gumbostrand & a pool of words

When I was 11, my mother, sister & I drove across Canada to attend Expo '87 in Vancouver. At the beginning of our trip I decided to dedicate a page in my journal to keep track of funny street/town names I saw on the way. I think I gave up somewhere around Wawa, Ontario (about 10 hours into our 6 day drive) once I realized the enormity of my undertaking. Still, all these years later, whenever I see a street or town name that strikes me as funny I mentally add it to that list. Today's addition: Gumbostrand. Seen from my bus window on my way here www.porvoo.fi/

Truth, Hate, Love, Lies, Dead - Kiasma Art Installation
The white words run in computer generated text across the black floor of a large, dark room. Grouped together and moving in a pattern I can't decipher, the words wash over and around me like small schools of fish "hate", "love", "lies", "truth", with the occasional "dead" thrown in when the words collide. Bathed in a pool of words. I loved it.

oh no i didn't...

My 'to do' list from this weekend:

Saturday - 5:45, V For Vendetta, Conf # 32179
Sunday - Kiasma (Art Gallery)
Monday - Check into Russian visa

Even more than the inanity of actually taking the time to write these down is this: the only very important item I sucessfully completed was attending the movie on Saturday. Had I not booked it in advance that morning, I'm pretty sure that would have remained incomplete as well. I suck at 'to do' lists. And I'm on holiday - I can do what I want ;)

Today I was able to confirm something I've been suspecting since arriving in Helsinki; the squirrels here have big ears. Very. Big. Ears. I bet that the Finnish word for 'Squirrel' translates to English as 'Sqrabbit'.

That's right folks. I'm here all week...

runnin' from god

I was a good tourist today, I went to the Uspenskin Katedraali (Russian Orthodox Church). Although I made it inside, I followed my usual 'holy crap I'm in a church' strategy of hovering around the entrance peering at whatever was visible from my post near the door. I have an aversion to churches. More than an aversion, really, they freak me out.

I've got the routine down: I think I'll be ok, enter the church, tentatively make my way inside trying to lose myself in the high, arched ceilings and hushed sounds, but then the walls begin to close in and I panic before rushing for the door. I know, its all in my mind but it feels real enough to me. Enough so that I generally avoid churches. I preferred waiting outside in the rain to taking shelter inside a local church with friends; ran out of the most peaceful church in Bayonne, France; had a panic attack in Westminster Abbey because I could NOT find my way out; and it took me until my third visit to Paris before I could bring myself to enter the Notre Dame (and then only to light a candle for my family). Churches make me feel the way I imagine claustrophobic people must feel - suffocated, panicked, unable to breathe. It's no one thing that gets me, it's the overall energy. I figure it's the legacy I've been left with having grown up Catholic (recovering Catholic, my dad calls it).

I remember when finally, ten years after finishing high school, I found the beauty in Catholicism. I was reading a book that contained a long passage from the bible with a message along the following lines: don't worry about yesterday, it's gone. Don't worry about tomorrow, it hasn't arrived yet. Don't even worry about right now - God is present. Instead, feel the sun on your skin, watch the birds, smell the flowers and know that God is taking care of you, there's no need to worry.

I was so angry when I read that. Why didn't I learn about that in my 13 years of Catholic schooling? Why, instead, do I remember standing in line in grade 3 trying to make up a credible sin to share in Confession because I couldn't think of a real one (and then laying awake in bed all night certain I was going to Hell because I'd lied in confession)? Why, after my parents' divorce, did I feel what hypocrisy was from the Church parishioners long before I actually knew the word? Why was I told, at 16 years of age, that I was going to go to Hell (sure, I was an irritating 16 year old but, really, to go to Hell for it?)? Why wasn't I encouraged to stop, enjoy the moment, know that a great power was there for me?

I've found my own ways of honouring the divine but when I think about the years spent in the Catholic system, the sheer number of us receiving the same wrathful, guilt-ridden messages instead of being exposed to the empowering and beautiful messages that also existed - I get angry. Such a waste.

Related but different news from Helsinki: the view from the church was absolutely gorgeous and I felt, for the first time since arriving, a hint of what true spring/summer in this city could be like and it was a fabulous moment.

on the balcony you say?

Last week while visiting the friends of a friend we got on the inevitable topic of sleep or, rather, the lack of it courtesy of their gorgeous 3 month old daughter. Somewhere in the midst of the discussion the following phrase emerged "...put her out on the balcony and...". The comment slid by for a few seconds while my mind went through one of those "did I REALLY just hear that" moments and I had to rewind the conversation to clarify that I'd heard correctly. I had.

Apparantly, in Finland, babies take their naps outside. Yes, even in winter. This blew my mind. Still does. Granted, there are a couple of million Finns wandering around who don't seem any worse for the experience (although Finns seem to have beaten Canadians at our own game of being quietly reserved so, really, who knows what lurks beneath ;) and God knows I'd be the last to hold up Toronto as the poster child for happy, healthy child rearing. Not when comparing us to a country that grants 3 years maternity/paternity leave, seems to have grasped the concept of life/work balance as that which means leaving work at work at the end of the day, and seems to have social supports that actually work.

It's just that I've been running the various scenarios through my mind; ones where I bundle up my baby, place him/her in their carriage and roll them outside to the front stoop to nap for a few hours through my mind and there's not one scenario that actually works. Not one that doesn't include the intervention of the child protection agencies, that is.

canadian girl, helsinki tram, good friday

pretty serious stuff, this walking

A few years ago in a distant land named Peru, a wandering Canadian girl met a wandering German girl and the two decided to embark on a journey. Most people embarking on such a journey approach the experts, the tour operators, and allow them to do what they do best - organize trips. For some reason, it escaped the attention of both said wanderers that there may be something to this and they instead opted to rent a donkey and use a guide book to navigate a 7 day trek through the cordilla blanca on their own. During the course of the journey they discovered many, many, oh-so-freaking-many reasons why it really makes sense to have the help of porters, cooks, and tourguides when walking for 7 days straight at a crazy high altitude where oxygen is a hot commodity. Particularly when one of the lovely wanderers (ahem) gets a very aggressive parasite on day one of the trek and all kinds of bodily functions go awry. But. That's not the point of this post.

The point of this post is this: the German girl walked funny and she had accessories to help her do so. Spring loaded walking poles made of very special material that was explained to me in great detail but I wasn't paying attention; I was busy looking on the ground for walking stick for myself. It was a very 'old world/new world' moment where, I'm afraid, my wooden stick did very little to further the gauche image North Americans seem to carry back in 'the seat of civilization and culture' aka: Europe. In addition to special walking shoes and fancy walking poles, the German also had special walking steps. Apparently, one walks a special way when travelling uphill and a very different way when moving downhill and don't even get me started on the very special walking steps required when mud, rock, and uneven terrain are involved. I thought the German was a bit odd.

Then I came to Helsinki. I may have been a bit hard on the German, I'm beginning to suspect that this very serious attitude toward walking is less a 'German thing' and more a 'Northern European thing'. After a week spent wandering the streets of Helsinki, the paths bordering the ocean, and the city parks, I've observed a shocking number of people walking with their very special walking poles. Apparently, the terrain in Helsinki city streets is not to be trusted. Perhaps rugged mountain passes emerge without warning in the middle of city intersections? The ground heaves, the earth rolls with unaccountable volcanic action? Whatever the reason, walking poles seem to be the remedy to safe and happy city walking. So much so that I don't even really notice them anymore. Except the ones running with them, they still look strange.

sunday

I left Toronto on a gorgeous spring day. Patio cafes had been reassembled, I had my first sandle-sighting of the year, and the streets were packed with people toting bundles of flowers and pastries. The combination of sun, people and colour after a winter of black, burgandy and grey made it feel as the village was bursting with life. Although Easter isn’t until next week, the afternoon carried a definate holiday feeling and I joined the masses wandering along Bloor street before assuming a spot on a park bench just to enjoy the fact of being outside.

It was lovely, but not necessarily the best idea since at that point I had less than 1 hour to get home, pack, and close up my apartment before leaving for 5 months of wandering. Suffice it to say, that last hour was a chaotic one ending with me tearing apart my bags and repacking them in the parking lot beside my mom’s car. I’d like to say that I was ruthless in that final revision to the ridiculous amount of things I’d packed but, really, I think the proper word is stupid. I’ve no idea what I ended up keeping and what stayed behind. I can tell you this much, my belt didn’t make the cut and I’ve literally dragged my butt through 14 hours of travel and 2 airports one hand on my bags and the other clutching my waistband.

Almost done though. The overhead map shows that we’re flying over the Baltic Sea and are due to land in Finland in 2 hours. It’s been a month of endings bringing with them change, upheaval and uncertainty; exactly what I’ve been seeking. I am excited but at a loss to describe how I’m feeling beyond that. Perhaps once my spirit catches up with my body, once my psyche really understands that I’m unemployed, unencumbered, footloose and fancy free for 5 months I’ll be better equipped to put words to it. Right now, there’s a part of me that hasn’t caught up yet but every time I look up I see nothing but blue sky and fluffy clouds and I'm reminded that I'm on my way. Next post is from Helsinki.

saturday

I’d been worried about her, this new roommate of mine. It was her name that concerned me so: Sunny, what kind of a name was that? I wasn’t sure but I imagined its owner to be a dippy, ditzy, private school princess, although I hoped I was wrong - and I was. Our first meeting consisted of her catching me, music blaring, clothes strewn about (unpacked I would have called it), standing in the middle of my bed for no real reason other than it seemed a good place to be; jean shorts, tank top and hair piled high in a messy ponytail. It turned out that between the two of us, I was the dippy, ditzy blond.

She was the yin to my yang. It would have been impossible to find two more polar opposites to share our tiny dorm room but it was wonderful and it worked. In hindsight, I think it worked because of Sunny and in spite of me. While, we’ve both matured with age, I'm the first to admit that I had a LOT longer to go.

You could draw a line down our room: her side and my side. The former sparsely decorated, tidy, organized and the latter a study of chaos: pictures covering the walls, clothes spilling out of drawers, dirty dishes optimistically labelled ‘experiments’ to escape dish duty, and stuff piled high everywhere. I don’t know how she put up with it but she is, and always has been, gracious, kind and tolerant. We had fun. We covered every embarrassing topic that couldn’t be brought anywhere else, a group of us serenaded her through her first bought of alcohol poisening (‘Someone’s puking my lord, kumbayah’), and we convinced ourselves that natchos and salsa constituted 'health food' and indulged ourselves on a nightly basis.

She got married this weekend in one of the funnest wedding celebrations I’ve ever attended. As I listened to the speeches and watched her and her husband circulate among the guests I realized just how long we've been friends, how much we'd both grown, and how lucky I was that she kept me in her life. It's so strange the way the years creep up, the way things like weddings, promotions, babies, new houses etc. startle me with their 'evidence' that we are, in fact, of 'that' age already. Even stranger that I never would have guessed way back in my first year of university that life would only get more fun with age, not less so the way I imagined.

friday

Was that me writing about feeling trapped? Seems like it must have been a lifetime ago but, really, it's only been a few months. When I gave notice back in January it seemed like the three months until I left would last years. For the first few weeks, time did seem to move at a snail's pace but these last 1.5 months have absolutely flown by. So much so that here I am - my last day of work - and it's barely registered.

There are students and colleagues I will miss when I've left, but there hasn't been a single moment where I've doubted my decision. I've learned a lot about the kind of Counsellor I want to be and the kind of environment I need in order to really thrive at work. It's time to go.

This is the third time I've picked up and left for an extended bout of travel. The first in my early 20's, second late 20's and now in my early 30's. It's been very different this time. Not so much my experience preparing to leave but in the responses I've gotten, particularly around leaving my job. A lot of us seem to feel trapped, and I feel judgemental even saying that. I don't really know how people were feeling but the energy coming at me in conversations the weeks leading up to my departure, mostly from those outside of my immediate circle of family and friends, seemed almost bittersweet and tinged at times with regret, envy, and disapproval. At least that's how I experienced it. It was a real conversation stopper.

When I was getting ready to leave I copied out a poem my sister, Ekah, wrote for me for Christmas a few years ago. I love it and I wish the same for you:

Sister. What I give to you:

Infinate room to roam
and the safest place to stop.
The largest field,
with the goldest grain.
The deepest sleep
with the sweetest dreams.

I'd make you quieter than a snowfall,
softer than a baby's babble.

Put you on a butterfly's back
to fly over the greatest ocean
into the thickest sunset of all your favourite colours

Make you small and untraceable,
like the fingerprint of a fairy
left on a stained glass window comprised of all she ever wanted

I would give you peace that transcends all...

how can the soul of the seeker not fly

These last few weeks have been strange ones; empty of reading, writing, talking, even watching movies. This is different. I usually read several books a week and compulsively watch every movie, even the terrible ones, right to the very end but lately I'm picking up books only to put them down moments later and renting movies but barely making it past the opening credits. Not really a phone talker anyway, I've avoided the phone even more so than usual and have even moved my practice home instead of going to the shala. I would say it's because I just want to be alone but I don't really think that's it.

I've tried applying different labels, trying to find the right way to describe how I'm feeling. None of them fit. I'm not depressed, not hibernating, not withdrawing, not 'just going through a quiet phase', not unhappy; really, I'm the opposite of all of these things. I'm absolutely content, happy and present. More so than at any time in the past. I just don't find myself wanting to engage. That's the best I could come up with to describe how I'm feeling: not inspired to engage. Even that, what the heck does that mean? My Aunt put words to it last weekend by observing that I've already moved on, I'm no longer here. That may be it. What I do know is that I'm not looking for distractions, not open to diversions, in that sense, I do just want to be left alone to...be.

This morning I took myself to my favourite coffee shop in Kensington Market to write bringing with me Rumi & Iyengar for inspiration. I got so caught up in Rumi's words that I didn't even make it to Iyengar. Although I've read the passages in the book I'd brought many times before, I read them through new eyes today, smiling to myself as I read. How can one person express emotion so perfectly and so succinctly?

The passage below caught my attention, brought to mind several people I know who are receiving messages loud and clear but each, for their own reasons, struggling to follow.

"How can the soul of the seeker not fly
when a message arrives saying,
'You have been trapped in life like a bird
with no wings...come, come back to me!'

What is the secret that opens the door?
The key is the flutter of the soul's wings
and it's endless longing.

When the door opens, walk on the path
where abundance awaits you,
where everything old becomes new
and never look back.

Drink from the hands of the wine bearer
and you will be blessed
even in this life".

I hope you find what you need to follow the paths revealed to you :) r.

Sometimes a cat is just a cat

Spring has blessed us with her presence and the people of Toronto have hit the streets wearing t-shirts and happy faces. I feel like I've been set free after a long, dark winter and take every opportunity to get outside. At home the windows have been thrown open and the cat has been stuck, riveted, to the windowsill as he rediscovers the sounds of the outside world.

Watching him this morning reminded me of this time last year, his first spring with me. Over the years I've always felt bad for cats when I noticed them sitting by windows looking out with what I imagined to be longing. When I noticed how curious my cat was about life on the other side of the glass, I bought a leash and took him outside thinking I was doing a very good thing.

Instead of bounding about, exploring the new sights, smells and sounds as he had in my very benevolent imagination; he cowered in the shadows of the building, pressed against the ground as if willing himself to disappear, meowing what I imagine was the cat equivalent to "there's no place like home, there's no place like home". If he had ruby slippers to transport him, I'm sure he would have been clicking his little paws madly and meowing even louder. I was so disappointed.

Then I thought about it. What I had done was the equivalent of dropping him onto a whole new planet that he didn't even know existed let alone speak the language, know the customs, or understand the inhabitants. Pretty cruel, actually. It made me conscious of the fact that watching something, even wanting something, is a whole world apart from actually getting it. That sometimes what you want isn't really what you want at all. That having what you desire dropped into your lap can be a terrible thing, sometimes we just have to find our own way there.

Then it made me think 'For craps sake! Sometimes a cat looking out the window is just a cat looking out the window - stop procrastinating and get your ass to work'. And that's what I did :)

same kid, different sandbox

Coffee this morning with I. was frustrating. I enjoy our conversations; the drift between poetry, life, and random topics like today's discussion about skunk cabbage. Even more, I love the way that snipits from our conversations work their way into my thoughts throughout the week, adding something new to whatever I'm mulling over at the moment. So why, then, am I so frequently frustrated during our conversations?

Today I felt something different, something deeper running beneath my frustration: I felt overwhelmed. It hit me for the first time that I. and I have very different conversation styles. He's able to jump into conversation the moment he arrives, almost as if he can hit a 'play' button and, that's it, instant conversation. I'm different. I'm slower to take in my surroundings, to observe what's happening around me, to get a feel for who else is sharing my space and where they're at. I need that time.

Today I got lost in the flurry of I's words. While my mind was still trying to make the transition from that quiet, internal place I was sitting in, I. was already sharing his excitement about the poem he's reading, the statue he found at Edwards Gardens and that, yes, the skunk cabbage is out - spring is just around the corner. As my energy was slowly creeping forward, tentatively reaching out for that comfortable place where our energies could meet and melt together, I's was rushing forward and crashing against mine before completely submerging me like a tidal wave. It was too much. It is too much.

It may take me longer than some to warm up but once I'm there, I'm there. I think I was the same as a child. I'm pretty sure I was one of those watchful kids; that I didn't like being grabbed by the hand and pulled forward preferring, instead, to watch for a while, get the lay of the land and then ever so carefully, unobtrusively work my way in. While I'm able to manage, to hide my reticence, to make myself move more willingly forward, it's definitely learned behaviour. Left to my own devices, I need that time to slowly melt into my surroundings. After all, I'm the same kid, it's just the sandbox that has changed.

crawling

Crawled my way through practice this morning. Had to redesign most of the seated poses as 'lean very slightly forward-asana' but as I was moving through the finishing poses I was overwhelmed by the strongest feeling of gratitude.

Even when its bad, its good.

enough

Ok. I've had enough with the pain. As much fun as these last three months have been with the constant, incessant, neverfreakingending throbbing pain, it's time for this party to end. This week saw the addition of a limp to the previous benefits of extreme discomfort when sitting, climbing stairs, lifting my leg to put on my pants...ya know, any activity that doesn't involve lying down.

I've stopped looking for the lesson, stopped viewing this as a chance to practice non-attachment to my yoga practice, stopped thinking this is an opportunity to treat myself with compassion. At least tonight. Today I finally gave up and stopped my practice at the seated asanas because I just couldn't take it anymore. And then I cried. Where do I go from here? My practice is a non-negotiable part of my life. It's what helps me connect, keeps me focused, helps me centre. I love it, but it hurts. A lot. And it's not getting any better, in fact, its getting worse. I stopped practicing at my shala a few weeks ago because I truly think I might smack someone if they tried to touch me, to adjust me in any way, in any pose - and that just didn't seem very nice. What do I do?

And what's really irritating is that although I'm SO frustrated, SO tired of being in pain, and SO full on fed up with it all, my ability to truly wallow in my misery is marred by this: I can't help but smirk at the fact that life is, quite literally, a pain in the ass.

That and the fact that I've just realized I have time to get a tourist visa for Russia or India but not both.

a drama queen even in boredom...

A journal entry from 10 years ago today made me laugh(amazing the things I can find to do when procrastinating from cleaning). Here it is:

March 19, 1996
I happened, out of boredom, to read an entry in this journal. My eyes opened wide in surprise - heart beating faster, I turned the page, the blood ran from my cheeks and I began to sweat, though I was suddenly freezing. I forced myself through one more entry before slumping back in my chair, glassy eyes staring blankly ahead. My pen rolled across the desk, coming to the edge and teetering for a moment before plunging to the ground, I smiled to myself pleased at the symbolism. It was true...still is true:

I. Am not. Interesting.

Hah! I crack myself up. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same ;)

finishing up

I leave in a few weeks for five months of travelling and, as my departure date nears, questions about whether I'm 'ready yet' are coming with increasing frequency. So frequently that I have a request: Can you all stop asking me that? I don't quite know what you mean but I can pretty much guarantee that those things I should be doing haven't even occured to me yet - that's the way I do things.

That's not to say I haven't started preparing for my departure yet. I have. I'm engaged in a mad frenzy of finishing up 'stuff' and I'm having a great time doing it. Fancy lotions, conditioners, and shampoos that I would normally use sparingly are being tossed about with complete abandon - bathing has become a most decadent affair. I'm gradually making my way through those 'hand wash only' items that languish at the bottom of my laundry bin waiting for 'next week' when I 'have more time'. And I'm working through the pile of books that have been given to me as 'must reads'; just about done Bruce Chatwin's 'Songlines', finished John Irving's most recent 800+ page excuse for a novel tonight and began 'Reading Lolita in Tehran'.

The one area that's proving challenging is the kitchen. I'm finding the strangest things in there: cans upon cans of palm hearts, bamboo shoots and baby corn (who eats baby corn?), way too many boxes of cooking chocolate to make sense, brown rice, basmati rice, risotto rice, millet, wheat berries, amaranth, gelatin, yeast, 3 bottles of molasses, 6 different types of vinegar, white sugar, brown sugar, turbino sugar, icing sugar, splenda, egg replacer, stevia, agar agar, arrowroot, guam, tapioca...I don't even eat these things. Which explains why they're still there, commiserating with each other on my shelves.

So far, work has benefitted the most from my efforts to clear out my cupboards. Last Friday I was able to use my inexplicable surplus of rice krispies and corn syrup to make vegan rice krispy squares and this Friday it'll be an apple walnut loaf which should finish off the homemade applesauce ambitiously stocked away in my freezer. Next week? Who knows, but one thing is clear: I'm going to have to start getting creative. Send your suggestions for baby corn chocolate millet bread my way.

can't argue with that

I keep getting tagged with emailed quizzes to 'discover your inner Disney character'. I delete them all with no small amount of irritation. C'mon, my inner Disney character? What nonsense.

Today my discovery that it is, in fact, Tuesday NOT Wednesday coincided with yet another invitation from my very persistent Disney friends. In the mood for distraction, I finally accepted. Here are my results: You scored as Sleeping Beauty. You are beautiful and enchanting, and as sweet as ever.

Hey, I can admit when I'm wrong. This test? Clearly not nonsense.

all is coming

I have only one page left in my current journal which, to me, is so very appropriate. All of my journals follow the trend of ending at the same time as I mark a transition in my life, concrete reminders of the closing of one chapter and beginning of a new one. On this same day next month I'll be free and somewhere else. April 11 will be the first day of five months as a tumbleweed. I'll have the space that, re-reading my current journal, I've been craving for a long time. I have no idea what's going to fill that space, or even why I need it so badly, but what's important is that I have it and that I'm giving it to myself.

Before I fill the last few pages of a journal, I always read through the entries from start to finish to observe: what's happened, how am I doing, what strange dreams actually make sense with the grace of hindsight, what was I worried about and how did it turn out, what people, places, dreams, ideas, things, symbols keep popping up? It's been an interesting nine months with entries bridging a chilled out summer, ridiculously busy fall term, and a winter marked by transitions. One thing that struck me was the tone of several entries where I expressed deep disappointment in myself. It was interesting to observe my expectations spelled out so explicitly: that I not settle, that I pay attention to how I'm feeling, that I be authentic in my choices.

I forget the source of this quote but some very smart person said that "there are years that ask questions and years that answer them". I often see that reflected in my journals but this one was a bit different. Where my last journal was very clearly a record of questions, this journal showed a bit of a respite from both. Its simply been a year of living. But its also been a year of preparation and a year of growing pains. Reading back over my experience of this, before I really knew what was happening, I observed a lot of impatience: change now...figure it out now...start now...I need to know now.

In addition to striving, attending to my feelings, and being authentic in my choices there's something else I need to add to the mix: patience.

spring has sprung

The sun is already shining happily and it's only 8:30am. For the first time in several long winter months, it found me in bed this morning and bathed me in its warmth while I lounged lazily; sleeping in but just awake enough to revel in the decadent feeling that accompanies sleeping in.

Walking to the coffee shop on the sunny side of the street, I imagined myself dropped into a Norman Rockwell painting: people walking slowly, hands held with toddlers precarious on their unsure but determined legs; bakery doors thrown open, the enticing scent of fresh-baked pastries chasing after those passing by; young boys on bicycles weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic and young girls in skirts that have been waiting eagerly all these months for warm weather to make their appearance. The feel of the sun after the dark winter was palpable, almost as if I could reach out and scoop it up into a warm, golden sunball.

Last night I had bookclub where we set a record by not mentioning the book once but the conversation, a mix of goofy, ridiculous, academic, and touching, didn't suffer in the slightest from it. And now I sit in the sun, ignoring my morning papers in favour of writing and watching the pigeons socialize on the window ledge. My only agenda this weekend is to get outside and enjoy the sun. I can't imagine a more wonderful day.

Summer postcard, 2005

I wanted to add something to bump the previous, cranky entry down but, unfortunately, I'm fresh out of inspiration these days. This postcard from camping last summer was buried in my daytimer and it gave such a welcome respite from this rainy winter day - it'll more than do to ease the crankiness of the other...

Well, here I am camping. I sit quietly on a sun-warmed rock looking at the big blue of Georgian bay. Watching a family of birds feasting on bright pink thistles in front of my tent. Since the thistles have such fragile stems, the birds flutter down from a willow bush to dance over the pink blossoms, picking at their pollen.

Mingled in the thistles is bright blue lavender which attracts orange, black, white and yellow butterflies. So, I sit at 4:30pm in the shade with this mad symphony of colours trembling in front of me. The bay is very quiet with an evening breeze creating prints, like a cat has danced across the water, over the stillness of the deep, blue bay.

Pink thistles, blue lavender, green/gray willow leaves, dancing birds, brightly coloured butterflies and the warm, georgian breeze lifting my hair. I hope I remember this come winter...

one month

Yesterday I went to a coffee shop on my lunch break and thought very seriously about not coming back. I actually sat in my cozy spot in the sun and journaled about not returning to work as if it were a real option and, as I wrote, I realized this: its going to be a very long month.

The thing is, before I make any decision, I think it through. A lot. Too much. For a long, long time. So once I've decided something, that's it. It must be done. I wave my magic wand and make it so. So, this 3 month gap between giving notice and actually leaving my job? Hmmm. Not so fun.

Instead of giving into my oh-so-strong desire to complain, complain, complain about it, I'm allowing myself this one, holy-crap-its-going-to-be-a-long-month post and then I'll keep the agony of being stuck in a holding pattern to myself. Scouts honour.

And while I wait, I'll just pay extra, extra, extra attention to those things that make my stay in limboland a more comfortable one. Like M&M cookies and the fact that the radio is playing my favourite Verve song; the one that transports me back to a green, winding road emerging from the rainforest in Costa Rica, head nodding in unison with my fellow travellers to the beat of the music. Ahhhh. Deep, happy exhale. That helps.

But, I beg of you, do NOT point out that it's really 1 month + 1 day to go. I don't think I could bear it.

my sister broke my cat

When I sent him to her in December he was a pretty undemanding little guy. A bit vocal but, for the most part, pretty happy to amuse himself with elastics and sitting on my lap. Since picking him up in January, I've observed a few unwelcome changes and I want my old cat back.

I think that Chevy, the dog, and Neutron, the rabbit, were bad influences on him. It seems that a month spent living in their company gave him some strange ideas, like that humans (read: me) will do things such as feed him people food, play with him and otherwise amuse him at his whim. He announces his disappointment at my failure to meet his expectations by meowing non-stop and jamming his ice cold nose into my ear when I'm engaged in unacceptable behaviour - like sleeping.

Out of the two, I blame the rabbit. Chevy is too afraid of my sister to even breathe out of step but Neutron? I'm not buying the innocent bunny act. Sure, rabbits have that whole cute and cuddly thing going for them but we're talking about an animal that stamps its feet to get what it wants. Kind of passive aggressive don't you think? I can easily imagine him, beady red eyes filled with glee, taking my sweet, naive little guy aside to give him the 'real deal'. Maybe he hasn't heard that fur is back in style this season. If I were him, I'd be keeping a veeery low profile ;)

the great and the not so great

I've been amazed by technology these last few days. Yesterday the dentist took a full set of x-rays from all kinds of crazy angles. It was fascinating. And before you even try; no, I don't want to know why my neck warranted a protective shield but the rest of me didn't. Particularly given that the focus of the x-ray radiowhatever was my head, you know, the place that houses my brain.

Today I revisited the heart doctor where, good news, I learned that my heart is where it should be. I can confirm this fact, I got to see it in action. I felt such tenderness, such affection for the little thing. I was mentally cheering it on - go little heart go - it works so hard. I watched the muscles contract and valves flap busily away from all angles. It even came with a soundtrack, sounded kind of like what I imagine it would sound like in space.

On the not so amazing side, this article from today's paper which has been irritating me all day: "Cave blondes did have more fun". All kinds of nonsense about how since cave men were busy hunting and dying of starvation on the tundra there was a shortage of men so, in the competition for partners, women with blond hair stood out and attracted more suitors because of their different appearance.

Notwithstanding the image I have in my head of very happy cavepeople camps where the children played, the women laughed and they all nibbled happily on fruit, nuts and...green stuff; this article is irritating because of the small print at the end of the article reading: "this study was sponsored by a shampoo company".

Hm. Shampoo-sponsored research revealing that blondes had more fun. Imagine that?

it was the weather

Many years ago when I was travelling in Cambodia I met Nina, the most fabulous English woman, also travelling alone. She had sold her house, left her job, picked up and begun vagabonding as soon as her son left home for university. We met on the plane to Phenom Penh and travelled together for a short while.

At 57 years old and a tiny slip of a woman, Nina inspired me. She appeared unassuming, even timid looking, but nothing could have been further from the truth. She was mischevious, wry, brave and so happy to be where she was 25 years after the travel bug initially seized her. I felt that she had been put in my path to correct my notion of timing. At the time, I was very preoccupied with notions of what I 'should' be doing as I approached 30: the 'proper' time to get married, 'proper' time to settle down, and 'proper' time to just get serious about life. Because life is very serious stuff isn't it? Nina was part of a growing wave of influences that helped me realize that this notion of timing, of the right and wrong time to do things, was not static but different for everyone. Seems pretty logical now but, at the time, it was news to me.

I wondered about Nina, about what made her pick up and leave at that point in her life. Whatever it was, I hoped that I would have her courage to pay attention to my dreams and act on them no matter what my age. I was reminded of her tonight when a slip of paper fell to the floor as I shifted my travel journals. I must have asked her what motivated her to travel because written on the back of a Phenom Penh guesthouse receipt was this:

"By the way - I asked Nina what prompted her to finally pick up and go travelling and she said 'It was the weather' ".

Funny what it all comes down to sometimes isn't it?

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?