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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
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'?
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'?
Sunday, April 6, 2008
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.
So
I just used "I have to feed my cat" as an excuse to end a date early.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
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 ;)
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 ;)
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
today
Something remembered: Being a beginner student and cursing the yoga teacher, hating him/her for that extra count of four....four....when I was DYING for them to say five. There was a woman in the class I assisted tonight who kept desperately whispering "five...five...five...", five being the count when you exit the pose. It was cute.
Something learned: Independent eye witnesses claiming that the car behind me ignored my blinker and brake lights and ran into me (as opposed to me reversing into them) mean nothing when the car behind me in question is a City of Toronto Police car. Survey says: my fault.
Something noticed: The past stayed in the past today. Gorgeous yoga practices, unfair car accidents, the hug of a sister, dinner with a good friend and grounding from another, a fantastic book, exciting plans, spring in the air, and sun, sun, sun for the first time in days all conspired to keep my mind present and my heart dancing. Thank you.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
details
A few weeks ago I signed up for a three day workshop with a visiting yoga teacher that I've wanted to study with for years. I could have sworn the session ran from 6am-9am, Thursday-Saturday but after peeling myself out of bed at 5am and dragging myself through the dark, cold morning to the subway I arrived at the studio to find it completely dark. No class.
I hopped back on the subway and made my way downtown to my studio where I had a gorgeous, very long, very lazy practice and caught up with lovely yoga people afterwards. It was a very good morning but when the heck is the workshop? The fees were charged to my account so I know it wasn't a figment of my imagination but there's no mention of the workshop anywhere on schedule. I know what you're thinking, I missed the damn workshop. I suck at the details people. Suck.
Yesterday I confirmed my leave/start dates with my Manager. My current contract ends end of April and my new one begins mid-August, again working 3 days per week. I've literally dreamed of having this exact work schedule which I mentioned to my Manager stating how hard it will be when my 2008-2009 contract ends and I'll be thrust out into the cold, hard world of full time work again.
She was confused, why would I be working somewhere else full time at end of the 2009 school year? I was confused, because I'm working on contract. She was confused, didn't I read the new contract I signed a few weeks ago? They'd turned my contract into an ongoing, permanent position. I get to work 3 days a week, September-April for ever and ever.
Heh. No. I didn't read the contract. I don't even know how much money I make. I don't just suck at the details, I don't even think of them - they're non-issues. Until, of course, they become issues. Like missed workshops or work contracts or paying bills, or remembering where I put my keys after I walked in the door (last sighting was 5 days ago), or replacing my license sticker (expired Nov '07)...lets face it, if the cat didn't meow, he wouldn't get fed.
Back to the work issue, as much as I suck at details I suck even more at commitment and the idea of permanence. It doesn't matter just how closely these hours resemble my dream work hours, the second I heard that they were permanent I had to paste the smile on my face while fighting back panicked claustrophobia. Yeah, I'm embellishing but the fact is, I preferred it much better when I thought my contract ended in April 2009.
Details I haven't missed: I changed my hair from red back to blonde a few weeks ago and today finally found that my fringe was long enough to tuck back into my ponytail. I look like me again for the first time since September. You have no idea how wonderful it feels.
And now I'm off to bed because I refuse to admit I screwed up the workshop dates so thoroughly and I'm up at 5am AGAIN tomorrow for attempt number two at attending the session . Maybe it started on Friday, not Thursday...
I hopped back on the subway and made my way downtown to my studio where I had a gorgeous, very long, very lazy practice and caught up with lovely yoga people afterwards. It was a very good morning but when the heck is the workshop? The fees were charged to my account so I know it wasn't a figment of my imagination but there's no mention of the workshop anywhere on schedule. I know what you're thinking, I missed the damn workshop. I suck at the details people. Suck.
Yesterday I confirmed my leave/start dates with my Manager. My current contract ends end of April and my new one begins mid-August, again working 3 days per week. I've literally dreamed of having this exact work schedule which I mentioned to my Manager stating how hard it will be when my 2008-2009 contract ends and I'll be thrust out into the cold, hard world of full time work again.
She was confused, why would I be working somewhere else full time at end of the 2009 school year? I was confused, because I'm working on contract. She was confused, didn't I read the new contract I signed a few weeks ago? They'd turned my contract into an ongoing, permanent position. I get to work 3 days a week, September-April for ever and ever.
Heh. No. I didn't read the contract. I don't even know how much money I make. I don't just suck at the details, I don't even think of them - they're non-issues. Until, of course, they become issues. Like missed workshops or work contracts or paying bills, or remembering where I put my keys after I walked in the door (last sighting was 5 days ago), or replacing my license sticker (expired Nov '07)...lets face it, if the cat didn't meow, he wouldn't get fed.
Back to the work issue, as much as I suck at details I suck even more at commitment and the idea of permanence. It doesn't matter just how closely these hours resemble my dream work hours, the second I heard that they were permanent I had to paste the smile on my face while fighting back panicked claustrophobia. Yeah, I'm embellishing but the fact is, I preferred it much better when I thought my contract ended in April 2009.
Details I haven't missed: I changed my hair from red back to blonde a few weeks ago and today finally found that my fringe was long enough to tuck back into my ponytail. I look like me again for the first time since September. You have no idea how wonderful it feels.
And now I'm off to bed because I refuse to admit I screwed up the workshop dates so thoroughly and I'm up at 5am AGAIN tomorrow for attempt number two at attending the session . Maybe it started on Friday, not Thursday...
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
soaring to meet reality
I was meeting with a new student today. She'd made the appointment to discuss doing a series of assessments to "find out what I'm good at because I don't even know who I am anymore". She's 19. Are you supposed to know who you are at 19?
It's so distressing, the students I see, the pressure they feel to figure it all out, to know everything, NOW. While other cultures are slowing down, embracing gap years, encouraging students to take time off in between or during schooling we're doing the opposite. Students finish high school at an earlier age, enter the workforce or university sooner and are charged much more for the latter than at any point in history. The first question at any Toronto social event is invariably "What do you do?" or, for students, "What do you want to do?". Not necessarily a bad question but it's the expectation behind it, that they should know what they want to do that stings. There's no room for playful curiosity, for trying something new, for failing, for exploration and for having fun with it all.
This same student kept talking about things she'd dreamed of doing, being an actress in particular, but always followed her dreams with the statement "But I have to be realistic" and a repeated request to do the tests so she could find out what she's good at. As if the tests could know her better than she did.
How did she come to decide that it wasn't her dreams that she was good at? How did she become so lost to herself that she thinks the answer lies in 317 multiple choice questions? How has she come to believe that "being realistic" means letting go of your dreams, defeated? What are we doing to our kids?
Many times when I'm working with students my heart breaks for them but, more often than that, I'm so glad to have the job that I do. A job where I get to present an alternate point of view and introduce the possibility that "being realistic" isn't something you fall down to - it's something you soar up towards.
It's so distressing, the students I see, the pressure they feel to figure it all out, to know everything, NOW. While other cultures are slowing down, embracing gap years, encouraging students to take time off in between or during schooling we're doing the opposite. Students finish high school at an earlier age, enter the workforce or university sooner and are charged much more for the latter than at any point in history. The first question at any Toronto social event is invariably "What do you do?" or, for students, "What do you want to do?". Not necessarily a bad question but it's the expectation behind it, that they should know what they want to do that stings. There's no room for playful curiosity, for trying something new, for failing, for exploration and for having fun with it all.
This same student kept talking about things she'd dreamed of doing, being an actress in particular, but always followed her dreams with the statement "But I have to be realistic" and a repeated request to do the tests so she could find out what she's good at. As if the tests could know her better than she did.
How did she come to decide that it wasn't her dreams that she was good at? How did she become so lost to herself that she thinks the answer lies in 317 multiple choice questions? How has she come to believe that "being realistic" means letting go of your dreams, defeated? What are we doing to our kids?
Many times when I'm working with students my heart breaks for them but, more often than that, I'm so glad to have the job that I do. A job where I get to present an alternate point of view and introduce the possibility that "being realistic" isn't something you fall down to - it's something you soar up towards.
Friday, March 14, 2008
giving someone else's words back
I went to see this movie last night about Sigur Ros, set in Iceland, their home country. Clips of the band playing were interspersed with panoramic shots of Iceland and, inexplicably, I had to fight back tears several times as visions of great plains, waterfalls, the ocean and strange little whitewashed houses filled the screen.
They weren't sad tears, more a pull or a longing of sorts. At several points during the movie and many times since I've thought to myself: "I don't belong here". Not in an immediate sense, at the moment I am very much of and enjoying Toronto, but in a grander sense, I don't belong here forever. I've always known that. Everyone who's known me has always known that.
My contract ends in one month and I've been resisting, resisting, resisting the urge to travel feeling, instead, like I should stay put in Toronto. I've decided several times that that's exactly what I'm going to do, I'm going to stay in Toronto and "invest in life here". That last bit comes from someone else. They're someone else's words that I've tried hard to internalize, to make mine - but they're not. They won't stick.
I've decided to stop struggling and give in to my need to vagabond. I'm going to play overseas this summer and go where the spirit takes me which may well be back home after just 3 weeks or I could be gone 3+ months. Either way, I'm relieved to not be fighting with myself anymore and I'm so excited.
Monday, March 10, 2008
dating
Another date tonight. Another lovely, kind, interesting man. Another reminder of how that inexplicable chemistry, the kind that turns a lovely, kind, interesting man into someone 'special', can be so elusive. Another reminder of how lucky I've been in the past to find it at all. Dating again after such a long absence from the dance has been interesting. It's bolstered my faith in mankind, there are so many very decent men out there, and it's bolstered my faith in myself. I was afraid that I would compare every new person to the boy and find them lacking which hasn't been the case at all. There is no comparing.
The guys I've been out with have been really great. Accomplished, funny, interesting, emotionally mature - they 'get it' - but no one I'd be interested in seeing a second time. At first I was slightly deflated by the reminder of just how hard it is to find someone that feels special but now it just feels kind of nice to be reminded of how many decent people there are out there. I'd forgotten about those awkward "it's not you, it's me" or "you're very nice but..." conversations, God, they suck. How do you explain something that has no words? That there's no chemistry, that they're not your match, that you've always known the second you've set eyes on someone that that "something" was there and you didn't feel that tonight but you really would, actually, like to be friends because they're totally supercool?
Dating again has made me miss the boy in a fond way, reminded me of the instant connection he and I had, and realize just how hard it is going to be to find it again, but it's also helped me see things about that relationship that I hadn't seen before. One of the things that has struck me most is how interested these men are in me; how thoughtful the questions, how focused the attention on the answers, how genuine the intention to get to know me. It's struck me because that wasn't there with the boy. Everything he knew, he knew because I offered it.
Turns out there is some comparing after all.
I remember how surprised the boy was that I liked him. How, at times, I felt that he was almost suspicious of the fact that I loved him, as if I were simply desperate and latching onto an unwitting foreigner because I couldn't find someone in Canada. It's funny. If only he could have known me at home he would have known that I wasn't in love with him because there were no other options, I was in love with him despite the fact that I had other options. I chose him.
I think of him every day. I miss him every day. But it doesn't matter. Life is moving on in an increasingly joyful way and I'm letting myself be carried forward instead of resisting by wishing over things from the past. Of course, I hate that things are over but I hate even more the way that they're over. It's strange knowing someone who used to mean the world to me is out there living a life that doesn't include me, that we don't even talk anymore. It seems childish and ugly, I don't like it but, again, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what I want, wish for, like or don't like. There's freedom in that and all of the painful feelings that used to accompany thoughts of him/us are changing, fading. It is what it is.
Broken edges become dulled, raw feelings are soothed by time, the ache of missing fades, sadness melts into acceptance, life rebuilds around the hole left by someone's departure, and faith returns. Sadness, regret, longing, fear, confusion and shock are replaced by happiness, excitement, openness, acceptance and optimism. The change is a slow but sure one. I have trust again that all happens for the best and I know there will be a time when I don't think of the boy at all let alone think of him with sadness.
It's already happening.
The guys I've been out with have been really great. Accomplished, funny, interesting, emotionally mature - they 'get it' - but no one I'd be interested in seeing a second time. At first I was slightly deflated by the reminder of just how hard it is to find someone that feels special but now it just feels kind of nice to be reminded of how many decent people there are out there. I'd forgotten about those awkward "it's not you, it's me" or "you're very nice but..." conversations, God, they suck. How do you explain something that has no words? That there's no chemistry, that they're not your match, that you've always known the second you've set eyes on someone that that "something" was there and you didn't feel that tonight but you really would, actually, like to be friends because they're totally supercool?
Dating again has made me miss the boy in a fond way, reminded me of the instant connection he and I had, and realize just how hard it is going to be to find it again, but it's also helped me see things about that relationship that I hadn't seen before. One of the things that has struck me most is how interested these men are in me; how thoughtful the questions, how focused the attention on the answers, how genuine the intention to get to know me. It's struck me because that wasn't there with the boy. Everything he knew, he knew because I offered it.
Turns out there is some comparing after all.
I remember how surprised the boy was that I liked him. How, at times, I felt that he was almost suspicious of the fact that I loved him, as if I were simply desperate and latching onto an unwitting foreigner because I couldn't find someone in Canada. It's funny. If only he could have known me at home he would have known that I wasn't in love with him because there were no other options, I was in love with him despite the fact that I had other options. I chose him.
I think of him every day. I miss him every day. But it doesn't matter. Life is moving on in an increasingly joyful way and I'm letting myself be carried forward instead of resisting by wishing over things from the past. Of course, I hate that things are over but I hate even more the way that they're over. It's strange knowing someone who used to mean the world to me is out there living a life that doesn't include me, that we don't even talk anymore. It seems childish and ugly, I don't like it but, again, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what I want, wish for, like or don't like. There's freedom in that and all of the painful feelings that used to accompany thoughts of him/us are changing, fading. It is what it is.
Broken edges become dulled, raw feelings are soothed by time, the ache of missing fades, sadness melts into acceptance, life rebuilds around the hole left by someone's departure, and faith returns. Sadness, regret, longing, fear, confusion and shock are replaced by happiness, excitement, openness, acceptance and optimism. The change is a slow but sure one. I have trust again that all happens for the best and I know there will be a time when I don't think of the boy at all let alone think of him with sadness.
It's already happening.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
a three hour tour
Some snow yesterday. I went out for a short walk that turned into a three hour, snow-filled tour of High Park with an intermission at my favourite coffeehouse for some warmth, great music and coffee.
Turns out yesterday was just the warm up for today, we're currently being pummeled by yet another snowstorm. I took some pictures while I was out collecting the morning coffee/newswpapers but all they really show is big, white spots - it's snowing quite heavily. I'll try again later but in the meantime, below are some pictures from yesterday's baby snowfall...
Pretty
What you can't see is the number of people ignoring the "Caution, thin ice" signs and walking on the pond in the background
Turns out yesterday was just the warm up for today, we're currently being pummeled by yet another snowstorm. I took some pictures while I was out collecting the morning coffee/newswpapers but all they really show is big, white spots - it's snowing quite heavily. I'll try again later but in the meantime, below are some pictures from yesterday's baby snowfall...
running
Pretty
if you look closely you can see that someone turned this snowman into a snowwoman...
Tinto's on Roncesvalles, my refuge from the storm
enjoying coffee, strange music and people watching
changing shifts
lots of abandoned bikes in snowbanks
What you can't see is the number of people ignoring the "Caution, thin ice" signs and walking on the pond in the backgroundThursday, March 6, 2008
best historical plaque ever
Tonight was bookclub night for the bookclub that never reads. Turns out it was also the night that the bookclub that never reads cancelled the session due to illness, inclement weather (another snowstorm? really?), and low participation (mine, I'd emailed earlier saying I wouldn't be able to make it). I was already on the road so I missed the cancellation and ended up at D's house just in time for dinner. I stayed long enough to have a proper catch up which was so lovely, it's been ages since I've seen everyone, and to offend her husband by noticing that Einstein the dog has become rounder (read: fat).
But none of that is really the point.
The point is that I passed through an older part of the city on my way to D's house and while I was sitting at a stoplight I noticed a historical plaque posted on one of the buildings beside me. The plaque read:
"Independent Order of Oddfellows and Rebekahs"
Yup. That just about sums things up.
But none of that is really the point.
The point is that I passed through an older part of the city on my way to D's house and while I was sitting at a stoplight I noticed a historical plaque posted on one of the buildings beside me. The plaque read:
"Independent Order of Oddfellows and Rebekahs"
Yup. That just about sums things up.
wheeee
This morning during practice I was asked if I'd like to be added to the roster of assistants for Mysore practices :)
I'm number 854 on the assistant list, the one they would call last, but it's part of what I want to be when I grow up and a huge honour to be asked.
Good things are happening.
I'm number 854 on the assistant list, the one they would call last, but it's part of what I want to be when I grow up and a huge honour to be asked.
Good things are happening.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
mysore
A lot of people have passed through Mysore in the last few months. Those of us who are stuck at home are always hungry for news: what's going on and how was it? Some say very little and some say a lot - about the shala, Mysore, and the people, both locals and visitors. I'm struggling right now with reports from one person in particular because...I don't know really. I think because this person's comments strike me as arrogant and smacking of cultural superiority while, at the same time, being presented from a pseudo-zen/spiritual point of view. And let me say up front, yes, I know, this rant has more to do with me than with them.
Cultural superiority is cultural superiority no matter how many droll comments you couch it in. Stories about "Indians" shared in "aren't they funny" tones are not funny, they're patronizing, disrespectful and arrogant and I think they say more about you and your prejudices than they do about the culture you're immersed in. God knows I've been frustrated while travelling and completely lost my cool on more than one occasion, but I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself afterwards and know damn well that my reaction was about me, not the idosyncrasies, no matter how different they be from home, of the country I'm visiting. That's part of why travelling is so wonderful. It pulls you out of yourself and smacks you in the face with your assumptions, beliefs, biases, judgements - but only if you allow yourself to think that it just might be you as opposed to blaming the culture you're immersed in.
This same person is casting aspersions at the shala (just a money grab), the locals, and the other yogis. It's frustrating to read. I find myself getting angry at what I see as arrogance, mocking of AYRI, Gokulam and the very community they've chosen to immerse themselve in all the while presenting it with an air of being 'above' it all. The shala is what you make it, India is what you make it, life is what you make it - it's all the same.
Mysore can be a hard place to be, like a yogi club med for the lost and confused. The kirtans,colour/totem/birthplace assessments, rolfing, massages, ayurvedic courses, movies, clubbing, dinner parties, swimming in the river or at the Southern Star, dance lessons, philosophy lessons, painting lessons, ashtanga practice...there's a lot to do. Last time I was there I was surprised by how many yogis were having a hard time being still, quiet, myself included. I felt desperately, desperately alone in a crowd of hundreds. I was disappointed at not 'connecting' with anyone and I wondered where, if not there, I was going to find "my tribe". I was disenheartened at the feeling of being a walking wallet. I was afraid that I was spiraling down a rabbit hole of introspective depression that I would never climb out of. I struggled and hated and felt angry and alone. And I learned so. very. much. It was gorgeous.
That's why I go. It's both a reprieve from life and a petrie dish in which I'm brought full up against all of my shit and given the time and sift through what I'm able to handle at that particular point. I know, I know, this in itself is intolerant and judgmental but listening to the most shallow, judgemental, insight-free woman ever twitter on about her journey, her spiritual development, her practice in such a superior way in the same conversation as slights on "Indians" and the yoga community she's fully immersed herself in has irritated me to no end.
And made me want to return more than ever.
Cultural superiority is cultural superiority no matter how many droll comments you couch it in. Stories about "Indians" shared in "aren't they funny" tones are not funny, they're patronizing, disrespectful and arrogant and I think they say more about you and your prejudices than they do about the culture you're immersed in. God knows I've been frustrated while travelling and completely lost my cool on more than one occasion, but I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself afterwards and know damn well that my reaction was about me, not the idosyncrasies, no matter how different they be from home, of the country I'm visiting. That's part of why travelling is so wonderful. It pulls you out of yourself and smacks you in the face with your assumptions, beliefs, biases, judgements - but only if you allow yourself to think that it just might be you as opposed to blaming the culture you're immersed in.
This same person is casting aspersions at the shala (just a money grab), the locals, and the other yogis. It's frustrating to read. I find myself getting angry at what I see as arrogance, mocking of AYRI, Gokulam and the very community they've chosen to immerse themselve in all the while presenting it with an air of being 'above' it all. The shala is what you make it, India is what you make it, life is what you make it - it's all the same.
Mysore can be a hard place to be, like a yogi club med for the lost and confused. The kirtans,colour/totem/birthplace assessments, rolfing, massages, ayurvedic courses, movies, clubbing, dinner parties, swimming in the river or at the Southern Star, dance lessons, philosophy lessons, painting lessons, ashtanga practice...there's a lot to do. Last time I was there I was surprised by how many yogis were having a hard time being still, quiet, myself included. I felt desperately, desperately alone in a crowd of hundreds. I was disappointed at not 'connecting' with anyone and I wondered where, if not there, I was going to find "my tribe". I was disenheartened at the feeling of being a walking wallet. I was afraid that I was spiraling down a rabbit hole of introspective depression that I would never climb out of. I struggled and hated and felt angry and alone. And I learned so. very. much. It was gorgeous.
That's why I go. It's both a reprieve from life and a petrie dish in which I'm brought full up against all of my shit and given the time and sift through what I'm able to handle at that particular point. I know, I know, this in itself is intolerant and judgmental but listening to the most shallow, judgemental, insight-free woman ever twitter on about her journey, her spiritual development, her practice in such a superior way in the same conversation as slights on "Indians" and the yoga community she's fully immersed herself in has irritated me to no end.
And made me want to return more than ever.
Monday, February 25, 2008
my cat, the addict
I just picked up the cat from the guy who was watching him while I was away and he, the cat not the guy, reeks of pot.
I think my little guy has been corrupted, see for yourself:
BEFORE CAT SITTING
AFTER
If you have a lead on a good Narcotics Anonymous group for household pets let me know.
I think my little guy has been corrupted, see for yourself:
BEFORE CAT SITTING
AFTER
If you have a lead on a good Narcotics Anonymous group for household pets let me know.
it's not you, it's me
Two years ago when myself, Mikko and a bunch of others went to Kovalam to practice yoga while the Mysore shala was closed we met a woman that I haven't seen since but who I've kept in touch with through the internet. We don't talk often but emailed back and forth quite a bit after Mikko and I broke up. I confided some of the gory breakup details and she made the proper sympathetic noises which I appreciated until I learned that, while she was sympathizing with me, she was making a play for Mikko at the same time. I didn't feel the same about her after that.
She's currently travelling in India and she uploaded a ton of pictures from Mysore a few days ago which I loved, it was wonderful to see pictures of familiar sights. As I was looking at the pictures I thought I saw a familiar face but figured I must be wrong until I saw another, and another, and another. It was Mikko. In Mysore. With her.
Devastating
Mysore is the city we met in, a place he always referred to as "our roots" and spoke of returning to together. The fact that he's there during the very month he'd convinced me to reconcile, that he's there at another woman's beckoning (someone I'd confided in in particular), that I found out through her pictures, and that he knew I'd find out that shitty way but clearly didn't care - oh so sucky. Sucky but it also screams 'asshole' and I cannot continue to feel sadness over an asshole so in many respects, this has been an epiphany.
It strikes me as cheap to return to 'our city' during the same month he'd asked to come to Toronto to reconcile. It strikes me as weak to run from one adoring woman to another without pausing in between to process what happened and face what comes up. And his behaviour these last few months strikes me as downright mean. None of these things are who I thought he was and it's become harder and harder to resist acknowledging that I was in love with his potential, not him.
I don't want to admit that in part because I thought he was just fantastic and I so don't want to know that he's not actually that person but also because then it's me. Then it means that I loved something that never was, that I deluded myself, that I've been creating misery over an attachment that I dreamed up. It means that all of my sadness, my depression, my anger, my sense of loss is completely unfounded and exists because I've chosen to make that my existence. Come on!! I SO don't want to admit that just as I so don't want to admit that I don't like or respect the person he's shown himself to be. But there it is. Even I can't keep fooling myself into thinking that I can love someone that I don't even like. It's time to let all of this drop.
Epiphany
My journals spanning the last two years have been full of confusion over what I’m supposed to be doing with my life and where I’m supposed to be doing it. I spent much of the last few years feeling lost - lost in purpose and lost to myself. Yesterday as the plane flew over the city I saw the CN Tower, followed Yonge Street up to North York, found the white bridge and used my finger to trace the Humber River along it’s winding path until I reached my house and I had a huge grin on my face the whole time.
I may not know where I belong but I’m not lost. I have no idea where I’m going to end up but I know that I’m here. Now that I’m thinking of myself again as opposed to a mythical ‘us’ I'm realizing how much energy I put into nurturing that relationship at the cost of nurturing myself. I see how desperately lost I got in it all and how afraid I was that I wasn't moving, learning, growing; that I was just stagnating in sadness. I wasn't. I was learning, I was growing, I was facing up to some of my demons, and I've emerged from it with a different understanding of what I can do with this life.
Finding out what someone is not has helped me remember what I am.
She's currently travelling in India and she uploaded a ton of pictures from Mysore a few days ago which I loved, it was wonderful to see pictures of familiar sights. As I was looking at the pictures I thought I saw a familiar face but figured I must be wrong until I saw another, and another, and another. It was Mikko. In Mysore. With her.
Devastating
Mysore is the city we met in, a place he always referred to as "our roots" and spoke of returning to together. The fact that he's there during the very month he'd convinced me to reconcile, that he's there at another woman's beckoning (someone I'd confided in in particular), that I found out through her pictures, and that he knew I'd find out that shitty way but clearly didn't care - oh so sucky. Sucky but it also screams 'asshole' and I cannot continue to feel sadness over an asshole so in many respects, this has been an epiphany.
It strikes me as cheap to return to 'our city' during the same month he'd asked to come to Toronto to reconcile. It strikes me as weak to run from one adoring woman to another without pausing in between to process what happened and face what comes up. And his behaviour these last few months strikes me as downright mean. None of these things are who I thought he was and it's become harder and harder to resist acknowledging that I was in love with his potential, not him.
I don't want to admit that in part because I thought he was just fantastic and I so don't want to know that he's not actually that person but also because then it's me. Then it means that I loved something that never was, that I deluded myself, that I've been creating misery over an attachment that I dreamed up. It means that all of my sadness, my depression, my anger, my sense of loss is completely unfounded and exists because I've chosen to make that my existence. Come on!! I SO don't want to admit that just as I so don't want to admit that I don't like or respect the person he's shown himself to be. But there it is. Even I can't keep fooling myself into thinking that I can love someone that I don't even like. It's time to let all of this drop.
Epiphany
My journals spanning the last two years have been full of confusion over what I’m supposed to be doing with my life and where I’m supposed to be doing it. I spent much of the last few years feeling lost - lost in purpose and lost to myself. Yesterday as the plane flew over the city I saw the CN Tower, followed Yonge Street up to North York, found the white bridge and used my finger to trace the Humber River along it’s winding path until I reached my house and I had a huge grin on my face the whole time.
I may not know where I belong but I’m not lost. I have no idea where I’m going to end up but I know that I’m here. Now that I’m thinking of myself again as opposed to a mythical ‘us’ I'm realizing how much energy I put into nurturing that relationship at the cost of nurturing myself. I see how desperately lost I got in it all and how afraid I was that I wasn't moving, learning, growing; that I was just stagnating in sadness. I wasn't. I was learning, I was growing, I was facing up to some of my demons, and I've emerged from it with a different understanding of what I can do with this life.
Finding out what someone is not has helped me remember what I am.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
insomniac pictures
Maybe it's the crazy full moon eclipse or all the stuff floating around in my mind or the late night hot fudge ice cream sundae snack but I'm completely unable to sleep.
Playing with pictures from the beach today instead of sleeping. Here's a few....
Playing with pictures from the beach today instead of sleeping. Here's a few....
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