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.

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

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]