The story of someone who just wouldn't let it lie. More accurately, the interesting part of the story in the context of this page's title.

Our esteemed teacher, Zen master David Ferguson, retired in 2007. He asked me to take over some of his work. So I'm on duty now as Zen master.
For more information on groups, sessions, retreats...., e-mail me

aftermath of a (non)event:

At that time I wrote lots of poetry. This way I could express myself without getting my knickers in a twist. This one is from a period when I gave myself a hard time getting somewhere(?!):

(like) a bird

Settling on a branch
It bends under the weight
Whips up and down
And comes to rest

A forest after a fire
Smoldering stumps
Heat and exhaustion
Lying like a cushion
Over everything
A breeze
Brings freshness, air,
And new life
Blowing away ashes
Revealing a blade of grass

Nocturnal walks
Through a city
Bleakness of after hours
Leftovers of wilful behaviour
Wastes of attempts
To fulfil desires,
To realize dreams

Wrenched guts of
Dreams undone
The mirror broken
Shards of shattered wishes
Floating away

The wind making sounds
Blowing through a pipe
Lying on a waste ground

Relative distances
Announcing their totality
By stretching out of reach

Passionate fires
Burning desirous fingers
Eyes ruined by looking in
The sun

Resistances dribbling away
Through a grate

The last page of a once
Priceless book
Blown away by the wind

The old man looking on
Don't know if he even sees
If he takes any notice

The reed bends in the wind
And snaps
A good day to die

Evening sun caressing the eyelids
Wind ruffling the hair
thoughts crumpling away

So it's passed on again-
Or me having reclaimed the ground by wanting it to stay-
The realisation leaving a sorrow
Deeper than deep-
A cry wrenching outward
Filling the dark night.
Is it a sheet of paper,
Falling off a book,
Or
A slice of rock,
Being wrenched off by it's own weight -

The pain of it
Is it the pain of holding on to the bedrock,
Or the fear of finally, inevitably, falling off
Falling,
Not knowing where.

The willow branch swaying in the wind,
It's leaves fluttering,
Touching my heart.

The clouds moving over
The wind ruffling the leaves
Of the tree in the field

In the narrow gorge
The water is parted by a rock
Before falling over the edge

On the windowsill
The cat cleaning herself
Grey sky beyond

The soft brush of a dream
Paints a long corridor
And a door I'm coming through

Releasing the substantial into
The fog of dream
Where does that leave me

Calling back reality
I see the clouds moving past
Overhead
Where does that leave me

I hear a bird
Singing it's song
Where does that leave me

The cat sitting so still
Just a slight movement of the fur
With the breath

right on it:

Circles
Of thinking
Identity of self
Seen and questioned

A mind stretched out
Of cosyness
Bending in the gale
Of the outer reaches

Deserts in a space
Not seen
No foothold
No landmark
No nothing

Mouth opened for a cry
That never comes

What for
Who would hear

I am alone here
And have to leave that one
Behind as well

How can I go
And where
And who would go

Go ahead he said
Where you can't go
See where there is
No one to see
Hear where there is
No one to hear

Reaching
Pushing
With all I've got
Don't ever know
Where I reach
What I push