Part One

Early one Saturday morning I woke up in a state of extreme anxiety. I pulled on my clothes, rushed out of the front door, and headed for the nearest point with anything like a view. The urban landscape stretched as far as I could see - hard as I tried, I could see nothing beyond an infinity of concrete grey; no green, no nature, no nothing beyond the Big City nightmare.

Any ability to think straight was fast disappearing, but in a state of rapidly increasing claustrophobia, I knew that I had to get out.

It was as if a panic button had been pressed, and a programme of existential survival mode activated. I desperately struggled to come up with anything beyond the haze of confusion which now constituted my mind. At last something popped up: 'Paddington. Paddington station. You can get there if you try. You can get out of London from Paddington.'

The deep ghostly portals of the almost-empty Northern line early on a Saturday, followed by the District line. I disgorged onto the concourse of Paddington station, which seemed abuzz with humanity. Where to go? Where? Where? My blurred vision scanned the vast departures board for help. Marlow. Faint echoes from memory vaults told me that Marlow was by the river, out of town. I'll take that train to Marlow.

Part Two

The cool but bright sun of English springtime pushed its way through the clouds as I walked up and down the towpath alongside the Thames at Marlow. Here was calm, here were trees and flowing water, here was life outside the concrete and disorder of the big city. 

The stresses and struggles of the previous few months welled up inside me, insistent on release. Tears began to flow down my cheeks, to begin with just a few trickles until increasing to a torrent of uncontrollable grief and unhappiness.

The bucketfuls continued as I walked weeping, weeping, weeping. And then something rather unexpected happened.....

Here am I, the internal dialogue started, living this life of anguish. There is nothing pleasurable at all at the moment. Yet here I am. I have not run away, escaped, gone back to mum or dad or anyone else. I must be, underneath it all, really into the Buddhism thing. It trumps all pleasure, all other considerations. It's what my life is all about, it must be. Time to get ordained.....

Decades later I might question my conclusion from that painful day by the river in Marlow. But it was the conclusion that was consistent with who I was at the time, spring 1977. It was the only one to make sense. And that was it.

'Neither monastic nor lay': such was the professed nature of the Order of the Western Buddhists that I applied to join. No robes, no shaven heads, no other funny stuff. No monumental list of precepts to be followed or else; just a simple set of ten. What counted was you; simply you and your drive, your motivation - your commitment, as the quality necessary to join the Order was frequently described. 

And so it was that, almost exactly one year after the retreat of great bliss, and while on retreat during the more temperate August of 1977, I officially became a member of the Western Buddhist Order, as it was then called. This I did alongside another Buddhist, who I always considered to be a brother in the Dharma. Amongst other things, the ordination ceremony included the granting of a Buddhist name and, most importantly for me, a meditation practice based on one of the Buddha or Bodhisattva figures. 

Part Three

For a while, I felt omnipotent. But, as Buddhist theory will readily inform you, all such good things come to an end.

Two years down the line, the man in charge of my local Buddhist centre in west London left for Wales, in order to set up a rural meditation centre there. Scouting around for a replacement, some of the more experienced Buddhists came up with the notion that I was the most suitable candidate. It had never entered my mind to take on such a function in my life before. Nevertheless, soon after my 26th birthday, I became chairman of the West London Buddhist Centre, which was then based at a prestigious address in Baker Street of Sherlock Holmes fame, then in an equally prestigious location just off world-renowned Portobello Road.

I was friendly (most of the time), approachable, and managed to get on with a wide range of people. I was also a reasonable teacher of meditation and Buddhism. In other respects, however, I was gloriously unsuited to the job. One-to-one communication - fine. I could also ensure that the meditation classes started on time. But in terms of expansion, building a 'movement' to influence the masses of the world, I was not your man.

My countercultural instincts mistrusted big organisation, in favour of personal independence and autonomy; my own personality was too introspective to find empire building, even Buddhist empire building, an attractive proposition.

One day, a fellow Buddhist worker asked me what my vision for the centre was. I was surprised; taken aback, even, by this simple question. It never occurred to me to have a specific 'vision' for the place. We were simply meditating, learning, living and working together. That was it.

I didn't get that some people might want - need - something concrete, specific, to help to arouse and direct their energies. More residential communities, more yoga classes, maybe. A retreat centre in the countryside, a new carpet for the meditation room.

I couldn't answer her question, and just sat there perplexed, dumbfounded. I could have answered 'mass samadhi, with collective full-on confrontation with the bliss and terror of the ground of creation.' But I didn't. Not least because by now that perspective had pretty much disappeared, buried beneath a pile of administrative duties, business meetings, and endless chats with people over cups of tea encouraging them to 'get more involved'.   

Three things kept me going during those years. There was the handful of genuine and sometimes inspiring friendships that I found amongst my many Buddhist acquaintances. There was meditation practice, in particular the visualisation of one of the Bodhisattvas. And there was art. It was one of the unique insights of the head of the Buddhist Order that arts and spiritual life are, or at least can be, closely related.

Along with a few of my friends in Buddhist community, I undertook a full-on immersion programme in classical music, and became self-educated in Italian Renaissance art. The annual trip to Italy became a staple in my calendar, with the art and overall atmosphere of Venice, Rome, and the rest a tonic, a respite, a necessary therapy during those largely tough years. 

Part Four  

After eight years in the job, though, I'd had enough. 'Inspiration' was a word in the dictionary, no more. My fellow workers were in agreement that it was time for me to resign, and I wrote to the head of the Buddhist Order informing him of the decision. I added that, if I didn't hear from him, I'd take that as his assent.

Shortly afterwards I received a summons to his residence in Norfolk. This 'silence is golden' approach didn't seem to go down too well.

The outcome of my day trip to East Anglia was that, in his opinion, nobody was ready to replace me yet. I should stay on for two more years while a replacement was found and trained up.

My return trip to London was spent in emotional turmoil. The message seemed to be that the serious and committed Buddhist was prepared to put aside personal preferences for the sake of a greater good, the enlightenment of the world. To their great credit, several of my fellow Buddhists in west London urged me to leave anyway. They could see that I was at the end of my tether, and would not do a good job if left in charge anyway. I thank them sincerely for that.

But I did not leave. I could not. I lacked the courage of my own convictions, lacked faith in my better instincts. Apprehension about betraying my teacher trumped all other considerations. So I stayed on for two more largely miserable years, the most frustrating time of my life.

After that, I suppose that there was only one way to go. Slowly, imperceptibly at times, I began to withdraw. From the organisational world, and from identity with Buddhism in general. The notion of leaving the Buddhist Order completely was initially unthinkable, but as time passed so did my experience change and unfold.

Being part of a Buddhist movement gave me many things. For a while, it saved my life - quite literally, I might venture. During the first few years of my involvement in Buddhist it provided the structure, friendship, and general support that I vitally required. Buddhist perspectives continue to be an important influence in my life.

But there was this other side: the submission of individual sovereignty, as I might call it these days; the sacrifice of my own dream, to a degree at least. To fly higher, as well as to dive deeper, I eventually found it necessary to relinquish all identities, to tune into the daemon which is unique to me; that daemon which, despite the chaos and confusion, was alive and kicking during my commune days. To learn to face each new day alone and without fear - yet, paradoxically, in connection with the rest of the universe. 

Images: Marlow, Buckinghamshire

                Manjughosa, my meditation Buddha/Bodhisattva

                The site of the Buddhist centre from the mid-1980s to early 1990s. 7 Colville Houses, off Portobello Road, is the lilac-coloured building to the left as it is today.