Blue - a journey in poetry

DEDICATION A JOURNEY IN POETRY

This book is dedicated to Barney and Jean Caldwell - my sun and my moon

© Bodhidasa Caldwell All right reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or technologies now known or later developed, without permission in writing from the author.

Bodhidasa Caldwell is the author of this work dhbodhidasa@gmail.com This edition was developed using iBooks Author v2.2 adapting the Photo Book template. It is distributed on the iBookstore.

Photographs were taken and graded by the author on an iPad mini using the Camera+ app in 2014. The photograph on page 60 was taken by Karunakara Kurisoo and included with permission.

‘Intermezzo’ by Podington Bear http://creativecommons.org/ licenses/by-nc/3.0/ Body text is Helvetica. Captions, headings and titles use the font Futura.

Sky above Vijayaloka Retreat centre, Sydney

ii

The Avenue, Avebury

“Our desire to contact the realm of the archetypal also explains the popularity of tales of myth and fantasy, whether traditional, like the stories of King Arthur, or modern, like The Lord of the Rings and some forms of science fiction. Such works explore facets of humanity’s quest for meaning, and in reading them we are trying, perhaps unconsciously, to break out of the prison on merely historical reality, seeking to experience a deeper meaning to our existence.”

Sangharakshita

The Inconceivable Emancipation page 98

iii

View through the gateway of the Tower of St Michael de Torre, Glastonbury Tor

INTRODUCTION

I haven't as a rule liked the colour blue.

Being told to sit on the blue benches with the other boys when my friends, the funny girls, sat on the pink benches. Being informed that pastel blue Velcro fastened shoes were fashionable though no one else wore them. Teal blue uniforms stretched dangerously over shiny pubescent fat. My school’s House team colour, always last on the scoreboard. My father's navy suit frosted with dandruff and stray pipe tobacco.

To be honest, I hated blue. Blue to me was the ceaseless grind of conformity. And failure.

A four month retreat in the mountains of Spain transformed that, among other things. There my view of blue grew up beneath crisp skies amongst new brothers.

Eschewing a diary or traditional journal in which I might slavishly chronicle my breakfasts, irritations, superlative remarks about the landscape and moderate to poor meditation experience, instead I found myself spontaneously recording moments in words.

The poems roughly follow the course of the sixteen weeks living at the Guhyaloka Retreat Centre in Spain. Reading them again I see myself falling away, letting go into something stronger. There is also playfulness at times, perhaps drawing on an archaic Australian meaning of the word 'blue' meaning 'rude, naughty, licentious and wicked’, about which I make no apology. And there is sadness, the melancholic shade of meaning also conjured by the word.

Some poems came fully formed. This is particularly true of the short three line prayers vi

offered for my fellow ordinands. A few of these seventeen syllable 'low-kus' as I coined them, are included in this compilation. Others, such as The Demon were a struggle from beginning to its endless end; the writing process mimicked the internal conflicts with the titular demon. This poem is represented as a series with repeated stanzas, the hope being that it reflects the revisiting and slow process of integration that occurred.

The poems reflect the various phases of the retreat. The ‘Elemental’ structure came later when reviewing the poems and seeing recurring motifs. The final piece in this book is not a poem but a reflective essay based on a brief talk I gave at the Sydney Buddhist centre when the new Australian Order Members returned. Entitled ‘Me, the dragon and St George’, it ties up some of the threads in the poems. It is interspersed with photographs taken during the journey.

Many of the poems were written and presented to individuals, others were shared perhaps too readily with my room mate Aryadharma Matheson who was consistently supportive, even when the work was painfully arch. I rejoice in his patience, his capacity for creative comments and willingness not to laugh in my face.

smile of connection. I cannot hope for anything more.

All but one of the photographs that accompany the images were taken by myself using the Camera+ App on an iPad Mini. I confess to some digital grading of each image. The one of myself in the She Oak Grove appears with the kind permission of Karunakara.

Big hugs and words of thanks to Kate Orman and who offered highly skilled editorial comments on the early draft.

I am grateful to those who inspired each piece, to the team who supported us through the challenges in the secret valley and to Urgyen Sangharakshita who encourages us to embrace the arts to further our spiritual practice. But mostly, I want to thank my partner of 22 years Stephen Groenewegen who has been and continues to be a stalwart support on the path.

While I had adventures in Spain for four months beneath the uncompromising sky, he cared selflessly for my mother in addition to his own aging family.

I know which one of us was the more courageous.

May you all make good progress.

Honestly, all false modesty aside, there is little literary value in these poems. As I noted, this is a journal, a travel diary and as such it is at times raw and unrefined. The words may mean nothing to readers unfamiliar with Buddhism, but that is always the risk one takes in sharing something personal with others' eyes. For my brothers in blue who may stumble across this, the words may evoke memories and hopefully a tender

Dharmachari Bodhidasa

vii

SEEDS

The pines whisper secrets in the valley if only I'd pause and listen.

Stop chasing clear skies; instead hear the soft snaps and clicks of cones releasing trembling wings into outstretched hands.

9

BEE LINE

So many bees around the pee pits today - all that tea bringing sweet joy to their brotherly dance.

Industrious beings never distracted, loyal to their queen.

If only I were so striving for the nectar of meditation.

Instead, this afternoon, I had an unexpected sight of his cock...

There goes the next meditation session.

10

WOKEN

Crunched in my sleeping bag I groan and see my roommate pause mid dressing, startled.

Is it a thought, an insight or is it an enormous spider bound in black wire and malice? (or, if not malice, my fear at least) He leaves and I soon follow collapsing from the door into a chilled dawn held tight by pines.

And there it is, even now, caged in black strokes - an orange flame round and delicious.

It takes a while to see, frozen as I am, that it is the moon sinking to sleep its embers almost spent. by which time I wonder who's shared this vision and has their pettiness been similarly singed away?

11

DEMON (1 OF 5)

There’s a demon in the dark who vomits in my head, who bangs a shattered mirror showing deeds long dead.

There’s a demon in my mind who whips with words of hate and salts with disappointment misdemeanors small and great…

12

LABELS 1

In the kitchen a series of hooks are neatly labeled with names.

Here our mugs reside - clean or dirty, side by side, stained by hasty coffee from before the morning bell or scored with amber rings from tea long steeped.

Each mug stained or pure, facing left or right, chipped or pristine, rests on its appointed hook unless broken for a time and mended by caring palms.

Each mug, also, has a special mark penned in the drinker's own hand.

A few weeks in and my name, naively scribed in a childish circle, is fading.

Soon it will not know where to hang.

And perhaps, a new label may be needed.

13

LABELS 2

In the shrine room two rows of mats are carefully arranged with meditation gear.

It is here we reside - clean or dirty, side by side, stained by hasty words from before the evening fell or strained with lines from effort too long applied.

Each meditator, stained or pure, facing left or right, flawed and glowing, rests on his mat unless challenged by pain and healed by selfless men.

Each man, also, has his own story, held captive by his mind.

A few weeks in and my story, bound in childish needs, is rising up.

Soon I will not know those story walls, And, in time, will fly beyond my tales.

14

LABELS 3

It's obvious to me now why the retreat is held deep in these mountains I can't easily feed the anxious mind by struggling to decipher Spanish labels on the jam jars.

15

SECRET SHRINE

The shrine is elegant, symmetrical, a grand monument to striving.

Above sits inspirations - shapes of beings once clothed in flesh or born of light.

Lower still, but higher, is Purity.

Were it, for a sliver of time at least, to have a human host.

If so, it would be framed as this.

All is bright, illuminated by candles.

Each blue morning we are warmed with their glow.

On the side dried flowers, empty of life, bloom to gold with a wish.

More beautiful still, is the secret shrine.

On the honeyed floor reflected for those who see, are many small disks of light from the candles.

Together they form the simple image of a smiling face drawn, as if by a child.

Smiling in kind, I bow.

16

ROBES

Blue hems splash steps.

Whispers carve the stones.

Our devotion streams down the valley.

18

SICKNESS

Saraha has a cold though you'd be forgiven for not seeing it.

There he sits, not a sigh or a wayward sneeze let alone a cough, yet a cold he has.

A certain slowing of his grin a darkening of the skin beneath his eyes, a brief respite in the volley of his provocations are the only signs that something is amiss.

Saraha has a cold, yet, in truth he is more well than those awkward beings around him shuffling, rustling inwardly moaning who have a sickness far worseFor we, unlike Saraha, are sick with ourselves.

19

EYES*

As I sit before my brothers to confess - a hot coal in my mouth, a mire in my guts - you come to me again as you did so unexpectedly all those years ago when I bent my body before you though I walked a crooked path.

Then, as in this moment, burned by shame and trapped in self-wrought snares I saw you- No beheld you, was held by you.

To be frank, the execution of your sublime form was coarse, naive even.

But despite the rigidity of those hands (There's little perfection in fibre glass) it was as if you turned with grace and, delicately hooked my face in fingers of light, lifting my chin to meet your eyes your eyes your many smiling eyes so wet with tears.

To be seen so seen so seen for who one was and is and is yet to be

just tore me apart and those pieces fell into your hands your hands your many hands.

So here, before my brothers, and into their offering hands I lay myself open and speak of who I was and who I am and who I may yet be and again, I see your eyes, your eyes your forgiving eyes so wet with tears

as are mine.

* This poem refers to the Bodhisattva figure Avalokitesvara 20

UPPER

FOR KULAPRIYA

The upper spring released impishness.

Beneath a scowling cliff, in a cool green crater there was a dark and fusty tunnel.

Curiosity revealed a tiny door complete with jeweled handle the likes of which may have once enticed Alice.

Should we, could we, must we enter?

Though wary of dusty webs, we were uncharacteristically brave.

Struggling with the latch I wondered- would Saraha blaze forth banging a drum? would the stench of mummified ordinands assail us? was this the site of a secret shrine?

Well, basically, it was just a dank hole.

With pipes in.

But the thrill of not knowing was delicious- waves of expectations, anticipation and reality burst upon us.

21

LOWER

FOR KULAPRIYA

The lower spring went deeper.

In a rocky cleft of shattered stone and shards of rainbow glass, water flowed cool and free to feed wild rose.

Here a tenderness pooled around us, and from that honest, still place an absence welled up, and became an unsteady stream that flowed in words and thoughts, freely shared.

We were both incomplete.

Unreconciled.

Blocked.

For I held so little love for myself that you could scarcely fill a thimble, and he- well, that's for him to tell.

We trickled back to the retreat and our thoughts dried into silence.

I anticipate a day when we two will meet again on another shore beside a wider sea at the setting of the sun, and we shall dance together for who we are with all beings for who they are, adding to the salt of the waves our freely offered tears.

22

CONTRARY

Every afternoon the mother of God visits.

Yes, that's right, Mary.

She peers over the south ridge riding the Dragon's Back, her hands clasped in adoration, face beatific, inspired by Grace.

Actually, I try very, very hard not to think of Mary, but the jutting outcrop catches the light just so - I just can't see anything else So, I try to forget Mary, 'Mary Mary quite contrary' ‘had a little lamb its fleece as white as-” There's something about Mary Muscle Mary - NO! Don't go there!

Could it be I am craving a hug from mother?

Does that imply I have a Christ complex?

Christ, I hope not!

Aaron suggests that I do with a look he'd deny.

Is that also a trick of my mind?

Better still, I'll think of her as White Tara| listening to the cries of the world.

No wait, that's Kuan Yin who does on occasion ride a dragon.

Great, so she is a manifestation of Kuan Yin dressed as Mary... *facepalm*

Aaron agrees that it does look like Mary, though to be fair, he also thought my alternate suggestion of Botticelli's Venus was apt. (He is an artist, you know) Paul laughed and laughed then agreed, but he should know being an ex-Catholic.

Perhaps its best to think of her as a trick of the light - a nun-like visitation in the afterglow of day though she is, in truth, a trick of my mind.

23

DEMON (2 OF 5)

There’s a demon in my mind who whips with words of hate and salts with disappointments misdemeanors small and great.

There’s a demon on my back who weighs me down with grief, heaping stories on my shoulders made of shame and disbelief…

24

THREE KINDS

FOR MAITRIDA

Some days I am a monk - silent, outwardly serene.

Shaven, solemn, pounding the floor with ardent faith, guarding the mind from waywardness, serving our brothers as befits their need.

Some days I am a prisoner - restrained, inwardly railing.

Wretched, wriggling, yearning for the session to end, dreaming of unattainable delights, serving the safe habits of lifetimes.

Some days I am a shaman - free, vividly aflame.

Summoner, servant, singing for the welfare of the world, reforging the ore of my heart, serving the unseen truth before my eyes.

25

THE GREAT WORK

We wove a powerful spell on the valley.

For several days we have been wreathed in damp mist, hauntingly suspended.

The ashen smoke from funeral pyres is now a clinging shroud.

The ribbon of flame invoked by earnest hearts must be doing its healing work in the wider world - beyond our frozen realm our friends, families and loves are soothed with white fire.

But in this sheltered mandala the cremation embers have cooled, reduced to grey dust.

From them a greater fire must be kindled.

Perhaps then the veil will lift and we shall at once ignite and take our place in the sapphire sky.

27

FIRE

Grey clouds hold to silver cliffs dissolving space and form.

The hearts of us hold to a secret fire beyond and yet our own.

28

SILENCE

Hush, says the wandering wind.

Quiet, agrees the unforgiving stone.

Shh, whispers the knotted pine.

Silence, grumbles the rolling cloud.

Enough! proclaims the endless sky.

It begins, sigh the silent sages.

29

APHORISM

You can’t let go with a clenched fist.

30

ELEMENTS

Earth deserts me to feed the soil.

Will the next harvest taste of my bitterness?

Water drips from me to quench the ground.

Will the wild rosemary remember my tears?

Fire radiates from me to warm a borrowed robe.

Will new ordinands feel my embrace?

Air plumes from me to brush the peaks.

Will the guardians honour my requests?

Space vacates me to empty the cushion.

Will new meditators experience my release?

Self falls away to bolster nests with shaven hair.

Will the crested finches sing of our vows?

31

ABANDONED

An empty robe flies free beneath the washing line.

The golden wrens sing.

33

GAUTAMA

Still, so still the mind.

All distractions are becalmed in the one gone forth.

34

BUDDHA

That knowing smile reveals your great victorya mind freed from conflict!

35

AMITABHA

To the West I turn, freed from the darkness because your sun never sets.

36

GREEN TARA

Let loose one tear of joy or loss and she sings, “I’m a breath away.”

37

PADMASAMBHAVA

Gift me your anger and grief, for I have better uses for them.

38

DEMON (3 OF 5)

There’s a demon on my back who weighs me down with grief, heaping stories on my shoulders made of shame and disbelief.

There’s a demon in my mouth who casts me down asunder, with razored speech it slanders every fault and minor blunder…

39

PRAYER

Bowing before the setting sun, I surrender to the lord of Sukhavati- Sublime Amitabha, radiant Buddha of infinite light.

I offer all that is of beauty and of great fascination.

Before you I lay bare my troubled heart with its many failings born of desire, enmity and confusion.

Around me the efforts of others shine as bright as treasured rubies. With gratitude for their merits I sing their praises.

May your pure vision and great love always illuminate the darkness.

Please remain so that those who seek a deeper peace may be inspired by your tenderness.

Amitabha, may these sincere strivings bring only warmth and joy to the hearts of others.

40

DRAGON For an hour I walked in high topped boots - a makeshift staff in eager hands - along the sheltered side of the valley.

I marched through scented juniper, rosemary bright with blue flowers, companioned by the hefty chanting of bees.

It appeared as a low hill, more cairn than ridge, with no discernible way to mount, yet the Dragon's Back called me to rise.

Recalling warnings of deadly vipers and worse - things with too many legs - I was less courageous than the situation demanded, yet scramble I did, up the rising spine of the pale eroded spikes that sliced up from the spray of forest green below.

At times I lost my way, and footing, and soon was scraping down the scree, but determination brought me at last amidst the shoulders of the beast.

The great valley, with its terraces and softening sky moved me to bend the stillness with a gasp, soon eaten by the stones.

In time, I settled into the rocky saddle awed as the valley silvered in dying light, and fed by my heart's release, the great being beneath the crag shook its rugged shoulders, scattered the forest like foam, burst upwards on freedom's wings to be enshrined in the expanding sky.

41

DEMON (4 OF 5)

There’s a demon in my mouth who casts me down asunder with razored speech it slanders every fault and minor blunder.

But I love the demon in my life- it points the way to peace.

When it comes demanding battles instead, I offer fists released…

43

OUT OF THE BLUE

sinking moon cool room tender voices stable seat steady breath blue sky awakened one living tree wise sages crying mother traveling father patient partner expectant beings

bones glowing heart expanding bowl vanishing kapala appearing buddha changing milarepa manifests kapalas multiply billions imbibe jetsun sings stupa shines joy rises calm deepens love unfolds

sharpening light draining vices uplifting faces perfecting people

clarity

revolving stupa beaming rainbows glowing buddha giving bowl

stupa fades tree leaves awakened, gone sky blue

his bowl my hands opal nectar parched lips deeply drinking thirst quenched

breath unsteady seat stable voices silent room warming son rising

44

NAME

We all go into the dark earth like in the pagan times of old when kings were sent deep into the ground when their time was spent, (even if their life was not quite yet) with a certain reluctance, it must be said.

In such a way I entered the soil as an unnamed seed.

From this whitewashed tomb, this womb that over-crowded room I crawled renewed, renamed, reborn and I danced, danced, danced the rocky path back down, crying, laughing and singing wetly my name, my name my true, true secret name, but, with a certain reluctance, it must be said, silence soon dragged me to sleep where, in dreams, I cherished the secret for a few days more.

45

DEMON (5 OF 5)

But I love the demon in my life - it points the way to peace.

When it comes demanding battles instead I offer fists released.

I embrace the demon in my heart and welcome it to stay.

For when we forge no conflict then our pain dissolves away.

47

OFFERINGS

A beautiful white carnation, pristine, yet destined to be dust.

The world is of this beauty, even I am just as perfect.

All is pristine.

All is dust.

I am pristine dust.

The Buddha - beautiful, perfect, dustless.

To him I offer the flower of my life.

The scent of delicate incense, fragrant, yet soon an ashen stain.

Each of our words leave traces, even mine can be as soothing.

All is fragrant.

All is ash.

I am fragrant ash.

The Buddha - delicate, soothing, no residue.

To him I offer the perfume of my words.

A glowing white candle, luminous, yet soon a trail of smoke.

We all can banish the darkness, even I shine just as bright.

All is luminous.

All is smoke.

I am luminous smoke.

The Buddha - radiant, bright, trail-less.

To him I offer the candle of my mind.

48

RISE UP

When you sit across from me bent and achingly troubled, recounting the oppression of a life endured as a goodly boy a driven boy a caged boy I want to cry out Rise up!

Stand your ground even on these shifting sands and live!

Rise up! and love the face in the empty mirror.

When your eyes beg for freedom and want to live on open sands beneath a tranquil moon at last I see an honest man a tender man a courageous man and I do cry out Rise up!

Set your path one foot before the next and dance!

Rise up! and dance along the endless shore.

When you turn your eyes aside some story falling from your mouth explaining in acceptable terms your experience as a good buddhist a driven buddhist a caged buddhist I want to cry out Rise up!

Shape your own words from the stillness in your mind and sing!

Rise up! and love the voice that shakes the Void.

49

SECRET VALLEY Perhaps you are expecting a poem containing the words 'radiant' or 'unfolding', that explores themes of transformation or the precarious beauty of this human life.

I'm sorry to disappoint.

It is true, I freely admit, that we are garlanded in flowers, our minds pierced by sharp blue skies and hearts soothed by sinuous winds that sigh deeply through the valley.

More beautiful still; the half smile, a touch on an aching shoulder, the offered cup, a smuggled square of chocolate, an explosive laugh and the meeting of struggles in silence - these are the moments I am compelled to share.

Being one more comfortable with self in solitude, this love for company perplexes me and I sing of everyday kindnesses.

With each encounter an unfolding (there you go!) honesty and brightening of eyes.

This said, words are everything but the truth of things.

They point vaguely in the direction of meaning as a school boy waves carelessly at the daylight sky announcing the position of planets.

Here in this fellowship I have found the secret valley that has long been hidden.

Beyond words, books, papers, caves and dragons, gods and mysteries.

The true secret valley is found in the expanding space where men's hearts bare themselves fearlessly to each other and the moment.

50

IMPENDING

The moon though broken in two this night shines on in the silvering blue.

If only I might hold its brightness a little longer, torn as my heart, as the moon, as this moment is.

Meanwhile our time together slides into night and I venture to ask, will we ever again set our eyes upon the same dawn?

51

Gardens at Farleigh Hungerford Castle

On the border between Somerset and Wiltshire is a romantic ruin of a castle in which the bones of my ancestors lie. My father was descended from this long line of Norman immigrants and, in my view, a family reunion was well overdue.

For over three centuries the Hungerfords struggled to maintain their family seat as the forces of history, whims of kings, machinations of politics and gory family scandals threatened to tear them apart. Eventually, the proud Hungerfords of Farleigh Hungerford Castle sold their home with its ramparts and tower and elegant chapel simply in order to survive.

Not much remains of the castle. It is a ruin of foundations. English Heritage noticeboards recount the lurid carryings-on - murders, imprisonments and elaborate shows of affluence to impress. The inevitable gift shop sells wooden swords for children. Wine for the adults. The site tells a story of a family’s desperate need to impress and prove itself worthy of ever greater attention.

There is one building that remains intact and compelling – the family Chapel, but before recounting the powerful experience I encountered there, let’s travel back in time, not quite three centuries but just four and a bit months prior, just days before beginning the Ordination training course at Guhyaloka Retreat Centre in Spain.

Gatehouse, Farleigh Hungerford Castle

Dominating the seaside resort of Alicante is the fortified Castillo de Santa Barbara. The dramatic site compels tourists to visit and discover its rich, blood-spattered history.

Friends and I explored the stony hill fort one afternoon beneath a warm lapis sky. Across the narrow Alboran Sea, a thin smudge on the horizon offered us a glimpse of Africa

Well at the Castillo De Santa Barbara Alicante

Taking some time for myself, I came across the crumbling remains of a roofless chapel. Embedded in a wall niche was a contemporary sculpture of St George and the Dragon. I was captivated by the mystery of this image – how could an icon so quintessentially British (in my view) be found here in a Spanish castle? Alas, the mystery was solved too easily. Googling St George erased my wonderings with bald facts.

St George and the Dragon, Castillo de Santa Barbara, Alicante

George was a real person who may have been of Palestinian origin.

Accounts from Eusebius of Caesarea in the year 322 tell us of a Roman Tribune who was beheaded by the Emperor Diocletian for protesting the persecution of Christians. This Tribune was George. The Emperor Diocletian was frequently referred to in early texts as ‘The Dragon’. The image of St George slaying the dragon is thus a curious, arguably political and revolutionary inversion of the truth.

In 1348 England’s Edward III invested the now legendary figure of St George as the principal patron of his new order of chivalry – The Knights of the Garter. By the latter part of the fourteenth century the dragon slayer was elevated to the country’s Patron and in the year of Agincourt, his feast day became one of the highlights of the Christian religious calendar.

St George’s fame spread. Wikipedia, should you be so inclined, will provide you with a list of the diverse countries and cities around Europe who regard him as their patron and protector.

But to me, this small white figure frozen in combat ignited my imagination.

Here was a transplanted foreigner (a man called George) in a pitch battle against a demonic being of air and flame; a being both as sinuous as a river and as solid as a mountain. One man against an insurmountable opponent. A man against the elements. I felt I knew something of George’s struggle; after all, we all have dragons to face. (As it turns out dragons and demons were to be my constant companions over the four months on retreat.)

Leaving the dry air and golden stone of Alicante behind, we return to the future. Some four and a half months later I am in the damp green checkerboard fields of Somerset. I am poised to enter the sacred space in which my social climbing ancestors once prayed for recognition and revenge.

57

On the chapel wall, partially obscured by time, is a life size painting of St George slaying the Dragon. The beast itself is small and cowed in terror. Beaten. George is triumphant, strong, emblazoned with the Red Cross. The audio tour at this point informs me that the First Lord Hungerford, Walter, was a Knight of the Garter. This was awarded him due to his exemplary military service. And there, kneeling beside the crumpled dragon and the glorious George, is the diminutive Walter with his arms raised in prayer.

Chapel interior, Farleigh Hungerford Castle

Mandala hut roof tiles Guhyaloka

So, I am descended from an Order inspired by Dragon Slayers. 
 You might consider this to be the revelation, the profound experience hinted at in the beginning of this text. It’s not.

True, I had a sense of a spiritual continuity, of connection to a powerful, noble myth, but this did not leave the greatest impact.

That was to come.

59

Crypt of Sir Thomas and Lady Joan Farleigh Hungerford Castle

Turning to the left of the altar is an elaborate tomb of Sir Thomas Hungerford and his wife Lady Joan.

Their life-size figures carved in milky marble lie perpetually in sleep with silent dogs at their feet.

Approaching, I looked closely at the profile of Thomas. I paused and looked again. It was unmistakable. There was the perfect replica of my own father’s face, right down to the unique aquiline nose. Whereas my father had acquired the beaten shape through years of rugby, Thomas’ had done so through war and being punched in the face (I guess) when he was Speaker at the House of Commons. No difference.

Same nose. A genetic inheritance. Battle scars.

60

Looking back on the Ordination retreat, I remembered the battles with demons and dragons within and realized that St George went about the whole dragon ‘slaying’ scenario from the wrong end of the lance.

It’s true that dragons are to be sought after, hunted even, but not to be slain.

They must be repurposed.

The WEEE Man designed by Paul Bonomini at the Eden Project, Cornwall.

Bridle Path, East Chisenbury

The dragon associated with the iconography of St George is rarely depicted as dead; rather it is coiled in submission fighting back, suggesting its power is to be harnessed, not extinguished. The flaw repeated again and again by myself, my father, my ancestors, the Knights of the Garter and St George himself is in trying to kill the beast.

Dragons are not to be slain but to be known. They are not the enemy - the desire to win is the enemy. To beat, to fight, to tear down, to supplant another, releases more dragons like the hydra in Greek mythology. Conflict is perpetuated by conflict. My sense of alienation is empowered by fighting to belong.

63

Glastonbury Tor

There is another myth, another path for the dragon hunter unseen by Walter and Robert and all the other Hungerfords and their latter day Caldwell descendants. Were the energy once used to slay transformed into a power to train and nurture, a dragon might thus be tamed. Moreover, a dragon once tamed may be ridden, its fire directed by the skills and intent of the one in the saddle. Once ridden, the unbounded blue sky is one’s shared domain.

At Guhyaloka I learned the limitations of battle through seeing my tendency to fight all and sundry, dragon or otherwise. Now I have discarded my armour and taken up a different Standard. Armed with mindfulness, compassion, courage and tenacity, I have no need for shields or lance or the Red Cross. No longer a Knight of the Garter but a Son of the Buddha I have an opportunity, unlike my predecessors, to lay down the sword and take up the reins 64

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bodhidasa studying in the She Oak grove, Guhyaloka Photo by Karunakara

Bodhidasa (Steven Caldwell) studied English Literature at the University of Sydney majoring in a study of the Romantic poets. After obtaining his Masters in Teaching in 1996, he has worked as an educator of Primary/ Elementary and Middle School students within the independent education system in Sydney. 
 
 During this time Bodhisasa has been a drama specialist, technology leader, teacher of the gifted and talented, Director of Online Learning, curriculum coordinator, service learning support team member in Nepal, instructional designer, Churchill Fellow, Quidditch coach (yes, really), Apple Distinguished Educator, .be Mindfulness facilitator for the Mindfulness in Schools Program, consultant to The Department of Education, Employment and Workplace Relations for the National Arts Curriculum, meditation and dharma teacher at the Sydney Buddhist Centre as well as a game-based curriculum advocate. Consequently, he found little time to write poetry.

In 2014 Bodhidasa was ordained into the Triratna Buddhist Order on a four month retreat in the remote mountains of Spain. It was there he finally found the time.

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View from my bed, Guhyaloka. The Phoenix, The Dragon’s Back and ‘Mary’ on the far ridge.