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

Pink Roses (part 1) and Tibetan Monk

The sweet aroma of pink roses joyously celebrate the sensuality of Spring!

But beyond their velvet petals, exotic fragrance and romantic connotations, I suspect that the deeper meaning of the ubiquitous pink rose varies for each of us.

PINK ROSES have always been a constant in my life, manifesting - sometimes out of nowhere - precisely when my soul was in most need of reassurance.
Yet these occasions that seemed so wondrous to me might have appeared quite ordinary to a casual observer.

Had their impact faded for me with the passage of the years, I, too, might have been tempted to dismiss many of my adventures as mere flights of fancy.  But I cannot simply dismiss the truth of my own knowing.

All the stories unfolding in this blog are true. 

THE PINK ROSE FROCK

Photo by M. Jack H (dec'd) at Bognor Regis, UK 1958  

FRONT: Vivienne (4) and Christobelle(10)  
BACK: Reg and Mrs B, their teenage daughter Evelyn, Yvonne H

Back in the fifties, when all girls wore frocks, or dresses, my favourite item of clothing was a white cotton frock covered with tiny pink rosebuds, with rose-shaped buttons and piped around the collar, hem and sleeves in neon pink. I would make sure that it was washed and ironed in time as quickly as possible after each wearing, because being covered in roses, even those printed on fabric, made me feel so good!  

In the summer of 1958, my Dad's colleague had lent us his caravan for our annual family holiday. Yet even in that rural setting, I insisted on wearing my beloved pink rosebud frock.

ILLUMINATED PINK CHRISTMAS ROSES

Our family had a custom of displaying a dozen illuminated silk pink roses in its own crystal vase, on the mantelpiece over the fire every Christmas. To be sure, they weren't your typical yuletide decoration. But that splash of ice-cream pink in pride of place, amongst the traditional red and green, always reminded me that not everything has to match for it to feel perfect.

Those pink roses were rebels, somewhat out of place, just like I'd felt growing up!  And yet, how pretty they looked, when they were the only lights shining in the room.

PINK ROSES AND THE TIBETAN MONK

One involvement with pink roses ended with a spiritual lesson that my husband will never forget since it introduced him, in no uncertain way, to the reality of my psychic world.

In 1979, Mike and I had been living together for a couple of years, in a one-bedroom apartment in Vancouver, BC. The summer of 79 came so early that by mid-June our afternoon temperatures soared to the stratosphere each day, and cooled but little during the night.

Like most Vancouver apartments, ours was not air-conditioned, so living there felt more like living in an oven. Sleep was difficult and just staying cool became mandatory. On one particularly sultry, sleepless Saturday night, we decided to, literally, take a cold shower and then lay, naked and spread-eagle, on our wet towels in front of our living room fan. Anything to get and stay cool.

We were wide awake and loosely holding hands when the wall behind our fan 'dissolved' and a Tibetan  Monk in saffron robes materialized there - midway between floor and ceiling. Mike and I quickly glanced at each other and then back at the wall. I squeezed his hand tightly. Then, to make very sure that neither of us was hallucinating with the heat, I tentatively inquired:

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"You mean the Tibetan monk who just walked through our living room wall" 
was his immediate reply.  
We were indeed witnessing the same impossible apparition and at the very same time. 

Stunned into silence, I became aware that the monk was talking to me, not with his lips, but with his mind, telepathically. I could 'hear' his thoughts. I could also hear the birds in the garden in which he was walking and smell the fragrance of the roses behind him. I felt as if I existed in two distinct yet interlaced places at once.

Photo by M. Jack H (dec'd) near the Rhododendrons at Gunnersbury Park, Ealing, London in June 1960

L-R Christobelle (11) Deirdre (18 months) & Vivienne(6)

My mind noticed that some of the taller trees looked very much like the rhododendron bushes found in the gardens of English stately homes, that my father had so loved to photograph. But at the time, I was far too mesmerized by the conversation to even worry about such details.

Many years would pass before I discovered the full significance of that night's observation.

The Monk continued to 'talk' with me for about 20 minutes, according to Mike, although for me it was like time had stood still. I had clearly morphed into an altered state of consciousness. Mike could see that the Monk and I were deep in conversation, and wisely did not interrupt us, even though he, himself, was not telepathically connected.

At the end of our conversation, my new Tibetan friend turned to leave, so I physically stood up, still naked, and attempted to follow him because I had a few hundred questions I still needed to ask him. 
The Monk responded by telling me, telepathically, that I had to stay because Mike and I were soon to conceive and raise a son, whom we would name Jeremy.

He then sent a pulsing wave of pure love energy directly into my heart chakra and, at the same time, opened a fold of his garment, from which fell dozens upon dozens of succulent, beautiful, fresh pink roses.

Mike also witnessed this astonishing carpet of roses, and we were both in awe of the incredible fragrance that immediately filled our tiny apartment. The monk further impressed upon my mind that to follow him, I would have to walk on the carpet of living roses, and thus destroy them with my footsteps.

Somehow I also knew that to follow him would mean relinquishing the promise of our yet-to-be conceived child and the family life that was yet to be. And I was so in love with Mike that my heart just couldn't bear to contemplate that scenario.

In the next instant, the Monk, his garden and our carpet of roses completely vanished, and our living room wall re-materialized, every bit as solid and dependable as it had formerly been. Only our feelings of awe regarding this visit, and the heady fragrance of those roses lingered.

Our discomfort at the suffocating heat all but forgotten, Mike and I excitedly related to each other our separate experiences of this sudden encounter with the Tibetan Monk. With some trepidation I told Mike about the Monk's prediction regarding Jeremy.

My (then) 24 year old boyfriend merely looked at me and smiled and said "that would be so cool!" Then, without skipping a beat, he asked:  "Do we have anything to eat, I'm suddenly very hungry!?" whereupon he went to the kitchen and raided the fridge.
Gotta love it!

Jeremy was indeed conceived within a year of that experience. And though I was tempted, I managed to resist the urge to wear a maternity frock decorated with little pink roses! Had his Mother worn such apparel, even during his gestation, my soon-to-be-techie little boy who, as a toddler held animated conversations with running water, would have been SO embarrassed!

Until our Monk's visit, and our vivid experience of that carpet of roses, I'd never consciously thought about a flower as a living, sentient being. Yet, since childhood, I had always known they were, as I used to sing to flowers, and they would sing back to me!   

Perhaps because children expect that everyone feels and understands things in the same way as they do, as a child I could best hear Nature's song whenever we visited quieter wilderness areas.  But, even as an adult, when I paid close attention, I could also hear the songs sung by the flowers that were planted in landscaped parks and gardens.

By getting into a meditative state, perhaps while relaxing after a picnic, or during a long stroll, we can more easily hear the sounds that wind and animals make around trees and flowers. 

When we listen with our hearts, we can actually hear the thoughts and feelings of those same trees and flowers. They are sentient beings, fully conscious of their own aliveness! And they can tell us some pretty remarkable stories too!  Be sure to keep track of what they tell YOU!

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SECTION 1 Chapter 2: Pink Roses (part 2) Trip to India  14 years later, Pink Roses showed up at unexpected moments during a family trip through the Himalayas in India