A Tibetan Monastery in Scotland

COUNTRY LIVING
At 21 years of age, my cooking skills had been mildly impressive, if somewhat meagre. I could make and serve 4 people a light and tasty cheese souffle and a wholesome chef's salad, followed by a delicate chocolate mousse. But while Londoners might thrive on such elegant fare, this kind of meal did not even begin to fill the belly of a outdoor-working man in the wintry wilds of Scotland. So I had to learn how to plan and prepare hearty meals of stews and soups, along with the home-made crusty loaves to sop up the goodness.

And, of course, no meal would be complete without dessert! Thus, every week, I would place my mixing bowl on my (now scrubbed clean) wooden drainer and make a tasty iced chocolate cake, from scratch. Occasionally, I would utilize the cold granite counter top to create and roll out a less-than-perfect pastry which I'd gallantly bake into a fruit pie.

I have to admit that the sight and sound of the Esk River gurgling past my window as I created these culinary delights greatly added to the deliciousness of the entire experience. Whoever had built that addition had certainly understood and provided for the inner needs of this particular housewife!

Distant neighbours supplied us with fresh milk, cheese or eggs whenever we visited their home. And other neighbours would hack a ham or some thick slices of bacon from the smoked pig that hung from a hook right in the middle of their living room. I revelled in such authentic country customs and would eagerly offer some of my home-made soups, cakes, pies or bread in exchange for these luxuries. Thankfully, they always, graciously, accepted my offerings.

Despite these occasional fresh additions, not every meal I made was a success. But necessity is indeed the mother of invention, and I soon developed and settled into a daily routine that worked for me.

The mail was delivered to our door twice weekly and, without a phone, I would wait by the window for the postman. My family and friends in England felt, to me, like they lived on another planet, and their letters became my lifeline to a reality that was fast fading from memory. Living a kind of crofter's life, I felt like I'd stepped a couple of centuries back in time .

TIGGER
A few days after I had settled into my household routine of washing, cooking and keeping the fire alive for heat and comfort, a local fully grown feral cat wandered into my kitchen and made himself at home behind the cooker. I was delighted to see my visitor and offered him some home-made stew, cheese bits and water, which he seemed to enjoy. He would disappear every night but return the following day.

In time, I named the cat, Tigger, because he looked and acted just like the Winnie-the-Pooh character, bouncing on his hind legs. This he did whenever he encountered those enormous field spiders that lived in the coalshed, but would enter the house specifically to terrorize me. Tigger eventually adopted and became very protective of me, moving indoors permanently once the cold weather arrived.

During those chilly autumn days, I had knitted a single brimless cap for my boyfriend, to cushion his balding head against his hard-hat and keep him warmer as the season wore on. Of course, once his workmates saw how cosy he stayed, I was asked to knit all six of them similar hard-hat liners And when I did so, Tigger would purr louding literally sitting ON my feet as I sat in my chair by the fireside. He was great company for me, and a wonderful vibrating footwarmer too! But, though he chased away the spiders, Tigger was never quite able to find or dispose of the pesky mouse who regularly feasted on the sack of grain, stored in my larder behind the staircase.

AN ALTERNATE REALITY

For several weeks, I was happy living with my boyfriend in our little stone cottage, exploring the local by-ways, making friends with visiting critters and enjoying the peacefulness and beauty of that unspoiled lowland countryside.

But as September melted into October and November, and my boyfriend's work became more and more demanding, he became more and more exhausted, falling asleep shortly after our evening meal each night. I was rapidly becoming a recluse, or a hermit, staying close to home and closer to Nature and delving deeper into spiritual retreat mode with each passing day.

After ten weeks, I had read and re-read each of my library books and indulged in so many conversations with my cat that I felt I had stepped into an alternate reality, but that nobody had noticed! It was apparent that, despite the arrival of the first snows of winter, my soul needed to seek companionship further afield.

NEIGHBOURLY LIFELINE

A scattering of neighbours lived within a couple of miles of my home, so after my daily chores were complete, I made a point of walking to their farms for a visit. They were congenial and polite enough, and seemed to enjoy my company, regaling me with a "wee drammie" to ward off the cold. Then they would tell me the most wonderful tales, their hands talking as they burst into ribald laughter remembering the joy of a particular occasion. But try as I would to interpret their stories, comprehending their thick Scottish brogue remained steadfastly "beyond my ken".

Delightfully unspoiled by the pressures of city living, these farm folk might have been speaking Norwegian for all I knew. Also, they either had growing families or were so elderly that I found little in common with them, beyond the events of our mundane lives.

This was hardly a place where a young sophisticated London couple could hope to build compatible friendships. Thus, as the snows began to fall, and we enjoyed only six hours of daylight per 24 hours, I became more and more restless, yearning for conversations with English-speaking companions of my own age.

CONNECTING THE DOTS

The seeds of this realization had been planted months before, when we'd first decided to move to Scotland. The experience had, for me, been an adventure that opened my consciousness to new spiritual realities as it expanded the limits of my mental, emotional and physical boundaries.

Unconsciously, I'd chosen the starkness and chill of the Lowland winter in which to gestate a new aspect of my psyche. For it was in Eskdalemuir that I first "connected the dots" in the process of becoming myself. Despite, or maybe because of, the intense isolation of that location, I also experienced extreme joy at my newfound simplicity. And, once I had decided exactly what my soul needed next, my angels wasted no in creating it in a few miracles for me!


SERENDIPITY
In my youth, I had been a cigarette smoker, with a solid pack a day habit. Amazingly, our local Scottish post office carried my brand! So, regardless of the weather, I made the 5 road-mile return trek on a daily basis, drinking in the beauty of the scenery during the short daylight hours. In this way I fed my addiction and, conversely, kept my body fit, until the day I found my "local" post office closed. Instant panic!

Craving a nicotine fix, I walked a bit further down the road, knocking on doors of the few houses dotted around Eskdalemuir, hoping someone would have cigarettes that I could purchase. But, at that time, Eskdalemuir was far from being a real town, and though I enquired widely, nobody had any relief for me. One of the homeowners, upon seeing my distress, helpfully suggested that if I traveled still further up the road, I "could ask the folks up at the monastery if any of them smoked".

"Monastery?" My ears perked."What monastery?" I demanded to know
"Och, the wee Buddhist Monastery beyond?" they gestured, surprised that I had not heard of it.

Thus did I learn of the existence of Samye Ling, the first Tibetan Buddhist Monastery EVER to be established outside of Asia.

Renewed in spirit, my feet happily carried me an extra couple of miles further up that deserted country road towards Johnston House, the simple hunting house that was now a Monastery. I first arrived at the gardens that (then) lay to the south of the house, where I was stopped dead in my tracks. In pure shock and total surprise, I was looking at several fully-bloomed pink roses that flourished there despite the season's short days and below zero temperatures.

PINK ROSES
Disbelieving even my practised 3rd eye, my hand reached out to touch those delicate rose petals, convinced that someone must have planted silk or plastic flowers there, as a prank. But the roses were quite real and very much alive, with a sweet fragrance, even in the deep snows and frigid temperatures of late November 1969!

I quit smoking the very instant I communed with those roses, and did not smoke again till I returned to stress and bustle of London's city life the following year.

IRONY
Even while these events were unfolding, I found it ironic - and somehow reassuring - that my destructive nicotine addiction had led me directly to a place where my soul needed to be. A  Buddhist Monastery is a place where nicotine, and other, equally harmful, addictions are routinely overcome.

Indeed, had I NOT been a smoker, I would probably NOT have ventured far beyond the post office, certainly never in the deep-freeze of that late sixties' Scottish winter. And I doubt that a non-smoker would have had the need to enquire from the locals about where to procure a pack of cigarettes!

Yet it was in that impossible rose garden that I was to meet Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the Buddhist monk who had, only two years before, bought Johnson House which became the seed building for the Samye Ling Buddhist Centre and Monastery in Eskdalemuir.

SECTION 2 Chapter 3 Chogyam Trungpa Rimpoche details the unusual, secular happenings at Samye Ling Monastery, and introduces some colourful characters who set up homes in its vicinity.
 
Meanwhile, read about the current and historical events of the Monastery here: http://www.samyeling.org/