The Curious Case of the Curlew

Bush Stone Curlew

The Wisdom

Look! Look! he is climbing the last light 

who knows neither time nor error, 

and under Whose eye, unforgiving, 

the world, unforgiven, 

swings into shadow.

 –from "Evening Hawk" by Robert Penn Warren


Have you ever had one of those pivotal moments in which everything you had previously thought of as true and real, no longer seems so because your whole sense of reality has shifted gear and opened out into a wider dimension?

This 'new' perspective is so near and so natural we can't help wondering how we had never noticed it before.

I think most of us have experienced such moments during our lives. When they happen we feel that nothing will or can ever be the same again and 'truth' seems so very near and obvious. But alas, all too often and all too soon we lose the lofty heights of our momentary perspective and sink back into the dream...

And the 'dream' is addictive and compelling. We believe in the story of our lives and almost everything that we do or say or think feeds into the sturdy edifice of 'our story.' It is almost as though we cannot help ourselves because the story-line seems so believable.

And sadly, we almost never think to question our story or to investigate the nature and origins of our inmost sense of 'self.' As a result, our attention remains locked onto the drama of our unfolding life and we remain none the wiser right up until the time it is about to end.

Most of us are not even aware that we are fixating on a drama which is neither true nor real and we are accustomed to living almost all of our lives this way. For us, what is nearest and true, as our inmost nature, has become but a distant dream and what is dreamlike and passing is the obsessive focus of our day to day attention.

There is a nocturnal bird that lives in Australia, called a Curlew. It has a tendency, on occasion, to turn up outside windows and reflective surfaces where it appears to be mesmerized by its own image. It is not that it thinks the image is another bird, rather it knows instinctively that the image it is seeing in the glass has something to do with itself. There is an almost fatal attraction which compels the bird towards what it is perceiving in the glass.


In a similar manner, we human beings are infatuated with our sense of self-identity. We are convinced that we are what we appear to be.

We can learn so much from the natural world around us, from the wildlife, from the plants and in fact from every living thing.

Since I was very young I remember hearing stories about birds that
would appear just before or around the time of someone's death. In fact, I personally witnessed such a thing on more than one occasion in my younger years.

In New Zealand, where I grew up, these untimely or timely, visitations were considered, by the Maori, to be an omen.

Modern societies have forgotten about omens. Everything has been reduced to the small and narrow focus of what is apparently provable. As though the only reality we can identify with must be scientifically accounted for.

And yet, whenever something rattles our attention and gives us pause for thought, or better still, arrests our thought altogether, we come face to face with the 'unknown.' In such confounding moments, we entered the realm of the omens of awareness. We cannot understand them with the mind and yet on an almost subliminal level we feel deeply unsettled by them.

Getting back to the curious case of the Curlew.
Some years ago, while I was visiting Kuranda, a small settlement, in the far north of Queensland, I was surprised to see groups of birds occasionally gathered here and there around the town, usually near bushes and leafy parklands.

They were most often completely still and immobile so that one might not actually notice them until very near and then be startled by these strange, still and ghostlike creatures. They certainly made an impression on me.

I asked a friend about them and he told me they were called Bush Stone Curlews and that the Aboriginal people feared their appearance in a locality as harbingers of death.

Whether that is actually true or not remains to be seen, however, given the ancient origins of the Aboriginal peoples of Australia one might well assume that they would have cause to know.
I was particularly impressed by these birds and had the feeling of something 'other-worldly' which I always felt when I saw them or happened upon them on my way.

They are said to be primarily a nocturnal bird explaining why they move so little during the hours of daylight and have an almost dreamlike quality about them. Dream-like as in sleepwalking.

Then, quite recently I came across a story of a bird that appeared in a busy Brisbane suburb. One of this particular breed had planted itself very firmly outside an office building and was seen to be gazing at itself in the glass of the shop front for hours on end. In fact, it would come at the crack of dawn with the very first rays of the sun and leave again only at dusk when it became dark.

Of course, many people noticed it and the occurrence began to spawn much attention. So much so that a notice soon appeared on the window just above where the bird would stand in isolated and determined vigil gazing at itself in the glass.

"I'm a bush stone curlew," the sign read.
"I'm fine. I just like to stare at myself in the window."

Many people were alarmed by its behaviour.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Sacred Caves of Sikkim. Part 3

After a rough night camped out on a tarpaulin which we had laid out over the bare and none too clean floorboards of the cabin, the first sounds of life outside indicating the approaching dawn summoned us to rise early and make our ablutions under the cold water tap nearby.

We set about preparing a simple breakfast after which we got ready for our ascent and the final climb up to the cave. The previous day, a local person, possibly a native to northern Sikkim had arrived a little after us and set up a  camp nearby, he rolled out his bedding not far from ours inside the shelter. As we could not communicate except with the small store of Nepali words I knew we had not been able to get to know his purpose there.

 However, that morning we shared our small cooking fire and a few biscuits with him. It seemed that he was visiting the cave as well, but he set off some time before we got going that morning.

As soon as we climbed out of our camp we were confronted with steps rising almost vertically up the side of the mountain. The steps were narrow, steep and slippery. One careless foot placement and it could all be over within a flash.

We continued our steep ascent up mossy stone stairways that seemed to become ever more narrow and steep the higher we climbed. It was a somewhat cloudy morning unlike the blue skies of the previous day which had graced our journey in. Therefore we were a little anxious about the weather turning on us. This gave us some added pressure to our sense of limited time. We intended to make it back down to the lodge that same day and our descent on the slippery pathways was not looking any easier than the ascent had been.

Onwards and upwards we continued for some forty or more minutes, by which time the sun had risen and was beginning to peak through the early morning clouds.

Then, after a particularly exposed and sheer section of bare stone steps, we suddenly noticed a whole bevvy of prayer flags hanging over a narrow entryway and we knew our destination was now very near.

There was some clambering over difficult large boulders and then we were there, right in front of a steep cliff face and looking into several dark passageways. Interestingly, there was no clearly defined cave entrance to be seen, rather a series of gloomy caverns under the sheer cliff wall.

Small shrines were set up here and there with statues and offerings of butter lamps and flowers and bowls of water. Many had passed this way before and the pilgrims had left their offerings on the stone alters. There were all sorts of things from human hair to old malas and various other knick-knacks.

We immediately sensed a very powerful blessing in the place and although it was indefinable, it could not be ignored. Not long after we arrived the Sikkimese man with whom we had shared our breakfast at the camp shelter way below suddenly re-appeared. He beckoned us to follow him and as it turned out, this was a very fortuitous occurrence because we could never have found the caves which he was soon to lead us into had we been alone there. They were quite hidden from public view and not at all obvious.

Armed with nothing more than a small candle and a box of matches he entered one shallow cave near the main cliff-face and then disappeared over the lip of a very large rock.  We followed closely behind him, Frank ahead of me on the heels of our guide and me panting up the rear. Both of us had gas lighters and torches with us but even so the inky blackness within the mountain was utterly impenetrable and our lights seemed very meagre indeed.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Sacred Caves of Sikkim, Part 2.

A faded sign marks the beginning of our journey on foot. Here starts the trail to the northern cave of Chang Lhari Nyinpo. This roughly translates as the old cave of God's hill. The trail passes through dense forests of ancient trees, bubbling mountain streams forded by rickety bamboo and wooden bridges of dubious strength and construction.

We begin with a descent along a pathway paved with roughly hewn stones. They are damp but fortunately not slippery. However, one must be constantly vigilant as the stones are not level. They jut out from the soil in an uneven profusion and often add to the difficulty of the path rather than making it easier to traverse.

Frank leads the way into the dense forest that greets us at the beginning of our trek. Bamboo groves soon give way to massive trees dripping with orchids and ferns of all exotic kinds.

It is not long before he decides to find us suitable walking sticks. These simple branches will become essential as we progress on our journey. A stick is very necessary in so many ways and quickly becomes an indispensable trekking tool.

I don't have the greatest kneecaps and a walking stick helps me to balance and take some of the weight while climbing and descending.

There were plenty of bamboos available near the beginning of our walk so we chose a couple of sturdy staffs to help us on our way.

As we were both carrying our own loads in backpacks it was essential to be able to balance the load well, especially on the tenuous cliff stairways and hanging bridges that we were very soon to encounter.

I will have to admit that I did roll my eyes when we climbed up to the first dubious section of the pathway not long after setting out. In this particular spot, a bit of bamboo had been roped to the side of the cliff wall and it looked none too sturdy. Without luggage one can skirt these sections fairly painlessly but when carrying a load it becomes quite a different matter.

The surrounding trees were tall and magnificent. This first part of our trail passed through some very old-growth forests that had never been touched with a loggers chainsaw.

We walked steadily onwards and upwards. In fact, after the first thirty minutes of relatively flat walking, it was all ascent, ascent and more ascent!

I always find that the first thirty or forty minutes of the day is the most difficult part of walking. After that one finds ones walking pace and the going becomes much easier. After warming up the body finds its own walking rhythm and once you tap into that there is a momentum which seems to carry you along, not effortlessly of course, but slowly and steadily.

Frank and I seemed to manage our pace at about the same rate but I was aware that he was being very thoughtful and not putting too much distance between us. There were many places where large rocks or slippery wooden walkways made it a little challenging for me, especially with my load and he was always nearby to extend a helping hand. I should also mention that he had quietly taken the lions share of things which had to be carried.

Even though it was relatively cool, as often happens with trekking, we soon became very hot and sweaty.

A seven or eight-hour trek is not much to tackle, but when the trail rises sharply most of the way it can begin to get quite gruelling.

I am something of a seasoned trekker and yet, I do remember feeling particularly weary on this ascent by the middle of the day.

Our intention was to make it to a small and extremely basic hut which lies about an hour from the cave of Chang Lhari Nying Phuk.

Early afternoon, when we stumbled across a bubbling stream with large and inviting boulders along its banks we decided to take proper rest, have our lunch and a good break.

Only the occasional local villager had passed us during the morning and sometimes they had a few goats or yaks with them, but we did not encounter any other pilgrims along the path.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Sacred Caves of Sikkim. Part 1

Ever since I first came to know about the four sacred caves of Sikkim, I wanted to make a pilgrimage to each of them and as of now I still have not accomplished that entirely. If a chance comes my way, I will make another journey and endeavour to fulfil that wish.

According to historical records, the guru Padmasambhava was requested by one of Tibet's kings in the 8th century to search for places where practitioners could practise in safety during the coming times of trouble.

The four caves of Sikkim are deemed to be among the places which he blessed during his search. The spiritual heart of Sikkim is said to be a place called Tashiding and these four caves are located in the four directions which radiate out from this place.

Two of the four sacred caves are easy to find and two are more challenging being several days walk up into the mountains along slippery and leach infested trails. One, in particular, can be reached only along a very treacherous trail which leads high into the mountains. This is the cave in the West, the Dechen Phuk or Cave of Great Joy.

Two caves, Cave of the Dakinis in the South of Sikkim and the Rebungla Cave are easy to get to. Chang Lhari Nyingpo in the north of Sikkim, which roughly translates as the Old Cave of Gods Hill is perhaps the oldest of the four caves.

My German friend Frank and I were both keen to make this journey. Frank had spent a bit of time in the hills of Darjeeling and Kalimpong and when I had mentioned these caves to him was as eager as I to visit them. So in the year of 2008, we made a plan.

Our intention was to try and visit all four caves, however, Frank was by that time living and working in Germany and could only spare a few days for our proposed adventure.

Therefore we decided on one cave in the South which would be on our route into the hills north, where we proposed to climb up to the Chiang Lhari Nyingpo Cave and then we could visit if possible the other eastern cave on our way back down.

There would be no hotels or eating places on our way once we headed for the northern cave, so we packed a small stash of supplies to last us for a few days.

It was spring in the foothills, but still somewhat cool and also rather damp with rain falling on most days. the area to the north was flanked by dense forests and as we were yet to find out a very steep and slippery climb.

On our agreed meet up day, I rose very early in order to prepare for a big day of travelling ahead. It was a cloudy morning and I could not see the mountain of Kangchendzonga from my window, which would have been the case were it clear. I had to flag down a jeep from the road above the place where I was staying.

Ten minutes of concerted climbing with my luggage brought me puffing and sputtering to the gate of the forestry department. From here many jeeps would ply up and down the steep and narrow road on their way to Gangtok and Kalimpong.

Frank had already been a couple of days with a friend in Kalimpong so I was going to meet him at the turn off at the bottom of the hill which was several thousand feet below where I was living at the time. From there he would pick me up in a jeep which we had hired to take us up to the beginning of the track that would lead to Chiang Lhari Nyingpo.

That morning it was not difficult to flag down a jeep, find an empty seat and make my way down to the Teesta river. I got there a little before Frank arrived with our driver and it was not long before the two of us were heading east on our way into the Sikkimese foothills.

As the eastern cave was on our route we made a stop at Rebungla and found the trail that led to the Pe Phuk or the Secret Cave.

Honestly, we were both quite taken aback even before we even entered the cave. There was a very special sort of atmosphere surrounding the entire place and neither of us had really expected that. I guess we didn't really know what to expect. As it was already mid-afternoon, we could not linger too long in that place, however, we did take the time to sit near the entrance before climbing down into the cave itself. It was surprising how big it was inside. A large picture of Guru Rinpoche was placed high in the entrance to the cave as though guarding and protecting against unauthorised entrance.

Climbing down into gloomy interior we both wished that we had a guide. There were a few obvious routes that we could have taken in order to explore the vast cavern but they looked so small and we both felt claustrophobic just seeing them. It would also have required our crawling on all fours in the dust and then wriggling through narrow openings. Neither of us being of small Nepali or Sikkimise build we decided we might leave those excursions for another visit and we plopped ourselves down in the main entrance way instead and just imbibed the atmosphere of the place.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Kartok Getse, The Fearless Warrior

This post is humbly offered as a dedication to the memory of H.H.Kathok Getse Rinpoche, as we remember and honour a great and fearless Dzogchenpa. *

There are no random acts in the life of a Mahasiddha!
This must be loudly and clearly proclaimed because we ordinary beings with our limited perception perceive events very differently from those who come to this earth to benefit others.

Based on the evidence at hand, many would say that Getse Rinpoche left this world prematurely, due to an accident. But let us repeat. There are no random acts in the life of a Mahasiddha and nothing is as it appears to be. Transform this 'accident' into an act of supreme sacrifice and we come much nearer to the truth. Bodhisattva's appear in this world to remind sentient beings to recognise what actually is.

And this needs to be mentioned, in fact, it needs to be 'shouted from the rooftops' lest we forget!

And we do forget, constantly and miserably...

Getse Rinpoche was no more timid when facing death than he was in life. Having recognised the true nature of 'reality' he could move in this world without attachment and without fear. He did not relish the strictures of monastic life and yet neither did he shun them. He could 'dance the dance' while ever mindful of what really is and what really is, beckons us all.

In recognising that his time had come, he strode unflinchingly towards what awaited without even the least hesitation. By so doing, we can trust that impure karma has been averted and the unrelenting guru of impermanence has been clearly and unmistakably pointed out.

He had the courage to embrace the mortality of this earthly body and let it go when all the causes and conditions had ripened and in so doing he has bestowed upon us the supreme gift of the Dharma; that of remembering that we are not this body nor this mind!

He could gaze into the face of death without fear because he had established himself in what is deathless. In these impoverished times, when the Dharma is often practised without sincerity or determination, there are few who can understand the true activity of one such as this.

And yet here is the greatest teaching. Right here under our very noses. Not disguised, not edited, not covered over and not hidden. Right here and right now, as this whole mighty ship of samsara, within which we live, move and dream the dream of our lives, slowly and irrevocably sinks into the infinite ocean.

We, who are unmindful of what is approaching, continue to play out our lives, consumed by our dramas and our endless preoccupations.

Can we not give ourselves pause for thought? Can we not look up for a moment with an unclouded and undistracted view?

To the Lama who points fearlessly to that which is, we who falter in samsara bow down in profound gratitude for your immeasurable kindness...

*****

Geste Rinpoche
(shared by Tulku Jigme Wangdrak)

I was blessed. I met Getse Rinpoche soon after he left Tibet and arrived in India.
It was in the winter of 1997/8... It was in Bodhgaya.

Every day I had been passing many hours in a spot near the Bodhi tree, the place where the Buddha attained realisation. Just in front of me, a young Tibetan Lama was performing prostrations. Many hours of the day he was there, polishing the wooden prostration board with his gloved hands and long red robes...

In little breaks, we sometimes shared a few words and a few jokes. He knew a smattering of English and I a smattering of Tibetan.

One day, quite out of the blue, he asked me to accompany him to meet a Lama.
At first, I was hesitant, not wanting to be sidetracked or distracted. However, the following day, he spoke of this Lama again, impressing upon me, that he had just come from Kathok in Tibet, the place where my own teacher, Chadral Rinpoche, had spent many years.  When, on the following day, he asked me for the third time I began to take note. In a dynamic place such as Bodhgaya, unexpected meetings can come ones way and in turn be meaningful.

I followed him in the early afternoon through the market streets outside the stupa compound and into a small room in a simple building above the crowded bazaar. In that first meeting, I was somewhat taken aback, surprised, unsettled in a way which I could not quite understand. It was nothing which was said, as we merely exchanged pleasantries and discussed our respective teachers but the 'atmosphere' of this meeting somehow lingered on.

After that first meeting, I seemed to bump into him all over the place and at all times of the day and evening. I joined him and a group of his close ones on a pilgrimage to Nalanda and Rajgir one day and it was on this occasion that I became fully aware of his considerable power and presence.

During the bus ride on our way back to Bodhgaya that evening, he was facing me. Some hours into that journey, I suddenly looked up, as if prodded by some invisible hand. The first thing I saw was Getse Rinpoche's face and he was looking directly at me. He fixed me with a gaze for which I was entirely unprepared. If that moment had been in any way contrived, shyness would very likely have forced me to look away, but in the disappearing light of the day, my mind simply went blank and I was drawn into a vast and unfolding silence. His gaze was like a doorway into something beyond the universe. It was utterly riveting...

Before I knew it we were all clambouring off the bus and heading towards our various accommodations. He and I exchanged no words, nothing at all was said. After such a gaze, what could possibly be said? The world had stopped, period!

During that particular winter prior to meeting Getse Rinpoche, I had been deeply immersed in the mystery; 'who am I?' I had taken it as my main practice. Hours and hours I sat in blessed proximity to the Vajrasana seat beneath the sacred Bodhi Tree where the Buddha had realised the ultimate reality. I was determined to find a way into the ever-present portal of my own mysterious awareness. And then right there, and quite unbidden came one who had gone before, who had embraced the mystery, who could open the 'door,' and who was absolutely fearless and staring directly into the face of truth...

How can one ever repay such kindness?

I was fortunate to meet him on many occasions during the months and years that followed that first meeting in Bodhgaya. One can recount so many things about these times, but I will mention just one which comes instantly to mind.

One time when I was staying near Chadral Rinpoche's retreat centre in Godavari, he came for an unexpected visit. At that time a number of students were staying in the retreat centre inside the beautiful compound and gardens. Near the entrance into the retreat, Chadral Rinpoche had placed a notice announcing that none should enter the precincts therein save those mentioned right there on the notice. None would ever think to challenge the command of Chadral Rinpoche, an elder Lama, whose authority was sacrosanct.

Yet, after perusing the sign at the entrance way, Getse Rinpoche strode right on in, met with the students staying inside, exchanged a few words and a bit of banter and then went on his way again. Many of those who were there that day, were somewhat taken aback yet, this was quite in keeping with Getse Rinpoche's character.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Parvartimalai, Impossible Places

Parvartimalai

On top of a very steep and unusual chunk of rock sits an ancient temple. Parvartimalai is about 20 kilometers away from the small town of Pollur in the South of India.

A 3500-foot climb brings one to the entrance of a Siva temple which is said to be at least 2000 years old. This temple is perched on the very tippy-top of the rock summit. It is a hard and dangerous climb to reach that place and most certainly not for the faint of heart.

Since my earliest memories, I was always drawn to inaccessible structures in impossible places. Since hearing about Parvartimalai, a mere 25 kilometers north of Tiruvannamalai, my curiosity had been peaked. I soon harbored a secret ambition to climb up there,  see the temple and enjoy the surrounding stunning views with my very own eyeballs, despite the fact that I was no longer in optimum condition for such adventures.

Therefore very early one morning, I stowed a few snacks and some bottles of water into a daypack, jumped onto my 50cc TVS moped and headed off into the fading night to pick up my Telugu friend RC.

I suppose it would have been around six o'clock. It was a cool January morning, the very heart of a tropical winter in the South of India. I found my friend waiting in our pre-arranged meeting spot and very soon we were making our way along the still sleeping streets. We headed west from the town of Tiruvannamalai towards our intended destination.

TVS mopeds are not noted for their great suspension or speed, and we endured a cool and bumpy ride down country roads dotted with holes and various other unexpected obstacles.

As we approached our goal we could make out only the base of the mountain beneath a mass of swirling grey mist. Later I realized that it had been a good thing that we could not see the entire mountain before we climbed it because it is very likely I may have balked at the possibility of ever being able to climb it.

We had very little information as to where we should head in order to begin our climb but followed our noses and one small windy road which eventually brought us to a dead-end, a small temple and what looked like a well-worn pathway.

I parked the bike and locked it all up near the temple and we headed towards the mist. There was a lot of huffing and puffing for the first thirty minutes into our climb and then the body adjusted itself into a rhythm and it became somewhat easier.

Onwards and upwards we climbed, stopping only for short breaks to drink a little water and catch our breath.

We had heard that in this place, dogs are known to approach pilgrims and if they are smiled upon favorably by the local 'gods' these dogs might accompany one on the upward journey.

Very soon our first canine friend joined us with a very wide grin and amiable air and our group grew to three.

We took this as a good omen and continued on our way.
The higher we climbed the warmer it became and very soon the cloud cover which had been hanging over the mountain began to thin and then lift revealing the summit very far above.

During the first part of our journey what lay above us was mostly obscured by trees, shrubs, ridges and the folds of the hills which surround Parvartimalai. It took us several hours of steady climbing to scale this section and finally emerge on the lower limbs of the mountain directly below the pinnacle of rock on which the temple and some new buildings are precariously perched. 

Neither of us knew much about what we should expect to find on the way so every view opened up a new sense of wonder and surprise.

We soon realized that we had not brought enough water with us. A mere 3 litres, even on a winters day, in the South of India could barely assuage our increasing thirst.

The higher we climbed the warmer it became and very soon all traces of the early morning mists had disappeared.

Until that point, our only encounter had been with the dog which was guiding us onwards and upwards, not a single human being had crossed our paths. However, once we reached the stairway below the cliff which rose directly above, a few other pilgrims, all of them climbing from a different path which merged with our own, suddenly came into view.

At the base of the cliff, we removed our sandals and gazed up at the series of steep steps and ladders. In previous times, these luxuries had not existed and one would have been confronted with chains by which to pull oneself from one platform to the next. It all looked rather doubtful to me.

However, I was in no mood to even consider not continuing on with the ascent.

This was where we parted company with our canine friend and began the even more arduous part of our journey.
I decided not to think about what lay ahead, just to deal with one step and then another and see where that might eventually take me.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Snakes and Fear, a True Story

You are the guardian of a treasure,

Oh, just like a sleeping serpent

And you shall see, I shall make you

Spin around like that sleepy snake.

Listen to me.

 Jalaluddin  Rumi 

India's Snake Woman,  the Nagini Druvinka Puri

Why do snakes inspire in us, two-legged creatures, a sense of wonder and fear?

Surely this has been so since earliest times? Their link with the primordial wisdom state and their connection to a mysterious realm not well understood by us, warm-blooded beings, does nothing to diminish our sense of their strangeness.

In New Zealand where I spent the earliest years of my life, there is nothing more poisonous afoot that a slimy little bug called, by the Maori, a Weta. Snakes in the land of the 'long white cloud,' are creatures that one only hears about. They are somewhere else; from far and distant lands. They could have been from Mars, for all I knew or could really envision in the early, formative years of my life.

Then, when I was sixteen years old, I moved to Australia and in a period of a few short months found myself in the wild northern territories. The lands of numerous peculiar, primordial, creeping and crawling creatures. Crocodiles, lizards and spiders of all shapes and varieties and of course numerous breeds and brands of snakes.

However, it was not until I moved to a patch of tropical forest near the small town of Kuranda in Northern Queensland, that I had my first close encounters with many varieties of these creatures.

I had moved to the forest in order to 'meditate,' but the good Lord had other plans for me. On the very first day in that new world, I had two very close encounters with a tree snake. Certainly, this breed is not usually poisonous, so as far as a gentle introduction goes, I suppose this was it. I quickly discovered that there were numerous and far more dangerous snakes also living in close proximity.

The tree snake and I, however, shared my forest hut for some six months or more. We respected each other's boundaries after the first two startling encounters and soon settled into cautious co-habitation. The snake lived in the loft of my forest abode where it had found access via some gap or other near the roof. I felt that this resident was infinitely preferable to a Boer constrictor, the likes of which very much favor such places.

I learned many, many things in this new environment that I could never have gleaned from any book or school. In fact, in these few short months, a whole paradigm change took place within my mind, one that was, very effectively, to shape and prepare me for future adventures which were not very long in coming.

I went into this environment at the age of eighteen. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, had never lived alone in my life and was as naive and innocent to the wonders of forest life as a newborn babe.

One, among many adventures that took place during those months, recently made an appearance in my little store of memories. It virtually bowled me over when the memory of it suddenly resurfaced while speaking with a friend on some related matter.

Until that moment I had quite forgotten about it altogether.

I would like to share it with you as it was one of those formative experiences, the likes of which we all encounter under different guises at one time or another in our lives. Very often we are shocked to the core of our being, but then somehow magically, we forget all about it within quite a short period of time. This was what happened to me.

I am sure that my body and psyche have retained and to this day continue to retain some imprint of the psychic impact of this experience, hence this post. Let me endeavor to unravel it with you, it may stir in you some long-forgotten memory of your own.

While living in the forest in Kuranda I used to come and go from my hut to the village on a small road bike. At that time I was staying some distance from the town and the only access to it was via a gravel road which forded a small river and was soon after followed by a very steep dirt track.

I would make the journey into the town probably about once a week or more frequently if the need arose. One time I remember coming back from one of these excursions and noticing a small creek trickling down amid the dense foliage on the side of the road. It had been my experience in the recent past, when with friends, that at the source of these little creeks one could often find beautiful waterfalls and cool blue ponds.

We had made several such explorations in this area and they had all been well worth the effort. For some reason, that day, I was very much pulled to explore this particular creek even though I was alone.

My curiosity was piqued and I was feeling particularly buoyant and adventurous that morning. I parked my motorbike on the side of the road and took off up the side of the rivulet. It was a gorgeous morning and sunlight shone through the forest leaves in dappled strands. The coolness and the luxurious greenness of this landscape lured me like a promise and taking no heed of anything else I dove into it bounding from one rock to another as I made my way up the stream.

In this mood of great exuberance, I continued to climb on and on always hopeful that the expected waterfall and icy pool would soon appear. Probably about an hour into my climb I found myself among a sea of boulders and the stream had disappeared beneath.

All along the route, I had begun to discard various pieces of my clothing. It was getting hotter and hotter and I did not for one moment even consider that I would ever meet anyone in such a place. I continued for a while longer until it became clear that the stream was not issuing from any nearby waterfall but rather perhaps some hidden spring which was well beneath the boulders over which I was climbing.

Taking a moment to catch my breath I suddenly noticed a movement in the corner of my eye. I looked towards it and saw a very large brown snake glide soundlessly beneath the large rock on which I was standing. I froze with fear.
An instant terror just rose in my belly and I suddenly felt paralyzed.

By that time I had, of course, encountered many snakes in and around where I was living. However, what I discovered that morning in this completely isolated place was that I had climbed into an area that was literally crawling with these creatures. I became aware that I was being watched and not by human eyes. There were snakes basking on the rocks to my left and to my right, above where I was standing and beneath the rocks I was standing on. Finding myself in their midst suddenly left me feeling incredibly alone and vulnerable. I became painfully aware of my nakedness as though someone had just thrown icy water all over me.

Somehow the myriad eyes which were watching me were unspeakably strange, alien and frightening.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

The Whispering Ones, Secret Lives of Trees

Tane Mahuta. Lord of the Forest

I was deeply touched when my mother shared with me an experience which she had a number years ago with her younger sister, my Aunt Carolyn. Carolyn passed away several years ago from breast cancer and this particular incident of which I am about to recount took place a year or two before she died.

My mother was in Auckland visiting Carolyn at her beautiful home on the outskirts of that big New Zealand city. The two became very close in later years and my mother often made the trip north to spend time with her. 

The later visits were particularly poignant because of Carolyn's illness and yet despite this, they were also joyful visits and deeply satisfying as Carolyn never tried to hide or ignore the fact that she might not overcome her illness. She was honest about it and honest about the fact that she was not quite ready to face the ultimate challenge and yet one could sense that she was nevertheless facing her fears with enormous courage and coming to accept them in her heart.  She took the fruits of this precious 'teaching' into her everyday life with the understanding that every moment was precious. 

There was none of the anger that can often accompany an unexpected and serious illness. Instead, there grew in her an implicit understanding that sooner or later we all must face the 'great leveler' and being an utterly gracious and compassionate woman, she knew enough of 'truth' to know when to bow down to it.

One day, during this particular visit, she surprised my mother by asking her to get ready to accompany her. She would disclose nothing at all about where they were going. It was all rather mysterious.

They put a few things into the car. Loaded the picnic basket and took off into the cool and pleasant morning. Several hours they were driving along, stopping often to gaze out at the contrasting colors and beauty of the New Zealand countryside.

Eventually, they turned onto a dirt road and followed it along on the loose metal surface for several miles until they reached a small car-park. Still, without giving away anything as to the purpose of their visit, Carolyn climbed out and beckoned to mum to follow.

They wandered along a gravel pathway until suddenly they turned a bend in the path and right there before them was Tani Mahuta. The name was given by the Maori and translates as Lord of the Forest. It is a huge and very ancient kauri tree. 

The sheer size, the silent power, and majesty which rose before them so suddenly in the shape of this whispering giant made my mother gasp. It simply took her breath away. Never, in her entire life, she later recounted, had she felt such an instantaneous and overpowering sense of awe, quite spontaneously the tears had begun to flow down her cheeks and her immediate instinct had been quite simply to fall on her knees in homage.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Talking To The Animals

How would this change our world?
If everyone understood that all beings, whether animal, insect, bird, plant or even mineral, are sentient and therefore conscious; how would this change the way we interact with them?

If we understood and began to appreciate all living beings as 'sacred' and 'intelligent,' what impact would this have on us, and all the other living forms with whom we co-exist on this planet?

The mind boggles...

Thankfully this, something is shifting in the consciousness of human beings. Many of the so-called primitive societies understood and lived by the natural laws of respectful and sustainable co-existence. But in recent human history, most of these intuitive qualities have been lost and forgotten.

Awareness does not discriminate between forms. It is the inherent nature of all sentient life, however, and where ever it may appear...

The Wind in Your Hair

When I was growing up in New Zealand there was a motorcycle advertisement that used to be played a lot on the radio. It was before the days of compulsory helmets for motorbikes and bicycles. I can still remember the tune so clearly and the feeling which it used to evoke.

and if you don't know what its like to take a (cycle) someplace,

in your own time, with the wind in your face,

it's a great shame...

One of my unalloyed joys while living in India is that one still has a choice as to whether one wears the headgear or not, at least this is very much the case in the small temple town where I currently live. 

Most of us here, choose to ride un-helmeted.

Laws do in fact state that helmets are 'compulsory' but when I step out onto the street I am lucky if I count the helmets I see on one hand!

This is India after all. One seldom rides above 40 ks an hour on a good run and hey, my wheels are powered by a whole 50 ccs!

We all have certain things that just instantly make us  'happy.' Simple and innocent joys are the evanescence of our lives.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

For Kindness Sake

Leunig

"When in doubt,

It is better to err on the side of kindness..."

The immediate reaction of many upon seeing the cartoon above might be, 'oh, here we go again, another moralistic lecture...'

Potent images in the press and media of previous days have flooded cyberspace. In a world where the senses are overwhelmed by 'bad news' and where mass and tragic outcomes, which are often caused and then exacerbated by a relatively small group of selfishly motivated, greedy individuals, can cause the mind to shut off and tune the 'noise' out. There is always something going on. Recently I heard a new phrase, 'compassion fatigue...'

However, every now and then one image will emerge which will cut through all the indifference, through all the debate and all of the noise.

If there is a saturation point at which the mind's ability to cope with and embrace demands upon our 'conscience' then those which touch us directly at the level of the heart, have the capacity to summon inmost and boundless compassion. That fount taps into an inexhaustible ocean of grace which can swiftly bring all the other barriers down in one great crash.

Suddenly the excuses, the arguments, the ignorance and the indifference dissolve.

Like a bottomless spring that bubbles up, seemingly, from 'nowhere,' spontaneous acts of kindness spring from the depths of our being. They are not contrived, nor are they limited.

Imagine a world in which beings could exist without this?
Would you or I want to live there?

There is a favoured spot where I often go to watch the sunset and enjoy that final hour of daylight. It is on a small stretch of road some miles from the town. It lies in a rural area among rice paddies and open fields and has been slightly elevated. The only source of shade on this stretch is one isolated Tamarind tree of considerable age. Its generous branches have sheltered many a wayfarer over years and decades...

Yesterday I ventured there for a little respite from the noise and dust of the road and town and to my dismay found it had been cut down!

Little pieces of it remained scattered about. It felt to me, as though a senseless murder had just been committed. What has taken years to grow had been hacked down in just a few miserable minutes.

The scene of this 'crime' is now completely changed. The 'tree of refuge' which had harmlessly and silently abided in this place for so many years, was, no more. Gone the gentle atmosphere of shade and refuge; in its place a shade less expanse, strangely empty and now entirely at the mercy of the relentless tropical sun.

In contrast to this and not far away, the careful and back-breaking work of planting numerous Banyan trees goes on afoot. The vision of a few far-sighted souls who may never personally enjoy the shade or grace that these trees will bestow, but who, nevertheless are sowing the seeds that future generations will enjoy.

The effort required to plant and nurture each and every sapling is considerable and yet it is going on in striking contrast.

Every day we can witness acts of kindness if we make it our business to notice such things. Even when they may express themselves in the smallest of gestures they still belie something deep and fundamental to our inmost being.

There is much misery in this world; the sort that is often caused by careless, thoughtless destruction, yet the very same hands that are the cause of the destruction are equally capable of bringing about the most amazing transformations.

We need be in no doubt at all as to how important and crucial are the collective and small individual thoughts and doings of each one of us.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

When the Earth Begins to Tremble

Contemplating life from a lofty ridge in the Himalayan foothills can be a risky business, perhaps none more so than now!

Naturally, we feel that our meagre 'existence' is, in some inexplicable way, important to the world.

However, the 'reality' is incredibly humbling.

'We live, move and have our being' upon a mighty, living and moving organism, for such is this Earth that gives us the very foundation, sustenance and refuge that we often so roundly take for granted!

When the Earth begins to wake and tremble we all must stop and take notice...

"It’s more than unnerving to be tossed about in an earthquake, the whole mechanics of being caught up in the movement of the earth’s plates and tectonic zones potentially lays us open to a complete shakedown and not just physically but psychologically as well.

When I was about eight years old, I remember waking up one night in Nelson, my home town in New Zealand, and thinking I was being driven in the back of a horse-drawn carriage that was bumping over a potholed road at great speed. Moments later, I understood that it was the earth itself that was heaving, not some imagined carriage.

Now, so many years later, I find myself in a tiny, fragile hut, clinging to a small outcrop of rocks several thousand feet up in the Himalayan foothills and pondering over the impermanence of life.

I built my “tin palace” some years ago. It sits on a forested ridge about 2000 meters from any other human habitation, save a small retreat centre and Buddhist Temple. It is rather near the edge of a precipitous cliff that drops about 250 meters to a small cluster of houses which are nestled at its base.

I had often mused that I would not like to live just below this cliff, but when the earth becomes unstable, living on the top of it is also not such a pleasing sensation.

On the 25th of April at 4:45 am, my long time winged friend, a species of dark iridescent blue bird found in the Himalayan foothills, landed with a thud on the tin roof. This had become a familiar sound to me over the years. My eyes popped open in time to see one black eye peering over the side of the awning into my loft. She was letting me know that it was time for me to get up. I took a little longer to heed her call that morning and paid the price as she jumped up and down at five-minute intervals, reminding me, like a snooze alarm, that she was waiting for her cheese.

This had been our little ritual over a good many years. Despite the fact that I had only recently returned from 24 long months away, she had not forgotten and no sooner had I settled back in than she resumed her old habit of waking me up at the crack of dawn.

I was reluctant and slow to get going that particular day. No sooner had I taken my first gulp of Darjeeling tea than a furry head appeared at the little side window in my kitchen. Shortly after that, there was an almighty crash on the tin roof, as a large simian male dropped down from the tree above the hut. It was not a promising beginning to my day.

This was followed by various annoying and inconvenient visitations from hairy and hungry monkeys of all sizes and generations hailing from a large group that had been roaming about these forested hills for the past few years. Joining in the fray were three excited dogs, frantically enjoying the chase as they tore in and out through the bamboo railings of my fence and dashed around the base of trees as monkeys taunted and teased them from the safety of the branches above.

By 11am I was worn out with trying to keep vigil on my little stock of food and remaining pot plants and stay sane. All possibility of meditation and quiet time in the loft had flown out the window the minute these visitors appeared. Despite threateningly dangling my slingshot at the monkeys, who were by now making a sport of leaping from the branches onto my roof making the loudest crash possible, there was little I could do to keep the group at bay, so I just continued on with my usual daily routines as best I could.

Around noon, having no sooner sat down and taken a couple of mouthfuls of my midday repast, there was a strange tremor and creak. My first thought was, “monkey.” But then the tremor continued and increased. The hut began to sway and the wooden beams made strange creaking, groaning sounds. Soon I heard an eerie, deep rumbling sound. I managed to stand up and noticed that the water in the small pond outside was splashing back and forth.

It was a big quake, accompanied by all of the unsettling emotions of surprise, alarm, shock and fear.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream