Living La Vida Local

THE OLD DUNCAN FARMHOUSE

[the names of individuals and family abodes in this section, have been changed to preserve the privacy of their owners]
The week following Thanksgiving, the pipes thawed at the Old Duncan Farmhouse, which had originally been planned as the celebration centre for the previous weeks' guests. Trudy and her three daughters, who had been staying with friends, promptly moved back home to be with Tom and the cats.

Theirs was a traditional, stone-built, farm house often found in the Scottish Borders, and thought to date back to the 1700s. Square in aspect, a now-defunct barn had once stood adjacent to the house, enclosing a rough courtyard, where horses and carriages had once stood.

As dusk fell, our new friend and amiable chauffeur, Daniel, dropped by the cottage I shared with my boyfriend to collect us both for the planned evening's entertainment at the Old Duncan Farmhouse.
"They're having a pot luck dinner followed by a folk evening in the library which will probably last till the wee small hours; so do bring your sleeping bags with you!" he advised.
I grabbed a biscuit tin already filled with baked goodies from my larder as my boyfriend picked up our sleeping bags.

Daniel then drove us there, talking a mile a minute, as was his way, so that, by the time we arrived, we'd learned that our hostess, Trudy, was another of the NASA 'brats' who had retired from mainstream insanity soon after the famed Moon Walk of July 20, 1969

TOM AND TRUDY
In the States, her tall, athletic husband, Tom, had been a stay-at-home Dad for years. Whilst he had researched his PhD thesis, he'd also taken care of the domestic needs of their three grade-school daughters. Meanwhile, Trudy, alone, had brought home the bacon. Decades before it became "fashionable", Trudy was already a self-made woman!

But since they had all relocated to Scotland, their non-traditional roles had reversed, becoming more traditional - at least to the untrained eye. Trudy was now 100% in charge of the home front, which left Tom free to peruse his passion in faraway Edinburgh's ancient libraries. Thus the renovation of their farmhouse as well as the care, feeding and home-schooling of their family had been left totally in Trudy's capable hands. According to Daniel, this amazing woman managed to look as young as her eldest daughter even as she rose to such a Herculean challenge.

Prior to their family's arrival, the Old Duncan Farmhouse had stood empty for many years. So almost immediately upon purchase, Trudy had organized some knowledgeable friends and local contacts to renovate the farmhouse's wiring as well as much of its indoor plumbing.

TWO BATHROOMS
The indignity of herself and her three daughters having to use outdoor facilities in the chill of a Scottish Fall must certainly have spurred her ambition. For, within a fortnight of their arrival, they had installed two separate indoor bathrooms, both downstairs.

Trudy was an excellent cook and original thinker around whom people had always flocked, in her Stateside home. Matters proved no different here on the farm for Trudy, who had been determined to re-vitalize the farmhouse in every way possible. Apparently her plan included the wining and dining of the community and much trade and social interaction with the locals.

BARTER SYSTEM
Those who lent their expertise and/or muscle power to Trudy's renovations were rewarded by a hearty and delicious home-cooked meal followed by an evening of local home-brew, much laughter and more song. And anyone who imbibed too freely was invited to 'sleep it off' on foam mattresses on the living room floor - hence Daniel's suggestions that we pack our sleeping bags.

This particular Saturday, Tom, and a dozen or so of his American ex-NASA friends and neighbours, had just completed a busy work-day schedule at the farm. Following the last of the plumbing renovations, their elbow grease had made the house presentable, while Trudy had been busy in the kitchen, preparing a much belated Thanksgiving meal for everyone. Now as darkness cloaked the valley, and Daniel parked his van in the courtyard, everyone was famished, ready for supper and some home-spun fun.

ANCIENT WHISPERS
The exterior of the farmhouse looked quite imposing. And, standing in that old courtyard, one could easily imagine being there, 300 years before, when a more ancient set of friends and neighbours had gathered. Was that a horse's soft neigh, a long sigh or distant laughter I could hear? In this place, what whispers might my inner ear hear and what sights might my 3rd eye behold through the mists of time?

Before I could enquire further, our hostess greeted us warmly and bid us enter her home. Trudy looked much younger than her 35 years, and standing next to her 15 year old daughter, Daniel had been right, one might have mistaken them for sisters.  Even though she had fed a houseful of helpers during the day, while managing her 3 daughters and preparing a full evening meal, her smile revealed  serenity and her movements were vibrantly youthful. Such is the effect of true inner contentment.

Daniel and my boyfriend had by now disappeared through an inner door and into the dining room with our sleeping bags, where he remained chatting with Tom and an artist friend. I stayed in the kitchen, finding a platter for my iced fairy cakes, and then one of the girls sounded the large bronze supper gong. As in the monastery, everyone ate together, this time gathering around the huge rough hewn wooden table that fitted comfortably into Trudy's country kitchen.

TRUDY's COUNTRY KITCHEN
The centrepiece of Trudy's kitchen was her enormous Aga cooking range. Fed by seasoned logs gathered at the end of summer from their own woodlot, this range was well used, producing not only the day's  meals but also heating much of the house. Trudy served everyone a country portion of healthy pea-soup with freshly-made whole grain buns, that were still warm from the oven.   A steaming succulent honeyed ham, no doubt procured from a local farmer, dominated the table -  and our appetites - along with the au gratin potatoes and a variety of hot vegetable dishes.

As in the monastery, everyone paused before the meal to give thanks to the Creator for bringing us all together in love, peace and harmony. My boyfriend and I were also welcomed and thanked for joining the group for this auspicious celebration.  Then Tom made sure that every volunteers received an extra measure of beer, which had been made and amply supplied by their nearest neighbour. There was also a flagon of red wine for those of us who preferred imbibing the grape. We all drank liberally, toasting everyone's health, catching up on local news and enjoying the ambiance.  I personally was most grateful that Tom and Trudy's two new indoor toilets had been properly installed and were also fully functional.

For dessert Trudy provided crisp red apples plus an assortment of cheeses. I suggested that my fairy cakes might be added to the few dozen oatmeal-raisin-chocolate chip bars someone else had brought for sharing. But Trudy just winked at me and set my biscuit tin aside: "to save for snacking on later, when we adults will be able to appreciate them more". 

After dinner, while several volunteers, including my boyfriend, handled the kitchen clean up, while Tom led the crowd into the library where he dispensed drinks.  Trudy chose this transitional time to give me a quick tour of her wonderful old farmhouse.

FARMHOUSE TOUR
We had entered the house through a side door that connected kitchen to the courtyard and adjacent barn. From the kitchen, a passageway split into two around a centrally located ascending staircase, joining up again at the base of the stairs at the wide front-entrance hallway.  From that tiled foyer one could enter on of two huge 'reception' rooms that overlooked the grounds at front of the house.

Two smaller side rooms, adjacent to the kitchen, each faced a different side of the ascending staircase. One had been divided into two separate rooms, each containing the newly installed  bathrooms. The other room was a formal, empty dining room, that had been designated as our sleeping area for the night. The bathrooms and dining room were warmed by the heat radiating from the Aga in the kitchen. I remember counting at least half a dozen sleeping bags stacked next to a pile of foam mattresses.

Trudy told me that their kitchen was so large she had no need of a formal dining area, and was planning to turn the dining room into a Meditation Room.  This would house her collection of fine, local and largely donated artwork, that she promised to show me later. It seemed Daniel had already mentioned my interest in Fine Arts. So Trudy happily told me more about the incredible artist.  

SECTION 2 Chapter 6  Spiritual Art and Apparitions  More about Daniel and the ghostly happenings at Trudy's Farmhouse

Thanksgiving in Scotland

[the names of people and their houses have been changed to preserve their privacy]

TREACHEROUS WEATHER
It was the last Thursday in November, but already the frost had frozen the ground in the Eskdalemuir valley. To warm up the cottage as well as myself, I cooked up an early supper, stoked the fire and then wrapped up warmly and left for the day, a note to my boyfriend on the mantle.

By mid-morning I was ready for a bracing 7 mile walk to the Monastery, yet dressing warmly in layers somehow provided little defence against that bitingly cold north wind. So I picked up the pace, just to keep from freezing. At the time, I had no idea that the lowest temperature in all of Britain had been recorded in Eskdalemuir. But the wind surely felt colder than any I'd ever experienced growing up in the city of London.

After walking for about an hour, a van came barrelling towards me and stopped. The driver rolled down his window and I was pleasantly surprised to see Daniel, the cheerful young good samaritan who had driven me home from the Monastery.

"What are you, crazy?" his American accent conveying surprise.
"Didn't I say I'd pick you up at noon? Why are you walking alone, on such an auspicious day? Get in!" he commanded, opening the passenger door of his van.

Too numb with cold to argue, I meekly complied.

Through shivering teeth, I thanked him for fetching me.
"What makes today so special" I asked
"You really don't know?" He looked at me as if I'd just dropped in from Outer Space.
I shook my head, still shivering, and still none the wiser.
"It's Thanksgiving Day in America. Don't tell me you don't celebrate Thanksgiving over here?"
Without waiting for an answer he continued excitedly.
"No broth and bread at the monastery for us today. Today is for FEASTING! So we're having turkey with all the trimmings up at the old Duncan Farm. And you will be sharing our Thanksgiving Meal!"
"But I'm not American" I objected weakly.
"To share this occasion with friends and family, is all that is required" he countered "Nationality is irrelevent!"

"In that case, I accept" said I, smiling. But inwardly I wondered what I was getting myself into.

THE OLD DUNCAN FARM
The Old Duncan Farm was located several bumpy miles up a long-abandonned farm road. Upon arrival, we discovered a hastily printed note, pinned to the front door that read cryptically:

TURKEY DAY
EAGLE's NEST
LOVE & PEACE

Daniel turned the van around and drove like a maniac back along those frost-heaved roads till we arrived at the base of a large conical hill. During our journey towards "Eagle's Nest" I had learned that Diana had been one of Daniel's assistants in their NASA days. But she had travelled to Europe in the summer of 67 and had now made her home there!

The late sixties were the height of the Free Love era, when the Beatles and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi introduced Transcendental Meditation to the West. Diana had met Ted whilst travelling with a dozen others, by overland bus to India.

Ted, by contrast, had been an architect, living and working in the States. But he'd shared Diana's dream about building a home in the wilds of Scotland. And he had contributed fully to making their Scottish adventure a reality. They had scouted the area, on their honeymoon, and had immediately fallen in love with this sleepy hamlet and its budding Buddhist centre.

Eventually, we entered a barely visible driveway that wound its long way to the top of the hill and then we two were finally able to exit that van. The view from "Eagle's Nest" was indeed magnificent, with the entire moor spread like a carpet before us, the Esk river snaking through the centre of it. But howling winds discouraged lingering, so I turned towards the house and gasped.

HEXAGONAL WONDER
Before me stood an amazing modern marvel of engineering - a brand new eight-sided abode, gleaming pale gold in the low winter sunshine. The large tinted plate-glass windows had narrow posts separating each section, giving the impression that the dwelling was constructed entirely of glass! With a location that commanded such a magnificent 360 degree view, why not make the most of it.

A door opened and our hostess, Diana, emerged, greeting both Daniel and me like old friends. To my heart she did seem familiar, even though I'd only just met her, at least in this lifetime.

"Come on in and have a hot toddy, Ted is making them now. Go on through to the kitchen"

I had entered through one segment of the house, which contained a combined entrance-utility area attached to a laundry-powder room. Removing my boots, I now walked through the opposite door, into a central section, built around the core of the octagon. This all-important hub supported the roof and also serviced the open plan living-dining-kitchen area, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, utility-entrance and a small powder room.

Following the mouth-watering aroma of roasting turkey, I arrived in a modern, open-plan kitchen/dining/living room, that comprised three full sections of the octagon. Gleaming custom units, wrapped around the centre hub against the inner living room wall, with a door or two for access. A curved melamine kitchen island demarcated the kitchen and provided counter space which now supported the hot rum-toddy bar. Extending through two entire sections of the large living room, was an enormous dining table which had been lavishly set to feed 20.

RUM TODDY
Ted greeted us, a steaming drink, complete with cinnamon stick, in each hand, and bid us welcome to his and Diana's home. Daniel and I gratefully sipped our hot toddies and toasted frequently to their health.

"What happened up at the old Duncan Farm? Why the change of plans, Ted?" asked Daniel

"Their water pipes froze" explained Ted "There's no insulation in these old Scottish buildings!"

"And then, when Diana had a premonition that we'd be having a crowd here at Thanksgiving there was just no stopping her." said Ted, sliding a loving arm round his wife's thickening waist. From the way Diana rubbed her belly, I surmised the couple were expecting their first child. I smiled at Diana, sharing in her happiness

"It's a beautiful home" I chimed in "Did you build it yourselves?"
"Not exactly!" replied Ted "We bought it, almost complete, from a fellow whose wife changed her mind about moving here when she learned that Eskdalemuir was on record as having the coldest weather in Britain! So you could say that we got lucky!"
"We are lucky OUR pipes didn't also freeze!" interjected Diana
"If they had," agreed Ted "we'd no be having a Turkey Day!"

I cringed as Ted attempted to mimic our local Scottish brogue. 
  
CONGENIAL COMPANY
The afternoon passed in a blur of delicous food, endless libations and interesting conversations that ranged from oriental travel tales to Thanksgivings past, all in an accent I could readily understand.

Diana's friends and estwhile colleagues turned out to be some of the more well-established NASA pensioners, who were clearly very much at home around her table. But other neighbours were also warmly greetly when they dropped by for a chat after the meal. Apparently Ted's Toddies had already become legendary, even amongst Scottish locals. 

I'd met and shared adventure tales with a fair cross-section of Eskdalemuir's new American-Buddhist community. So when Daniel drove me home that evening, I had quite a few invitations, complete with intricate travel directions, tucked safely in my pocket. 

It was not the kind of 'meditation' I'd anticipated having when leaving my cottage earlier that day. But sharing Thanksgiving with friends of my own age, who shared my spiritual aspirations, in this wintry back country in the Scottish Lowlands had been, in its own way, the perfect meditation. 

Certainly Ted's ever-present Rum Toddies had helped me to see things from a slightly enebriated 'altered state of consciousness'. Yet, had I arranged matters myself, I could have scarcely ordered a more perfect result. My Angels had known that what I'd really needed to warm my heart was congenial company and intriguing conversations. My days of solitude had ended.

When Angels help provide for our real needs, we should rejoice for the best is yet to come!
SECTION 2 Chapter 5 Living La Vida Local More Eskdalemuir Adventures with the NASA "brats"

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]

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!

***********************************************************

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.