At Sangharakshita’s funeral the Adhisthana trees were filled with golden leaves and the cosmos still flowered burgundy and pink in the formal gardens. The weather changed from a chill breeze to warm sunshine, and heavy rain showers slowly gave way to clear skies stirred with barred clouds, turning ochre in the fading light. It was an autumn scene and filled, for me, with the evocations of autumn when the year declines towards winter, with all its intimations of mortality.
In the 1970s Sangharakshita...
