THERE IS A SEASON

ADVENTURES IN HOUSE-SITTING - Tues May 17/16
Somewhere in Stoney Creek, ON

Tiffany Falls in the spring

"I guess clothes are just an afterthought", my friend Kathleen said as she scans "my" bedroom, noting the drum, laptop, journals, yoga mat, art and knitting supplies strewn about and computes how everything would all fit into the luggage at hand.

"Yup, that's pretty much right."

I go up to Campbell River numerous times a year and have packing down to a fine art. Unlike my friends, or most civilized people for that matter, I really don't pay much attention to clothes. I'm thinking about what I want to DO with my time. Half of the time I don't really know what I've brought til I dig it out. Unpacking is always a surprise. I'm either smugly proud of my preparedness or deeply disappointed with my lack of foresight.

"I'm not going to be with people long enough this visit for them to notice that I've been alternating tops every other day, washing gotchies and socks every few days, or that I go bra-less as often as possible because washing the one bra that I brought, frankly, is a pain in the butt." I tell her.

After all, this house-sit was going to be RETREAT AND REFLECTION; days spent in seclusion with 2 elderly, toothless, wiener doggies as my sole companions. I imagined myself lost in thought during long walks on the nearby Bruce Trail, dreaming on the beat of the drum, doing ceremony and journaling my inspired insights…

Ya. Nope, hasn't happened.

Sure, I've drummed a bit for it's calming and healing effect. Yoga is almost as essential to me as breathing; a few days away from the mat is all my body will tolerate before complaining and becoming restless. So that really doesn't count. A work of art in progress stares at me as I write this. I've only managed to dab a bit of colour here and there. Journal entries? One, from the day of my arrival stating…"I've arrived", no deep thoughts there.

I thought being without wheels (I don't drive standard and that's all the owners of the house have) would support my RETREAT AND REFLECTION state of mind.

HA!

I've been able to persuade friends to come out this way for visits. And, visit they have!

Multicoloured ribbons slash through the days on my calendar marking scheduled reunions.
- Within a few days of my arrival I was welcomed into the arms of my 7 "council sisters", swept off to a craft market and attended, but didn't sleep over, at their sleepover.
- I reunited with dream/yoga sisters Sue and Katie and toured Katie's DE LA SOL yoga studios in Hamilton (renovated since I last took classes there) and Waterdown (which was in the process of being negotiated when I left).
- I've been to dinner with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law and celebrated the latter's birthday with my nephew and his girlfriend (whom I met for the first time) at brunch hosted by Di.
- P and I spent a day Forest Gumping - exploring the Punchbowl Market, Tiffany Falls and chatting over wine at the scenically divine Ancaster Mill.
- Yesterday, fellow SSC (Shiatsu School of Canada) graduate Kathleen and I exchanged Shiatsu treatments in the room where she made her aforementioned observation. We broke for lunch and grocery shopping in between sessions and retired to the salon afterward to catch up on  our attempts to build up businesses in new locales over the last 3 years and offer words of mutual support and encouragement.

A day here and there, portions of days and evenings at home base are balancing out all of this fun, frolicking about. Plenty of time for retreat and reflection…

Ya. Nope, hasn't happened.

Tiffany Falls in winter.
Photo courtesy of Peter Sneller

I've rediscovered the pleasure of sitting down with a morning coffee as I peruse the Globe and Mail, an actual physical newspaper. Reading it online doesn't have the same effect on me; doesn't feel the same.

For some unknown reason, when I'm on a house-sit, putzing around the house, tending to the daily chores of life is particularly relaxing. I can spend hours gardening, of the weeding and mowing variety,…in someone else's garden. My own place? Not so much. I've never figured that one out.

Music, ahh! Other peoples' collections allow me to sample genres I'd probably never otherwise explore. Though I haven't really listened to it for years, I've always been a blues and jazz fan. C&R's music library and sound system is irresistible. I'm discovering new - to me - artists. I've reconnected with a favourite jazz station I once enjoyed. When I want a change from the vocalizations of the songbirds outside, I tune in.

When we don't spend a night cuddled up on the couch while I knit my yoga socks (with or without music in the background) the pups and I sit in the living room and catch up on Netflix offerings.

And for the remaining weeks? My schedule's packed tighter than Queen Elizabeth on a royal tour…Texts, e-mails and phone calls have zipped over the airwaves in my attempts to see all these people, so special to me, that I've missed so much these past 3 years.

There will be a time for retreat and reflection. Even as I enjoy this working vacation, longstanding challenges ARE being processed just in a different way than I expected.

To everything there is a season.

A Moment for Mom

Here I sit gazing out at the lush gardens from my perch in the kitchen-solarium. Victoria's four month spring is waining but it's new and fresh here in Stoney Creek where I am house-sitting for the next 2 weeks.

Sumptuous red, vibrant yellow, delicate pink and coral tulips, dance before me; mirrored in the reflecting pond, their flower faces turn joyously upwards towards the sun. Chickadees, sparrows, cardinals and blue jays dart in and about. Robins swoop onto the grass and the stone patio, hop, run, pause here and there to dig up fat worms and grubs. Squirrels, and chippies - cheek pouches stuffed full of peanuts in the shell - scamper back and forth from the feeding platform to their secret places.

Beyond the cedar hedge, crisp-white, clouds float in the distance providing a back drop for Birches and Maples; buds bursting. I think of the momma dove nestled deep in the eaves trough on the shady side of the house, only the tip of her tail and a wary eye give away her presence; no peeps have yet been voiced.

A flash of wings causes me to look up from my typing in time for me to witness the eagerly awaited arrival of the duck couple splashing down into the pond. They waste no time; feasting has begun. Bathing, frolicking, preening, then more feeding is the order of the day. He is very handsome with his electric blue head, white necklace and graphic, defined markings of white, and shades of brown and grey. She is a subtle beauty. Both glisten in the sun and bask in the sunlight for a moment before taking flight once more.

Through all of this my little charges, two "puppies"(actually sweet 9 year-old, toothless mini-Dachshunds) snooze, nuzzled together in the sun drenched window-well to my left.

Birdsong breaks through the full spectrum of sound emanating from the sound system. The soundtrack to this precious moment has been provided by Oysterband and now the smoky voice of Emilie-claire Barlow. Ah, I sing off key and chair dance with enthusiastic abandon.

Every time I sing I feel closer to Mom. She would have loved this moment and this spot. I hear her pitch-perfect singing, matching the attitude, nuances and song styling; swaying just a little to the beat as she goes about her chores. Now again she pauses, stands by the sink for a sip of coffee and a piece of Crispy Crunch bar cut into bite sized morsels.

Care of C & R, this one's for you Mom.

MARE-ZEE-DOATS

On Saturday I was reading through letters and short stories I'd written in the '70's and '80's and came across a piece called MOVING DAY in which I recounted launching into an unforeseen two and a half year venture as a house-sitter.

A synchronic event compels me to post this part of the story and here's why…

Yesterday I checked in to see what's been going on at AMAIA DREAMS' DREAM BOARDS as I'd been absent for quite a few months now. One of the members had started a new category called MAGICAL MOMENTS wherein she suggested we would, "have an ongoing thread where we could share positive things, like a moment of gratitude or delight over something or a little magical moment that made us smile."

I glanced through the comments on the first page and this one jumped out at me, "Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy." These are lyrics from the song Mairzy Doats written in 1944 and much loved by my Mom.

As I was reading my story I wondered whether it was worth posting in my blog.

And then I read the comment in MAGICAL MOMENTS so here is an excerpt.

*       *       *

THE SET UP a summary -

A friend had helped me move out of the co-op house and took me to the house-sit. The owners were  out for the evening so we just dropped my belongings, stuffed into garbage bags, by the front door and headed out for dinner. When Sheib dropped me off, the house was in darkness and I had no idea where anything was. Basically I end up stumbling around, knocking things askew and swearing under my breath.

THE STORY from here -

"Shit!" I hop on my right foot, aiming all the while to grasp my left big toe with my left hand; the bags jostle on my back with a crinkling of plastic. The otherwise silent, still night is disturbed by the thumping of my feet and swearing. And then, giggling wafts down the hallway.

They're laughing at me. They're laying there in bed laughing at me, I am embarrassed by my clumsiness and lack of foresight to study the lay of the land before I'd headed out. No, they're not really laughing at me. They probably didn't even hear me come in. They're most likely having sex, sharing some sort of lovers' intimacy.

I'm just about to call out for some help with lighting when I trip over something at the bottom of the flight of stairs. As I try to keep from falling my hand hits a switch, turning on the light at the top of the stairway, welcoming me with its warm glow.

I trundle up the wooden stairs that creak with every footfall and make my way to "my" room.

Dropping the bags at the foot of the bed, fully clothed, I fall into its downy cushiness, falling into sleep moments later.

"Buckety coo, buckety coo…" the sounds of pigeons in the rafters above my head and the morning light streaming in wake me. I lay there, thrown back in time by the sound.

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do. They sound exactly like that." And in a soft melodic voice my mother mimics, "Buckety coo, buckety coo. You just have to listen sometime. You'll hear it." She was telling me about her own childhood experience visiting an eccentric uncle who'd kept and trained carrier pigeons. Their chatter would waken her as she slept in a bedroom under the rafters of his home.

I thought she was pulling my leg. After all wasn't this the same woman who would sing, "Mare-zee-doats 'n doe-zee-doats 'n li'l lam-zee-die-vee. Kid-sel e-die-vee too woodn'-chew."

What the hell did that mean?

I think she sang it just to torment me until the day my ears finally deciphered, "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy. Kids will eat ivy too. Wouldn't you?" and I smiled, delighted by the playfulness of words.

Laying here now, my ears confirm "buckety coo" as the official language of pigeon.

THE STORY CONTINUES ON FROM HERE

I had hoped to write a book (and make my fortune in the process) about my house-sitting misadventures; this was the opening chapter. Life happens while you're making other plans.

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...