Remembering John

Ken Jones

John and I were the same age and warm friends over several decades. What I most recall was his huge sense of fun. I particularly recall the two or three weekends we spent, several years ago, visiting wildly improbable alternative retreat centres to the Maenllwyd. I suspect it was just an excuse for getting lost among sitka spruce -- and having a lot of fun together.

On another occasion we set out in thick mist and rain to visit my cave and shrines up on Pumlumon. At one particularly dire point in these proceedings, as we clambered over the tussocks chanting the Guanyin mantra and trying to light an incense offering, John was kind enough to observe: "D'you know - you must be barking mad! And take that as a high compliment!"

Also, I treasure John's spirit of generosity, particularly in letting a Dharmic carpet bagger like me take over the Maenllwyd for a week each year and run the whole ship myself. I declined his offer to guestmaster for me (a bridge too far!)  and recall him politely asking my guestmaster Hilary, "What does Ken get up to, then?" In fact, he knew pretty well what I was up to, and I hugely valued his support and encouragement for my unconventional retreats.

For me John's death was particularly untimely in that in recent years he became a staunch advocate of socially engaged Buddhism, both in his last book and many other ways. That he had so much to offer and left so much unfinished makes his sudden death poignant indeed.

John was a fine poet, but too modest (here as elsewhere) to receive the recognition he deserved. I particularly treasure the verse inspired by his many solitary days and nights at the Maenllwyd. This one is surely dear to the heart of every Maenllwyd retreatant: " a final verse to say farewell"  was what John called it -

There is no path,
No need for despondency,
Only time and the pattern of time unfolding.
In letting the winds of time blow this old corpse along
The everyday becomes indeed
The eternal.

Nothing matters
And everything must go
Yet love is having the heart touched
In the valleys of suffering

Peace, quiet joy,
Servants of Silence.
Ordinary grey rocks of the mountain
In whom deep waters run
On whom by night the moon
By day the sun.

Finally John had a gift for integrating with, and being accepted by, the local Welsh community, which held him in high regard -- notwithstanding the rather strange goings-on at the Maenllwyd. Romantic that he was John even -- like a true Welshman -- claimed descent from Prince Llywelyn the Last, whose grave slab lies in nearby Abbeycwmhir.

Pob hwyl, old friend -- fare thee well and I'll look out for you in due course!