# 4 The Golden Nectar

December 2008

I slowly prepare my space to write.

Light a candle. Some incense. Some music to envelop the room. A painfully weak bid to transport me back to a temple in Nepal.

I’m coming to a very real sense of how I have tried to use the practice of meditation as a salve for my own mind. To bring peace to my sense of self. And I feel in this moment how much I miss the full immersion into smells and sounds. Of daily ritual. Of offerings. The giving of oneself to the buddha, the dharma, the sangha. Of being held. By the mountain. By the boundaries of a temple. By the gentle roar of a thousand years of knowledge.

I walked from the open mountains through the arch of Tengboche Monastery and into another world. My muscles taut from ten days of walking into the Khumbu region of Eastern Nepal. 3,867metres. I had more to go. My mission - to take a prayer scarf, stitched with Scott’s name as far into the heavens as I could touch.

The chaos in my emotions pushed my body forward. Purging en route. Bleeding, puking, emptying my bowels into squat toilets. The body was grateful for a clear mission, after being in stuck shock for the previous nine months. Relieved that I’d at last given it a job, instead of repeatedly filling it with whisky, smoke and rinsing it of tears. Until I’d dulled each of its senses.

My mind was glad of the order and the routine. A bang on the door at 5am. Black tea and rubbery eggs washed down with watery garlic soup. Slightly stiff, smelly walking gear back on from the day before. A point on the horizon to aim for. Follow the sherpas in front. Simple. No decisions to be made. Just an ever onward path. Up. And an occasional wobbly rope bridge provided, to cross over deep gashes. Making the pass possible between steep sides.

There were plenty of opportunities to reflect on death. His. Mine.

Mishaps occur under lacklustre skies.

The days were brutal but the physical pain matched my internal landscape. Balancing it all out somehow. Scarf carefully folded in my rucksack. The white embroidery printed upon my minds eye. Letters merging with the snow that gleamed and shone against grey rock. Coalescing with the ever present ache at the nape of my neck.

The magnificent beauty of the Himalayas. So still. Undeniable against the red dust and friendly mayhem memories of Kathmandu. As the miles passed my mind slowly became dome like. Sky like. An ever rising blue. As we climbed the air got fresher. I could feel it cleansing my thoughts as it got pulled through the tubes and cavities in ever slower circuits.

As I gathered myself on a cushion my senses were filled. Incense thick as smoke. All the way up past my nostrils into my throat space. The disarming sound of conchs and bells and gongs filled my ears. Travelling deeper into my ear canal. Toward my brain. The red and gold folds of the Monks robes inviting my eyes. Neurotransmitters igniting. Chemical messengers on their way….

The softness of a cushion and a blanket gently handed to me with a nod of understanding. Of compassion. I could feel my arteries expand and soften with the rhythm of chanting, as the golden nectar between my mind and heart collided and coagulated.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked past the monks and their arms folded beneath fabric out onto the roof of the world. For a moment I felt rooted in that vast landscape. The millions of pieces that my life had shattered into all magnetised. And despite the thousands of wanderers that had passed this place before me, the hundreds of lives that had become shattered in other minds, that moment, in and of itself, was mine.

My love cry to the universe had been answered.

Please.

Place me in stillness.

#3 Majikstan

November 2013

Buzkashi – indeterminate number of men on horseback wrestling over a decapitated goat

Winner – rider who deposits carcass between two posts

Triggers - mayhem

Spent an hour last night looking for my new home. The “first dark hole on your right” had been my only instruction coming through the payphone. English guy. Posh accent. Faded with age.

There are Lada's everywhere. Everyone thinks I'm Russian. “Hey pretty, can you get me one?”. I was slowly followed by blacked out windows as I tried to find the apartment. Each of the apartments opened into a doppelganger soviet stairwell. In, out. In, out. Blue, red. Blue, red. All steel doors, all four foot wide. Nothing to differentiate one from another.

I need a screwdriver for the tap and a cocktail stick to make the kettle work. If you forget to turn the kettle off then it shoots the cocktail stick at whoever is doing the washing up. “The sheets have only been on for a week or so...”

Dushanbe, Tajikistan. An unsettled night in my new manager’s bedroom. Cravat, crumpled white shirt. The red capillaries merging within the skin of his nose. He had taken the sofa. I had caught him with a vodka and coke in one hand and a packet of babywipes in the other, frantically cleaning the grime on the bathroom mirror.

This is not exactly what I’d planned. Whilst I was in the monastery I had dreamed of the Pamir Mountains. Landlocked. China, Afghanistan and Pakistan looming in my night mind. I dreamt of halls of people. Singing.

‘Will there be singing in the bad times? Yes there will be singing. About the bad times’.

I wake to the sound of leaves being brushed into piles, then put into bags by hand.

Am glad I brought my mug with me. Something familiar. Resting on the windowsill. Third floor of an apartment block, I sit with my knees tucked under my chin watching the morning sun.

Up in the trees, perched like a bird. Carefully observing the courtyard below. Safe in the canopy. Scanning for predators.

By the time I left the building she was crouched putting the last of the leaves into her fifth black bin bag. She grinned me a grill of golden pegs. She had wrinkles I was envious of. Laughter ones. This woman became my anchor in the mornings. Beaming me warmth each day before I set out. And a nod. Words were never exchanged. But she understood my need for daily reassurance.

I slip my mask on before leaving to walk through the streets and markets to work. My head and hair covered. Three days after that initial night, I was greeted by a very serious looking Tajik woman on the street, outside the school where I was teaching. I had to report to the embassy. There was a problem with my visa.

…………………

Grief has led me to some faraway places. With nothing to tie me to ‘home’ I was left following my senses. My sweaty night time visions. The stretching in my heart.

Where now is a soulmate like you?

Having seen your flower-like face in the garden

I will hold your love as long as I live

Wherever I find myself, I want to be with you

Folk song, Tashkent

#2 The red step

July 2012

Words. Gathering on paper.

An evening is drawing in. A Sunday one. A lazy weekend has happened.

And you have brought yourself into focus again.

A fallen man.

Your letters arrived yesterday. Perfect timing. As I had given the weekend away. To myself. And could bathe in your thoughts without leaving the water. I’m getting quite good at what some people would call ‘nothing’. Nothing pleases me. I please myself.

I heard the postie draw up. Handbrake on. The crunch of gravel. And the ffffffft of some words being pushed into my house.

I knew it was you. I laid in bed a while. Sated in the knowledge of what was to come.

To the step. To read. And look. And be curious about the words that are now in my hands. They delay any activity.

I can see the sea sat there. An ever changing view. My pew.

I safely stowed the letters between my ceramic cup and the concrete of the step. My Saturday gently ran away with me after that. Hanging out washing, decapitating all the roses so I could make rose water. Numerous more cups of tea. And some avocado on toast. You have to travel to a big supermarket to find one of those things round here. Food of the gods.

I pulled a blanket from the sofa and disappeared into the grass in the garden. The two vegetable patches are the only tame spaces. Everywhere else has gone awry. I might need to borrow a strimmer to get to the washing line. But it means I can take all my clothes off and let the sun stroke my belly. Obscured by long grass. Hidden from view.

I sprawled on the blanket and reread The Symposium. Which I have now passed to you. Maybe you have read it. I first read it whilst in the monastery...

‘Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps not on the ground, but on the heads of men.’

And it wasn’t until I’d read the last few pages that I noticed Sir Humphrey Stanley. Stood, poised, in ink, on the front of an unopened card still in the airmail envelope from this morning. More words. Hidden inside him ‘Face on face, in temperate rains, windswept fresh, salty veins of waterwash, a-mixed with hair, the air pulls molecules, out of time in threads, and beads and trains, out there the sky engrained, nurtures seeds.’

I’ve told you before that you have somehow unlocked this writing thing. I’ve written whilst travelling, describing what I see. But this is something new. There are a lot of things I have to say. I think. About misfortune. And disaster. And what brings us home again. But I haven’t met anyone yet that makes me want to show myself or these thoughts.

Sometimes intellect and reason pull me back from expression. My voice gets caught in my throat.

It’s almost as if I have come to the window….

It’s ajar.

And obviously I can see through it. But something is stopping me flinging it open and sailing on through it to the grass outside. Shouting out words as I fly through.

So if we ever do meet…..and I am hiding myself inside some walls. Please feel free to kick the door in.

I played the piano for a bit. Got lost in the woods. Came back and put some lairy techno on, danced until it was late and I collapsed softly into the sofa. Slept long. We had tea. I think (it takes two to know). Did some gardening. Potatoes, swede, cauliflower, leeks, beans, kale, courgette, broccoli, lettuce. And some lucky dips, all doing well. I have been talking to them with love. On Sundays they get the pleasure of Sunday Service on Radio 6 whilst I weed around their bushy heads. It’s usually Jarvis Cocker. But he has been awol for the last few weeks so we’ve had Sid Vicious and the guys from Hot Chip and a couple of other peeps manning the church and our songs.

My church. My place of contemplation. A cottage high up in the Highlands. A garden. A red step. And an ever changing sky.

I couldn’t stay in Brighton after he died. Whilst everyone carried on, regardless. Their bucket and spades no use with the big fat pebbles. Tuppaware boxes full of salad. Beaming smiles and engagement rings. The Palace Pier roaring on the horizon with it’s high rides and happy lights.

And I couldn’t wander round Canada with my backpack forever. I tried. Until I received a letter from the government. I had overstayed my visa and overstayed my welcome. The monastery had welcomed me and my white hot mess of a mind for months. And with a steady routine, soft guidance and my surrender, I found some cool and calm insight. A different way to be. Like manna from heaven. But in true Buddhist fashion the wheel kept turning. Birth. Death. Re-birth. And the letter proved that change really was the only constant.

Scotland called. A new life called. It wanted tending. Like the veg patches.

And this works well. For now. Contemplating love. And loss. Whilst my fingers and heart are in the dirt trying to create new roots. Highland skies pierce through it all. Watering. Bringing the light, the cool breeze. Tending to me along with the vegetables. Reminding me of the beauty in all that growing.

I return to the red step. And smoke. Now watching the line between the sky and the prickly North Sea.

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And here is the nub of it. With a peaceful mind. And trust. And no expectation. Whatever we create. Is new.

#1 Meeting on the edge

November 2008.

Met Neil today. Instead of showing me how to edge the lawns he asked me about Scott. He asked if I’d like to know what he believes it’s all about. He said to ask him to stop at any time. I’m open to anything at the moment and I’m interested in anyone who has a belief system that isn’t preaching from an organised doctrine. He said nothing is an accident and Scott left his body at the right time. He believes that we are all part of a higher being that is unconditional love and that we chose to take on bodies on this earth as part of a learning and enlightenment process. Each life that we partake in is taking us closer to being whole. He describes Scott as having achieved what he had set out to during this period and that Scott and I had entered into a contract together. Our souls had previously dictated that we had chosen each other to experience this process and that perhaps the reason that I always worried about him going out the door and not coming back, was because on some level – I knew.

He said that Scott had given me an opportunity to grow and learn about myself, as what happened will have such an impact on the way that I think, and the trajectory of my life. He said that he could promise me that Scott was fine. More than fine actually. And that he was very present when needed. Time does not exist there in the same way as it does here, in this world. He said that karma exists and that people take on different bodies to develop and learn, and if necessary atone for what they have done previously. Everyone on earth at present is at different stages. But your soul chooses which body to take on, depending on what they need to learn or experience. He sunk his neat little spade into the brown earth at this point and repeated that if I didn’t feel comfortable with anything he was saying to just let it go. We looked at each other in the pouring rain. His eyes held clarity, still and direct. I felt I might just disintegrate at any point. I clung to the plastic handle of my spade.

He seemed so certain of his convictions, and said that it would resonate deep within me if I was ready and wanted to believe it. He said that I’d manifested the situation I was presently in, stood before him because I wanted the answers to questions I had been asking. He said that I now had experience that could help others in some way if I wish.

It’s all about the love.

I’m sure I haven’t encapsulated what Neil said very well. And after listening to him in that garden, teetering on the edge of grass and mud, whilst my rational mind was thinking this person is bonkers, my body undeniably felt more relaxed than it had in the last eight months. It draws a lot of parallels with what my cousin Emma spoke about just after the funeral. But in a lot more depth.

Neil is the most unlikely looking hippy I have ever met. But he seems so happy and content. Something tells me from listening to some of the conversations on site over the last few days that this is not a topic he openly discusses. I spoke to him about my thoughts of suicide and he said that it wasn’t an action to be judged negatively but there are experiences that will be gained in this life that I would only have to go through again and possibly not with the love I have received from Scott. I asked him whether these soul contracts involve all family and friends. He said that it does.

He said I had huge potential. And that Scott had given me a massive opportunity to learn about myself. It answers the question of the meaning of life. Why are we here? Just using the planet and different bodies to experience the whole range of feelings and emotions that are needed to become a soul that unconditionally loves. I feel a little bit wild even committing this to paper. I’d feel more than a bit anxious to try and explain this point of view to someone else.

I’ve spent the last three days working with a tree surgeon named Wesley. It’s not what I’d planned or intended but it feels good to understand what Scott did better. I think it was my first test to see whether I could work on the estate with the landscaping team, or not. They have been sensitive around the subject and it hasn’t been difficult. I told Wesley what had happened to Scott on my first day when he asked whether I had ever worked around chainsaws before. And he was shocked, but sympathetic. He took me aside today and told me my story had made him cry.

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Six weeks later I was deep in the Himalaya. Surrounded by the red and yellow folds of Tibetan monks...

Grief stories Coming soon…..

Grief ignited my journey with meditation. Has amplified my dance. And brought colour to both.

When grief arrives, it comes with the power of a hurricane. Has the power to collapse you. Then push you to new and transcendent shores. So much of the process remains unspoken.

I hope these stories come with the sensitivity to make your heart beat a little faster.

If the words on this page move you. I’d love to hear from you.