Rugged Interdependency - Amaravati Buddhist Monastery

Golden Highways Revisited: 1998June 26 thThe rainy morning passed with long chats and endless cups of tea, Brigitte andher mother having no shortage of material for discussion – numerous collectionsof photos and news of family and friends filled the hours, tales of Paris andMartinique, New York and points more humble.We rode up to Sutton Valence School for 11 o’clock and arrived at Father John’sdoor to be met by him alone. Jacqui, his wife, had been called away by her father’srecent death and so we headed up to the schoolmasters’ common room for themeal, instead of at their house as planned. Having had something of a grim experiencewith the school, as a rebellious yoof in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, I hadavoided all contact for years after I had left, even though my parents still lived onlya few miles away. Coincidentally it had been Brigitte’s late brother Jonathan (alsoan alumnus) who had persuaded me that they might be glad if I got in touch. Tomy surprise the Chaplain, Father John Watson, (a Church of England minister butwith close ties to the Coptic Church) responded swiftly and expressed great interestin my coming back to the school to give some talks. By this time, in 1998, I hadreturned on many occasions but this day’s do was to be the highest profile eventfor me so far – the newly instituted Graduation Day address.Jock McCormack (my former Latin teacher) and the Headmaster joined us forthe repast; the whole affair was dominated by Jock’s galloping nostalgia and theaccount of the most recent Old Boys dinner, at Leeds Castle. It was good to hear ofthe catalogue of names and histories but it is also painful to be living so much intimes gone by and in characters long departed from the stage; he also passed onnews of Chris Oliver’s funeral and gave me a transcript of a collection of his poems:pages of verses addressed to Moroccan boys and the pungent wit of an observanteye on the vagaries of human life.The afternoon hours flew by with more cups of tea and a stroll down the lanesto the edges of the Weald with Father John. The time for the talk soon arrived and,lo and behold, all was a bit of a scramble – being sandwiched in between a prizegiving and a cocktail party – there was a traffic jam in the quad and we began theservice half an hour late. It was a bit of a scrappy affair – chapel half full, everyonea bit flustered and rushed – but we bowled on through and I did a spiel onSiddhartha – “Wait, fast, pray” – and “Don’t just stand there like a spare groomat a wedding, Horner, do something.” How it went down I’m not sure (there werefew grateful comments) but, if even one person’s life is positively affected by theevent, and the words are not written off as sanctimonious codswallop but hang inthe memory and help them to awaken, it was worth the effort.Evading the cocktail party (on Father John’s recommendation) we headed backto the Burnett’s for an evening of England at the World Cup defeating Colombia2‐0. Major national hysteria for this: empty streets, power surges for the kettle athalftime, crowded pubs and midnight cries of “TWO NIL!!!” down Headcorn HighStreet – all attested to the sanctity of the affair. Although it only means they nowhave to face the great ARGENTINA on Tuesday…100