I have been a spiritual seeker all my life, certainly since the time I got in a fierce argument about spiritual things at lunch one day with my Dad. “I want to find the Truth,” I declared in ringing tones, my little heart filled with passion (I was 14 or 15). “I believe anyone can find the Truth if they want to.”

Unfortunately, the more we talked, and the more I tried to share my passion, the angrier Dad got. He was a man of great integrity, but subject to sudden rages. He got so angry in the end he reached across the table and slapped me on the head. It ended the conversation, but didn’t extinguish the strange yearning burning within me.

Perhaps the German bombs that rained on London when I was 7 years old — nearly obliterating the apartment complex where my Mum and I lived one night — had something to do with my longing to find a deeper meaning and purpose in life. In any event, I left school at age 16 to follow in my Dad’s footsteps. He was a veteran Fleet St. reporter known as Fireman Foster because of the many major London fires he covered when he was young.

After working as a junior reporter on a suburban newspaper called the South London Press, I got an opportunity to expand my horizons. A cousin was editing a trade magazine in Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia, as it was then called, and he wrote to my parents to suggest I come out and join him as an editorial assistant. My parents said it would be okay and that was what I did.

After two years, however, I got restless. I lived as a hobo and construction worker in Australia and New Zealand, and then, at age 21, got homesick, and returned home to London.

I did my best to settle down as a junior reporter on the London Daily Express, but it was not to be. I felt lost in a strange world that seemed to me cold and meaningless. At the age of 23, I moved to British Columbia, following a voice in my heart that said, “You will find the truth you long for in that land of forests and mountains beside a magical Coast where ravens fly and boats sail.”

And I did. I met a remarkable British lord named Martin Cecil, a descendent of Lord Burghley, chief advisor to Queen Elizabeth 1. I knew I could trust him the moment he got up from his chair to greet me at a charming old house by the harbor in Vancouver. He portrayed in living the truth I had been so sure existed, and which I had been seeking so earnestly.

I lived for 35 years in the spiritual community Martin founded on his cattle ranch in the interior of BC. I thought it would be my home forever. Then poof! Martin died. A year or two later, my wife suffered a fatal stroke on the plane as we were returning from a holiday in the Caribbean to celebrate our 25th anniversary.

I discovered, very painfully, that freedom is not in any external circumstance, no matter how secure or wonderful it may seem to be. Nor is it in the truth revealed by another. The community fell apart a few years after Martin’s death, and at age 63, with virtually no material resources, I had no choice but to leave, and re-enter the world I had left behind.

I live in Loveland, Colorado now, with my wife JoAnn. Loveland is a sweet little town, becoming well-known for its emphasis on sculpture and the arts. Colorado is a great state, and though I miss the ocean a bit, I love the year round sunshine and the many trails, hiking being one of my favorite pursuits.  I have one son, Durwin, who lives in Vancouver BC with his wife Wendy and their three children.

Life is good. Mind you, tribulation still follows me, as it follows everyone. Not too long ago, I thought I would not survive the affliction that descended suddenly and unexpectedly upon me. From out of the blue it came. But I did survive, and emerged stronger, and in better shape than before.

I have found there is a seed of rebirth in all tribulation, and I have come to appreciate more than ever before the truth of some words my mentor spoke:   “The Truth is true, and all is well; unconquerable Life prevails.”