cottage life

was fantastic...

gimme gimme more

It's been a beautiful, white, brilliantly sunny winter but the snow in the city is melting so I'm off to a cabin in the woods for five days of long walks, lazy yoga and fireplace daydreams...

too pretty to eat...

...but i did

winter

typhoid is soooo last century

I get sick – never – so when I fell ill a few weeks ago I didn’t know what to expect and when I felt dodgy in the weeks that followed I didn’t think anything of it, just figured it was the aftereffects of being sick. A few days ago a fever hit and it’s only just occurring to me that I’ve felt like crap for two solid weeks. Still, I figured the fever would pass and focused on ignoring the uncontrollable shaking, cold clammy skin, sweat drenched clothes, and being insufferably hot quickly followed by being impossibly cold. Then a few nights ago I woke up to discover that I had been shaking so hard that I’d knocked a crown out and it struck me that this might be a bit more than "the chills". The next morning I went to the hospital to see a Doctor and get some bloodwork done.

It was SO not fun. Imagine a very busy Indian train station but with less organization and imagine navigating that while you’re sick. I ignored the hands pushing money past me, paid to consult with a doctor, waited 1.5 hours for him to return from rounds and received a prescription for a battery of tests. Then the real waiting began, five long hours of it. Bloodwork was first. I was weak and tired and getting shaky again. It took two hours to get in, have my veins repeatedly jab jab jabbed (thin veins madam, very thin veins), and faint. I’m not a fainter but I had the idea that at home people put their heads between their knees when light headed; here it seems that the custom is to keep yourself upright, it was a very bad time to learn this cultural difference. I kept trying to put my head down between my knees and concerned hands kept rushing forward, catching my face with a smack and pushing my head back to the wall with a thunk, holding me there. It sucked.

I freed myself from the blood ladies and navigated my way to my next set of tests where I joined the non-line of people packed outside the room and prayed that somehow somewhere there was order to the chaos. There was nowhere to sit so I staked my claim on a corner of the wall and started waiting – and shaking. After 45 minutes of clinging to the wall shaking violently, my legs started to give out and I began sinking to the ground at which point people took notice. One of the Sisters rushed over and stabbed me in the behind with a needle of something which helped with both the shaking and the waiting, I think they were so freaked out by the fainting, convulsing foreigner that they dumped me into the room almost immediately.

Before I even talked I’d disappointed the ultrasound man with my very empty bladder. No one told me to keep a full bladder and no one told me I was getting an ultrasound or I’d have known to do so on my own. I lay there, answering for the millionth time that I was single, no, no husband, and listened to them talk about my faulty ovaries over my head – because nothing makes women of a ‘certain age’ feel better than repeatedly asserting her status as a spinster while listening to doomsday talk about the possibility that she’ll ever have children. If I weren’t already shaking, the vision of dying alone and being eaten by my cat would have kickstarted the process.

Tests were done, many prescriptions given to cover the days until the results came in, and the Doctor's repeated requests that I check myself in were blithely ignored. Why you ask? Because I'm an idiot. I figured things couldn’t be that bad and as someone who doesn’t even take aspirin, I didn't even plan filling the prescriptions. I got myself in a rickshaw, got myself home and spent the night shaking uncontrollably while calling for my roommate of 10 years ago. The next day a friend with far more sense than I brought me to the OTHER private hospital (hallelujia) where I was to spend the next week.

Typhoid. I had typhoid. Such a very cool name for such a very uncool illness.

Gokulam, main street, 4.30am

happy body, happy mind

Yesterday I mentioned to someone that I was fasting and they responded with the observation that a body-type like mine looked like it could probably withstand a fast.

Heh.

Luckily my ego is that strong that I'm totally assuming it was meant as a compliment, oh yes I am...

i'll be seeing you

My departure date (a customer service interaction that included my request to “talk to someone who’s not going to yell at me”) is changed but even with a later departure, my time in Mysore grows short. I’m at the same time comfortable with the idea and resistant to it. Being deafened by honking horns on my way into town, oh yes, I'm comfortable with the idea of leaving. Then I think of leaving the smells, the colours, the sounds (horns excepted); I think of leaving this easy, slow life; I think of leaving my friends; I think of leaving this yogi playground where talk of pranayama, meditation, asana and philosophy flows so naturally and mixes so hilariously with nonsense talk of porn-eoke and I want to cling, grasp, hold on because I can’t do this at home. There is nowhere like Mysore. Then again, there is nowhere like home.

It’s not just my time that grows short. Just as quickly as new faces are flooding into town, familiar faces are moving on. It’s time, things change, but still I resist. I tell people I’ll be seeing them instead of saying goodbye; the world is increasingly small so the former is very likely true but that’s not why I put it that way. It’s because I don’t want to say goodbye, I want to ignore the closing of this time and the transition to another.

It is beautiful this opportunity we have, whether here or elsewhere, to meet and appreciate people without attachment, to find kindred spirits in the most unexpected of people, to realize just how bountiful love, support, and understanding are in what we keep being told is an increasingly disconnected, impersonal world. It is also beautiful this opportunity I have to practice accepting people as they move in and out of my life, to practice accepting change. It’s practice I very much need because, currently, I’m less on the “it’s beautiful” side and more on the “fingers in my ear screaming ‘lalala’ while ignoring everything” side.

Still, "lalala" notwithstanding, the universe conspires to help me. Many of the new faces flooding into town are familiar ones, people I haven't seen in years, people I probably said "I'll be seeing you" to at some point in time and here I am - seeing them. There is truth to my words and a different consciousness arising in my motivation for saying them.

lessons in non-attachment from Coffee Day

On the topic of Coffee Day, if you’ve never been there it may be hard to imagine and if you have been there you know exactly what I’m talking about – what is UP with the music? First, each song gets, quite literally, only 1.3 minutes of play (if lucky) before we skip to the next track. Second, although the censors have been active on the CD’s they use, they insist on featuring Eminem and Fifty Cent heavily in their rotation - not only are the songs only given 1.3 minutes airtime but half the words are beeped out.

By the time we get around to their one, tired Backstreet Boys track I’m ridiculously happy to hear the strains of “I Want It That Way” because those Backstreet Boys are good boys. No cursing = an entire 1.3 minutes of uninterrupted music (maybe ;).

my mysore

When I fell sick a few weeks ago I missed a meeting with my favourite rickshaw driver. He sent an sms wondering where I was and, after learning that I was sick, continued to check in by sms in the days that followed. Yesterday I saw him for the first time in weeks and caused him all kinds of concern over how “weak” I look and answered many questions about my medicine (none), food (lots now), and rest (no worries, I’m a sloth). A few hours after he dropped me off he returned with some food his wife had prepared. It was completely unexpected and I was absolutely touched; he didn’t have to do that.

Later that day I walked to Coffee Day to listen to overly loud music (but, inexplicably, only 1.3 minutes per song before we jump to the next one) while I worked. On my way, a woman waved goats off the road so I could pass, stopping when I stopped and laughing with me when I laughed at the smallest but loudest goat standing his ground (they really do say “maaaa” – who knew?). We had a “moment”.

Not long after I settled in at Coffee Day a trio of girls arrived and ordered a piece of chocolate cake. The cake arrived and one girl cut off a piece, approached me, and started pushing it towards my mouth explaining that it was her birthday. She resisted my attempts to take the piece and feed myself by stating “it’s my birthday, I must give to you”. It crossed my mind that she could be taking the piss but then, it was chocolate cake, and always I’m so ingratiatingly pleased to be included in any way, I acquiesced and let the strange girl hand-feed me chocolate cake. It was awesome (the cake, not so much the being hand-fed part).

So many people come to Mysore and everyone has their own, unique experience dependent on a million different factors but when I think of some of the things I’ve heard (or read in blog-land) about the country, the culture, the pollution, the people, the men…I want to go and take those people by hand and walk with them for an afternoon through my Mysore because my Mysore is a wonderful, wonderful place to be. Of course there are frustrations, bad days, monkey minded torments but above and beyond that, at all times, blessings abound, beauty surrounds, and kindness is everywhere.

pictures

I've been uploading all of my pictures to my facebook account forgetting that not everyone is facebook inclined. Some pictures HERE

white people walking

At home there's an unspoken given that if you pass someone coming from the opposite direction when walking the trails, you generally smile and nod at them. It's a tradition I love - kind of an acknowledgment of a kindred spirit, someone else who could be anywhere but chose to be among the trees instead. Since arriving in Gokulam, I've joined the dozens of others walking around the lake at dusk each night and, as is the case with home, I smile and nod at those I pass. Unlike home, however, I restrict my smiling to the other single women walking.

It's taken me a few weeks to catch on but I don't think the whole "kindred spirit walking" thing flies here. Instead of smiling back, most just look at me perplexed and then we have this whole awkward moment when I pass them again on the other side of the lake - do I smile again now that I've set a precedent? Avoid eye contact altogether and pretend it never happened? What if they think I'm rude?

Now that I've clued into the lack of smiles in return I'm wondering what it is they're thinking. Here I think I'm being polite and they're probably preparing posters warning innocent walkers of the weird white girl who hangs around the lake at dusk each night trolling for women. I do have competition for weirdness though, it's the other westerner who's always there jogging laps around the lake while dressed in jeans, button down shirt, belt and dress shoes.

Between the two of us I'm afraid we're not doing very much to further the acceptance of white people walking...

big city brothel...i mean bangalore

The days before I left for Bangalore were filled with people giving me the low down on what to expect: pollution, traffic jams, just another big city. That's cool, in fact, that's why I wanted to go. I craved being in a city with shopping malls, noise and too many people. I looked forward to going and I looked forward to how happy I knew I would be to come home.

I’d planned on making a nice breakfast to eat on the train but, instead, overslept by an hour and had only minutes to wake up, wash and pack before I had to leave. The train ride started with a disagreement over the fare during which my friends argued with the Conductor while I writhed in my seat with discomfort and tried to make myself invisible. The Conductor won, the fare was paid and the train ride was awesome. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can top sitting in the open door of a train car, wind in your face, and the country side slipping by. It was heaven.

Bangalore was Bangalore. A big, dirty, noisy city. I loved it. We shopped, coffee-d, and chilled in our hotel room before meeting my roommate's parents (who had just flown in that day to work), for dinner. While relaxing in our room we marveled at the very low hotel rate. Sure, we had to use our flip flops to turn the water on and off or we were electrocuted each time we touched the taps but we had towels – big, fluffy white towels. Score! It was only later that night that we understood the low rates and the purpose for the benches we’d admired so much lining the hallways. Turns out, we were in a “working” hotel of sorts, the benches were for the girls waiting for some business to turn up. While they waited they gossiped, argued and yelled loudly into their cell phones. Not much sleep was had but damn I enjoyed drying myself off with that big fluffy towel after I’d finished electrocuting myself in the shower the next morning.

In our search for food we stumbled upon “the” breakfast spot which was fun seeing as I never know where those places are in my own city. The restaurant was packed with locals happily enjoying combinations of eggs, baked beans and toast while I churlishly drank my coffee and made frequent references to the idly I’d expected. Breakfast said and done, we wandered around and drank more coffee before checking ourselves out of the brothel to catch a bus home. The bus was quick, the ride smooth and the homecoming very lovely. I headed straight up to my roof where I breathed clean(er) air, looked up at the stars, and anticipated a business-free sleep.

Breakfast of champions, train coffee and biscuits - the ones that proudly proclaim "Now with GLUCOSE" on the wrapper. Is glucose a good thing?


Scenes from the train...





LOOOOVING the train ride. Very happy.

scratchyourassana

I forgot my yoga gear outside last night and this morning while practicing discovered that I quite literally had ants in my pants.

stuff

4 hours of practice + 5 hours of serving breakfast/lunch + work work from home + daily life stuff which seems to take a lot more energy here than at home is taking its toll. After my second practice this afternoon I made it as far as the couch just inside the front door before I fell asleep, my backpack still attached to me.

My morning practice is vigorous and physically intense while my second practice is more static, comprised of holding asansas for 9-12 breaths with several repetitions. This practice is a personalized one, targeted to work on the area I need it most which, for me, is my lower abdomen. It's physically the area that's the weakest but yogic philosophy (and common sense, really) reasons that the reason the physical aspect has been compromised is because the emotional/mental aspect has been compromised as well. The lower abdomen is the home of emotions, sexuality and, by extension (though to a limited degree), loving relationships. It is the seat of creativity, inspiration, openness; the place of holding on or letting go.

This is the place I carry my "stuff", I've written about it before, so spending two hours each day specifically focusing on this area is emotionally intense as well as physically intense but it's so very perfect. The first time I came to Mysore I fell in love and lost myself, this time I came expecting to feel sadness but instead ended up finding myself again. I still miss my friend and feel the sting that there's someone out there that doesn't want to talk to me, but I don't hold onto it, it is what it is, and more and more I feel like what it is is his loss. It took someone else to act as the catalyst for a lot of hard lessons this year about myself, my family, my relationships, my attachments, fears and insecurities. It was too much, I became small and scared under the weight of it all but with time, distance, and space I find myself growing large where I'd disappeared and dreaming big for a future that, a few months ago, consisted only of what I wouldn't have.

Finding my afternoon a teacher is like finding the missing puzzle piece that puts the emotional and physical work to the place I need it most. It's wonderful beyond words and leaving now would feel like walking out of a surgery only half completed. Good things are happening, more time is needed, I'm staying longer.


In other news, this morning while I was walking home from the shala a boy (and I mean boy - 11 years old tops) rode by me on his bike and said hello. I didn't really answer, it's inappropriate, and as he continued on his way he said something that took me a few beats to catch but eventually it sunk in; he followed his hello with the words "I want to f*ck you".

Well. It's good to know a girl has options...

rickshaw litmus test

Whatever grand notions I might have about becoming a kinder, calmer person are easily tested by a quick visit to one of the local rickshaw stands. There are two main stands in Gokulam both of which are well-accustomed to working with tourists and by well-accustomed I mean they pull tricks that they would never, ever try with anyone else. Through every visit to Gokulam it's interactions with drivers taking the long way around or the mysterious "broken meter" replaced by outrageously inflated prices that are the quickest to push my buttons and show me just how much further I have to go to that kind, calm self.

There's a hierarchy to the stands that I don't quite understand but when I insist on a rickshaw with a working meter I'm often passed from driver to driver until I reach what I assume is the lowest guy on the totem pole - the one that gets stuck with me. That's also usually the most run down rickshaw that plugs along the road slowly giving me plenty of time to enjoy the ride and studiously avoid thinking about the black exhaust making its way directly from the bus in front of us to my lungs.

Yesterday it also gave me time to take random, blurry pictures on the way from Mysore back into Gokulam.









TAA DAA - the elusive working meter :)

yogis night out

Last night was yogis night out. Indiana Jones hit the Sterling Theatre this week so we took advantage of the fact that there was no practice this morning to go to the late show which started at the very late hour of 8.30, the same time I'd normally be crawling into bed.

It's been ages since I've seen a movie and even longer since it was a big Hollywood blockbuster so it was such good fun. We got there early and headed to a chai stall to inhale a few rounds of sugar-packed tea to help us keep our eyes open. While we were there we played with the chai stall owner's kids Tesha, the baby and Apu, the little boy. The same dog with half an ear was outside the theatre, the loveliest dog ever but also the jumpiest. At one point she got overexcited so I raised my voice and said "down" loudly, just as I would to any dog, forgetting that dogs are sometimes roughly treated here - the effect on her crushed me. Where a dog at home would maybe sort of kind of stop jumping, at the sound of my voice this one made herself very small and fell to the ground looking up beseechingly. Ouch.

As we were waiting a shiny SUV drove up and a truckload of yogis piled out so there was a heap of us piled into the front row of the balcony hooting and hollering along with Indiana Jones. The movie came complete with an intermission, of course, and ended late. Thankfully the SUV folks (who also came armed with a bag of homemade popcorn) offered us a ride home so we played "how many yogis can fit into an SUV" and discovered that the magic number was 11.


Apu playing coy with the camera. He loved having his picture taken and seeing the results

Tesha the baby and Apu the little boy. Apu was down with the camera but Tesha seemed a bit confused about why her dad kept plopping her in the lap of this big, bald man.

Teaching Apu how to take pictures. This one was a joint one, taken of the bakery across the way from the chai stall

Come on - who could resist this face?


Aw yeah, Indiana Jones :)

evening

The small dogs yip, big dogs woof, cicadas click, horns sound, palm fronds rustle gently in the breeze and the sound of metal dinner plates clanging floats up from below. From my rooftop I look down over palm trees, light spilling through windows, and the occasional pedestrian. The wind is soft tonight and mosquito's find me but it's magic to be sitting up here, lost in the dark. As always, I can't tear myself away.

4am tomorrow will arrive quickly but somewhere in the distance there's an explosion of fireworks, red and white bursts, I'll stay a little longer.

philosophy

A few times a week I go to a philosophy class where I sit, cross-legged on a bamboo mat, and listen to my teacher speak words that blow the doors of my mind wide open. On several occasions he’s said something that resonated so strongly that I felt it physically – a deep, inner “clunk” as something connects, shifts and changes – and I take notes. I want to remember these words, come back to them, share them with others but the few times that I have returned to my notes to write about them I’ve stopped because I can’t. What I’ve written isn’t mind blowing, it’s simple. Perhaps because life IS simple, we just like to complicate it.

He asks very gentle questions and poses them from a place of curiosity instead of judgment, as if he genuinely wants to know your answer. He asks questions like “Does it make you happy? No? Then why do you keep doing it?” genuinely hoping you’ll have an answer because – really – why DO something that doesn’t bring happiness? I think it’s because his questions are so simple and straightforward that the pennies drop. A simple question deserves a simple answer; do we have one for why we do things that create unhappiness? Why we think in ways that harm us? Why we attach to our obstacles instead of choosing to overcome them? I don’t. My answers are long and convoluted and, in the end, aren’t actually answers at all. I don’t actually know why I attach to memories that hurt, keep asking "why" to things that aren't mine to understand, and choose to make some things so damn hard when, perhaps, it’s all very easy in the end.

It’s when I don’t have an answer, when I’m left with nowhere else to go from there, that I actually go places. Doors are blown open, thinking begins, new perspectives are allowed in, and shifts are felt. There’s no agenda, no curriculum, no textbooks; just the teacher sitting cross-legged also listening to our questions, telling stories, giving information and then batting a question back to us so gently that it takes a few seconds for it to sink in and take effect. It's awesome.

routine

Day begins at 5.10. There are many that wake earlier to shower, meditate, take coffee before their practice which sounds so lovely, it’s what my ideal self does too – but only my ideal self. My real-life self hits snooze until the very last minute before leaving for the shala at 5.30 and stumbling onto my mat by 5.45. This morning I think I heard Sharath tell me to be there for 5am tomorrow but I cannot imagine a 5am start so I’m going to ignore the possibility until it’s an undeniable command.

Practice is finished by 7.30. I’ve started helping out as a server at one of the local breakfast spots, run by two Canadians, so if I’m working I speed home from the shala to shower before heading to my shift for 8am to bring food to hungry yogis. If I’m not working, I linger over my closing poses and take a long savasana before heading home to nap, meditate, or read.

Serving or my own breakfast, both are done by 11am and the day is mine. I have a contract from home due mid-July, if it’s a working day I’ll occasionally bring it to the pool but more often to one of the coffee shops where I get heaps of work done in between listening to top-volume Bollywood music and wondering about the cross-dressers who come in at 12.30 every day to demand a bribe from the employees in return for not harassing the patrons. I need to learn more about these people. If I don’t have work to do I head to philosophy class, wander around taking pictures, read or write. Either way, it’s all done by 3pm when I head home to make my dinner.

Dinner done, I go to the lake for a walk, socialize, or maybe head to Anu’s to check email. I’m home before 8pm to meditate and read on my roof where my roommate eventually finds me and keeps me awake laughing late enough to ensure that the next morning finds me groaning and pushing snooze until the very last minute and it all begins again.

Really. I could do this for a very long time.

Don the Dog

Don the Dog almost ate me today.

Ever since the break in at the old place I've been very grateful for Don the Dog. He's very big, very scary and very quiet which makes him an anomaly amongst Mysore dogs - he doesn't bark all night but everyone know he's there. No one would be foolish enough to mess with him.

There are a lot of big dogs around. Most houses have one in the way I imagine farms have dogs, more as workers than as pets. Except this isn't the country with heaps of surrounding fields, this is a town with very small plots of land. Instead of roaming around farms, the very big dogs here are kept in very small kennels all day until they're released to patrol their very small territories (the driveway) at night. Don the Dog is no exception.

It's little wonder he leaps after me, barking madly, each morning when I try to sneak out of my flat for yoga. I think he's been waiting for this moment his entire life; a chance to DO something. This morning he almost got me. He jumped up against the fence separating us, as he always does, but this time he got his front paw hooked over the wall. I'm not sure who was more surprised, he or I, but I could see the glee in his face and bloodlust in his eyes. He might. actually. get. someone.

Then his paw slipped and he fell back to the ground, barking even more madly than before and I passed unscathed. This time. But I'm afraid he may be working out a system for getting over the fence. Hopefully, I'll be gone before he perfects his maneuver.

you can't always get what you want...

A few weeks ago I overheard someone comment that India doesn’t give you what you want, it gives you what you need. So true.

I was worried about coming here because what I wanted was to do the hard work. To come and get lost in my thoughts, to let the confusion of this last year fully settle, and to feel so very intensely sad that there could be none left when I was done. I’d be free.

It turns out, India knows better. I haven’t been given what I wanted, but I’ve very definitely been given what I need.

I needed time, to be left alone, to be free from everyone’s demands that I pop back into my usual fine, capable self now, now, now. I needed space to be whatever I was being without feeling like it wasn’t ok. I needed to let my soul catch up with my body. I needed to be free from the relationships of home. I needed to meet new people and remember what it’s like to introduce myself as me instead of the sad one, the one that was left, or even the middle one. I needed to stop demanding that all of it be such gut-wrenchingly hard work and I needed to have a good time.

I’m very much being given what I need, this trip has been wonderful so far. I feel like my soul has found my body again, I feel centered and I’m enjoying myself. I’m remembering past visits to Mysore but fondly and in a way that is very glad they’re in the past. I’m thinking about what happened at home this year and what I learned about my relationships but not with the hurt I felt when I was back in the thick of it. I’m thinking about what I’ve learned about myself but not in the ‘gut-wrenching’ way I expected. I’m realizing for the first time how small I’d become and with every passing day I feel myself grow bigger and bigger.

I’m remembering what it’s like to be me which is exactly what I wanted, it’s just that India knew better than I did what form I needed it all to come in.

coffee day

A dog sleeps, sprawled across the concrete steps leading up to the glass doors. Pushing open the doors brings me out of the 95 degree heat and into the air conditioned refuge of Coffee Day, the Indian equivalent to Starbucks. The doors swing shut behind me and the incessant cacophony of horns is replaced by the beat of Hindi music played at top volume. They’ve changed things since I was here last, the same “Coffee Day Newsletter” makes me laugh with it’s Bollywood interviews and enthusiastic reviews of “funky beats” music but the chairs have been replaced with deep couches. I sink into one and prepare to work.

Working from India has proved to be far more challenging than I ever imagined and I’ve sworn a million times never to do it again but today is one of those days – work is getting done. I duck my head and get lost in the details, forgetting where I am until I take a break and lift my eyes to women dressed in gorgeous, bright saris and red dirt roads busy with bikes, rickshaws, cars, cows, dogs, goats, and people. The scene is quite literally a feast for the eyes and food for the soul and I smile, nodding my head in time to the beat of the music, and think that I could do this for a very, very long time.

poolside office

hey, good job!

I’ve heard that you never know how you’re going to respond to a difficult situation until you’re actually in one. That being the case, last night I learned that I’m damn lucky to have made it to the ripe age of thirtysomething because, apparently, my survival instincts suck.

Last night, unable to sleep, I rolled over in bed to find a man’s face pressed to my window, his hands pushing and pulling on the bars as if to test their strength, and do you know what I did? I said “Hey” and clapped my hands. Yeah, that’s right, I greeted and then applauded the man trying to break into my bedroom. Good job, well done, pull a little harder, I’m sure one of those bars will give soon…it’s amazing I’ve made it this far in life isn’t it?

Thankfully, he was as surprised by my response as I was and took off, running up the stairs to the rooftop and back to where he came from leaving me all alone, in the dark, completely freaked out. I checked the clock, 12.57am. That left four hours until daylight, four hours to sit and stare at the window waiting for the would-be intruder’s shadow to reappear. Four hours, alone, in the dark, while freaking out is a very long time so I did what any independent, adult would do – I called my little sister who called the rest of my family who called me. In between phone calls, I had long conversations with myself to pass the time and to let anyone hanging around know that I was awake.

Interesting what comes up when you’ve four hours to talk smack. I dove into some issues, resolved some stuff, and surprised myself with the stuff I’d already resolved without even knowing it. When the sun rose I packed my belongings and left the flat but I left much, much lighter than when I arrived. What a blessing.

I’ve since moved into a gorgeous flat with a lovely family and a very big dog named Don. This is a house I’ve always noticed for it’s awesome rooftop terrace and wondered who got to live here. Now I know. It’s me. Very, very lucky person I am.

grocery shopping in gokulam

The week's groceries for the low, low price of 64 rupees (just under $2.00)

hey western lady

This is a gorgeous time of year to be here. The crowds are small, people friendly and conversations intimate, it’s lovely but there’s a reason for these small crowds: it’s because it’s HOT. Damn hot. So a few of us hailed a rickshaw and took off to the pool for the afternoon.

We (all women) emerged from the change room to find that they’d put some lounges aside for us really, really far from the pool and from the other guests which was perplexing until the guy who was helping us pointed to the other guests and said “boys…many boys” then it was just sweet – and thoughtful. He followed this up by shaking his finger at us and saying “no boys…no making friends, no talking” and he hung around for the first little while holding the very curious boys (who weren’t boys at all but grown men) at bay. Soon, though, he had to leave and as soon as he did, I made a friend.

I was taking pictures of my feet, as I always seem to do, when one of the boys-who-wasn’t-a-boy approached and started talking to me. While I cringed under the far-off glare of the hotel man who’d warned me from such conversations, my new friend poured his heart out about his girlfriend. She’s from the west, he’s from the east, he doesn’t understand her but, since I’m a western lady, maybe I could help. Advice on cross-cultural relationships? Yeah. Seeing as I'm still trying to pick myself up from my own experience with it I'm the last one to ask for advice. Given my obvious lack of enthusiasm for being his relationship guru he stood up and demanded that I take a picture of him. I told him that if I took a picture I was going to put it online and many people would see it thinking it would deter him but it only sealed the deal. So. A picture was taken.

Here he is, my new friend who’s name I forget but, then again, he simply referred to me as “hey western lady” so we weren’t exactly on a first name basis anyway…

an apple-tastic home

A colony of tiny red ants has taken up home in my laptop. They scurry madly up and down the keys wondering what is happening as I type...disappearing below the "m" only to reappear somewhere around the "u" and so on.

Cute.

mornings in gokulam

In the hours before sunrise even the dogs are quiet, a blessed respite from their never ending barking. For some time the only sound is that of the birds in a song that begins slowly before building to a crescendo of whoops and whirls that wakes not only me but the rest of the town as well. The dogs join in, barking, and then the humans start adding our sounds to the music of the morning.

Long sweeping strokes announce that the women of the house are awake and outside brushing the front walk, preparing the entry/exit point of the house for a good day. The sound of plastic being dragged across metal frees cars and bikes from their slumber and soon revving engines and tooting horns join the fray. Men clear their throats repeatedly and loudly in the shower, breakfast dishes clang against each other, and parents squabble with children all of this easily overheard given the close proximity of the houses and open windows. Children call as they make their way through the streets and their calls are joined by those of the canvassers pushing their heavy carts though the streets yelling the name of their produce every few feet “tomatoes….papaya….sopal….”.

Birdsong, barking, engines, horns, human voices – it’s a symphony that tracks the day as it moves from darkness into light and pulls me slowly from a deep sleep into wakefulness.

ch-ch-ch-changes

Today was my first led practice since arriving. Different. I’d been dreading the stampede into the shala, such a horrible way to begin the day, and I’d been dreading the fast-forward count which turns the beauty of the practice into a rushed, vacant affair. I was surprised on both counts. The stampede was decidedly un-stampede like and the count was steady, consistent and, in some asanas, agonizingly slow. It was good but halfway through I felt myself wondering what the point was. Don’t write scolding me, I do know the point, overall, I’m speaking on a personal level, in terms of my personal practice, what was the point?

This is something I’ve avoided talking about since my arrival partly because it’s early days yet, partly because I don’t want to come across as criticizing this practice which I love so very much, and partly because I don’t have the words to describe what I’m feeling. I’m afraid if I try and talk about it I’ll chase it away. Suffice it to say, I’m learning that my practice changed more profoundly in the years since I was last here than I understood. I sense my practice on the verge of a transformation, one that will diverge slightly from this form I’ve committed to for so many years and it’s scary.

Will nothing stay constant? No, of course it won’t; that’s part of the lesson, but it’s always been my hardest lesson – particularly now. Everything has changed so much this last year, I’m not sure I can bear more change, particularly not in my practice - my well. Although I knew this visit would be about closure and transformation, I never expected that to extend to my practice as well but here I am. There’s a softness, a playfulness that wants to come out and while I can see this as healthy, organic and mature a transformation as the personal one I’m making, it’s still change. Ties to the past, both the pleasurable and the painful, are hard to break but I’m learning that the transformation on both counts has already happened, I’m just figuring it out after the fact.

photos

Some pictures here

here

A taxi, a plane, and another plane which was really just a teaser as we were asked to disembark moments after boarding due to technical difficulties. Technical difficulties led to a 5 hour wait which led to an unplanned stop at a hotel for the night followed by a coach ride, another plane (this one operational), and another taxi the next day. 38+ hours after leaving home, I’m here.

We landed in Bangalore at 10.45pm, 18 hours later than scheduled and my luggage didn’t emerge until 12.30am by which point I’d swallowed my separation anxiety, said goodbye to my Guardian Angel, Mike (whose luggage had arrived immediately, yet another business class perk), and was feeling lost and alone. Just as I began envisioning waiting the two hours for the 3am flight back to London and begging to be added to the damn flight, my luggage appeared freeing me to head outside and fall in love with India all over again.

The first words spoken to me were of my driver who led me through the throng of people, put my bags down and asked me to “please be waiting here”, and I was, I was so pleased to be waiting there. Every time I step out of the Bangalore airport it’s the same – it’s the smell that lets me know I’m here. Some mixture of rubber and exhaust and dust, which may not sound great but it’s gorgeous. It’s India. I sat, eating cookies stolen from the business lounge in Heathrow (thanks Mike ;) and felt gorgeously happy and calm amidst the chaos. The taxi came round and we were off. I rolled down the window to lean my head against the frame, let the wind push my hair off my face, and smiled. I’m here.

looking forward

Tina’s millet bread, mysore pak from Bombay Tiffany’s, chikoo, the finicky musical soundtrack at Coffee Day that never settles on any one song for more than 60 seconds, a scalp massage at Sudha’s, an ayurvedic massage from Kumar, walking red dirt roads, looking up through palm fronds at the stars, walks in the park at dusk, waking early on Saturday morning to walk to the Metropol Hotel for a quiet coffee on the veranda, colour – bright colour everywhere, 5 minute waits that turn into 2 hour delays, being surrounded by daily rituals of thanks, reading by candlelight during brownouts, peaceful moments waiting for the water to heat up after practice…ah…the practice, the practice, the practice. There are no words for what it is like to practice in that place, with those people, with those teachers.

Mysore holds some ghosts, that's for sure, but this trip is about something completely different and I'm feeling less and less like looking back when there is so much to look forward to. Yes. Now I’m excited.

leaving

Trading this

for this


Back soon....

36 degrees in mysore

Wow. That's 24 degrees warmer than it is here.

random (and completely un-ready) stuff

The first time I went to India it was with a disposable camera, a walkman + two tapes, and a kazillion packages of instant oatmeal. I'd listened to all of the stories and I was scared, convinced that I was going to get food poisoning at every turn. The oatmeal was my protection against dodgy food and my insurance policy against starvation. Silly girl.

Many trips later I return with a proper camera, a fancy iPod that I don't really understand, and a loving gastronomical history with India that includes heaps of dodgy food but no food poisoning**. With each trip the technology I travelled with grew increasingly sophisticated (for me) and the list of things I really need but never would have known grew increasingly eccentric. This only recently occurred to me as I prepare for this, my sixth visit. Instead of running around purchasing oatmeal to stave off starvation, I've been slowly gathering:

->vitamin/mineral salts - the ones everyone else uses for hangovers but I use because I can't seem to drink in as much as I sweat out when in India in May
->photocopies of my passport - there's not one trip yet that hasn't found me running from store to store looking for a working photocopier for one reason or another. I've decided to cut out the middleperson and just bring my own
->passport-sized photos - see above
->my favourite incense - instant home for those moment when I need it and the only place I've found it in Mysore is at the Three Sisters which, in itself, isn't a bad thing but I find it impossible to visit there without eating and eating and eating and maybe arranging for a massage before eating some more
->ryvita - yeah, stupid, but I miss crispbread when I'm away and crispbread + ghee + honey = happiness on a plate
->pumice stone - to counter dusty roads and flimsy sandals and to foil thoughts of "geez, my feet are lookin' pretty bad" when in paschimotasana etc (what? don't say you've never done it!)

There's probably more but I should get going because you know what I'm not doing? I'm not packing, not clearing out my apartment, not finishing up the work contract I promised to have done before I leave - and I leave soon. Really soon.



**save for one time in Dharmasala which doesn't count. If I can look at a dirty, crusty mug filled with off-tasting chai and think "boy, if anything is going to make me sick, it's this" and then proceed to keep drinking - well - I deserve to get sick.

maybe that explains it...

Following my physical a few weeks ago, the Doctor's office called me in to talk about my results - something they don't usually do. I'm the cleanest living person I know (or the most boring - whatever - why play with semantics) so I couldn't have much to worry about but I'd been tested for every possible thing under the sun and one never knows...

Turns out she wanted to talk about my iron levels. They're low. At 5 when they should be at 50. What a relief, not because I was worried about the other possibilities but because I've been so. freaking. tired lately. Actually, tired doesn't even cover it. Listless, drained, empty is closer. I thought maybe it was the season, my mood, the rush of finishing up work - any number of things but I didn't even think about my iron.

She proposed a supplement, one comprised of bull's blood. Uh, no. Even if I weren't a vegetarian, no. Instead I went to the health food store to buy a natural supplement. Unfortunately, stores confuse me, there's just so much stuff in them, and while I was drifting around the aisles I forgot what I was there for and I emerged half an hour later without iron but with chocolate.

If chocolate contained iron I'd be SO set.

saturday

Last Saturday at home for a few months. Slept in, read papers over coffee, enjoyed the sun streaming through the window. Gorgeous out today. Rode my bike to late afternoon yoga taking the long way along the lakeshore. Stopped at a patio restaurant after yoga for coffee, pastries, and daydreaming. They were playing the new Weezer album. It's good.



Am looking forward to Mysore but home is very good too. Will miss being here.

ready?

My monthly pass expired so I purchased a 10-class pass to carry me from now until the time I leave. It was hours later that I realized that I leave before that pass even expires. Yikes. I'm gone in less than a week! Guess that explains why every conversation lately has included questions about whether I was "ready" yet, it seems I'm the only one who wasn't aware that I'm off soon.

Guess that also explains why no one but me seems to think that my current state of "getting ready", which is limited to pulling out all my cute sundresses and sandals and wearing the hell out of them now that the weather has finally warmed up, is an appropriate response. But, hey, after living out of a small carry on bag for three summers, I have a lot of summer clothes to get reacquainted with and, apparently, less than a week to do so.

Coming from a long line of last minute packers, late checker-inners, last to board the plane-ers, a week is heaps of time. Besides, my best packing is usually done in airport parking lots, crouched beside the car, madly pulling some things out of the bag while stuffing others in.

I always forget something. I almost never actually need it.**

**a caveat for what I know is coming from my mother: "almost never actually need" what I forget does not include plug adaptors which, it seems, cost more for her to post last summer than it would have if she'd just flown over and delivered one by hand.

Note to self - pack a damn adaptor this time...

this is where i grew up

Today, for the first time since moving to part-time hours last September, I paid attention to my pay stub and figured out how much money I make. It was shocking - and I don't mean in a 'pleasantly surprised' way. While it may be enough for me to live comfortably on, it definitely isn't enough for me to work through yet another lunch so I grabbed my camera and headed out.

Although I work 15 minutes from where I was raised, I rarely go there (too busy working through my lunches, you see ;), but today was such a gorgeous day, it was perfect for the drive. I stopped in town for a coffee and then moved on to the park to say hello to the river, enjoy the sun, and see what's new in the place where I, quite literally, grew up. Home of:

The best bridge in the world

beneath which we spent hours turning over rocks to catch crayfish and stepping daintily to avoid being bitten



What used to be the most amazing wooden park, complete with castle turrets and gangplanks, has been replaced with this

and this

I guess splinters are more hazardous to our health than brightly coloured plastic which is as uninspiring as it is boring.

Where I learned to swim



The instructor wanted us to learn to open our eyes under water so he would hold up a few fingers, we would duck our heads under water, and emerge to tell him how many fingers he was holding up; if we were wrong, he would pinch us very hard on our bottoms as many times as we were wrong. I was five, I'm not even sure I could count yet (I was a bit slow in some areas), but I know I couldn't open my eyes under water - it hurt - so I would go under, eyes squeezed shut, and come up guessing a number that I desperately hoped was right. It never was. I got pinched a lot. Danger, indeed.

And the baseball diamond where we would play our softball tournaments behind which is a hill that may not look like much but it is widely known as the BEST tobogganing hill for miles around. That thing is killer in the winter. The fencing in the bottom left is the batting cage which, to this day, I have never once seen in use. Good to see that it's still there, waiting and ready, though.




I wandered around the park with my coffee in one hand, camera in the other, seeing how much had changed without really changing at all. The rocks by the river which formed the 'do not cross' line when I was a toddler and a cover for underage drinking when I was a teenager are still there. My favourite climbing tree is as well. And the pool, baseball diamond, toboganning hill, and ice rink are all the same. So, in many respects, am I.

I drove back to the office, windows down, sun beaming, "Little Red Corvette" playing loudly on the radio and the number on my paycheck really didn't seem to matter anymore. Nothing about that moment would have changed were my salary any higher or lower than what it currently is and that moment? It was a wonderful one. Why wish for any different?

almost that person

When I was learning to drive I promised myself that I would NEVER be one of those people who roadraged the 'drivers education' cars with their scared, timid, doing-the-best-they-can new drivers.

Today, following a car driving 20km below the speed limit (placing us at a leisurely 30km per hour) with two wheels on the road and two wheels drifting haphazardly across the dirt on the shoulder...oh. holy. god. it was a hard promise to keep.

But I did.

april

A few years ago at this time I was in Helsinki for the first time and things were already strange. After months of telling me to come, assuring me that his plans were my summer plans, and talking of all the things "we" would do all summer, the boy balked at me purchasing a 12-class yoga pass, complained of how his apartment wasn't built for two but then talked me out of my plans to leave for travels elsewhere stating that I "couldn't leave". I was confused at his confusion and crestfallen by his back and forth after months of big talk.

At this time last year I had just finished writing my comprehensive exam and officially completed my masters degree. This followed a year of running two steps behind to keep up, of being unable to catch myself long enough to know myself. There was just too much to do and in the midst of it all my relationship was falling apart, my dream career no longer my dream, and health issues with scary (and, in hindsight, unfounded) names rearing their heads. I was breathless and disconnected and lost in busyness. Who was I? What did I want? Where did I belong? I knew nothing.

At this time this year I realized that I'm happy in a way I haven't been in years. I know you're sick of hearing it but I still feel loss and longing, I miss the boy, but there is a happiness, a freedom, that wasn't here last year. Yesterday I realized that so many of the questions that plagued me over the last few years are gone. Who am I? Where do I belong? What do I want to do with my life? I'm no closer to the answers but I'm no longer obsessing over not knowing. I don't know where I'm going to be but I know that I'm right here. I don't need to know any more than that.

This time this year I'm done my masters, assisting with yoga classes, creating community around me, meeting new people, free from the web of someone else's confusion , found my teachers in Toronto and, through all of these things, finding myself as well. Changing to part time work provided the space I needed to first fall apart and then regroup; now this same space allows room for new work opportunities to present themselves, one opportunity in particular is something I've wanted to do for years.

This time this year I celebrated the first warm day of spring by going for my first bike ride. I rode along the lakeshore to Queen Street, grabbed a cup of coffee and headed to the park where I welcomed the feeling of grass between my toes, watched the dogs celebrate, and had the space to sit and realize how much change had occurred over this last year. To notice that I wasn't rushed, wasn't wondering, wasn't confused and wasn't lost. I was right there, on the park bench on a gorgeous Thursday afternoon - and I was happy.

kiitos or merci?

The last three trips I've taken to non-English speaking lands have all been to Finland. Maybe that explains why here, immersed in the land of the proud French, I've reflexively been responding to everyone in Finnish before hastily switching to French. Thank you becomes kiitos becomes merci. Sorry becomes anteksi becomes pardon, and so on.

I miss the challenge of trying to navigate a city using a foreign language. I miss the challenge of absorbing new words and wrapping my mind around new grammar rules. I miss some things.

conference yoga

DAY 1
A living room floor in a friend's house. To my left, a coffee table pushed flush against the wall but still close enough to connect with outstretched limbs. On my right, an antique couch bearing destroyed seat cushions, the latest victims of a bored teenaged puppy. In front of me, four very curious cats watching every move with great interest. The one introduced as 'the most vicious of them all' was also the most curious of them all. She took to walking under me while I was in downward dog, letting her tail brush across my face, under my nose, in my eyes, as she moved back and forth. I worried about injuring her during jumpbacks.

DAY 2
Began at stupid-o-clock as I snuck out of my room, mat bag in hand, to avoid waking my coworker. Wandered the Mezzanine floor looking for an open, non-AC room to practice before resigning myself to the gym. Tucked into the corner, weight-press-thingy to my left, exercise bikes behind me, mirrors to my front and right. Mirrors are devastating. My asanas which feel like beauty are actually very ugly and my body which I'm usually able to make peace with is puffy, pudgy, and even uglier. Trolls sneak in, my mind begins to obsess, self-loathing takes over until I focus, focus, focus - come back to the breath, come back to this moment, come back to driste and it all fades away. Gone. Beauty returns.

DAY 3
Back in the gym. Same spot. Same trolls. Same retreat to what actually matters - the breath, the driste, the moment. Arms are not straight, back arches, stomach puffs, it doesn't matter. I'm here, I'm blessed with a body that carries me through my day, and this moment is a good one; this is what matters. Behind me a woman talks loudly to her friend, explaining that she doesn't watch TV because she needs silence in order to hear God speaking to her. I know what she means and, after three days of conference talking, talking, talking, I long for this silence.

I begin, for the first time, to really look forward to India. Months of injuries, rotating teachers at my home shala, stolen moments on friends' floors or in hotel gyms; I long to be in India with one teacher where I can stay put, stay still, and stay quiet.

travel memoir by techology

On my first trip to India I travelled with a walkman and a disposable camera. That's it. I taught myself to fall asleep to the sound of Matchbox Twenty, one of the only two tapes I still owned and brought on my trip with me, and I returned with grainy, dark pictures courtesy of my crappy disposable camera.

When I returned to India a few years later it was armed with a discman and a borrowed camera the latter of which possessed both broken flash and zoom. I purchased the same Matchbox Twenty album, my secret weapon in the struggle to fall asleep amidst the sounds of TV's, radios, car horns, barking dogs, late night arguments, and later night family dinners, on CD and packed a handful of 35mm film, proud that I'd remembered an actual camera that time out.

Although travelling with a discman AND a non-disposable camera was high-tech for me, I was a travelling ludite in comparison to others. These travellers came with iPods, laptop computers, digital cameras, and mobile phones. I wasn't envious of their 'stuff' so much as I was of their convenience and my next trip found me similarly stocked with laptop computer, iPod, mobile phone, and camera with fully functioning options. Granted, the mobile and camera were borrowed luxuries but they were convenient ones. Travelling with a phone changed things completely by making what had always been a solitary, disconnected pursuit a busy, social, connected one - this was an unexpected and not entirely welcome change.

And, yes, I'd downloaded my Matchbox Twenty sleeping soundtrack to my iPod.

For my upcoming trip, the list of technology grows to ridiculous lengths. In addition to my laptop and iPod I bring my very own phone, my beloved Nikon, and a new acquisition, a small Canon for those times when carrying the Nikon is too cumbersome. While I began writing this with a touch of humour, amused that I can trace my advancements into the world of technology according to my trips to India, as the list of stuff I travel with grew to culminate in that final list complete with not one but two cameras, I'm embarrassed. Can I explain that, with the exception of the laptop and Nikon, the rest are castoffs donated my way when the previous owners upgraded? Or that both the Nikon and my laptop travel with me for working purposes?

No. I didn't think so.

I have to go look this way now.

crap

No-chemistry man just sent an email offering to take in the cat while I'm gone this summer.

What to do, what to do?

On one hand would like to keep as much distance as possible between us, on the other, I've exhausted all possible cat-sitting resources. If not no-chemistry man, then it's the weird pot smoking guy in the basement dungeon.

Can I really relegate my little guy to the equivalent of a basement hot-box for two months just so I can avoid potentially awkward social entanglements?

And, uh, does it make me a bad cat-friend that the answer is a very definite 'Yes'?

i so wish i was kidding

Perfectly nice traveller, kayaker, photographer, successful, mature guy but not even the tiniest bit of chemistry.

So


I just used "I have to feed my cat" as an excuse to end a date early.

spring, sister goddesses and weddings

If I hadn't been such a shy child and if the mean ballet teacher hadn't yelled so much I might have stayed in ballet instead of finding refuge in hockey with its masks and padding that made it so easy to hide. Had I stayed in ballet then I'd probably know how to pirouette and, that being the case, I would have pirouetted my way around the city today instead of walking because it's spring and that's what spring makes me want to do. Dance, twirl, explode with happiness because oh, holy God, it's not freezing, the sky is blue, the sun is shining and the promise of life is in the air.

Today was the first, real spring-like day. My friend and I set out for what was supposed to be "Rebecca & Alishia's Excellent Spring Adventures" but ended up being "Rebecca and Alishia's Excellent Three Hour Meal" where heaps of sushi were consumed, the meaning of life discussed, and I got the lowdown on a workshop Alishia attended where participants were instructed to refer to each other as "Sister Goddess". How wonderful is that? Family and friends take notice: from this point on I will only respond when addressed as "Sister Goddess Rebecca" because that? That can't help but make a girl smile.

Before meeting up with Alishia, I met up with my little-big sister, Ekah, who is every bit a Sister Goddess herself:



She's getting married on Saturday to this lovely man:



I insisted on taking this picture because it will be their last picture EVER as unmarried people, and because in EVERY single picture from this point forward there will be a ring on their fingers and commitment and responsibilities to another person for EVER and EVER more. The emphasis on the EVER was necessary because it freaked them out a bit which I took great pleasure in. It didn't freak them out as much as my dad's "pep talks", though, which reassured them that it's normal to be a bit anxious since "you're about to make the single most important commitment of your life".

Because THAT'S not at all an anxiety-inducing thought ;)

get busy living

This series of photos, Life Before Death, has been making the rounds on the internet. If you haven't seen it yet, click here and be sure to read the text summaries beside each photo.

I stumbled across the site yesterday which was also the first day that spring made her appearance after this long, relentless winter. The winds were strong and I headed down to the lake to see what was happening with the water where I couldn't get the stories of the people out of my mind. The woman who called her estranged husband after 17 years of silence to be met with the words "I'm coming", the one who referred to death as a test of one's maturity, and the several individuals who felt cheated when faced with death soon after retiring from years upon years of hard work. I was reminded of how unpredictable life is. How short. How important it is not to wait for some time in the future to start living.

Life happens; sometimes it's awesome and sometimes it's really not but it happens and every minute lived is a minute borrowed. Sitting by the lake last night I was surrounded by a symphony of sounds, the wind blowing, seagulls calling, waves crashing, and trees swooshing. I turned my face to the still-cold air that stole my breath away with it's force and knew that I was alive. Blessedly, luckily, miraculously and joyously alive.

be wild

"The real mask of wildness is a love of nature, a delight in silence, a voice free to say spontaneous things, and an exuberant curiosity in the face of the unknown" Robert Bly

Spring is here in every sense, literal and metaphoric. It's a gorgeous feeling and a joy to be caught in the wildness of spring. The barely contained explosive dance of nature balancing the need to wait a few more days with the itch to bloom, grow, reach. The anticipation, the eagerness, feeling on the brink of freedom is mirrored in the people I meet with. It's mirrored in me. My mind tries to be melancholic and often succeeds, but it doesn't get to rest in melancholy for long - my soul won't let it stay there. There are too many good things happening and enough is enough.

'Exuberant curiosity', could there be a more beautiful phrase?

Be wild, everyone.