Last Sunday my older sister had me and my younger sister (yeah, I'm the middle child; spare me the long, drawn out "ohhh's" of comprehension) over for dinner. In between yelling to be heard and screaming with laughter I remember thinking that I would love to be able to recount this story...or that story...but I can't. If I tried to transcribe our conversation it would look something like this "Beep beep beeeeeeep BEEEP beeep" because, you see, most of our conversations are like that. We make the Sex in the City characters sound like ladies at a church luncheon.
At one point we were one-upping each other on just how much we love Grandma; as in, "I love Grandma so much that...." and, as much as I do love my Grandmother, I lost. When it comes to out-grossing each other with imaginary things we'd do, I'm no match for my sisters. My older sister put me off spaghetti and raisins FOR LIFE because of her descriptions of what they 'really' were over the dinner table when we were kids and my younger sister? She's a gross-out master. Both of them, they're pro's.
I've been thinking about our Sunday dinner, the pictures my mother sent of Christmas today, an email from my father that I'd saved and, in the spirit of the game, I'd like to pass this message on to my family: I love you so much that I'd swim naked and covered in leeches across the ocean while tailed by boatloads of hollering yahoos to crawl on my hands and knees across a desert covered in shards of glass just to get to the other side to do unspeakable things to both the men AND the donkeys that accompanied me to prove my love to you.
But I hope I never have to.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The front page of yesterday's newspaper carried a picture of Greenland. A green Greenland as opposed to an ice-capped Greenland which, I gather, is normally the case. The picture was to support an article about global warming and, I'm not necessarily a fan of melting ice caps and all the rest of it, but everytime I think back to the picture I can't help but think "Awww, it's so pretty!". Global warming: stable climate, no; pretty scenery, maybe.
On the topic of the temperature, I stopped into a hardware store to buy a thermometer yesterday so I could prove to my landlord that I live in an icebox. I've been meaning to track the temperature in my apartment since last winter so I was feeling very pleased with myself for actually getting around to buying a thermometer when I noticed that every one of them bore a different temperature - sometimes varying by more than 10degrees. If they're all thermometers, measuring the same temperature, in the same store just centimetres away from each other, shouldn't they all reflect the same measurement? I ended up leaving without one (although my sister later said I should have bought the one with the lowest temperature and used that to talk to my landlord. Good point).
And, finally, I absolutely swear that my horoscope in todays paper is the exact same one that I've read before. The earth's climate, thermometers, and now my horoscope - can nothing be trusted ;)
On the topic of the temperature, I stopped into a hardware store to buy a thermometer yesterday so I could prove to my landlord that I live in an icebox. I've been meaning to track the temperature in my apartment since last winter so I was feeling very pleased with myself for actually getting around to buying a thermometer when I noticed that every one of them bore a different temperature - sometimes varying by more than 10degrees. If they're all thermometers, measuring the same temperature, in the same store just centimetres away from each other, shouldn't they all reflect the same measurement? I ended up leaving without one (although my sister later said I should have bought the one with the lowest temperature and used that to talk to my landlord. Good point).
And, finally, I absolutely swear that my horoscope in todays paper is the exact same one that I've read before. The earth's climate, thermometers, and now my horoscope - can nothing be trusted ;)
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
my office
Today at work I was trying to explain just how horrible it is to be me, in Toronto, in the winter. That I feel like I spend 99% of my life in absolute poverty of warmth. Instead of the sympathetic noises I was expecting I was met with the mocking reply of "Eaaasy Gables"; as in Anne of Green Gables the melodramatic storybook character who is never bummed, she's in the "depths of despair", and she doesn't have a good friend, she has a "bosom buddy". Mocked.
I should have known better. I should have known to turn to my family first for sympathy and understanding because, although they are absolute masters of mockery, at least they understand me while they're making fun of me. Must be something in that 'blood is thicker than water' stuff. Or maybe its just that my sisters and I were all raised under the same 'too cheap to turn on the heat' regime because my sister and I had the following conversation earlier this evening (with no prompting from me, mind you)
Sister: "I'm so cold my hands are shaking. I swear my landlord is ripping me off, it's freezing in here"
Me: [Some kind of commiseration about crappy, heat-sucking landlords]
Sister: "I swear, the only place I'm warm is in the bath"
Me: "ME TOO, I get home from work and head straight to the bath" [accessorised with splish splashing sound effects to emphasize that that was my exact location as we were speaking]
Yeah. I was in the bath.
Here's too much information (and an unwanted visual) for you: if you're talking to me or reading an email sent after 6pm, chances are they were sent from my cozy, oh-so-happy, perch in my bathtub. Where it's warm. Because that's how it goes. I get home from work, turn on the bath, feed the cat, gather my dinner/books/etc and retreat to the tub where I stay until its time to go to bed (at which point my electric blanket takes over). It's kind of like my home office.
Which got me thinking. Remember The Fonz from Happy Days? Remember how he used to call the bathroom at Al's Diner his "office" and he would order Potsy or Ralph to "Come into my office" all tough-like when he wanted to talk to them? And remember how we thought The Fonz was so very dreamy until we happened to catch the show in reruns as adults and realized that The Fonz wasn't dreamy, he was an aging mechanic who really shouldn't have been hanging out with high school kids and definitely shouldn't have been dating them. Seems like every woman my age had the same Fonz realization at some point in time - that the dreamy tough guy was really just a dirty old man in a leather coat. Now there's a life lesson.
If you want to discuss, you can reach me in my office.
I should have known better. I should have known to turn to my family first for sympathy and understanding because, although they are absolute masters of mockery, at least they understand me while they're making fun of me. Must be something in that 'blood is thicker than water' stuff. Or maybe its just that my sisters and I were all raised under the same 'too cheap to turn on the heat' regime because my sister and I had the following conversation earlier this evening (with no prompting from me, mind you)
Sister: "I'm so cold my hands are shaking. I swear my landlord is ripping me off, it's freezing in here"
Me: [Some kind of commiseration about crappy, heat-sucking landlords]
Sister: "I swear, the only place I'm warm is in the bath"
Me: "ME TOO, I get home from work and head straight to the bath" [accessorised with splish splashing sound effects to emphasize that that was my exact location as we were speaking]
Yeah. I was in the bath.
Here's too much information (and an unwanted visual) for you: if you're talking to me or reading an email sent after 6pm, chances are they were sent from my cozy, oh-so-happy, perch in my bathtub. Where it's warm. Because that's how it goes. I get home from work, turn on the bath, feed the cat, gather my dinner/books/etc and retreat to the tub where I stay until its time to go to bed (at which point my electric blanket takes over). It's kind of like my home office.
Which got me thinking. Remember The Fonz from Happy Days? Remember how he used to call the bathroom at Al's Diner his "office" and he would order Potsy or Ralph to "Come into my office" all tough-like when he wanted to talk to them? And remember how we thought The Fonz was so very dreamy until we happened to catch the show in reruns as adults and realized that The Fonz wasn't dreamy, he was an aging mechanic who really shouldn't have been hanging out with high school kids and definitely shouldn't have been dating them. Seems like every woman my age had the same Fonz realization at some point in time - that the dreamy tough guy was really just a dirty old man in a leather coat. Now there's a life lesson.
If you want to discuss, you can reach me in my office.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
initiated
Today I was counselling someone I've seen for a few sessions and, as she talked, something began to rise to the surface. Something really, really deep and buried and huge. Something that I don't think either of us were expecting. I really felt for her and this journey she was about to embark on, sometimes we have to let ourself feel worse before we can feel better (or as Rumi has, much more eloquently, said "the cure for pain is in the pain").
As I realized what she was starting to realize I looked at her with complete empathy and thought "Wow. She really should talk to a professional to deal with this". And then I caught myself - that's me - I'm the professional she's coming to to deal with this!
Ever quick to worry about my skills as a therapist, I'm pretty sure that the only reason I'm not freaking out more about this is that just about every Counsellor I've talked to or read about has commented on having the very same thought process during their early years as a therapist. Guess I've passed that part of the initiation.
As I realized what she was starting to realize I looked at her with complete empathy and thought "Wow. She really should talk to a professional to deal with this". And then I caught myself - that's me - I'm the professional she's coming to to deal with this!
Ever quick to worry about my skills as a therapist, I'm pretty sure that the only reason I'm not freaking out more about this is that just about every Counsellor I've talked to or read about has commented on having the very same thought process during their early years as a therapist. Guess I've passed that part of the initiation.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Bookmouse
Yesterday at the bookstore I saw a teensy, tiny grey mouse running frantically through the bookstacks and I had a giggle at the thought that finally, after all these years of being called one, I had seen a real, live, honest-to-god bookmouse.
Then I remembered that the term was "bookworm", not "bookmouse", and I felt a bit cheated.
Then I remembered that the term was "bookworm", not "bookmouse", and I felt a bit cheated.
Pollyanna
Driving in this city can be kind of stressful (easy Finland, easy ;) so, provided I have nowhere pressing to be, the one hour bus ride home sometimes emerges as the nicest part of my day. I think about stuff, catch up on phone calls, journal, read, do homework, it's lovely. Today was an interesting ride.
A woman loudly, and with a great deal of anger, made sweeping, derogatory comments about people with my skin colour. For the entire ride. It was awkward. It was also interesting timing; her comments filtered through while I was reading about Buddhist meditation, about choosing to pause to check in with the emotions our knee-jerk responses want to protect before following through on them. I struggled with that tonight as the angry voice forced its way into my thoughts.
The bus ride to and from the university has become a time for searching, questioning thoughts; not exactly the kind of frivolous daydreaming I expected. This is the same bus where, very often, no one will sit beside me. The bus may be packed with people standing in the aisles but the seat beside me? Empty. The entire process of getting home each night has become an incubator for long, internal discourses about race, privilege, discrimination, socio-economic status, appearances, assumptions, fate, you name it.
Tonight I also thought about the clients we'd seen for intake that day. About the fact that no matter what kind of complaints I can fabricate about my parents, my upbringing, my siblings; no one abused me, no one forced themselves on me, no one let/encouraged their friends/partners to force themselves on me. And by 'force themelves' I mean have sex. I thought about the way in which the choice of just one person to abuse the trust and power given to them by a child can impact entire generations of a family. And I thought about the people who are coming in to talk about their experiences and the bravery and courage it must take to choose to deal with it. I'm not so sure I wouldn't stick with repression and denial.
As I write this, I feel a bit silly. I know bad things happen. I know racism exists. I know people live through all kinds of horrible abuses. And I know that some of those people include those in my very close circle - that there are no exceptions. I guess its just that when no one will sit next to me on a bus it hurts my feelings, and it makes me think about assumptions that may be made and the systems in place that support them. When I talk to my third person in a row explaining what their parent/sibling/babysitter/grandparent did to them with a straight face and matter of fact voice it feels very real and I'm again humbled by the absolute grace of fortune bestowed upon me.
A woman loudly, and with a great deal of anger, made sweeping, derogatory comments about people with my skin colour. For the entire ride. It was awkward. It was also interesting timing; her comments filtered through while I was reading about Buddhist meditation, about choosing to pause to check in with the emotions our knee-jerk responses want to protect before following through on them. I struggled with that tonight as the angry voice forced its way into my thoughts.
The bus ride to and from the university has become a time for searching, questioning thoughts; not exactly the kind of frivolous daydreaming I expected. This is the same bus where, very often, no one will sit beside me. The bus may be packed with people standing in the aisles but the seat beside me? Empty. The entire process of getting home each night has become an incubator for long, internal discourses about race, privilege, discrimination, socio-economic status, appearances, assumptions, fate, you name it.
Tonight I also thought about the clients we'd seen for intake that day. About the fact that no matter what kind of complaints I can fabricate about my parents, my upbringing, my siblings; no one abused me, no one forced themselves on me, no one let/encouraged their friends/partners to force themselves on me. And by 'force themelves' I mean have sex. I thought about the way in which the choice of just one person to abuse the trust and power given to them by a child can impact entire generations of a family. And I thought about the people who are coming in to talk about their experiences and the bravery and courage it must take to choose to deal with it. I'm not so sure I wouldn't stick with repression and denial.
As I write this, I feel a bit silly. I know bad things happen. I know racism exists. I know people live through all kinds of horrible abuses. And I know that some of those people include those in my very close circle - that there are no exceptions. I guess its just that when no one will sit next to me on a bus it hurts my feelings, and it makes me think about assumptions that may be made and the systems in place that support them. When I talk to my third person in a row explaining what their parent/sibling/babysitter/grandparent did to them with a straight face and matter of fact voice it feels very real and I'm again humbled by the absolute grace of fortune bestowed upon me.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
meow
Whenever he sees bags being packed, my cat becomes a twitchy, skittering little creature that, quite frankly, is irritating to have around. For that reason, it's always a relief when, having confirmed that he is seeing correctly, there ARE bags being packed, he goes into hiding from what he assumes comes next - getting tossed in the car to be passed off onto a well meaning friend for a few weeks.
Today he was right, there were bags being packed, but it had nothing to do with him - my Finnish touristi was leaving. I think if the cat had realized that he would have panicked even further because this visitor, this beacon of light from across the ocean, he did something never before experienced in this apartment - he PLAYED with Mannix. Red dot game, play fighting, falling for the old 'cat under the rug' trick - oh - it was glorious. And now he's gone.
Another thing this visitor did? He talked to Mannix and Mannix talked back. Great conversations were had, very long conversations were had, and my cautions that the cat would get used to this and I'd be left with a fuzzy, white ball of meowing irritation when the touristi departed? Those cautions were ignored. And now we're alone, just me and the cat. And some meowing. Lots and lots and lots of meowing.
Thanks Mikko. By the way, the cat says meow.
Today he was right, there were bags being packed, but it had nothing to do with him - my Finnish touristi was leaving. I think if the cat had realized that he would have panicked even further because this visitor, this beacon of light from across the ocean, he did something never before experienced in this apartment - he PLAYED with Mannix. Red dot game, play fighting, falling for the old 'cat under the rug' trick - oh - it was glorious. And now he's gone.
Another thing this visitor did? He talked to Mannix and Mannix talked back. Great conversations were had, very long conversations were had, and my cautions that the cat would get used to this and I'd be left with a fuzzy, white ball of meowing irritation when the touristi departed? Those cautions were ignored. And now we're alone, just me and the cat. And some meowing. Lots and lots and lots of meowing.
Thanks Mikko. By the way, the cat says meow.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
nyc photos
Having been teased by my sisters for my tendency to visit NYC, the city that never sleeps, to do exactly that - sleep - accompanying my touristi there on his North American tour could have been disastrous. But it wasn't. Luckily he joined me in my penchant to ignore NYC nightlife in favour of exploring NYC early-morning-yoga-life.
While Mikko was astounded by the questions put to him by US Customs, I was nearly brought to tears by the customs officer who threatened me with court for failing to declare my morning coffee under section 11a on the customs form - yeah - I'm serious. The trauma of being "educated" by the VERY mean American Customs man was quickly eradicated by the cutest observation, coming one hour into our visit, when my Finnish touristi noted that "I've never been in a place with so many Americans all at once".
We were joined in our yoga-bum tour by Leo who came up from DC and, so, there we were a Canadian, a Finn and an American-Russian in the big apple. Some walking was done, some yoga studios were visited, some pictures were taken. You can see them here.
While Mikko was astounded by the questions put to him by US Customs, I was nearly brought to tears by the customs officer who threatened me with court for failing to declare my morning coffee under section 11a on the customs form - yeah - I'm serious. The trauma of being "educated" by the VERY mean American Customs man was quickly eradicated by the cutest observation, coming one hour into our visit, when my Finnish touristi noted that "I've never been in a place with so many Americans all at once".
We were joined in our yoga-bum tour by Leo who came up from DC and, so, there we were a Canadian, a Finn and an American-Russian in the big apple. Some walking was done, some yoga studios were visited, some pictures were taken. You can see them here.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
toronto pics
I love Toronto and think it's one of the best places to live as is, seeing it through a tourists eyes has made me appreciate it even more.
Mikko's Toronto pictures below (with more to come)...
Toronto pics
Mikko's Toronto pictures below (with more to come)...
Toronto pics
stuff
So, there was a vacation in Helsinki. That was nice.
Then a quick stopover in Cambridge to visit the lovely Reena where I gained a new appreciation for poor ex-boyfriend G., a Cambridge alumni that I tormented mercilessly for his love of all things Cambridge. Hmm. I stand corrected. If I'd studied there I too would wear my scarf, not walk on the grass, and agree to whatever other nonsense those very smart Cambridge people prescribed. Luckily I fulfilled the necessary tourist requirement of observing out loud that Cambridge "looks just like a Harry Potter movie" within the first hour of my visit so I was permitted to relax and enjoy the rest of the evening.
Then I snuck back to Canada to surprise my family with the only present I could afford to give this poverty-stricken-student Christmas: ME. My return ticket was for December 24th, not December 26th as I'd led everyone to believe, which resulted in months of guilt tripping over my missing ANOTHER Christmas at home. The only thing that pulled me through was the knowledge that I would be home for Christmas and they'd feel like asses for the abuse they'd heaped upon me - well, that and the anticipation of surprising them Christmas morning. I ambushed them while they were opening their stockings in the family room and, finally after 30-odd years of Christmas celebrations, we had an honest-to-god movie moment. It was great.
The rest of Christmas day was wonderful. Some presents were exchanged. Some siblings' physiques were mocked (with love, with love). Some siblings drank buckets of champagne while others were mocked for bringing their own soy milk and taking vitamins (*ahem*).
And now it's over. Sort of. There's a Finn touristi in Toronto and tomorrow we're off to NYC. There's some fun to come yet.
Then a quick stopover in Cambridge to visit the lovely Reena where I gained a new appreciation for poor ex-boyfriend G., a Cambridge alumni that I tormented mercilessly for his love of all things Cambridge. Hmm. I stand corrected. If I'd studied there I too would wear my scarf, not walk on the grass, and agree to whatever other nonsense those very smart Cambridge people prescribed. Luckily I fulfilled the necessary tourist requirement of observing out loud that Cambridge "looks just like a Harry Potter movie" within the first hour of my visit so I was permitted to relax and enjoy the rest of the evening.
Then I snuck back to Canada to surprise my family with the only present I could afford to give this poverty-stricken-student Christmas: ME. My return ticket was for December 24th, not December 26th as I'd led everyone to believe, which resulted in months of guilt tripping over my missing ANOTHER Christmas at home. The only thing that pulled me through was the knowledge that I would be home for Christmas and they'd feel like asses for the abuse they'd heaped upon me - well, that and the anticipation of surprising them Christmas morning. I ambushed them while they were opening their stockings in the family room and, finally after 30-odd years of Christmas celebrations, we had an honest-to-god movie moment. It was great.
The rest of Christmas day was wonderful. Some presents were exchanged. Some siblings' physiques were mocked (with love, with love). Some siblings drank buckets of champagne while others were mocked for bringing their own soy milk and taking vitamins (*ahem*).
And now it's over. Sort of. There's a Finn touristi in Toronto and tomorrow we're off to NYC. There's some fun to come yet.
Monday, December 18, 2006
no one likes an office party
Friday night I attended an office Christmas party where I discovered that a dislike of office social events, including Christmas parties, seems to be an international phenomenon. I think I was the only person present that didn't desperately wish I were somewhere else, mainly because I don't live here - I don't have anywhere else to be.
We met at the office for appetizers, champagne and a visit from Santa who, in addition to distributing presents and regaling us with a story about his flu, put me on the spot by asking me whether I knew where Santa was from. This presented a bit of a problem. I figured that it was a world-wide given that Santa lives in the North Pole but it seems the Finns have this idea that Santa is, in fact, from Lapland. Poor, deluded Finns. However, I'm a visitor here so I deferred to the Lapland Santa idea as best I could. I trust Santa won't hold it against me when it comes time for the distribution of presents.
After the appetizers which included gloggi (mulled wine), bread cheese (finnish specialty), joulutortut (Christmas plum tarts), and reindeer meat (didn't try that) we left for the surprise event of the evening which turned out to be a play. In Finnish. Which I don't speak. Between whispered translations and great acting I understood enough of the play to enjoy it (think I enjoyed it more than the rest of the group, actually). A posh dinner followed the play where I confirmed another international phenomenon: people love talking about their kids. Which was a relief since dinner lasted for hours, without children to talk about my small talk skills would have been seriously taxed after the first 1/2 hour.
I'd imagined people arguing in their taxis about who had to sit beside the English girl. Not because their English wasn't up to it but because, lets face it, Christmas parties suck enough as it is without the added complication of making small talk in your second (or third) language. I shouldn't have worried, everyone was very nice. Well, nice in that Finnish more-reserved-than-Canadians-even kind of way (and when one is not thought to be in any way, shape, or form criticizing the Finnish habit of putting babies outside for their naps ;), that is.
I am thankful to that same Finnish reserve for one thing though: no one pointed out that "kulkuset" (bells), my one Finnish Christmas word that I proudly say as often as possible, is also slang for "testicles" - something that my Finnish tutor neglected to tell me (*ahem*). I don't have a camera so there are no pictures from the party but below is a picture from the very pretty shopping street (not its official name ;) in downtown Helsinki
Happy holidays everyone
We met at the office for appetizers, champagne and a visit from Santa who, in addition to distributing presents and regaling us with a story about his flu, put me on the spot by asking me whether I knew where Santa was from. This presented a bit of a problem. I figured that it was a world-wide given that Santa lives in the North Pole but it seems the Finns have this idea that Santa is, in fact, from Lapland. Poor, deluded Finns. However, I'm a visitor here so I deferred to the Lapland Santa idea as best I could. I trust Santa won't hold it against me when it comes time for the distribution of presents.
After the appetizers which included gloggi (mulled wine), bread cheese (finnish specialty), joulutortut (Christmas plum tarts), and reindeer meat (didn't try that) we left for the surprise event of the evening which turned out to be a play. In Finnish. Which I don't speak. Between whispered translations and great acting I understood enough of the play to enjoy it (think I enjoyed it more than the rest of the group, actually). A posh dinner followed the play where I confirmed another international phenomenon: people love talking about their kids. Which was a relief since dinner lasted for hours, without children to talk about my small talk skills would have been seriously taxed after the first 1/2 hour.
I'd imagined people arguing in their taxis about who had to sit beside the English girl. Not because their English wasn't up to it but because, lets face it, Christmas parties suck enough as it is without the added complication of making small talk in your second (or third) language. I shouldn't have worried, everyone was very nice. Well, nice in that Finnish more-reserved-than-Canadians-even kind of way (and when one is not thought to be in any way, shape, or form criticizing the Finnish habit of putting babies outside for their naps ;), that is.
I am thankful to that same Finnish reserve for one thing though: no one pointed out that "kulkuset" (bells), my one Finnish Christmas word that I proudly say as often as possible, is also slang for "testicles" - something that my Finnish tutor neglected to tell me (*ahem*). I don't have a camera so there are no pictures from the party but below is a picture from the very pretty shopping street (not its official name ;) in downtown Helsinki
Happy holidays everyone
Friday, December 15, 2006
fazer chocolates
Last night during a prolonged bout of insomnia I finally got up to check the clock. It was 2.50am. Instead of being irritated that I was awake at that time, my first thought was "Phew, only 3 hours until I can have chocolate".
Think it's time I cut back on the Fazer ;)
www.fazermakeiset.fi
Think it's time I cut back on the Fazer ;)
www.fazermakeiset.fi
om sweet home
I fell this morning during yoga. A full on, whole body smack down that was as loud as it was embarrassing, except I wasn't too embarrassed - I love it when I fall. Yoga, skiing, rockclimbing, whatever - falling, to me, means that I'm trying something, taking a risk. At least, that's what it usually means. This morning it just meant that I was feeling damn lazy.
A few days ago someone observed that I was trying too hard during yoga which is pretty much the single-worst thing anyone could ever say to me. Off the mat, I do try hard; this is something I've realized, in particular, over the last few months. Whenever I'm close to finishing a journal I read through it to see what's been happening. Reading this journal, one of the things that struck me was that, as difficult a fall as it was, it was multiplied many times over by how judgmental and intolerant and critical I was of myself. I was very much my own worst enemy. I thought my practice was exempt from this.
Yoga has always been that one space where I don't try too hard, where not only can I give myself permission to suck but I can feel compassion for myself in that place as well. At least that's how it's been in the past, at some point over the last few months, things changed. Yoga became work. Maybe its the injuries, maybe its being back with my uber-ashtangi teachers, maybe it's that my mind this fall was so hard to face that I retreated to the physical. Probably a combination of all three.
I remember reading an article where the author wrote that in times of sadness she had to crawl to her mat and that just being there was painful. It is. On the mat it's just you and your thoughts. There were times this fall where I really didn't think I could bear to bring myself to practice. On those days I made it my mission to just show up, that's all I asked of myself was just to be there. In hindsight, I think that I allowed myself to retreat from my thoughts by focusing only on the physical. Practicing at my shala made this easy, there can be a lack of compassion to dogmatic ashtanga yoga and my shala is nothing if not dogmatic. Modifications, sitting longer in one pose, allowing a compassionate practice wasn't really encouraged and that worked for me just fine.
Thing is, I'm out of that space now and I'm feeling the lack of balance in my practice. I think it's time to begin cultivating my home practice again, I miss the intimacy that comes with practicing alone.
A few days ago someone observed that I was trying too hard during yoga which is pretty much the single-worst thing anyone could ever say to me. Off the mat, I do try hard; this is something I've realized, in particular, over the last few months. Whenever I'm close to finishing a journal I read through it to see what's been happening. Reading this journal, one of the things that struck me was that, as difficult a fall as it was, it was multiplied many times over by how judgmental and intolerant and critical I was of myself. I was very much my own worst enemy. I thought my practice was exempt from this.
Yoga has always been that one space where I don't try too hard, where not only can I give myself permission to suck but I can feel compassion for myself in that place as well. At least that's how it's been in the past, at some point over the last few months, things changed. Yoga became work. Maybe its the injuries, maybe its being back with my uber-ashtangi teachers, maybe it's that my mind this fall was so hard to face that I retreated to the physical. Probably a combination of all three.
I remember reading an article where the author wrote that in times of sadness she had to crawl to her mat and that just being there was painful. It is. On the mat it's just you and your thoughts. There were times this fall where I really didn't think I could bear to bring myself to practice. On those days I made it my mission to just show up, that's all I asked of myself was just to be there. In hindsight, I think that I allowed myself to retreat from my thoughts by focusing only on the physical. Practicing at my shala made this easy, there can be a lack of compassion to dogmatic ashtanga yoga and my shala is nothing if not dogmatic. Modifications, sitting longer in one pose, allowing a compassionate practice wasn't really encouraged and that worked for me just fine.
Thing is, I'm out of that space now and I'm feeling the lack of balance in my practice. I think it's time to begin cultivating my home practice again, I miss the intimacy that comes with practicing alone.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Seeing as it's raining out and I've been quiet for a while, figured now is as good a time as any for an update from Helsinki. Problem is, there's not much to update. Unless you actually care about long, glorious yoga practices, hours spent languishing over coffee and daydreams and sleep...so much sleep. Yeah, I know, you don't care but me? I'm freaking thrilled.
Today I was asked how I like Helsinki in December. I like it just fine. In fact, I'm loving it. But I can't tell whether it's because of Helsinki or because each time I've been here I've been on holiday and, God knows, I love me a holiday. Morning yoga is followed by half an hour of relaxation and meditation which is pretty much the polar opposite of Toronto mornings which find me desperately cramming one foot into my workclothes whispering "shit, shit, shit" before running to the subway and stressing out for the duration of the ride while calculating just how late I'm going to be. So is sleeping 8 hours a night; I could get used to that.
Helsinki temperatures have been well above zero since I've arrived (there goes another 'Baltic' stereotype) offering the perfect weather for wandering aimlessly looking at 'stuff'. It's light by 9am, completely dark by 4pm, and the hours in between hold a grey, slightly overcast look that lead me to consistently assume that it's 4.30pm - even when it's only 10am. I had wondered whether I would find the darkness depressing, it's not. In fact, it's strangely comforting.
The early evenings bring an almost forced hibernation, like nature knows we've had a long year and conspires to get us inside somewhere warm and cozy where there's nothing to do but relax (and, God knows, I love me some relaxing :). And they grey days? They're difficult to explain, they're...soft. Kind of like the edge has been taken off so that sharp corners and bright lights give way to slightly fuzzy city streets lit with dozens upon dozens of twinkling, white Christmas lights. You see? Cozy.
Still raining though but my time at the cafe has been pushed to it's limits. I'm off. Happy Wednesday everyone.
Today I was asked how I like Helsinki in December. I like it just fine. In fact, I'm loving it. But I can't tell whether it's because of Helsinki or because each time I've been here I've been on holiday and, God knows, I love me a holiday. Morning yoga is followed by half an hour of relaxation and meditation which is pretty much the polar opposite of Toronto mornings which find me desperately cramming one foot into my workclothes whispering "shit, shit, shit" before running to the subway and stressing out for the duration of the ride while calculating just how late I'm going to be. So is sleeping 8 hours a night; I could get used to that.
Helsinki temperatures have been well above zero since I've arrived (there goes another 'Baltic' stereotype) offering the perfect weather for wandering aimlessly looking at 'stuff'. It's light by 9am, completely dark by 4pm, and the hours in between hold a grey, slightly overcast look that lead me to consistently assume that it's 4.30pm - even when it's only 10am. I had wondered whether I would find the darkness depressing, it's not. In fact, it's strangely comforting.
The early evenings bring an almost forced hibernation, like nature knows we've had a long year and conspires to get us inside somewhere warm and cozy where there's nothing to do but relax (and, God knows, I love me some relaxing :). And they grey days? They're difficult to explain, they're...soft. Kind of like the edge has been taken off so that sharp corners and bright lights give way to slightly fuzzy city streets lit with dozens upon dozens of twinkling, white Christmas lights. You see? Cozy.
Still raining though but my time at the cafe has been pushed to it's limits. I'm off. Happy Wednesday everyone.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
smart AND cute!
I dropped the cat off at a friend's tonight for a stay at his version of Disney Land: a house with multiple floors connected by actual, oh-my-god, STAIRS. As my sister puts it, the cat acts like he's in 'Nam half the time as it is skittering around corners and hiding under rugs for waiting for just the right moment to unleash his assault but, let's face it, the options in my apartment are limited. Now with a whole three weeks and three glorious floors to play with, the options are endless. I don't even think he cared when I dropped him off, he was too busy running up...and down...and up...and down...
Although he ends up having fun wherever he is (or so I'm assured), transporting him is no fun whatsoever. After one horrific ride that I'm positive left me more traumatized than him, I gave up on cat carriers. Say what you want - I don't care - you've never been stuck in a car with the yeowling, mournful mess that is the cat in a cat carrier. So, he gets free reign to roam the car, sit on my lap, whatever. It's all good.
Tonight as I was flying down the highway at 140km/hr I heard something...then I felt something...it was wind, but from where? Turns out, the cat managed to place his cute little kitty-cat paw on the 'down' button for the back window and had succeeded in getting the damn thing all the way down before I could figure out what the heck was happening. Scary as it was, I couldn't help being kind of proud of him for figuring out how to work the window - smart little guy :)
This would be the same night that I developed a more intimate understanding of just how useful highway shoulders are and that I learned about child-proof window locks. Damn good ideas, both of them.
Although he ends up having fun wherever he is (or so I'm assured), transporting him is no fun whatsoever. After one horrific ride that I'm positive left me more traumatized than him, I gave up on cat carriers. Say what you want - I don't care - you've never been stuck in a car with the yeowling, mournful mess that is the cat in a cat carrier. So, he gets free reign to roam the car, sit on my lap, whatever. It's all good.
Tonight as I was flying down the highway at 140km/hr I heard something...then I felt something...it was wind, but from where? Turns out, the cat managed to place his cute little kitty-cat paw on the 'down' button for the back window and had succeeded in getting the damn thing all the way down before I could figure out what the heck was happening. Scary as it was, I couldn't help being kind of proud of him for figuring out how to work the window - smart little guy :)
This would be the same night that I developed a more intimate understanding of just how useful highway shoulders are and that I learned about child-proof window locks. Damn good ideas, both of them.
Monday, December 4, 2006
by the way
Since posting about the "Don't worry, Be happy" busker I've heard from a whole bunch of TTC riding folks all of whom knew exactly who I was talking about. It's official: "Don't worry, Be happy" IS the only song he ever sings.
My shala has moved and I'm back to taking the busker-free bus so I'm pretty sure this will be the last time you'll have to read the words "Don't worry, Be happy" on this blog and the last time I'll have to type them which is a good thing, the words have developed the power to irritate me through the very act of typing them alone.
But, while we're at it, it's Monday and it's cold; be kind to yourself today and don't worry, be happy ;)
My shala has moved and I'm back to taking the busker-free bus so I'm pretty sure this will be the last time you'll have to read the words "Don't worry, Be happy" on this blog and the last time I'll have to type them which is a good thing, the words have developed the power to irritate me through the very act of typing them alone.
But, while we're at it, it's Monday and it's cold; be kind to yourself today and don't worry, be happy ;)
Sunday, December 3, 2006
home sweet home
My mother & two sisters came over yesterday to help me move a dresser and left 3 hours later having filled several bags full of 'stuff' for goodwill, convinced me to stick a "free" sign on my couch and leave it on the street corner (it was gone within 2 hours) and reorganized my living room, front room and bedroom. Wow.
The harbinger of what was to come was my mother's question, "What can I do?", while we were waiting for my sisters. I was in the middle of making oatmeal raisin cookies and I looked at her, confused, how many people does she think it takes to make cookies? Turns out, she meant what can she do around the apartment because it was "pretty cluttered". Or maybe she said "messy". I forget. But I was concerned because, with the exception of the Saturday papers and the usual odds and ends hanging about, my apartment was waaaaay more organized than usual. At least I thought so.
I was wrong. Apparently my apartment was 'cluttered', 'messy', and full of 'India-yoga bullshit'. When my sisters arrived the three of them transpired into a whirling dervish of activity. I don't know how else to explain it - they just moved and moved and moved while my contribution was limited to standing, confused or trailing aimlessly behind them offering oatmeal raisin cookies. Well, that, and defending burnt-out lightbulbs (who notices that kind of stuff?), non-existent dishtowels (who uses those?), and explaining why I really, absolutely, can't possibly dispose of anymore books (I NEED every book I currently have. Or, you know, I might one day).
The general consensus when we (ok, they) were done was "there, now you can breathe". Part of me wanted to go on the defensive but I couldn't, it was true. It's not that I'm a slob (shut up), it's more that when it comes to aesthetics - I just don't get it. I like looking nice, I like my surroundings to look nice but I don't have that eye that tells me what to do to make that happen. Just tell me what to wear or how to organize my apartment and I'm happy.
Lucky for me, every other person in my family has that eye and they were generous with their Saturday mornings (thanks guys :). My new and improved living room with one less couch is so much lighter, the hallway more spacious without the additional bookcase and my room is absolutely perfect now that I've cleared out the extra dresser. I didn't want to leave the apartment this morning. I just wanted to stay home and enjoy it. But I dragged myself to yoga. And that. freaking. sucked.
I don't write about yoga often, there are no words, but lately, it sucks. My wrists hurt so chataranga (like a push up) kills, my ankles are sore so upward dogs/lotus positions kill and my hamstring tears are back in full effect so every single other pose kills as well. It has for the last few weeks and today was just enough. I left the room to cry my big, self-pitying alligator tears in private. So frustrating. And I know it's my head, not my body, but life is settled - I'm settled - so why the head stuff now? Whatever.
All I know is that all I really wanted was to be back in my airy, gorgeous apartment with music playing, cat cuddling, and tea brewing which is exactly what I'm doing. And it's perfect.
The harbinger of what was to come was my mother's question, "What can I do?", while we were waiting for my sisters. I was in the middle of making oatmeal raisin cookies and I looked at her, confused, how many people does she think it takes to make cookies? Turns out, she meant what can she do around the apartment because it was "pretty cluttered". Or maybe she said "messy". I forget. But I was concerned because, with the exception of the Saturday papers and the usual odds and ends hanging about, my apartment was waaaaay more organized than usual. At least I thought so.
I was wrong. Apparently my apartment was 'cluttered', 'messy', and full of 'India-yoga bullshit'. When my sisters arrived the three of them transpired into a whirling dervish of activity. I don't know how else to explain it - they just moved and moved and moved while my contribution was limited to standing, confused or trailing aimlessly behind them offering oatmeal raisin cookies. Well, that, and defending burnt-out lightbulbs (who notices that kind of stuff?), non-existent dishtowels (who uses those?), and explaining why I really, absolutely, can't possibly dispose of anymore books (I NEED every book I currently have. Or, you know, I might one day).
The general consensus when we (ok, they) were done was "there, now you can breathe". Part of me wanted to go on the defensive but I couldn't, it was true. It's not that I'm a slob (shut up), it's more that when it comes to aesthetics - I just don't get it. I like looking nice, I like my surroundings to look nice but I don't have that eye that tells me what to do to make that happen. Just tell me what to wear or how to organize my apartment and I'm happy.
Lucky for me, every other person in my family has that eye and they were generous with their Saturday mornings (thanks guys :). My new and improved living room with one less couch is so much lighter, the hallway more spacious without the additional bookcase and my room is absolutely perfect now that I've cleared out the extra dresser. I didn't want to leave the apartment this morning. I just wanted to stay home and enjoy it. But I dragged myself to yoga. And that. freaking. sucked.
I don't write about yoga often, there are no words, but lately, it sucks. My wrists hurt so chataranga (like a push up) kills, my ankles are sore so upward dogs/lotus positions kill and my hamstring tears are back in full effect so every single other pose kills as well. It has for the last few weeks and today was just enough. I left the room to cry my big, self-pitying alligator tears in private. So frustrating. And I know it's my head, not my body, but life is settled - I'm settled - so why the head stuff now? Whatever.
All I know is that all I really wanted was to be back in my airy, gorgeous apartment with music playing, cat cuddling, and tea brewing which is exactly what I'm doing. And it's perfect.
Friday, December 1, 2006
the key to a traditional christmas
8am Wednesday morning found me running around my apartment tossing cushions aside, scrambling through coat pockets, and standing idly in the middle of each room, perplexed. I couldn't find my keys anywhere. I missed two buses while I was busy crawling around on the floor looking under couches and I was beginning to get a bit frantic. It really wasn't a good day to be late and I never lock my door anyway so half way through my search I figured 'screw it - I'll just drive' and I would have but I COULDN'T FIND MY KEYS.
Finally, in a last ditch effort, I opened my front door to look outside and, there they were - my keys - still hanging in the keyhole where I'd left them the night before. They jingled happily at me as I opened the door wider to take in what else I'd left in the hallway: my hamper full of clean laundry and several bags of groceries. Apparently I was REALLY tired Tuesday night. As relieved as I was to find everything safe and sound I was a bit peeved; really, keys in the door, grocery bags and folded laundry waiting outside - would it really have killed someone to let themselves in and do me the good turn of putting some things away? What does a girl have to do to get some help ;)
I'm leaving for holidays in less than a week. The full on sprint that has characterized life over the last few months will carry on right up until Thursday night when I head to the airport. This will be the second year in a row that I'll miss Christmas, a fact that my sisters are trying to turn into some kind of 'get out of jail free card' by hinting that, since I don't have to be there, they're going to skip it too.
In an attempt to assuage their sisterly rage I let them in on a little secret I've been carrying for 2 months: I've arranged for a surprise to be delivered to my mom's house Christmas morning. Although I shared this with them in two completely separate conversations, the first words out of both of their mouths when I told them there was going to be a surprise were the exact same: "Is it a stripper?".
Yes girls. I've arranged for a stripper to be delivered to mom's house Christmas morning. After all, what would the holiday be without the time-tested, traditional favourite Christmas stripping elves?
Finally, in a last ditch effort, I opened my front door to look outside and, there they were - my keys - still hanging in the keyhole where I'd left them the night before. They jingled happily at me as I opened the door wider to take in what else I'd left in the hallway: my hamper full of clean laundry and several bags of groceries. Apparently I was REALLY tired Tuesday night. As relieved as I was to find everything safe and sound I was a bit peeved; really, keys in the door, grocery bags and folded laundry waiting outside - would it really have killed someone to let themselves in and do me the good turn of putting some things away? What does a girl have to do to get some help ;)
I'm leaving for holidays in less than a week. The full on sprint that has characterized life over the last few months will carry on right up until Thursday night when I head to the airport. This will be the second year in a row that I'll miss Christmas, a fact that my sisters are trying to turn into some kind of 'get out of jail free card' by hinting that, since I don't have to be there, they're going to skip it too.
In an attempt to assuage their sisterly rage I let them in on a little secret I've been carrying for 2 months: I've arranged for a surprise to be delivered to my mom's house Christmas morning. Although I shared this with them in two completely separate conversations, the first words out of both of their mouths when I told them there was going to be a surprise were the exact same: "Is it a stripper?".
Yes girls. I've arranged for a stripper to be delivered to mom's house Christmas morning. After all, what would the holiday be without the time-tested, traditional favourite Christmas stripping elves?
Monday, November 20, 2006
don't worry, be happy
My obsession with the "Don't worry, Be happy" busker continues.
On Saturday as I walked up the stairs of a subway stop on a completely different line from usual I was met with the familiar notes of "Don't worry, Be happy". It was him.
It truly is the only song he sings.
On Saturday as I walked up the stairs of a subway stop on a completely different line from usual I was met with the familiar notes of "Don't worry, Be happy". It was him.
It truly is the only song he sings.
Friday, November 17, 2006
scaredy cat
So. I've been busy. I quite literally have more work to do than hours in the day to do it and it shows. My apartment is a living diary of what I've eaten, worn and read over the last two weeks: newspapers scattered; half-read books tucked away in random corners; yoga clothes hung over doors, cupboards and chairbacks to dry; sweaters and scarves discarded here and there; plates, glasses, coffee cups and take away containers left to sit wherever I happened to be while I was eating. It's gross.
If incessant meowing, licking and running madly up and down the hall are anything to go by, my cat thinks so too. At least, that's what I thought he was trying to say. Ok, I also thought that he might be feeling a bit ignored but figured that, like a good night's sleep, he'd have to hold for a few more days until I get through this crunch. He disagreed. And he was pissed.
After my failure to translate non-stop meowling into "pay attention to me please" he decided to send his message a different way; he went *ahem* number two in the middle of the living room floor. I think the message this time was "pay attention to me NOW". I've been told that cats, normally fastidiously clean, will do things like this when they're angry. That may be so, but not my f'ing cat!
Suffice it to say, he got my attention, but I doubt it was the kind he was hoping for; I kind of lost the plot. We've since made up but it might just be a miracle if the little guy dares to go to the washroom ANYWHERE ever again.
If incessant meowing, licking and running madly up and down the hall are anything to go by, my cat thinks so too. At least, that's what I thought he was trying to say. Ok, I also thought that he might be feeling a bit ignored but figured that, like a good night's sleep, he'd have to hold for a few more days until I get through this crunch. He disagreed. And he was pissed.
After my failure to translate non-stop meowling into "pay attention to me please" he decided to send his message a different way; he went *ahem* number two in the middle of the living room floor. I think the message this time was "pay attention to me NOW". I've been told that cats, normally fastidiously clean, will do things like this when they're angry. That may be so, but not my f'ing cat!
Suffice it to say, he got my attention, but I doubt it was the kind he was hoping for; I kind of lost the plot. We've since made up but it might just be a miracle if the little guy dares to go to the washroom ANYWHERE ever again.
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