ENTRY 35 -- Valley of the Blue Moon

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An Excerpt from the Travel Journal of Nigel Fox. (c. 1945)

ENTRY 35 -- Valley of the Blue Moon





Enoch and I received a more-than-proper welcome. The Valley of the Blue Moon was a most extraordinary place, filled with lovely things. At the same time there was a magnificent simplicity about the well tended gardens, spacious colonnade and beautiful stone garden-benches. James Hilton who had resided in the area for several years had captured the essence that is 'Shangri-La' in his writings.

Soon after our arrival we were introduced to our rescuer, Sister Hephzibah Wilkes. I was still in my English dress, with a sun helmet on my head. Here, I must say I had developed a rather clear picture of "her" in my mind's eye: a middle-aged spinster who had spent most of her life in missionary work, she would have an autocratic manner, wear no cosmetics, and of course be somewhat prudish and set in her ways.

We knew she had an extraordinary mind and had been told she wore her hair short, sported sensible shoes, and her wardrobe consisted of only two simple dresses made from homespun cotton. This was all the more remarkable in view of the fact that she had been a lady of great wealth and given up her considerable fortune in order to serve God. All in all, she would be a well-balanced specimen of Saxon womanhood.

I shall never forget my first encounter with this truly remarkable and surprising person; a tidy woman if ever there was one. Over-seeing some labourers in a garden, Miss Wilkes wore a large-brimmed straw bonnet; turning towards us, she touched the rim of her hat in almost gentlemanly fashion: a woman of natural beauty, she needed no synthetic enhancements to bring out her regular features. To this day I can still visualise my first sight of the exquisitely sculptured lines of her gentle, loving face.

Her light, white cotton dress with blue trim revealed a firm, athletic figure underneath. As we shook hands, she flashed me a radiant smile, her grip strong, firm, regal. My initial impression was of a fresh, clean scent, coupled with a warmth and joy that seemed to emanate straight from her heart. She actually bore a striking resemblance to Jane Wyatt the movie starlet; a bit older perhaps but still a remarkable coincidence... or was it?

"Welcome to Charity House," said this comely woman in a strong but enchanting voice. "It is always an honour when an eminent divine pays us a visit."

I was loathe to release her hand.

The Ashram

Miss Wilkes invited us on a brief tour of the Ashram, explaining that life in the valley was modest. We walked round, admiring the visitors' lodgings, the library, the temple and the medical facilities. All were fashioned out of local materials and adorned in a simple but tasteful style. "The people who are a part of this community build their own homes, grow their own food and make their own clothes. Everyone, even the children, are expected to spend at least four hours each day at various labours. Our way of life is dedicated to Love and Truth."

"Quite so, but only one communal wireless, no motor cars and no modern conveniences?" I asked, incredulous.

"We do have a small hydro electric generator up country; much cleaner than oil lamps, et cetera. However we have made a serious effort to have as few material possessions as possible. We even bring our ice from the mountains." Then smiling she added, "There are no fancy ice cubes here, Mr. Fox."

"What does the word 'ashram' mean?"

She looked at me with a definite gleam in her eye.

"It means 'community.' It can mean a small one like ours or the entire world."

Simply Enchanting

Enoch and I settled into our spartan rooms. The bed was a webbed canvas on a solid wood frame, complete with ceiling fan. There was one small chiffonier, a washstand, and a few wooden pegs on the wall; near the large window was a simple writing table. The only luxury was a lovely carpet, Indian, I should imagine; all in all, comfortable, functional, but simple.

We had been invited to the visitors' lounge before supper and arrived after a short rest. Miss Wilkes offered us each a glass of wine and continued to teach us about the Ashram. She was simply enchanting. It was difficult to distinguish whether her beauty was physical or spiritual. "I see you approve of the fruit of our vineyards," she remarked, smiling, as I quaffed my wine. "We can grow almost anything in this incredibly fertile valley, yet our most blessed gift from God is the grapes that grow in the foothills."

"But how can you drink wine when your beliefs are based on the teachings of the Mahatma, who does not drink any alcohol?" I queried. (It was hard not to be reminded of the Indian Messiah's simple ways as we sat in those unpretentious yet functional surroundings.) Enoch nodded his head in agreement, leaning forwards to hear her answer.

"He is a Hindu. Hindus and Muslims do not drink fermented beverages: therefore we would never do anything to make them fall. However, we are neither Hindu nor Muslim and our valley does produce fine wine and wine in moderation is good for one's health. Simply put my dear reverend sir; we believe in moderation in all things.

"Poppycock" was my indignant reply!

"We promote the virtue of avoiding excess of any kind; including an excess of 'virtue' itself. The valley is not for the self-righteous. Moderation, we have found, makes for a considerable degree of happiness. And I think I can claim that our people are moderately sober, moderately honest, and moderately hard working. Even I am only a women of moderate virtue" she replied blushing slightly.

I was more than somewhat miffed. Miss Wilkes may be the most beautiful woman alive, but this obvious nonsense could not be condoned. {Looking back it is clear that I had failed to read between the lines as it were}

Total Balderdash!

"Mr. Fox, only God is Truth. All we can hope for is relative truth." She began to smile; then Miss Wilkes left the room.

"Curious," I said aloud. Both Enoch and I stared after her, looked at each other, and shrugged. Although disliking confrontation, it had been important that my feelings be made known. Our hostess quickly returned with three pottery bowls of water lined up on a large, rattan tray. Not being able to restrain myself, my voice was rather harsher than intended. "This idea of relative truth is total balderdash!"

With what only can be described as an impish look on her face, she instructed me to put my right hand in the bowl on one end of the tray and my left hand in the bowl on the opposite end. By now, although beginning to feel rather foolish; the butt of a parlour trick, I did comply. Enoch leaned forwards for a clearer view of the experiment with an unreadable expression on his face.

"What temperature are they, Mr. Fox?" Miss Wilkes asked, teasingly.

My answer was somewhat gruff. "The one on the right is hot. The one on the left is cold."

"Now put both your hands into the middle bowl and tell me whether it is hot or cold."

It was perplexing. The water in the centre bowl felt cold to my right hand, yet hot to my left. Laughing at my unsettled expression, Miss Wilkes asked me how something could be both hot and cold at the same time. Even Enoch began to grin when he realised this simple demonstration had driven home what he had been trying to teach me for weeks.

"Please forgive my childish illustration. The library has an excellent book on relative truth by a Mr Einstein.

Sipping my wine, I decided to pursue the matter no further.

The Hot Springs

The next day, following breakfast and prayers, my path crossed that of Miss Wilkes. Deciding it was time to make amends, I desperately attempted to make conversation. My first observation was about how fit everyone at the Ashram appeared. She began to lecture at length on the importance of regular prayer, a balanced diet, moderation and exercise. A particular stress was put on the dangers of the Indian sun. Then a twinkle came into those long-lashed eyes, while a slight smile crossed her sensuous lips. She dropped her voice and said, "We also have a secret: the hot springs. For centuries people in these parts have believed the waters have medicinal powers. Everyone at the Ashram bathes in the springs regularly. Hmmm . . . and I've just had a brilliant idea, Mr. Fox! Would you care to partake?"

"Certainly," was my reply. However I was startled as she proceeded to seize my hand and lead me down the garden path. From the grotto emanated a large pool of misty, bubbling water. "The steam gets quite thick in the early morning," she explained straightforwardly as she slid out of her sandals and pulled her cotton shift over her head. She stood before me in the altogether for one glorious moment, and then this very lush example of womanhood plunged ingenuously into the foaming water. I was taken aback by the fact that she had no bathing dress. Somewhat nonplussed, I found myself disrobing and following her lead.

"Mr. Fox," she beamed as she perked in the steaming liquid, "you appear discomfited; surely I need not remind you that there is nothing sinful or evil about the human body? After all, God himself is the designer. You shall discover, after a while, that you become reasonably comfortable with your body as well as the bodies of others."

"But does it not lead to fornication?" I found myself asking.

"Quite the contrary; we are all encouraged to dress simply. It is inner beauty we strive for. Then with a mischievous smile, she said, "I hope you are not entertaining any thoughts about me, Mr. Fox!"

"N . . . N . . . Never!" I puffed in a less than dignified manner.







Links:

Lost Horizon: near the hot springs

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