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/

Eskdalemuir Escapades

SPIRITUAL RE-CONNECTION
photo by kind courtesy of: http://www.anquet.co.uk/Scottish-Lowlands-and-Borders.htm

My unconscious re-connection with Buddhism and the monastic life I'd led in Asia many centuries ago, began in Scotland in 1969 in a remote village called Eskdalemuir.

My (then) Economist boyfriend had rebelled against the mainstream world and taken a job working for the British Forestry Commission in the wilds of Dumfriesshire.  He had been immediately posted to a hamlet called Castle O'er, some miles south of Eskdalemuir, about 20 road miles east of Lockerbie - truly in the middle of nowhere and in the back of beyond. In my youthful exuberance, I supported his venture by going to Scotland with him, to make sure he was well fed and watered, so that he could endure his strenuous outdoor occupation.

Located in the Scottish Lowlands, the hilly terrain offered many a grand hike in the crisp fall air. Now part of the Eskdale Prehistoric Trail, the Castle O'er hillfort was once the home of a tribe that used its prominent position to watch for invading enemies and to keep an eye on their animals. At first I found the area and its inhabitants, both past and present, refreshingly quaint. But try as I might, I never could decipher the meaning of their words, spoken in a lyrical Scottish tongue.
press here for an example of Dumfriesshire dialect

Also, because I was just 21 years young at the time, and had always lived in or near a large metropolis, I had simply not been able to anticipate the effects of the experience I was about to encounter. Isolated, miles from another soul, I had precious few neighbours, and thus little company for days at a time. Also, there were no shops of any kind, save the ubiquitous village post office. My overriding challenge was to prove mainly psychological in nature.

"WHITEYETT"  
 A yett is the local Scottish name for a natural pass between mountains. 

All Whiteyett photos shown here by kind courtesy of it present-day owner

Whiteyett was the name of the 300-year old gabled cottage that we rented from the British Forestry Commission.

Our home had been built from sturdy local stone, and was handily located within 20 feet of a gurgling trout stream that was a tributary of the White Esk River.

In 18th Century that stream had very likely provided both sparkling mountain water and fresh river trout for the house's original inhabitants.

view of Whiteyett from the south-west;  
the River Esk meanders north and south 
between the trees and Whiteyett's east wall

The stone cottage was unfurnished throughout, with stone floors downstairs, that many feet had polished smooth over the centuries.

A simple  but sturdy wooden staircase connected the two main downstairs rooms to the two upstairs bedrooms.

During 19th century, a small wing had been added to the north side of the house, giving it space for a kitchen, a bathroom (literally a room with a bath in it - and nothing more) and a separate toilet.

The kitchen and bathroom windows each overlooked the stream, yet none of these extra rooms were heated in any way at all.  So our ablutions were, perforce, short and very efficient exercises.

view of Whiteyett from the south-east 
corner of the property; a country 
bench now overlooks the rive

When we'd first arrived at the cottage, the kitchen was completely empty, sporting only a large pitted stone sink and a worn wooden draining board, beneath the window overlooking the picturesque river.

The tap water was plentiful and deliciously cool and clear, but there were no laundry facilities, no fridge, no stove and no cupboards, just a rickety empty shelf that ran along the only contiguous wall.

 SPREAD YOUR TINY WINGS

At that time, there was no bus service from my area to any kind of shopping area.  So the family in the farm nearest to us suggested that I hitch a ride to Langholm with the school bus in the mornings, if I wanted to do some real shopping. But there was a catch.  Although I'd leave before 8am, I'd have to remain in town till the school bus returned to this area in the afternoon. Just for the experience, never having ridden in a dedicated 'school bus', I joined the children on that 20 mile ride to Langholm one morning.

The bus collected each family's children from the farms along the way, and was 3/4 full by the time it reached the driveway of Whiteyett. The children were bright, cheerful and well-mannered, and also provided the musical entertainment, singing their favourite songs, learned in entirety from the radio. You haven't lived till you've heard Anne Murray's "Snowbird" enthusiastically delivered in a broad Scottish brogue. "sprade yer tainy wheengs ant flay ah whey".

I doubt I'll ever fully recover from that bus trip!
press here to listen to Anne Murray singing "Snowbird"


A SCOTTISH AUCTION
Other helpful neighbours informed me about an auction in Dumfries that would provide all the furniture we'd need for our abode, and even drove me to it, within a week of our arrival. Since the Scottish Auction was reputed to be an adventure unto itself, I was glad for the opportunity to experience it.

The auction itself followed interesting rules. Instead of bidding the price up from an initial low bid, the auctioneer would simply reveal the asking price for each item to the people assembled there. Each bidder would then decide whether or not to pay that price. If there were no bidders, the auctioneer would lower the asking price until someone in the room decided that he or she could not live without that particular item.

In this way, I was able to furnish our bedroom, kitchen and living room for just under twenty Scottish pounds (about $65 in 1969). I procured 2 beds, 2 chairs, one enormous, thick pile living room rug, a splendid mahogany sideboard, a working fridge and a Bendix washing machine. Though the washer had been certified "in good working order", it was lacking the bolts, not to mention the expertise, necessary to fasten it to the kitchen floor!

I had even acquired a second, battered, old sideboard with a solid granite surface, which functioned as an island in my kitchen giving me both much needed counter space and increased storage room for my pots, pans and baking items inside my warm kitchen instead of the chilly larder behind the stairs. That granite counter eventually got a good workout, since I was a keen baker in my youth, regularly turning out hearty meat pies for supper as well as home-made scones and the occasional iced chocolate cake. With a natural cold room, facing north, I was able to store cooked items for longer than inside a refrigerator.

OLD NED

Our closest neighbour, Ned, was an elderly retired shepherd who lived in a small abode at the entrance to our long driveway.  Ned still maintained a small herd of sheep, in a field adjoining our property.  But his ungulates were no respecters of fences and regularly visited our cottage whenever I was cooking.  Starved for animal company, I welcomed their curiosity and found myself chatting happily with a few friendly ewes until the day their ram decided he didn't approve of that behaviour - or  of ME.  Or maybe he'd approved of me a bit too much? I was not going to wait around to find out which  scenario was true!  So, on several occasions while I was returning from a walk, Ned's ram would chase me right down my long driveway and straight into Whiteyett. I suppose that's one way to warm up in winter.

Ned would stroll down the drive to our cottage now and then for supper or dessert, after which he'd regale us with tales of his childhood in the lowlands of Scotland. Much as I tried to do more, I only managed to understand the gist of what he was saying.  The musical lilt of Ned's dialect was hypnotic to me, and I found myself listening to his stories as if it were a classical symphony.

I think the old man must have been grateful that someone, other than the locals, was willing to listen to him because he soon presented us with a home-made lamp as a housewarming gift, to comfort our spirits and light up our evenings. It was a lovely, thoughtful gift that added much needed ambience to that dark cottage as winter approached!  Old Ned, as he was known locally, was a veritible mine of information about local affairs.  So when he discovered we needed a stove, he told us about seeing a discarded full size electric cooker (stove) in a small disused dwelling on a neighbouring lot.

Without a vehicle, it took my boyfriend, Old Ned and me most of the morning to bodily haul the old Jackson cooking range back to our cottage. It was an ancient model, and I feared the worst.  But, I was happily rewarded when, after several hours of elbow grease and brillo pads, that cooker, which I'd previously assumed was black  and useless, was transformed into  a bright white stove whose wiring was still quite serviceable. Yeah!!

One small step for womankind, one giant leap for joy at the thought of hot food!

TWO UNHAPPY GHOSTS
Even after the purchase of our comfortable beds and mattresses at the auction, my boyfriend and I experienced several nights of disturbed sleep because of noisy hauntings on the staircase.  Sensing the former inhabitants of Whiteyett were displeased by our intrusion into "their" home, I made it my business to telepathically communicate with them.

There were two main ghosts, one man and one woman, both of them elderly and, mercifully, not inclined to be mischievous. Instead they would show disapproval by bumping walls or when disturbed, by producing sudden cold spots, that could instantly chill you to the bone in an otherwise warm room.

Despite our remote location, I felt no fear of our disembodied landlords. On the contrary, our cat and I began telepathic negotiations to appease them. And when they learned that we were to be only temporary occupants, the two elderly residents graciously allowed that my boyfriend and I might remain!

Our furniture and we thus lived only the eastern part of this old stone home, leaving the west wing rooms for their original owners. From then on, save the odd wispy apparition and occasional nightly creaking on the staircase, we saw and heard no more of our (g)hosts.

Most of my days were spent alone, since my boyfriend left for his work at first light and did not return until after dark. His job was to prune existing trees and hand-clear weedy shrubs from the steep local slopes in readiness for new tree-plantings the following spring.  40 years later, the hills around Castle O'er are now majestically wooded with fully grown pine trees that obscure some of the view but provide a much needed windbreak for the homes in that area of Scotland.

Before leaving each morning, my boyfriend would set and light the living room coal fire, which would warm up our portion of the house, rising through the ceiling to the bedroom above. What a treat it was to awaken in a warm, cosy bedroom after a chilly night, during which the lower portion of our outer bedding would often freeze, and frost would etch wonderful patterns onto the inside of our window.

STAYING WARM
The living room fire that warmed our home also warmed the water that I used to hand-wash our laundry and all of our clothes. Everything we owned had to be washed by hand, including bedding, towels and thick woolen socks. Though we had a clothes line on our extensive front "lawn" I soon discovered that drying hand-washed items in that chilly climate was a quite a challenge.

The first set of sheets I'd set out to dry froze stiff within an hour! Too stiff to be bent, I'd lifted them from the line and brought them into the living room to dry . I then placed these tent-shaped sheets before the fire. But as they warmed, they collapsed into a damp pile on my floor and had to be washed all over again. The second time around, I dried these sheets over chairs and other furniture in front of my living room fireplace.
Oh the joys of country life!

THE DEMENTED BENDIX
I had tried to use the working Bendix washing machine that I purchased for less than a Scottish pound at that reverse auction. But I'd discovered too late that the confounded contraption needed to be bolted to the concrete floor. Not only were the bolts, themselves, missing, but nobody local could, or would, perform this simple feat of engineering for me. Consequently, my first attempt at automated laundry had ended in disaster.

All had gone well until the spin cycle began, at which time the demented machine rapidly lurched across my kitchen floor, pinning me against the bathroom wall when I'd stupidly tried to arrest its progress. Although I managed to pull the plug from the wall, before being crushed by the heavy machine and its full load of washing, I was thoroughly stuck, totally unable to extricate myself. And there I remained, for several long hours, trapped by modern technology, till my boyfriend returned from work to rescue me. This he did quickly, but not quietly, indulging himself in a raucous belly laugh at my expense. I, however, was not amused! Needless to say, he made his own supper that night!


NOT SO SPEEDY DELIVERIES
The pace of life in this part of Scotland was slow and very different from the bustling city life I had left. behind me in London. As is the way with Scottish place names, the name of the place describes its location. Eskdalemuir thus meant "the moor (muir) in the valley (dale) of the River Esk". And, in the Autumn,  before the now lush forest was planted, a wicked, biting north wind blew all the way through that broad valley and directly into the bones of the unwary. Though I had not been aware of it before arriving there, I soon learned why Eskdalemuir is renowned for being the coldest spot in Britain during the winter!

There was no town centre in this hamlet, nor any food shops in the area, nor a hardware store, nor even a cosy country library in which to browse away the hours. The Internet was several decades away from being mainstream, and the area had no television reception.  So we were well and truly, in the middle of nowhere, without a vehicle of any kind between us. And yet, we did not lack resources.

Every Wednesday, a van carrying grocery supplies would visit each property in our neck of the woods. The arrival of this van was a welcome sight in our valley.  And it was also magical to behold, much like an Arabian tent, much larger on the inside than it seemed on the outside!

Every square inch of the van's interior was devoted to shelving, angled slightly downwards to the sides, to prevent the goods from sliding or scattering when the van was in motion. A narrow central aisle led from the back entrance to the front of the van, behind the driver's seat, and on each side were stored all the provisions you could name from canned fish and meats, to bottled fruits and jams, kitchen implements, biscuits and condiments. Large sacks of potatoes, grains, flour and oats plus glass bottles of fresh milk were also readily available, but the van carried no fresh animal protein. We had to acquire eggs and meat in town, on a schoolday, or depend on the generosity of our any neighbours who kept livestock.

Once a month, the library van would deliver a new crop of books, along with magazine and newspapers telling of local, community and world events. And on alternate Thursdays, a hardware van would arrive, much to the delight of the few males who populated the area.
 
NEIGHBOURS
Our nearest neighbour, beyond Old Ned, was half a mile up the road, which discouraged one from borrowing a "cup of sugar" - especially as winter approached. Instead I taught myself how to keep careful lists of our household items so that we would never run short. And slowly, I learned when to replace everything, from sacks of potatoes to packaged laundry soap to skeins of grey wool for the knitted pull on caps I made for to warm my boyfriend's balding head under his hard hat. It was the only way we could survive and thrive in that wilderness. 

SECTION 2 Chapter 2  A Tibetan Monastery in Scotland Continuing my escalating escapades in Eskdalemuir

A Deer in the Clearing

Atop Anarchist Mountain to the East of the town of Osoyoos several roads lead to newly-created and cleared parcels of land. During a late evening drive last week, I captured this shot of a fearless Whitetail Doe, casually grazing on one such property along appropriately named Whitetail Road.

From the bulge in her tummy, I surmised that she was may have been pregnant, or was extremely well fed, or she may have recently given birth.

Her demeanour was very placid and our eyes locked for several minutes, long enough for me to reach for and adjust the setting on my camera.

This was the magical result.

Bright Rainbow over Osoyoos

This richly hued rainbow taken from my balcony on May 3, 2009 lasted for several minutes before fading.

The sound and fury of thunder, the smell of lightning, the raindrops drumming and the dance of the wind through the evergreen trees as they wash their foliage clean in a cloudburst - all create a symphony of musical tones that speak directly to my soul.

I do love rainbows, and am fortunate to see many of them - probably more than most, since I also love being in and photographing storms! And this I do fearlessly, despite having been struck by lightning as a child!*

* Read a chapter about Christobelle's psychic experiences in a 2005 Dundurn publication entitled Psychics and Mediums in Canada, by Jean Porche and Deb Vaughn.
To read an online excerpt go to
http://www.christobelle.ca/readhear.html  and press the book link

Panoramic View of Lake Osoyoos

Today was one of those beautiful, sunny warm Spring days that we live for in British Columbia's Okanagan valley. So my camera took me out for a stroll and this panoramic view of Lake Osoyoos was our reward. Just HAD to share it with you!

Tiger Hill, Darjeeling

PAST LIFE MEMORY

As a small child growing up in London, England, I had yearned to visit the Himalayas and often had nighttime dreams of living in one of these small mountainous villages in several of my past lives. My most vivid recollection is of being an itinerant merchant, a family man who travelled constantly, only rarely seeing his family and reconnecting with his neighbours.

At that time, I had been responsible for transporting gems, semi-precious jewels, animal skins and cinnamon bark on a convoy of yaks, through the Eastern Himalayas. We travelled only when the passes were free from snow during the summer months. We would then connect with caravans that had journeyed south from the famed 'silk road'. And I would exchange my goods for herbal remedies, books and writings of the skills and knowledge that had originated in China and Tibet. And, most importantly, I would return home with textiles, including the much requested most magical silk.

In my former lifetimes, I must have often witnessed the sun rising over the Himalayas. And now, as an adult, in this lifetime, the morning after our auspicious shopping trip in Darjeeling, Mom and I were to witness the Himalayan sunrise together. It was almost like a rite of passage for me. We had awoken at 3am to enjoy a cup of tea before accompanying the rest of our family on the dark, slow and bumpy jeep ride to Tiger Hill, which lies further along the torturous mountain crest, only 11 km from town.

TIGER HILL
Every cloudless morning, crowds gather at Tiger Hill, a vantage point of 8,482 feet, to watch an uninterrupted view of the sun rising over the entire Himalayan mountain range. We arrived at our destination about 4.30am, surprised to see a few dozen land rovers and jeeps already parked beneath the stone-built viewing platform. It was so cold, I was glad of my heavy sweater and ski jacket, especially when the wind blew across us on the open platform atop the elevated tower.

Sunrise in the tropics happens very swiftly, and the mere anticipation of its splendour had everyone twittering with excitement. All eyes were glued to the east, and gradually the crowd fell silent.

I have heard that, instead of silence, some Tiger Hill crowds now greet the dawn with Buddhist chants. While that would also have been wonderful, we, in our silence, shared a sense of reverence, much like a communal prayer that everyone knew by heart and whispered in their own native tongue.

How very blessed we all were to share such a wonderful spectacle of Nature that day. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and not just because it was cold there! I remember thinking that this trip to the Himalayan 'cradle of the gods' was the perfect way to thank the Creator for all of my blessings in life.

SUNRISE OVER THE HIMALAYAS
We watched in awe as the pitch dark of night was replaced by a shimmering grey that silhouetted the mountain range, stage-lighting them for Nature's next scene. Suddenly, the eastern sky brightened and the features of the tall mountains became sharper, till we were able to distinguish one mountain from another. Then a blinding beam of sunlight blazed through the clouds, bathing the most easterly mountain peaks in a soft pink hue. Within seconds this rosy glow had spread westward across the entire range. Sunlight illuminated the snows atop each separate mountain peak - and it was dawn.

A collective gasp arose from the crowd and then, filled with joy, we all applauded, for we had been privileged witnesses in the first scenes of an epic play. That our universe provides this marvel on a daily basis is the real miracle, and one that I had so often taken for granted in Canada. Now, since seeing the sunrise over the Himalayas, I have become much more aware of the daily treasures, such as clean air, sweet water, and loving friends that fulfill the promise of joy and beauty in the lives of everyone on the planet.

Sadly, we had been unable to see Everest that morning, because there was just too much cloud to the west, separating us from it. The crowd began dispersing soon after sunrise. Some vendors lingered, selling glossy 4 x 6 inch photographs of the sun rising over Everest to those of us who had not actually seen it that day. I will always remember the silent reverence of the crowd, and the feeling of awe that permeated my entire being, at seeing the sun rise over the Himalayas. Even without spontaneous applause and a Hollywood soundtrack, the effect was unforgettably spectacular.

We descended the tower and then tried to distinguish our jeep from the 40 or so identical vehicles that had been parked, higgeldy-piggledy in the roadway below. In India, order and neatness seems to be optional, even - or perhaps especially - when driving or parking a vehicle. In the Himalayas, the air feels alive and fluid and, somehow, more highly charged than the air at sea level. Perhaps that is why the first light of dawn here is always greeted as a magnificent event?

Our return trip in the early morning light permitted us to see what we had only felt in our bones during our outward bound journey to Tiger Hill. The road back to Darjeeling wound through heavily forested mountainous terrain that only occasionally allowed us glimpses of the broad ridge upon which "the Queen of the Hills" is built. This treacherously narrow road led us past many heavily gilded roadside shrines, that had been liberally festooned with prayer flags hung by grateful, or hopeful, travellers and pilgrims.

PRAYER FLAGS
For centuries, Tibetan Buddhists have planted prayer flags outside their homes and other spiritual places. Inscribed with auspicious symbols, invocations, prayers and mantras, prayer flags blow in the endless winds of the high mountains, carrying their beneficent vibrations directly to the gods.  Prayer flags are said to bring happiness, long life and prosperity to the flag planter, as well as to those in the same vicinity. So I felt very safe whenever our vehicle past by a temple sporting several hundred flags.

Students of Tibetan Buddhism and other pilgrams travel vast distances for the honour of studying at Darjeeling's monasteries. Others are content just to breathe the hallowed air of this special part of the planet. Having experienced only a small part of their epic journey, myself, I could more easily appreciate exactly why travellers felt so awe-inspired about this region.

Long before my trip to Darjeeling, I had enlarged a photograph of the sunrise on Annapurna Mountain, which is also part of the Himalayas. The picture, taken by a friend during her walking trip through the mountains in Nepal, had captivated me during her slide-show. It shows a cavernous valley, totally veiled in clouds that resemble windblown lakewater, from which the snow-capped mountain rises. The dawn sun paints both the clouds below and the mountain tops beyond in a myriad soft pinks and greys. Somehow I felt an immediate kinship with this mountain. 30 years later, it is still special to me and is thus mounted in pride of place on my living room wall 

BHUTIA BUSTY GOMPA

photo by kind courtesy of:  
http://www.tripadvisor.in/LocationPhotos-g304557 w11-Darjeeling_West_Bengal.html#19513746

Darjeeling is home to many exquisitely and elaborately decorated monasteries, constructed in remote locations where monks can meditate in peaceful isolation in the idyllic surroundings.

Our jeep made a detour to visit one such monastery on our return from Tiger Hill. The Bhutia Busty Gompa is a fortified ecclesiastical place of learning, a sacred place that is part university, part monastery. Here students learn about and practise the doctrines of peace and love while enjoying glorious views of the Kanchenjunga peak.

The monastery, originally called the "Place of the Thunderbolt", has had a long association with Darjeeling, which itself translates as "Resting Place of the Thunderbolt".  Mt. Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world, forms an awe-inspiring backdrop for Bhutia Busty Gompa, which was destroyed by an earthquake in 1934, but preserved and restored to its former glory by the King of Sikkim because Bhutia Busty Gompa is one of the branches of the Nyingmapa sect's Phodang Monastery in Sikkim, run by the red sects of the Lamas who are the original owners of the monastery.

The Bhutia Busty Gompa is known for its exquisite library on the top floor which houses a number of Buddhist books plus a rich collection of books on Tibetan culture including The Tibetan Book of the Dead which attracts tourists and visitors.

PRAYER WHEEL
Inside and to the right of the entrance doors of Bhutia Busty monastery is a huge, elaborately carved golden prayer wheel to which I was drawn like a bear to honey.

A Buddhist prayer wheel is a hollow metal cylinder, often beautifully carved, mounted on a rod handle and containing a tightly wound scroll printed with a mantra. According the Tibetan Buddhist belief, spinning such a wheel is just as effective as reciting them orally.  And at 8000 feet, where the air is thin, being able to pray while conserving your breath really is a blessing.  Prayer wheels come in many sizes: they may be small, attached to a stick and spun around by hand, medium-sized and set up at monasteries or temples, or very large and continuously spun by a wind or water mill.  

photo by kind courtesy of
http://www.transitionsabroad.com/publications/magazine/0711/

In Tibetan prayer wheels, the mantra (prayer) is Om Mani Padme Hum, which invokes the powerful benevolent attention and blessings of Chenrezig, the embodiment of compassion. It is printed in an ancient Indian script or in Tibetan script, usually on the outside as well as on the scroll inside.

I was truly delighted to have this opportunity to commune with spirit in what felt, to me, like a familiar manner. While others in our party admired the artistically decorated Buddha and other artefacts in that monastery, I remained, grinning like a demented child as I spun that great wheel clockwise 11 times.

THE NUMBER ELEVEN
In numerology, the number eleven is said to be a Master Number associated with transcendental knowledge, the refinement of ideals, intuition, revelation, artistic and inventive genius, whose promise is fulfilled when those carrying the number work with a more practical partner.

Eleven is a higher octave of the number two, the natural number of partnership. It carries psychic vibrations and has an equal balance of masculine and feminine properties. Because eleven contains many gifts such as psychic awareness and a keen sense of sensitivity, those who vibrate to its energy have also to be aware of its negative effects. The innocence and trust of those carrying the eleven vibration can invite treachery and betrayal from secret enemies, though even these setbacks and adversities often create opportunities for Elevens to further develop their inner strength and purpose. This is true whether 11 represents a person's name or their destiny.

In Western Astrology, the eleventh zodiac sign is Aquarius, sign of brotherhood, liberty and truth. It challenges us to recognize and express our own individuality, integrity and truth. In my own personal astrology, Aquarius is my Ascending sign as well as the Sun signs of both of my children. Further, my given name of Christobelle adds up to eleven, as do my middle name of Lorraine and my birth surname.

When I was a young child of 8 or 9, I had questioned my Mother about the spelling of my first name, and was told that she changed it so that, numerologically, it would equal eleven. When I pressed her for more information, she reluctantly divulged the story about the holy man who had shown up in the hospital and given her a Reading concerning my life's path, shortly after my birth in Bombay, India.

Needless to say, I wanted to hear more about that, but Mom has always steadfastly refused to divulge any details, saying that I would find my way through and to my destiny, if it was meant to be.  
A later blog episode, entitled, "A Convoluted Beginning" will tell you more about the holy man who met my Mother within 24 hours of my birth.

44 years after my birth, whilst in this beautiful Himalayan setting, turning the largest prayer wheel I'd ever seen, felt so familiar I realized that the past, present and future had all converged for me.

My life had travelled full circle.

I had finally come home to my sacred mountains.

Is it any wonder that, despite my culture-shock, I could not cease smiling through my tears during my time in the Himalayas!

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SECTION 2 Chapter 1 Eskdalemuir Escapades  takes you on an earthy yet spiritual journey through the convoluted and serendipitous adventures, that led me to Buddhism in this lifetime.

Mt. Kanchenjunga Experience

MY CAMERA
My camera was the only real casualty of my getting up close and personal with the tiger in Darjeeling Zoo. It had flown from my hand and smashed itself apart against a stone wall, during my fall down those concrete steps. The film (this was before digital cameras) forcefully ejected itself over a fence and then bounced into the lair of the Himalayan wolves, constructed below and beyond the tiger enclosure. My encounter with that roaring tiger fresh in my mind, and with my camera now rendered useless, I decided to allow discretion to be the better part of valour, and left the film right where it was!

No photograph could make the events of that day seem any more alive to me than the sheer terror that had permanently sealed the memory of that tiger roar into my brain and body. Later on, I did, however, conclude that those leopards, tigers and bears might not be the ONLY endangered animals to be found in Darjeeling Zoo. Tourists be forewarned!

THE STREETS OF DARJEELING
Everywhere in Darjeeling one encounter steep inclines. Only the mall area boasts a rare expanse of flat terrain, where vehicles and people have room to manoevre, and crowds can gather for important meetings. Political slogans were spray painted on every wall, in English as well as Hindi, or one of the several other dialects spoken there, including Bengali. Most slogans demanded independent rule for Dorje-Land, the original name for Darjeeling.

The market place featured sturdy stone buildings with storefronts on one side of the street, and the city's retaining wall on the other side. On Market Day, itinerant merchants created colourful booths against these thick walls, from which they sold everything from brightly coloured silk scarves and hand-made semi-precious jewellery, to heady tropical incense and spices. You could also sample the tempting and tasty local foodstuffs! And could even purchase the second hand fleece jackets and hiking boots of those who planned on permanently leaving the mountains or who were generating sufficient funds to buy a plane ticket to return back 'home'.

Being located in the stone buildings, the more permanent stores were able to lock up their wares and so offered more expensive and luxury items, like authentic silk Tibetan wall hangings and prayer flags, richly decorated wedding saris and exotic textiles, Himalayan gem jewellery and curve-bladed knives called kukri. Everywhere you looked you'd see something creatively unusual and marvelous to behold.

I found the energy of Darjeeling a fascinating juxtaposition of restrained English architecture and amazing artistic talent that seems to flourish in these mountain inhabitants. This street seemed like a great place to people watch. photo by kind courtesy of: http://images.travbuddy.com/4703_11808892175447.jpg
This photo shows a common method of transporting water in Darjeeling. So Mom and I were intrigued when a tall wiry elderly man, wearing nothing more than a threadbare shirt, shorts and worn-out sandals, traversed up the hill, with 27 (we counted them) empty one-gallon drums precariously strapped to his back.

We knew he was collecting water for his family because, during the afternoon, all the hotels would regularly cut off the water supply to their guestrooms, so that the locals could fill up water containers for use in their own homes. With one gallon of water weighing 8lbs, that old man would potentially have had to carry a staggering 8 x 27lbs = 216lbs back down the hill. That's about the weight of an American football linebacker!

We have no idea how - or if - he got back down that steep hill, but I prayed that the old man would commandeer a yak, or  some energetic youngsters, to help him carry his water back home!

Witnessing this old man's quest for water made me very aware of my own carefree use of water in Canada, and how very precious this resource is.

Frozen Waterfall in Manning Park photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H.


By complete contrast, our own access to clean, safe water in Sinclair Hotel was easy.  Here, I also thoroughly enjoyed the tasty curry dishes served in the hotel dining room.  It was the only time of day that the five of us would gather to tell tales of our separate adventures in this Queen of the Hills.


Although the decor was simple, and we each helped ourselves buffet style, the meals were always fit for a king. Each region of India features a different type of curry dish, always vegetarian or featuring mutton or chicken.
UNEXPECTED REUNION
True to form, my angels guided me to one of those glass-fronted stores in Darjeeling wherein I was to experience another magical encounter. Mom and I were on a hunt for Himalayan jewellery, in particular turquoise and semi-precious gems such as garnet and amethyst.

While I quietly studied the pieces that lay behind locked glass cases along one wall, my Mother sought help to purchase a kukri - the curved-bladed knife that is commonly found in these mountains. The store owner took Mom to a hidden display case at the back of the store, and left her to browse the knives he kept there. Then he returned to his seat behind the counter that separated the front from the back of his store, while I selected my purchases.

Eventually I spied a ring so unusual that I was curious as to how it had been made, and so approached the store owner. Upon seeing my face, this stranger immediately greeted me as if I were an old friend, saying

"Ah, so you have returned, at last!"

There was nobody else in my section of the store, so my jaw dropped in sheer amazement when he addressed me thus. I assured the owner that I had never before been to Darjeeling, and  thus I certainly not have been in his store before that very day.  But the man was adamant

"Yes, yes, I remember you well, though it was some 40 years ago" he insisted.

Since I'd been only 5 years old in 1953, I assured him he was most definitely mistaken and suggested that he had perhaps recognized my Mother, who had, by then, emerged from the back of the store. But he merely shook his head and corrected me,

"Not 40 years ago, 14 years ago, in 1979. Do you not remember me?"

Frowning, trying to remember, I recalled the major events of 1979.

* Mike and I had lived in Burnaby, Canada then

* I had been studying at Simon Fraser University while holding down a part-time library job

* We'd taken my 12 year old daughter and her adopted teenage brother to Disneyland that year - by bus (definitely NOT a sane travel option!)

But we had most definitely NOT visited India, nor could I remember meeting this store-keeper on any continent?

Seeking clarity, I studied his face more closely, and immediately found myself in an alternate reality as both the store and his demeanour shimmered right before my eyes.

In one instant, I was conversing with a jolly, well fed, middle-aged merchant in a Darjeeling store. Then, in the very next instant, the store had metamorphosed into a somewhat familiar garden of roses, shaded by tall rhododendron trees.

The storekeeper's ruddy complexion and theatrical mannerisms had also transformed into the placid and beloved countenance of the Buddhist monk who had filled my apartment with pink roses all those years ago. I was so surprised that I could only blink and gasp, hardly believing the evidence of my own eyes. And it didn't help that the very instant my vision clarified, the vision abruptly vanished, which left me wondering if I had imagined it all.

Once again the cheerful store-keeper stood before me, asking of my experiences since arriving in Darjeeling. And though I had many questions of my own to ask him, I politely and, as briefly as I could, told him about my dawn encounter with the young monks, about my zoo visit and the tiger's fiercesome roar the previous day.  Feeling more relaxed by this time, I also told him of my melt-down at the Telegraph office just before that afternoon's thunderstorm.

The store-keeper listened patiently, encouraging my tale and occasionally laughing with me. When I had finished, I moved towards the jewellery display, intending to ask for more information about that ring. But the store-keeper persisted:

"But you have not yet told me about the mountain"

"Mountain? What mountain?" I stammered, by now truly perplexed, for we were truly surrounded by mountains.
"Kanchenjunga" he insisted - referring to the mountain comprised of 5 Himalayan peaks, that was clearly visible from the city of Darjeeling.

As if a veil had lifted, I was shocked into remembering.

That very morning, while my family slept, I had climbed - alone - to the roof of our hotel which featured an unparalleled view of the entire Himalayan mountain range, including, on a clear day, including the magical, mystical Mt. Kanchenjunga.

The previous night I'd set my clock to 5.30 a.m. in order to watch the sun rise over the highest mountains in the world. And I'm glad I did because it was an incredible experience as the colours of dawn reflected on the peak of Kanchanjunga, the planet's third tallest mountain. But along with the soft golds and pinks of the sunrise, I also saw a face, quite distinctly, hovering over the mountain itself!

The huge, shimmering face was totally unfamiliar to my western way of seeing, yet my soul had accepted the vision as truth, not releasing its memory to my consciousness until the shop-keeper questioned me. Since I had been totally alone on that roof, and had not even consciously remembered what I had seen until he had asked me, how could HE have known? unless...he was indeed an angel, or my flower-power Buddhist monk

 Tibetan turquoise & coral bottle opener photo copyright 2009 Christobelle Patrick

The shop keeper then walked to the display case beside the jewellery and brought out this bejewelled silver bottle opener
"Did the face you saw look like this" he asked, pointing to the business end of the bottle opener?

I studied it for a while and then just nodded, staring at the man in complete amazement.
"That is the Spirit of Kanchenjunga" he assured me. And since I had seen it with my own eyes, I had no choice but to believe his words
 

Quartz ring from Darjeeling photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H
Needless to say, I bought that bottle opener, plus a few more trinkets from this man/monk including this ring, an irregular chunk of clear white quartz to which were attached three semi -precious gems, a green tourmaline, a turquoise and a garnet, each set in silver. The garnet and its setting broke off within a month, leaving only the tourmaline and turquoise staring like a third-eye and a cheek jewel in a trapeze-shaped alien face.

Tibetan Bell from Darjeeling photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H

This is the bell that Tibetan Buddhists carry and below is the dorje that accompanies their bell. Dorje photo copyright 2009 Christobelle H
Symbolically a dorje represents the 'thunderbolt of enlightenment,' that abrupt change in human consciousness which is recognised by all the great religions as a pivotal episode in the lives of mystics and saints. I'd been experiencing a lot of that since my arrival in this place!

The Bell and Dorje, or thunderbolt, are inseparable ritual objects in Tibetan Buddhism. They are always used in combination during religious ceremonies. The Bell held in the left hand, representing the female aspect as wisdom; the Dorje, held in the right hand, or male aspect, as method. Together, they represent union of wisdom and method, also called the attainment of Enlightenment.

For Buddhists, the transformative enlightenment experience it is what occurred to the historical Buddha and to all those who experience kensho-satori, the dropping away of 'self'. The Tibetans call this "the Great Death" to distinguish it from that physical one. Dorje is also a common given-name for men in people of Tibetan culture and it is of utmost importance in the fight for autonomy in Dorje-Land. Reference: Encyclopedia Britannica

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SECTION 1 Chapter 7: Tiger Hill, Darjeeling experience the sunrise over the Himalayas and a visit to a Tibetan Monastery

South Asian Culture Shock

Our trip to this mountainous region of Bengal proved difficult for me in many ways, all of them cultural.

Although I had been born in India, and raised by parents who were both born and had grown up in India, I spent my formative years in UK. Naturalized as a British citizen, I had attended British schools, and when not in school uniform had always dressed in Western gear. I also felt most comfortable in the company of my British or European friends and was, by 1993, a peculiar mixture of Canadian and British in my daily habits and social customs. Yet, despite my British heritage and experiences, my spirituality and way of seeing the world was a lot more Eastern than Western. I was - and am still - a living, breathing example of the East-West dichotomy.

DORJE-LING

Such cultural disruption is well known to the Tibetans, who inhabit this region of India. Many of whom fled their homeland after the Chinese invaded in 1959. Several of the higher Lamas settled in Darjeeling, setting up monasteries there, which is why this city of 250,000 souls has such a strong Buddhist presence

photos by kind courtesy of http://www.tripadvisor.in

The original name for Darjeeling was Dorje-ling. A dorje is the Tibetan word meaning both thunderbolt and special stone or diamond, and ling is the Tibetan word for holy place or monastery. So the story goes, a monk once meditated for several days or weeks next to a dorje on what is now Observatory Hill, thus making this place sacred so that now both Buddhists and Hindus freely worship there. Townsfolk named their mountain top home to honour the sacrifice and dedication of this monk.

The ruling British overlords had changed the spelling to Darjeeling in a prior era, effectively erasing any holy references that might offend Western visitors. These also oversaw the building of houses, hotels and infrastructure - roads, railway, schools, sports arena, zoo, electrical, plumbing and postal systems - for the comfort and use of those who frequented this "Queen of the Hills" as an escape from the unforgiving summer heat of the plains.

Since 17th Century, especially since the industrialization of United Kingdom, the average Indian has generated and donated vast amounts of wealth for the business aspirations and families of the invading British. Such generosity was rewarded by the Indian being treated as a second-class citizen, as a servant in his own land.

In addition to usurping his national wealth and manipulating his creative genius for their own commercial benefit, the British also sought to impose their western social values on a land with more than 20,000 years of culture. And that particular blow to India's pride was designed to demoralize the country as a whole, rendering its people more easily controlled.

While India undoubtedly benefited from the new technological and industrial benefits that its alliance with Britain brought, a less arrogant and self-indulgent invader might have taken the time to train the Indian in every aspect of the care and management of their own railways, post offices and road systems.

Evidently Britain had expected to usurp India's vast resources for their "common" wealth for all time.  Thus, when Gandhi led the country to Independence and the British abruptly left India, in August 1947, the departing British left behind a railway and road system, plus a British style government.  But this infrastructure had no strong Indian hand at the helm. 45 years later it had thus devolved into a parody of its imposed glory.  Gone were the spic and span militaristic days of British rule.  In its place were broken water pipes, fractured road surfaces and archaic business practices that had once royally served a system long since abandoned.

The city of Darjeeling had, nonetheless, felt very "English" and familiar to me, in an historical sense.  Despite its occasional political instability, it is ideally set up for tourism, having numerous outdoor opportunities including world-class mountain trekking. The stunning scenery and laid back lifestyle attract visitors from all over the world.  Though located in the foothills of our planet's tallest mountain range, Darjeeling is still over 8,000 feet above sea level.  And the rivers that rage through its mountains are extremely rapid and often dangerous. That is why one is permitted to go river rafting, only after one has provided a signed waiver of responsibility and left the name and phone number of one's next of kin! 

The gentle values of the Buddhist refugees now permeate the city so that Darjeeling very quickly makes you feel welcome and a part of that community. But, after nearly 50 years of corporate neglect, services like reliable plumbing, dependable scheduling and the postal system, that we take so much for granted in the West, became fractured and broke.

In the true spirit of Buddhism, as each social service became inefficient and insufficient, the Indians in charge laid emphasis on sharing resources like fresh water with everyone. Thus, each day, after the needs of hotel guests had been met, the town's hotels would graciously allow the townspeople to collect fresh drinking water from their pipes.  Perhaps it takes a crisis for man's humanity to emerge?

JUST THE FAX, MAN

Despite my willingness to learn the lessons that assailed my psyche in Mother India, my physical health had steadily deteriorated since my plane had landed there earlier in the month. I was tired all the time, and heartrendingly homesick for my Canadian home, family and friends in Canada. I missed my husband and 12 year old son so much that I cried myself to sleep each night.

My travelling family was so concerned by my emotional decline they to decided to send me back to Canada early rather than risk a complete health breakdown by my remaining for the full duration of my planned trip. So it was that my Mother and Aunt began to make arrangements to expedite my departure from India. First on their agenda was to fax pertinent details to our travel agent in Bombay.

A simple affair, right?

Perhaps, but just NOT in Darjeeling.
Simple is just not as easy in the hill towns of the Himalayas.

As recently as 1993, any fax out of Darjeeling could only be sent via the town's grand telegraph office which was located in a huge stone Victorian mansion, located a dizzying 129 steep steps carved into  the side of the mountain. Trainee Mountaineers might not mind this climb. But ordinary folk, with ordinary leg muscles, must really have to WANT to send a fax, just to venture up there.

Mind you, from the telegraph office portico, the view of the city and surrounding mountains, was a truly magnificent reward for one's valiant efforts.

"It's called CULTURE SHOCK!"

My Aunt, Mother and I arrived at the Office around noon of the very next day, ready and eager to send the fax, before scouring the town for souvenirs. Unfortunately, the two all-male staff at the post office had no clue how to work their precious new fax machine. And, since they weren't about to admit that fact to  mere women, it took the four of them three hours to TRY to figure it out. Only at the end of their work day, would they admit defeat and allow my Aunt to show them how to send our fax before the next ice age began.

During that long and tedious wait at the Telegraph Office, my emotional meltdown became more difficult to suppress. While Mom and Auntie alternately argued with and cajoled the Bengali staff, I waited  for them on the only available seating - a simple wooden bench provided in that foyer-cum-waiting room.

A very patient Australian traveller shared the bench, whilst awaiting the arrival of his international phone call, to be routed into a private cubicle in the waiting area. He noticed that I was crying quietly but incessantly into my Kleenex, and gently pronounced: "It's called culture shock! And it's quite common when you first visit Asia." I could have kissed him both for his timely identification of my tearfulness and for his compassion in reaching out to me.

MOUNTAIN STORM

At that very moment, a mighty clap of thunder rattled the tall windows in the huge stone ediface. Running outside, the Aussie traveler and I were treated to the magnificent spectacle of a full blown (pun intended) Himalayan electrical storm. The raindrops were so heavy and the winds so persistent that I was grateful for the partial shelter of Darjeeling Telegraph Office's grand Victorian columned portico.

Aloud, I wondered if perhaps the monsoons had arrived early. But my companion assured me that such spectacular rainstorms in the Himalayas were the norm. Copious lightning bolts seemed to dance alarmingly close to us as the thunder rolled on and on, echoing throughout the hills that surrounded this rain-drenched sprawling mountain top city.

No wonder they called Darjeeling the sacred place of the thunderbolt!

While it lasted I, was too mesmerized by the beauty and enormity of that storm to feel anything but awestruck. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm ended, the sun shone, and my companion bid me a beaming farewell before he quietly vanished from view, down the steep stone staircase that led to the street level.

Not till much later did I realize that my Australian companion had not actually received the phone call for which he'd told me he was waiting.

And wasn't the timing of his appearance rather fortuitous, at the very moment when I was feeling my saddest?  I also found it significant that the two of us had conversed with, and shared that storm, only with each other.  My Mother and Aunt had been so engrossed in their task of faxing information to the city that neither had noticed my companion.

Serendipity?

I doubt it!

I certainly felt much better after that brief encounter than I had done before, because I knew, beyond doubt, that an Angel had comforted me that fateful day. As my courage returned, I recalled that Angels will often employ a loving person's habits or sensitivities to lend hope to other human beings or to pass along to them their special Angelic messages.

Indeed, even my own quirkiness had been so utilized, during my jeep journey up the Himalayas, when my curiosity had inadvertently interrupted the personal toilet of those train travelers. Everyone of us had then enjoyed a much needed laugh, which had helped to relieve the anxiety and fear generated by journey potentially fraught with political strife and danger. (press here to read more about this event in Pink Roses - Part 2 Journey to India)

So I was quite certain that, in the Darjeeling Telegraph Office, the traveller's Angelic self had reached out to reassure me in my hour of extreme need.
As a result, I'd immediately felt stronger and more able to cope! And then he went on his way.

Now that I felt regenerated, I was eager to get on with my shopping trip to the market that day. I was even looking forward to rising at 3 am for our planned excursion to Tiger Hill the following day.

I thus found it quite ironic that this miracle of transformation, created by my emotional response to India, had occurred at precisely the same moment that my trip AWAY from India was being expedited.

Knowing that soul growth only appears to happen by chance, I asked my inner Angel if my experiences in the land of my birth had already been sufficient to fill my soul?

Given the political instability of the region, it was doubtful that I'd be able to return to Bengal again in this lifetime. Yet, my short trip to India, had already been so intense that it had already brought me many important lessons - lessons that would take me a decade or more to fully comprehend and assimilate.

As always, I still had more questions than answers. But, as I was to discover in the days ahead, my Angels had a few surprises yet in store for me, in the Himalayan foothills of India.

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SECTION 1 Chapter 6  Mt. Kanchenjunga Experience  meet the flesh and blood Buddhist Monk who first appeared to me as an apparition in Canada. (press here to learn more about this apparition  in Pink Roses - Part 1)