Keeping the love Lubed

If I turn the radio off right now, I think the silence may actually consume me. Best leave it on. In fact, maybe even turn it up a little.  Alone for the first night in many weeks, the adjustment to my own company will take some time. On one hand there is something appealing about it. On the other hand, not so much.

As I heated the kettle to make a cup of tea, I took just one cup from the mismatched collection of mugs on the shelf.  This nightly ritual since the evenings have become cooler was one of those simple acts of nurturing that gave me pleasure.  Making cups of hot tea for us following dinner and the post dinner tidy up in the dimly lit kitchen we have shared all summer seemed intimate to me for some reason.  Intimacy can take many forms. Knowing exactly how your partner likes their tea or their coffee or their eggs prepared are things we take for granted most of the time. We just do it. We apologize if for some reason it is not quite right. Sorry, darling, I know you like your toast a bit lighter than that, hope you don't mind this morning but I forgot to turn the dial back. If you are lucky, these minor imperfections are shrugged off as mine are. But I do like to get it right most days. I like making him happy in these small ways.

However, for the next month I am on my own.  It got me to thinking how difficult it must be when one's partner is not coming back in a month, or a year, or ever. I imagine these are the very things, these ordinary kindnesses that we perform with love and caring that you miss the most.  I am already switching gears a bit knowing that the little tasks that I relied on him to do will now be up to me.  They are not things I cannot do myself. They are just things that he did. Things that were "his" job.  Checking the doors were locked before bed. Pouring me a glass of water before he came to bed so there would be a room temperature glass of water for me in the morning to take my vitamins. Turning on the dishwasher. Taking out the rubbish. Doing any jobs that I deemed "yucky". Things that I am completely capable of doing, but really appreciate someone doing for me. 

Small, thoughtful gestures like this are the things that keep a relationship humming along like a well-oiled machine. The constant steady maintenance required to keep the love alive. Stopping in the middle of whatever you are doing to focus on your partner for a moment.  The 6 second kiss. Long enough to make it meaningful. A re-connection for no other reason than that - to reconnect throughout the day. Coming back to each other amid all the distractions. Like little shots of WD-40 to keep things gliding along.

He just texted me from LAX. Knowing he is safe on his journey home is important to me. These things are unnecessary really, but we do them to engage with one another. It breaks the silence he knows I am experiencing. The sound of the text startled me. Then soothed me. All good he said. It's what I wanted to hear.  All good tonight. All good.

All the time. 

Slip Sliding Away...aka...Hot Yoga

This may come as a surprise to many of you out there, but I took my first yoga class in 1973. A gal pal of mine in grade 11 and I decided to add it to our repertoire in a vain attempt to turn our curvy butts and muscled calves into something they were not. We dreamed of long graceful torsos and ballerina gams when the reality was we were 5'3" and 5'4" respectively.  Damn her for being so much taller than me! 

No amount of spine lengthening shoulder-stands or downward dogs was about to change any of that, but we persevered nonetheless.  This of course was in the day of yoga studios (I use the term "studio" loosely here) above downtown commercial spaces in St. Catharines where we both grew up. You entered them through a darkened doorway and headed straight up a set of creaky old stairs and entered a large cavernous space covered in old worn hardwood or maybe some old vinyl tiles with the odd chip here and there.  Everyone would find a spot on the floor and wait while others arrived, while the instructor busied herself with her cassette player and lit some ghastly patchouli smelling incense. She had no doubt graduated from the "flower-child" school of Hatha Yoga and led some sort of alternative lifestyle that we found a bit weird yet fascinating. This Lola Granola gal was from another planet surely.

It was a mixed crowd.  In fact, I am quite certain we were the youngest in the crowd most evenings. One of the participants in our class was a man well into his seventh decade, a local eye, ear, nose & throat specialist that once treated me for ear infections as a child.  It is always strange to see one of your doctors in civvies, but I assure you it is well beyond creepy to see one curled up in Pavanmuktasana (wind-relieving) pose next to you and even more uncomfortable when said pose worked for him.  This of course sent the two of us into utter spasms trying to suppress our immature girly laughter and our own gassy emissions. 

Oddly, I do not recall bringing a yoga mat or a bottle of water to class. Maybe because the room was a normal temperature and not FIVE MILLION DEGREES! It was not referred to as a "practice", it was simply called "yoga class", and your wardrobe did not require a special trip to an over-priced shop for "breathable" logo-stamped clothing. I was even able to do double-duty with the same leotard and body suit I wore to my Jazz and Ballet classes that year. 

At the time, yoga was not cool (or hot for that matter).  It was out there and available, but if you did not do it, no one was going to think you were unenlightened.  Yes, that is how it feels now.  What? You don't practice? Oh, you really should.  It is sooooooo good for you. It has completely transformed my body. I cannot de-stress without it! Blah Blah Blah! The Cult of Yoga. That is what it is now. So, not wanting to miss out on this amazing life transforming, detoxifying, stress-relieving activity, I geared up last winter and signed up for a month of Moksha yoga. 

Let me start by saying I detest saunas and have been known to overheat in a hot tub. As I entered the "practice" room for my first class I felt the same shock you get when you exit the plane and descend the stairs to the tarmac when you land in the tropics after being holed up in a Canadian winter for 4 months. Gasp!  The shock of the heat and the thick moist air pushes a panic button in me and it takes gargantuan focus to talk my way through the moment. Remain Calm Deb, breathe slowly. Move slowly. You can do this. You will not drown in your own steam. So, I try to find a spot where I will still be able to watch the instructor, but not be too front and centre in case I do pass out from heat stroke. We are to lay in Savasana (corpse pose) until we begin. Great, I think as I just may be a corpse before the end of this. 

Before the class even begins, I am perspiring. Just a moist film covering my skin for now. Hmmm, maybe I can handle this. The instructor arrives just as I start to nod off and asks us to set an intention for our practice today. What?  An intention? Now my relaxed corpse body has tightened as I scramble to think of one. Not wanting to miss out on a chance to set one and have it manifest at the end of an hour, I want to think of something really profound or mind-blowing. I come up empty. Nothing. Surely there must be some issue or deep-seated emotion I need to vanish from my being.  But no, nothing. Then it dawns on me.  I know. I will set the intention that I will not let my beginner hot yoga self feel intimidated by the long-practicing yoga gurus in the class. I will not compare my skills (or lack of them) or my body, or my pace with anyone. Perfect. That is my goal for this class.

There is only one small problem with this. Mirrors. Not only can I see myself, but I can see everyone else as well, despite the dim lighting. The man with the crazy, hairy back, the tall sinewy pretzel girl, the Olga Korbut look-alike, the tatooed dude with the six-pack, and his big tits, no ass girlfriend, the serene looking east Indian woman who has surely been doing this her entire life, several perky, pony-tailed milfs, a couple of women my age with larger asses and a couple with smaller ones and those are just the ones I can see clearly. Ugh! There is no way in the world I will not be able to look and compare. 

And so we begin. I move through the simple poses, trying to keep my focus on how my body feels, my technique, my balance. I can feel myself getting hotter and hotter. The sweat is now trickling off my chin, droplets hitting the mat slowly at first, then more steadily. I silently thank god I wore a cotton headband to absorb what is now wet hair and keeping the sweat from dripping in my eyes. We stop to hydrate. Momentary relief. I cannot feel any air circulation. I need a fan, a breeze, something to cool me down. Nothing. Onward we proceed. Ugh. Dancer's Pose. I hate this pose. I cannot do it in the best of times, but now, my hand, slippery with my own hot bodily fluids, cannot grasp my leg without slipping. The instructor notices me struggling and comes by and helps but now I sense all eyes on me and it makes me sweat even more. Stop it. Stop it. Remember the intention. Fuck the intention. Now I just want to move on to the next pose. End my misery. Now I start wondering what time it is and how much longer I have to endure this discomfort.

I recall there were 2 choices for class length. Was I in the 60 minute or 90 minute slot? Please, please, tell me it is the 60 minute class. My foot slides on my mat as I lunge into Warrior pose and I can feel the groin strain and quickly pull it back in before I end up in the splits involuntarily. Relief arrives as we get down on the mat for some spine twisting pose and that is when it happens. The neck issue I was suffering from for months prior to this class, rears its ugly head and no amount of deep cleansing breathing will end my now stiffening neck. All I can think about now is when will we be able to lay in Savasana again? I want to be a corpse. 

Finally prone again, I wonder if it is actually even possible to re-hydrate after this self-imposed torture. Then it occurs to me that a post-session weigh-in might be in the cards. Surely I just lost about 5 pounds of fluid.  For a moment I am excited and feeling light and detoxed. The instructor has suggested we lay here for as long as we like. Although I want to roll up my soggy mat right away and escape this choking steamy atmosphere, I wait a few minutes,  not wanting to be the first one to leave. Leaving too soon disturbs the folks who are lying in some state of Nirvana it seems. One woman is a bit noisy as she departs and a couple of enlightened souls shush her, perhaps their intention to not sweat the small stuff and release all their anger did not quite gel in the hour spent in clammy contortions. 

I finally get up off the floor and start gathering my mat and water bottle and towel and head for the door toward what now seems an oasis of cool. The peeling off of the wet supposed breathable yoga wear is as difficult as putting a wet bathing suit on.  It all lands in a damp heap on the floor and I am so grateful for cool air on my skin, I don't even care that I am naked among strangers, my aging breasts likely shocking to the younger perkier gals in the locker room. No more shocking I suppose than the number of tramp stamps I notice on several of them. My head does a double take on the way to the shower. Did she really have Namaste inked above her ass crack? 

For the record, I actually did this 7 more times that month. I think there might have been one day that I actually did not hate it, but the feeling passed almost as quickly as it arrived and my neck actually got worse and worse. I clearly had hoped it was going to help but that was not my experience. This is one bandwagon I needed to get off. And I did. 

Namaste to that.

Pulling back to move Forward?

Going backward.  Generally speaking, it is not often a good idea.  Both literally and figuratively.  It is however a continuous temptation in many areas of our lives.  I have had a couple of "going backward" situations recently and I am further convinced it is not the best direction for me. Sideways and forward are really a much better bet.

When I stop and really think about it, almost every time I go back, I regret it. And I am not just talking about the major go backs, like relationships or jobs. Even the simplest backward steps can get you in trouble.  Like last weekend when instead of taking a step forward into my canoe while boarding, I stepped back with the outside foot instead to avoid the unbalanced tipping caused by the inside foot and I slipped on a rock underfoot and took the backwards splash into the water.  Normally this would have been no biggie, except this time I had my iPhone in my pocket...now a defunct iPhone. That canoe adventure was the most expensive one of my summer. Not only did I have to pay for a new iphone (albeit at a reduced cost), but I lost hundreds of photos that were not backed up.  These are lessons learned the hard way that could have been avoided had I moved forward rather than back out of the canoe. 

This past week, I took a trip back in time to the city where my daughter was born, where I became a first time home owner, where I married her father, where I have many happy memories.  We visited the old hood and I took her to see where she lived until she was 3 and showed her the parks where she went from wobbly baby legs to a running and climbing toddler. I wondered if any of these visuals would prompt her memory, but she did not have any recollections.  No sirree, all the memories were mine and mine alone.  And it was bittersweet. The views and vistas of my beloved Deep Cove were still intact, but my old house was run down and hardly recognizable.  Ugly in fact. All the hours and passion I put into the garden and trying to turn a fairly ordinary house into something more seemed wasted.  The follow up owners clearly did not care or possess the talent or money to improve on what we had created there.  It occurred to me that the house had followed the same path as my marriage.  The garden had not been tended.

Spending too much time looking back does not really do much good either.  It seems to keep you stalled in limbo. Best to look to the future.  A place where you can apply all the lessons of the past at least. The tendency to paint the past with pastel watercolours is easier than facing the unknown and possibly harsh colours of the future.  Of course, all the current wisdom encourages us to try to live in the moment but that concept is easier said than done.  As much as I try to just be here and now, the future and past are relentlessly pulling me backward and forward these days.  It's exhausting. 

I have come to the conclusion there is only one area of my life that I actually want to go backwards. Yes, the place where we all (well most of us anyway), want to go back.  Backwards on the bathroom scale. Backwards and a bit even.  What are the chances? OK, so I will never have that 16 year old waistline again, or breasts that will pass the pencil test, but just once in my adult life I would like to step on a scale and be happy with the number.  Satisfied. Even at my lowest weights over the years, I have always wished the number would be lower. Will I ever let it go?  Will that critical voice ever shut up?  She is sooooo annoying.  Every now and again these days, I have moments of clarity on this in my mind. I look in the mirror, standing in all my naked glory and actually feel (dare I say it?) beautiful. Then as this fleeting feeling hovers over me, I find myself thinking..."yup, this is me now, less than perfect, flawed by time and the odd scar, take me or leave me world!" And for one brief moment, this defiant, glorious, powerful voice inside me moves me forward for one more day.

Bathroom scale be damned.

Beware that Evil Ice Cream

I don't think I can take it anymore.  Am I crazy, or is everyone getting sick and tired of all the bloody "shoulds" in our lives?

It seems that every day there is a new SHOULD appearing in our in-boxes or on our Facebook newsfeed, or rolling of some well-meaning friend or relative's tongues, or on just about every form of media.  It is enough to make me want to run off to a deserted island just to turn it all off. Shut up! Bugger off! Leave me alone!   So for the record....

...I intend to stop worrying about the following:

Fluoride build up on my Pineal Gland...seriously...WTF?

My Carbon Footprint...it is not all that bad...I do try to go easy on this planet of ours.

My carb/protein/good fat vs bad fat ratio...just listen to my body...it always tells me.

The hidden danger of underwire in my bra...these girls need help getting a lift at my age!

Organic everything. Who can really afford this option? How about half and half?

Hot Yoga. OMG! I don't like drowning in a cesspool of my own sweat...so sue me. Whatever happened to regular yoga in normal room temperatures?

Bucket List Pressure.  I may or may not have time to get to the whole thing...shit happens. Or how about instead of emptying your Bucket List...just fill it over your lifetime with each new experience...and YOU choose the size of your bucket.

Detoxing. How about whatever needs detoxing in your life...you just stop adding more to the mix. 

Flip Flops are bad for your posture and back.  Don't care...still wearing them.

Too much sun is bad for you.  Then explain why a day spent outdoors in the sun always makes me feel better and look healthier? 

Animal products are bad for you. I tried going vegan once and I gained weight from too many carbs.  Nothing against all you vegans and vegetarians of the world...but my body works best with a little animal protein.

Drink 8-10 glasses of water a day.  This is a struggle.  I admit the more water I drink the better I function, but it requires discipline and the availability of toilets and that is not always an option. Will 4-5 glasses do? And I don't understand why tea, coffee, beer and wine don't count. 

Gluten is bad for you. Dairy is bad for you. What has the world come to when you cannot enjoy a piece of toast or an ice cream cone and having said indulgences fills you with guilt. And why the sudden onset of celiac disease in every other person you meat? Ooops...Freudian slip there.

We live in a world full of healthy and unhealthy choices.  Most of us are aware of what is good for us and what is not.  It is not rocket science.  I just wish we were not constantly bombarded with the messages and we could all just relax a bit and enjoy life.  Lay off the obvious threats to your health like smoking, over drinking, over eating and drugs.  Move your body. Go outside. Take a walk. Listen to your body. 

Instead of detoxing my pineal gland today, I think I will drive my SUV to the mini-golf course with my daughter who still likes to do this as much as she did when she was 7, and we will do it in the sun, in flip flops and follow it up with a non-organic, dairy-laden ice cream cone, go for a swim wearing a bikini top with underwire, in a fresh water lake that may or may not contain minor pollutants, breathe almost perfectly fresh air, stop at a local farm and pick some ripe peaches that may or may not have been sprayed with insecticides...and if I live to tell the tale, I will add this simple enjoyable day to my half-filled bucket list with joy and gusto.

So there. 

Wherever you Hang your Hat

They say that home is where the heart is, but I think it is also wherever we make it.  Having moved homes a few times in recent years, I have come to the conclusion that there are a few things that can make almost anywhere seem like home to me.  

No matter where I have hung my hat over my life, no matter how temporary, there are some things I like to have.  In the kitchen, aside from the basics, I have to have egg cups.  Sometimes vacation rental homes are lacking in this regard.  I have had to resort to using shot glasses or something with the right size opening to hold an egg.  When I was packing up for this latest move, I decided to bring my own egg cups.  I had a hunch they might be missing and I was right.  It's not that I eat soft boiled eggs everyday, but once a week anyway and when I do, I like a proper egg cup.  Silly, right? Eggsactly.

Larger items on the list include a comfy mattress and a good pillow.  Following that, a comfortable chair inside and one outside as well. Sitting down with a cup of tea or glass of wine or a good read makes this one mandatory. When I was roving around the world in my early twenties, a good piece of foam on the floor would do me, but my aging body requires more now and I am happy to report that my summer retreat has filled all these requirements.  

Less necessary, but a welcome sight in any accommodation are flowers.  It can be as simple as a bunch of wildflowers or a collection of interesting branches or a pot of tulips.  Flowers add an instant sense of "home" for me. I have added some flowers here this summer and I can see them out of the windows wherever I look.  

However, none of  these things outweighs a framed photo of my kid. She is near my bedside and in my wallet, her subliminal presence a constant source of comfort.  We Skyped yesterday and I am so grateful for the technology that allows us to connect this way.  No matter where we are in the world, we can still see each other. 

Same goes for my friends.  My best friend and I have been separated for years now by many miles and yet, we still manage to stay connected via texting, skyping, emails and phone calls.  Years ago it was mostly phone calls, costly ones at that.  Our latest way of connecting is with Viber.  Free call and free texting.  A free app that you download and you are ready to go.  Talk about changing times. I would encourage all of you to check that one out - you have to both be on Viber to make it work - so if you have people you want to chat with regularly that live afar - this is a great way to go.

There was a time when I imagined my life differently.  The idea of living in a house, preferably in the country, for my whole life.  A big family that came and went.  Holiday gatherings around a big table.  Thinking back to those dreams now, I see that much of it was folly and as unrealistic as the fictional families I based them on.  The Waltons.  The Ingalls. Even if I did live in a country house from now until my end, it would not change the fact that I only have one child with the potential of one spouse and possible grandchildren.  No need for a 12 foot harvest table to entertain the brood when they visit for the holidays.  I have a secret wish for my daughter that she marry someone with a large extended family so she can experience that crazy big family thing.  

Don't get me wrong here.  I am grateful for the blessings in my life.  Large families come with their own set of issues, probably more so.  The romantic notion of happy family gatherings is about as realistic as the new bride's dream of happily ever after.  As often as this dream comes true, just as often it dissolves into not so ever after. 

So, on that note, this is Debbie Downer signing off for now and wishing all of you a happy long Canada Day weekend, with or without your families or friends.  

Maybe home really is wherever you "hang your hat".

Soul Soothing Sunday

A doe, a fawn, 2 eagles, 3 marmots and a few quails. These are things I saw today on my drive out to Carmelis Goat Cheese Farm today, just under 6 kms from my summer home. The sun was shining and the road to the farm follows the Okanogan Lakeshore Road. I stopped several times along the way to observe the wild life and take a few photos as it is all new and fresh to me and I have that "new kid in town" wonder about me.

I used to live in B.C. about 16 years ago and I have always missed it. The mountains and the landscape never fail to feed my soul. Just a few minutes ago, I looked out the front window as I heard some wind whipping up and a dark ominous sky was moving quickly from over the mountain and heading my way.  A few years ago an unfortunate forest fire destroyed most of the evergreen trees that once covered the surrounding hills here and it will take years before the landscape replenishes itself. I saw quite a few burnt out acres on the drive from Jasper to Kelowna and it always saddens me.  It feels eerie and sort of creepy almost when you are driving through it.  Like the valley of death.  Blackened trunks, now sharply pointing to the sky, stripped of life, evil looking. 

Surprisingly on my drive past some of it today, two eagles still perched upon these tall charred look outs. They stood out easily on them. Their majesty and beauty surpassing the devilish spikes they rested upon.  It lightened my heart to have to slow for a doe and her young fawn a little further up the road.  They clearly had not deserted their ashen homeland, the terror of that time surely a distant memory for them now. Marmots scurried across my path, speedier now with less brush to camouflage them. Despite this section of the fire's wrath, it is still possible to find the beauty that lies west of the disaster. Looking over to the water, the view is still spectacular and lush. 

I discovered a nice little beach access at Cedar Creek that I will definitely frequent when the weather soon turns hot.  A couple of brave souls were waist deep in the water today, but I got the impression they were just posing for a photo and would soon hightail it back to shore.  The lake temperature is not quite warm enough to entice me yet.  

I found a lovely nursery where I stopped and bought some flowers and herbs to plant in pots to enjoy over the season.  As it is late to shop for this sort of thing, I got lucky and everything was reduced for the last week of June.  I spent the afternoon planting and it felt good to dig in the dirt as I have been away from my garden for a couple of years now.  It made me realize how much I love it and how I have missed it.  

All and all it was a perfect Sunday here in this western paradise.  I even had some furry company as I am cat-sitting my niece's cat for 10 days. Winx is quite social and seems to function quite well with one eye.  Her altered face makes her even more sweet and lovable.  She hung with me while I puttered away and it was nice to have her around. 

Once again, I will look forward to sleeping.  It is soooo quiet here. After living in Toronto for so many years, the white noise is absent here. The quiet is such a contrast. 

Just what the doctor ordered. 

I'll give ya a buck for that!

If you read yesterdays blog, this edition will seem as though I have lost my mind. Two weeks ago today I had a big garage sale where I unloaded heaps of possessions. I swore after the experience that I was never going to collect so much stuff again. 

Fast forward to today.  As I have been settling into my new summer house, I have concluded I needed a few things to make it more functional and comfortable.  Clearly, it is insane to purchase things for a short term rental that I will not likely tote with me when I leave. However, I had been making a mental list of what I would need to complete my summer experience here. The boys are off on a fishing trip, so I got the invitation from my sister-in-law yesterday to join her and another friend to go GARAGE SALEing today.  "EGADS!", I thought to myself. No way. 

Then it occurred to me that perhaps many of the things on my mental list might actually be found on such an excursion, and it would also be nice to spend time with her and meet someone new, so I accepted the invitation to hit the streets at 7:30 this morning.  I had been forewarned that the woman who had planned the morning was a "professional" garage saler. Really? OK then, let the games begin.  I was a bit of an expert myself many years ago when I would scour the neighbourhood on a Saturday morning for treasures, but had long since given it up as my own garage became the receptacle for most of the junk I collected.  Things that required repair or painting or revamping that I never got to...you know the drill.

This woman made me look like an amateur.  She assigned another woman who joined us as the navigator and handed her a lengthy list filled with addresses.  Her job was to read out the addresses and check them off as we completed them.  She knew which homes would be more likely to have good stuff versus crap stuff and in between the planned list of stops, we stopped at even more that were unadvertised. This was gorilla garage saling.  She even had some rules.  No wasting time.  If you sized a place up and decided you were uninterested, you were to head to the car, indicating you were finished rather than hanging about.  This way the last one left lingering knew she better step up the pace and complete her negotiating as the others would be waiting back at the car.  This was serious business!

And fun. It was almost a workout actually as we zipped in and out of a dozen places or more.  When the car trunk would become too full, we would stop back at her place, unload, and head back on the treasure hunting trail. I half expected to buy little if nothing at all.  Wrong!  I was on a mission for lamps.  The place I am staying is lovely and cool nestled in the trees, but it is dark. The walls and ceilings are all pine panelling and the present lighting is just not bright enough.  I needed more light and I found it!  Not only did I find lamps, one seller even had an entire carton of new light bulbs for fifty cents a box. Kid you not.  I bought 5 lamps for $21.00. There is a nice little peninsula in the kitchen here, but no counter stools.  Found a good solid pair of those for $20.  The guest room needed a second side table next to the bed.  Found one for $2. There are no cloth napkins in the house. Found a brand new set of those with tags still on them, brand new, for $2. I need a new garment bag. Found one for $8 after some serious negotiations. I have been on the hunt for an old copy of Crocodile Dundee as my daughter has never seen it and I told her it is pretty funny.  Found it for $2. Then of course there were a couple of other purchases that were not necessary but so cheap it was crazy to turn down.

A toothless woman at one stop in a rather dodgy area was selling a lot of stuff that looked like she had acquired it in suspect ways.  I noticed a copy of the movie version of Love in the time of Cholera. Having read the book, I was curious about the movie. How could I turn down anything by Gabriel Garcia Marquez for a buck? I asked the woman if she had watched it. She had not.  I asked her if she had read the book. She said she was not much of a reader. Best I rescue it I figured, as it was not being appreciated in its present home. I do recall it got rather luke warm reviews, but surely anything with Javier Bardem cannot be that bad.  I will let you know how it turns out.

Then I came upon a copy of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead.  A nice hardcover in perfect condition. I will sheepishly admit I have never read it.  I know, I know, it is a classic and I surely should have devoured it back in the day, but it is on my bucket list of must reads before I die, so I chatted with the seller about it and as it turns out, she was actually giving all her books away for free. How do you turn that down?  She also had some trashy Jilly Cooper novel that came out a couple of years ago and I snapped that up as well...beach reading for sure. She was the same vendor that sold me a pine bedside table for $2.  I think she was in it for the company and conversation more than the money.  Ya figure?

Then, just as I was running out of steam for the day, we came to the piste de resistance of garage sale vendors.  An estate sale.  Not just any old estate sale, mind you.  This was the estate sale of a hoarder house.  A genuine crazy ass hoarder house!  I was gobsmacked.  It was just like those places you see on TV. The adult children of the deceased owners were there and just letting people wind their way through the whole house.  Every room crammed to the rafters with JUNK...and the odd treasure. There were unopened boxes of every thing you can imagine.  Small appliances, kitchen utensils, office supplies, never-worn shoes, unopened ugly bedding, a garage and shed chock-a-block full of tools and so much crap you could barely move through it.  It was horrifying to me.  Especially in my new state of minimizing.  How could anyone let their home become so, so out of control? It actually made me sort of nauseous. And oddly, of the thousands of things in that house, I needed none of it.  The other ladies were finding the odd items they would be able to use, so I reluctantly loitered about rummaging through boxes and shelves and drawers in a vain attempt to find some little item that might be useful to kill time.

Surely, amidst all this bounty there must be something that would ignite some little bit of consumerist desire in me.  Maybe if I had been trying to outfit an empty home with necessities for daily living, perhaps this place might have excited me, but it actually repelled me instead.  It just highlighted what I have been thinking and feeling for so long now.  There is just way too much STUFF. Then just as I was about to leave the house and go and wait outside, I spotted a box of assorted crap that contained a retro tobacco can. I recognized the label immediately. It was a VOGUE cigarette tobacco can. The lid was missing. In an instant I was sitting at my mother's kitchen table in 1961 watching my father roll his own cigarettes. We would have been at the gray arborite table with the chrome legs.  Suddenly I felt nostalgic. The can spoke to me. My sister-in-law recalled the label as well.  We rummaged for the lid to no avail. What would I do with it?  I suggested it would make a good pencil and pen holder.  She volunteered her idea of a small planter.  Whatever, it was coming home with me. 

As I sit writing this, the can is within my peripheral vision and it is giving me some sort of odd pleasure. Like all retro signage, it hearkens back to a time when we actually did not have so much stuff.  The world had not yet exploded with Dollaramas and "shopping til you drop" was not even a consideration. And maybe that is what appealed to me. My mother's minimal decor, our limited collection of toys, our sparser wardrobes, the weekly trek to the grocery store on pay day, one pair of summer sheets and one pair of flannel winter sheets, lacking versus excess. Were we more grateful then? 

I know one thing for sure. I had one pair of sneakers, a pair of sandals, a pair of penny loafers and a pair of patent leather Mary Manes for church. A far cry from the 4 boxes of shoes (reduced from 8) I packed in my car June 9th to move across the country. And guess what? Since I arrived, I have only worn 3 pairs.  My sneakers, my sandals and a pair of flip flops. The boxes remain unopened in my closet. 

Some lessons being learned here.  

Stop.  Just stop.

Purged

 Scattered

bits here

more over there

impermanent shards to be retrieved later

or not

graphic patterns of light dance

on the wall where once

a treasured armoire stood

its beauty replaced

by something less tangible 

yet no less inspired

spaces everywhere left open 

allowing for new to flow in

new what?

wait and see

For now

my heart 

fragile, delicate

like a piece of chipped pink mayfair

softly absorbing

beating on

healing

waiting

anticipating

unblocked, unclogged

Open roads ahead

no guarantees

only leaps of faith

or joyful skipping

Caution! Road Work Ahead!

The road to minimalist living is filled with potholes, detours, traffic jams, missing directional signs and more obstacles than you could ever imagine.  I am on that road now and I can report with first hand knowledge that it requires precise navigation and nerves of steel.

You have to be absolutely certain that the minimalist destination is where you want to be headed. But that is the funny thing about life - is anything really absolute? In my experience, no. It is however one of those roads, that once you start heading down it, U-turns are difficult and even if you do make one successfully, there is no guarantee that turning back will get you where you want to go either.  So, I am forging ahead and slowly but surely discarding everything I have accumulated over the course of my life on this planet.  

There is a dude who has reduced his life to 100 things.  I don't know that I will achieve that, but compared to what I once owned, it will seem like even less.  The furniture is a tough one for  me, especially any pieces I have purchased in the last couple of years that have been barely used and still give me that "new stuff visual joy hit".  I keep telling myself it can all be replaced again if necessary, but the chances of that are slim.  My next permanent space will likely be a whole new look and none of it would really work anyway.  

The clothing is proving less angst-ridden than I had anticipated.  I tend to grow bored with clothing within a season or two anyway with the odd exception, so between gifting it to friends and consigning the more expensive pieces, by Monday I hope to have reduced it to 3 suitcases. A lofty goal at that, but I will store some business clothing and excess coats and party dresses and things I won't be wearing.  If  I ever need them again, I know where to find them.

So just as I was moving down the road managing to navigate the bumps fairly well, I hit a bloody big road block last night that really stopped me in my tracks. I had been collecting boxes to prepare for this one.  I knew it was up ahead, but I had no idea the impact it would have on me. It was time to empty the bookshelves. I had already reduced their numbers when I moved out of my house two years ago.  At that time, I only kept the books I really loved and books that I tend to reference.  As I looked at each spine, a decision had to me made. Garage sale, pass along to mother or daughter or friend, bring along or store. It felt like bits of me. Bits of my history. I have always loved being surrounded by them. Getting rid of them was like casting off my identity of who I was, who I am now and the ones I still had not gotten around to reading...who I might become.  

I felt a panic rising in me. I like my books. I don't want to get rid of them.  There must be a way I can take them with me. I know I can do the e-book thing, but it's not the same.  That is not visual. I like the look of books on a shelf or in a case or stacked up next to the bed. If ever I am bored or lonely or sad or depressed, there is always a book that can come to my rescue.  I was parting with  my life lines - it felt that wretched. I was weepy, angry, confused. I sorted through them in a sort of Neptunian fog. The room lighting was poor since I sold off 2 of my lamps and I was struggling with seeing the labels on the sea of boxes surrounding me. 

There were some that had had such a major impact on my life that there was no way they were going anywhere but into the "store" box. My first hard-cover book purchase, still with me to this day, The Prophet by Kahil Gabran.  I bought it in London, Ontario when I was 18 at an independent little bookshop there.  Looking back, it was likely one of the first steps I took on my spiritual journey.  A spiritual journey that I have been on my entire life. One that I will likely always be on since it's not likely I will be any more successful than the next guy at figuring it "all" out.  My collection of Rilke poetry.  Nope, that was not going to any garage sale and being sold off for a quarter. Nor my Rumi collections. Or A Fine Balance, or Eat Pray Love, signed books.  Any books that I knew were stained with my own tears - essentially that became the criteria.  James Hollis, Deepak Chopra, Wayne Dyer.  These guys have been in the trenches with me.  How could I callously toss them into a box with Golf tips for Women? No way. They deserved a better fate than that. So I reduced the most meaningful volumes into 2 boxes. The "Deb KEEP" boxes, where they will sit in a basement for an undetermined period of time until they are one day resurrected from the darkness.

This morning, that road block behind me, fresh with a restorative night's rest, I will start my engine again and put her in gear and see what today will bring. If I had to guess, I would say I am only about one third of the way down this road.  The trick is to keep moving forward, rearview glimpses to a minimum, crank up the tunes, put a good coffee in the cupholder...and drive. 

Not Quite Home

Lonely Planet, Andalucia lays on the coffee table, 3 half unpacked suitcases sit on the bedroom floor, 2 bags of assorted souvenirs rest on the dusty unused treadmill. The windows of the apartment remain open despite the cool air and rain tonight airing out the space that was uninhabited the last three weeks. Jet lag grips us still just as habitual holas and gracias roll off our tongues from time to time even though there is no longer a need to communicate in Spanish; remnants of our brief immersion in another country.  Transition days.  The space in between.

In a few more days, home will feel like home again, but for now the lingering images and voices and scenes will drift in and out of our minds.  The sudden memory of a moment or a vista still fresh and poignant prolong the journey a little longer.  I am overwhelmed with ideas for blogs.  Travel always provides me with so much fodder and yet I am not ready.  I am greedy.  Sharing might diminish the memories somehow.  I think I will hang onto it all a bit longer, let it ferment and brew for a time before I splash it out on paper. 

The details of picking up the day to day routines once home seem to steal a bit away as well.  I want to ease back in gradually. Not all at once.  Few appointments. Minimal calls. Next week will be soon enough. 

Plans have already begun for the second leg of the "gap year".  That is entirely enough "busy" for now.  That, and working off the Reubenesque figure I acquired during the first leg! Best we did come home before it became more like a Modigliani. I think I was only about one croissant short of that!

Buenos noches for now.

No entiendo!

One of the less glamorous aspects of travel in a foreign country is the little things you encounter that stump you or frustrate you.  However, these are usually the things that you find yourself laughing over after the fact.

For instance, we are renting a small flat instead of staying in a hotel here in Sitges.  I like this type of accommodation as it feels more like actually living in the town or city you are in. It does require a bit more planning and effort, but allows you to enjoy some meals at "home" and immerses you a little more into the culture.  Grocery shopping becomes part of your day. However, it does take a little longer since all the labels are in Spanish and you do end up with the odd surprise. We forgot the pocket translator back at the ranch and neither of us speak the language, so what we thought was Greek yogurt turned out to be plain sweetened yogurt and we spent at least 5 minutes trying to find dish cloths and garbage bags. They use a completely different type of cloth here and the garbage bags come in rolls, not boxes or flat packages. The we had to determine the sizes and what would normally be a quick toss into the cart turns into a cross-examination in aisle 3.  It is humbling to say the least but hours later it was a source of amusement over yet another glass of insanely cheap Tempranillo.

This morning it was the washing machine fiasco. The icons don't even look the same. So I guessed at the dials and hoped for the best, but got it wrong and let's just say the load eventually got done, but whether or not it is really all that clean is debatable. Then the front-loading door refused to disengage the lock mechanism and for awhile it seemed we would be leaving a load of wet towels for the next guests who rent this apartment.  These quirky little "first world problems" are really just that however. As I sit here writing this blog gazing out over the azure blue Mediterranean, I have nothing to complain about. These differences are exactly what makes travel an adventure and what propels one out of complacency.



Our timing could not be better in terms of the weather. The wisteria is in full bloom and many flowers, including roses are in their prime right now. The temperature is perfect for hiking and exploring and the evenings are cool for sleeping with no need for air-conditioning. As we make our way further south in a few days, this will change somewhat, but so will the focus of our itinerary.

Tomorrow we are heading into Barcelona for a day of culture. There is a wonderful Picasso museum I want to see and a stroll along La Rambla and through Barri Gothic, a lunch in the El Born area, all of which ought to fill the day before heading back here to our temporary home in Sitges.

For now, Saturday night looms, siesta has passed and it's time to say buenos noches.



Salud!

One enormous Foodgasm!

Ok, between the French and their love affair with butter and the Spaniards with their love of olive oil soaked paella and creamy egg custards, I am caught in their culinary clutches, helpless to resist.  This morning it occurred to me it was useless to even try.  I observed as the thin and fashionable European women sipped their cafe con leche and assorted pastries without guilt or hesitation and convinced myself that calories are decidedly not a thing to be counted here, but instead, savoured.

When in Rome...yet another justification. It also occurred to me that as I clocked at least 20,000 steps today, whatever I did ingest fuelled my body and I likely broke even by day's end. There is such a distinct joie de vivre that permeates the daily life in Europe that we do not embrace in North America. The trick it seems is everything in moderation. An ounce of exquisite creamy Brie, one slice of butter slathered baguette, a freshly baked croissant, one scoop of dulce de leche gelato. Saying no seems uptight and rigidly controlled. Indulging seems relaxed and sensual. The difference not unlike bony and sinewy vs curvy and sensual.

So, for this brief interlude in my life, I will partake. Savour. Enjoy. Embrace my curves.

Indulge.

Live.

Guiltless.

Happy.

Ate, Prayed, Loved....Now what?

Do you have the same problem I have?  It is a particular problem I have always had with being the bearer of bad news.  Or less than positive news. Or something  you know you have to tell someone that you know is going to upset them. Or giving someone your honest opinion even when you know it is not what they want to hear.  I really struggle with this.  

Over the last few years, it seems I have had to do this on a regular basis.  One would think that with continual practice, it might get easier and I suppose in a way it does, but it is never really easy.  Some are worse than others.  "I don't want to be married to you anymore." THE worst. " I am quitting." (a job) "I won't be re-signing my lease, sorry." 

Then there are the disappointing things you have to admit to yourself.  "I did not succeed."  "I can be judgemental." "I am an imperfect being." "I can be lazy." "I can be selfish." "I am impatient." "I weigh ... WHAT?" "Am I a good enough mother?" "Could I be a better mother/daughter/partner/friend?" 

The lead up to these revelations and announcements are perhaps worse than the actual words that are uttered.  The fear of the reaction.  The fear of your own reaction.  The fear of the consequence. That's a lot of fear.  It has been said that we are only motivated by two things in life - fear and love.  Think about that.  Hard to argue with, ain't it?  We fear so many things.  Rejection. Humiliation. Embarrassment. Poverty. Loneliness. Change. The list goes on.  We want to be accepted, loved, liked, appreciated, needed, wanted, desired.  If we do this or do that or say this or say that, what is at risk? 

So, we put off the truths.  We ignore the voice in our head that is always there.  There are times when that voice gets louder and times when we can barely hear it.  The denial of the voice is where many of us spend the most time.  Suppressing the voice takes many forms.  We bury it with distractions like over-work, alcohol, over-eating, over-scheduling, obsessive compulsions, mindless television watching, over-exercise, drugs - you name it, we avoid it with something. That numbing can go on for years or even forever.  But, the crazy thing is, the voice never goes away. It is always there if we allow ourselves to be conscious.

Being conscious and remaining conscious is kind of like losing weight and maintaining the weight loss.  The latter part is always the most difficult.  It is a practice.  One that you can't just expect to happen without effort.  It is not easy.  By the time we finally perfect the practice, we are old.  That is if we ever get there at all.  Surely the reason that the words "wise" and "old" are always strung together; comfortable like two peas in a pod.  There are some exceptions to this - the occasional souls who figure it all out when they are young but generally speaking, the road to conscious living takes longer for the average person.

One example in my own life has been the number of years I have been ignoring the voice that keeps telling me I would benefit from a meditation practice.  I have stubbornly fought this voice for as long as I can remember.  I had a teacher in high school who recommended it.  He was my definition of the coolest teacher ever.  He was young, a recent teacher's college graduate and he wore his hair a bit long and he taught Man in Society and World Religions.  He also taught an Astrology course at the night school level and I enrolled in that course out of curiosity and my school girl crush on him.  He also meditated regularly.  How cool was that?  I wanted to be like him. Wise like him. So, I joined a yoga class and I tried to meditate.  But at 17 and 18, I was more interested in being "awake" in other ways.  It seemed boring and slow to me.  If I was going to move my body, it best be vigorously and slowing my mind - well that was near impossible.  I put yoga and meditation in the mental pile with golf and crosswords - something I could do when I retired.

Over the years, I have made several attempts to re-visit this, but still found it too difficult. Too time-consuming. Too slow.  Too boring. Too hippy-dippy. Too, too, too something.  Yet, the voice keeps nagging me.  It just won't go away.  I know I need to listen now.  I do feel it is time.  So, I am making a plan to start.  This summer, surrounded by the beauty of beautiful British Columbia, I am going to take the time and the amazing opportunity I will have to finally begin what will hopefully become a life-long practice.  

Amen - or rather Ohhhmmmmm to that!

I won the Big Bag of Cash!

OK, so I tried to anyway! I have tried many many times to get through to CHFI for this contest but never have any luck getting through.  So, this morning, I thought if I wrote that headline just before they announced the "be the fifteenth caller now", it might be like a form of positive thinking or something like that.  The notion that if you think and act like you have already won, it will happen.  Clearly, I was not thinking hard enough.  

The other day the woman from Toronto who won the big lotto max prize of 40 million was on the  news doing her crazy happy dance...and I don't use the term "crazy" loosely in this case.  Is it just me or was she a little "too" crazy?  Who is to say really?  We all express ourselves and our emotions differently.  In fact, she was probably just being authentic, but her authenticity made me uncomfortable for some reason.  She seemed a bit out of control and being out of control is one of my own personal issues, so I suppose I found her behaviour disturbing and annoying because I myself would have behaved with far more composure.  She triggered something in me.  

I imagined her incapable of being able to handle such a large prize.  She will probably spend it on all the wrong things, I thought.  She will be one of those winners who finds themselves broke again in a couple of years or sooner.  I would know how to spend it.  That's why I deserve to win it.  Not some loony tunes woman.  I started to examine my thinking and it occurred to me that my desire to want to control how she spends her winnings was just as insane as her "out of control" happy dance.  It is like telling a homeless person how to spend the toonie you just tossed in their cup.  You cannot.  If it goes toward another bottle of gut-rot, it just does.  We cannot give to receive the results "we" desire.  The gift is the giving. Full stop.

Why was I judging this woman?  I did not know her.  At all. I had no right to judge her.  She may be a perfectly normal person.  She just collected a cheque for 40 million dollars - is it any wonder she was a little out of control?  Her physical appearance was very modest.  She wore no jewelry or make-up and her hair was long and loosely pulled off her face in a thick pony tail.  It appeared she had made little effort for the TV cameras.  She looked like a typical traditional Italian or Portuguese house wife.  A bit bulky.  Someone's Nona.   Turns out she did have grandchildren - 5, I think it was. She was only 51.  One of the things she planned to do was take them to Disney World.  A dream that she was likely unable to fulfill the day before.  Good on her. Maybe that would be her plan.  Just keep giving and giving and giving to her family like she always has.  Anything else might feel foreign to her.  Perhaps that role is so entrenched in her psyche she would not even consider alternative uses for her new found wealth.

In any case, I will not have any control over what she does or does not do with her cash.  A friend of mine suggested it was good to see her win it rather than some rich dude that did not need it.  I doubt that rich dudes bother buying lottery tickets.  Still, my favourite lottery win story of all time was the old couple about 2 years ago in the US that won big and gave away every cent, citing they already had everything they needed...each other.  

They had already won before they won.  How about that?

Now playing on the Humber River...

The salmon are working their way up the Humber right now. I have been watching them for the past two weeks now. I never tire of this entertainment.  Today was exceptionally busy. However, of the hundred or more I witnessed struggling to jump the many sets of falls, I only saw two make it for certain. These determined fish are so fascinating to me. I urge you to get down there soon before the spectacle has passed for another season. 

Pausing in Gananoque

What's the point if we are just going to die anyway?  That is the thought I often have when someone I know dies young or suddenly.  Then, almost as quickly, my next thought is, "Holy shit, better get living.!" Then I start to question the meaning of that.  Generally speaking, I think I am, but is what I am doing from day to day really living?  Is it "living like you are dying"?, as the song goes.

Or, is it just simply trying to be grateful for each day you are still breathing?  I think that is important, but what about making a contribution?  What constitutes that?  Was I a good friend today?  Was I a loving mother today?  Was I a giving partner?  Was I kind to a stranger?  Are those important enough?  Did I squander my talents today?  Ahhhh!  Felt a twinge of guilt on that one.  Ouch. But there is the rub.  What is my talent?  Really.  There are a few things I am good at. But, would one define it as "talent"?  I suppose if you graded me or tested me, or liked the results of something I provided for you, that could be considered.  Why are we so hard on ourselves?  Why do I think I need to win an award for my talents or write a best seller or turn out some sort of child prodigy to make my life count?

I know that is unrealistic thinking, but underneath it all I do harbour those thoughts.  If only I could just do this or do that or be this or be that, then my life will have meant something.  Well, who the hell decided those were the rules?  And ain't that just one way of looking at it?  What mere mortal cast that notion in stone?  

A friend of mine lost her husband last week.  It was a sudden and tragic accident.  Life as she once knew it just days ago is over.  This has me all stirred up again.  Another friend lost her husband in January.  And yet another had a very close call with hers last month.  Is it any bloody wonder I am in such a place right now contemplating life and death and what it all means.  It's messy and murky and heavy and sad.  But it also brings up the opposite.  It makes me not want to waste a moment.  Feel joy deeply. Hug. Smile. Laugh. Sing. Dance. Have fun. Never regret.

I drove to Toronto from Ottawa today.  I had a lovely visit with my daughter who is at university there.  We hugged. A lot. On the way home we had no real deadline to get to the city and as we approached Gananoque, I said, "let's check out this place, I have actually never stopped here."  It was such an awesome surprise.  We practically had the waterfront to ourselves as the lingering winter winds continued their harsh attack over the water, but we braved the stroll along the point and took a few snaps and felt the fresh frigid air on our cheeks.  "We are alive," I thought silently.  Cold, but alive.  The sun was bright in the crisp clear blue sky and the water looked choppy and clean enough to drink.  We read the historic plaques and put our hoods up and imagined the abandoned beach filled with happy splashing children come summer.  But for today, it was empty and ours. The few of the thousand islands we could see from the shoreline looked inviting but untouchable from our position on the beach.  I wondered about the fortunate cottage owners who would populate them in summer.  What fun it must be to boat to your little island and enjoy the serenity and isolation they afford.

On days you get bored or in a mood to be around people, you could motor over to Gananoque and stroll around, visit a gallery, eat ice cream.  The idyllic vision of that life danced gently through my mind as we worked our way across the waterfront park.  A small lighthouse that was likely really not a working tower but more a decorative feature created another vision of living an alternative lifestyle as a lighthouse keeper.  A dream tucked in the corner of my mind for years now.  Few, if any real lighthouses actually employ a full-time keeper anymore, but it is such a romantic notion that I just can't let it go.  In my imagination it is still possible.

It was time to get warm, so we got back into the car, the interior warmed by the noon day sun and made our way into town for lunch.  A few locals milled about the main street and we noticed a fairly steady stream of people coming and going from the Panache Bakery Cafe.  That would be the spot we figured.  We were right.  Homemade soups, sandwiches, baked goods and a seat at the counter facing the street in the window to watch the passing parade was just what the doctor ordered.  Warm at last.  It was probably a good thing the weather was as cold as it was as we surely would have wanted to stay and linger in Gananoque all afternoon otherwise.

The excursion to this lovely town on the north shore of Lake Ontario near Kingston was just the soul food I needed.  Soaking in the charm and beauty of this lakeside town fed me.  I was grateful for the nourishment.  I found it hard to believe I had never been here, having driven by the exit signs so many times on the drive across the 401 to Ottawa or Montreal.  This is exactly the reminder I needed.  The reminder that there is always something new to discover in this life. Something new to appreciate.  Something new to learn. Something to excite me.  Something to get passionate about.

And that is living.