it's time to disco

Last night I rented Kal Ho Na Ho, a bollywood movie that spawned last years big hit "It's Time to Disco". Throughout the entire movie something was bothering me, niggling at the back of my mind, but it took me ages to put my finger on it. Then I began to piece it together: the CN Tower looming in the background, a sign for the St. Lawrence Market, the BCE Place posing as the leading man's very important workplace - the movie (set in NYC) was filmed in Toronto. So strange to be sitting in India watching a Bollywood movie, a genre so unique to India itself, only to be looking at the streets of my hometown.

When I was packing for my trip I included a couple of boxes of Ryvita bread and a bag of Fazer chocolates as a treat figuring that, with careful rationing, they would last me the duration of my visit. I'm just about done the last box of Ryvita, I've only a few chocolates left, and my remaining days can now be measured in single digets; however, I feel nowhere near ready to go. I suspect that this sentiment will be repeated fairly often in the days to come but promise not to harp on it, the weather has turned gorgeous, there's more to do than days to do it in, and I'm enjoying the time I have left here.

Notes from 10 years ago

Before I left for India I copied some of my journal entries from years past with the thought of turning them into something else while I was here. I haven’t quite gotten around to that yet but I have been browsing through them as I wait for the rain to stop and the series below made me smile. They’re from 1996, written during that very confusing year after I’d graduated from university and was trying to figure out just what I was to do with myself.

April 10, 1996
I got a job as an Assistant in a computer personnel company. Every time I tell someone about it I feel like crying. The part of me that dreams of saving the world, backpacking across Europe, living in another country, being a rehabilitation counsellor feels like it's being crushed by this permanent, full time, Assistant job. I’m afraid I’ll look back in 10 years and I’ll still be someone’s Assistant in some business. I was dressed for my interview this morning and I looked at myself in the mirror - this yuppie, efficient-looking assistant thing - and I felt such despair. I turned to my sister and said ‘I don’t want to be this person’. And I still don’t but, as of April 15, I will be.

April 16, 1996
I started my new job yesterday. I get up at 6am to catch the train in and wait until 7.05pm to catch the train home. Yesterday I got home at 8pm, ate two peices of cold pizza, went to the gym and was in bed by 10.30. I’m too young for this life.

April 24, 1996
I’m on the train on the way into work. Two girls who can’t be any more than a year older than me are are sitting beside me talking about their lawns and what fertilizers are best. A very detailed discussion about the dramatic difference noted when fertilizer X was replaced by fertilizer Y. Lord, if I ever reach the point where fertilizer becomes the most interesting thing to talk about at 6am in the morning please just do the merciful thing and strike me dead on the spot. Thanks, b.

Yesterday I was wishing I could skip ahead in my story right now to make sure things turned out ok. Obviously, can’t do that. But I can provide an epilogue to the entries above these 10 years later:

Quit the Assistant’s job within the year to backpack around Europe and never really stopped travelling, haven’t worked as anyone’s Assistant again (or in the for-profit world for that matter), did work as a Rehabilitation Counsellor and liked it, have never had a conversation about fertilizer - but the desire to own my own house with an actual lawn that I would actually have to fertilize is building.

well....

One of the things I love most about being here is that any line of questioning about what someone does at home is very often met with the kind of drawn out “Well....” that indicates there’s a long story behind the answer. Last visit I responded to questions about what I do with a firm answer, this visit I’m part of the “Well...” group. Mysore is the perfect place for transition, or rather, resting place for those in transition and this time, I’m no exception.

I leave Mysore in less than two weeks and I’m beginning to think about what comes next. Last night I dreamt that I stepped off the plane in Germany and started to cry because I realised that I was one step closer to returning home to a life that I haven’t missed once. Of course, there’s my family and friends but, perversely, I tend to be in better contact with them when I’m away than when I’m at home so, although I may miss their physical presence, they’re very much a part of my daily life.

I really don’t know anymore where I belong. Where I should be. What I should do. That’s more of a surprised observation than a complaint; I don’t really mind it all that much but I am a bit bewildered by it. Where do you go when you don’t know where you belong? What do you do when you no longer no what you’re supposed to do? How do you dream, plan and move forward when you don’t know where you’re going anymore?

I know. You just begin where you are and you pay attention. It’s just that when the ‘you’ I speak of is actually me, it’s that much more striking how disorienting change is. I have ideas of what form I’d like life to take and I know I'll end up somewhere different from where I started so my bewilderment is accompanied by excitement and, of course, an edge of uncertainty. No one can say what lies ahead. If this were a book I’d be sorely tempted to jump ahead to the ending to see how things turned out but, it’s not a book, it’s my life so I’ll just begin where I am and take it from there.

news from mysore

A few random updates:

The monsoon has settled upon us and our days are grey, rainy and cold. There's more than enough to occupy my attention so life carries on as always with the addition of careful laundry strategizing, an acceptance that I'll be wearing the same set of warm clothes for the next two weeks and a slight regret that I didn't take advantage of the sweltering weather with an afternoon at the pool when I had the chance.

I copied the following headline from the newspaper this morning: "Fraudulent Manure Seized". Someone was selling 240 bags of fake manure to agriculturalists. Given the contributions of cows, goats, dogs, pigs, and the occasional human to the cause, I'm stunned that someone actually thought it necessary to create fake manure. How lazy do you have to be?

The woolen blanket count on my bed has risen to four, it would have risen to five but I'm out of blankets. As it is, the combined weight of those already there makes it difficult to move once I've slid under the covers. Last night a very, very, very large coackroach sauntered across my chest and I couldn't get my hands free quickly enough to panic appropriately. The extra time served me well by giving me a chance to think about just how important it was to expend the energy to free myself, move the blankets, and try to find the bug. Turns out, not very, I turned over and went to sleep instead.

humpty-rebecca-dumpty

Last summer, at about this time, I was sitting in my overly-airconditioned office reading the blog of a woman who had come to Mysore to practice yoga for three months. I was envious and wanted that experience for myself. When I was trying to decide what to do this summer I couldn’t get that memory out of my mind: sitting at my desk, daydreaming through others’ blogged experiences, wishing I too had a flat in India and could bury myself in yoga-land. And so I came.

The writer of this same blog talked about the value of being here for three months because the first month you settle into your practice, the second month you fall apart, the third month Guruji puts you together again. Halfway through my second month, I can definitely identify with that.

The last two weeks were difficult and I really wanted to leave. Like any other community, the yoga scene can be tiresome at times with gossip, judging, and complaining but then added to that is the very gorgeous tendency yoga has to stir stuff up and bring it to the surface. These lessons truly are the reason I keep coming back to my mat but it can be a bit much when you’re trying to deal not only with your stuff but others’ as well. The energy around here can get a bit wonky at times.

My first month I was just glad to be here. Getting settled, rediscovering Mysore, and diving deeper into my practice. My second month, well, it’s been work. I’ve felt irritated, agitated, bored, and frustrated. Not with the practice, I love practicing here and wouldn’t change it for anything; but the hours the follow (you know, the rest of the day) have been trying. This week I gave up fighting it, gave up counting the number of days until I leave, gave up dreaming of leaving early, and gave in to the struggle because I had an epiphany: this is exactly what I came here for.

I could have travelled, moved around, explored new countries but I came to Mysore specifically to dive into my practice and stir shit up. That’s why I’m here, I can’t run away just because it’s getting hard. It’s amazing what a difference this insight has made. I’m happy to be here again because instead of getting stuck on the frustrations, irritations and agitation, my focus moves a step beyond to think about why, what’s happening here and what lies beneath?

Far from counting the days until I leave, I’m startled to realize that I only have two weeks left. I’m going to miss that third month, the one where Guruji puts me back together, but I’m back to feeling greatful that I’m here and I’m pretty confident that I can put the pieces back together on myself without the help of all the kings horses and all the kings men ;)

camping in mysore

My family and I spent the better part of our summers camping. To this day my daydreams lead me down dirt paths marred by tree roots, through northern Ontario forests, and along sparkling pink granite rock when I’m in need of a mental escape. Like every family, we had our traditions and when it came to camping, our tradition was rain. We camped, it rained. That’s just the way it was.

We learned to cope, stringing tarps up across every square inch our campsite was as natural a part of setting up camp as putting up the tent was. Even now, whether I’m car camping or tripping, a ridiculous portion of my gear is dedicated to army green, blue and orange plastic tarps because, hey, you never know when they might come in handy. My affinity for doing absolutely nothing, in its own way, helped cope as well. Memories of camping include the usual swimming and campfire scenarios but also the sound of the wind in the trees, sight of grey skies, and feeling of cold feet tangled in my sleeping bag as we whiled away the rain; spending hours in our tent reading, writing and irritating each other.

Today is a camping day in Mysore. Warmth has given way to cold weather, the wind blows strongly shifting rain clouds across grey skies, and my jeans have that clammy feeling that comes when a cold body is poured into clothes that feel permanently damp. So I’ve spent the day hibernating. Whiled away the miserable weather from the comfort of my bed buried beneath a tangle of blankets, under the makeshift tent of my mosquito net and reading trashy books. It’s been a strangely familiar, at times the sound of the wind in the trees has tricked me into forgetting where I am, and an entirely lovely way to spend this day.

pictures

Last time I was here I was able to link to the pictures of Mikko, photographer exraordinaire, instead of inflicting my crappy-400-speed-for-all-occasions-take-the-picture-quick-before-someone-sees-you pictures on you.

This time, you're not so lucky. But don't worry, the camera I've borrowed uses a lithium battery which has since died, all requests this far for 'a lithium battery' have been met with the infamous wobble sans replacement battery so I suspect my crappy-picture taking days are over. Have fun. r.

crappy-400-speed-for-all-occasions-take-the-picture-quick-pictures

the love affair resumes

Just a quick update: our spat is over, India and I are in love again. With the grace of a few days distance, I can admit it, I may have been in the wrong. I should have known better than to write anything for public consumption after a sleepless night, nothing good can come from zero sleep. Which reminds me, although the love affair between India and I is alive and well, no such love exists between me and my 'begin socializing at 10pm' neighbours. They can go.

overheard in the shala this morning...

Guruji has a fondness for children. Parents practicing here often usher their kids into Guruji’s office to say hello and the kids come willingly because Guruji’s got something fabulous in that office: he has chocolate.

Today during a particularly exhausting practice I could hear Guruji teasing the two children in his office bellowing “Yes? What you want?” and the kids replying “Chocolate, we want chocolate”. I was distracted by an all consuming yearning for chocolate. Forget driste (focusing the gaze), breath and my bandhas, all I could think was “Oh God, me too. I beg of you, some chocolate”. Alas, none came my way.

when can i leave?

I spend more money on India tourist visas than I do on rent so, please don’t take this entry the wrong way, but, right now, I really can’t wait to leave. Yesterday was one of those days. It’s hard to put just how horrible a day it was into words as the nature of its crappiness exceeds any crappity-crap scale I’ve ever seen. It was that freaking crappy.

Given the runaround by the same rickshaw drivers I use every day; isn’t there a point where they match the smiles on their faces and happy greetings with the inclination not to jerk me around? Conflicting fees at the Southern Star until the final price quoted was far higher than either of the first two quotes, the employees feeding off of each other’s ridiculous estimates and combining forces leaving me with little bargaining power. Returning to pick up clothes left a week ago at not one but two separate tailors to find that neither had been started yet, come back next week. Cat calls, kissing noises, swerving rickshaws, hit by a turning scooter; all seemed more prominent than usual, although it’s more likely that my foul mood just lent itself to noticing these things more than I would normally - frustrating, all of it.

And then the final denouement to my crappity-crap-when-can-I-get-out-of-this-country day: the neighbours. The same ones who let me blissfully fall asleep each night thinking ‘this will be the night, tonight, I sleep’ only to wake me up at 10-10:30 for several hours of entertainment courtesy of them, their guests, their guests children etc. I’ve been informed by my landlords that this is to be expected, they’re not from this area but I really don’t care where they’re from, I need to sleep. Last night they didn’t let me get a moments sleep. At 12:30 one of the kids had a temper tantrum which, instead of being met with, oh, you know, bed, was the source of great mirth for the adult section of the party. By 2:30am I started crying myself, big, self-pitying alligator tears. At 3:00am the guests departed leaving the hosts free to have a viscous (and loud) fight which ended with the woman growling and snapping at the man who retreated to the rooftop to sob (also loudly) to himself. By 4:00am I turned on my light, pulled out my book, and started reading. The alarm was set for 4:30am anyway.

Although I’m currently wondering how I’ll possibly last the 23 days I have left in this country, rest assured that by the time you read this I’ll have swung to the opposite end of the spectrum and will be exploring options to extend my ticket because I can’t imagine not being here. It’s just one of those days.

an apple playground

My last visit to Mysore served to teach me what a techno idiot I was. A stranger to my mobile and ancient PC user at home, I arrived in Gokulam to the land of the hooked up and was very much out of my league. I met requests for my mobile number with instructions to "Just stand at the gate of the yellow house on the road parallel to the shala & yell, I'll come out". Understandably, no one took me up on this.

This visit, I've arrived armed with a borrowed mobile (that actually works) and my apple ibook purchased because I got hooked on the little suckers after borrowing one through my last visit. I'm in good company. Apple seems to have a stronghold among the yogi population here, each time I visit Anu's internet cafe I'm met by several other little apples glowing in the evening light. File swapping, networking, music sharing, you name it, I've been doing all kinds of fabulous things that, while very cool, I'm completely unable to reproduce myself.

Below is a picture of lovely Abby and myself taken & networked to me courtesy of Les' iBook.

overheard in the shala this morning...

Guruji gently scolding someone "Head down ALWAYS. Why you lift your head?". This last part spoken with genuine bewilderment, as in, 'What could you be thinking?'.

Also overheard, Sharath saying "You stand up from backbend". This was directed at me and I responded by stopping what I was doing and laughing, expecting Sharath to join in at any moment, yeah...stand up...good one Sharath. Turns out, he wasn't joking. Instead he repeated "You stand up from backbend" and added "It is possible". Yes, it is possible (and getting closer) just not quite yet.

Mysore, strangely, has been feeling a bit like Club Med as of late with so much talking, planning, scheduling, doing, moving etc. but when I think about moments like these, those silly, random impressions that leave their mark, I know that I love being here and love practicing here.

hey look - a cow!

You know, this is my fifth trip to India. You'd think I'd be over the excitement of cows by now but, no, I like cows. I also like pigs, dogs, horses, and geese. I know this because I just got my first roll of film developed and that's pretty much all I've taken pictures of so far. Just like my first four trips.

Below, the prerequisite cow picture but also a few others. I wish I could blame the poor quality of the pictures on the developing, a poor choice of film speed, etc, but the blame lies pretty squarely on me. I take a bad picture, usually mid-stride which makes for things like composition, framing, and whatever else I should be considering pretty difficult.

bovine friend at the top of my street


my lovely flat (the door on the left), the pink palace


Waiting around the Bangalore railstation


this movie poster is everywhere. Inexplicably, the catchphrase (in white) "When God is silent, he is violent" makes me wince everytime...


Finland, Estonia, Latvia & hopefully better India pictures are being developed. Maybe I'll have something more impressive to post shortly.

sleepless in mysore

When I secured my flat, I was excited about two things: that I was on the same street as my last visit just two houses down from my old flat and that I had escaped the neigbours with the three dogs that barked allll night, every night.

Yeah. Have you already picked up on the idiocy of my reasoning? Given that my lovely, pink flat is just two doors down from my last visit, the irritating neighbours with the yappy f’ing dogs are still my irritating neighbours with the yappy f’ing dogs. I’ve just changed sides.

I remain yours, sleepless in Mysore - r.

being 'the new guy'

I’m not sure what it is about being ‘new’ that’s so bothersome, particularly as a lot of us travel to escape the same old, same old of home, but it seems like no one likes to be ‘the new guy’. In Mysore, you can separate the new arrivals from the ‘old timers’ by practice time, those who have been here for a while begin at 5:00am and the newcomers begin whenever a spot from the 5:00am group opens up. It’s not uncommon for the question “What time do you practice?” to be included in the usual “Where are you from?”, “What do you do?” list of introductory questions and the desire to be included in the 5:00am start group is even more common. This I don’t understand.

Most of the people who arrived around the same time I did have had their start time moved to 5:00am while I’ve selectively ‘not heard’ Sharath’s suggestions to ‘come earlier’ and continue to arrive just before 6:00am to wait for a spot to open up. I don’t care about being in the first group, about practising in the same spot every day, about not being ‘disturbed’ by new arrivals; I do care about that precious extra hour of sleep. As it is, the alarm goes off at 5:20 so I can press snooze for 20 minutes before getting up at the last possible minute to arrive on my mat with sleep lines still visible down my face. I can’t imagine the mess I’d be after waking at 4:30am and, with luck, I won’t have to find out. All I need to do is maintain my status as one of the ‘new guys’ for the remainder of my visit.

philosophy class

I’m taking a philosophy class with B.N.S. Iyengar. Right from the start, I've been a bit jaded about the class; he had us wait on a dilapidated balcony for an hour before talking with us, berated us because our teachers charge so much for yoga instruction, and spent the rest of the hour assuring us that after his class we would be ‘able to talk about these things with any scholar in the world. Then, of course, there's his name. Just as it’s common for products to be given familiar names with slightly different spelling (Lyzol cleanser or Reebock trainers) to encourage patronage, I find B.N.S. Iyengar to be strangely close to the name B.K.S. Iyengar, one of the most learned and advanced yogis alive today.

The class itself is difficult. Sometimes I can find the humour, like when he glosses over complicated sanskrit words only to stop and spell out the English ones, but mostly, its just frustrating and I dread going. But I go. No matter how jaded and cynical I may be, he is very, very learned and he knows miles more than I do. Despite my own best efforts, I'm learning. I've revisited the Yoga Sutras since beginning the class and noticed that the pieces are falling into place much more easily than they would if I had'’t had his instruction first.

Recently, an Indian gentleman has joined our class and I've gained insight into just how frustrating we must be for our teacher. Where I meet his constant inquiries as to whether 'You understand these examples?' with a puzzled look and a “Yeah", the Indian student responds with comments like “Very convincing argument Teacher” or "You have explained this very well Teacher, I've never heard an example like this before”. I know that, in India, the Teacher/Student relationship is one of respect but really didn'’t have the framework to understand what that means in a practical setting. How strange we must be, these four foreigners, with our blank looks, one word answers and hurried departures. I'm greatful the new student has joined us, first, because I've gained a sense of compassion for our teacher and, second, because he takes the heat off of us.

why you no write?

Given that English is my first language, there’s really no reason why I should talk any differently in India than I would in Canada but I’ve noticed that my inner voice tends to adopt the speech patterns of whatever country I’m visiting. I’ve been thinking about how little writing I’ve done since arriving in India and asking myself, as Guruji would put it, why you no write?

Before I came to India I had visions of myself sitting in front of my window, candles glowing, writing madly away. I do spend hours with my feet propped up against the window and a book ignored by my side as I watch life go by, but there’s been very little writing. I came here because I was craving space to stay put, practice, and see what bubbled to the surface but I forgot how seductive the social scene here can be. I’ve been having a lot of fun these last few weeks. Even still, as easy as it’s been to fill my time with social activities and leave the pesky task of introspection for later, I don’t think my social life is to blame.

I’m not writing because I really don’t know what to say. Being here is, at the same time, the most perfect place in the world to be and the most difficult - with strong emphasis on the former. Giving credence to the phrase ‘wherever you go, there you are’, no amount of socializing can distract me from what I came here to learn. And I’m learning a lot. So much that I think I’ve been silenced, for once, I don’t yet have words to put what I’m experiencing to paper. It’s good though, so good to be here.

overheard in the shala today...

A couple brings their daughter, only a few months old, into the shala each morning for the trade off between father, just finishing his practice, and mother, waiting to begin. Today as the baby lay on the platform waiting for her father, Guruji approached and stood over her bellowing "Why you here? Why you here already?" as the shala dissolved into laughter.

So. Very. Cute.

blessings

A mother and daughter approach me on my evening walk, pulling me aside to whisper about prepared meals for yoga students, tell my friends. Manu, the rickshaw driver, offers repeatedly to drive me home for free, but nothing is free. As my refusals mount so do the details of his story until I eventually learn about his friend’s shop, very close by, we could stop on the way. The mango vendor humours me as I select my fruit only to replace my carefully selected mangoes with rotting ones when I look down for change. Children chase me down, small flipflops flapping quickly from behind, to ask for donations for school, for new books, for children in Bangalore. At times, it seems like everyone wants something from me. But why wouldn’t they? When it comes to requests like these, I have it to give.

The road in front of the shala this morning was filled with sleeping dogs. Small doggy-sized bumps waiting until practice is finished and they can count on an outpouring of affection from yogis homesick for their own pets. Funny how it’s so easy to give to dogs what it’s so hard to give to people, the requests are essentially the same; acknowledgement, attention, maybe something to eat. There’s something there, I can’t quite put words to it yet. Maybe it’s that I’ll never be a dog (at least in this lifetime) but it’s possible that I could be the mother with the beseeching eyes asking for food. It’s too close. Too overwhelming. I feel at once grateful, sad, embarrassed, irritated, ashamed, and afraid - life is just so tenuous. So little separates me from them and, blessed by the grace of where I was born and the hard work of my parents, I'm aware of how little I've done myself to deserve the blessings I have.

overheard in the shala this morning...

...my teacher and a recently arrived yoga student discussing the price of gold on the various stock markets; American, Japanese, Indian. It was strange. But, if you go in for that kind of stuff - gold is on the rise.

walking in gokulam

I walk to practice in the pre-dawn light kept company by the street dogs who leave periodically to wage war with pampered house dogs made fierce by the protection of their front gates. Practice begins with a giggle as Guruji makes a joke and finishes in what feels like a heartbeat. Walking home, I notice again how the trees bend to meet over the street, their green canopy interrupted only by bursts of orange, yellow, purple, pink, and white flowers. It’s lovely.

My favourite vegetable stand is outside of Gokulam, close to the Green Leaf restaurant. The owner offers tastes of new fruits to tempt me into buying more, usually he’s successful, and I welcome the excuse to walk, always taking a different route there and back. One route brings me past a row of driving schools, another past construction sites for very posh apartments, another past road construction and downed power lines, a result of last Thursday’s storm, and still another through a public garden.

Today’s walk brought me through the shanty-town just outside of main Gokulam where I averted my eyes from the patchwork shacks, embarassed by my western clothes and heavy bags of groceries. No one pays me any mind, the embarassment is mine alone. A cow studiously ignores me as she works her way through a garbage patch while the crow sitting on her back yells, irritated, at me. A dog bursts out of it’s front gate to chase away the young cow who mistook the front garden for dinner, a man passes wearing a “Las Vegas” shirt, and a mother encourages her daugher to call out “Hi Auntie”. This interrupts me from my reverie and I wonder, is there really any other way to live?

After dinner, I join the power walkers excercising in the public garden on the way to Tina’s. A red dirt path forms a large square around gardens transformed from their struggling daytime appearance to lush, green gardens by the magic of carefully arranged lighting. I walk slowly, lost in thought, enjoying the greenery, the opportunity to walk, the feeling of being anonymous, and the evening breeze while the locals power past me, saris waving in their wake.

and on the fourth day

I discovered peanut butter. And it was good.

Now that I'm safely out of the country, I can talk freely about this. The Finns have something against peanut butter. Five weeks in Finland without peanut butter, it was an exquisite form of torture. I searched the shelves of every grocery store I entered and always found the same sketchy brand, usually just one lone and dusty jar, sitting ignored on the bottom shelf of the jam section. After a while, I looked just for sport, just to see if I could find that one grocery store that understood the importance of the almighty peanut spread.

Coming from a country that dines almost exclusively on breads, you think they'd be open to a bit of variety but every time I lamented the loss of my beloved PB I received looks similar to what I you'd expect had I suggested something really gross like, oh, I don't know, adding rye to everything (oh, but wait...;). When I booked my ticket to India, one of the first things I thought about was the dealer outside the shala; the guy who sells tofu, banana bread and peanut butter out of his blue duffle bag each morning.

It's taken me a few days to catch him but yesterday I wandered outside after practice and the heavens sang - the blue duffle bag was there in its rightful place sitting on the wall. Within minutes I was the proud owner of my own jar of peanut butter and I rushed home where, with a tear in my eye, I enjoyed it with a piece of flatbread I'd brought with me from Finland. And, yes, if you must know, it was rye. After five weeks, some things grow on you.

laundry

How is it possible to slip so easily from one life to another? To adjust to the 8 roads that comprise my daily stomping grounds. To settle so comfortably in a flat that required only incense, candles and a brightly coloured mat to become more home than home. To slide into a rhythm operating at a quarter of the pace of my normal life? After three days I’m amazed at how completely, happily at home I am.

I sit by my window reading and prepare meals which I take to my roof to watch life on the street move through rhythms of it’s own - that’s enough. Days move slowly when practice is finished by 7:30am but they seem to fill. My list of ‘things to do’ is rationed slowly, saved to distract me from those idle times that I know will come: first coffee at Coffee Day, not yet; Fab India, maybe on Saturday; brunch at the Metropole, some other time. This happened my last visit as well and I left without actually getting to any of those things. That’s what happens here, at least for me. How is it so easy?

I wonder what my landlords think of me, the mother up at 5am to brush the front walk, the MBA student busy studying for her finals; what do they think of me always here in front of my window, doing nothing? I wonder what they would think if they knew how hard this doing nothing can sometimes be? How I slowly ration my list of things to do so that I don’t get fitfull - all this time and nothing to fill it. And I feel silly, spoiled and pampered.

The servant comes, my mind naturally jumps to replace the term ‘servant’ with it’s Western connotations, to ‘cleaning lady’ and I don’t know what to do with myself. Where to stand, what to say, what to do. I sit outside in my chair,dissociating myself from the situation while my landlady supervises the cleaning and I’m uncomfortable; sitting here typing isn’t right either. I don’t understand that my garbage should have been placed beside me, outside the front door, for the garbage collecter to pick up, even though we were all standing there talking when he arrived. Instead, I walked to meet him, garbage bag extended, smiling my thanks. This was wrong, my discomfort grows. The cleaning lady takes my clothes to the side of the house to launder and I cringe, afraid that including my underwear in the pile was also wrong, that I’ve added to the list of social norms I’ve transgressed already.

My job means nothing here, even when simplified to ‘Counsellor’. Because I work at a university people usually grasp at that to mask their confusion and assume I’m a teacher, I teach psychology. I’m uncomfortable lying but even more uncomfortable trying to explain what I really do, most can’t comprehend the need for a role like mine. India gives me time to question myself: What do I do? Cleaning lady or servant, its just semantics, what am I really uncomfortable about? Why ration my list of ‘things to do’, what’s to fear from the void of truly having nothing to do?

In the time it’s taken me to write this, my laundry is done and my underwear, bright scraps of cotton, strung carefully across the line running the length of the front yard. This embarrasses me more than anything else that’s passed this morning and I calculate just how long I must wait until I can pretend they’re dry and bring them inside to finish drying here.

getting settled

Kind of feel like I should add something to bump the entry from earlier this morning down, I know people will be worried.

After a good night's sleep, practice and the move from my hotel to my flat, I've had a lovely day. I spent the morning unpacking and the afternoon fluttering around from room to room just being happy - I'm in love with my flat. Everything from the pink walls to the granddaughter who keeps popping in to yell 'Auntie' at me before running away to the mosquito net I've suspended over my bed; it's perfect. That last bit, the mosquito net, I don't actually need but it reminds me of the princess beds I coveted when I was little and I like it.

I took a walk to the only bank machine in Mysore that accepts my bank card. Thankfully, that hasn't changed, but there have been other changes. The construction across from the Stand Up Chai is done and what I thought was going to be a jewellers is actually a pharmacy. It's quite nice so I'm trying to think of something I need so I can drop by. Several flash new restaurants have opened up in the same area as the Green Leaf and there's a new cafe in town to give Coffee Day a run for its money. But not an air conditioned run for it's money so I'll be sticking with Coffee Day for the next few weeks.

Last stops were the Himalaya shop to buy the ayervedic shampoo, lotion, and vitamins I can't buy at home and Loyal World for groceries before returning home to nest some more. So. It's been a good day. Maybe the lesson I'm to learn while I'm here is how not to get caught up in the Maelstrom of my emotions, to remember how quickly things change, because I sense that this is going to be a very solitary visit and there will be times again where I'm feeling sad just as there will be wonderfully content and happy afternoons like this one.

hazards of jetlag

So, I cried myself to sleep last night. That was fun. Actually, I guess it was to be expected. I was jetlagged and I don’t do well on 2 hours of sleep at the best of times so the walls came crashing down. I was tired of being tired, of change, of being the tourist, feeling lonely, missing familiar people, sights and customs, not knowing where I belong and, above all, I was tired of thinking about it. Is the unexamined life really not worth living or am I so busy examining the moment that I’m missing life? It’s a balance I still haven’t been able to find.

But then, things change. This morning’s practice was so absolutley right. I lifted my head half way through my practice and knew that there was absolutely nowhere else I wanted to be. This is the place.

I secured a very cute apartment yesterday. I had planned for shared accomodation to make sure I socialized at least a little bit but nothing appropriate came up. My place is on the same street that stayed on my last visit, two houses down from my old apartment, which makes me happy. It’s got good energy and I know the area. I’ve got a front room where I'll spend ages in front of the window reading & watching life go by, a second room that I’ll probably write in, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom and, of course, a roof where I’ll spend hours and hours. And the walls are all painted pink. Kind of like that.

Gokulam is definately quieter at this time of year, although I expect June and July to be busier. I was the only new registrant yesterday. When I went to the shala at 6:30am there was no one waiting in the front hall, several spots were already open, and mats were spaced well apart from one another. Sharath is very present so it’s a different practice than it was in December when Guruji and Saraswati were the main teachers.

Gokulam part deux

Usually it's the smell that gets me, the unmistakeable mix that lets me know I'm back in India. After surviving 11 hours on a plane in front of the demon child of lucifer himself, I must have been exhausted because, this time it was the lush greenery and bright bursts of flowers bordering red dirt roads that caught me: oh yeah, I'm back! Back in Mysore, India for two months of practice.

Was at my hotel at by 7am and slept a bit before heading to town. Went to Shakti House (former Kev-Inn) for breakfast, exchanged money, talked to Shiva about finding accomodation, organized my mobile phone and am catching up on email before heading to the shala to register. The fact that I have a mobile really tickles me, I NEVER use my mobile at home but here I am, on holiday, fully hooked up. Strange.

Gokulam is much quieter this time around, I can feel it. It's a strange experience, returning to this place I've visited before. I'm at once happy to be back, feel like I never left, excited about the unknown weeks ahead, and nostalgic for the way things were the last time I was here. I'm reminded of just how true this is: "We cannot step in the same river twice, neither I nor the river are the same." -Heraclitus

And, Finland saw fit to document my departure from the country - proof that the touristi is, in fact, gone...

Going...


Going...


Gone :)

Page 1, Air India inflight magazine, waiting for takeoff.

Is this really the first impression they want to make?

“Dear Passenger,

As an erroneous impression has seemingly been created by reports regarding maintenance of aircraft, in the wake of an incident involving a leased aircraft in our fleet, I would like to take a few minutes of your time to apprise you of the factual position. Of the 25 leased aircraft in our fleet, one aircraft was unfortunately involved in three incidents of tyre bursts at take-off...reports tended to give an impression that there was something amiss in the maintenance of our aircraft. This is just not the case.”

Haven’t read the reports they’re referring to, but suddenly not feeling so good about the 10 hour flight that lies ahead.

back in india

"I yank my hand from his, pick up my backpack and storm towards the plane. He yells after me, 'You, madam, you come back to India, you come for love, you love it, you love us again.' I break into a run, push onto the plane and sink into my seat. As we take off I give smog-swirled New Delhi the finger. 'Goodbye and good riddance, India, I hate you and I'm never, never, ever coming back." Holy Cow, Sarah Macdonald.

The first time I travelled to India, I hated it. Absolutely hated it. I was sad that I’d disrupted my life to come to this dirty, brown country where young boys begged me for ‘just one kiss on my penis’ and each day was conducted within the framework of knowing that I was being ripped off. I hated the pollution. I hated the way children, women and animals were treated. I hated the chaos. Then, as my trip wore on, my perspective changed and I realized that what I really hated about India was myself.

I remember the moment when I decided that the reason I was brought to India was to discover that I didn’t like myself very much. Watching the sun set over the ghats in Pushkar, I realized that this judgemental, complaining, negative person wasn’t at all the person I wanted to be and I resolved that the lesson I would take from India was to shut up, stop complaining and just see things. As simple as it sounds, it marked an epiphany for me. After that, I loved India. Loved it then and love it now.

India acts as a mirror. It’s one thing to be flexible, tolerant, and open- minded from the comfortable structure provided by home; to pretend I’m not attached to material needs when my car sits parked outside and I try to decide what to wear to work that morning; to think that I’m patient when interactions with people in my community can be measured in seconds. India challenges all of these notions. That first trip I learned that it’s possible to accept things without endorsing them, that to accept that something doesn’t mean I agree with it, it just means that it is what it is. It was a very necessary lesson at that point in my life.

The passage below is from the end of my journal from that first India trip. This time, I have two months to see what kinds of lessons find their way to me.

Have I been ‘beaten down’ as I once wrote I’d have to be in order to accept things here? Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just experienced the surprises, thrown my hysterical fits to no avail,and simply know what to expect. I don’t think it’s resignation but, rather, acceptance. Maybe that’s the difference. I accept India. I don’t know that I like it any better but I stopped fighting it and was able to enjoy it. India is what it is - that’s that. India, August 2000

freakin' finland

I'm cold approximately 11.5 months out of every year so, if you've spent any time with me outside of that brief, glorious period when the weather is juuust right, you've probably heard me complain that "It's freakin' Baltic in here". I never really gave it much thought, its something my sister used to say that caught my fancy and seemed to sum up just how terribly, horribly, uncomfortably cold I was. Then I went to the Baltics.

Turns out, the Baltics aren't so Baltic after all. In fact, I owe them a very big apology because the Baltics were downright balmy, particularly compared to the Helsinki weather I'd left behind. For several days I roamed Tallin and Riga, face turned up to the sun, with jokes of changing my favourite 'holy crap it's cold phrase' from "It's Baltic in here" to "It's Finland in here" running through my mind. Then I returned to Helsinki.

What a difference a week can make. I've returned to a whole new city. I left a city still wrapped in scarves with just hints of green here and there and returned to sandles, beach chairs on patios, and riots of flowers in full bloom complementing trees that have suddenly turned green. It's gorgeous and it's warm. It seems my time of juuust right weather has finally arrived.

As an aside: I'm staying near the park that houses the Sibelius Monument and I have yet to visit it without my arrival coinciding with that of a tourbus damning me to enjoy the view among hoards of other, noiser, tourists. Today, of course, I arrived at the same time as a tourbus but it was the strangest thing; instead of making a beeline for the monument like most groups, everyone disembarked from the bus and headed straight for a mallard duck, cameras clicking madly. We stood there, Sibelius Monument ignored to the side, tourists staring at the duck, duck staring at me, me gaping at the whole scene and I mentally shrugged my shoulders while addressing the duck: "Hey, don't look at me - I don't get it either".

I remain yours from not-so-baltic-finland, r.

riga, latvia

Sometimes when you'’re travelling you just have to throw in the towel and decide to be a very bad tourist. Last night was my night. Thanks to the #$% world hockey championships quadrupling accomodation prices in Riga I was only staying one night so, realistically, I should have made the most of my time there. Instead, I travelled 3 hours by ferry, 5 hours by bus and paid 146euro’s for a bath. That wasn't exactly the plan, of course, it' s just kind of the way things turned out.

That's not to say that I didn'’t like Riga. I loved it. All I really knew about it in advance was that it was close enough to Tallin, Estonia that it would be a shame not to visit while I was in the area so, I did. The drive through the Latvian countryside made me wish for my own car and days with which to wander the small towns with their orchards and winding creeks. Once I arrived in Riga, the walk from the bus station to my hotel alone was enough to make me wonder how I could possibly put the energy of the city to words. Riga was gorgeous and cosmopolitan and teeming with life. The world hockey championships had attracted packs of tourists with crew cuts, hockey jerseys and painted faces but even their hollering couldn'’t detract from the relaxing atmosphere of the wide city squares, towering church spires and quiet side streets.

I wandered the town for a few hours and then returned to my hotel with the intention to relax before heading out again; I forgot to take my capacity for sitting around doing nothing into account. Despite my best intentions I didn'’t leave my room again until the next morning when I had to catch the return bus to Tallin. There were a few things conspiring against me, a bathtub and free wifi being at the top of that list. Instead of exploring Riga like a good tourist should, I took a long bath while listening to the CBC, talked to my family, and was in bed by 8:30pm for what would be 12 hours of the best sleep I've had in months. It was a great, great night.

Visiting Tallin and Riga has reminded me of how much I love travelling. How much I love wandering through new cities with nothing to do but take in new sights and wait for the inevitable, awesome surprises that will find me. But not on this trip. This trip isn't for backpacking, isn'’t for planning, isn'’t for moving, moving, moving. I just don't have the stamina for it this time out. This time, I need to find my place and be still.

it's over

I think Tallin and I broke up. I should have seen it coming, the plethora of alcohol shops, 'gentleman's private clubs' on every corner, casinos galore...there were signs. But last night was the final straw. You know that thing that happens in couples when one person wants out but doesn't have the guts to say so, instead, they drive the other person to pull the breakup trigger by pulling every irritating stunt they can think of? Last night Tallin pulled that shit on me.

I can do without a lot of things when I'm travelling, except for sleep. That's my red flag. We'll be fine, just don't mess with my sleep. Tallin is so warm and sunny and gorgeous, I really wanted it to work so I was willing to overlook the first night with the loud partiers. And the second. Then last night Tallin upped the anti with the the construction crew outside my window and I broke. Two nights of interrupted sleep and last night none at all - Tallin wins. Since, you know, Tallin was there first, I left. I'm in Latvia.

I'm in Latvia and I'm lost. Just arrived and realized that I don't know the name, address, or general location of my hotel so I stopped for coffee and internet for reinforcements. Hope you all are well, more later.

note to self:

When the tourist information lady who clearly hates tourists tells you that the Kumu Art Gallery is only a half hour walk away, know that she is lying and don’t load up on water. When she tells you that you’ll definately see it from its place buried deep within the park from the road, know that she really hates her job, smile and go ask someone else for directions.

Do go for a wander to look for the gallery but happily give up after some time to enoy a glorious afternoon in the park. Find a spot in a big field littered by hundreds of tiny white flowers, watch that woman with her three puppies play, enjoy the sounds of dozens of birds just as happy that it’s spring as you are, and marvel at the fact that only yesterday you were feeling the tiniest bit lonely - make a mental note to remember how quickly things can change the next time you’re feeling low.

Oh, and when you happen to find the gallery on your way home, step in to use the washroom and make a mental note to visit it again on your next trip to Tallin; it is a very, very cool building.

Tallin, Estonia

Today is a day made for sitting in an old, cobblestoned courtyard, basking in the sun. As soon as I stepped out of my hotel into the sunniest of sunny days, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the art gallery today. It was too nice a day to be inside. Instead, I headed to the old town to find a courtyard I’d stumbled on yesterday; a tiny, sunny square with a french chocolatier/cafe and a small number of tables bordered by artisian shops. It took a ridiculously long time to find my way, the hazards of finding places when you’re already lost, but there was nowhere else I wanted to be so I kept looking. When I did find it, it was as quiet and sunny as I remembered and I spent ages sitting in the sun enjoying a cafe latte and one decadently huge, perfect truffle; a chain ‘moments’ strung together to create the best possible breakfast.

Tallin has been like that, a series of fantastic mistakes, happy surprises and wonderful moments. After leaving the ferry, I looked for the place with the most church spires, assumed that was the old town, and headed in that direction to find my hotel, which I did very easily. Shower and unpacking out of the way, my first stop was the supermarket where I stocked up on fruit, bread and found the holiest of holy sites - a bulk food aisle with dried fruit, pepitas, sunflower seeds and (the heavens sing) walnuts. None of this may sound like much to you but trail mix ‘a la becca’ is pretty much happiness in a bag for me, I knew I was going to like Tallin. And I have.

I’m not sure what kind of destination this would be for a person who needed to ‘do’ things but for a wanderer like me, it’s perfect. I’ve spent three full days here without really setting foot inside, just wandering from place to place and coffee to coffee. Tomorrow I leave for Riga, Latvia and I do it with some regret, I like Tallin, but I’ve heard wonderful things about Riga and @#$ world-hockey-championships-driving-hotel-prices-to-3X-their-usual-price aside, I’m looking forward to wandering there too.

quick update

Arrived in Tallin, Estonia this afternoon and am head over heels in love with this city. Really.

Have fantastic pictures of this past weekend's Vappu celebrations to add to the previous two entries (so, no, I didn't take them ;) but am having difficulty uploading them. Will try again but, in the meantime, wanted to get the entries up before I lost the race against time with my battery.

Hope this finds you well.

Vappu Celebration

I began noticing it a week ago, odd sights attesting to the Helsinkian love for spring: a man in a pink feather boa here, a woman wearing fuzzy purple antennae there, an energy of pure, unadulterated celebration so thick you could almost see it in the air. When I mentioned these things to others I received the same response: just wait until May 1st.

The weekend of May 1st marked the weekend of Vappu which, from what I could gather, was a three day ‘graduation/woohoo it's spring’ celebration culminating in putting a white hat on a statue, followed by lots of drinking, concluding with a city-wide picnic in the park the following day. It was difficult to know, really, because whenever I asked for a clearer explanation I was told that Vappu couldn't be explained, only experienced. Turns out, this is true.

Take my ‘graduation/woohoo it’s spring’ definition and add labour day, new years eve, and your birthday and you may begin to get an idea of just how big a celebration Vappu is. This is a weekend where, quite literally, anything goes. Fuscia wig? Of course. Clown nose? Sure, why not. The old 'knife through the head' gag? Bring it on. In addition to the anything goes attitude, Vappua is also marked by traditional meals, attire, and, of course, drinking.

Although the drinking starts days in advance, one of the first 'official' act of Vappu is on April 30 when the city gathers in the Esplanadi Park surrounding a statue of a woman (whose name escapes me). At 6:00, amid cheering and champagne toasts, the statue is dressed in a white sailor-type hat signifying graduation from high school and the square becomes a sea of white as everyone dons their white hat as well. This part amazed me, people hang on to these hats for years, decades, after graduating from high school, and bring them out once a year for Vappu where, for two days, the city is filled with people in their white hats.

After this, the celebrating begins in earnest. And there really are no words. What I'm left with is a sense of a city that works, that understands that drinking will happen, noise will be made, celebration will take over the streets and, yup, there will be a mess so lets just make sure that everyone is safe in the process. We headed home around 11:00, very late for this yogi, and the streets were filled with revelers. In addition to the sight of the people in the square wearing white hats and carrying champagne flutes I add the sound of Helsinki that night, the underlying murmur of the streets alive with people celebrating hard but harmoniously, to my memory of Vappu. Or part of it at least, the celebration isn’t done yet, there’s still the picnic tomorrow.

Vappu Picnic, May 1

I had heard a lot about the picnic in the park. On May 1st, the last day of Vappu, people congregate in the park for an afternoon of picnicking. Although we skipped the picnic part, we went for a walk in the park so this tourist could see what a ‘real’ picnic was all about. When we left the tram, I didn’t even need to ask what direction to head in; I just joined the sea of white hats moving in mass migration to the park.

I knew the picnic was a big event but, for some reason, had assumed it was enjoyed mainly by high school and university students nursing hangovers from the previous night. I was unprepared for the crowd; a mix of old and young with transportation ranging from wheelchairs to strollers, some dressed in jeans and others in their Sunday best but most wearing that white hat. Brass bands, balloons, portable grills, collapsible shelters, blow up couches, bright blankets, candelabras on tables, and food - so much food - matched only by the presence of champagne enjoyed by all. It was an amazing, intergenerational celebration of graduation, of spring, of being there together. I can think of absolutely nothing like it in Toronto and no words to describe the energy of the city over these last few days. Below are a few pictures from the park.

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 ;)