonishment at being asked such an outrageous question.

Of course I didn't read Sanskrit! I had grown up in England and I could only read English. Why had he asked me such an odd question when this book was written entirely in English! But though I thought these words, I said nothing audible.

Instead my eyes searched his, seeking a logical explanation for his peculiar question. But Trungpa only smiled and then calmly looked down at the book that still lay on the table and my gaze followed his.

I was so totally dumbfounded, I did a double take!
The book had indeed, been written entirely in Sanskrit.
And everything that I'd just read was completely unintelligible to me, now that my conscious mind was in control. Yet, mere moments earlier, I had been studying it, understanding it and even agreeing with the content of passages I had read.

Yup, I had indeed slipped into a completely different reality.

HOW HAD THAT HAPPENED, HOW WAS IT POSSIBLE?

Trungpa chuckled and excused himself from the room once more, leaving me alone trying to understand what had just happened. My entire encounter with that Sanskrit text had seemed so familiar and yet...how could I possibly have read and understood it?

But then, how HAD those roses flourished in the cold and snows of late November?

At the sound of soft footsteps I looked up to see a girl, close to my own age, walking towards me. She was dressed like a hippie, in a floor length flower-printed skirt, thick socks and a simple thin cotton blouse underneath a home-knitted woolen shawl. She wore a necklace of small wooden beads, somewhat obscured by two gleaming curtains of straight blonde hair.

"Do come and join us for supper" she said, cheerfully as she led me towards the interior dining room.

VEGETARIAN SUPPER
About 20 people had already gathered around the windowless dining room in a disorderly queue that edged slowly towards the kitchen. Each person returned to the dining room with their bowl of nourishing broth and a hunk of unleavened bread, squeezing together at the long refectory table and waiting till all had assembled.

A monk in Tibetan robes intoned a prayer then nodded imperceptibility and everyone began eating their food in almost total silence. The soup was thick and hearty, filled with vegetables that looked fresh and tasted delicious. Warm flat bread complimented it perfectly. Given my own experience with their live roses, I wasn't unduly surprised that this monastery also managed to grow fresh vegetables in the dead of winter!

After supper, I was alarmed to discover that the sun had already set and the temperature outside was plummeting. The girl who had guided me to supper suggested I phone my boyfriend and tell him I'd be staying the night at the monastery. But we had no phone in our little cottage. I'd have to return home or he'd be worried all night about me.

Within minutes of hearing that I was planning to walk some 5or 6 miles into the darkness, someone kindly offered to drive me back home. And along the way, my driver, Daniel, helpfully answered my many questions about the people I had met that day, beginning with Trungpa. And what a fascinating tale he told.

VIDYADHARA CHOGYAM TRUNGPA RINPOCHE
Trungpa was a Buddhist meditation master, scholar, teacher, poet, artist, and a Trungpa tülku or living Buddha who had founded Samye Ling Monastery. He was also the very same telepathic monk that I'd met by the roses in the garden.

Trungpa and a few fellow monks had escaped Tibet with their lives, their writings and little else, following the Chinese invasion of 1959. From 1959-1963, by appointment of His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, Chögyam Trungpa served as the spiritual advisor for the Young Lamas Home School in Dalhousie, India. He was then awarded a Spaulding Scholarship to study comparative religion, philosophy and fine arts at Oxford University.

During this time, he also studied Japanese flower arranging and received an instructors degree from the Sogetsu school. On completing his studies, Trungpa tried, unsuccessfully, to establish Tibetan Buddhist monastery, in England until 1967, when he crossed the border into Scotland and there founded Samye Ling.  And the rest, as they say, is history!

FLOWER POWER ERA
A brilliant spiritual teacher, Trungpa was also a colourful and outrageous character who easily attracted students during the 'flower-power' era of the late sixties and early seventies with whom he freely indulged in 'free love', alcohol and drugs.

I happened to be visiting Samye Ling a short time later when word came that Trungpa (then 30 years old) had run away with a 16-year old girl, whom he later married. Shocked followers had, at first, tried to understand and then to explain or even excuse the behaviour of their guru. Trungpa's actions sorely tested the belief systems of many of these early Buddhists. Some became disillusioned and returned to mainstream life. Others developed compassion and steadfastly refused to appear, or be, judgemental.

Through grappling with the simple yet shocking social choices that Trungpa had recently made, each of us was being introduced to an important soul lesson. 

I understood that making value judgements about another was both futile and foolish.  We all make mistakes and we all seek forgiveness.  Trungpa used his own life to show us that examining our mistakes helps us to know and accept our frailties and - by extension - the frailties of others.  

The noble art of acceptance was Trungpa's gift to us.

Despite maintaining an outwardly open-minded stance, I had inwardly harboured serious concerns and questions about Trungpa's choices. His actions certainly hadn't fitted my concept of 'holiness' as it had been taught in my Catholic convent school. But then, I'd long wondered if my school-teachers themselves understood holiness! And all at once I realized that being free of judgement was going to be no easy task for me.

Ah but NOBODY is perfect! How then could our imperfect minds comprehend the logic of an eastern demi-god? Intentionally or not, our conclusions would become warped by our own expectations. Perhaps Trungpa's purpose had been to open up precisely this kind of inner dialogue in order to support the young of that time in thinking for themselves? Who was to say? I had met him only briefly, in that magical garden of roses, yet that encounter had changed my life forever.

Communing telepathically with this monk had felt so natural and familiar to me. It was as if I had knocked on the door of my soul's previously hidden memories, and he had opened it. Here was a friend from past times, whom I had known then, as a brother. That I had arrived in his garden in this life, able to read and understand that Sanskrit tome, was my Spirit's gift to him.

There is a saying "by their deeds, ye shall know them", which works to humble me when I am in danger of judging anyone who crosses my path. Certainly Trungpa's deeds, in India, England and Scotland, outweighed any of his apparent flaws or transgressions. 

Chögyam Trungpa's impressive achievements are those of a highly spiritual man who became a major figure in the dissemination of Tibetan Buddhism to the West, and who founded Vajradhatu and Naropa University and established the Shambhala Training method in the United States. His always controversial career is characterized as "crazy wisdom" by his Western followers. 

He passed from this life at the age of 47 of alcohol-related liver failure. 
He had used up his body.  He no longer needed it.

NASA PENSIONERS

The majority of the Trungpa's followers at Samye Ling were young professional men and women who had worked for the North American Space Agency that made it possible for Neil Armstrong to walk on the moon during the summer of 1969. To safeguard their specialized knowledge, NASA retired these young employees - most under 35 years of age - on full pension for the duration of their lives.

Banned from ever again working in the field of rocket science, yet finding their pensions inadequate to sustain their high quality of life in the USA, these bright minds sought unique solutions. Many of them volunteered their  minds and bodies overseas, in Africa and Asia.  Some travelled through Europe and from there overland to India, seeking enlightenment. But a significant number of them moved to Scotland, where land was cheap and, during the late sixties, immigrants were welcomed.

Perhaps initially drawn by the newly created Samye Ling Monastery, these highly intelligent professionals discovered studied Buddhism and helped to set up and maintain a spiritual community  in and around the monastery.

Some Americans purchased large tracts of land, hiring avant-guard architects to create bold new abodes for them. Others sensitively renovated existing heritage buildings and home-schooled their children in the wilderness. Still others became artists and artisans who formed the hub of the ever-growing Spiritual Community.

Too soon, the van reached my home where I related the above account of my day to my somewhat bemused boyfriend

SECTION 2 Chapter 4 Thanksgiving in Scotland other-worldly escapades in Eskdalemuir 
[with the exception of Johnston House, Samye Ling Monastery and Chogyam Trungpa Rimpoche, the names of individuals and dwellings in this section, have been changed to preserve the anonymity of their owners]