X-Files…part 2 of 4

I was raised in the modest 2 story house (where Life at 139 takes place) from the time I was just 3 years  old until I left home, for the final time in '86. Unlike most of my generation, I was a rebound boarder periodically returning to live in my parental home, for a year or so, every now and again.

Yes, I really did this to my poor parents.
 I hope they enjoyed my company as much as I did theirs - not being sarcastic either. 

Mom remained in the home for four more years after our Dad's death. An incident one cold and bitter night in 2006 convinced us that, short of having one of her five children with her 24/7 (which she absolutely did not want) it was no longer safe for her to stay there. But, that is a story for another time.

I should add that, not only was the stairway (mentioned in the story that follows) dark; the stairs leading to the upper floor were slippery as ice. A few non-Thackers who butt-slid from the top of the landing to the bottom of the flight in one fell swoop.…more than once, can attest to that. A bi-weekly ritual of Mom's was to wax the wood floors until they shone with a blinding light. Only when the landing became too crowded with boxes, full of their fledged childrens' items, did the stairway get omitted, yet the treads still retained their smooth, slick surface.

Mom was old school. Rubbing polish into the wood on hands and knees was the way it was done followed by a once or twice over with the floor polisher. When it came time to clear out the family home no fewer than 3 floor polishers were unearthed; all in various stages of disrepair. By the time the first one finally died new flooring material had made such appliances obsolete. Dad, ever the proud hunter/gatherer that he was, scoured the neighbourhoods on dump days for replacements. Most lasted for a few months before kicking off. When he finally gave up the hunt, Mom just dragged the lightest (still about 20 pound) relic back and forth over the dining room floor and hallway.

Back to X-Files part 2 of a 4 part story…

*        *        *

So begrudgingly, twenty bass driven minutes later, and paradoxically calmer I arrive unannounced on a cold and dark night. There I am on Mom and Dad’s doorstep, standing in the rain, waiting for them to respond to the sound of my fist banging on the aluminum base of their screen door. I fear this noise will wake up the neighbours gently tucked into their beds, but not my folks probably dozing in front of the T.V. in “theatre number one” a.k.a. the family room. Except for the blue haze that emanates from the front window it is pitch black inside.

Just last year my husband installed an overhead light above the stair well leading up to the second floor bedrooms. He comes from good lighting stock. His father, also a contractor, instilled in Rod from a tender age, the appreciation of abundant illumination.

“How did you manage to go up the stairs without light all those years?” he asks.

I think, what an odd question. “We counted the stairs and the steps to our beds.” Duh, didn’t everyone. In hearing myself I begin to think, maybe this was a little odd. My mother didn’t like overhead lighting of any kind - though I don’t know why, so all the wiring was capped and tiny bedside table lamps complete with cellophane wrapped shades were placed in the farthest corners of each room. God forbid anything got moved in the space in between the two locations. I think it was her way of forcing us to keep our bedrooms neat - put your things away or else break your necks.

The pride Rod felt in solving what he had deemed the “lighting problem”was obvious as we all stood at the base of the stair watching him demonstrate with a flourish how with the flick of a switch the light fourteen feet above us would be activated. And their reactions! Well, you would have thought he had invented light itself, they were so in awe. Of course we all knew that he would be the only person who would ever use it, but we didn’t tell him this. Didn’t want to spoil his moment.

                 I bang out again our family code  - knock   knock …knock-knock,  knock … knock   knock then shout, “Mom, Dad, it’s me Nance” then peer through the scalloped window, the kind that allows you to see only ghostly images on the brightest of days, and I see a scene straight out of the X-Files. The beam of a flash light jumps and stumbles along the walls of the living room.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Chris’ sake. Give me a chance will ya. Keep your pants on”  The beam cuts wildly out of control through the darkness. “Shit! Goddam it all to hell. Who put that there?” 

I’m shivering pretty uncontrollably by now as he the clicks and jiggles the handle wrestling  with the door he’s confronted on a daily basis for nearly 50 years. “Jesus Murphy ...” a choppy stream of swear words accompanies his efforts. When he finally succeeds, I’m met with a piercing beam of light aimed straight at my eyeballs. We’re stalemated there for a some seconds, silence coming from his end of the beam as I bob and weave my head out of the line of fire.

“Dad. Hi its me, Nance.” I put my hand in front of my face averting my eyes, but it is no use so I give up, drop my arms down by my sides and just stand there squinting.

With beam still fixed on my face, he peers closer; shivering I wait. “Nance?... it’s you ... Hi. Hi. What are you doing standing out in the rain? You’re drenched. Come in. Come in.” He waves me inside, beam gesturing wildly, creating a strobe effect in my brain.

Once my eyes adjust to the dark I ask, “Dad, why is it so dark in here?”

“It is?”

“Um,” gesturing to the flashlight in his hands, “yeah.” and then to the cloak of darkness around us.

“Oh ... OH” my question goes unanswered as he flicks some switches with slight distraction. And there is light - outside. The light over the front porch and then the lamppost at the end of the walkway now proudly shine. Without asking why I’m on his doorstep at 11:30 at night, it somehow seems perfectly normal to him, he motions me in to the living room after I’ve taken off my jacket and boots with the assistance of his somewhat shaky beam.

“Come on in” he says throwing his arms open with a warm expansiveness. “We’re just about to put your mother’s eye drops in.” With light still in hand he begins to sweep me in the direction of the living room.

I wince at the thought, “Dad, I can’t ...”

He stops in his tracks, “What? You don’t have time to visit your old Dad?”

I heave a sigh, “O.K. but only for a minute. I’ve got to put together your docette.”

“Nance you don’t have to do that.”

“If I don’t, who will?”

He pauses. His arms drop. Deflated he shakes his head, his lips purse and tears threaten as, I realize, inadvertently we’re caught short by the memory of the day the torch of this task passed into my hands.

“Look, Dad,” I say as I place my hand on his arm. “It’s O.K. Let’s go in and see Mom.” We nod in  silent conspiracy to proceed as if this conversation had never taken place…(TO BE CONTINUED)

PANTS ON FIRE

My sister-in-law posted on FB a picture of one of the Minions from Despicable Me saying, "Just once in my life I'd actually like to see a liar's pants catch on fire."

Loved it!

But then I got to thinking…we'd all be running around like human torches, hurling ourselves into rivers, streams and oceans to douse the flames. The intensity of the fires and the steam rising from buttocks being extinguished would contribute substantially to global warming.

We all lie from time to time but, what makes a lie become a truth.

© Nance Thacker 1990
I found a pile of roughed cartoons and I'm in the process of inking them.

We've all had them, those holidays from hell. Nothing goes in our favour. It's nobody's fault. Or, maybe we've slipped into a frustration induced, period of incompatibility with our travel companions and we're ready to strangle each other. We simmer and seethe for the duration of our return trip home. 

If there is any effort to converse at all, all that passes for conversation is "Humpf" or "What - e - ver" - delivered with "tsk", sigh and eye roll for maximum effect. If you, like me, are of the white Anglo Saxon persuasion then the WASP fight consisting of deafening silence is most likely to be your choice.

What a waste of money THAT trip was! you're all thinking.

But once we're back home, ask us how our trip was and, dollars to donuts, you'll hear, "great"… "good"… or at the very least "OK".

What's happened here? Is it taboo to admit we've had a shitty time? Are we averse to sounding like whiners? If we tell the flat out truth that, "The f***ing trip was f***ing horrible", does it make us sound ungrateful for the opportunity that we've had to even have had a shitty vacation? After all some people never get away anywhere and here we are complaining. What nerve! 

Do we play the consensual game wherein holiday = great time, so we try to keep up with, or even surpass, the Joneses with tales of great adventures that all would envy? In my younger days, before I'd experienced any intimate relationships, I seriously believed (because they made it sound so romantic) that every holiday any couple I ever knew had been on, was INCREDIBLE!  

OK, so I was a bit naive. One of the big attractions of being "in a relationship" was to share in travelling adventures like…well, like Jonathan and Jennifer Hart in that TV show HART TO HART (that ran from 1979 - 1984). Maybe solve a crime or two along the way; not criminally offend the consensual code with a shitty experience.

Jonathan and Jennifer Hart gasp in horror at the very idea
that their trip could be anything other than fabulous

What if we're not glossing over our difficulties at all? Somehow the good times (as meagre as they may be) have risen like cream to the top. We scrape off these stories, embellish their magnificence, and with each re-telling our belief in the truth of we had a great time becomes so increasingly strong that it comes to embody the essence of our whole experience.

Is it a mark of resilience or a default mechanism that our inner Jonathans and Jennifers survive un-singed, bonded more deeply, and ready to tackle yet more adventures?

Yea, it's National ________ Day!

Wow, I don't know about you but I'm exhausted! Face Book (aka FB) has opened up a whole new world to me. I have connected with long lost university housemates, promoted my dream classes and workshops on my FB site AWAKENING CHOICE DREAMS, most recently my class on CONSCIOUS DREAMING - Dreaming Story on my events page, shared posts of social importance, and participated in many lively, and (mostly inane) debates just between old friends. And, don't get me started on how seriously I take my responsibility to pass on videos: extolling cat love, cute animal "aw" inducing tales, and those inspiring sagas of interspecies couplings…yes, why can't we be more tolerant, accepting, and loving, just like them?

But…that's not all FB has to offer me.

No sir-eee!

How could I not know that the world is full of amazing celebrations, and I'm invited? Celebrations, that were heretofore only enjoyed by a very exclusive set, are (with a few exceptions) now open to one and all; we're all invited. That means you too!

Why, just a few weeks ago, it was National Friendship Week, which occurs pretty much every few months. Then there was National Crochet Your Chicken a Sweater Week, I could barely contain my enthusiasm for that one. I swear I could hear the yarn spinning through the hooks and smell the smoke coming off of them, due to the world-wide frenzy that ensued.

National Left-handers Day gave some of you "righties" a well deserved break, but not me. This southpaw partied like there was no tomorrow, displaying her sinistral skills to the amazement, nay, astonishment of envious right-handers who had the good fortune to gaze upon her. I had to resort to using my right hand for days afterwards…but since I'm fairly ambidextrous it's not such a big deal. Say, there must be a day for ambidextrites (is that a word?) too!

It seemed that there was no let-up in sight as just yesterday I was told that…Today is National Short Girl Appreciation Day. Which brings back, ah yes, such joyous memories.

© Nance Thacker 1984

Why are tall men and short women attracted to each other? I've had tall boyfriends. One was 6 feet tall (182.88 cm) ; another 6 foot 4 inches tall (193.04 cm). For all intents and purposes, I'm 4'10" (177.8 cm) - actually 4 foot, nine and ¾ inches to be exact but let's just round that up. Hmm…I just found out that I qualify as a very tall "little" person… there's the internet for you.

Anyway, I got caught up in the attraction thing for a while but I found out that it wasn't what it was cracked up to be. One day, I caught sight of the reflections of Mr 6'4" walking hand in hand with Ms 4 foot 9 and ¾ inches in a store window. With my elbow bent at an awkward angle and dangling above my shoulder it looked like it he had custody for the day and was taking his kid out (I looked way younger than my years back then).

But dancing? That's the worst! Have you ever had to endure a full dance being carried around the dance floor? Well, I have. Then there was the guy I met at a university dance, held in the residence hallway, who spent the whole night on his knees so that we could converse eye to eye. He later danced with me while on his knees. I knew that, that relationship would last only as long as his knees could hold out.

But, my all time favourite was the guy with weak abs, that thought the best way to deal with the situation was to lean his full weight over and onto my shoulders. As the music droned on and on, his core gave out, I felt like a participant in the dance marathon from the scene in *THEY SHOOT HORSES DON'T THEY?



O.K. maybe I'm being a little bit overdramatic…but, now that I have someone with whom I can dance, with my head resting on his shoulder…after such traumatic experiences if he threatens to take me in his embrace for a dance, I'll wrestle him to the floor.

*       *       *

* On a serious note THEY SHOOT HORSES DON'T THEY is a very good movie about the dance marathon craze in the '20's and '30's. My Mom was a kid then and she remembered hearing about such events being held during the "dust bowl" days in the USA. As I understand it, people would compete because they got food and lodging during the competition, they achieved a little bit of fame, and the cash rewards for the winners were relatively substantial.
"It seems unbelievable now but there were once fifteen thousand people – promoters, emcees, floor judges, trainers, nurses, cooks, janitors, cashiers, ticket-takers, publicity agents, promotion men, musicians, contestants and even a lawyer – whose main source of income over a number of years came from endurance shows." High Times Hard Times, Anita O'Day, pg. 34.

Ack, say it isn't so

I'm reading Amanda Palmer's THE ART of ASKING and it's taking me down memory lane. Parallels of her life's experience collide with my earlier life as a struggling cartoonist/yoga teacher/artists' model/house-sitter living in Victoria in the early '80's.

What resonates most for me right now is her struggle to accept help offered in monetary form. I suspect that if you have never been an artist you might have difficulty understanding this particular challenge especially when the whole point of being a "professional" artist is to make your living at it.

The thing is, I (like Amanda) needed help along the way and often it was given. I couldn't afford rent above the $50 that I was paying for my studio space at Xchanges Gallery so I became a house sitter. Many people provided a haven for me between house-sits letting me stay on in a spare room, or couch surf, after they'd returned from their trips. My great friend, confidante and fellow aspiring artist, Bud even house-sat for friends in the country (despite the fact that they really didn't have need of his services) so that I could house-sit for him as I was about to become homeless.

One day I would be a paid cartoonist; able to "pay my own way" using my artistic skills which to me meant having that money go into "my" bank account. When I was in my early twenties I vowed that I'd never get into a committed relationship until I could pay my own way…but fate had other plans.

My father, when he realized that his 34 year old daughter was, seriously, getting married, overturning her heretofore repeated protestations that she'd never get married because she didn't want her "wings clipped", took my intended aside with this advice for matrimonial harmony… "Don't try and make a nine to fiver out of her, it'll never happen." He took Dad's advice and we're still together.

I eventually packed in my aspirations as a cartoonist, and all the associated jobs that I required to support my chosen "profession", and took up what I thought would be a much more profitable profession and still give me the freedom that I required. I became s a Shiatsu Therapist…and I still couldn't pay my own way. Like many alternative health practitioners, I was able to practice only because my work was supported… by my husband.

A fellow therapist said that though she didn't make much money she and her husband felt that she was gaining them financial karmic points. As a result of her services, his business was thriving. Their businesses were intimately linked, not through word of mouth, but rather, her good vibes were drawing clients to him.

I tried that concept on for size as my husband's business did thrive…but I couldn't make it stick.

I tried different venues for my work, added Certified Hypnotist to the mix and threw up a shingle offering hypnosis and Shiatsu in a medical aesthetics clinic in East Oakville, on the "other side" of the creek in my hometown.

This was surreal! If ever there was a fish out of water, it was me.

The women were welcoming and lovely…beautiful, actually…and well turned out, confident and successful. All the things that I was not. I was, as Palmer often judged herself…a fraud. But, I could and would, make this work.

I won't say that things went swimmingly. I spent more time hanging out in a cubicle near the receptionists desk, setting up this blog, than in my own treatment room. I  heard prospective clients interviewed over the phone, shying away from the perfectly effective Shiatsu and hypnosis, opting instead for the insurance coverage of massage therapy and psychotherapy.

Some days no one came into my treatment room but they flocked in for medical aesthetics procedures, massage, psychotherapy - ca ching, ca ching.

My soul was slowly bleeding. I swore I wouldn't supplement my work here with the meagre profits from the home based practice that I still maintained. This vow I kept. The next rent increase was beyond my limit and I was out before a year had gone by. But, let's go back to the early days…

Once the "team" got established the owner/operator put on a pot luck celebration to kick off our venture. I couldn't go. How could I go to the other side of the creek? I didn't fit in…but you can fake it. Haven't you been doing that all the time you've lived in Oakville? 

So, I psyched myself up and went. Surely you can do it for just one night!

"Guess what everyone, I'm treating us all to a psychic! Isn't that great?" our host excitedly announced as we sat down to share our culinary delights.

Everyone was thrilled…but me. I'm going to be busted, I know it.

What were people going to ask about? Money, business ventures, relationships, children; the usual stuff. Each came away from their 15 minutes glowing with reports of success, success, success, success.

And then it was my turn…

I walked in; my spirit trudged in. She asked for my hand and I put my hand in hers. "What do you want to know?"

"Will my business be financially successful?"

And, this is what she said…

© Nance Thacker 2015

"You will always have enough. You know from past experience that you've been supported. You REALLY aren't striving for the same things the others are, are you? You never have. You have always been supported as payment for what you do for others."

Busted.

When asked how it went, I said with a nod, "Great!" And, I think once I got over the initial shock, I meant it. She was right…but I still struggle to accept this from time to time.

NOTE: This is my first strip cartoon in 24 years - WOW
Something I read in Palmer's book yesterday triggered the bit and it wouldn't leave me alone.
"All right, already"
I dug out my old boards and erased an uninked, unfinished rough (found a stash of drawn but unlinked strips that I'd forgotten about) and drew this new one today. 
Amazing! I can draw, ink, take a photo, upload it onto the computer AND get it out into cyberspace all in one day; incredible!
So, it's going on for 2 a.m. (Don't believe the time stamp, still can't figure out how to adjust it to PST. If anybody knows how to do this let me know.)
Can I go to bed now?…
Nothing, I think that's a yes.

Sat Jan 17th 4:00 - Just had to pop in again and thank all those who have supported me, and continue to do so, all those years. I truly am deeply grateful.

ENOUGH

© Nance Thacker 1991

It's 17 months into my husband's retirement, our move to Vancouver Island and scaled down lifestyle.

Over the past few weeks the implications of this reality is finally settling into my bones. 17 months ago we stepped off the treadmill and into the kind of life that many of my friends have repeatedly told me they "can only dream about".

Yet, I've resisted the "R" word. "My husband's retired, not me", I'd protest. But, the reality is that I'm not exactly employed. I've given workshops and classes here and there; many of them for free. I haven't been able to transplant my business here as effortlessly as I'd expected. I've spent more time in developing and promoting my projects (something I don't enjoy) than actually presenting them (which I love), that's the reality of starting over again. And, it's bummed me out, but clearly, enjoyment is tipping the scales against what I don't enjoy and desired financial gain.

I've railed at the idea of retirement until one day it hit me. What am I doing? What am I fighting to maintain? My aspirations for success - what I have striven for all my working life - has been defined by others and has only served to keep me discontented and clinging to a value system that I never embraced. I'm still reaching for the carrot at the end of the stick.

Wait a minute…I've got Stockholm syndrome!

I'm finally freed from my captor yet I keep on defending their notions of: value, self-worth, and responsible engagement in our social, cultural and financial structure.

Arrgh.

Many of my friends are envious of us. How we could just pack it in and drop out? We've always lived simply and been mindful of where our money goes. It's not like we had a lot of bucks at our disposal compared to what financial analysts proclaim one needs to retire "comfortably". It is a matter of dropping all those misconceived notions of having enough.

If we waited until we "had enough" money to retire, we'd still be back in Ontario, doing what we were doing. Face it, you'll never "have enough", until you "have enough" of the striving to "have enough" and realize that you have all you really need.  It's not "freedom 55" but it's enough and that's pretty good!

We came out west while we are in good health, able and young enough to do things we enjoy and discover new things along the way. I'm in the discovery phase and I can proudly say that I'm retiring my old value systems.

I'll still offer workshops and classes until I've had enough and I'll keep exploring and developing other special areas of expertise in this realm of retirement.

I used to think life was a school and so I received many lessons; now I think of it as a place to have fun and I'm enjoying it a lot more.

Retired one definition I found includes: (of a place) quiet and secluded; not seen or frequented by many people.

Cartoon Break III

click on cartoon to enlarge
© Nance Thacker 1984

Some things don't change. I was just thinking I "should" write something for my blog…but I don't feel inspired enough to write. And then my cartoon stash started calling out to me, as it sometimes does when a cartoon thinks it might fit whatever's going on in my life.

So, I went into the kitchen, grabbed myself a small bowl of Tostidos with a hint of lime "flavour" ( I know, can't you just taste the salty goodness in each bite) and a tea, plonked down in front of the computer, began browsing and… there it was.

Yup, that's about as inspired as it gets tonight.

Til next time sleep tight y'all.

Creatively United

On Saturday I Forest Gumped my way, to and through, the Creatively United For the Planet, festival.

"Nance look at the sign behind you." Candy said.
 I was talking about having found a context
for my workshop Flying - a Healing Meditation in Motion

I walked downtown intending to join up with the Earth Walk Parade, starting at Centennial Square, ending up at the festival grounds at St Ann's Academy but, my sister Face Timed me. I tucked into a storefront and sat down on the window ledge to get out of the noisy traffic flow around me. Our conversation included a very quick tour of the street scene and the exterior of the wool shop where I planned to spend "a few minutes to kill" before joining the procession. We chatted freely and easily. 30 minutes later, when we said our good byes, the parade that had started without me, was winding its way into the lawns of St Ann's.


Oh well, now I'm free for some serious window shopping at THE BEEHIVE. I indulge my senses of sight and touch, fondling every bit of yarn and knitted samples I can find. The colour and texture of the gem coloured balls of yarn tempt me. I gather a few up, dig into my wallet to find I've brought just enough cash for food and some entertainment OR few balls of yarn. Well, I'd had a sampling of JUMA'S most delicious creamy hummus the night before when I visited with Aidan's parents while he was setting up his food truck. Aidan is the owner/chef of Juma. His parents Jan and Jim who supply his truck with produce and chicken are former co-op mates of mine from 30 or so years ago. So, I was really geared up to sample some more of his fare. Food won out and my stomach and taste buds prodded me to head out with empty hands. I leave the Beehive for now but -  Tomorrow is another day - and I'll be back.

My stomach's rumbling as I pass by Armeni Jewelers on Humbolt St but I'm drawn in for more sensory delights. The proprietor/designer/goldsmith pulls out and proudly displays for me, stunning, one of a kind creations that he, his wife and daughter have crafted. Such beauty and, yes, more temptation…but I only have cash (thankfully) and food's calling my name - Tomorrow is another day…

I make a bee line to JUMA. The inaugural launch of the truck has been a wonderful success; they've sold out of Chicken Creole and hummus but there's Dhal. I'm not normally knocked out by dhal, I find it's usually too bland, but not Aidan's, his is delicately delicious. I can't resist the sticky rice with coconut cream and fresh organic apples, that was supposed to be dessert for Rod and end up gobbling up the whole thing, so I have to go back for another serving to take home.

Jan and Jim were my inspiration for Cosmo and Moonbeam. I don't know if they know this.
© Nance Thacker 1984

After touring tents full of displays: educating us on the impact we have on the earth - and how to minimize it; promoting social causes and offering the opportunity to sign many, many petitions; offering weekly delivery of organic produce; showing lifestyle options such as co-op living and co-housing, it's time to dance.

The thumping, driving beat world beat music selections by DJ Nils and DJ Joshua vibrates through the grounds and before I know it I'm jumping and gyrating with all the other hippie, shrubby and free-spirited folk that populate festivals such as this…potential embarrassment factor is ridiculously high so it's probably a good thing that Rod decided to stay home.

After this, I'm no near ready to go home and take in a showing of THE CLEAN BIN PROJECT  and participate in the discussion afterwards. The documentary follows a couple who challenge each other to live as garbage free as possible for a year which means: staying away from plastic wrap, extraneous packaging, and bags for meats and produce AND no shopping - no buying "stuff". The winner gets…applause.

The film and the impact of the whole conscious-earth festival has me wondering what can I do?
I already clear litter on my walks, wash and re-use plastic bags, get my coffee in re-usable containers or mugs. Then I realized that I'm carrying a "doggy bag" of food in containers that, though compostable, will get thrown out. Meals are so big nowadays that I'm ALWAYS taking home doggy bags. In fact, if there's not enough for a complete meal, I'll use the food as a base for a full meal the next night and supplement it with veggies, sauces etc. I've got perfectly great stainless steel containers, sitting at home on the shelf, that I'd bought just for this purpose. Time to start using them.

And time to start spreading the word, so here it is.

Check out the film to see the impact that our consumer culture has on our environment and discover small changes you can make that, compounded by the efforts of others, have the potential to create great change. You'll be inspired during the brainstorming discussion after the film. I've got to look into sites for disposing of soft plastic here in Victoria and though I live in an apartment, which doesn't have composting, there must be other options. Maybe vermiposting? Oooo, more pets to feed but they don't need to be walked.

I step out of the auditorium into the cool night. The festival's wound down so I pop my head in to say bye to Aidan and his crew who are amongst the last to break camp and then head down the road with my container of sticky rice dessert tucked under my arm.

I ran into 6 people that I know from different venues: art class, Spanish class, a dream student, the art centre receptionist, as well as Jan and Aidan. Ah, Victoria's starting to have that small town feel again.

Don't miss next year's 4th annual Creatively United for the Planet festival - great food, inspiration, creativity, entertainment and education all wrapped up in one location!

Life Lines

© Nance Thacker 1984
click on image to enlarge

The weekend has found me in a reflective mode. In my ongoing quest to de-clutter and simplify my life I've been going through my "stuff". Actually, not really my stuff, rather memories of the lives of others recorded in letters from family and friends that I'd received during my early years in Victoria.

I've carried boxes, filled with these letters from the '70's and 80's back and forth across the country and I think it's time to let them go, but not before reading them once more.

My sister-in-law, Di, and I were talking via g-mail phone the other day, marvelling at how technology keeps us connected in so many ways. Today there's: g-mail phone, i-phone favourites that allow fee free calling, Face Book, Skype, Face Time, texting, What's App, Tweeting, e-mailing and I'm sure there's a whack of stuff out there I've never even heard of. Communication is immediate and, for the most part, glitch free.

I don't buy that technology is isolating us. Face Book is where the Dream Team (my peers from dream teacher training I and II living all over the world) meet, share our dreams, inspire and further each other's education in dreams. Technology is my life line to friends and family living afar.

Back then though "snail" mail was pretty much all that we had that was affordable. Daily, I'd look for word from "home". Every letter received was like a big hug.

While I was out here living the life of a struggling artist/yogi, my friends' lives were moving through major transitions: marriages, home ownership, "real" jobs and careers, births, raising children, illness, deaths, and all the financial and family responsibility that goes with the territory. Others were studying and or travelling abroad: hiking, bike trekking and living with "friends" they'd made along the way - to be honest, I envied them the most.

Though our lives were so different, family and friends were supportive of my aspirations; often asking how the cartooning was doing. My younger sister, in letters from the mid '80's told of meeting 2 women in the Maritimes who knew of, and followed, my work in Monday Magazine - that thrilled me!

It got me looking through my cartoons and this one popped out as it pretty much summarized my life experiences at that time. No, I didn't have a meat cleaver thrown at me, but the crazed cook (and inspiration for the "chef" in the cartoon - he made Gordon Ramsay look like a pussy cat) at the Fat Cat Café a 24hr diner on lower Yates Street did threaten me with a knife while I was on duty once. Yup, life was different back then.

Anyway, that's another story…

What will I do with the letters? I'm mailing them back to the authors with a letter of appreciation and thanks for all their love and support over the years. They have no real idea how wonderful it felt for me, living on my own in my own world, to receive these life lines from home. But they are filled with their memories so, maybe when they read what their younger selves recorded they can reflect and appreciate their life's journey too.

flu 1; modelling 0

...Make that I couldn't see myself rendered as a coughing, hacking, sniffling geezer. That would just be pathetic.

I came down with the flu, yup, the one that's running rampant throughout North America, on Fri the 4th. I was fighting it a few days prior and thought that I'd won the battle. I felt fabulous that morning and then WHAM I got blindsided that evening. 12 days later it's taking its own sweet time vacating the premises.

I was booked from 7  - 10p.m. for 4 Thursdays in a row for a sculpture class at the local art centre. I would be working with a fine instructor who I worked for regularly back in the day. Just to make sure I wouldn't get myself into a pose that I couldn't maintain, I've been exploring poses and transitions; checking stability, stress points, natural, dramatic and expressive movements.

I'd gotten myself psyched up for it.

I was sooo sure that I'd be clear by the 10th for my first modelling session in 15 years. But, willing didn't make it so. I cancelled at the last possible moment, a few days before the class, so that another model could be found. I've made it a rule NEVER to cancel unless ABSOLUTELY necessary. It felt like I was chickening out, until modelling night found me hacking up a lung, wrapped up in my blankie in my nice, cosy home. This was, in a weird way, some consolation, confirmation that I couldn't have done it.

But, I truly was disappointed.

Nance Thacker © 1984
Rule #1 - don't intimidate the artists

A model on the podium needs to project so that the artists can be moved by what they see and put that into their work. They want to be inspired and challenged. Each model moves and expresses the energy of their particular body type. I'm a small, compact mesomorph; my sessions are full of movement, energy and expression. Since there's no reference point for a body standing, sitting or lying on a podium and, since the artist's attention is focused on the model, the model seems larger than s/he really is. When I step away from the podium I'm always amused by the surprised looks I get when the artists realize I'm only 4'10" tall.

Though it isn't a requirement for an artists' model it is an asset that I can imagine a 360 degree view of each pose which assures that there are good angles and shapes for each artist. This ability to step outside one's body and view it remotely is a skill, a body awareness technique I learned from one of the instructional yoga books I used to teach myself yoga 43 years ago.

A variety of poses are done over the course of a session. Usually we begin short poses from 1 - 5 minutes long, poses which capture gesture. These I find the most fun as I move from pose to pose in one continuous moment isolated in freeze-frame time. Longer poses of 10 and 20 minutes follow which challenge the model to keep the energy up for the duration. When we settle into longer pose, relative comfort, balancing between the body's tendency to relax into the pose vs the desire to self-adjust into more comfort when the going gets tough, becomes an issue.

Sustained poses are broken up into 20 minute sessions with 5 to 10 minute breaks so that the artists can step away from the work and come back with fresh eyes and the model can get the circulation moving again and refresh. Before the model breaks the pose, key areas of contact - the heel of the foot and its angle, the placement of a hand - are marked with chalk on the podium, chair or whatever as reference points for  the model to find their place again. Getting back into the pose feels like slipping into a glove. I know I'm back in it when I've filled in the invisible energetic imprint that was left behind; it just "fits".

Modelling provides me with the opportunity to "sit in" on classes and to learn more about art and techniques. During a session music usually plays softly in the background and the atmosphere is pervaded with an undertone of peace that one gets when they are "in the zone" multiplied by the number of artists absorbed in their work.

I listen, I soak it in, I drift and dream and I monitor the energy flows coursing throughout my body to maintain a consistent level during each 20 minute segment. Modelling is a form of meditation; meditation in stillness and meditation in movement.

Prior to becoming a therapist, of all the jobs I'd had in my life at no time did I ever feel so appreciated for my work as when I modelled.

Oh well, that was 15 years ago. Whether an opportunity will come up again or not, time will tell. Til then I'll spend some time on the other side of the easel as I attend my first open life drawing sessions this coming Wednesday after a lengthy absence from the studio. And, I can assure you there will be no more appreciative artist than this former model.

On the Street - SUITCASE DIARIES

My friends on Vancouver Island, make me feel welcome and at home. I housesat for many of them during the '80's when I was struggling to develop my cartoon strip, and have had the opportunity to stay with them on visits to the island since that time. Their presence gives me a sense of belonging. This past Sept, we shared tales of adventure, laughs, our deepest thoughts, hopes and dreams over dinner, on hikes and while lingering on living room couches before heading off to our respective bedrooms.

I am one of the lucky ones! As I was reminded last Thurs night, others are not so blessed.

It was the night of the Sleep Out a fund raising event in which CEO's and notable business leaders slept in sleeping bags on pieces of cardboard on a paved parking lot outside of Covenant House (the host of the event) in Toronto to raise awareness of the plight of the city's homeless youths (3,000 was one estimate).

*        *        *

I love this vantage point!

Frank Sinatra's voice sets the tone, "That old black magic's has me in its spell...". It's 3:15p.m. Only coffee and dessert are served that's exactly what I, and a smattering of other patrons, desire. Staff casually go about the business of preparing for the dinnertime rush as cheerful banter flows between them.

A waiter serves me in an equally casual, familiar manner saying, as he places my order before me, "You will enjoy this Americano, it's the best in town and I made it special for you." I feel like I've dropped into someone's home.

I sit appreciating the moment, gratitude overflowing, with a big grin on my face, in my familiar corner table at my old haunt, PAGLIACCI's. The aroma of black coffee wafts its way to my nostrils, soothes my soul and, along with the massive piece of chocolate cheesecake, renders me spellbound...

MMM, the best cheesecake ever and sooo rich!

I swore I would finish my treat but a vast serving remains.

As the waiter offers me a refill on my coffee he asks, "Can I package that up for you?"

"No, I can't take it home. I'm staying in a kosher house-hold and can't bring it into the house. I really hate to throw it out though."

"Take it to Doug and View. You'll find someone who'll appreciate it. There's a guy with a scruffy beard that hangs out there. I give him extra stuff left over from my shift all the time. He's a good guy, just down on his luck and, if he's not there, there are lots of others. If you don't find anyone just leave the container on top of the garbage bin, someone will take it."

  

At the bus stop at Douglas and View St, looking for scruffy-bearded guy, to give the remainder of my chocolate cheesecake to, a spare-toothed man sitting on a bench catches my eye. His clothes are grubby, his hair dishevelled and a battered guitar case leans against him. 

We nod at each other as if we were old friends. He waives me over and asks with a smile, "How's it goin' in the hood?"

"Pretty good" I nod. "I've been travelling around for a few weeks; staying with friends along the way."

"Me," he says, "I'm headed up island to go campin' with my wife. I love campin' more than anything…not more than my wife though, I love her more." 

We laugh.

He continues, "It's good to have people to visit. Makes you feel like you belong."

Taking in the timeliness of his comment, I smile, "It does indeed. Well, I gotta go."

He signs off with a wave, "Peace, love and Harley Davidson to ya" 

I turn to go, then stop and turn to him. "You wouldn't happen to know anyone who'd like some chocolate cheesecake, would you?"

Eagerly he replied. "Oh ya, I would." 

I gave it to him and walked away.

I don't know if he got on the bus he seemed to be waiting for; if there would be a fire to warm him on that cool summer night, inspiring him to sing and strum his guitar; or if there was a wife waiting on the other end of the line or if she resided only in his mind as a memory of better times or a dreamed present. 

*        *        *

The fact is, Victoria, with its moderate climate, is mecca for people living on the street. Their beds don't consist of folded cardboard boxes placed over subway-line grates in subzero weather that threatens frostbite. Many disappear into the park which conceals their presence and keeps them safe for one more night.

©Nance Thacker 1984

on the outer edges of Beacon Hill Park

Later that same evening I had the good fortune to be able to treat one of my hosts to a meal at Passero's Restaurant where we spent a few hours lingering over a glass of wine and spanakopita with rice and veg - mmm! But, as is always the case, I can only finish half of it. Adele heads home and it's back to Doug and View for me. Those few that wander the night hours dance with fear and suspicion. I place my carton on top of a bin, knowing someone's growling stomach will be satiated for a few hours at least and make my way "home" feeling deep gratitude for the path my life has taken.

Someone on their way to settle in for the night.

Upon my return to Ontario Adele sent me a poem inspired by our time together and my leaving titled CHEERIO; the last line is "Thank goodness friends are everywhere."

My e-mail to her ends with, "Thanks my friend for being part of my belonging."

Suitcase Diaries - for Derek & Carole

©Nance Thacker '82
appeared in Yoga Center of Victoria Newsletter
around the same year
click on item to enlarge

I'm going all over the map as I write about my trip on Vancouver Island but what the hell it's my blog, eh!?

Today I had truly wonderful and amazing experiences. What particularly warmed my heart was the open house at the Iyengar Yoga Centre of Victoria. There I sat with a former teacher of mine, Carole Miller, amongst a crowd of students, yoga centre teachers and staff members listening to my yoga teacher Shirley Daventry French along with her husband Derek French - an anatomy teacher of ours during my yoga teacher training and mentorship days - talk about the benefits of yoga.

I hadn't seen Derek since '86 when I left the island. I ran into Carole at an event at the synagogue 2 years ago and I last attended Shirley's class this past Thursday morning.

In true French fashion the presentation was peppered with spontaneous humorous asides. As I listened I was reminded of interactions and creative collaborations with Derek that ended up in the Yoga Centre of Victoria Newsletter such as the yoga snakes and ladders game and the letters to the editor that went back and forth between us - I recall one I wrote in which I took offense to his term "paste-up gang".

Derek French & Shirley Daventry-French

Ann Kilbertus, Shirley & Carole Miller

During his talk Derek recalled a particular cartoon, that I thought I'd entered into my pictures the day before I left for this trip but have discovered is not in my stash. I will find it upon my return and post it later. But there was also reference to "newness" the term coined by Norma Hodge (the teacher who introduced Iyengar yoga to Shirley and Derek during that eventful stay at Yasodhara Ashram that started the whole ball rolling) for the sensation - often confused for, but which is not pain, that one can feel during asana practice.

©Nance Thacker '85
published in the Yoga Centre of Victoria around that time
click on image to enlarge

And, after the talk Carole mentioned some cartoons I'd done prompted by her experiences as a young mother trying to maintain a daily practice as a householder with a husband and twins.

So, this one's for Derek and Carole
P.S Carole's kids were responsible for the cartoon that appeared in this blog post AHIMSA & REFLECTION ON VIOLENCE

I get it now!

As a housesitter in Victoria in the early '80's, I moved from house to house every few weeks. When I could have been stranded between residences, I was always offered an extended stay of an extra day or even week at the beginning or end of a sit; in most cases, this was enough to fill the gap.

But, when the periods between houses were of longer duration, free accommodation was offered to me by my friends Bud on Moss St in Victoria, and Jim and Jennifer in Esquimalt; I am ever grateful to them for their kindness.

I am also grateful to Swami Radha for allowing me to stay in whatever room was free at Shambhala House Victoria (now called Radha House in honour of Swami Radha) on such occasions.

In '78 I was a temporary resident at Yasodhara Ashram. When it came time for me to leave, my big concern was how do I bring what I have learned into my life in the world. How do I integrate it into a real world model? Swami Radha knew that this was a common challenge of spiritual seekers and she opened these houses with the intention that they enable people to "stay in touch with their ideals while living in the world". Shambhala House offered (and I took part in) classes in dreamwork, kundalini yoga, satsang and other aspects of yogic self-study. Spiritual practices weren't relegated solely to the support and isolation of an ashram, as their purpose was enrich one's daily life, daily practice was essential and these programs provided continuity.

It was at this house that I became acquainted with the use of mantra outside of its identification as a formal practice during satsang and meditation. Swami Padmananda and other residents (who came and went, including Swami Radha) would go about the house humming or singing the repetitive refrains of their favourite chants while they washed dishes, wrote, cooked and went about their daily chores. When they weren't chanting (or Swami Radha wasn't present), Swami Radha's beautifully delicate, vibrato emanated from tape decks playing Hari Om, Om Namah Sivaya and others; the house was filled with monotonic sound.

Being of a different generation, I can't truly say that I appreciated the power and value of chanting day in and day out at that time. On the rare occasions when the house was my own, my exuberant nature couldn't be contained and I danced through the house and sang with enthusiastic abandon to the tunes of John Denver, the Blues Brothers, Boz Skaggs, Billie Holliday, Eric Carmen, Janis Joplin, Kenny Rankin, jazz, rock and the blues.

© Nance Thacker 1982
click on image to enlarge
(Shiva is considered a destroyer of obstacles)

But I get it now! Having lived a few more decades as I truly seek to bringing forth compassion in action and free myself from delusions and negative emotions, I find myself chanting silently or quietly - Om Tare Tuttare Ture Soha (This softer, gentler chant to the white Tara of compassion was recommended to me as being a better balance for my nature than Om Namah Sivaya which I had been chanting to Siva the God of destruction.), or the Gayatri mantra - which I learned much later in the '90's after falling in love with this version which I first heard played during a savasana in a yoga class...

ahimsa & reflection on violence

© Nance Thacker 1990
click on image to enlarge

When I was living in Victoria and teaching yoga at the Y in the early '80's, many of us yoga teachers would meet in the snack bar at the Y after Shirley's morning classes. Lively conversations were had regarding the challenges yogis faced in living the life of the house-holder. Having no home, no family and being 15 - 20 years younger than most of the others, I was a "fly on the wall", privy to conversations about life events I had not yet experienced. It was with these women that I became educated about the challenges my future could hold.

The cartoon is a record of an actual conversation Carol, who was raising young twins at the time, had with the others; the best humour is found in truth.

The massacre in Colorado has me reflecting on the reality that we are a violent species and the sooner we realize this the better off we will be. It is not the "other" guy that is to blame for the condition of our society today, but ourselves as a collective and what we contribute as individuals. Our saving grace is that we are also a peaceful species. Which predominates depends on where we put our focus.

Our yoga group also participated in BEYOND HATHA YOGA a discussion group that explored the works of Swami Radha and the 8 limbs of yoga aka ashtanga yoga (an aspect of raja yoga - the cultivation of the mind through meditation in order to become acquainted with reality and ultimately achieve liberation) and, in particular, the yamas (abstentions) external aids to yoga. Ahimsa - non-violence in thought, word and deed, kindness towards all beings, avoidance of verbal and physical violence towards others and oneself is one of the 5 abstentions and was a prime area of under investigation.

My particular focus of late has been to check my tendency to swear when I'm frustrated. I don't swear at people, only at things (as if that makes it any better) - like computers - (apologies to my trusty laptop with which I am writing these words) which seems innocuous on the surface but investigate a little deeper and you will find it is a habitual reaction coming from a place of anger and aggression; aspects of violence. This realization became obvious during my self-study. Swearing is an aversion a resistance to what is; a resistance to "reality".

My visits to my nursing home client has strengthened my focus and intention. Just today, I passed by an elderly, demented resident spewing forth obscenities and swear words of all description as a nonplussed, patient, personal care worker helped her eat her meal. To the casual observer passing by it would seem that the words were being directed at the PSW but, upon closer observation it was obvious that these profanities reflected a state of being/mind in which the poor soul was lost in her own personal hell. YIKES! The emotion and anger behind this woman's words poisoned the very air in which we all moved, yet another reason to shape up now.

more to come in next post...

Tis the season

LADIES, summer in all its humid glory is upon us once more, demanding the observance of this most tedious personal ritual...yes you're right, the dreaded daily shaving of the legs. Even if you are not regular skirt wearers, some of you are year round slaves to the practice but my belief is that one of the chief function of jeans, aside from making your butt look good while hiding cellulite and making free movement possible, is to allow one to go unshaven for weeks on end.

In the beginning of my relationship, I whipped through boxes of razorblades every month, due to frequency of shaving and the fact that my leg hair was as coarse as a bear. 25 years down the road, as is inevetible — the bloom is somewhat off the rose — the frequency is not so much and (one blessing of getting older) my leg hair has thinned substantially.

But come the hot weather the water beckons to me and I must heed its call without grossing others out and so the ritual is practiced with more regularity. But this wasn't always the case...

Guy: "Say, what's a nice little thing like you doing here all alone?"
Me: Enjoying myself
Guy: "I mean you're not a bad looking woman...mmm,mmm NOT BAD AT ALL."
ME: This calls for drastic measures
ME: Leg hair was invented for times like this.
©NANCE THACKER '85.

This cartoon was done during my deep commitment to the feminist, earth mother-godess ideals of the times; to shave one's legs was sacrilege. And, though at any other pool in Victoria back then, I would catch nary a glance from the opposite sex, for some reason this particular establishment drew some guys desperately on the prowl. Maybe it was the odd half wall between the hot tub and the lap pool which afforded a nice vantage point for the gawkers, encouraging their bold outright stares; I don't know.

Aside from this petty annoyance the pool was fabulous, large and with a skylight over it allowing the sun to shine in, plus it was open late into the night for that before bed swim (hmmm, O.K. maybe that was part of this pools allure for this type of character). Anyway...

I'm serious about my workouts and have never used pools, gyms or weight rooms to socialize or hook up with anyone. Having been a former weight-training instructor I have no time for men or women using such places as dating venues. I exude the air of, Don't mess with me when I'm doing my thing. I like to be left alone. When swimming or resting between laps at the end of the pool, if I felt in any way that I was going to be approached I'd just get out and the dark, shaggy, soggy leg hair clinging to my calves would work its magic — instant man repellant!

Yikes! Technical difficulties - I've got a new scanner and the image is terrible. I need to get it sorted out!!! The image is blurry and can't be enlarged so I've typed it out as you can see. Words in italics are thoughts (see the little circles coming from my head?)

Who's NOT the fairest of them all

A facebook friend said that he hadn't looked in a mirror for about 4 days and that he didn't know how he felt about that. He'd been walking around with a scratch on his forehead; hadn't noticed it til it started itching and, I'm guessing, looked in the mirror to check out what was going on. And, that's when the realization hit him that it was about 4 days prior that he'd most likely sustained the scratch and so, to his surprise, it had been that long since he'd really looked at himself.

I felt envious. I consider this a surprisingly healthy attitude to have towards oneself considering what a narcissistic and self-obsessed culture we live in.

One family I house-sat for in Victoria in the '80's had only a tiny medicine cabinet mirror in the bathroom. There were no other mirrors of any kind in their house. And, to my horror, no full length mirrors. The couple had lived in Africa for a year working for the Peace Corps and that experience rubbed off on them, giving them an outlook on life and values that were perhaps different from the typical middle class north American family. As I understood it, the wife (and mother of the household) felt that mirrors promoted: vanity, comparison, judgment and dissatisfaction with one's self. Not only that, but the solution to this dissatisfaction for many is to buy products to improve one's appearance and thus fuel the cosmetics industry, of which she was not a great fan.

Honestly, at the time, I thought it was a little weird which if you really think about it was weird coming from one who had battled anorexia. The image that I had seen reflected back at me had fed into those very qualities in myself and fuelled great discontent though not many trips to the cosmetics counter.

I look in the mirror far too often — seeking perfection and self-approval — though I know the reflection I experience is totally subjective depending on the way I feel about myself. Most often, like many women, by the end of my mirror gazing I only see flaws. Mirrors have proven time and time again that they are not my friend as these cartoons (and the one in the previous post) attest. So why am I so damn loyal to them? I'm thinking of taking the plunge like my FB friend and breaking up our relationship!

Thacker Cartoon
©Nance Thacker 1990

Thacker Cartoons
©Nance Thacker 1990

Equanimity, equanimity where art thou equanimity?

My mind is an amusement park run by an idiotic, frenzied monkey.

©Nance Thacker '90

I go to the hairdresser. The young apprentice, while scrubbing and massaging my scalp and salt 'n pepper (more salt than pepper) hair with her magically relaxing fingers, remarks, "Wow, have you ever got nice skin. Not a pore on you and hardly any wrinkles."
Though I know she's just engaging in shop banter (my pores, courtesy of teenage acne carried into my late 30's with the occasional special appearance — around "special" occasions —  are craters and though I'm not the owner of a wizened apple-face, it displays signs of a long term, slightly messy tenant) I fall for it. I FEEL GOOD.
"How old are you?" She asks as I jump into the styling chair and tuck my legs under me assuming my usual half-lotus position. "Whoa, look at you. I wish I was that supple. I'm so stiff."
FEELING LESS GOOD NOW. Both the question and the comment reveals that she truly thinks I'm old. " I just turned 60." I did just say "I" — the person who feels 20 - turned 60?
"Oh, I'm 60 too." A voice from behind us chimes in. The aesthetician with flawless cappuccino-coloured Indian skin, pitch black dark hair and limpid brown eyes steps forward.
"Wow, you don't look 60!" These words, dripping with envy, spill out of my mouth. Envy. Beside her I don't look so hot now. I FEEL BAD

I go for a coffee with my, 4 years, younger sister. We stand side by side as we place our orders. The young barista's eyes dart back and forth from face to face.
"You guys are related aren't you?"she says like she's caught someone trying to pull the wool over her eyes.
Always delighted to be told that I look like the very attractive C (she of poreless, wrikleless skin, highlighted, thick, blonde hair; who could easily pass for 20 years younger) - I FEEL GOOD.
We look at each other. "Nah, never met her before," we say in unison which makes us laugh. YUP, FEELIN' GOOD.
"Yah, my Mom and I always get taken for sisters" she says as she nonchalantly completes the transaction.
OUCH!!! I FEEL REALLY BAD.
My sister has the grace to walk away as if she heard nothing. She knows it's the grey-haired babe who's been taken for Mom. And, though my mind is screaming OUCH (and hers probably laughing, maybe even smirking a little), not a word is uttered about the incident as we chat.
NOTE TO YOUNG BARISTA'S AND OTHERS IN THE SERVICE INDUSTRY.
2 people walk into a coffee shop. They look similar. One has grey hair the other not grey. You have them at "you guys are related, aren't you?" One of them will want to stab your eyes out with a fork if you continue on.

Doing yoga in our hotel room, the curtains are open to let the light in and it shines its warmth upon me as I move. I FEEL GOOD.
I've forgotten my yoga pants so I wear the boy legged undies that serve as part of my PJ's and my cotton T as I practice. Gazing beyond my newly shaven legs in downward dog my eyes light on my firm calves and my heels anchored into the mat as I stretch even deeper. My body is strong and supple and I FEEL GREAT!
My gaze travels up my knees. Wrinkles. Are those wrinkles around my knees?
And up my thighs. Yikes, even more? What the heck happened? Where did my skin tone go? Why wasn't I told about this? Wasn't someone supposed to tell  me about this?
I FEEL BAD

All I can say about this roller coaster life is, cultivate the witness AND laugh — not hysterically mind you, but a sense of humour does help.
...THANK GOD I DO YOGA!

Yup, it's been that long

During my mini-shiatsu sessions at the Ladybird Animal Sanctuary Fair a client mentioned that she does yoga.
"Have you been doing it for long?" I ask.
"Yup, about 5 years," she responds quickly.
"I do yoga too."
"For very long?" she asks.
"Oh, for about...(I have to figure it out cus I can't believe it myself) 43 years".
"Wow, 43 years!"
 As those words come out of this young woman's mouth, I feel like a geezer. And, I'm anticipating her next question to be, "Just how old are you anyway?" But instead she asks, "What did people wear to do yoga in those days?" and now I feel like an anthropological subject.
"People weren't so concerned with yoga gear. We didn't have yoga studios. We went to gyms, church basements, or did it at home in front of the TV following along with Lilias or Kareen."
"I guess you wore leotards and, what do you call them, tights?"
"Well, I actually practiced my yoga in a sweat suit to begin with." And as we talked I remembered this cartoon commentary on the evolution of the workout/yoga outfit through the 60's to the 80's. From the time when you took fitness classes to be fit to the time when you had to be fit to take part in fitness classes; this was reflected in the attitude and the workout apparel of the times.

©Nance Thacker 1990

Who Do You Think You Are?

©Nance Thacker 1990

"List 3 words to describe who you are, the kind of person you are; positive attributes." I said with eager enthusiasm.
I looked around the room at the Memorial Camp last weekend and saw that my simple request was being greeted with far less than an enthusiastic response. Some people closed their eyes and heaved a sigh. Others squirmed in their seats. The silence was deafening. Stillness followed, as if I'd caught a herd of deer in my headlights. No one was forthcoming so I chose the first person on my left to jump in.
"I think I'm..." he began.
I put up my hand and stopped him before he could continue. This was IT, I could see that many were having great difficulty acknowledging and owning their positive characteristics. Their reserve was made worse by having to declare it aloud.
"If I had asked you all to list 3 negative things about yourself. You could come up with them very easily and probably have more in reserve. Right?"
Nods all around.

And so I gave them this task which I'll ask you to do as you read this.

*          *          *

Don't tell me what attributes you think you have. Remember a time when you acted in an admirable manner or you felt really, really good about yourself. What did that feel like? How did you feel about yourself? What qualities where you showing at that time? Tell me about those.

What qualities would you like to have? Maybe you don't have them right now or maybe you have their negative flip side but would like to develop the positive quality in the future. State them aloud as if you already have them. We don't know whether you have them or not, but we'll take your word for it. Mix in up a bit, those you already have with those you'd like to have. We don't know the difference.

Our body/mind, like the audience in the workshop, responds to our self-talk in the same way. It doesn't know the difference between something "real" or "imagined" but accepts a statement about ourselves (negative or positive) as if it were TRUTH.

If you can feel a quality in your body, it is familiar to you. It is familiar because you have possessed it at one time or another. So, though you may embrace the negative aspect as being who you are, if you can, even for a minute, bask in its opposite it is a resource within you and with cultivation can become your truth.

*          *          *

So then I asked them, "IN THE FULLNESS OF ALL THAT YOU CAN BE, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? Imagine it, take it into every cell, declare it and bring the future into the present with your actions."

The room resounded with the joy, laughter and light as the positive declarations were stated aloud and released out into the room so that their vibrations could be supported by the dreaming that followed.