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Rex, When Buddha said this world is a dream, that wasn't meant metaphorically. We conduct our lives as though everything we do has purpose and meaning, and were marching forward towards some great end. What meaning does a dream have? What meaning does instrumental song or an abstract painting have? I think you might be missing what I'm getting at. You don't want enlightenment, because it isn't something which will better your life. As a matter of fact it will destroy it. It is a complete and total annihilation of self, identity, ego, life and attachments to loved ones/things.. Awakening is death. A hollowing out of being. This world my friend is a big sand box, and we are just toddlers playing make believe with our sand creations. Hey look my sand car is bigger than yours! Look at my sand house! And my sand money! And my sand computer. Look at my sand man, and all his little sand friends! Somehow over the course of our game of make believe we forgot we are not the sand people in the sand world, but rather the makers of it. Enlightenment is reaching adult hood, and realizing playing make believe is a game children play. Walking out of the sandbox and trying to figure out just what the hell is really going on. http://youtube.com/watch?v=Z1RQmnSJoRg http://youtube.com/watch?v=AXmzcroUmdU

What did you do to cause the Kundalini energy to rise in the first place? The energy does not rise just because you want to. It can rise as a result of prolonged, mental stress and introspection and reflection of the self and who you are in general, or with drugs. Before my kundalini energy rising, I was heavily into analyzing myself within the context of Carl Jung Analytical Psychology. Before that, I was heavily into Nietzsche. It was a very stressful and dark time for me. My world was closing in on me and all I could do was to hanging onto what is really me. Once my mind was unlocked by the insights from Carl Jung's psychology (lots of writing and reading), I was liberated. It was like I became a new person. All of a sudden, everything makes sense. I have reached a new level of clarity. I was no longer in the dark about my life experiences. I was literally reborn. I decided to leave my old life behind and to start anew, going to a new college and majoring in something really new. I was majoring in law but was still a freshman attending your mandatory basic courses. Then, one night in my sleep, I dream of 2 Taoist immortals. Woke up and I had my first Kundalini energy rising experience, and to have completed the microcosmic orbit.

You have to be specific in what ways one can't meditate long enough? The mental aspect or the physical? For me, 1 hour is my upper limit. After that, my mind goes into a stupor and to begin to dose off. I would begin to lose my concentration. Once in a while my legs would be overwhelmed with numbness and I have to stop. I meditate in a half lotus position. I meditate in order to induce a Samadhi. I am usually very successful at that in the morning. At night, not so much. If nothing happens in 1 hour, I would call it a night. Then, I also do sleep meditation and here is thing getting strange. I would experience samadhi in my sleep and the nimitta light would transform into various dream images. I would usually end up waking up around 3am to 4am in need to go to the bathroom or waking up feeling very, very warm with an overwhelming chakras vibrational sounds ringing internally.

A slippery eel is right. Sort of like having a lucid dream. When I focus on something directly, it goes away. Have to look to the side.

It wont work because its not a being's real nature. As an analogy, most People think they are the film reel, when in fact they are the light behind the projector. So there is confusion. Caught up in confusion and not being able to see their own nature, they think the movie on the screen is their real life. This is where all the dramas unfold and where karma is thought to accumulate on a basically empty piece of cloth. Phantastical stories of ghosts and demons, dark, hidden recesses where the past lurks, deep, unrequited desires fuel hidden emotions, and anything, good or bad, can happen on screen, bringing to birth a plethora of phobias and neurotic tendencies. Its no wonder people turn to healers and exorcists, to create contrast and add layers to an otherwise dream-like existence, mistaking it for reality.

When a Child is a Child When the child was a child, it walked with its arms swinging. It wanted the stream to be a river, the river a torrent, and this puddle to be a sea. When the child was a child, it didn’t know it was a child. Everything was full of life, and all life was one. When the child was a child, it had no opinions about anything. It had no habits. It sat cross-legged, took off running, hand a cow lick in its hair, and didn’t make a picture when photographed. When the child was a child, it was the time of these questions: Why am I me, and why not you ? Why am I here, and why not there ? When did time begin and where does space end ? Isn’t life under the sun just a dream ? Isn’t what I see, hear and smell only the illusion of a world before the world ? Does evil actually exist ? And are there people who are really evil ? How can it be that I, who am I, didn’t exist before I came to be ? And that someday the one who I am will no longer be the me I am ? When the child was a child, rice and dal were enough for it, and it is still that way. When the child was a child, raindrops fell into its hands as only raindrops do, and they still do. Fresh cashew nuts made its tongue raw, and they still do now. One very mountain top, it had a longing for a yet higher mountain, and in every city it had a longing for a yet bigger city. And it is still that way. It reached for guavas in the treetop with the elation it still feels today. It was shy with all strangers, and it still is. It awaited the first rain of the season, and it is still this way. When the child was a child, it threw a stick into a tree like a lance and it still quivers there today.

Sifu Dunn, regarding the above post about seeing gold, I'm not there yet, but defnitely see the bluish energy at times while practicing, and at times while performing bodywork (massag therapist). Regarding the deep states of altered perception; I noticed within a month or so of practice that my mind was calmer and in more of a relaxed state. As I made reference in a post or so back, this is deeper than when I just practice silent sitting. The thing I noticed really quickly was the sudden "remembering" of past memories. good bad or indifferent, there would be long forgotten memories come out. Also, at times while meditating there has been some cool "imaginative" thoughts come through, specifically of being at the monastery as a monk learning the FP material ( I emailed you about it and will post your comments below for the benefit of the list): Comments on your FP meditation experiences: 1) Time travel is not that uncommon once one attains facility for deep meditation. Before I learned the FP Qigong system in 1992, my classmates in Tao Tan Pai and Shaolin 5 Animals Kung Fu would effect time-travel through a physical induction method described in one of the Castaneda books. And the FP Meditations almost instantly take people deeper than any previous meditative state. They just do. 2) Old or even ancient memories surfacing during meditation is not just common to FP Med. practice but to all sustained practice of "quiet sitting" meditation. Even if one just kicks back and relaxes and slips into a daydream mode, old memories often surface. 3) Your vision of visiting monks although purposefully imagined, may not just be a superficial imagining. It may be a clear access to a past life event. The way to verify that it was a past life regression is to go back into the dream, and continue the conversation/communion with the monks...and in the process pay more attention and remember everything that you see and hear and feel in the dreamscape. If you want to work on lucid dreaming, I can also guide you in developing that skill.

deep sleep --> sleep --> borderline --> waking life -->more awake--> extreemly awake--> more extreemly awake--> ultra awake... you think you can't be more awake or cristal clear there is always more to go. When 1040p didn't exist nobody didn't had an idea what it looks like to have 1040p picture. borderline is different its like dream, there's your picture is permanent(if that is the borderline everyone thinking it is?). Im rather thinking its absorbtion to 4th jhana where masters aer cultivating even for weeks, books tell that from there its possible to get the powers, and FUEL for doing powers, so you still are dependent on state. but its different when you go the slow path, path of purity and knowledge, but its not slow takes only couple years but probably lifetime to get any knowledge about powers. Eventually there comes the point where you can get whats on 4th jahan on waking state.

When not working on a show, I nap almost every day in between Qigong sets and walking meditations. All those naps I didn't want when I was four... I'll take those now thanks. Sometimes it's my body telling me to go under and then it's often the mind. I find a mid-day nap to be a bit like rebooting a computer. A quick recalibration. I also have had many valuable dream experiences sleeping at off times, allowing higher, more intense lucidity. Good stuff all around. I have yet to find a downside to it personally.

In Mexico they cal it siesta . I have had friends hear my voice; I mean friends a couple thousand miles away. I feel that when it is even stronger than a lucid dream that it is actually happening, somewhere somehow. And/or it is happening on a plane more dense than the astral.

lucid dreaming was fun, flying through the skys and maybe doing strange things without a care in the world..idk this isnt lucid dreaming though, lucid dreaming is dream like and not so real feeling. these experiences are real feeling.

And that is why some Native Americans use "Dream Catchers".

Embodying the role of saintly heretic, revealing the hypocricies of man, meshed in throes of hypocrisy; not bound, not free, no worry: night plum blossoms spreading under a branch between her thighs narcissus revolves smell it? she'd play with it almost anywhere day and night touch it with the deepest part of herself a beautiful woman's hot vagina's full of love I've given up trying to put out the fire of my body a butterfly hovers in front of her face how long will she sleep http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Ikky%C5%AB: Eight inches strong, it is my favourite thing; If I'm alone at night, I embrace it fully - A beautiful woman hasn't touched it for ages. Within my fundoshi there is an entire universe! My Hovel trans. by John Stevens The world before my eyes is wan and wasted just like me. The earth is decrepit, the sky stormy, all the grass withered. No spring breeze even at this late date, Just winter clouds swallowing up my tiny reed hut. Crazy Cloud is a demon in Daito’s line But he hates the hellish bickering. What good are old koans and faded traditions? No use complaining any more, I’ll just rely on my inner treasures. My real dwelling Has no pillars And no roof either So rain cannot soak it And wind cannot blow it down Every day priests minutely examine the Dharma And endlessly chant complicated sutras. Before doing that, though, they should learn How to read the love letters sent by the wind and rain, the snow and moon. Crow With No Mouth versions by Stephen Berg Hearing a crow with no mouth Cry in the deep Darkness of the night I feel a longing for My father before he was born ~ trans. by Soiku Shigematsu Void In Form When, just as they are, White dewdrops gather On scarlet maple leaves Regard the scarlet beads! Form In Void The tree is stripped, All color, fragrance gone, Yet already on the bough, Uncaring spring! mirror facing a mirror nowhere else the mind is exactly this tree that grass without thought or feeling both disappear not two not one either and the unpainted breeze in the ink painting feels cool nobody before me nobody after writing it nobody knows shit nobody lives anywhere hello dust! pine needles inches deep hug the ground no one lives here all koans just lead you on but not the delicious pussy of the young girls I go down on thirsty you dream of water cold you want fire not me I want the firm warm breasts and wetness of a woman a crazy lecher shuttling between whorehouse and bar this past master paints south north east west with his cock ten years of whorehouse joy I'm alone now in the mountains the pines are like a jail the wind scratches my skin the crow's caw was ok but one night with a lovely whore opened a wisdom deeper than what that bird said ...Among those who came to him for guidance was Murata Shuko, the most eminent tea ceremony master of the day. Visiting Ikkyu, he was asked what he thought of Master Joshu's well known reference to tea drinking (in spite of their different responses, Joshu invariably said to three monks training under him "Have a cup of tea"). Shuko remained silent, and at last Ikkyu served him a cup of tea. As Shuko lifted the cup to his lips, Ikkyu let out with a Zen shout and smashed the cup with his iron nyoi (Buddhist implement). Shuko made a deep bow. "What are you like" Ikkyu said, "when you've no intention of taking tea?" Without answering, Shuko got up and moved toward the door, "Stop," Ikkyu replied. "What are you like when you've taken tea?" "The willow is green," Shuko said, "the rose is red." Ikkyu, approving of Shuko's grasp of Zen, smiled broadly. ... http://sweepingzen.com/ikkyu-bio/ - A short bio. Keep note, that "Red Thread Zen" is not an actual Zen lineage and that he had a daughter, not a son. http://www.whitepine.org/wildways.pdf - Preview of "Wild Ways" by John Stevens http://thegreenleaf.co.uk/hp/Ikkyu/00ikkyu.htm - Selected poems by John Stevens and Stephen Berg

My personal experience is the following: Samsara is eternal. It's like a neverending dream. Nirvana/Returning to the Source (Tao) is too but you are free from the chain of birth, death and karma.

I am in my late 30s and I have mine around 18. My experiences were physically ok. No blockage or anything but mentally? Hahahahah....it took a while to realign myself. Is like you know your world you are living in isn't real. Due to the constraints imposed on you by the nature of Samsara, you are forced to play along. I did that. Got a job and earning a living. I left my long time job few years ago. Is like I have wasted my time doing that, playing along in the world of Samsara. Now, I am determined to break free psychically and mentally but is hard. I am not rich and don't have a lot of money and can't be in places where I think I would be happier. I find my refuge in my nightly meditation. My mind is passionately drawn to world, international events. To the point that I dream of them. Physically, I am healthy and engaged in endurance sports. No illnesses. I am not preoccupied by my sex drive.

I had a dream that I was in school and couldnt escape and it felt like a prison Which makes me wonder Does anyone think a lot of stuff and time spent in schools is complete nonsense Its kind of like babysitting service for the adults that work and conditioning people to the ideas Yeh there is a lot of great stuff too But when I have kids I wouldnt want them to be punished and have their freedom taken away for failing to keep quiet the whole time, or failing to do a so called obligatory piece of work How about schools that fail to educate children in stuff that really does matter, in fact even more so that some rubbish taught in schools today I want to create my own type of schools someday

Great points. I did two terms year 10 and one year 9 teaching a 'life skills' course at the local 'Steiner School'. Its a good system if implemented rightly ... if not then there can be some disciplinary blowouts; e.g. the teacher should graduate with the class ie. the same teacher as you move up a year. When I started, year 9 had already had 4 different class teachers for the year. Talk about a discipline problem! year 10 was easier as I already had a good relationship with some of the students before I was teaching there. Also 'being real' helps immensely ; put yourself in the same boat - kids wouldnt stop smoking, I was asked to address that ... after a real talk with the kids they told me some teachers smoked behind the sports shed, so why should they follow the rules if the people that made them didnt ? A very good point IMO! ... 3 rules - respect for them and you, consistency and dont lie ... simple ! Also realise you ( students and teacher) are 'on the same side' (which can mean not the side of admin ... the teacher should represent the students in this case). Perhaps discipline in the class works well if you are also their sports teacher ... and they do martial arts for sports . Most of them came from a great environment and stable backgrounds, a nice country lifestyle etc. ... doesn't stop all problems though ... but its a BIG help . Once the basics were in place ... it was a dream and very enjoyable ... great bunch of kids.

Careful what you ask for. Teaching is actually pretty hard. I taught martial arts and wonderful lesson plans and ideas often had to be thrown out the window due to kid craziness. Quite often the little suckers just don't want to learn. My kids certainly equate school with prison. My 14 year old constantly rants that there's nothing else for him to learn. Interestingly, my wife has visits from the common anxiety dream of being in school and either late or unprepared for a test. Since I was in that case so often in real life, I'm pretty much immune.

I get that same thing every single working day. It's not a dream either! Roll on retirement. :-)

I had a dream a few years ago where I was talking to a man about ascension. He laughed at me and said if I really wanted to ascend I should run a wire from a deep stake at the bottom of the mountain, to the top and sit on a metal plate connected to it. Then I should fly a balloon tethered by a copper wire, as high as I could and attach that to my head. I simply wrote this off as another one of my crazy dreams I have, I have a lot it seems. I get lots of weird advice like learning to eat gravity and other seemingly nonsense stuff. In my discussions with more advanced neigong practitioners, one thing however has come to light, which makes me wonder. It is absolutely 100% essential to meditate while connected sitting on a grounded surface. Grounded metal objects, or physically touching the earth is 100% essential. This is one thing I have been over looking, and not doing, and perhaps it is the reason for my very slow progress. It makes me wonder though, perhaps my crazy dream wasn't so crazy. I am not suggesting anyone here try it as it might wind up in a lightning strike, and death, but man it sure makes me wonder.

Monday to Sunday Morning Yoga / Qi Gong at Sunrise Organic Breakfast Mountain Trekking / Jungle Trekking / Nature walk (Discussion with Master along the Way) Organic Lunch Spa / Swim / Lemongrass Sauna Meditation at Sunset Organic Dinner Barefoot Shiatsu Love Making Around Internal / External Fire Read Chinese Philosophy / Religion / History Sleep Dream Repeat Peace FT

Friend: Could you provide a link or something to what you are referring to? I will search for BaguaKickAss here in the forums, but I am not sure what specifically you are referring to. All Else: Thank you for the link. I am browsing through it now, but it appears to be a very old thread. We really need something pinned with a listing of current events, in the way GrandmasterP suggested. I was too angry and frustrated to search last night. I figured someone would have done something like that. but I did not find it just browsing around, which is all I had the patience for. A few more things... I am not looking to be pampered something like a famous actor going to some luxurious resort, assuming this is what famous actors do. I just want to go somewhere, and not have to do any work. Is that being pampered? If the place happens to allow people to do work around the place to help cover the costs of being there, as long as it is obligational and I can do the work after I spend a week or so relaxing, I don't mind that at all. I just want a week or so, but I will be content with 3-5 days, where I simply have no work I need to do. Is that too much too ask? Furthermore in this place I would like to go for no less that 3 days to as many days past 7 as possible, I would like to be spiritually nourished in some way. Through talks, some sort of workshop, training in meditation or yoga, or both, etc. I guess I must be naive, but I would think a truly spiritual guru, master or teacher would not expect money, especially large amounts of it, from this they instruct. I understand that facilities must be paid for, and everyone needs to make a living, but do you really have to charge $500.00 - $5000.00 for teaching someone how to barefoot run, or lucid dream, or astral project, or meditate, or do yoga? Really? I mean if they are truly spiritual, and the place hosting them is run by truly spiritual people, shouldn't money be coming to them easily, so that they don't need to charge so much? How spiritual can you be if you are struggling with your finances? Something seems off here. I know that if I had anything to teach that anyone wanted to learn I would do it freely, simply accepting donations, and not expecting any payments. I would be trusting that the things I need are provided. And as far as I know I am not super spiritual or enlightened. So what's the deal with these other people? All I am looking for is to get away from a few things that I am stuck with here in my current living situation. 1. Work. 2. Having to figure out everything on my own, not having anyone of more experience to talk to. 3. A Christian religious environment where I am left feeling spiritually malnourished. I just want to get away from these 3 things, have a vacation from these 3 things, for 3-7+ days. I'll figure out how to get there, but the most money I could ever hope to raise is $200.00. So where does a financially limited, overworked and spiritually malnourished person go to get away for a few days in Oregon or Washington? Is there any place?

The bliss from the dream can be highly addictive. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-yydsy2tZw&feature=share&list=PL5EF9213C6626267F&index=24

How many truly enlightened people exist in the world today? If the stories are true Wang Li Ping, and a handful of others. Maybe 60 to 100 people out of 6.6 Billion, those are really bad odds. Even the Dali Lama admits he is not enlightened. Something isn't working, surely there should be more enlightened and ascended beings in our ranks if our current teachings were sufficient. I am doing my absolute best to research the most advanced and esoteric systems passed down by masters who have real power, and figure out what they have in common, what works and what doesn't. This seems to be a logical approach. So far I have found 3 masters with actual demonstrable power and all of them claim it is something which anyone can develop, but I digress. I am aware I might be wrong, but this is the conclusion I have drawn logically from all my research. I think above all else Buddha stressed logical and rational thinking in his teachings. i.e. if it doesn't agree with your reason don't believe it, no matter even if I said it. I am paraphrasing but you get the point. Accepting a person can be truly enlightened without some deeper understanding and control of the dream, is one such thing that disagrees with my reason. If a person came to me claiming they were enlightened, I would require proof to validate such a claim. I don't care how peaceful and blissed out they were. I don't care if they achieved true non-dual awareness. I don't care if they spoke like a pansy and threw flowers at me. That is just common sense to me. I don't think it is rational to accept such an assertion without some proof. My view of enlightenment, and ascension, are not in keeping with the "chop wood, carry water" analogy. Perhaps what I am looking for will only be realized by technological advancement and not through spiritual searching. A person carrying water and chopping wood and claiming to be enlightened, is in my opinion either in a state of true non-dual awareness, or delusion, and neither of those things really constitute what I think of as enlightenment. If a person were fully enlightened, they would be awake, aware of the dream and eventually able to control it in ways which would manifest beyond most peoples comprehension. If the stories about wang li ping are true this is what I assume a modern day Buddha would be like. Perhaps what I am seeking isn't really enlightenment at all. Perhaps its scientific apotheosis: a correct, complete, and total understanding of reality, the universe and all its functions, is more what I am searching for. Einstein said he wanted to know God's thoughts. I totally relate to his quest, and that is more in line with my idea of enlightenment. But then again enlightenment is only secondary to my goal of never being reborn. If this means existing as a spirit eternally, thats fine. If it means a state of total non existence that is fine also. Right now that is my main goal, everything else is just icing. All that has been stated here is merely my opinion, and I am certain it can be wrong. I have been wrong about a lot of things in my life. I seek power to awaken, and transcend this reality. I seek power to help heal and teach others, and make the world a better place. I view these things as morally correct uses of power. I am not trying to tell you you are wrong if you disagree with me. As to why I posted this in the first place, I don't really know. Sometimes I like just speaking my mind, and seeing what others think. Is that a bad thing? I don't feel I really need to convince you, if you disagree with me thats your prerogative. I'm not here to sell you on my view of things, I am just throwing it out there.

* Because it’s so easy to fall into comfortable and predictable habits, I thought I would post extracts from two stories that are completely unlike anything I’ve added here before. On one level, the stimulus to venture out into this new territory came from recently being engrossed for about two weeks in my third re-reading of one of these books. On a different level, it’s my suspicion that this appearance that most of us share,… that ‘spiritual’ and ‘secular’, our ‘religious’ life and our ‘mundane’ life, are somehow quite different entities,… is perhaps like our similarly shared appearance that the sun rises in the east, travels across the sky, and sets in the west. Who can deny the 'truth' of that appearance ? Yet, is it what is 'actually' happening ? Is me sitting here at my computer in my dressing gown somehow different a radically different action than me doing prostrations to the Buddha while chanting sacred, centuries-old mantras ? At this point I feel I should say that I find putting this thread together has turned out to be quite a learning experience for me. It makes me examine the choices of the stories I put here, and what it is about them that makes me feel that they stand out, in some way, from the endless sea of printed word accessible to us all. “But why these two books,… and why lump them together ?”, were questions that rattled around in my brain for several weeks before a satisfactory answer began to sift itself out. In the end the tentative answer came that they were both written by authors who were themselves products of dysfunctional families. And so too, am I, (without going into unnecessary detail.) I think there’s always an invisible strand of understanding between people who have been shaped during their formative years by some common experience. And from talking to many friends throughout my lifetime, it now no longer seems extraordinary to me just how many people grew up in what society has come to coin the newish term, ‘a dysfunctional family.’ But to cut too long a preamble short,…. The first two extracts are taken from “Swimming With my Father”, (by Tim Jeal) and the third one from an absolutely wonderful book called, “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry”, (by Rachel Joyce). Perhaps a bit of a warning for those who might well find them 'just too boring’. As praise-worthy as I found these two books, (and “Harold Fry” I would heartily recommend to almost anyone),… I should add the proviso that I think they would only really appeal to readers who are at the very least in their forties. My own life experiences tell me that until one has lived through a wider band of life’s spectrum of experiences, (in particular, marital relationships losing their sparkle, and the gradual aging and dying of our parents),… then, these two stories will probably find very little echo of understanding. But for those who have touched on these experiences, the honesty and clear-sighted observation of these two authors, and the life-enhancing way they’ve gone through, then re-emerged with a much richer understanding of their own life,… I think makes these books priceless gems of literature. As a final step into the unfamiliar, I’ll add two reviews of these books from Amazon’s readers that I’ve copied and pasted. They give an excellent general idea of the plots, plus, reviewers are simply authors of a different type of literature. The two I chose were, I thought, equally praise-worthy craftsmen of the written word. * * (1) Amazon Review of “Swimming With...” “What an extraordinary memoir of the author's father and family life. Whilst it is apparent from the unusual life views held by the author's father that he was an undoubted eccentric, the book is generously laced with poignant/painful observations of life within a dysfunctional family unit which ultimately I found movingly life affirming. The book relates the pain, embarrassment, guilt, love and confusion of growing up with an unusual father through initially the eyes of a boy and finally from the perspective of a married family man. The writing is nostalgic rather than sentimental and moves between humour and despair without bearing judgement on the subject of the book. Having read this book two years ago and being profoundly moved by it, I find that from time to time my mind reflects on events recorded in the book to this day. In the end, this finally prompted me to write an Amazon review in the hope that it might encourage a few more prospective readers to satisfy their curiosity and hopefully feel as rewarded as I was when I'd read this brilliant book.” * * (2) Amazon Review of “The Unlikely Pilgrimage…” "One of the sweetest, most delicately-written stories I've read in a long time. Ostensibly it is about a man, just retired, who sets out to walk from Devon to Berwick on Tweed after receiving a letter from an old work colleague who is dying of cancer. Harold pens a quick reply and sets off to post it, but somehow the posting of this letter seems inadequate. He decides instead to walk the 500 odd miles to Berwick, taking us with him. It is clear very early on that Harold's life has been a disappointment. An inability to connect with his son, (stemming from his own neglectful childhood) has driven a stake between him and his wife, Maureen. As a result what had once been a good marriage has deteriorated into a hopeless desert of non communication. It is during his long walk that we discover all about Harold, and Maureen, and their son David, and all about the long held grievances and misunderstandings that have culminated in their isolation and loneliness. Sometimes these memories are extremely painful and I found myself moved beyond belief at this fictional tale. One of the 2 star reviews on this page unbelievably states "nothing much happens". Nothing could be further from the truth. Everything happens as this endearing man struggles to make sense of his life and struggles to find hope and optimism after a lifetime of doors having been closed resolutely in his face. This is a story about all those things we leave unsaid, of all those regrets we fight daily to forget. Wonderful writing, clear recognizable characters, a story that won't leave you, and an in-depth-examination of all those weird and wonderful contradictions that make us what we are. * * (1) “Swimming With My Father “ Like most children, I once had immense faith in the protective powers of my parents. But while I never doubted that they would be around forever, I knew from the age of six that my father was fallible. On one of our many walks to Kensington Gardens via De Vere Gardens - where we would often drop in at the headquarters of the Order of the Cross - I saw in the window of a toyshop at the end of Launceston Place a little tin steamship with a red funnel. For a week or two my father held out against my pleas to be bought this beautiful ship. 'Some boy with a richer daddy will buy it soon,' I said pressing my forehead against the glass. But no richer daddy ever did pass by and wreck my dream, and in the end my histrionics paid off and my father allowed himself to be bullied into buying the red-funnelled steamer. I sang to myself and danced along, clutching a thrilling oblong box, bound for the Broad Walk and the Round Pond. In the past I had quite enjoyed watching other children's boats, but never had I known such happiness as I felt today approaching the water's edge. My steamship had a metal rudder, which if set to one side at the correct angle would bring her back to land again just before the clockwork mechanism wound down completely. At least a dozen successful trips had been made by the time my father announced that we would be late for supper unless we left Kensington Gardens at once. 'That's all for now, Tim.’ 'Just one more trip,’ I begged, shoving the boat into the water anyway. In my haste, I failed to set the rudder at the proper angle and my little vessel headed straight out towards the centre of the pond. 'Get a stick!' cried my father, knowing the boat must be plucked from the water immediately. But there were only a few miserable twigs to be seen. And there was my father, still sitting on a bench taking off his shoes, while my ship was almost beyond the point where she could be grabbed by anyone paddling. 'Please get in the water now !’ Unfortunately for me, his Herbert Barker shoes were worth vastly more than the boat, and he did not intend to get them wet. It was agony for me to see him losing yet more time struggling to undo the laces of his second shoe. 'Hurry, daddy!' But even as I spoke, I knew it was too late to wade in. I let out a wail which sent my poor father dashing to the edge, where he stood balancing awkwardly on his one shod foot, while his naked one waved about in the air - a picture of dithering indecision. 'Maybe the wind will blow it in again,’ he said, hopping back to the bench to put on his discarded shoe. Somewhere out there, roughly in the middle of that vast pond, my steamer's propeller ceased to rotate. There were always a number of ‘boy men’ at the pond, owners of magnificent yachts so large that they had to be wheeled to the water on trolleys. Because most of these boyish grown-ups stepped into the water to stop their boats hitting the pond's edge, they wore thigh-length boots. Although my father did his best to persuade them to take pity on us, all refused, saying the water in the middle would come over the top of their waders. But there was a rowing boat in a shed near the Orangery, and they said that for a fee of £2 a boatman would wheel this boat to the pond and rescue my helpless steamer. My father raised a hand to his brow. £2 was a huge sum - far more than he had paid for my steamer. 'Do you think it's been blown in any closer ?' he asked, gazing hopefully into the distance. 'I think we should fetch that man.' My father looked at his watch and, because we were already late for supper, reckoned he had little to lose by waiting till the breeze blew in my boat. That way he would not have to pay £2 or buy a replacement vessel. But, as the light began to fade, the wind dropped, and my boat became motionless on the glassy surface of the pond. By the time we went in search of the boatman, he had gone home. So my father had achieved the worst possible outcome, for me at any rate. I returned home in tears, without my steamship, to be told that our supper was inedible, though I seem to remember eating it. Lying in bed, I imagined how the fathers of several school friends would have behaved in the same crisis. All would either have got their shoes wet, or paid the £2. If only my father could turn himself into a bustling, young, car-owning, thick-haired, decisive father. The following morning when I woke up and looked around, I wondered if I was still asleep. My steamship was propped at the end of my bed. I reached out and touched it. In the dining room my mother told me quite matter-of-factly that after I had gone to bed, my father had returned to the pond with a torch. By now he would have left for work, so I wouldn't be able thank him till the evening. 'What on earth's the matter with you ?' asked my mother, noticing how stricken I looked. 'You've got your boat back, haven't you ?' * (2) “Swimming With My Father” Until the last two or three months of her life, my mother's mood had always brightened when I reminded her of some comical or bizarre story from the past. One that had always made her laugh immoderately concerned one of the rare occasions on which my father had felt impelled to take a taxi somewhere. On the afternoon in question, he had returned home from work to find himself so hopelessly late for a 'meet the teachers' session at Westminster that no alternative form of transport was open to him. My mother had set out for the school half-an-hour earlier and had left an angry note urging him to hurry, so he ran out into the Cromwell Road and in pouring rain managed to catch a cab - a remarkable achievement during a wet rush-hour. At the very moment of his success, a middle-aged black man splashed towards him through the puddles and rapped on the glass, before passionately pleading to be allowed to take the taxi since he was late for a concert. 'Maybe we could share it?' suggested my father, very loath to surrender the cab, but already wavering as he sensed a need greater than his own. ''Where are you going?' 'The Royal Festival Hall,’ replied the man. 'Hop in,' said my father, thankfully. ''We're going in the same direction.' They had barely reached Gloucester Road when my father’s fellow passenger opened the small leather case he had been clutching, and lifted from its velvet nest a glistening silver harmonica. 'I'm Sonny Boy Williamson,’ he declared, and because you saved my life back there, I’m gonna give you your own concert.' So, all the way to Westminster, while the rain beat down on the roof of the cab, my father was treated to his own command performance by the world’s most famous blues harmonica player. Given their many misunderstandings over the years, the fact that my father's death made such a profound impact on my mother is greatly to her credit and to his. Being of a completely different cast of mind, my mother never took much pleasure in his 'Great Thoughts Calendar’, when he tore off and read out the day's quotation at breakfast. But one morning I remember him declaiming: ‘Blessedness is not the reward of virtue, it is virtue itself,' and my mother surprised me by saying, 'That’s really rather good.’ Only once can I remember her being amused by a religious comment made by my father, but this one instance made her laugh many times, although the joke was on her too. In those dismal days when the number of her cats was ballooning into the mid-teens, my mother sometimes lost count of exactly how many animals she had. One afternoon, I was at home in north London, when the telephone rang. 'I'm really sorry to trouble you, but can you come over fairly soon? You know my little back and white cat, Smudge?' 'I don't remember him.' 'He's a her, actually. Well, she's been run over.' 'Where is she?' 'On the road over the bridge. Her body’s in the gutter. You know I hate asking favours, but will you please come now and bury poor Smudge in the garden. Joe can't manage, and I simply can't face it.' Since my mother had sounded so wretched, I came and collected the cat, which was still in the gutter, and to my relief had not been squashed. Rigor mortis had set in and the cat's legs were stuck out straight, as if she was made of wood under her fur. I took her back to the house, dug a grave in the garden near the bay tree, and covered her. My mother watched tearfully as I patted down the earth. She seemed so distressed that I offered to stay on for a while, but she wouldn't let me. So with parental plaudits ringing in my ears, I drove home again, knowing the blessedness of virtue - or some transitory approximation. Later that same afternoon, my father telephoned me. He had just looked out of the sitting room window and seen Smudge sitting in the flowerbed on top of her own grave. 'It's like the Resurrection,' he told me, joyfully, before ringing off. Minutes later, my phone went again. My mother could hardly speak for laughter. Smudge had just walked into the kitchen and demanded her supper. 'All the time, she was somewhere down the road,’ gasped my mother. 'I'm afraid you've just buried . . .' more helpless laughter, 'a complete stranger.' * * (3) “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry” Harold passed office workers, dog walkers, shoppers, children going to school, mothers and buggies, and hikers like himself, as well as several tourist parties. He met a tax inspector who was a Druid and had not worn a pair of shoes for ten years. He talked with a young woman on the trail of her real father, with a priest who confessed to tweeting during mass, as well as several people in training for a marathon, and an Italian man with a singing parrot. He spent an afternoon with a white witch from Glastonbury, and a homeless man who had drunk away his house, as well as four bikers looking for the M5, and a mother of six who confided she had no idea life could be so solitary. Harold walked with these strangers and listened. He judged no one, although as the days wore on, and time and places began to melt, he couldn’t remember if the tax inspector wore no shoes or had a parrot on his shoulder. It no longer mattered. He had learned that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, and the loneliness of that too. The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had done so for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same; and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human. He walked so surely it was as if all his life he had been waiting to get up from his chair. *