Kovalam

Kovalam is a wonderful beach town fronted by a boardwalk that curves to follow the shape of the beach and backed by narrow dirt paths that wind their way labryinth-like between the stores, cafes, and guesthouses. I have yet to make my way to any destination following the same path twice, they're very confusing. Instead, I've accepted that the best approach is to allow myself to get lost, enjoy the walk, and know I'll end up where I need to be eventually - it's a small town.

The boardwalk is a confusion of sounds: the ocean, excited shouts from the bodysurfers, and calls of the vendors. I can purchase pretty much anything I'd need from my place on my towel: sunglasses, mangopapayapineapplefruitsalad, and umbrellas along with many things I don't need but, inexplicably, are available in abundance such as maps, drums, and glow sticks. Wandering the back paths I'm met with the now familiar refrain of store owners: hello, please come in...more colours inside...looking is free...ok, maybe tomorrow...sure, sure...see you later...

My hotel is away from the ocean, deep in the woods and faces a small body of water that I'd like to call a pond but, really, it's a swamp. Pond or swamp, it doesn't really matter as I've spent many happy hours on my balcony, chai in hand, looking at the floating flowers, tall trees and flying birds as I let myself get lost in the soothing white noise created by the sound of the ocean mixed with the rustle of the palm fronds and calls of the crows.

Indian Christmas

My very Indian Christmas followed a busy schedule comprised of eating, good company and bad traffic - in that order.

The Christmas lunch at the Metropole Hotel on Christmas eve day was a huge buffet affair held outside under a large striped awening with low tables and chairs scattered about. Most people took advantage of the day to wear their 'Indian' clothes, the women dressed in saries, salwar kameers and kurtas and the men in outfits whose name escapes me but they looked great. There was an unbelievable amount of food including fresh bean salad, crisp vegetables and lettuce - oh my! I was so excited to see uncooked, un-curried, un-oiled vegetables that I pretty much ignored the rest (except, of course, for dessert of which I had thirds).

On the way home I stopped at Bombay Tiffany's, the best sweet store in Mysore, and picked up sweets, one box for my landlady and one for the party at 'party Louis''. Despite having the sweets in hand, my shyness took over and I wasn't sure about the party but I talked myself into going and I'm glad I did - I had a wonderful time. The house was covered in small christmas lights, the rooms, paths and roof were lit by candles and the rooftop covered in small gatherings of pillows where everyone sat and talked in between dancing. It was a great Christmas Eve.

Christmas day was driving day. The day to head 650km south to Kovallum - the beach. We had been told the drive would take 10 hours. It didn't. After driving 14 hours we still had 4 to go and our driver was getting tired. Actually, he was tired (understandably) after 12 hours but was opposed to stopping. After nervously watching him, the road, the other drivers, and our speed for an additional 2 hours, we insisted on stopping and got a hotel for the night. We arrived in Kovallum the next day making it about a 16 hour drive and a 26 hour journey.

It was a fun trip. Beautiful countryside of lush greens and bright bursts of flowers, people everywhere and masses of christmas lights with large paper stars decorating the entrance of each house. As if that weren't enough, the company was good and I learned to count to 9 in Finnish - sort of. Numbers 1 and 9 begin with wonky sounding 'u's so, really, I learned to count from 2-8 in Finnish.

I'm sure that's a phrase I will never again be able to use when describing how I spent my Christmas!

Christmas

Hi everyone,

I wanted to send out my best wishes for a happy, restful Christmas.

The strangeness of being away for Christmas is alleviated by the fact that it's very easy to forget that it's Christmas at all in a few days. The shala is closing for the week and 5 of us have rented a van to head south to the beach. We leave Christmas day after practice and will be driving for ~10 hours so I may not have a chance to call home but I'll try.

Tomorrow is Saturday, no practice, and there are a few celebrations planned. 'Mr. Josef' is hosting a lunch at the Metropole, a swanky restaurant, and there is a party in the evening at 'party Louis'' place so I'll be well taken care of.

Most of my family is about to scatter about on various trips themselves. Safe travels to all of you. Ekah, my sister, sent out a message earlier commenting on how blessed we are and she's right. Relaxing moments and fun shopping trips aside, nothing is more evident from travelling here than the fact that we are blessed with our health, happiness and opportunities so, I wish you continued health and happiness over this Christmas season.

much love, b.

the dealer on the corner

I had heard about this man, the guy with the duffle bag, and had been looking for him without much luck until yesterday when my fortunes took a turn for the better. Leaving the shala after practice, I noticed a blue duffle bag sitting, unattended, on a low wall. I walked past slowly, making my interest obvious and, before long, a man separated himself from a larger group and walked over. "You are wanting something?" he asked. I replied in the affirmative but added that it depended what he had. He opened the duffle bag to show me his goods and I felt like a kid at Christmas.

Before me were all of the things I had heard about but didn't dare believe in case the rumours were nothing more than a Mysore urban myth: tofu, peanut butter, tahini, carrot cake, banana bread and sourdough bread. So excited, what to get? After much deliberation I selected a loaf of banana bread knowing that I was a goner, I'd be back for more.

Surprisingly, he didn't charge me. I guess even in the case of organic spreads and baked goods the dealer's rule of thumb holds fast: the first hit is free.

my routine

Alarm goes off at 6am and, just like at home, I press snooze until 5 minutes before I have to leave my flat. Yoga, for me, begins at 7am. There's a bit of a hierarchy where the earlier your start, the more advanced your practice. 7 is the latest you can possibly start and I love it. I can do with the 'shame' of being a beginner for more time to sleep and a quieter space to practice. At the shala I sit quietly with the others, knees pulled up to my chest, the cloak of sleep still heavy about me, waiting for a spot to open up in the practice room. I like those moments: sitting in companiable silence, watching the others practice through the open door, daydreaming, waiting for shouts of 'one more' from inside to let me know a space has opened up.

My practice is long and slow, I usually finish around 8:30. Once home, I turn on the water geyser and sit, staring out the window while I wait for the water to heat up. It's a wonderful part of my day because there's literally nothing else I could possibly be doing, other than letting myself get lost in thought while I wait for hot water.

By 10am I'm finished and headed to Tina's or Kevin's for breakfast . Tina serves breakfast in her backyard at low tables flanked by cushions under the protection of brightly coloured blankets strung across tree branches. Kevin's is also outside at but at proper tables, no cover. If I feel like basking in the sun, I head to Kevins; if I feel like lounging about for a few hours I head to Tinas. Either way, breakfast usually takes me to 11:30 or so.

After that, it depends on the day. A few days ago I gave in to my inner sloth and sat on my roof reading a book all day; yesterday I headed into town to go to the place with the awesome coffee, let myself get lost for a few hours, and shop.

Whatever the afternoon brings, I usually plan to be done by 6pm so I have time for dinner before bed which is pretty early. It's lovely. I can't believe that we have hot water available 24/7 when it can be ready in only 15 minutes using much less energy. I can't believe that it takes me 1.5 hours to finish my tea and toast where at home I eat breakfast in the car while rushing to work. I can't believe there aren't any moments at home where I feel like the only possible thing I could literally be doing at any given moment is sitting, lost in thought. I'll have to make sure to create some of those when I return.

getting walked all over

Today I paid good money for someone to walk all over me! It was so great that it was all I could do to leave without making an appointment for the same tomorrow but I decided I should pace myself.

The 3 Sisters. I like their name and would have visited them for that alone but, really, I went because Harini, the youngest sister, is known through the yoga grapevine for her amazing massages. I'd been reading about her on various yoga sites for months before I even left Canada and knew that one of her massages had a definate place on my 'to do' list.

Harini learned to give a massage from her grandmother, who learned from her grandmother and so on and what's different about their massage is that it is given primarily using the feet. The room looks a bit dodgy: debris packed high along one wall, thatched roof with the sky peeking through, large red plastic mat in the middle with a rope suspended from the ceiling running its length. I knew what to expect from the various accounts I'd read before so I was well prepared for the room and the feet (I hate feet) but none of the descriptions I'd read mentioned the loincloth. That was a bit of a surprise.

After instructing me to strip, Harini tied a string around my waist and tore a strip of cotton from a large sheet which was secured, one end in the front and one in the back - kind of like a sumo wrestler. I suspect that it was meant more to protect my uptight Western sensitivities more than anything else because as soon as I lay, face down on the mat, off came the loincloth and I was left in all of my naked glory.

I didn't have too much time to wonder about the picture I presented because four hands began smoothing oil over me and, after that point, I really didn't care. I spent the next two hours naked as a jaybird and happy as a baby being pushed, prodded and suspended. It's amazing what exquisite pain was wrought by those two feet but the experience was fantastic and fueled my 'I'm not coming home' fire ;)

For those of you reading from India, the directions are a bit vague for first timers (lavender door near the Kavari Lodge), the contact number is 2522788

Pictures of Mysore

These were taken by Mikko from Finland. In addition to rescuing me, exhausted, in the Bangalore airport by offering to share his taxi, he takes beautiful pictures.

www.iki.fi/seppinen Click on 'Mysore'

One day in Mysore

A little boy walking, one hand holding his mother's and the other a homemade paper Christmas tree; a paper laying in the ditch bearing the words 'I made a snowman out of cotton' in a child's writing; an older man riding his bike, sinewed legs turning the pedals slowly down a red dirt road; a group of schoolgirls showing off for the camera, one dressed in bright green standing out among the blue and white uniforms; scenes from the Karma Sutra carved into the walls of a 750 year old temple, our guide explains that temples acted as educational institutions for all parts of life; a large petrol truck bearing the warning 'Highly Inflammable'; dogs sleeping by the roadside not even flinching when our Ambassador taxi passes just inches away; a motorbike weaving between potholes, a stack of eggs piled high on the back wheel wavering precariously; dinner by kerosene light, a wonderful mix of accents; the moon shining through the palm trees as seen from my roof...

the best day ever...

...and I'm not coming home.

Today is a moonday and, since there is no practice on moondays, I had a long and leisurely sleep in. When I finally roused myself from bed I took a slow walk to watch the town wake up and I ran into Mikko (Finland), Dan (USA), and Yuri (Tokyo). While that may make it sound like I actually know people here, don't be fooled - I don't. They happen to be three of the few people I know and I was so glad to run into them.

We had breakfast in the sun together and when they left I spent an extra hour reading and enjoying the warmth. I made my first trip into Mysore (I'm staying in a small town just outside the city) and had a rickshaw drop me off in the middle so I could wander around. It was so much fun. I loved being in a big, busy Indian city again. The mish mash of cars, cows, bicycles, rickshaws, scooters, vendors, grand stores, small stands, sweet shops, bracelets, vegetable market, bookstores...you name it.

After wandering, lost and having fun, for a few hours I caught a rickshaw to Coffee Day, a coffee shop chain. I enjoyed a cappucino beneath the neon-pink tubing decorating the ceiling, surrounded by very hip, rich Indian teens comparing holiday spots (London vs. Hawaii) in English, listening to bollywood disco. From there I went to the supermarket (that's right, for those of you who've been here before, a supermarket) where I bought things I don't need just because it was so fun to wander through the store. I interrupted my walk home with a stop in a posh beauty salon where I had my eyebrows threaded for 10rs (~30 cents).

I was hoping to catch up on email but won't have time tonight. It's already 6pm and things here close down early, bedtime is usually 8pm and I'm already really late to find dinner so I'm off to stuff myself.

my flat

There is an entire industry built around the yoga crowd that travels to Gokulum to study. One of the oldest, most established services is that of Shiva who is generally known as a 'fixer'. Upon arriving, he is very often the first step to getting settled since a key part of his role as fixer is to find accomodation. Recently, a young guy has been elbowing his way into Shiva's empire. He is so new and so young that no one knows his name, he's simply called 'the young guy'. I began talking with Shiva but ended up finding my flat through the young guy and I've been avoiding Shiva's street ever since.

Having shared my requirements (some furnishings, roommates ok, access to a roof) the young guy showed me a few places - each which left me more depressed than the last. Most buildings in India are built from cement which, to me, is such a cold, unwelcoming material. Accordingly, all of the apartments I saw consisted of a chain of cement blocks: bedroom, kitchen, sitting room, other room all completely bare. Attention to furnishings in India is very different from that in Canada, many houses are sparsely furnished and those that do exist are often mats on the ground covered with pillows. Would be comfortable if surrounded by other comforts of home, pictures, familiar clutter etc. but when the only item in a room it struck me as sad. I had visions of myself rattling from room to barren room sad and depressed.

My flat was the last to be shown as it was only one room, no kitchen, no roommates - the opposite of my specifications. The first thing I saw when I walked into the room was a built-in wooden bookcase with a desk overlooking a window: the heavens sang. I forgot to barter over the price and took it right then and there.

I've purchased candles, incense, new sheets to replace the camphor-saturated ones that tried to smother me my first night there, and a gallon of water so I can refill my plastic bottles instead of adding to the plastic piles in the ditches. I love it. The roof is lovely and I've found my corner where, if I place myself properly, a palm frond from one of the huge trees flanking the house brushes against me when so moved by the breeze...

made it

Walking out of the Bangalore airport, the first thing I did was take a deep, deliberate breath. India has a smell: exhaust, burned tires, and dust, with sandlewood incense dancing between each of those unique odours. It's a great smell, one that maybe shouldn't be pleasing but it oh-so-totally is. It's a smell that lets me know I've arrived, I'm here.

Our plane landed at 5:30am and customs was surprisingly quick as was baggage claim; very different from my last trip here in the middle of the SARS outbreak where each of us was pulled aside for a 'medical check' (a form filled out on the spot attesting to my good health). The noise, given the early hour, was slightly subdued, limited to calls for taxi fares, car horns, and crows. I'd forgotten about that - the crows.

The trip here was uneventful. I didn't allow myself to get distracted by books or movies, my job was to sleep - something I excel at - and I managed to sleep most of the way here. Boarding the plane in Heathrow I discovered that the guy behind me was headed for the same destination but had the foresight to arrange a taxi. When we landed in Bangalore he offered to share the taxi to Mysore; I think he was happy for the company and I was happy for the organization.

We arrived in Gokulam by 9:30am and I had my first cup of chai by 9:45am. I also discovered coffee that tastes like chai and the local sweet, Mysore Pak. Given that yoga is done by 9:00am and there is little else to do in town, I suspect that this trip will revolve around meals. Despite this, it's taken me days to get to the internet. I seem to have dropped that Western need to fill my days with 'stuff' fairly quickly. All the same, emails are welcome: rebecca_markey at hotmail dot com and I'm sure I'll post again soon.

culture, language and temper tantrums

Yesterday I picked up my visa from the Indian consulate. I didn't realize how anxious I was about getting that sorted until I had my passport in hand and felt real excitement for the first time. I stopped by the pharmacy afterwards and picked up stuff to help me sleep/keep me awake, keep food down/help food move out...all the extremes that, knock on wood, I won't need.

The consulate was, as expected, chaotic. The lineup started in the middle of the room amidst the waiting room chairs and followed a drunken path weaving its way between chairs, around rows, and finally tracing the outskirts of the room before leading to the one open service window. I attached myself to a few nice, assertive people who could also speak Hindi and made my way to the front pretty quickly where I was duly chastised for my stupidity in allowing my name to be recorded incorrectly. Whatever.

I had ample time to enjoy the confusion, nod and smile at ridiculous but well meant travel advice, and think about how important travel is. About the mediating effect that experiencing other cultures first hand has had in helping me understand the scene at the consulate. That the yelling, pushing, budding, confusion, misinformation, intrusive questions had nothing to do with rudeness or incompetence and everything to do with context. In context they made perfect sense (that context just happens to be in India ;)

On the subway heading home the older man beside me spent the entire 40 minutes studying a page of exercises practicing the different uses of "either, neither, and both". The sheet was covered in eraser marks where he had changed his answers to the fill in the blank questions. I could feel him working beside me, intent on working his way through the difference between the three terms - so focused. I had to think twice about some of the answers myself, they made such intuitive sense to me. One of his answers read "Neither of them isn't going to the game". I could see why the "isn't" made sense to him to accompany the "neither" and I was reminded again of just how difficult a language English must be to learn.

Imagine learning a new language well into your adulthood. I don't mean picking up French as a a hobby or a fun thing to do but learning a new language as a matter of necessity, because you're immersed in a culture where you simply can't get along with out it. Sometimes the tenacity of others humbles me.


As an aside, the baby living below me hasn't stopped crying, shrieking, and temper tantruming since September. At which point am I allowed to stop being understanding?

So glad...

...that the stores put up their Christmas decorations the day after Halloween, the houses on my street have had their Christmas lights up for several weeks already, and that 97.3 EZRock plays Christmas music 24 hours/day.

I'm going to miss Christmas this year.

Perspecia Anne Hasley

Soooo...I went to the Indian Consulate today to get my Visa. It was my third trip, the first two were in vain as the Consulate was closed. No reason, just...closed. Are you thinking that I should have checked the website to confirm the hours? Yeah, I did that. I've visited that site so often that I could recite the content to you verbatim but there would be no point; the webpage is wrong, wrong, wrong.

I finished yoga by 8:30 and, knowing that the consulate doesn't open until 9:30, almost stopped to relax over a cup of coffee but figured that getting there early to line up couldn't hurt. Arriving at the consulate, I noticed a sign "Line-up here prior to 8:30", however, it was now 9:00 and there was no line so I proceeded upstairs where the Consulate had wisely constructed a barrier hiding the waiting room to the right as you enter the room. I proceeded to the desk and picked up my number, E83, and turned the corner to find a chair.

Up to this point, I was blissfully unaware of the chaos awaiting me on the other side of the barrier. The consulate wasn't even open yet and there were hundreds of people before me. 283 to be exact. Although I was number E83, the waitlist started at letter C and each letter had 100 tickets so I wasn't really number E83, I was number 283. I returned to the counter to ask about drop off procedures, a process which was in no way as easy as it sounds, but I won't bore you.

As per the instructions, I left the consulate, found a post office to purchase a prepaid priority post envelope, found a TD Bank to get a money order, found a stationary store to find another envelope to hold everything else and raced back to the consulate feeling somewhat optimistic. This might just work out. Clearly, it's been several years since my last trip to India - I really should have known better.

If the waiting room was chaotic at 9:00 it was pure, unadulterated, chaos when I returned at 9:45. I mean 3rd class, unreserved Indian train chaos. Surveying the line, now stretching out the door and down the hall, I kept my "Oh HELL no" thoughts to myself and allowed my travel instincts to take over. Ignoring the line, I made my way to the front counter where I planted myself - legs spread, arms extended so as to deter others from shouldering their way in & steadfastedly ignored the waving hands thrust past my fact to request forms, tickets, and grab attention. I also made friends with the well-dressed man beside me as they often have a way of making things happen.

And we waited. We waited 55 minutes to 'drop off' our forms. I waited so long that I became the Q&A person in absence of the real Q&A guy who had scurried away 35 minutes ago to 'get her' (I think he was just actually running away - the mob was getting ugly). We waited so long that the man beside me reached behind the counter, grabbed the ticket roll and began distributing tickets, beginning again at letter C, effectively ensuring even more confusion when more than one person responded to the letter/number called. After 40 minutes of waiting, 'the lady' came, spent 20 minutes forcing us all to line up in a straight line while, at the same time, fielding questions from those who bypassed the line which only led to the dissolution of the line she'd worked so hard to build and we would begin again.

The clock was ticking, there was no way I was going to be on time for work, and I was desperate to get rid of my passport - this little blue book that I usually protect with my life I was desperate to give to someone, ANYONE. I held my place and when it was finally my turn, was told that everything I had done was wrong. Prepaid envelopes? We don't accept those, I can't help you. Drop off? We don't do that, "Go away". And by told I mean yelled - the lady hated me. No matter, I shouted other people down, waved my hands, shook my head & finally got permission to leave my passport behind for pickup next week. Success.

Walking from the Consulate to my car, smiling to myself, I allowed myself to feel excited for the first time. I'm going to India. It's going to be chaos like the consulate multiplied many times over - a constant battle of wits against systems that run in flagrant disregard to logic, reason and efficiency - I can't freaking wait. It was only when I got to work that I noticed the name the mean lady, ignoring my clear, block handwriting, had written on my receipt: Perspecia Anne Hasley - now THAT'S going to be a problem...

you'd think i'd learn from past experience...

I leave for India in just over a month. I'll be excited in about 26 days. Until then I still have to get through work, the courseload for my Masters program, research papers, and finish next terms work projects this term. It's a bit much.

I finish that bit on December 7th and THEN I can be excited (and panicked) as I prepare for my month away in the 4 days I'll have at my leisure. I can manage all of that. What I've been thinking about is how to prevent the meltdown I'm anticipating on December 11th when I land in my 5th city in 2 days, sans sleep, sans destination, and facing the fantastic, full on assault that is India. It made me think of something I wrote in Peru last year:

Possible implications of travelling for 20 hours straight on a journey spanning 3 countries and 4 flights with the last connection allowing only 1 hour to land, clear customs and depart again:

• Your temperament will be clouded by absolute exhaustion as will your judgment promoting behaviour so rude and curt that it will be assumed you're American (not necessarily a good sign in International travel). You'll be too embarrassed to correct anyone.
• Your flight (the overnight one, of course) will be delayed 1.5 hours and you'll miss your final flight - the one with the nice driver at the end waiting to whisk you away to that place where the beds are.
• Although the clock tells the grim truth, you cling to the thought that you may make that final connection and undertake a coronary-inducing sprint through the airport obstacle course in a desperate effort to MAKE...THAT...FLIGHT (see point 1 re: clouded judgment)
• You'll forget your passport at one of the many checkpoints and have to frantically retrace your steps to find it. When you get there, you'll act as if it were their fault you left it behind.
• At the moment just prior to accepting that your passport is absolutely, positively NOT in your pack, your increasingly panicked digging will unleash your emergency stash of USDollars scattering crisp $20's and $10's at random. You'll have to scramble all over the floor to pick it up, no one offers to help because your behaviour up to that point has been appalling.
• You don't make the flight.

In my case, all of the above. However, once the confusion settles people will be very nice, you'll receive a complimentary breakfast, have a chance to really relish your first Peruvian purchase - a coffee, the radio will play a selection from your own personal collection of favourite songs ranging from Radiohead to Bryan Adams to Bon Jovi, and you'll already know that you'll like travelling in Peru before even leaving the airport.

post-yoga euphoria

After rising early to meet I. for our Saturday coffee (where I learned that giraffes sleep 5 minutes/day) I returned home to clean, do laundry and work on a paper - but did none of those things. Instead, I ate my weight in food, made carrot-ginger soup, ate more, then watched a very bad movie before taking a very long nap.

I woke feeling heavy, lethargic, and depressed and decided not to go to yoga - I wasn't feeling quite right. Although my guilt propelled me to get changed, I never really intended on leaving the house; that I found myself walking to the subway in the rain is a testament to the pure power of guilt as a motivator. Once there, the train was late in coming (surely a sign that I should be back home wallowing on my couch) and when it did arrive I fell asleep (surely I must be coming down with something what was I doing dragging myself to yoga?). When I exited at Bathurst I half-planned on walking right past the shala to the Spadina stop where I would get back on the subway and go home where I belonged but my feet led me into the studio and up the stairs.

I stood at the front of my mat taking a few moments to ground myself. Feet rooting to the floor, crown of my head reaching up, spine lengthening, shoulders squaring back, chest opening and rising, hips falling into place and there I was - I found myself. This was my last conscious observation. The rest of my practice was a long, graceful prayer punctuated by fleeting sensations: chest opening in upward dog; the release of my throat, head tipped back, hands reaching to the ceiling in the sun salutations; the lower half of my body grounded and assertive while the upper half moved, open and reaching in warrior II.

Of course, I was anything but graceful but I don't care. I may have looked like a moth, heavy and clumsy, but I felt like a butterfly, light and floating. When I caught my expression in store window as I wandered through the Annex after practice my face was relaxed and smiling. I felt great, a sharp contrast to how I felt just three hours earlier: heavy, lethargic and depressed. It made me think about how closely tied my body and my emotions are, how 2 days without yoga turned me into a blob, and it scared me - what would I do if I were unable to be physically active? It made me think about North America, about living in a country where the mind/body relationship is pretty much ignored, and it made me wonder what this says about our psyche as a nation?

coffee conundrum

Anyone else feel uncomfortable ordering coffee these days? As if learning to speak 'starbucks' wasn't difficult enough, the shop where I get my coffee has begun renaming its coffees after the region the bean was grown in: Rwanda, Ethiopia, Columbia.

The result, however unintentional, is that every morning I squirm uncomfortably as I order a 'Tall Rwandan' or 'Medium Ethiopian' to go. Doesn't the US grow coffee? I'd feel a lot more comfortable ordering an 'Extra-rich American' to get me going in the morning...

my yoga teacher made me cry today...

...it was in a good way but how do you explain that? Fears, doubts, blocks, obstinance and resistance - they all reared their ugly heads during practice this morning and my teacher called me on it. Upsetting, but good because he was right and I wouldn't even have noticed it otherwise.

If I were to transcribe my thoughts from practice this morning they would read as "nope...not going to...can't do that, CAN'T do that...not gonna do it...". After my umpteenth half-assed attempts, my teacher tucked down beside me and observed that I wasn't trusting him as a teacher or myself as a practitioner, that he knows my practice and has seen what I'm capable of achieving but I need to stop pulling back so I can let myself move forward.

Essentially, he told me to trust, have faith and let go - and that's why I cried, those are hard freaking things for me to do. An interesting mirror, and by interesting, I really mean ugly. I didn't realize that there was trust missing - but there is. I didn't realize that I was full of 'can't do it' - but I am. And I didn't realize that as much as I'm working to move forward - I'm working just as hard to hold back.

Making the unconscious conscious - that's good stuff.

I heart yoga.

and speaking of boyscouts...

...they were out in full force this weekend. My morning trip to the coffee shop was less a meandering wander, as per usual, and more a minefield of khaki munchkins. Their handlers, the parents, must have attended some sort of "apple hawking" workshop this year, the whole process was oddly organized with many of them doubling up. While carrying the benefits of providing company for their child and someone for them to roll their eyes at; it led to a conundrum for well-meaning citizens like myself: which cute, squeaky voiced child to donate to?

At first, I was unperturbed - I had strategies of my own. I packed my pockets with change, carried my apple high, and brandished my tiny white "I donated" square with aplomb mistakenly assuming that the latter two would act as my protective shield. Unfortunately, no one had informed the canvassers-masquerading-as-scouts what the square meant and I was accosted every few feet by not one, but two, army green donation boxes thrust hopefully at me. Predictably, I ended up donating to both.

Last night was different, it was the older scouts holding sentry outside the video and convenience stores, the ones who had outgrown scouts but don't know it yet. Or maybe they know it but their parents don't. Maybe last spring when sign ups were posted they were still scout-appropriate without indication that, come fall, they would have morphed into raucous, loud and, dare I say it, obnoxious preteens.

Thinking about this reminded me again of how quickly we change, not just the scouts, all of us. The overgrown scouts with their uneasy guffaws and awkward limbs were easy to spot but the rest of us? We're not so different.

Within the space of a few short months obsessions fade, clothing sizes change and tolerable situations change to intolerable and back again. Without the obvious reminders that accompany some changes - such as puberty - it can be easy to forget how fluid we are. That no matter what our age and stage, the only constant we can be sure of is the fact that we're going to change and that, at times, the transition will be so gradual that we may not even notice it ourselves.

things i learned in southeast asia

• That size doesn't matter but the label sometimes does. The same teensy weensy fish that was fascinating one second put me into a full blown panic attack the next when I was informed that it was a reefer shark
• The locals are fine, it's the people in uniforms you need to watch out for
• While riding atop the neck of an elephant may look cool, it is very, very itchy
• That the poorest country financially can be the richest in spirit
• That I'll get what I need when I need it - pay attention
• That although yells and threats may provoke action in other parts of the world, here they just make me look stupid. The sooner I learn to laugh, tease, and cajole - the better
• That I absolutely and truly and totally am never alone
• That it is terrible for my self-esteem to shop in SEAsia - "We no have your size, hee hee"
• That if I don't ask, I may never find out
• That it's best to see things with my own eyes and make my own decisions instead of accepting the reports of others
• That not everyone is a 'kindred spirit' but a surprising number are and I'll meet them when least expected
• Be patient - the boat will come sometime between 6am-10am.
• Also, be flexible - sometimes the boat just won't come and I'll have to take a bus.