CHRISTMAS EVE
Next to the geological observatory, a half-hour walk from Samye Ling, I stay in a small cottage, one of only two at the end of this steep, lonely path. Another family stays in the other cottage.
The cottage belongs to Angelo who is off somewhere, while John, "the wandering monk", looks after the house and the cat, Johnny. Johnny was once a stray and must have been badly treated as he freaks out sometimes and lashes out with his claws extended when you hold him close. The movement is so sudden that you cannot avoid his claws and end up with scratch marks on your hands.
The room contains a jumble of books, posters and pictures, guitars and a lyre, a harp and various drums, piles of letters and large, brown envelopes filed in boxes, chests and tables, baskets and racks of shoes. I've come across places like this before: no matter how many times you enter the rooms, there is always something new to discover.
Now I'm fed and watered and looking eastwards, out of the window at the year's first snow, gently falling from a windless sky.
This morning, Christmas morning, to walk through the forest of Eskdalemuir, with the fir trees silently watching, allows me to "lose" myself, more so than in the previous morning meditation, counting the beads on my malla, heavy, brown beads from the Bodhi tree that speak to me of peace and presence. The mantra om mani padme hum still on my mind, focused and untroubled by anything else, only the present swimming before my eyes - to be here now, previously not an easy state to be in, but now seeming just natural.
