Farewell, Farewell

Farewell, farewell, to you who would hear,
You lonely travellers all,
The cold North wind will blow again,
The winding road does call.

And will you never return to see
Your bruised and beaten sons?
Oh, I would, I would, if welcome I were,
For they loathe me everyone.

And will you never cut the cloth
Or drink the light to be?
And can you never swear a year
To anyone of we?

No I will never cut the cloth
Or drink the light to be,
But I'll swear a year to one who lies
Asleep alongside of me.

Farewell, farewell, to you who would hear,
You lonely travellers all,
The cold North wind will blow again,
The winding road does call.

Lyrics: Richard Thompson; Voice: Sandy Denny

Dental Matters

Yesterday I had to visit the dentist. While some of us may be lucky enough to escape much dental treatment, I'm afraid I belong to the category of people whose life history is intimately bound up with the history of their teeth. My previous National Health dentist, whom I saw regularly for nearly 20 years, died suddenly in bed one night at a relatively young age. Since then there's been a succession of replacements possessing wildly varying abilities and personalities. None have stayed with the dental practice for long. One of these took an initial brief tour inside my mouth and almost wept. After some minor treatment I left feeling quite depressed at his pessimistic gloom. The dentist I saw yesterday was a new young woman with exceptional practical and communicative skills. She's probably the best dentist I've ever had. This is a poem I've just written about the experience. I went in to have my crown fixed but left with a tooth extracted - as beneath the crown the tooth had become rotten and infected.

Disarming me with your casual style,
You welcome me into the room
Next to the room of the dentist who died.

At your request I take a seat,
Lie down, relax, let go,
Like a patient on an analyst's couch.

I am in your intimate hands.
The chair spins as you adjust
The feng shui in your chamber.

I hand you my broken crown.
You laugh rather derisively,
Needling me to go the whole way.

My head tilts up then down.
I submit with a sigh to your desires.
Beyond my field of vision

Lie all the sharp instruments
Of your calling. I gaze fixedly
At the child's mobile on the ceiling.

You probe my mouth:
A gentle but firmly precise
Oral speleology. The female skills

Of needlecraft and stumpwork come to mind.
Gone is the sour cigar or garlic breath
Of certain male practitioners,

Just a clean, fresh lack of odour.
I feel nothing now. The tooth is out,
You say in an insouciant tone.

Later I'll feel the pain of loss.
Oh, Mistress Novocaine,
Let me tell you my dreams:

The purple sage of Mexico,
The burning sarsaparilla,
Hot chilli peppers in the blistering sun.

Do you know there are cavities
In the heart as well as in the mouth?
But you high-five your acolyte,

And I'm already far beyond your interest
When you politely shepherd me away
And turn to greet the next initiate.

Self-Knowledge Is An Endless River

The more you know yourself, the more clarity there is. Self-knowledge has no end - you don't come to an achievement, you don't come to a conclusion. It is an endless river. As one studies it, as one goes into it more and more, one finds peace. Only when the mind is tranquil - through self-knowledge and not through imposed self-discipline - only then, in that tranquility, in that silence, can reality come into being. It is only then that there can be bliss, that there can be creative action. And it seems to me that without this understanding, without this experience, merely to read books, to attend talks, to do propaganda, is so infantile - just an activity without much meaning; whereas if one is able to understand oneself, and thereby bring about that creative happiness, that experiencing of something that is not of the mind, then perhaps there can be a transformation in the immediate relationship about us and so in the world in which we live.

The Problems Of Living from The Penguin Krishnamurti Reader

Truth Is A Pathless Land

Don't follow leaders/Watch the parkin' meters Subterranean Homesick Blues BOB DYLAN

In half a lifetime's reading the 2 books which have affected me the most profoundly and have influenced me the most strongly are the collections The Penguin Krishnamurti Reader and The Second Penguin Krishnamurti Reader published by Penguin in the early 1970s. I remember vividly the incredible, life-changing impact these books had on me in my late teens/early 20s. Here was a writer and spiritual thinker who positively encouraged you to think for yourself, who rejected all gurus and teachers, and jettisoned any allegiance to nationality, caste, and religious and philosophical systems - regarding them all as man-made, mind-made constructs.

Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986) was born in India, and in his early years had been groomed by Annie Besant of the rather batty Theosophical Society for the role of World Teacher and bodhisattva, that is an Enlightened One who could teach the dharma to the rest of us (dharma being the teachings of the Buddha, or in a wider sense the Truth, or The Way Things Are, a concept akin to the Christian Logos or the Chinese Tao). After undergoing a profound spiritual crisis, Krishnamurti repudiated entirely this role, and spent the rest of his life speaking to groups around the world about his own revolutionary philosophy. Except he would not call it a 'Philosophy'. And he would not call himself a 'Teacher' of it. He saw that all theologies, philosophies and ideologies were intellectual houses of cards, comfort blankets created out of our own insecurities. He realised that all leaders, gurus and teachers brought about a dependency in their disciples and followers which was a block to gaining true self-awareness and freedom.

I can't possibly summarize all his thoughts and ideas here - you'll have to read his works - but if you 'get' what he is talking about, I assure you your life will never be the same again. At the age of 90 Krishnamurti addressed the UN on World Peace, and in 1984 was awarded the UN Peace Medal. In 1929 he made this statement:

Truth is a pathless land. Man cannot come to it through any organization, through any creed, through any dogma, priest or ritual, nor through any philosophical knowledge or psychological technique. He has to find it through the mirror of relationship, through the understanding of the contents of his own mind, through observation, and not through intellectual analysis or introspective dissection. Man has built in himself images as a sense of security - religious, political, personal. These manifest as symbols, ideas and beliefs. The burden of these dominates man's thinking, relationships and his daily life. These are the causes of our problems for they divide man from man in every relationship.

And The Winner Is...

Well, the results of the Great British Summer Courgette Recipe Competition are now just in - and, I must say, I've been having some fun cooking and tasting. What's more, there is a clear winner!

In final place comes Mister Roy with both his recipes (sorry, Roy, but someone had to come last!) His marrow-cum-courgette koan dish was just too, er, metaphysical (OK - I admit I didn't make this one), and his courgette lasagne, substituting strips of courgette for the pasta layer, didn't actually work, I'm afraid. You could just about get away with it by mopping up the juices with some garlic bread - but, after all, you really can't mess about with a classic Italian dish such as lasagne. I mean, the pasta is there for a purpose, n'est-ce pas?

In 3rd place comes the long-distance-walking, cheese-and-onion-pastie-loving Peewiglet (check out her website for her amazing pix of scrumptious Corsican dishes). Her simple, wholesome and - it must be said - very tasty courgette omelette, made of free-range eggs, was absolutely fine, as omelettes usually are - but just lacked that certain pizazz to wow the judges (me, that is).

Closely behind our winner comes Weaver Of Grass with her inventive courgette and garlic mash thickened with parmesan and crème fraiche, and served with pasta - very tasty indeed, and I liked it a lot. (Apologies, Grassweaver, but I didn't have a marrow highly developed enough to make your other dish.)

But 1st place has to go to Rebekah Scott over at Big Fun In A Tiny Pueblo. Her grated courgette, garlic and parmesan fritters, bound together with eggs and breadcrumbs, and served with garlic mayonnaise, were sensational! The contrast between the crispy outside, and the soft, succulent texture of the courgette and breadcrumb mixture inside, was simply perfect. (I've some more in the fridge just waiting to be fried and eaten.) So congratulations to Rebekah. I'll be making her Spanish albergue a definite stopping place next time I'm on the Camino...

The combination of courgette, garlic and parmesan is definitely a marriage made in heaven.

Thanks again to everyone for their recipe suggestions - I had such fun!

Give Me The Joys Of Life

As regular readers of this blog will know, I've more than a passing interest in Buddhism. One of the clearest, most well-written, succinct (but not simplistic) books I've ever read on the subject is Steve Hagen's Buddhism: Plain And Simple (1997). I quoted from this book in a previous post. Since I've been blogging a little on this theme lately, I thought I might quote again from Steve's book, which Robert Pirsig (author of Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance) called ... the clearest and most precise exposition of Buddhism I have ever read and went on to say: If you're looking for enlightenment rather than just scholarly knowledge, you'd better read this.

From Chapter 6, Wisdom...

Seeker: 'Teach me the way to liberation'.

Zen master: 'Who binds you?'

Seeker: 'No one binds me'.

Zen master: 'Then why seek liberation?'

Our prison, our dungeon, is in us. It's in our own mind, our own thinking. We strap ourselves in chains of our own making, and we do the same to each other. We train our children in the ways of bondage. All this is based on ignorance. We don't see what we are. We don't see our situation for what it is, nor do we see how to deal with it. As Yang Chu says, we pass by the joys of life without knowing we've missed anything.

Ordinarily, when you step on a path, you're going somewhere. You start on it, traverse it, and, if all goes as planned, you arrive at your goal or destination. The path to freeing the mind is not like this. This path neither begins or ends. Thus it's not really a path to somewhere. Furthermore, the moment you set your foot on it, you've already traversed it in its entirety. Just to be on this path is to complete it. I mean this literally, not symbolically or metaphorically. But first you have to step on the path. This is right view: you must have at least a glimmer that there's something difficult, askew, painful, or troubling about human existence.

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

Usually we hold a frozen view of ourselves as well as of the world 'out there'. We think we actually are something. We label ourselves: 'I'm a nervous type', 'I'm shy and withdrawn', 'I always talk with my hands, it's just the way I am'. In short, we identify with groups, behaviors, habits and beliefs. Because of a strong family identity, I grew up thinking of myself as Norwegian. I was probably in high school before I realized, 'Wait a minute! I'm not Norwegian! I was born and raised in Minnesota. I can't speak Norwegian. I've never set foot in Norway. How can I be Norwegian?'

Nowadays, when people learn I'm an ordained Buddhist priest, they often have some idea about who I must be - even when they have scant knowledge of Buddhism. For example, people often assume I'm a strict vegetarian. And while I never cook and eat meat at home, I have no problem if I'm served meat as a guest. (The Buddha would eat meat if it was served to him. He only refused meat if an animal was slaughtered specifically for him.)

Sometimes people tell me 'I'm a Buddhist, too,' and wait for me to rejoice in that. But, actually, after thirty years of studying the Buddha's teaching, after priest ordination, after monastic and other kinds of training, I don't think of myself as a Buddhist. Though I am a student and teacher of the buddha-dharma, I don't identify myself with it. Once in a while some event occurs where I'm compelled to step forward as a priest - or as a man, or as a Buddhist, or a son, or a friend. But most of the time it's not necessary to wear any hat at all.

When we latch on to an identity, it's easy to take offense. But we offend ourselves. We lock ourselves into very rigid ways of seeing and thinking and feeling and reacting. It doesn't have to be this way. The fact is, I'm not anything in particular. Nor are you. Nor is anyone.

Zucchini Hell

What to make of the simple courgette!/If you feed it the corpse of a pet/This humble zucchini/Will grow from just teeny/To a dirty great marrow, you bet.

Ha! I see the last foodie post has provoked more comments than all my philosophical and religious ramblings!

You know how I wrote a few weeks ago that everything has its downside? Every thesis its antithesis? Every boom time its credit crunch? Every glut its shortage, and every shortage its glut? Yes, you can indeed have too much of a good thing. Thanks to one and all for the recipe suggestions, but this courgette eater is now heartily sick of courgettes and is lobbing them into the freezer. The courgette and basil soup was the final straw. It was very strong-tasting, as I think I overdid the basil. And the pulpiness of the courgettes gave it a sickening, glutinous consistency - rather reminiscent of wallpaper paste. (It wasn't a patch on my other speciality 'green' soup - spinach - which is really nice.)

The pic shows a courgette that got away (zucchini Houdini?) and was heading towards marrow status until I twisted it off the plant just now. Could this be a marrini or marrette?

Courgette Heaven

Help! The courgettes are growing larger by the second. We've already had them in a tomato sauce with home-made beefburgers; on chicken kebabs; in a tomato and lentil soup; in a cottage pie made of fresh butcher's mince, onions, garlic, worcester sauce, chopped tomatoes, tomato purée, basil, oregano, seasoning, beef stock, and topped with creamy mashed potato sprinkled with parmesan cheese; and simply sautéed and made crispy in olive oil. (As you can gather, we're rather fond of tomatoes round here. Oh, and courgettes too, of course.) You have to pick courgettes when they're young, firm and succulent - as with beans - otherwise they turn into marrows (not the beans, the courgettes). Has anyone any more creative recipe suggestions?

The pic shows part of our vegetable garden and you can see sweetcorn, courgettes and runner beans.

Mindful Walking (1)

Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,/'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries'? From Afterwards by THOMAS HARDY

The longer I live the more I consider life to be a long, meandering, circuitous, eventful, aimless, up-and-down, weather-beaten . . . walk. Bipedalism distinguishes us from most other creatures and we've developed it into a refined skill. Walking is the most natural, the easiest, the most convenient, the most eco-friendly, the cheapest and, for me, the most satisfying and enjoyable form of locomotion. Possibly in the future our by-and-large sedentary lifestyle may cause our bodies to evolve differently, and develop shapes and features which reflect our current obsessions with sitting at the wheel of a car, sitting in front of a computer screen, sitting in meetings, sitting in front of TV. But for the moment — despite lack of funds for sport in schools, despite insidiously addictive computer games, despite increasing health problems due to obesity and lack of exercise — walking is what we do.

Often we just walk automatically without really thinking about it. But, as with yogic breathing, if we allow ourselves to be keenly aware of the process — a state Buddhists call mindfulness — the simple art of putting one foot in front of the other gains a whole new dimension. It's the same with all of our sense experiences while we're out walking. Observing, noticing things, registering that little breeze, that birdsong, that piney scent of rising sap in the trees — all this makes us more human, more sensitive to nature and to ourselves, more empathic with others. When I walked The Dales Way some years ago I was struck by how my senses became more and more acute as the days passed — particularly the sense of touch (the feel of that wooden stile or that limestone rock beneath your hand), the sense of taste (eating out of doors when you're hungry after a long walk is truly special) and the sense of smell (one of our most neglected, I think, but there's a wonderful opportunity to fine-tune it as you wander over flower-filled hay meadows — and through farmyards!)

On The Road With A Towel

Where was I going? What was I doing? I'd soon find out. On The Road JACK KEROUAC

The problem with the rat race is that, even if you win, you're still a rat. The Hitch-hiker's Guide To Europe KEN WELSH

On the drive back home from the Lake Distict I picked up a hitch-hiker in Ennerdale and dropped him off near Windermere railway station. He was a young climber and would-be climbing instructor and had never been to the Lakes before. His method was simple: decide on the direction you feel like taking as soon as you wake up, then walk, scramble and climb all the high ground you encounter on the way, regardless of footpaths. He was travelling as light as possible, but sensibly carrying a tent, stove and maps with him.

I tend to pick up hitch-hikers (not that there are many around these days) for I was once one myself. In the late 60s/early 70s hitch-hikers were a lot more common than they are now. It was quite usual to see them congregating in a shabby line at the top of motorway slip roads - thumbs in the air, Ban the Bomb and Che Guevara motifs on the rucksack, and cigarette papers in the top pocket of the blue denim jacket.

I'd like to believe this 'sharing a car' philosophy was a pursuit of 'green living' way ahead of its time - but the reality is: we were all completely skint. That - plus we entertained excitingly seductive hippie notions about Zen and Jack Kerouac (his book On The Road was our Bible) and interacting with strangers and the randomness of life. Hitch-hiking was a way of life itself, an existential attitude - going with the flow, rejecting convention and the rat race. On the road we felt closer in spirit to our Beat heroes.

Apart from On The Road, the other book poking up out of the side pocket of our rucksacks was The Hitch-hiker's Guide To Europe by Ken Welsh. This was a cult book of the 1970s. First published by Pan in 1971, I can't believe the final edition came out as late as 1996 - by then it had surely long since had its day. Among the book's many claims to fame are these: its youth-oriented and budget-conscious style makes it the forerunner of today's Rough Guides and Lonely Planets; it was the inspiration for Douglas Adams' The Hitch-hiker's Guide To The Galaxy; it was the book most stolen from public libraries in the 1970s; and its lightweight philosophy was far ahead of its time - remember Ken's 6 uses of the towel, for him one of the most important items of kit? (Scarf, groundsheet, extra layer of clothing, poncho, flannel - oh, and something to dry yourself with!)

My own much-used, grimy and beer-stained copy disintegrated in the back of a truck on a German Autobahn many decades ago. But I still retain an affectionate place for it in my memory. It was invaluable for its sound advice on when and where to hitch, and where and how to find cheap food and accommodation; for giving the low-down country-by-country on food markets, flea markets, youth hostels and campsites; for its useful list of addresses of embassies and suchlike; and for what seemed at the time its shiveringly dangerous knowledge of pawnshops, black markets and red light districts.

The early 1970s were golden hitch-hiking years for me - and I covered many miles this way in Britain and Europe. I remember Britain and Germany were always pretty good - but France was a hard nut to crack. A friend and I spent more or less one whole day fruitlessly sticking out our thumbs on the Parisian ring road. In the end a young student in a 2CV took pity on us and invited us back to his parents' house where we camped in the garden. He turned out to be a skilled maker of custom-built guitars. The next day he drove us to the Porte D'Italie - an egress from Paris where he (and Ken Welsh) assured us we would get a lift without too much trouble...

After several hours we gave up and caught the train to Lyon - then later camped in someone's field in Vienne. (You know how it is when you're young - it doesn't enter your head whether something is 'private' or not.) We made a kind of barbecue out of some bricks and metal grilles which were lying around. The next day Louis, the kindly but eccentric, Frenchly mustachioed owner of the land, told us some thieves had come in the night to hide their stash in one of his outbuildings. In fact we'd heard them and seen their car lights. Amused by and (I think) secretly admiring our effrontery at camping without permission on his property, he offered us a lift down to Avignon in his dusty old Citroen camionette. He was an itinerant knife grinder, and had all his knife-grinding equipment in the back of the van. It took us all day to reach Avignon on back routes through a wonderful landscape - I remember the miles and miles of vineyards - and it felt good to be speaking French with a genuine Frenchman.

These are the kinds of things that used to happen when hitch-hiking in those days. I could recount many more. But things got a little heavy when I had several unpleasant experiences - a string of lifts with some total weirdos, and one with a couple of guys out of their minds on drugs. Finally I packed it in after a crazy lorry driver tried to scare me a little with a knife. I got out the cab rather hurriedly and hardly ever hitch-hiked again.

Plantar Fasciitis

I've mentioned a couple of times (here and here) some pain I've been experiencing in the right foot. Actually it's plantar fasciitis, and I developed this condition after my long, 1000 mile Camino walk late last year. It's particularly bad on getting out of bed first thing in the morning - then it usually calms down, with just odd twinges of discomfort. Hard-core walking does tend to bring it on more severely, but the next day it usually settles down once again.

To be more exact, it's due to inflammation caused by excessive wear to the foot's plantar fascia - in my case manifesting itself as intermittent pain on the underside of the right heel. Having had this for more than 7 months now (it can take up to 18 months to cure) I've belatedly started taking care of myself a bit more: hot, soaking baths followed by ice packs; stretching exercises; resting the foot; and the avoidance, as far as possible, of walking in flat shoes, flat sandals or bare feet.

In extreme cases you can have cortisone injections and surgery - but I really want to avoid this as it can be risky to inject things into or operate on the foot - and, anyway, I'm sure my own condition is relatively minor, and will heal itself before too long. It can be caused by sudden weight gain - though on my Camino pilgrimage I did in fact lose weight. However, I was carrying a much heavier backpack than usual, and my feet did take quite a pounding, especially on the unforgiving senda of the Spanish meseta...

Muncaster Fell

On the Friday, my last day in the Lakes, the song of a nightingale woke me up. Or did I dream it? I'd packed up my tent and left the campsite by 9 am, and half-an-hour later had parked in the delightfully situated village of Eskdale Green, put on my boots, and pointed my feet towards one of the most westerly lumps of high land in the Lake District: Muncaster Fell. Not that it's very high - the summit cairn on its western side just scrapes a humble 231 m. But height isn't everything. In fact some of the best Lakeland panoramas are revealed from the lower fells.

Muncaster Fell's shape and features reminded me a little of High Rigg near Keswick. The meandering, up-and-down path to the top took me through ferns, by rocky granite outcrops covered in heather and gorse, across mini-marshland areas. From the summit you could see the higher fells to the east and north-east (1st pic); lovely, wooded, secretive Eskdale to the south and south-west (2nd pic); and the patchwork fields of the coastal plain to the west (3rd pic). You could also make out on the horizon the nuclear site of Sellafield - which is now being run by the NDA (Nuclear Decommissioning Authority).

At Muncaster Tarn (4th pic) I somehow missed the path down, and I'd walked a distance down Fell Lane towards Ravenglass before I snapped out of my reverie and realised my mistake. I returned to the tarn and soon found the correct path, which gradually descended under the cool shade of pine trees to the golf course at High Eskholme and the lane which clung to the base of the fell all the way back to Eskdale Green. This track seemd to go on forever and my right foot was hurting again. Foxgloves bordered the lane and buzzards mewed overhead. Eventually the path led to Eskdale Green station, a halt on the 7 mile long, narrow-gauge Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway, where I sat on a bench for a while and watched this train come in to the station (5th pic). The railway is now owned by a railway preservation society, and is very popular with tourists - but it was originally used to transport iron ore to the coast.