Swirling Deb

My best friend is out swirling tonight. She texted me a photo of herself and another friend of mine at a gala affair I was invited to in Toronto with the tag line - Wish you were here!  Swirling. That is what we used to call it back in the day. Back in the day referring to the period of our life that we spent living in Banff...where we met. It would be an understatement to say that we swirled occasionally  We were young. In our early twenties. It was just the way it was. If we were not working or sleeping or skiing or hiking or riding our bicycles, we were swirling. 

Swirling could be as tame as a night out with just a few drinks and calling it an early night, or as crazy as losing count how many drinks, how many tokes, and dancing until the wee hours and polishing that off with a private party back at someone's pad till we crashed. Apparently I was a champion swirler according to my BFF. When my marriage was collapsing, she said I had stopped being that fun Deb - the swirler she knew and loved.  Marriage had suffocated that Deb. She was probably right. But, I also saw it as growing up and being responsible. I had a child. I needed to set an example. And I did. I don't know that I really fooled my kid. She did manage to figure out that her mother had a past, but for the most part, I tucked that swirling Deb away for about 20 years. It was likely good for my health and good for raising a daughter to be a responsible citizen, but even though I tucked her away, there was always a part of her itching to resurface.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to go back to that kind of life. I am too old and too health conscious now to abuse myself that way. But what I have resurrected in recent years is some of that old swirling spirit. It is not always easy to let her out. I worry it would embarrass the people around me, so I sort of contain her, reel her in a bit, but the truth is, I want to let er rip sometimes. I love dancing. I just finished dancing alone. In my kitchen. Music loud. A tall Mount Gay Rum and Stevia Cola with lime (a healthy Cuba Libre). Moving my body, slightly buzzed, no one watching. Bliss. Me and Tom Cruise...a Risky Business moment. Feeling more me than me.

It is almost like good sex. In fact, it could surely be a prelude to good sex. Feeling in touch with your body, your senses aroused. Music is a big part of 'swirling Deb'. It is a mandatory component.  I watched a movie last night called Peace, Love and Understanding with Jane Fonda and Catherine Keener. The movie was not really very good but the character played by Jane Fonda, an aging hippie who had been at Woodstock, supposedly had an affair with Bob Dylan and lived her entire life essentially always swirling even into her old age made me pause. She had not compromised herself, not for anyone or anything. Had I?

Bloody right I had. I became who I thought society and my parents wanted me to be. I played the game. I joined the right clubs, volunteered for the right organizations, wore twin sets even. Holy fucking Hanna! Really? I mean, I did not turn into a total Stepford wife, but I came damn close. I did everything but rejoin the bloody Catholic Church.  That was NEVER going to happen even though I sent my kid to a good Mic school and played along with the bullshit. Mostly I just wanted her to be able to make Christmas and Easter crafts at school and be in the Nativity pageant and learn about Christianity before making up her own mind about religion. I was raised Catholic and even though I now think it is a total pile of crap, I still like the Christian holidays and wanted her to enjoy them too. However, that is a whole other blog - I digress. 

Back to swirling. So the girls are out tonight swirling - adult style without me. Mostly I am just sad that I am not there with them. But what really struck me was the fact that lately, I have mostly been thinking about how much I am going to miss my friends and family, but it had not really occurred to me that they were actually going to miss me too. Especially since they all know that the old swirling Deb is kinda back. 

This time I must be sure not to lose her again. 

Swirling Deb. The Deb we all know and love. 

Tattooed on my Heart

Minus 2 degrees Celsius this morning. If ever there was a sign it was time to leave, this was it. This cool crisp morning; unseasonable for this time of year in Kelowna, called for some layering up for my walk to the Sunshine Market. Living on an uphill slope affords one lovely views, but when it comes to walking, it is next to impossible to avoid some uphill climbs. Good exercise for sure, but sometimes I yearn for a flat track. It is a 2 km trot downhill for provisions...followed by the same 2 kms back up. I have done it a few times this summer, not as often as I should have but at least I did not let it scare me off completely.

The downhill portion is easy, needless to say with only an odd twinge in my shins as any downhill trekking will cause on my aging bones. I set out at a brisk pace, my layers not quite as warm as I had hoped. I followed the now familiar Chute Lake Road down past a few blocks of houses, round the bend past the organic winery, a couple of cherry and peach orchards and the intersection of Lakeshore Road and down another slope to the market. 

As I contemplated the changing scenery, I noticed I was following a set of deer hoof prints all along the shoulder of the road. There was something lovely about that. The doe (I made the assumption it was a she by the delicate nature and size of the tracks) had journeyed down this exact path very recently. Clearly, we humans did not own the road. I smiled at that thought. As I got closer to the market the tracks ended. I stopped and paused and looked to the left where it looked like she had turned. I squinted and strained my eyes looking down the shadowy rows of peach trees to see if I could spot her moving along the dewy long grass that ran along the rows, but she had vanished I guessed. She had likely set out earlier than I did.

The open market farm stand where I had stopped many times over the summer to buy lush ripe cherries by the pound was vacant. Closed for the season. The sign by the drive at the next orchard that invited you to pick your own peaches had been taken down. All around me, the signs were glaringly obvious. Summer was over. Fall was well underway and the temperature was foreshadowing what would inevitably come...cold and snow. Canadian winter.

However, for now, the last hurrah of colour was surrounding me and I was grateful for the cooler air on my ascent back up the road. The grapes that had hung heavily just a few short weeks ago, were snipped and gone leaving rows and rows of thick leaved vines, their job done for the season. As I was scanning the rows for any grapes that had been missed, I nearly stepped on a dead bird at the side of the road. Whenever I come across any sort of dead bird or animal, for some reason it always startles me and causes me to jump. This bird was particularly frightening to me, it's neck was twisted, the beak wide open and facing upward as though in its last moments it was beseeching the sky to rescue him. Maybe seeing sights such as these are reminders of our own mortality. One minute you're flying around, the world is your oyster and the next minute you're laying on the ground, not really ready to meet your maker but your time is up. 

Shaking off the aura of death, I continued along, wishing now I had left a layer behind, my bag of apples from a local orchard weighing me down a bit. At about the two thirds mark, I turned to admire the view. The view I see almost everyday as my car heads into town. It is always a  moment I love as I turn the corner and Okanagan Lake appears off in the distance flanked by the surrounding mountains. It is like a postcard. Picture perfect in every way. I never tire of it. It lifts my spirits even on a cloudy day. I stopped to take a shot like an addict who just cannot get enough - water views my drug of choice. The opposite side of the road where I stood is lined with old willow trees, their sweeping long tendrils falling like a curtain of green along the roadside. More beauty. 

Up past the willows, brilliant russet Sumac cried out to have their picture taken as well, so I stopped once again. It occurred to me this morning's journey was like a Canadian send-off. The flora, the fauna, the water and the mountains doing their very best to imprint their images in my mind asking me to never forget them. Take us with you. Remember us.

Not to worry my home and native land. You are a part of me like a maple leaf tattooed on my heart.

And that, unlike the autumn leaves, can never change, eh?

Turkey Talk

Earlier today as I enjoyed a peaceful late afternoon walk through my neighborhood admiring the fall colours and feeling the cool autumn air on my face, I was suddenly distracted by a conversation taking place on the street between a couple. It was an emotional confrontation, the woman's voice growing louder and more agitated the closer I got.

She was spewing about the fact that she had discovered her entire family was gathering this Thanksgiving weekend and she had not been invited. She was full of anger and as I passed I heard her saying she wouldn't go even if they did invite her now. She was clearly upset and the fellow listening allowed her angry words to fly from her mouth seemingly knowing she needed to vent. As I continued along my way silently, it made me think about families. Families and their ability to arouse our emotions in such a way. She was behaving angrily but what she was really feeling was hurt. Big hurt. My heart went out to her.

It made me wonder how many others will be hurting this Thanksgiving weekend. A time that is supposed to bring families together, like other holidays, is a recipe for disaster for many. It made me grateful knowing I would be having dinner with my brother and his wife and their kids and spouses and my great niece.  I know it will be fun and boisterous and I look forward to spending my Thanksgiving with them. This is a rare occasion as we have not been in the same part of the country for many years for this weekend. My daughter will be missing, so we will try to Skype her in so she can partake.  Long distance calls will be made to grandparents across the country this year - a departure from the norm.

This will be the first of many departures from the norm for me in the next few months. I can get very melancholic about these breaks from tradition.  Change can be challenging. It can also be refreshing. Sometimes I wonder if traditions aren't overhyped. Doing the same thing year after year can get stale. Often we attend these family affairs out of a sense of obligation. I know a woman who in recent years decided to forgo the annual turkey fest with the family to spend 3 days hiking the Bruce Trail instead. Long weekends are few and far between and when you think about it, she now makes a much healthier choice both physically and mentally. I have often thought that these annual holidays would be better if they were less frequent - every 2-3 years perhaps. Especially Christmas. That is one holiday that could come every 5 years as far as I am concerned. At least Thanksgiving is just about sharing a meal and the company of family or friends. No gifts. No big panic for perfection. 

So, whether you are heading home for mom's pumpkin pie or trying something new this year, I wish you all a Happy Turkey Day filled with fun and love. 

Get stuffed. Your way.

Still Under Construction

The farewell tour is over. At least the Ontario version. The last 10 days were a blur of appointments and socializing. Glasses were clinked. Stories were shared. Tears were shed. Hugs were lasting and passionate. No perfunctory pecks or weak embraces. No - these were the kind of hugs you never wanted to end. The type you give when you are not sure when the next one will occur. Hugs between family and friends that mean something. 

I even walked by my old house for one last look. When I left for BC in June, the new owners had started to renovate. They are making slow progress. It is difficult to tell what the actual design plan is at this stage. Not sure where they are going with it. As I stood across the street observing the various changes, it occurred to me that the house was a metaphor for my own life. 

Under construction. Final outcome - a mystery.

My dear friend Margot was with me surveying the half-renovated structure. I asked her to let me know when it is completed. The landscaping will surely follow the changes to the house. My once well-tended, much loved garden is pretty much a disaster. I figure it will be at least spring before the place is finished. It was a relief to know I still have some more time to finish my own life transformation. Perhaps by springtime, my new life will be more settled. Fresh starts all around. 

Already, there is not really much that resembles the old house. All that really remains is the foundation and the memories that linger silent within its walls.

Not unlike me.

There is a handy book for writers called I Never Metaphor I didn't Like. Here's hoping I can live up to that title.

I can't Cope...or Can I?

I firmly believe that things happen for a reason and that the universe presents messages to us almost constantly.  It does require keeping a sort of low grade awareness about you, as they can easily be missed with all the daily distractions in our lives.  It takes practice and the ability to interpret the messages. If I did not believe this, my life would not have changed over the last few years at all.  It was when I started to listen to them. I mean really listen to them that change was able to manifest.

Fear can be a harsh taskmaster. It is without a doubt what prevents most people from moving forward. The known present is so much safer than the unknown future. As we age, it becomes more so. "What ifs" clog our progress and keep us stuck.  Leaps of faith are far more frightening as the years pass.  At 21 or 31 or even 41 we are more courageous. The thinking that we still have so much time left helps. But something happens north of 50. We are less inclined to take risks.  We become a little set in our ways.  Change rattles us more. Routines give us comfort. For the most part it works, but for many, like me, there is a yearning for more. More adventure, more stimulation, more experience.

I watched a movie last night called The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.  The basic premise of the film is a handful of English retirees who due to financial circumstances are drawn to an ad to come and live at said hotel, a seemingly exotic place, for very little money. Like most ads, it portrays itself as far more luxurious than it really is and when these folks arrive and see the state of their new home. each character copes in a distinct fashion. Some much better than others.  

It really got  me to thinking about the next change in my life.  I have spent many months contemplating my move to Queensland.  It is so far away. What if I need to come back to Canada in a hurry? What if I find the semi-tropical climate unbearable? What if my new relationship does not work out? What if I have problems immigrating? What if I become ill? What if there really are snakes everywhere? What if, what if, what if, what if, what if.....??? The list is endless. 

Twenty or thirty years ago, I would not have given these things a second thought. The truth is, I am still healthy. I do have the means to hop on a plane in an emergency. I have been dreading and despising the cold Canadian winters for many years now. My relationship is wonderful. My daughter has given me her blessing. Go live your life mom. (she is amazing!) Still, despite all these positives, old MRS. FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN will suddenly weasel her way into my thinking from time to time but as the days pass, she makes fewer and fewer appearances. 

Watching that movie last night really was one of those  messages from the universe. I think it was Judy Dench's character that said it was all in the coping. How one is able to cope with the changes made all the difference. She did not paint a romantic unrealistic picture of her new life in Jaipur, but in the end, her ability to cope is what made her experience positive, unlike Penelope Wilton's character and her inability or even desire to cope that made hers so miserable.

It gave me a real jolt of excitement. A turning point for me almost. The thought of embracing change instead of resisting it. That old cliche of "when in Rome...", is exactly the approach that is needed.  Things will be different there. Not better or worse...just different. Instead of stopping to buy peaches and apples at a roadside stand, now I will buy avocados. Instead of roast turkey at Christmas, shrimps on the barbie perhaps. Fresh water lakes vs the Pacific Ocean. The Big Dipper vs The Southern Cross. Vegemite vs butter tarts. (OK - that may be harder to cope with!)

I keep thinking back to one of my earliest messages from the universe. At the time I did not really see it as such. I had one of those world globes on a stand made of tin. I was about 11 years old at the time and I used to lay on my bed and spin the globe around and around studying all the foreign lands and dreaming of seeing them one day. I dropped it on the floor one night after a too vigorous swirl and dented it. When I picked it up to examine the damage, there was an obvious dent on the pink land mass called Australia. I knew then that one day I would go there. My first trip was in 1979. The second time was 2012.

The third time will be October 26. Perhaps this time, like that dented spot on the globe, I too will leave a more permanent imprint.

Even thinking of a new blog...Upsidedownunder Deb...city gal goes Walkabout!

...it's all in the coping. :)

For Arts Sake

As much as I have been denying it, summer is well and truly over. The down duvet went back on the bed today. As I glimpse to the right of my counter stool I see the fire flickering in the gas fireplace that is the heat source in this "cottage" I have called home for the last few months. My bare feet are pleading for socks or slippers. Time to retire the flip flops I guess. Just as well, as my pedicure is a shameful shadow of it's summer brilliance. Must do something about that I think to myself as I reluctantly root through the closet for warmer footwear. 

When the sun is shining at this time of year I am energized, but today it is rainy and grey and cold, not unlike my mood.  Swinging back and forth all day between brief spurts of energy, I welcome the darkening sky now. It makes me feel justified in my sloth.  It was dinner time before I made the bed, wheeled in the rubbish bins and even worse, combed my hair.  It would have remained in it state of disarray had I not caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror when I went upstairs with the freshly laundered sheets to make the king-sized bed - a chore really made easier with a second set of hands. How it has been done until today.

I decided around 5 pm that the day was a wash. Prior to that, I kept thinking I would get outside, go for a brisk walk with an umbrella but the voices that were prodding me to pull myself together and face the elements were not nearly as strong as the ones that were giving me permission to take a day off from life. A sick day. Even though I am not sick. OK, a mental health day then.  It was not a complete waste of a day. I rooted through some piles of paper and mail that had accumulated the last three months, did a bit of laundry, a bit of banking, stuff like that. I did not turn the TV on, not much of a sacrifice really since I rarely do. Life is about to shift again. This is my battery re-charging I convinced myself.  Amazing how we are able to justify just about anything if we try hard enough.

I was up in the night. Sleepless. Somewhat near Seattle. Instead of counting sheep, I watched a few Ted Talks on my ipad until I started to nod off again.  I tend to go for the inspirational ones. They are not kidding. Some of them really are. Problem is by the time I woke up this morning, I forgot what it was I was supposed to incorporate into my life to be happier or less stressed or more creative. Tidbits remain floating around in my sub-conscious brain surely.  Hunched down, waiting to pounce into consciousness at just the right moment. That's my hope anyway. Like the "moment of brilliance" between the first and second bottle of wine.

I did listen to Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love and it made me admire her even more than I did before. Her talk focused on the creative process and how creative people are somewhat marginalized in our society as being a bit crazy (I am paraphrasing here) but there is a stigma attached to artists. People in more traditional jobs and careers wonder how they do it. Aren't you afraid of failure or obscurity? What if you never succeed (referring to financial success for the most part)? She proposes that no one should be afraid to do what they were meant to do, no matter what their talent. No one ever asked her father if he was afraid to pursue his career in chemical engineering. But tell someone you are a musician or a dancer or a writer and right away the questioning begins. How will you make a living doing THAT? 

It is preposterous when you think about it really. The truth is, trying to fit into someone else's mold of who you should be is the real tragedy. It is akin to living a heterosexual life when you are really gay. I bet there are millions of closet artists out there working as accountants or lawyers or construction workers or nurses because they felt pressured by their parents or their community or society in general to comply. To put their "foolish" dreams aside and work in a "normal" job or profession.

I have been working very hard the last few years to banish this kind of thinking from my brain. Someone once said if you want to be a writer...start writing. So I did. And, I started writing this blog. It  has no real purpose. It is just an outlet for me. It is like practicing scales on the piano. (hated that as a kid), but it does make you a better piano player. The difference between playing piano scales and writing this blog are in the discipline. Scale practice requires discipline. This blog does not. I have complete freedom here. I can do it when the mood strikes. No one will care if I do it or not. Some times I even wonder myself why I bother doing it. All I know is that while I am doing it, it feels like I am being me. 

Now, if only I could get paid for being me....:)

And remember that whatever discipline you are in, whether you are a musician or a photographer, a fine artist or a cartoonist, a writer, a dancer, a designer, whatever you do you have one thing that's unique. You have the ability to make art.

And for me, and for so many of the people I have known, that's been a lifesaver. The ultimate lifesaver. It gets you through good times and it gets you through the other ones.

Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do.

Make good art.

-Neil Gaiman-

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.