skating

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.