bye february

I used to work as a special needs therapist with a boy who, once he'd grasped that saying "Goodbye" indicated endings, that someone was leaving, used to greet me at the door with the words "bye becca", hoping to head off the work that was to follow. To this day when I'm faced with something or someone that I'm finding difficult, those words pop into my head in almost the exact same petulant, querulous five year old voice that he would use. Along those lines: bye February.

It's been a challenging month where, more often than I'd like, I've felt controlled, stuck and trapped all of which are my 'red flag' feelings, the ones that chase whatever equilibrium I may have away quicker than anything else I can think of. The humbling part of it is that this came from one area of my life only: work. Organizing my leave and negotiating my end date was a long, drawn out process but outside of work, life has been knock-on-wood wonderful. And I knew that things at work would work out. So why did I allow that one challenge to stress me out so much?

So very humbling because just when I think I may have a grasp on things, that I may be learning something about staying in the moment, not getting caught up in the drama, breathing through the difficult times something happens - a mirror is offered - and I realize that I may be pretty good at doing all of those great 'in the moment' things when life is going well but when something important to me is challenged I'm still pretty quick to lose it. One step forward, two steps back. I'll get there.

Things did get resolved at work, and very well at that. I have a year long leave of absence beginning April 7th and, even with the challenge of sorting out my leave, everything has fallen into place so incredibly well that it's been a powerful reminder that when it's right - it works

happy friday everyone :)

Pretty smart guy, that Carl

Given that I've never actually been asked any such questions, I've given my response to queries such as "If you could invite any 5 people to dinner, who would they be?" or "If you had the opportunity to meet anyone, alive or dead, who would you choose?" a shocking amount of thought.

I think it's because I've heard others answer and, no matter what their response, it always seemed better than what I come up with: a big, vacuous, cowed by the infinite possibilities response of "I don't know". Either they pick someone touching, like a family member, and I feel like a heel for not having thought of that myself or they go for some iconic figure and I feel like an imbecile for not having the foggiest idea of who they're referring to.

A few days ago I came across this quote that I'd written down a lifetime ago:

"One can be filled with that spirit of divine discontent which forces all free people to face some new discovery or to live their lives in a new way"

I copied it from Man and His Symbols by Carl Jung and faint recollections from lectures attended and books read about Jung have been bubbling to the surface ever since.

That he advised ignoring science texts and 'wandering the world with a human heart' to truly gain knowledge of the human soul. His belief in synchronicity and the collective unconscious. The way he discussed his views on the human psyche interchangeably with references to mythology, philosophy, and religion. That he looked to dreams and creativity for insight into our 'inner space'. His absolute belief in the importance of symbolism. The very fact that rediscovering the quote above helped soothe my absolute impatience at waiting until April to be free...I finally have an answer: I'd like to have dinner with Carl Jung, please.

Divine discontent. What a beautiful way of putting it. Now, if only I can get the cantankerous, frustrated, impatient child screaming "now, now NOW" that seems to have taken over my 'inner space' to listen - that would be something.

hearts

Vday completely slipped past me today until I received this poem from my sister, Ekah, who writes better than I think even she knows

Hearts have retractable compartments
Depending on what is said
Drawers pull back
Depending on what is asked
A vice wraps round

Tones change
And with conversation;

He holds her hand for the first time
She makes him cry for the last time.

Up down
Open closed

Hearts are fearful
And complex
Sometimes overflowing

But in between there is laughing

He loosens
She undoes

And something beautiful spills out

In strangely related news, I went to the heart doctor today (yes, that's the official name) for tests. After they had finished hooking me up to the echocardiographthingy there was great concern because the machine wouldn't work. It died, went on strike, refused to light up, wouldn't work.

I've been feeling a bit stressed lately so I'm trying not to read too much into the fact that the heart machine broke when trying to test my heart. Instead, I'm going to assume that it's because my heart is just too big, too full and too fantastic for the damn machine to withstand. How appropriate on this, of all days :)

Happy VDay everyone

april 25, 1995

As I've been working to make sense of this strange paradox I'm in where I know life is good but itch for something more, I've been thinking about something I wrote when I graduated from university. Back when I thought graduation meant the end: that I was just a short skip and a jump from a house in the suburbs, mindless job and minivan full of screaming children. Terrified that that was my destiny, I wrote a note to myself, a promise of sorts, the day after my last exam.

It's been on my mind these last few weeks so I spent an evening browsing through 10 years of journals looking for the entry. I did find it, it's copied below, but I also found so much more. Like a reminder of what a dramatic child I was (my family is collectively rolling their eyes at this revelation, I know) but I was kind of funny too, and vulnerable and tentative, and lost but insightful at times. I wanted to go back and give that girl a great big hug, tell her it would all work out even though I know I wouldn't have listened anyway. It's a strange thing this life - we all need to learn in our own way at our own time. At any rate, the entry I'm speaking of follows:

April 25, 1995

Yesterday I wrote my last exam. A blitz of 3 all nighters in one week with too much stress, too few meals, too many cigarettes and I’m done.

I wanted to sit down and write about how I feel about graduating, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve been scared about it all term but now that’s its here, I’m not even scared. I’m sort of numb. I’m sure it will sink in sooner or later. Probably sooner.

I feel mute by the virtue of decision. I can do anything I want and I don’t think I want the choice. My life is spread out in front of me and I want merely to choose complacency and stability. There’s nothing wrong with that, if that's what I really want, but if I choose it out of fear, I can’t live with that and I’m afraid that’s what will happen to me.

I’ve been told that I expect too much. What does that mean exactly? I don't think you can ever expect 'too much'. If I expect it, it is what it is. It can’t be too much, can it?

I love school and there are things that I've learned here that I want to keep with me forever, but I can't think of them all right now. I do know two things I must remember:

1. never accept complacency – live
2. don't stop learning

I don’t ever want to just accept life the way it is. I want to love my life and, if I don’t, have the courage to change it. I see the easiness of getting a job, a car, bills to pay and being stuck in a rut. I never want that. I want to remember that, when life becomes mundane, I can always change it. I want to remember that I have so much to offer and I don't want to shortchange myself. I want to live, not just exist.

I guess that's what it's all about. It's time to stretch a little, to make some changes, to take a small step away from 'complacency' and one step towards 'live'.

missing: my imaginary friend

I've imagined someone into being my friend. We've never met, in fact, we've never been in the same room at the same time, but I see him every day and he's become a comforting constant in the fabric of this strange urban community I've created for myself.

Driving across the city in the early morning hours, I see the still-dark city in an entirely different light than I do during the day when the streets are alive with activity. I notice houses I've never seen before, street names that usually escape me, and my friend - the only other conscious person I encounter on my 5:30am trek across the city.

He sits in the only open coffee house on Bloor, always in the same spot in the front window, laptop open, staring intently at the screen. I wonder about him: Why so early? Is he a morning person or is he squeezing in a few hours before work? If so, what is he working on that inspires such dedication?

I know it's possible that he's programming or designing web pages or some such techy mumbo jumbo but I've imagined that he's a writer and that he's awake, writing so early, because he has to be. Because he absolutely can't imagine his day beginning any other way. Because the words won't wait 9 hours until work is finished to be spilled to paper. Each morning as I pass I look in and smile to see him there, embraced by the warm glow of the coffee shop, and send a silent good morning his way.

For two days now his spot in the window has been empty and I've missed him. I'm sure he's on vacation or having long, late, luxurious mornings but I've worried about him all the same.

shake, shake, shake

My lower right back has been growling at me lately and I've been so puzzled by it, what have I done? During today's practice I remembered that this happens every time I change things. New jobs, ending a relationship, returning home from a long trip, each is accompanied, without fail, by pain in my lower right back. Usually I expect it which is why I can't believe it took me so long to clue in this week. Of course it's hurting, today's the day I talk to work.

A friend recently compared my life to a snowglobe: even though it looks pretty when settled and calm, I can't seem to resist picking up the damn globe and shaking for all I'm worth. Accordingly, I've had plenty of opportunity to think about this strange thing that happens to my back when I'm caught up in my own personal storm.

The first time this happened a friend commented that the sacrum, where I experience pain, is referred to as the seat of life. I absolutely loved this - still do. It makes such intuitive sense to me that the physical impact of tossing my very cozy life into a state of upheaval would be experienced in my physical seat of life.

Along those lines, I recently learned that kundalini yoga refers to this area as Swadhisthana, or One's own abode, and understands life changes as a result of energy moving up through the chakras accompanied by the desire to move, reach out, grow and change. Check, check, check, and check to each of the above.

Remembering all of these things as I practiced this morning helped me respond with compassion, to be gentle and not force movement where all that's really needed is a bit of TLC instead of being frustrated over yet another 'injury'. It also made me smile - one's own abode - how lovely is that?

pain update

Work is still playing hardball with my jacuzzi proposal. Aren't we facing a shortage of skilled workers? Maybe I should start dropping hints about our employee retention efforts. Surely that includes something about providing a comfortable work environment. Sitting is painful, I've taken to kneeling on the floor in between appointments to complete my notes.

But, no matter. The pain is going, practice is a joy, life is fun and it's spring in January - my perpetually cold self couldn't ask for anything more. Except, of course, a jacuzzi.

When it comes to the people that enter my life, for however long a period, I don't believe in coincidences. Some carry lessons, others perhaps unresolved business, and there are some where I think it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with what I can offer them. Other times, though, it's completely different. These are the times where, when meeting someone for the first time, I've had a flash of instant recognition and I think that these people are in my life because they're absolutely supposed to be - I already know them.

I. is one of the latter. He and I were friends before we even met and I knew him before I actually knew him. I remember the mornings in the coffee shop, before our first conversation, wondering about this elderly, gentle looking man with his shock of white hair and friendly blue eyes. I knew he was someone.

Now that we've become friends, its strange just how alike we are. Separated by several decades, generational influences, gender, and where we are in our lives it's amazing what a kindred spirit I've found in him. This is why, despite the occasional comment that makes me uncomfortable, I'm glad to have him in my life.

We missed each other last Saturday for our usual coffee catch up. I was early and he was late. On Thursday I received a letter attached to a page from Saturday's newspaper. The newspaper was complete save for a ragged hole where the Capricorn horoscope had once been. It was my paper, left behind on the coffee shop table. I. must have arrived after me, nabbed the paper and, when he got to the horoscope page realized who the original owner of the paper was. Me.

My first reaction was discomfort that someone was able to reconstruct my Saturday morning with such accuracy, that someone would know me so well. It felt intrusive. Then I read the story I. had written about the experience and attached to the newspaper and I had to laugh. Here's his story:

On Saturday morning he picks up the Weekend Review section of the Globe and Mail laying on one of the tables. Later, casually leafing through it to the Horoscope page he comes up on a hole in the paper and smiles, he can picture what has happened and why that hole is there...

She came up the stairs wearing her black coat, carrying her soy latte with the Globe and Mail clutched to her chest. She picks out a sunny table with a soft chair that she can comfortably fold herself into, legs crossed beneath her. She sets down her latte, takes off her coat and is wearing a light blue turtle neck sweater; she pauses - thinks the place is a bit cold but can't read in her coat - and sits down, sliding off her heavy boots and folding herself into the chair. Sitting very upright, head held high, feet crossed under her, she lays out the paper on her lap to read. With a deep, silent intensity she turns the pages, pausing occasionally to read something that catches her attention. Something on one page catches her attention; the horoscope for that day seems to awaken in her mind some way of bringing order to the clutter in her days. Some way of creating a path through: yoga, India, work day clutter, what about the job?, the masters essay due very soon, should I do the PhD?, family to see in Burlington...

She reaches over with her left hand and rips the newspaper page across the grain, leaving an uneven hole where her horoscope for January 22, 2006 had been. She reaches over and tucks it into her writing book before shrugging on her black coat and preparing to go, leaving the paper behind on the table.

Later in the day, an old guy picks up the newspaper but doesn't get a chance to read it for a couple of days. When he does, he sees the hole in the horoscope. With a warm smile, he thinks about a young woman he knows, about how she looks curled up in her chair, and how she ripped that hole in the newspaper. How nice, how very, very nice. Thanks from I.


I laughed first, because it reminded me of something I would have written in the same circumstances and, second, because he was absolutely right - blue turtleneck and all.

laughing all the way

I don't often post about my practice so here's an update: it kills, I kill, everything kills.

That area where the hamstring joins the gluteous is gone on both sides making things like walking, climbing stairs, and sitting very painful. The only activity that doesn't cause pain is taking a bath and, so far, work has been very unreasonable regarding my request for a jacuzzi. Something about crossing client/counsellor boundries.

Although yoga has become a perverse exercise to explore just how much pain I can stand, the great thing is that it's brought about a release that all of my conscious efforts and intentions never could. Practice has become such fun, joyful at times because I've completely let go. I had to - it hurts to damn much. Can't touch the toes today? Ah, they'll be there tomorrow. Crawl back instead of jump back? Sure, that works too.

So much fun. Lots of laughing.

Today as my teacher was assisting me in dropbacks I noticed her shirt for the first time: a picture of Pattabhi Jois with the words 'BAD LADY' emblazed across the top and I completely lost it. Like I needed the help getting the giggles...

hmph...

The bad guys won the election.

Quiet, liberal minded, professional female free to a good country (at least for the next 4 years)

all in the perspective

You know those people who refer to household tasks as 'relaxing' or 'meditative'? I've always figured them to be liars. Maybe not liars in a deliberate sense but if you identify ironing as a way to relax then, never mind the rest of us, you're lying to yourself.

I can think of a million different ways to relax, none of them involve cleaning. Ironing, in particular, holds high honours on my list of 'things not to do' and over the years I've avoided buying clothes that require ironing - who needs demanding clothes? I kind of forgot about this while I was in India and bought a ton of wall hangings, scarves, and kurtas that have been calling out to me all week for a good wash and iron.

I finally answered their call today and, as I ironed, I thought about the 'iron guy' in India. He trolls the street with his wooden cart and, when summoned, does the ironing on the street outside the gates of the house using an iron heated by hot coals, wife and child keeping time beside the cart. Yeah. Kind of made my ironing experience this morning with my coffee at hand, head bopping in time to my music, and a view outside where big, fluffy snowflakes created a winter wonderland seem pretty bearable.

today...

... a symphony.

wherever i go, there i am

At the end of my practice today I mentioned to my teacher how different the experience of practicing here is from practicing in Mysore by commenting that here, everything hurts. As soon as I said it I realized that I really did mean everything and I wanted to cry. Home has habits, responsibilities, expectations and challenges - not bad things just very, very present. It's at home that my monkey mind comes out to play. Two ridiculously painful injuries appeared the day after my first home practice, my driste is off, focus gone, energy low; I feel like I've taken a beautiful symphony and turned it into angry thrash.

Still, that's all part of the beauty of the practice. Today's savasana was a gorgeous death, a chance to let go of the morning's frustrations and I did. I know that tomorrow will very likely be a completely different practice but, boy, was today ever one of those days.

i'm the bear

First day back at work today. That's a good thing, I really like what I do.

I was excited to see so many familiar names in my appointment calendar. When I changed organizations a year ago one of the things that I missed most was the loss of continuity that comes from working with students from first year right through to graduate school. After a year in my current position I've had the opportunity to form relationships with the students I see: formerly scared first year students are returning as 'seen it all before' second years, I received Christmas cards from the most unexpected students, and alumni are coming back to let me know how they've fared. It's an honour to be let into their lives whether I see them once a month or once a year.

Which may make the rest of this post seem pretty confusing because as much as I love my job, my friends, my home - life in general - it's started to feel a bit small. This isn't new, this feeling has been following me for well over a year, what is new is the strength behind it. I feel like my elbows are bumping up against the walls of my life and that it's time to blow the doors wide open and see what enters. Scary because whatever changes I make will be based on intuition alone, at a purely rational level there's no reason at all to change anything, if it ain't broke, don't fix it and all that. What began as a vague inkling has developed into an all-encompassing drumbeat that won't be ignored. So, I've accepted that I'll be making some changes and moved from being scared by the idea to really exited. I'm giving myself a bit of time to let the ideas settle and become more comfortable with my plans.

Today, work offered some help with this: there's one part of my job that I find mind-numbingly boring, that provides minimal challenge, that I think is a poor use of my time and that I'm surprised is even in my job description. I returned from holidays to find that it's been put into my calendar for 10 hours a week through to the end of January. Talk about poking the bear in the zoo.....

pictures

My photographic ability is limited to point-and-click (see links to Mikko's site in earlier posts for some gorgeous pictures) but for those who've asked, here's a link to some of mine...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bekasanahh/sets/

home

This morning I brushed my teeth with tap water and, when I realized what I was doing, winced and cursed inwardly, now I was going to get sick. That was before I remembered that I was home. I think that's the way it's going to go, this reintegration to life in Toronto, small, inane reminders catching me by surprise.

It's good to be home and surprisingly hard to admit it to others because, as I've noticed, the impression taken is that it wasn't good to be away. Not the case. My trip was perfect and it was wonderful to be in India but it's also wonderful to be here.

Last night I had fun rediscovering my apartment. It's big and cluttered. What do I do with so much stuff? I'd forgotten about how much I love my hardwood floors and the way I've placed my favourite picture so that it's the first thing I see when I wake up. I'd forgotten that my closet door swings open to block the entrance to my bedroom and walked smack into it a few times last night. I'd forgotten that my pillow and quilt are the closest thing I can imagine to sleeping on a cloud, this my 1year old neighbour gave me ample time to remember by waking me up with his shrieking many, many times last night. I'd hoped he'd outgrow that habit while I was away, not so.

On my way to yoga this morning I passed by the Inglis sign which, to me, is one of Toronto's best kept secrets. Placed along the highway, it tends to get lost in the visual assault of the other advertisements but the Inglis sign is different in that every day it sports a different quote. Today's quote was "Happiness is where you find it, not always where you seek it". I loved that this set the tone for my first day home. This was an important trip on many levels but impossible to discuss just yet. I expect that I'll process the experience slowly and I'm looking forward to being quiet and watching.

stats

from the last 24 hours:

total hours spent in travel - 28
hours spent in a plane - 20
hours spent waiting in airports - 8
countries visited - 3
inflight movies watched - 6 and a bit
airplane meals ingested - 5
coffees nursed - 5
hours slept - 4
fantastic family members that surprised me at the airport - 1 :)

am i really home?

feeling human again

I celebrated my first day of non-sickness by returning to yoga for the first time in a couple of days. Sunday's are led classes and I had been hoping that Sharath would be leading the class since he was away through December and this would be my last chance to experience one of his classes but it was Guruji who is known for his warp speed practices. Today was no exception but it was no matter, it felt great to be back on my mat and there will be many more chances to practice with Sharath but not nearly as many with Guruji.

Afterwards I continued my non-sick celebration by going to the Metropole Hotel where we've discovered one of Mysore's best kept secrets: an all you can eat, swanky hotel buffet for only 100rs. French toast, chocopuff cereal, hash browns...all of the things that don't even cross my plate at home but were really, really great here after a month of idlly and samba.

Furthering my 'woo hoo, I'm not sick' celebration I walked. I wandered down Deveraj Road, the 'shopping road', through the market with its rows of flowers, brightly coloured powders, bangles, bindis, fruits, and calls from vendors "hello madam, what country?" I had hoped to walk home but succumbed to the pollution which makes it quite literally impossible to walk and called a rickshaw to take me home where I sat on my roof and listened to my new Bollywood CD's and ignored the fact that half of the Finnish contingent here in Mysore (and there are a LOT of them) were also spread out on my roof.

Tonight, off to see Mysore palace. Tomorrow, pack.

quick update...

"There will be no extending of tickets madam" - so - I'll be home soon.

It's been busy here in Mysore doing all those things I didn't get a chance to do yet: an afternoon at the Southern Star pool, visits to the tailor, shopping for cheap yoga supplies, one last box of sweets...you can see how the days fill ;)

I've been sick these last 3 days, possibly my body's attempts to purge itself of the excesses of dairy, flour, ghee and sugar I've been overindulging in since arriving. For that reason, I'm keeping this short. I'm weak and sucky and it's been several hours since my last nap, I'm about done for the day.

Queasy stomach aside, much fun is being had (indiaspeak) and I'm disappointed not to be able to extend my stay longer. Still, I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, having a huge Juice for Life salad as my homecoming meal and I suspect I'll be back in Mysore in the very near future.

new pictures

Mikko has posted new beach pictures at:

http://mikkos.1g.fi/mysore/index.html



In other related news, I'm in the process of telephone negotiations to extend my plane ticket by a few days. I'll keep you posted...

new and improved routine...

6am yoga on the roof where the sun shines through the orange plastic cover making the room glow warmly. Back to my hotel where the shy, softspoken manager always makes sure there's a cup of chai waiting for me on my veranda when I emerge from the shower. Drip drying on my veranda enjoying my tea while I watch the birds and slowly move myself from from my yoga trance to that state that lets me actually navigate the world.

Breakfast at Suprablahblahblah (short for unpronounceable name), always a fruit salad with curd and always eaten outside. As in Mysore, breakfast seems to last for hours. Probably because it does. Then to the beach. The water is warm and shallow, the waves perfect for bodysurfing, and the pull of the tide just strong enough to remind me who actually has control - it's not me. At some point in time, I leave the beach, sit for a few more hours on my veranda daydreaming, eat lunch and do other things but I can't actually think of what any of them are.

It's been an unbelievably relaxing week. The shopowners are friendly and have long memories, there are many other yogi's wandering about, and the town is small so walks are usually puncuated by several pauses for conversation. The ocean commands my attention, when I'm on the beach I can do nothing other than sit, mesmerized by the crashing waves. The warm sea breeze provides relief to the power of the sun. The conversations of those I'm with are often carried on in languages other than English freeing me to lazily daydream without fear of being rude.

It's going to be hard to leave but I've already extended my trip by 3 days longer than expected and head back to Mysore tonight.

Kovalam

Kovalam is a wonderful beach town fronted by a boardwalk that curves to follow the shape of the beach and backed by narrow dirt paths that wind their way labryinth-like between the stores, cafes, and guesthouses. I have yet to make my way to any destination following the same path twice, they're very confusing. Instead, I've accepted that the best approach is to allow myself to get lost, enjoy the walk, and know I'll end up where I need to be eventually - it's a small town.

The boardwalk is a confusion of sounds: the ocean, excited shouts from the bodysurfers, and calls of the vendors. I can purchase pretty much anything I'd need from my place on my towel: sunglasses, mangopapayapineapplefruitsalad, and umbrellas along with many things I don't need but, inexplicably, are available in abundance such as maps, drums, and glow sticks. Wandering the back paths I'm met with the now familiar refrain of store owners: hello, please come in...more colours inside...looking is free...ok, maybe tomorrow...sure, sure...see you later...

My hotel is away from the ocean, deep in the woods and faces a small body of water that I'd like to call a pond but, really, it's a swamp. Pond or swamp, it doesn't really matter as I've spent many happy hours on my balcony, chai in hand, looking at the floating flowers, tall trees and flying birds as I let myself get lost in the soothing white noise created by the sound of the ocean mixed with the rustle of the palm fronds and calls of the crows.

Indian Christmas

My very Indian Christmas followed a busy schedule comprised of eating, good company and bad traffic - in that order.

The Christmas lunch at the Metropole Hotel on Christmas eve day was a huge buffet affair held outside under a large striped awening with low tables and chairs scattered about. Most people took advantage of the day to wear their 'Indian' clothes, the women dressed in saries, salwar kameers and kurtas and the men in outfits whose name escapes me but they looked great. There was an unbelievable amount of food including fresh bean salad, crisp vegetables and lettuce - oh my! I was so excited to see uncooked, un-curried, un-oiled vegetables that I pretty much ignored the rest (except, of course, for dessert of which I had thirds).

On the way home I stopped at Bombay Tiffany's, the best sweet store in Mysore, and picked up sweets, one box for my landlady and one for the party at 'party Louis''. Despite having the sweets in hand, my shyness took over and I wasn't sure about the party but I talked myself into going and I'm glad I did - I had a wonderful time. The house was covered in small christmas lights, the rooms, paths and roof were lit by candles and the rooftop covered in small gatherings of pillows where everyone sat and talked in between dancing. It was a great Christmas Eve.

Christmas day was driving day. The day to head 650km south to Kovallum - the beach. We had been told the drive would take 10 hours. It didn't. After driving 14 hours we still had 4 to go and our driver was getting tired. Actually, he was tired (understandably) after 12 hours but was opposed to stopping. After nervously watching him, the road, the other drivers, and our speed for an additional 2 hours, we insisted on stopping and got a hotel for the night. We arrived in Kovallum the next day making it about a 16 hour drive and a 26 hour journey.

It was a fun trip. Beautiful countryside of lush greens and bright bursts of flowers, people everywhere and masses of christmas lights with large paper stars decorating the entrance of each house. As if that weren't enough, the company was good and I learned to count to 9 in Finnish - sort of. Numbers 1 and 9 begin with wonky sounding 'u's so, really, I learned to count from 2-8 in Finnish.

I'm sure that's a phrase I will never again be able to use when describing how I spent my Christmas!

Christmas

Hi everyone,

I wanted to send out my best wishes for a happy, restful Christmas.

The strangeness of being away for Christmas is alleviated by the fact that it's very easy to forget that it's Christmas at all in a few days. The shala is closing for the week and 5 of us have rented a van to head south to the beach. We leave Christmas day after practice and will be driving for ~10 hours so I may not have a chance to call home but I'll try.

Tomorrow is Saturday, no practice, and there are a few celebrations planned. 'Mr. Josef' is hosting a lunch at the Metropole, a swanky restaurant, and there is a party in the evening at 'party Louis'' place so I'll be well taken care of.

Most of my family is about to scatter about on various trips themselves. Safe travels to all of you. Ekah, my sister, sent out a message earlier commenting on how blessed we are and she's right. Relaxing moments and fun shopping trips aside, nothing is more evident from travelling here than the fact that we are blessed with our health, happiness and opportunities so, I wish you continued health and happiness over this Christmas season.

much love, b.

the dealer on the corner

I had heard about this man, the guy with the duffle bag, and had been looking for him without much luck until yesterday when my fortunes took a turn for the better. Leaving the shala after practice, I noticed a blue duffle bag sitting, unattended, on a low wall. I walked past slowly, making my interest obvious and, before long, a man separated himself from a larger group and walked over. "You are wanting something?" he asked. I replied in the affirmative but added that it depended what he had. He opened the duffle bag to show me his goods and I felt like a kid at Christmas.

Before me were all of the things I had heard about but didn't dare believe in case the rumours were nothing more than a Mysore urban myth: tofu, peanut butter, tahini, carrot cake, banana bread and sourdough bread. So excited, what to get? After much deliberation I selected a loaf of banana bread knowing that I was a goner, I'd be back for more.

Surprisingly, he didn't charge me. I guess even in the case of organic spreads and baked goods the dealer's rule of thumb holds fast: the first hit is free.

my routine

Alarm goes off at 6am and, just like at home, I press snooze until 5 minutes before I have to leave my flat. Yoga, for me, begins at 7am. There's a bit of a hierarchy where the earlier your start, the more advanced your practice. 7 is the latest you can possibly start and I love it. I can do with the 'shame' of being a beginner for more time to sleep and a quieter space to practice. At the shala I sit quietly with the others, knees pulled up to my chest, the cloak of sleep still heavy about me, waiting for a spot to open up in the practice room. I like those moments: sitting in companiable silence, watching the others practice through the open door, daydreaming, waiting for shouts of 'one more' from inside to let me know a space has opened up.

My practice is long and slow, I usually finish around 8:30. Once home, I turn on the water geyser and sit, staring out the window while I wait for the water to heat up. It's a wonderful part of my day because there's literally nothing else I could possibly be doing, other than letting myself get lost in thought while I wait for hot water.

By 10am I'm finished and headed to Tina's or Kevin's for breakfast . Tina serves breakfast in her backyard at low tables flanked by cushions under the protection of brightly coloured blankets strung across tree branches. Kevin's is also outside at but at proper tables, no cover. If I feel like basking in the sun, I head to Kevins; if I feel like lounging about for a few hours I head to Tinas. Either way, breakfast usually takes me to 11:30 or so.

After that, it depends on the day. A few days ago I gave in to my inner sloth and sat on my roof reading a book all day; yesterday I headed into town to go to the place with the awesome coffee, let myself get lost for a few hours, and shop.

Whatever the afternoon brings, I usually plan to be done by 6pm so I have time for dinner before bed which is pretty early. It's lovely. I can't believe that we have hot water available 24/7 when it can be ready in only 15 minutes using much less energy. I can't believe that it takes me 1.5 hours to finish my tea and toast where at home I eat breakfast in the car while rushing to work. I can't believe there aren't any moments at home where I feel like the only possible thing I could literally be doing at any given moment is sitting, lost in thought. I'll have to make sure to create some of those when I return.

getting walked all over

Today I paid good money for someone to walk all over me! It was so great that it was all I could do to leave without making an appointment for the same tomorrow but I decided I should pace myself.

The 3 Sisters. I like their name and would have visited them for that alone but, really, I went because Harini, the youngest sister, is known through the yoga grapevine for her amazing massages. I'd been reading about her on various yoga sites for months before I even left Canada and knew that one of her massages had a definate place on my 'to do' list.

Harini learned to give a massage from her grandmother, who learned from her grandmother and so on and what's different about their massage is that it is given primarily using the feet. The room looks a bit dodgy: debris packed high along one wall, thatched roof with the sky peeking through, large red plastic mat in the middle with a rope suspended from the ceiling running its length. I knew what to expect from the various accounts I'd read before so I was well prepared for the room and the feet (I hate feet) but none of the descriptions I'd read mentioned the loincloth. That was a bit of a surprise.

After instructing me to strip, Harini tied a string around my waist and tore a strip of cotton from a large sheet which was secured, one end in the front and one in the back - kind of like a sumo wrestler. I suspect that it was meant more to protect my uptight Western sensitivities more than anything else because as soon as I lay, face down on the mat, off came the loincloth and I was left in all of my naked glory.

I didn't have too much time to wonder about the picture I presented because four hands began smoothing oil over me and, after that point, I really didn't care. I spent the next two hours naked as a jaybird and happy as a baby being pushed, prodded and suspended. It's amazing what exquisite pain was wrought by those two feet but the experience was fantastic and fueled my 'I'm not coming home' fire ;)

For those of you reading from India, the directions are a bit vague for first timers (lavender door near the Kavari Lodge), the contact number is 2522788

Pictures of Mysore

These were taken by Mikko from Finland. In addition to rescuing me, exhausted, in the Bangalore airport by offering to share his taxi, he takes beautiful pictures.

www.iki.fi/seppinen Click on 'Mysore'

One day in Mysore

A little boy walking, one hand holding his mother's and the other a homemade paper Christmas tree; a paper laying in the ditch bearing the words 'I made a snowman out of cotton' in a child's writing; an older man riding his bike, sinewed legs turning the pedals slowly down a red dirt road; a group of schoolgirls showing off for the camera, one dressed in bright green standing out among the blue and white uniforms; scenes from the Karma Sutra carved into the walls of a 750 year old temple, our guide explains that temples acted as educational institutions for all parts of life; a large petrol truck bearing the warning 'Highly Inflammable'; dogs sleeping by the roadside not even flinching when our Ambassador taxi passes just inches away; a motorbike weaving between potholes, a stack of eggs piled high on the back wheel wavering precariously; dinner by kerosene light, a wonderful mix of accents; the moon shining through the palm trees as seen from my roof...

the best day ever...

...and I'm not coming home.

Today is a moonday and, since there is no practice on moondays, I had a long and leisurely sleep in. When I finally roused myself from bed I took a slow walk to watch the town wake up and I ran into Mikko (Finland), Dan (USA), and Yuri (Tokyo). While that may make it sound like I actually know people here, don't be fooled - I don't. They happen to be three of the few people I know and I was so glad to run into them.

We had breakfast in the sun together and when they left I spent an extra hour reading and enjoying the warmth. I made my first trip into Mysore (I'm staying in a small town just outside the city) and had a rickshaw drop me off in the middle so I could wander around. It was so much fun. I loved being in a big, busy Indian city again. The mish mash of cars, cows, bicycles, rickshaws, scooters, vendors, grand stores, small stands, sweet shops, bracelets, vegetable market, bookstores...you name it.

After wandering, lost and having fun, for a few hours I caught a rickshaw to Coffee Day, a coffee shop chain. I enjoyed a cappucino beneath the neon-pink tubing decorating the ceiling, surrounded by very hip, rich Indian teens comparing holiday spots (London vs. Hawaii) in English, listening to bollywood disco. From there I went to the supermarket (that's right, for those of you who've been here before, a supermarket) where I bought things I don't need just because it was so fun to wander through the store. I interrupted my walk home with a stop in a posh beauty salon where I had my eyebrows threaded for 10rs (~30 cents).

I was hoping to catch up on email but won't have time tonight. It's already 6pm and things here close down early, bedtime is usually 8pm and I'm already really late to find dinner so I'm off to stuff myself.

my flat

There is an entire industry built around the yoga crowd that travels to Gokulum to study. One of the oldest, most established services is that of Shiva who is generally known as a 'fixer'. Upon arriving, he is very often the first step to getting settled since a key part of his role as fixer is to find accomodation. Recently, a young guy has been elbowing his way into Shiva's empire. He is so new and so young that no one knows his name, he's simply called 'the young guy'. I began talking with Shiva but ended up finding my flat through the young guy and I've been avoiding Shiva's street ever since.

Having shared my requirements (some furnishings, roommates ok, access to a roof) the young guy showed me a few places - each which left me more depressed than the last. Most buildings in India are built from cement which, to me, is such a cold, unwelcoming material. Accordingly, all of the apartments I saw consisted of a chain of cement blocks: bedroom, kitchen, sitting room, other room all completely bare. Attention to furnishings in India is very different from that in Canada, many houses are sparsely furnished and those that do exist are often mats on the ground covered with pillows. Would be comfortable if surrounded by other comforts of home, pictures, familiar clutter etc. but when the only item in a room it struck me as sad. I had visions of myself rattling from room to barren room sad and depressed.

My flat was the last to be shown as it was only one room, no kitchen, no roommates - the opposite of my specifications. The first thing I saw when I walked into the room was a built-in wooden bookcase with a desk overlooking a window: the heavens sang. I forgot to barter over the price and took it right then and there.

I've purchased candles, incense, new sheets to replace the camphor-saturated ones that tried to smother me my first night there, and a gallon of water so I can refill my plastic bottles instead of adding to the plastic piles in the ditches. I love it. The roof is lovely and I've found my corner where, if I place myself properly, a palm frond from one of the huge trees flanking the house brushes against me when so moved by the breeze...

made it

Walking out of the Bangalore airport, the first thing I did was take a deep, deliberate breath. India has a smell: exhaust, burned tires, and dust, with sandlewood incense dancing between each of those unique odours. It's a great smell, one that maybe shouldn't be pleasing but it oh-so-totally is. It's a smell that lets me know I've arrived, I'm here.

Our plane landed at 5:30am and customs was surprisingly quick as was baggage claim; very different from my last trip here in the middle of the SARS outbreak where each of us was pulled aside for a 'medical check' (a form filled out on the spot attesting to my good health). The noise, given the early hour, was slightly subdued, limited to calls for taxi fares, car horns, and crows. I'd forgotten about that - the crows.

The trip here was uneventful. I didn't allow myself to get distracted by books or movies, my job was to sleep - something I excel at - and I managed to sleep most of the way here. Boarding the plane in Heathrow I discovered that the guy behind me was headed for the same destination but had the foresight to arrange a taxi. When we landed in Bangalore he offered to share the taxi to Mysore; I think he was happy for the company and I was happy for the organization.

We arrived in Gokulam by 9:30am and I had my first cup of chai by 9:45am. I also discovered coffee that tastes like chai and the local sweet, Mysore Pak. Given that yoga is done by 9:00am and there is little else to do in town, I suspect that this trip will revolve around meals. Despite this, it's taken me days to get to the internet. I seem to have dropped that Western need to fill my days with 'stuff' fairly quickly. All the same, emails are welcome: rebecca_markey at hotmail dot com and I'm sure I'll post again soon.

culture, language and temper tantrums

Yesterday I picked up my visa from the Indian consulate. I didn't realize how anxious I was about getting that sorted until I had my passport in hand and felt real excitement for the first time. I stopped by the pharmacy afterwards and picked up stuff to help me sleep/keep me awake, keep food down/help food move out...all the extremes that, knock on wood, I won't need.

The consulate was, as expected, chaotic. The lineup started in the middle of the room amidst the waiting room chairs and followed a drunken path weaving its way between chairs, around rows, and finally tracing the outskirts of the room before leading to the one open service window. I attached myself to a few nice, assertive people who could also speak Hindi and made my way to the front pretty quickly where I was duly chastised for my stupidity in allowing my name to be recorded incorrectly. Whatever.

I had ample time to enjoy the confusion, nod and smile at ridiculous but well meant travel advice, and think about how important travel is. About the mediating effect that experiencing other cultures first hand has had in helping me understand the scene at the consulate. That the yelling, pushing, budding, confusion, misinformation, intrusive questions had nothing to do with rudeness or incompetence and everything to do with context. In context they made perfect sense (that context just happens to be in India ;)

On the subway heading home the older man beside me spent the entire 40 minutes studying a page of exercises practicing the different uses of "either, neither, and both". The sheet was covered in eraser marks where he had changed his answers to the fill in the blank questions. I could feel him working beside me, intent on working his way through the difference between the three terms - so focused. I had to think twice about some of the answers myself, they made such intuitive sense to me. One of his answers read "Neither of them isn't going to the game". I could see why the "isn't" made sense to him to accompany the "neither" and I was reminded again of just how difficult a language English must be to learn.

Imagine learning a new language well into your adulthood. I don't mean picking up French as a a hobby or a fun thing to do but learning a new language as a matter of necessity, because you're immersed in a culture where you simply can't get along with out it. Sometimes the tenacity of others humbles me.


As an aside, the baby living below me hasn't stopped crying, shrieking, and temper tantruming since September. At which point am I allowed to stop being understanding?

So glad...

...that the stores put up their Christmas decorations the day after Halloween, the houses on my street have had their Christmas lights up for several weeks already, and that 97.3 EZRock plays Christmas music 24 hours/day.

I'm going to miss Christmas this year.

Perspecia Anne Hasley

Soooo...I went to the Indian Consulate today to get my Visa. It was my third trip, the first two were in vain as the Consulate was closed. No reason, just...closed. Are you thinking that I should have checked the website to confirm the hours? Yeah, I did that. I've visited that site so often that I could recite the content to you verbatim but there would be no point; the webpage is wrong, wrong, wrong.

I finished yoga by 8:30 and, knowing that the consulate doesn't open until 9:30, almost stopped to relax over a cup of coffee but figured that getting there early to line up couldn't hurt. Arriving at the consulate, I noticed a sign "Line-up here prior to 8:30", however, it was now 9:00 and there was no line so I proceeded upstairs where the Consulate had wisely constructed a barrier hiding the waiting room to the right as you enter the room. I proceeded to the desk and picked up my number, E83, and turned the corner to find a chair.

Up to this point, I was blissfully unaware of the chaos awaiting me on the other side of the barrier. The consulate wasn't even open yet and there were hundreds of people before me. 283 to be exact. Although I was number E83, the waitlist started at letter C and each letter had 100 tickets so I wasn't really number E83, I was number 283. I returned to the counter to ask about drop off procedures, a process which was in no way as easy as it sounds, but I won't bore you.

As per the instructions, I left the consulate, found a post office to purchase a prepaid priority post envelope, found a TD Bank to get a money order, found a stationary store to find another envelope to hold everything else and raced back to the consulate feeling somewhat optimistic. This might just work out. Clearly, it's been several years since my last trip to India - I really should have known better.

If the waiting room was chaotic at 9:00 it was pure, unadulterated, chaos when I returned at 9:45. I mean 3rd class, unreserved Indian train chaos. Surveying the line, now stretching out the door and down the hall, I kept my "Oh HELL no" thoughts to myself and allowed my travel instincts to take over. Ignoring the line, I made my way to the front counter where I planted myself - legs spread, arms extended so as to deter others from shouldering their way in & steadfastedly ignored the waving hands thrust past my fact to request forms, tickets, and grab attention. I also made friends with the well-dressed man beside me as they often have a way of making things happen.

And we waited. We waited 55 minutes to 'drop off' our forms. I waited so long that I became the Q&A person in absence of the real Q&A guy who had scurried away 35 minutes ago to 'get her' (I think he was just actually running away - the mob was getting ugly). We waited so long that the man beside me reached behind the counter, grabbed the ticket roll and began distributing tickets, beginning again at letter C, effectively ensuring even more confusion when more than one person responded to the letter/number called. After 40 minutes of waiting, 'the lady' came, spent 20 minutes forcing us all to line up in a straight line while, at the same time, fielding questions from those who bypassed the line which only led to the dissolution of the line she'd worked so hard to build and we would begin again.

The clock was ticking, there was no way I was going to be on time for work, and I was desperate to get rid of my passport - this little blue book that I usually protect with my life I was desperate to give to someone, ANYONE. I held my place and when it was finally my turn, was told that everything I had done was wrong. Prepaid envelopes? We don't accept those, I can't help you. Drop off? We don't do that, "Go away". And by told I mean yelled - the lady hated me. No matter, I shouted other people down, waved my hands, shook my head & finally got permission to leave my passport behind for pickup next week. Success.

Walking from the Consulate to my car, smiling to myself, I allowed myself to feel excited for the first time. I'm going to India. It's going to be chaos like the consulate multiplied many times over - a constant battle of wits against systems that run in flagrant disregard to logic, reason and efficiency - I can't freaking wait. It was only when I got to work that I noticed the name the mean lady, ignoring my clear, block handwriting, had written on my receipt: Perspecia Anne Hasley - now THAT'S going to be a problem...

you'd think i'd learn from past experience...

I leave for India in just over a month. I'll be excited in about 26 days. Until then I still have to get through work, the courseload for my Masters program, research papers, and finish next terms work projects this term. It's a bit much.

I finish that bit on December 7th and THEN I can be excited (and panicked) as I prepare for my month away in the 4 days I'll have at my leisure. I can manage all of that. What I've been thinking about is how to prevent the meltdown I'm anticipating on December 11th when I land in my 5th city in 2 days, sans sleep, sans destination, and facing the fantastic, full on assault that is India. It made me think of something I wrote in Peru last year:

Possible implications of travelling for 20 hours straight on a journey spanning 3 countries and 4 flights with the last connection allowing only 1 hour to land, clear customs and depart again:

• Your temperament will be clouded by absolute exhaustion as will your judgment promoting behaviour so rude and curt that it will be assumed you're American (not necessarily a good sign in International travel). You'll be too embarrassed to correct anyone.
• Your flight (the overnight one, of course) will be delayed 1.5 hours and you'll miss your final flight - the one with the nice driver at the end waiting to whisk you away to that place where the beds are.
• Although the clock tells the grim truth, you cling to the thought that you may make that final connection and undertake a coronary-inducing sprint through the airport obstacle course in a desperate effort to MAKE...THAT...FLIGHT (see point 1 re: clouded judgment)
• You'll forget your passport at one of the many checkpoints and have to frantically retrace your steps to find it. When you get there, you'll act as if it were their fault you left it behind.
• At the moment just prior to accepting that your passport is absolutely, positively NOT in your pack, your increasingly panicked digging will unleash your emergency stash of USDollars scattering crisp $20's and $10's at random. You'll have to scramble all over the floor to pick it up, no one offers to help because your behaviour up to that point has been appalling.
• You don't make the flight.

In my case, all of the above. However, once the confusion settles people will be very nice, you'll receive a complimentary breakfast, have a chance to really relish your first Peruvian purchase - a coffee, the radio will play a selection from your own personal collection of favourite songs ranging from Radiohead to Bryan Adams to Bon Jovi, and you'll already know that you'll like travelling in Peru before even leaving the airport.

post-yoga euphoria

After rising early to meet I. for our Saturday coffee (where I learned that giraffes sleep 5 minutes/day) I returned home to clean, do laundry and work on a paper - but did none of those things. Instead, I ate my weight in food, made carrot-ginger soup, ate more, then watched a very bad movie before taking a very long nap.

I woke feeling heavy, lethargic, and depressed and decided not to go to yoga - I wasn't feeling quite right. Although my guilt propelled me to get changed, I never really intended on leaving the house; that I found myself walking to the subway in the rain is a testament to the pure power of guilt as a motivator. Once there, the train was late in coming (surely a sign that I should be back home wallowing on my couch) and when it did arrive I fell asleep (surely I must be coming down with something what was I doing dragging myself to yoga?). When I exited at Bathurst I half-planned on walking right past the shala to the Spadina stop where I would get back on the subway and go home where I belonged but my feet led me into the studio and up the stairs.

I stood at the front of my mat taking a few moments to ground myself. Feet rooting to the floor, crown of my head reaching up, spine lengthening, shoulders squaring back, chest opening and rising, hips falling into place and there I was - I found myself. This was my last conscious observation. The rest of my practice was a long, graceful prayer punctuated by fleeting sensations: chest opening in upward dog; the release of my throat, head tipped back, hands reaching to the ceiling in the sun salutations; the lower half of my body grounded and assertive while the upper half moved, open and reaching in warrior II.

Of course, I was anything but graceful but I don't care. I may have looked like a moth, heavy and clumsy, but I felt like a butterfly, light and floating. When I caught my expression in store window as I wandered through the Annex after practice my face was relaxed and smiling. I felt great, a sharp contrast to how I felt just three hours earlier: heavy, lethargic and depressed. It made me think about how closely tied my body and my emotions are, how 2 days without yoga turned me into a blob, and it scared me - what would I do if I were unable to be physically active? It made me think about North America, about living in a country where the mind/body relationship is pretty much ignored, and it made me wonder what this says about our psyche as a nation?

coffee conundrum

Anyone else feel uncomfortable ordering coffee these days? As if learning to speak 'starbucks' wasn't difficult enough, the shop where I get my coffee has begun renaming its coffees after the region the bean was grown in: Rwanda, Ethiopia, Columbia.

The result, however unintentional, is that every morning I squirm uncomfortably as I order a 'Tall Rwandan' or 'Medium Ethiopian' to go. Doesn't the US grow coffee? I'd feel a lot more comfortable ordering an 'Extra-rich American' to get me going in the morning...

my yoga teacher made me cry today...

...it was in a good way but how do you explain that? Fears, doubts, blocks, obstinance and resistance - they all reared their ugly heads during practice this morning and my teacher called me on it. Upsetting, but good because he was right and I wouldn't even have noticed it otherwise.

If I were to transcribe my thoughts from practice this morning they would read as "nope...not going to...can't do that, CAN'T do that...not gonna do it...". After my umpteenth half-assed attempts, my teacher tucked down beside me and observed that I wasn't trusting him as a teacher or myself as a practitioner, that he knows my practice and has seen what I'm capable of achieving but I need to stop pulling back so I can let myself move forward.

Essentially, he told me to trust, have faith and let go - and that's why I cried, those are hard freaking things for me to do. An interesting mirror, and by interesting, I really mean ugly. I didn't realize that there was trust missing - but there is. I didn't realize that I was full of 'can't do it' - but I am. And I didn't realize that as much as I'm working to move forward - I'm working just as hard to hold back.

Making the unconscious conscious - that's good stuff.

I heart yoga.

and speaking of boyscouts...

...they were out in full force this weekend. My morning trip to the coffee shop was less a meandering wander, as per usual, and more a minefield of khaki munchkins. Their handlers, the parents, must have attended some sort of "apple hawking" workshop this year, the whole process was oddly organized with many of them doubling up. While carrying the benefits of providing company for their child and someone for them to roll their eyes at; it led to a conundrum for well-meaning citizens like myself: which cute, squeaky voiced child to donate to?

At first, I was unperturbed - I had strategies of my own. I packed my pockets with change, carried my apple high, and brandished my tiny white "I donated" square with aplomb mistakenly assuming that the latter two would act as my protective shield. Unfortunately, no one had informed the canvassers-masquerading-as-scouts what the square meant and I was accosted every few feet by not one, but two, army green donation boxes thrust hopefully at me. Predictably, I ended up donating to both.

Last night was different, it was the older scouts holding sentry outside the video and convenience stores, the ones who had outgrown scouts but don't know it yet. Or maybe they know it but their parents don't. Maybe last spring when sign ups were posted they were still scout-appropriate without indication that, come fall, they would have morphed into raucous, loud and, dare I say it, obnoxious preteens.

Thinking about this reminded me again of how quickly we change, not just the scouts, all of us. The overgrown scouts with their uneasy guffaws and awkward limbs were easy to spot but the rest of us? We're not so different.

Within the space of a few short months obsessions fade, clothing sizes change and tolerable situations change to intolerable and back again. Without the obvious reminders that accompany some changes - such as puberty - it can be easy to forget how fluid we are. That no matter what our age and stage, the only constant we can be sure of is the fact that we're going to change and that, at times, the transition will be so gradual that we may not even notice it ourselves.

things i learned in southeast asia

• That size doesn't matter but the label sometimes does. The same teensy weensy fish that was fascinating one second put me into a full blown panic attack the next when I was informed that it was a reefer shark
• The locals are fine, it's the people in uniforms you need to watch out for
• While riding atop the neck of an elephant may look cool, it is very, very itchy
• That the poorest country financially can be the richest in spirit
• That I'll get what I need when I need it - pay attention
• That although yells and threats may provoke action in other parts of the world, here they just make me look stupid. The sooner I learn to laugh, tease, and cajole - the better
• That I absolutely and truly and totally am never alone
• That it is terrible for my self-esteem to shop in SEAsia - "We no have your size, hee hee"
• That if I don't ask, I may never find out
• That it's best to see things with my own eyes and make my own decisions instead of accepting the reports of others
• That not everyone is a 'kindred spirit' but a surprising number are and I'll meet them when least expected
• Be patient - the boat will come sometime between 6am-10am.
• Also, be flexible - sometimes the boat just won't come and I'll have to take a bus.

a busy idiot or idiotically busy?

I've been thinking about being busy lately. I've been feeling overwhelmed, burnt out and stressed out and it's made me wonder whether I actually am that busy. Maybe the real problem is that I just don't manage my time that well? Or that I have incredibly poor stress-management skills?

Everyone is busy, people have written books about how busy we are; I should know, I've got one of them sitting in my bookcase, unread, at home. I remembered this book as I sat on the subway rushing from work to nightclass and my very next thought, that I should read the book, was quickly chased by the following promise: I will, just as soon as I can find the time....

At this point I caught myself, had one of those 'did I REALLY just say that' moments, and gave thanks that the conversation was a mental one. The up-side of being too busy to socialize - no one else is privy to my increasingly idiotic trains of thought ;)

i heart georgian bay

A few years ago I read a passage in "The English Patient" by Michael Ondaatje that literally brought my hand to my chest and sent me into one of those foggy eyed reveries that accompanies good memories. That I happened to be in Thailand at the time may have exaggerated my response to a small degree but I've never forgotten that somewhere in the 300-odd pages of text there was a passage that communicated 'home' to me in a way that I've never been able to put to paper.

I was reminded of this passage for the umpteenth time a few days ago while on our annual 'last time out this season' kayak trip. I've been tripping through the park we were in for 10 years and, as we moved through the water, I couldn't help but connect that island...this rock...that site... to memories from years past. My first trip there with M., the boy about whom I'll always wonder 'what if?'; that spot in the middle of the bay where V., too drunk to wait, leaned herself over the side of our teetering canoe and peed right then and there; that cliff where the boys insisted on cliff diving, scaring any training about handling head and neck injuries right out of my mind; and that campsite where G. and I spent our last weekend.

Yesterday, I borrowed "The English Patient" from the library to reacquaint myself with the passage that spoke so strongly to me of home that it stayed with me all these years. It took some time to find it but, eventually, I was successful. There it was, buried on page 296 in a book of 301 pages:

"I am sick of Europe, Clara. I want to come home. To your small cabin and pink rock in Georgian Bay".

When I found it, I had to read it twice - I was that surprised. "That's it?", I asked myself. Then I read it again and nodded to myself. That's it. The years of my life are spelled out across the sparkling pink rock that is Northern Ontario.

Summers spent at summer camp learning to canoe, kayak and pack enough belongings to last a week in a tiny little bedroll, never once suspecting that these would all be skills I would bring with me into adulthood. Weeks spent at Kilbear Provincial Park, a place I visited again this summer and realized how the years had passed: that the island I used to be afraid to swim to was nothing more than a large step away; that teenagers still climb the cliffs to sneak cigarettes and flirt with summer romance; and that the tradition of graffiti rock has survived only now the dates read "Smith family 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003" instead of the "1980, 1981, 1982" that accompanied my visits. With time has come new traditions like 'the last time out' kayak trip with my Aunt and Cousin last weekend where I think I surprised my Aunt by replying "None" to the question "How many children?".

In the city buildings are torn down and built over, forests are replaced by Walmarts, and friends move away but up north that tree just gets bigger, the islands hold their place, and that warm spot in the sun - the one on the rock with the built in chair at site 321 - that warm spot will still be there next year.

apples

It's boyscout season and I have apples. I have the apples I bought at the greengrocers this morning and I have the 6 extra apples I bought on the way home after succumbing to the annual boyscout fundraising drive.

I do this every year. Once I have accumulated a few apples I tell myself that I'm going to stop, that I'll be stronger next time but then, a kerchief-clad gradeschooler flanked by a protective parent takes a few tetative steps towards me and before I know it, I'm pulling out my wallet.

I'm biased with my donations. I seek out the shy ones, the ones hugging the wall or being pushed forward by parents eager to get rid of the damn apples and return home to the weekend papers. If the parents are shy as well, if I detect that desperate "maybe I can just buy all of the apples myself and spare us both this agony" glimmer in thier eye - I buy two.

I recognize my patronage for what it is: a perverse attempt to compensate for my own early childhood fundraising trauma. As a child so painfully shy that conversations with my grandparents set off 'stranger danger' panic attacks, I hated girlguides and I really hated selling cookies.

Every year I would pair up with the same friend and we would make the rounds pushing our chocolate and vanilla junk. My friend was an outgoing chatterbox with matching ribbons in her pigtails. I was toungetied, unable to lift my self-styled, unevenly pigtailed head to make eye contact, and usually returned home with a full box of cookies.

And so, for every shy child and reluctant parent out there, I buy apples. I buy more apples than I could possibly need, I buy apples that I can't even identify, and I will spend the rest of the morning searching my recipe books for things to make that require lots of apples but very little talent because I can't cook to save my life. But that's another story.

ten temporary things

I was mock cleaning this weekend (you know, moving piles from one place to another) and I came across an article I'd saved entitled "Be fabulously disgraceful at 70". The side bar to this article contained a list of '10 temporary things' which I cut out with the intention of creating my own list one day. I haven't quite gotten around to my personalized list yet but there's no rush, the original did just fine:

youth
romantic infactuation
six-pack abs
your job
your troubles
professional importance
relationships
debt
hemmorrhoids
life itself

I'm curious, then, what could be thought of as permanent things...

wanted: kitty cat play date

I think my cat is disappointed in me.

The realization hit me tonight as I was rummaging through my fridge, scavenging for food...no cat. If there's one thing I can usually count on, it's that I'll be greeted by the sight of his crazy-sideways run rushing to meet me at the door each night when I come home. Usually. Tonight I moved around my apartment, meowing-dervish-free and, when I thought about it, I realized that last night was sans cat as well. Although my first inclination was to go and look for him, it was my second inclination that won - the one that said "Hey, this is nice! He's not going anywhere, finish your dinner". My reaction, or lack of, wasn't quite as blasé as it may sound, I knew he was in the apartment somewhere and it was kind of nice to NOT trip about the apartment for once.

It didn't take long to find him. As I turned the corner to move from the kitchen to the bedroom I stopped in my tracks: there he was. Looking at me. Any teenager who has broken curfew knows ''the look'. The one you get when concern has faded to relief before turning into disappointment; that reproachful, wordless stare that says "How could you?" and "I expected more ". Apparently my cat knows 'the look' too. And he wasn't in a forgiving mood; my conciliatory approach was met by his hasty retreat beneath the bed.

I retreated to think about this surprising turn of events. My cat was mad at me. What to do, what to do? I ran the possibilities through my mind. Food? Check. Water? Check. What else is there? Having been raised in the land of dogs, I'm pretty fluent in dog but cat? Now that's a language that is still foreign to me. Language barrier aside, as I thought about the past week I realized that I don't need to be fluent in cat to know that the fact that I was able to count our human-cat interactions over the last several weeks in minutes was NOT a good thing. I've been ignoring my cat, no wonder he's upset with me.

For some inane reason, this realization reminded me of the mid-80's brat pack movie "The Breakfast Club". The one where Molly Ringwald played the 'prom queen', Judd Nelson 'the delinquent', Emilio Estevez 'the jock', and Ally Sheedy...well, I forget her label...but that's kind of the point. When all is said and done, when lunch has been eaten, drugs imbibed and romantic ties forged, the characters share the source of their collective angst: their parents.

One is abusive, another has high expectations and yet another uses their daughter as a pawn in their divorce. All of this pales in comparison, however, to the pain incurred by Ally Sheedy at the hands of her parents. When pressured to share her story with the group, Ally Sheedy looks up from under her shaggy bangs, pale skin shining luminously, eyes lined with heavy black kohl and dejectedly whispers "they ignore me". She wins the 'whose parents are worst' contest, hands down. Physical abuse, overwhelming expectations, messy divorce - none could stand up to the stark reality of being ignored.

I'm living with the kitty cat equivalent of Ally Sheedy. What I think are random (and lets be honest, irritating) meows are probably cries for help; anguished pleas to the birds flying by and people passing below in the hopes that someone, anyone, will hear his pain: "she ignores me".

I'll have to start closing the windows ;)

what is Peru like?

Worn stone steps holding the mountain sun's warmth.

Church after church after church, each bearing their own grand staircase and prefaced by a central square laying green and beautiful at their feet. Children in uniforms walking home at 6:30pm - are they really returning from school so late? The mountains hugging the town are toppped by a crystal clear blue sky. Laughing kids, blessedly indifferent men, chiming bells, taxis honking for attention, and business savvy young touts fill the square. The touts spout facts about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky when they think I'm American and Toronto and Ottawa before quickly running dry on facts when they learn of my true Nationality. Granola that is actually just puffed wheat - sugar crisps without the sugar. Steep stone steets flanked by white buildings. Doorways revealing art, bright textiles, restarants, and unexpected entryways into grand courtyards with more of the same. Tourists of all kinds - I like the ones fully decked out in their jungle-trekking finery the best.

Warm spots in the sun that quickly turn cold when the sun sets behind the mountains as it just has....

Cusco, May 2004

overheard in Toronto

While basking in the sun on Moonbeam patio this morning...

young girl to her father: "Daddy, are you ever going to see Michelle again?"
father: "Not on purpose"

Made me laugh.

the 'i can't even...' game

I was thinking about Gwen Stefani on my drive into work this morning.

It was one of those "and I can't even..." mental conversations where I look at the accomplishments of others and compare them to my own lack of by realizing that I can't even (insert babystep to the accomplishment here). I'll give you an example: when I heard that my friend's 27 year old boyfriend bought his second house, one of my first thoughts was "Geez, I can't even commit to a magazine subscription at my rented apartment and this kid is on his second house?".

Back to Gwen. I was thinking about how she'd created her 'L.A.M.B.' clothing line around her favourite words: love, angel, music, baby and I thought "Geez, I can't even pick my four favourite words let alone design a clothing line, run a company, and sell millions of records" and I felt bad. At first. Then, the more I thought about it the dumber it seemed.

The ability to select four favourite words is NOT an accomplishment that I need to add to my (admittedly small) repertoire. In fact, it seems kind of gradeschool-ish; like picking my four favourite friendship pins or scratch 'n' sniff stickers. Out of the hundreds and hundreds of glorious words at my disposal where would I even begin narrowing the possibilities down and why would I want to limit myself that way? What would my criteria be? Mood? Temperature? Atmosphere? Activity?

The beauty - the pure, decadent luxury of language is that I can be unhappy or distraught, cool or freezing, happy or ecstatic and, although they fall into the same broad categories, they have wildly different meanings. I love words. I don't want to be able to pick my four favourites, it would be like asking a parent to pick their favourite child. In fact, NOT picking my four favourite words is my accomplishment.

But just for the record, if I were to create my list, the first to be voted onto my word-island would be Zephyr which, in my opinion, beats all four of Gwen's somewhat-simple favourites hands down anyway ;)

disappointment

"Do you know about the pre-cambrian shield he asked?", her mind scrambled desperately through her options. Could she say yes? Would he believe her if she did? She knew enough now to know that questions like this inevitably led to a backstory followed by another seemingly innocent question leading to even more explanation all of which contributed to a very long story rife with meandering tangents best titled "I don't give a sh*t".

Over the weeks she had created a game where, as she watched his mouth form the words of the story she never asked to hear, she tried to trace the conversation (if it could be called that) back to it's roots question by question. Today's lecture began as usual with her only contribution to the conversation: "How was your week?" which was all he needed to launch into his Saturday morning monologue. This week he had visited the Sharon Temple and she groaned inwardly when he named the place - she'd never heard of it. Of course, he asked, and as she replied in the negative, she eyed her morning papers longingly knowing what was to come: a surprised "Oh, you don't know where the Sharon temple is?" and a description of how to get there town by agonizingly small town; one town was built using the 'board and beam' style unique to Ontario and his question "Oh, you don't know what 'board and beam' is?" was followed by a detailed description of the style, chosen because of the hardness of the wood which came from the pre-cambrian shield... at which point she interrupted him, conjured up a breakfast date with friends and made her escape.

It's not that she didn't mean it when she asked him how his week was, his weekly adventures were part of what had charmed her when they first met. She felt that each story he shared contained a lesson: stop and smell the roses, be curious, look at familiar sites with new eyes, explore, read, learn...this was back when they were new friends. Before his comments about her 'nice ass', before he started referring to her in the third person while she was sitting right in front of him 'and what does R. think?', before his probing questions about her childhood, before he started caring so much about what she thought.

Why did men have to be so predictable? The opposite sexes were never allowed to just be friends, they were a FEMALE and a MALE first, friends second. I. was more than twice her age, she knew his comments about her appearance were harmless but they were irritating all the same. Why the f* did it matter? Why did he feel the need to comment at all? It was so freaking predictable, exept she hadn't expected it. She hadn't expected him to fall into the male habit of deferring to her first. It was annoying. She had enjoyed thier conversations specifically because they were just that - conversations. Now as he talked, she couldn't shake the feeling that his monologue was rehearsed; that as he had moved through his week, gone about his adventures, he had been mentally planning how he would present them to her and that all she had to do was ask the question, "How was your week?" for his prepared monologue to come tumbling out with barely a pause for breath.

Far from looking forward to their Saturday morning coffee-talk, she had begun to approach them with a mixture of dread and disappointment. She continued to show up with her papers and coffee in tow hoping that they could revert back to their old pattern of reading their papers in compatible silence, sharing headlines when so moved. This was never the case. Instead, I. talked and she carefully arranged her face with the appropriate expression: surprise, sympathy, interest...all the while resenting her obligation to do so, his refusal to notice that she'd contributed nothing more than 'uh-huh' to the conversation, and, lately, a feeling of suffocation at his cloying, inappropriate comments.

wah wah wah

In bed by 9:30 last night. Phone rang 2x, E. checking to see if I'm ok. No. I'm depressed. Drowning. Floundering in water, arms trailing above, watching the light fade as I sink deeper and deeper - depressed. I can see the light, I know that I used to be a part of it and that it was effortless to be there but I'm gone and I don't know how, or why, or what to do to find my way back.

I want to be rescued. To be attached to someone stronger to pull me through, to rely on someone else's strength for a while. I'm tired - no - exhausted and I'm through doing it all on my own.

Today on the subway I watched an older, blind man struggle with his cane - bent parallell to the ground, cane swinging without reason before him, buffeted by the people rushing through the subway. I rushed past too and then stopped and watched him for a few seconds. The platform had cleared and he was making his way towards the stairs leading up to street level but he wasn't moving with direction, with purpose. When I asked if he needed help he responded like someone who was drowning himself. Yes. He was looking for the eastbound trains accessed by the stairs in the opposite direction from which he was headed.

I offered him my arm and we walked down the stairs where, for once, the eastbound train was waiting. My first thought when I began typing this was a question: what right do I have to be depressed? Wah, wah, wah. Life is not what I thought it would be, so what? It's only as I type this that I realize there's something else there for me: the realization that I let someone else attach themself to my strength for a few moments and it felt good. Really good.