Remembrance

Today is November 11. Remembrance Day when we honour the Veterans who gave their lives in a war.

Where I grew up, in London England, during the 50s, the city was still pock-marked by bombs that had been dropped there during the Blitz. Since I'd never before experienced bomb-sites, my seven-year old self was rather overwhelmed by them, and astonished by the untidiness of the destroyed home-sites.

It never occurred to me, then, that people probably died there, that another little girl and her brothers and sisters might have died, or might have lost their Mother and Father during that bombing raid.

With no personal reference to the horror or war, I was fascinated when neighbourhood friends showed me a way through those parentally forbidden bomb-sites, that would shorten my daily trek to school.  They showed me where to step to maintain a safe route, and warned that a child had been blown up by straying from it. 

As a girl, the havoc that an unexploded missile might wreak should I accidentally tread on one, didn't even enter my mind. Nor did I consider the homes that had been destroyed by those bombs, all those years before I'd even been born.

My worst nightmare was swallowing the tablespoonful of cod-liver oil my Mother forced upon me each morning. Yet, without the sacrifices represented by that forlorn bomb-site, I might not have had that cod-liver oil, nor a school to attend, nor even the freedom to attend it.

My generation takes freedom for granted, and rarely ever stops to consider who paid the piper on our behalf.  But War affects everyone, and many people, besides soldiers pay the price. As the saying goes:

"They also serve who stand and wait" 

What did you do in the war, Mum and Dad?

That was the question many children my age asked, but their parents were reluctant to answer.  As the eldest in my family, my parents had been a lot younger than many Fathers of my neighbouring friends. Their Fathers had been actively involved in "fighting the Hun" in France, or at the Battle of the Bulge. 

Both of my parents had still been teenagers, growing up in Bombay, India during WW2.  Had they been involved in the war only as a terrified spectators?  Not the way they tell it!

My Mother spent much of the year away from the city in her Himalayan private school.  But in 1940, and for every school "holiday" during wartime, Mom volunteered at the hospital where they treated the battlefield wounded, brought into the city for medical care.

Never squeamish, she so abhorred the waste of human flesh, through amputation, that she told her Father she wanted  to become a surgeon. "NO" said Grandfather. No daughter of his would be a surgeon. And since his word was LAW, Mom later studied to become a teacher instead.

My Father had completed secondary school by 1942, and although he was old enough to join the armed forces, was denied that experience because of his poor eyesight. Instead, thickly bespectacled Dad articled as an accounting clerk at the Bombay Docks in the latter days of World War 2, where he survived many air-raids, simply because his youthful legs could quickly carry him away from the carnage.  But he told me horror stories about those whose legs were not as swift.

From his dockside office, the 18 year old young man, who was to become my Father, got more than a glimpse of the effects that war can have on the average person. Many of the ships in the Bombay docks carried raw cotton, bound for England's mills before being shipped to other war zones, to replenish clothing, bedding and bandages.

Whenever a cotton ship was bombed, it exploded beyond violently, sending contorted white-hot sheets of metal flying in all directions.  Those working on the docks ran for their lives, the minute the air-raid siren sounded. 

But some were not speedy enough.  Dad reports seeing three men running from a white-hot, flying m-shaped curve of metal that cleared the heads of the two outer fellows, but decapitated the man in the middle. That poor man's legs kept running for a few seconds longer, till his headless, lifeless body dropped to the ground.

Both of this man's companions survived, but their glossy black hair turned white from the shock of witnessing their friend's gruesome sudden death. Then Dad explained that, as awful as those dockside explosions and their aftermath had been, battlefield experiences were more unspeakably violent and gory.

Today, I am remembering those in my own family who have been directly, and indirectly, involved in war. We are indebted to those who have sacrificed their lives through war, to maintain the freedoms of and for future generations. May the light of their courageous souls shine gratefully in our hearts forever.

• My English Grandfather fought in Crimea in 1917 during WW1, during the collapse of czarist Russia. He was demobbed in Bombay, where he met and married my Grandmother who later gave birth to my Dad. Grandfather was to suffer the after-effects of physical ailments and shell-shock for the rest of his life.
• My Father, excused duty for medical reasons, had lived through the continual bombing of Bombay Docks. He rarely talked about those experiences. Yet the war definitely affected his parenting ability and style. Out of necessity, Dad's freedoms had been curtailed during his teens. As a Father, he was unable to understand and unwilling to sanction my own teenage quest for "freedom". The strain of raising three such willful daughters was evidently too much for him, since Dad died shortly before my 16th birthday.
• My Generation had the luxury of peace and Greenpeace in which to protest war and warmongers. But we rarely thought about how that peace had been hard won - or by whom. Beyond that bombsite of my early days, and what came into our living room via the TV - or from the letters of my American pen-pal, war did not seem to, personally, affect me.
• Coming full circle, after 50 years of peace in the West, the next generation is now free to exhibit a love of war "games". By combing army surplus stores, my son kitted himself out and enjoyed many an afternoon of pitting his team against another team set both bent on mock annihilation on a wooded hillside in Langley, near Vancouver, BC.  I wonder if he realizes the irony of his recreational choice?

I hope my children, their friends - and our ruling elite - realize that our freedoms have been pre-purchased for us by real soldiers, airmen and sailors, young men and women who paid the ultimate price so that we can now live life as we see fit.  Regardless of how distasteful the concept may be, it is why western children can now safely "play" at "war games" instead of fighting a "war to end all wars".

I pray also that children who must fight every day, just to survive in our commercially obsessed world will soon enjoy the same Freedoms that our own offspring now take for granted.

Practising gratitude will open your own heart and the hearts of others

And open hearts have no need of war

Namaste

Transformation

Part 1: THE TEST:  SHINGLES!

The severity of the pain I've experienced lately (with facial shingles) has allowed glimpses of that eternal consciousness to which all energy streams lead. This state has happened unbidden and consciously, while I am in pain and awake, but also in dreamland.

It is hard to describe because so many of our descriptions are about the edges of "things" or "experiences" and not about their entirety, which encompasses energies beyond human consciousness. I experienced colours, sounds, aromas, tastes and textures (including my essence or being) as being mingled together. And in that blinding pain, I understood that our human need to categorize these different aspects of the ONE into separate experiences is odd since they are all ONE energy, continuously flowing through and around and beyond, timelessly and formlessly, until directed by Will.

The pain of shingles is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. And yet, when I was not ABLE to think coherently, I became very aware that there is no time or space, and everything that was, exists now and will always exist. Time itself was/is the illusion. So why did I feel the burn of this dread shingles virus for four solid months? Was my pain an illusion too?

I find it interesting that I chose to experience extreme physical pain WHILE realizing it is only our worldly perception that creates limitations of time and space. Knowing this Truth intuitively and learning it mentally and physically are obviously poles apart in experience. Just as being a part of that Truth consciously is poles apart from knowing it only intuitively.

Oliver Wendell Holmes said that "A mind once stretched by a new horizon never regains its original dimension"  To say my mind has been stretched is an understatement. After a 4 month course of steroids, to control the inflammation, my entire body is bloated and my skin stretched to accommodate it.  Mentally thought, it feels like it's been blasted into, around and through every minute fragment that ever existed in this universe! I'm well and truly pulverized now.

In my experience of the Eternal Now, I saw (and now see) my life and lives as streams of energy. In some I gained, and in some I lost. My current life was also there, glowing but dimly, much to my chagrin! But even as I viewed it, I noticed how my "thoughts/feelings/moods/ideas/experiences" that were all of ONE energy vibration actually did change, significantly, the quality of my current life.

When I returned to 'normal' everyday consciousness, I realized how easy it is to transform oneself, and yet how difficult we make it on ourselves. The quality of our thought is of prime importance. How we talk to ourselves, as well as others; how and why we make our decisions; how we think about our past; how we DECIDE TO SUFFER (the core of my lesson this time around), and how and when we decide to enjoy, without fear, the life we are creating.

If a new depth of wisdom accompanies my recent transformation, then I will surely be led down the path of sharing it, in workshops and through deeper mentoring of individuals. For now, my physical body is still in recovery, so my particular pathway has not yet become evident. But whatever it is, I consciously choose to meet my destiny joyfully and with a renewed sense of serenity.

Part 2:  THE REALIZATION!

I have a type-A personality which means that sitting still for long periods of time, doing nothing is almost impossible for me.  I need to be reading, learning, planning or creating something, because, without that "busy-ness" in my life, I feel impotent, useless and irritable. 

At least, that was all true, before I endured a painful outbreak of shingles.

The itchy, painful lesions primarily affected my scalp, forehead, right eyebrow and eyelid, with, thankfully, only minor involvement of my nose and ear. The swelling in my right eye grew as large as a hen's egg, closing of its own accord, preventing binocular vision.  And the pressure on the delicate tissues of my upper eyelid was immense.  Unable to read or watch TV without discomfort, I slept a great deal, for the first couple of weeks, till the swelling subsided.

A month later, when the lesions had fully healed, I unhappily noted that the former piercing eye and head-aches still continued to plague me. Whenever I tried to read, watch TV or even felt/thought/expressed myself too deeply about a subject, the familiar pain would re-surface causing me to reach for relief from my prescribed narcotic medication.  

Two months later, I have finally weaned from the narcotic medications, but still have to rely on non-addictive help to control the pain. Getting to this point has been a voyage of discovery - about myself, my pain threshold and the joy of being absolutely and gloriously without thought.

Strange though it may sound, being without thought is quite a pleasant experience.  Without the mind's constant chatter to interrupt us, we no longer simply take note of what is around us.  Instead we experience it more directly, more simply and more deeply.

From my living room chair, I am blessed with a postage stamp view of Lake Osoyoos and the sandstone mountain rising from it.   Being confined to my home, I slowly became more able to appreciate aspects of my limited view that I had formerly overlooked, or dismissed as being unimportant to my existence.  I couldn't have been more wrong.

For the first two weeks of this "shingles ordeal", while my eyes were closed, but I was awake, I became more keenly aware of my sound environment.  The world beyond my windows became my orchestra, and each separate sound an instrument that contributed to the concert to which I was treated, when I realized that I already had the "ears to hear". 

The wind painted large swaths of sound, swirling around the corners of nearby buildings, past parked cars, through fences and between trees, raising its pitch as it gained intensity, and then softening to a barely perceptible whisper as each gust died away.  The intermittent growl from the engines of passing vehicles and the cheerful chatter of my neighbours punctuated this soundscape. By mid-afternoon, I could follow the calls of quail as they cruised across our car park, looking for gravel to aid their digestion. 

Occasionally the wind would play a delicate flute-like melody as it danced through the autumn leaves of the tree next door. Sometimes it would furiously whip the lake into a frenzy, making the waves splash wildly against the shoreline, a sound that had not before been audible to me, since I live two blocks from the water.

And then, after one particularly stormy night, I noticed that the melody had changed. 

From the chirping of the few birds who had not yet migrated south for the winter, I knew that the morning had dawned bright and sunny.  So I imagined that the storm, which supplied our desert with much needed fresh water, had also coaxed, from their hidden recesses, the earthworms upon which those happy birds were now feasting.  And then suddenly I realized that, without being busy or manically creative, I was truly happy just to be able to hear all these wonderful sounds of nature.  Just listening was for me then - and has remained still - a treasured pastime.

Had shingles not denied me the easy use of my eyes, I might never have learned to appreciate the different dimensions of the place in which I live.  Even since I regained my sight, I  have been able to identify more sound textures in my ever changing soundscape. The sharp retorts of scolding squirrels punctuate the music like a snare drum, while the short, sharp bark of the dog next door is a discordant note in the symphony.

Even indoor sounds like doorbells and footsteps, speaking voices and running bath-water, crackling candles or mechanical sounds like a working dishwasher added depth to my sound environment.  And the more sounds I was able to identify, the happier I felt.  It was as if another world, that had always been there, had suddenly revealed its secrets to me. 

What did this new experience teach me?  In a word, gratitude.  I found myself being grateful for the ability to hear all these amazing sounds.  And beyond the sounds, I felt gratitude just to be living in this incredibly beautiful place.  It took a horrible, disfiguring condition like shingles to get me to notice it in the first place. But now that I have, I can't wait to hear what tomorrow brings!  Being forced to do nothing can truly a blessing in disguise.

About Grief and Pain

A lot happened in the background in our small town during a couple of summer months in 2009  that has given me much food for thought.

Ours is a summer destination resort, so our carefree tourists expect to eat, drink and be merry while they are here - as well they should! And each year we quintuple in size as visitors arrive to party on the beaches. Our townsfolk put a lot of effort into providing accommodation, entertainment, alcohol and nourishment for our visitors. And, usually, we revel in the festivities with them.

But this year, and with good reason, our locals are over-stressed and just NOT in a party mood!

Most of our population is elderly, and the death of those who have lived long lives is taken in stride.  But  since the end of July, our town has been rocked by 2 separate accidental deaths of local youngsters. And these premature deaths have saddened everyone in town.  In addition, 5 people we personally know have had surgeries or been tested for serious illness in as many weeks. And my husband's local firm has had to cope with 5 separate work-related setbacks.

In addition to the pervasive sadness felt by locals, the choking reality of thick smoke drifting into our valley from several forest fires in BC and Washington State has frequently made it difficult for everyone to breathe. The end result is that our townsfolk are tired and anxious and our tourists grumpy and frustrated.

Yet this is our high season, when most local businesses depend on their summer income to survive the coming year. Thus we must cater to tourists even in the midst of our own private grief. But, bizarre as it sounds, perhaps helping our visitors to celebrate their lives while we cope silently with our own painful circumstances might actually be healthy for us.

I am not advocating that family members and close friends of the recently departed suppress or postpone their grief. Those most affected need time to heal and must allow that process to occur naturally. We - the family, friends, acquaintances and colleagues of the recently departed - each have different coping methods that help us deal with each stage of grief.

But it really helps to know that even the deepest grief will evolve, from being our total focus to eventually becoming only a part of our everyday reality. We all need to create a place in our psyches for sadness and grief to express in a healthy way. Otherwise our outer lives would soon grind to a halt.

Since childhood, I have empathized with people's feelings, even though I may not know them personally. My blotting-paper psyche has always absorbed the emotions of those around me, whether these were pleasant or painful. But no man (or woman) is an island!

So over the years, I perforce developed several coping techniques that have helped me understand and address the feelings of others, especially their grief. And I've learned that the solace that we seek is often found through meeting our own inner needs, as well as those of our friends and family circle.

Through years of study at university and beyond, my focus has been to understand the human psyche. When I was a child, my Mother taught me meditation and yoga. And my short time at Samye-Ling Buddhist Monastery served to deepen this practise. Without it, the many trials and tribulations of my own life would have been so much more difficult for this Psychic to endure.

Through art, music, dance and writing, in conjunction with meditation, I have consciously striven to transmute emotional pain into truth and beauty. After a lifetime of practising these arts, I have now developed an aura of calmness and serenity that enables me to comfort others in their time of grief, regardless of what kind changes began their painful process. For the death of an assured way of life can be as difficult, and as painful, as the death of a loved one. Yet, eventually, the cycles of life and death teach us all that change is, paradoxically, the only constant in life.

On the Reservation

Anyone involved in a creative endeavour knows that Creation fulfills its own purpose throughout their daily lives. Regardless of how we express it, our true purpose is to share our particular creativity with others, thereby encouraging all to flourish.

My own creative urges express best through psychic counseling and photography. But through Spring, I'd been doing very little of either, and had thus been feeling rather sorry for myself. So the other night, before sleeping, I asked my Angels to send me an unmistakeable sign that my particular way of seeing is still a worthwhile gift that I can share in this lifetime.

Did the Angels respond?

Did they ever, the very next day, twice even!!


Friday June 12 was a charming and magical day, much of which I captured in photographs.

Indian Land in early Spring photo by C. Patrick c.2009
My home is in fertile South Okanagan Wine Country, in B.C. Canada. Town residents number 4000 souls with 10,000 more living on local farms. But, as with all land on this continent, this region is the ancestral home of an Indian Band, in this case, the gentle, delightful Osoyoos Indian Band.

desert grasses in June photo by C. Patrick c.2009
My first magical experience began before noon, with a phone call from an old, dear friend, who has been a valued client for more than 20 years.

She had phoned me from her daughter's home in the Cariboo region of British Columbia to book a Psychic Consultation with me. Later, I phoned her for her Reading and we were all business. But on that day we were just like two sisters catching up on important news. We chatted about our respective families and marveled at how quickly the years had passed.

It has been my honour and pleasure both to guide my friend through her career and to watch her soul unfold with each new challenge. And, I believe it is also a sacred trust. You see, my friend is a Native Indian Elder who works in Northern BC with the now aging Elders who are survivors of the 20th Century Parochial Residential Schools that tore apart native families in Canada. 

This strong, fearless woman is safeguarding and translating their memories so future generations will be able to access their wisdom on a database. It is a huge responsibility and she is the perfect woman for the job. So I am just thrilled to be a small part of her emergence both as a teacher and as a preserver of her band's traditions.

My second magical experience came via Holistic Desert Connections, the Holistic store on Main Street, in Osoyoos where I did Psychic Readings and sold my photographic art work. A local native woman, called "D" visited the store, looking for the lady who created the Osoyoos 2009 Photo Calendar. The store owner phoned me and after listening to D's story, I arranged for my husband and me to meet her later that afternoon.

D asked me to photograph some unusual rock formations near her home. She told me that she could see an elephant's head in one of them.

Elephant Head Formation photo by C. Patrick c.2009

Well, this one you just have to see full size!

The sky was hazy, so the camera lens doesn't do it justice. But the naked eye could clearly see the top of a sleeping elephant's head, complete with tusk a closed eye and one ear.

On a clearer day ( probably early in Fall) I'll take a better photo in the morning light. But meanwhile, here are a few photos that reveal the quirkier aspects of those who live on the Reserve.

These noble and ancient people are quirky?

Oh my, yes indeed they are!!

Why else would they post a "No Fishing" notice in the middle of a parchment dry desert?
No Fishing Sign photo by C. Patrick c.2009
The beauty of it is that you really have to hunt to find this fishing hole which is very small and well hidden behind roadside bushes. Indeed without this sign alerting you to the fact of its presence, you might well miss it altogether!

The symbol for the Osoyoos Indian Band is that of a lone howling wolf, which often appears at the entrance way to their individual properties.

I thought I'd grasped the direction of their quirkiness when I saw two wolves emblazoned on a low roadside storage shed; one dark one, and one which looked quite ethereal. An aura, thought I.

ET Hwy Sign photo by C. Patrick c.2009
Then I noticed the sign attached to the side of the shed and everything suddenly became crystal clear.

No wonder their wolf symbol howls to the heavens!

Looking upwards is most commendable when communicating with those from other realms. But while walking in a desert you also have to look down, or you might step on one of these...an 8 ft bull-snake.

bull-snake photo by C.Patrick c.2009

Snake crossing photo by C. Patrick c. 2009

Ya gotta love this sign!

didn't see any "caution snake crossing" signs whilst growing up in London UK, though I suspect there were more than a few two-legged reptiles in Westminster!

equine youngsters photo by C. Patrick c 2009

No roadside fences inhibit the free movement of animals on this Reserve, since it is their land too, and only humans build fences. This lively 2 month old colt was being babysat by his very patient yearling brother while the rest of the family grazed on the dry desert grasses.

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