“Who knows what fantasy lurks in the minds of middle aged (Yes, I do plan on living to be 114. Thanks for asking.) aspiring writers everywhere? The Phantom Editor does!”
(Original source - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shadow)
Yes, fans it’s that time of year again (see this post entry). Actually the Phantom Editor, rather than waiting til spring, virtually helped me ring in the New Year with the promise of yet another imminent publishing date…There were just a few questions she had for me.
She did not ask me again what the purpose of life is, and for this I am grateful. Instead she wanted permission to omit certain statements which, she said, had been mentioned by others (whose fabulous lives really show their claims to be inarguable facts). She assured me that the new ending will make my story stronger and give it more impact and I have to agree.
But the choice of subject matter under review and her timing was impeccable. How could she know that, contrary to my article’s original conclusion, I am feeling slightly discontented with my place in the world and that I am not as comfortable in my own skin as I claimed when I first wrote the piece? It’s uncanny and creepy. I’m beginning to feel like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind; like the universe itself is asking me a big, “Are ya sure?”
Universe/Phantom Editor: “Are ya sure you feel content with your place in the world?”
Me: “Well no I’m not, at least not at the moment. I’m just a little off right now, but I’m sure I’ll come around soon.”
Universe/Phantom Editor: “But, you don’t feel 100% content right now, so your statement - how do you put it - “feeling content with my place in the world” isn’t in fact true. Is it?”
Me: “O.K. you’re right. But by the time this thing gets published I probably will be... No, I’m sure I will be.”
Universe/Phantom Editor: “Now, now sarcasm won’t help the matter. Let’s focus on the present, shall we? We’ll just strike that comment. Moving on now, you don’t really feel comfortable in your own skin either, do you?”
Me: “Who have you been speaking to? How do you know that? Not now. It’s a lot less firm than when I first wrote the article so I’m still adjusting ...”
Universe/Phantom Editor: tsk, tsk, tsk, “Excuses, excuses, that just won’t do, we’ll just omit that one too, shall we?” And I imagine someone dragging with relish, a big, black, indelible ink marker through the words I’d so carefully crafted and believed so deeply way back when.
Am I really communicating via e-mail, talking about an article first penned over 5 years ago about an experience I had when I was 16, with someone else or is it just a projection of my own mind?
I’m sure Rod’s beginning to think the latter and when he does indulge me in the possibility that she actually exists he’s sure she’s got some kind of seasonal thing like SAD that makes her play out the role of an obsessive editor of a book just ready to be published around this time of year.
Whatever’s going on, the surreal quality of the publishing world is freaking me out.
I do have reason to believe that she exists. In June of 2007 I was notified by e-mail that an article I’d submitted to a magazine in 2005 (and given up for dead) had been revived and had been published in their July issue. If I would give them my address they would send me a copy. I found this hard to believe as after months of work and enthusiastic, furious correspondence back and forth in early 2005, I never heard another word from them til that very day. So doubtful was I of the claim that I told no one about it til the magazine was in my hand and the check was in the bank.
And, I had set a goal to get a book published in my 57th year. It was supposed to be my book, not a piece in an anthology, but that’s close enough, so I am psyched up to believe.
But next year...well, that’s going to be a different story.
“The seed of desire bears bitter fruit. Desire does not pay…The Phantom Editor knows!”
(Original Source http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shadow)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
they walk away, they really do
my makeup essentialsWhen I was talking about our containers of controlled chaos with Candy the other day she said, “What do you mean, you have a lot of stuff? I don’t see it anywhere; your place is pretty clutter free.”
“That’s true,” I agreed.
But actually that’s a lie. Most of my stuff is controlled; corralled into closets, boxes, bins, and the laundry room – behind closed doors where no one dares to tread.
I’m finding that traces of clutter hide everywhere. It sneaks into crevices and ignored spaces when I’m not looking, which challenges my father’s words of wisdom (said in the most encouraging, authoritarian voice he could muster) “they didn’t just sprout legs and walk off somewhere.”
Apparently they do.
If the 3 lipsticks that I threw out last week were children, they’d be going through puberty right now; obsessing over boys and their weight. I understand that you should replace old cosmetics every few months; some crazy notion about makeup being a breeding ground for bacteria.
Pffft, ya right; a marketer’s ploy more like! My 3 yr old mascara has caused me no problems at all. I’ve used it about 12 times, like King Tutt it’s been virtually hermetically sealed.
Just a few months ago, in the interest of keeping my environment, as well as my face, fresh, I decided serious culling action was needed and I went at ‘er.
My makeup routine is a no brainer – lipstick, blush (cream and gel), and concealer. When I get real fancy, mascara, eyeliner and eye shadow get added to the mix. You’d think there wouldn’t be a lot to throw out. You’d think. Especially since makeup is not high up on my must have list.
I read women’s magazines in the check out line and at my hairdresser’s. The ads for makeup are so compelling and the pictures so convincing, aren’t they? Buy, buy, buy that latest age defying cream, the eye shadow that magically opens up your eyes, the eyeliner that gets rid of those red rims you’ve been genetically programmed for, or the mascara that creates lashes so full and long that Brooke Shields would be envious.
Each item I’ve bought has been tested and added to the bathroom shelf with my intention to make more effort in the appearance department but inevitably they've just gathered dust. Each new (new being a relative term) beautifier was a duplicate in terms of colour or function of the previous one.
Compared to most women, I don’t have a lot of makeup (this thought is the mine field rationalization that enables one to pull out the magic, plastic card), it’s just that I store it away for that “big night out”. And, when that night comes, what do I do? I put on my best jeans, shirt and earrings in lieu of cosmetics because, for one - its easier to slip on a pair of earrings than it is to paint myself beautiful, and two - it’s kind of like slight of hand – no, don’t look at her face, look over here, here at the pretty, shiny, sparkly things. In the looking good department distraction is my number one ploy.
What am I to do, my motto (a la Billy Crystal’s Fernando) is, “it’s better to feel good than to look good.” Pam (council member and style maven) proves that it is possible to feel good and look good at the same time, but alright I admit it, I’m too damn lazy, O.K.
So, lots has gone in the bin, but there’s that lovely professional quality powder brush that I can’t get rid of even though powder sinks into all the creases in my face freezing them there for posterity and for all to see. So, even though I’ve given up on powder long ago, the beautiful brush remains on my shelf; a taunting symbol of my youth gone by and reminder of purchases I’ll never make again.
“That’s true,” I agreed.
But actually that’s a lie. Most of my stuff is controlled; corralled into closets, boxes, bins, and the laundry room – behind closed doors where no one dares to tread.
I’m finding that traces of clutter hide everywhere. It sneaks into crevices and ignored spaces when I’m not looking, which challenges my father’s words of wisdom (said in the most encouraging, authoritarian voice he could muster) “they didn’t just sprout legs and walk off somewhere.”
Apparently they do.
If the 3 lipsticks that I threw out last week were children, they’d be going through puberty right now; obsessing over boys and their weight. I understand that you should replace old cosmetics every few months; some crazy notion about makeup being a breeding ground for bacteria.
Pffft, ya right; a marketer’s ploy more like! My 3 yr old mascara has caused me no problems at all. I’ve used it about 12 times, like King Tutt it’s been virtually hermetically sealed.
Just a few months ago, in the interest of keeping my environment, as well as my face, fresh, I decided serious culling action was needed and I went at ‘er.
My makeup routine is a no brainer – lipstick, blush (cream and gel), and concealer. When I get real fancy, mascara, eyeliner and eye shadow get added to the mix. You’d think there wouldn’t be a lot to throw out. You’d think. Especially since makeup is not high up on my must have list.
I read women’s magazines in the check out line and at my hairdresser’s. The ads for makeup are so compelling and the pictures so convincing, aren’t they? Buy, buy, buy that latest age defying cream, the eye shadow that magically opens up your eyes, the eyeliner that gets rid of those red rims you’ve been genetically programmed for, or the mascara that creates lashes so full and long that Brooke Shields would be envious.
Each item I’ve bought has been tested and added to the bathroom shelf with my intention to make more effort in the appearance department but inevitably they've just gathered dust. Each new (new being a relative term) beautifier was a duplicate in terms of colour or function of the previous one.
Compared to most women, I don’t have a lot of makeup (this thought is the mine field rationalization that enables one to pull out the magic, plastic card), it’s just that I store it away for that “big night out”. And, when that night comes, what do I do? I put on my best jeans, shirt and earrings in lieu of cosmetics because, for one - its easier to slip on a pair of earrings than it is to paint myself beautiful, and two - it’s kind of like slight of hand – no, don’t look at her face, look over here, here at the pretty, shiny, sparkly things. In the looking good department distraction is my number one ploy.
What am I to do, my motto (a la Billy Crystal’s Fernando) is, “it’s better to feel good than to look good.” Pam (council member and style maven) proves that it is possible to feel good and look good at the same time, but alright I admit it, I’m too damn lazy, O.K.
So, lots has gone in the bin, but there’s that lovely professional quality powder brush that I can’t get rid of even though powder sinks into all the creases in my face freezing them there for posterity and for all to see. So, even though I’ve given up on powder long ago, the beautiful brush remains on my shelf; a taunting symbol of my youth gone by and reminder of purchases I’ll never make again.
makeup that I have that is less than3 years old.
What you don't see on the counter anymore is: Bobbi Brown cream blush (which you can use on your eyelids or mouth too) in little pot - bought when I was in Vegas is about 5 years old. Smashbox O-gloss (lip gloss), Smashbox O-glow (gel blush) and Yves Saint Laurent touche (don't know how to make that thingy on top of the e) eclat highlighter (which I use as a concealer) - 3 years old, at least. Sad, isn't it?
Monday, February 8, 2010
Cartoon Break
We women bust our asses, in a never ending attempt, to achieve the ideal figure – everything will be perfect then; then I can get my life together, then I’ll be worthy of love, we tell ourselves. We live in a culture where 80 year old ladies all over North America are still obsessed with the size of their “tummies”.
The premise of the cartoon was: what if some gorgeous (inside and out) guy really, really loved you for who you were and how you looked, and you were very far from the cultural ideal of thinness or beauty – would you believe it.
So, as often happens when I’m drawing a cartoon, with query in mind, I put it to the page, let the characters emerge and watch the story unfold. As the couple in question took form, I realized that they both were totally smitten with each other to the exclusion of everything around them. She was confident and proud of her body and he adored her and saw her as beautiful.
The real question that arose then was: what if some gorgeous (inside and out) guy really, really loved a fat, plain woman – could we, the viewing public believe it. Could we rise above our conditioning and accept the idea of beauty loving the beast?
At the time I was going out with a physically beautiful, 6’4” tall guy who dressed in the manner of a GQ cover guy. He looked like George Peppard in his Breakfast at Tiffany’s stage (not the A-team guy). I am 4’10” with an unremarkable appearance, and a tendency to casual attire - the type that gets lost in a crowd.
We had a great time in each other’s company. But, the looks we’d get from others radioed to me, “He’s going out with her?!! Surely he can do better than that!” When we went out to a restaurant I would have to command the waitresses’ attention, so taken were they by his attractiveness it was as if I was invisible.
The relationship didn’t last (thank God – he was absolutely not the guy for me for many other reasons) but for a while we had a lot of fun despite, or maybe even because of, the reactions of others.
As I write this I wonder about such a couple. Would they, over time, succumb to pervasive, subconscious, scrutiny and judgment? I’d like to think not.
So, I revisited these 2 characters in the panel and found that they got married shortly after they introduced themselves to me. They have 2 teenaged children and have faced many challenges, as does any couple married for over 23 years, but their commitment to each other has been, and continues to be, unwavering, as is their love which has grown and matured. He’s aged well, as they say and she is still fat, and plain but not to his adoring eyes – they remain as deeply infatuated with each other as when they first met.
“A fantasy,” you say.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
The premise of the cartoon was: what if some gorgeous (inside and out) guy really, really loved you for who you were and how you looked, and you were very far from the cultural ideal of thinness or beauty – would you believe it.
So, as often happens when I’m drawing a cartoon, with query in mind, I put it to the page, let the characters emerge and watch the story unfold. As the couple in question took form, I realized that they both were totally smitten with each other to the exclusion of everything around them. She was confident and proud of her body and he adored her and saw her as beautiful.
The real question that arose then was: what if some gorgeous (inside and out) guy really, really loved a fat, plain woman – could we, the viewing public believe it. Could we rise above our conditioning and accept the idea of beauty loving the beast?
At the time I was going out with a physically beautiful, 6’4” tall guy who dressed in the manner of a GQ cover guy. He looked like George Peppard in his Breakfast at Tiffany’s stage (not the A-team guy). I am 4’10” with an unremarkable appearance, and a tendency to casual attire - the type that gets lost in a crowd.
We had a great time in each other’s company. But, the looks we’d get from others radioed to me, “He’s going out with her?!! Surely he can do better than that!” When we went out to a restaurant I would have to command the waitresses’ attention, so taken were they by his attractiveness it was as if I was invisible.
The relationship didn’t last (thank God – he was absolutely not the guy for me for many other reasons) but for a while we had a lot of fun despite, or maybe even because of, the reactions of others.
As I write this I wonder about such a couple. Would they, over time, succumb to pervasive, subconscious, scrutiny and judgment? I’d like to think not.
So, I revisited these 2 characters in the panel and found that they got married shortly after they introduced themselves to me. They have 2 teenaged children and have faced many challenges, as does any couple married for over 23 years, but their commitment to each other has been, and continues to be, unwavering, as is their love which has grown and matured. He’s aged well, as they say and she is still fat, and plain but not to his adoring eyes – they remain as deeply infatuated with each other as when they first met.
“A fantasy,” you say.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
__________________________________________________________________
For those of you who got on to my site earlier today you'd have seen a different commentary. I realized, after discussing the post matter with someone shortly afterwards, that I didn't really express myself very well and that I, and my characters, had more to say.
Cartoon copyright Nance Thacker '86.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Be Afraid Be Very Afraid
Last night I was so excited about my newfound skill at dropping an image into my blog that I wanted to share my delight with Rod. So I ambushed him while he was on the computer.
The conversation went something like this.
“So…have you checked out my blog yet?” (I’m a gentle ambusher.)
“No, I’m working on an estimate.” He says all serious-like. And, I see that this is so, there are no you tube videos of flying squirrels or banjo playing chickens animating the screen just an exciting array of doors with attendant price lists.
“What do you mean you haven’t checked it out? You’re a fan aren’t you? You put yourself in my fan list. What kind of a fan are you? Apparently not a real fan, just a fake one, an imposter more like...”
“O.K., O.K. I’ll get onto it now.” and he begins to exit the screen.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. Just go into your favourites,” I detect hesitation “you do have me in your favourites, don’t you?”
“I find this easier,” he says with all the earnestness he can muster as he two finger types the letters n - a - n ...into the browser (at least I think that’s what the bar thingy at the very top of internet explorer is called)
“No. Type in my blog site, that’ll get you directly in… You do know the name of my blogsite don’t you?”
The air is still. He continues picking out c - k - e - r into the banner.
“You don’t even know the name of my blog site!? I’ve only been working on it for a year or more. You’re no fan. You should stop calling yourself a fan of mine. I should take you off my fan list. In fact, I think I will…”
“There. There. I’m in,” he announces triumphantly pointing to the computer, hoping to derail where this conversation is going. My last blog post fills the screen. He leans in closer for a better inspection. “Oh…that’s what that means.”
“What? That’s what, what means?”
“Containers of controlled chaos. That phrase has been written on the fridge door for days now. I’ve been afraid to open it. You know I just never know what I’m going to find in there at the best of times and then there’s this message on the door and it’s kind of made me afraid of just what the hell you’re doing in there.”
Poor guy, it must be difficult when someone else with different taste in food is in charge of what you’re eating after all there was the time at the grocery store check out when the cashier (who you’d think would know her produce) blurted out, despite my use of the universal keep-it-down hand gesture with accompanying shushing, “What is this,” waving it about for all to see, “Is this…", she inspects it more closely, "DANDELION?”
“Dandelion, did she say dandelion?” Rod says as I roll my eyes.
“Yes,” I nod to her and then turn to Rod, “It is dandelion, relax you’ve been eating it for months now.”
“I have? And I like it?”
“Apparently, at least until you knew what it was.”
And, for the longest time one of my favourite energy drinks was made with greens. A bottle of the foamy green stuff could be found on the top shelf next to Rod’s container of milk. Years ago I was visiting a hospitalized council member. After viewing bile contents dripping into a container from a tube, coming out of her nose, that was connected to her stomach, for some bizzarre reason, I lost my stomach for it. The very thought of it even now elicits the gag reflex – probably not unlike the one Rod felt each time he went into the fridge to get milk for his tea.
So, what’s with the notice on the fridge you might ask?
Well, I kept on forgetting Candy’s phrase and when it popped back into my mind I was standing in front of the fridge. Not wanting to let it slip away again, I grabbed the closest thing at hand and wrote it down right then and there.
Don’t ask me about 8:43 – I have no idea what that means anymore. It’s been on the door for weeks.
And what about the pots, are they really containers of controlled chaos?
Nope, there’s only recently made rice in one and oats in the other. But I'll give them a few days and they will be. God knows what waits for us in the meat drawer and the veggies are looking a little unruly too!
The conversation went something like this.
“So…have you checked out my blog yet?” (I’m a gentle ambusher.)
“No, I’m working on an estimate.” He says all serious-like. And, I see that this is so, there are no you tube videos of flying squirrels or banjo playing chickens animating the screen just an exciting array of doors with attendant price lists.
“What do you mean you haven’t checked it out? You’re a fan aren’t you? You put yourself in my fan list. What kind of a fan are you? Apparently not a real fan, just a fake one, an imposter more like...”
“O.K., O.K. I’ll get onto it now.” and he begins to exit the screen.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. Just go into your favourites,” I detect hesitation “you do have me in your favourites, don’t you?”
“I find this easier,” he says with all the earnestness he can muster as he two finger types the letters n - a - n ...into the browser (at least I think that’s what the bar thingy at the very top of internet explorer is called)
“No. Type in my blog site, that’ll get you directly in… You do know the name of my blogsite don’t you?”
The air is still. He continues picking out c - k - e - r into the banner.
“You don’t even know the name of my blog site!? I’ve only been working on it for a year or more. You’re no fan. You should stop calling yourself a fan of mine. I should take you off my fan list. In fact, I think I will…”
“There. There. I’m in,” he announces triumphantly pointing to the computer, hoping to derail where this conversation is going. My last blog post fills the screen. He leans in closer for a better inspection. “Oh…that’s what that means.”
“What? That’s what, what means?”
“Containers of controlled chaos. That phrase has been written on the fridge door for days now. I’ve been afraid to open it. You know I just never know what I’m going to find in there at the best of times and then there’s this message on the door and it’s kind of made me afraid of just what the hell you’re doing in there.”
Poor guy, it must be difficult when someone else with different taste in food is in charge of what you’re eating after all there was the time at the grocery store check out when the cashier (who you’d think would know her produce) blurted out, despite my use of the universal keep-it-down hand gesture with accompanying shushing, “What is this,” waving it about for all to see, “Is this…", she inspects it more closely, "DANDELION?”
“Dandelion, did she say dandelion?” Rod says as I roll my eyes.
“Yes,” I nod to her and then turn to Rod, “It is dandelion, relax you’ve been eating it for months now.”
“I have? And I like it?”
“Apparently, at least until you knew what it was.”
And, for the longest time one of my favourite energy drinks was made with greens. A bottle of the foamy green stuff could be found on the top shelf next to Rod’s container of milk. Years ago I was visiting a hospitalized council member. After viewing bile contents dripping into a container from a tube, coming out of her nose, that was connected to her stomach, for some bizzarre reason, I lost my stomach for it. The very thought of it even now elicits the gag reflex – probably not unlike the one Rod felt each time he went into the fridge to get milk for his tea.So, what’s with the notice on the fridge you might ask?
Well, I kept on forgetting Candy’s phrase and when it popped back into my mind I was standing in front of the fridge. Not wanting to let it slip away again, I grabbed the closest thing at hand and wrote it down right then and there.
Don’t ask me about 8:43 – I have no idea what that means anymore. It’s been on the door for weeks.
And what about the pots, are they really containers of controlled chaos?
Nope, there’s only recently made rice in one and oats in the other. But I'll give them a few days and they will be. God knows what waits for us in the meat drawer and the veggies are looking a little unruly too!
So my man, be afraid, be very afraid.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Containers of Controlled CHAOS
OMG, I am totally psyched! I took this picture...and I loaded it into my computer...and I got it to appear here. I'm lov'in this technology!!!______________________________________
In an ideal world, the optimal way to pare down one’s possessions and clear clutter is to have boxes ready and labeled as:
KEEP
GARBAGE
GIVE AWAY
SELL (garage sale, online, etc)
Place your stuff in the appropriate container and re-organize keepers in the new space you’ve created.
When I do this I:
- begin with a goal in mind, i.e. I want to cull 1/3rd of my stuff in a particular category.
- limit myself to a category at a time.
- keep sorting sessions short so as to keep sentimentality from getting in the way and bogging down the process.
Though life doesn’t always unfold in such an organized fashion, the stages of culling still remain the same: keep, throw out, give away or sell.
_______________________________________________________________________
“I have containers of controlled chaos everywhere.” Candy says with some dismay.
My sister is having some floors sanded in her house which has necessitated moving stuff from the upstairs rooms to the first floor. “I just threw stuff into bags to get the rooms cleared.”
“Wow, I’ve got them too,” I proclaimed with the enthusiasm of one who has found a kindred spirit. “I have containers of controlled chaos.” I had never thought of it quite like this before and her phrase cracks me up.
This perfectly describes what happens when one is forced by necessity to throw things into a box, bag or bin without sorting before hand. Such was the case when I had to clear the basement to make way for the renovation.
The reno is now complete and I love, love, love my space more than I can say. I also love the sense of space and peace that the uncluttered affect has on the room and all who enter.
As I cleared the space I chucked a lot stuff (see the domino effect) into my trusty little car. I am happy to announce that Alf is finally free of these items:
- Mattress and humungous piece of luggage – bit the bullet on these, gave up trying to get any bucks for them, both went to Goodwill.
- Mom’s coat – went to a women’s shelter
- Rods leather coat – went to my sister-in-law’s brother, fit him like a glove!
The juggling clubs are still knocking about, no longer underneath the drivers seat but, as you can see (I'm so thrilled that you can see this) now placed on top of a container ready to go to the reuse centre. When I mentioned this to Candy her response, “Aww, you’re getting rid of your juggling clubs?” elicited an incredible sense of guilt despite the fact that I am hopeless at them and am quite happy juggling balls instead. I want them to fly in the air as they were intended to, but sentiment is rising and fond memories are flooding my heart right now…so the verdict is out on this one.
The filing cabinet, filled with files from the crates that once resided on top of the trunk, got put on wheels and sits in the space at the bottom of the stairs as does the yet untouched trunk. Archives remain under the stairs yet to be sorted.
For months now a ton of other stuff has resided in the laundry room and I haven’t missed any of it, in fact I find the clutter claustrophobic which makes sorting much easier! I have already reduced the lot by 2 containers – much of their contents ended up in the garbage. But the books and tapes that were in them, as you’ll soon see, have all been sold or given away to charity.
Tapes were relatively easy for me to let go as the technology is becoming obsolete and I realized that, since I got my ipod, I haven’t listened to any of them for well over a year. They are on meditation and Buddhism. Though dearly loved they have been played over and over again so much so that they contain info that I now have absorbed on some level.
Of course I can always glean more each time I listen to them, but the tendency of human nature is to crave new stimulus. As I sorted I realized that I can let this stuff go because I am ready to release this subject matter as new interests are coming to the fore. Not that I won’t use the principles I learned about meditation or Buddhist philosophy; just the opposite. Some aspects have become part of my life and will come along with me on the next stage of my journey.
This was quite a revelation! I wouldn’t have really acknowledged all of this had I not asked myself, “what purpose do these items serve me?”
I found it easy to let go of books on asana practice as, now that I’m no longer teaching, I don’t need these resource materials. I’ve come to a point where I enjoy my practice far more than teaching yoga (and believe me I loved teaching!). The poses and modifications found in the books have been part of my practice for decades now. Most of them I first learned during workshops with many masters. If Iyengar is like ballet and ashtanga is like jazz then my practice has evolved into free form for which there are no guidebooks.
I kept some classics like Light on Yoga book by B.K.S. Iyengar I used that book to teach myself the “new” method just breaking through in my neck of the woods, all those years ago, in the 60’s. I didn’t realize it at the time but his work along with the ashtanga approach (which I studied in the mid 90’s) of his contemporary Pattabhi Jois would be the forerunners of all of the systems of asana that are practiced in the west now. If you do yoga today in Canada you have these guys as well as their teacher Sri Tirumalai Krishnamacharya to thank. (While researching this I found out that the author of Yoga Self Taught, Andre Van Lysebeth was a student of his – so his influence on my practice occurred from it’s inception as this was one of my first books on the subject, what do you know.)
I displayed my books for sale in my treatment room and some clients bought them for a reasonable fee. And just this week I made a timely discovery. Akasha’s Den in Oakville sells used books and CD’s for $3.00 a piece with the proceeds going to small dog rescue. They gladly accepted the donation of the rest of my books and tapes. Feels good, not only will they get used by others but little dogs will benefit from their sale – a far better deal than letting the books/CD’s remain unappreciated.
Through this process I’ve discovered that I love the idea of things being used more than I love having them as repositories for memories (with the possible exception of juggling clubs).
Instead of holding on to the past, by clearing old stuff out I’m redefining who I am. And, I think the laws of attraction might agree. I’ve now cleared a path for the energy of a new future filled with possibility to come through to me as I’m no longer hidden behind all that clutter.
Friday, January 29, 2010
108 SUNS
Although I wrote this piece just a day or so after the event and Christmas has come and gone, the effects of this winter solstice celebration still live on for me.
(A little illustration is to come. It's too late now to use the scanner as other beings are tucked safely into their beds: Rod's snores drift down from the bedroom above, Flippy has been happily ensconced in the freshly done laundry all night and Maya, after an enthusiastic bout of leaprosy, has flaked out on my bed - a tiny little black speck nestled in a billowy nest she's created in my soft, blue, flannel covered duvet.)
(A little illustration is to come. It's too late now to use the scanner as other beings are tucked safely into their beds: Rod's snores drift down from the bedroom above, Flippy has been happily ensconced in the freshly done laundry all night and Maya, after an enthusiastic bout of leaprosy, has flaked out on my bed - a tiny little black speck nestled in a billowy nest she's created in my soft, blue, flannel covered duvet.)
*SO IT IS NOW A FEW DAYS LATER (it's Feb 1st as I write this colourful commentary) AND, AS YOU CAN SEE, I HAVE ADDED THE PICTURE. Rod, my own personal little Holmes on Homes, is working his butt off creating a calming, oasis retreat out of what was once only a bathroom (note: not our bathroom, sigh). Flip, my Big Beautiful Girl, is now sleeping, Princess and the Pea-like, on a pillow in the bedroom. And Maya has finally given up begging me for more food, attention, play, pats...and has made a tactical move by laying on the carpet right in front of the doorway. I'll have to walk over her to get outta here. And so, she has cleverly assured herself of my undivided attention. Love Sponge that she is; I will be unable to ignore her.
Now I know that you all waited with baited breath for this image to appear (probably checked and rechecked this site a few times a day even) so perhaps you're a little disappointed, expecting more from me - artist/animator that I've been - but, I find stick figures perfect for yoga diagrams. They have a life all their own and I like how their little butts appear and disappear in certain poses. Kind of symbolic - you work your butt off doing these things but in the end it's still there.
Remember this site is for my own amusement; kind of like being the Queen of a very small, really really small, tiny, rarely visited country. So, as befits all rulers, I can do what I want.
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One thing that occurs during the Christmas season is the winter solstice and with it the yogic tradition of doing 108 Sun Salutations aka the practice of Yoga Mala. One sun salutation (surya namaskara) consists of 12 yoga asanas (postures) linked together in a rhythmic flow co-coordinated with the breath. Each surya namaskara represents one bead on a mala (a string of beads) and the breath is like the string that links them all together.
This is my yearly ritual. For me the festive season doesn’t officially begin until 108 suns have been completed, preferably in the company of others who observe this tradition. It is my Christmas prayer. Love, gratitude, hope, joy and more are all expressed in a celebration of the gift of this physical life through the inspiration filled movements of each salutation.
I have done many Yoga Malas in my life and no two have been the same. It is as varied as the person leading the flow. However, some things stay the same:
- Celebrants come together in the spirit of satsang (sat = true, sanga = company) or of like mind.
- Each individual reflects on the year that has passed and their intention for the year to come.
- Respecting one’s own needs, adaptations are made and one rests when necessary.
- The process begins and ends with a unifying chant (OM being the most common).
- A lengthy savasana (relaxation) is enjoyed at the conclusion of the rounds at which time one spontaneously descends into effortless, quiet, stillness
On Dec 20th as I write my intentions I’m reflecting on my visit with my *Mom. As I witness her fall into the decline of dementia I feel I’m drifting away with her; she seems such a familiar part of me. And after spending time with her, anxiety about what awaits me as I age escalates. So I must detach, let her go and make a conscious effort to re-attach myself to, and become immersed in, the demands of daily waking reality when I leave. Some days this isn’t so easy and this is one of them.
At De La Sol yoga studio where this yoga mala is taking place, Katie has decided that each of us will participate by announcing at intervals of 5’s how many salutations have been completed as we move through all 108. So, for example, when we finish the 5th sun the first person to her right will announce, “That’s 5”. When we reach 10 the person to that person’s right will declare “that’s 10” and so on around the circle. Thus I am the holder of numbers 20 and 95.
We begin to move to the beat of a drum on CD.
Now, the amazing thing is that it was more difficult for me to keep track of #20 than #95. Most often yoga mala is done to a rhythmic beat of drums or music; sometimes we move in silence to the sound of our own unified breaths but never before have I been asked to keep track of the repetitions.
I’m not sure I like this.
My mind, so used to drifting into the flow, is rebelling against this newfound mindful aspect. As we get closer to #20 I become more anxious. Will I be embarrassed, by a slip in awareness due to a wandering mind, just like my mother’s? Just the fear of this sets my mind and emotions into a spin increasing the likelihood that the dreaded outcome will come to pass. And, for the fraction of an instant the numbers fade away. When I return I realize I’m either one number behind, right on or one ahead of the count.
Self-doubt magnifies compounding the problem. I know Katie said that we are to announce the count after the number is completed but in my own practice my habit is to count in advance of the salutation to come.
The room feels restless. Is it just me or are the other participants feeling this too?
When the time comes tenuously I announce, “I think this is 20 or maybe 21?”
“20”, confirms another yogi.
With the heavy responsibility lifted off my shoulders from then on my mind sharpens with each salutation. Somewhere around 80 the music stops; we flow as one on the rhythm of our breaths. When it is my time I announce “that’s 95” seamlessly and glide through on target as the last #108 is declared.
A good thing about getting older - stamina increases - it’s true. I feel strong. Unlike many of the younger ones, my breaths are even and I’ve barely broken a sweat.
And as I drive the home on the 403 it seems that never has my vision been crisper, the night sky shone more brightly, my spirit been so light. Not since my lomi training have I felt as united with others in the flow of traffic – like a tiny blood cell propelled within the circulatory system of some great, infinite being.
Never has my mind been so sharp and clear; my emotions so peaceful, filled with hope and gratitude, nor have I felt more present than at this moment … the most precious gift this Christmas could present to me to grace the year to come.
Click here on *Mom - for a sample visit.
One thing that occurs during the Christmas season is the winter solstice and with it the yogic tradition of doing 108 Sun Salutations aka the practice of Yoga Mala. One sun salutation (surya namaskara) consists of 12 yoga asanas (postures) linked together in a rhythmic flow co-coordinated with the breath. Each surya namaskara represents one bead on a mala (a string of beads) and the breath is like the string that links them all together.
This is my yearly ritual. For me the festive season doesn’t officially begin until 108 suns have been completed, preferably in the company of others who observe this tradition. It is my Christmas prayer. Love, gratitude, hope, joy and more are all expressed in a celebration of the gift of this physical life through the inspiration filled movements of each salutation.
I have done many Yoga Malas in my life and no two have been the same. It is as varied as the person leading the flow. However, some things stay the same:
- Celebrants come together in the spirit of satsang (sat = true, sanga = company) or of like mind.
- Each individual reflects on the year that has passed and their intention for the year to come.
- Respecting one’s own needs, adaptations are made and one rests when necessary.
- The process begins and ends with a unifying chant (OM being the most common).
- A lengthy savasana (relaxation) is enjoyed at the conclusion of the rounds at which time one spontaneously descends into effortless, quiet, stillness
On Dec 20th as I write my intentions I’m reflecting on my visit with my *Mom. As I witness her fall into the decline of dementia I feel I’m drifting away with her; she seems such a familiar part of me. And after spending time with her, anxiety about what awaits me as I age escalates. So I must detach, let her go and make a conscious effort to re-attach myself to, and become immersed in, the demands of daily waking reality when I leave. Some days this isn’t so easy and this is one of them.
At De La Sol yoga studio where this yoga mala is taking place, Katie has decided that each of us will participate by announcing at intervals of 5’s how many salutations have been completed as we move through all 108. So, for example, when we finish the 5th sun the first person to her right will announce, “That’s 5”. When we reach 10 the person to that person’s right will declare “that’s 10” and so on around the circle. Thus I am the holder of numbers 20 and 95.
We begin to move to the beat of a drum on CD.
Now, the amazing thing is that it was more difficult for me to keep track of #20 than #95. Most often yoga mala is done to a rhythmic beat of drums or music; sometimes we move in silence to the sound of our own unified breaths but never before have I been asked to keep track of the repetitions.
I’m not sure I like this.
My mind, so used to drifting into the flow, is rebelling against this newfound mindful aspect. As we get closer to #20 I become more anxious. Will I be embarrassed, by a slip in awareness due to a wandering mind, just like my mother’s? Just the fear of this sets my mind and emotions into a spin increasing the likelihood that the dreaded outcome will come to pass. And, for the fraction of an instant the numbers fade away. When I return I realize I’m either one number behind, right on or one ahead of the count.
Self-doubt magnifies compounding the problem. I know Katie said that we are to announce the count after the number is completed but in my own practice my habit is to count in advance of the salutation to come.
The room feels restless. Is it just me or are the other participants feeling this too?
When the time comes tenuously I announce, “I think this is 20 or maybe 21?”
“20”, confirms another yogi.
With the heavy responsibility lifted off my shoulders from then on my mind sharpens with each salutation. Somewhere around 80 the music stops; we flow as one on the rhythm of our breaths. When it is my time I announce “that’s 95” seamlessly and glide through on target as the last #108 is declared.
A good thing about getting older - stamina increases - it’s true. I feel strong. Unlike many of the younger ones, my breaths are even and I’ve barely broken a sweat.
And as I drive the home on the 403 it seems that never has my vision been crisper, the night sky shone more brightly, my spirit been so light. Not since my lomi training have I felt as united with others in the flow of traffic – like a tiny blood cell propelled within the circulatory system of some great, infinite being.
Never has my mind been so sharp and clear; my emotions so peaceful, filled with hope and gratitude, nor have I felt more present than at this moment … the most precious gift this Christmas could present to me to grace the year to come.
Click here on *Mom - for a sample visit.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I'm Ba-a-a-a-a-c-k!
It really boils down to this:
that all life is interrelated.
We are all caught in an inescapable network of mutuality,
tied into a single garment of destiny.
Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
We are made to live together because of the interrelated structure of reality.
(Martin Luther King, Jr. (A Christmas Sermon for Peace, Dec. 24, 1967)
(I got this quote from Yoga+ Joyful Living magazine Winter 2009/10)
I have had writer’s block.
It began after a sorrow filled few months. Since last October, 2 members of the council lost their mothers. Another’s beloved father-in-law also passed away this fall; her mother had died in the spring. I have followed the journeys of these people that I love from the announcement by physicians that the death of their mothers was imminent, to the final outcome. And, I have witnessed their deepest sorrow.
One of the mothers was my good friend Pat. After her passing on Wed Oct 7th I found myself unable to write or post anything. It was not that I was bereft of ideas to write about, it was just that my heart was stuck.
During a long walk on the sunny afternoon after her funeral, when I just needed space and time for reflection, I realized that in order to get my pen flowing again I needed to write about this. I wrote other stuff but, aside from my last entry, nothing felt right. The guardian of the realm of blog posting was saying, “nope, not this one not now. Give me what you really need to write about, what is in your heart. Until you do that you’ve got nothing to say.”
It is only now that I can do so.
My experience of the workings of the world is that when someone dies a void is left. And as the universe re-organizes itself to fill the vacuum that is left behind, everything you once knew as solid is tossed into chaos: relationships, perspectives, priorities, values, sense of purpose; everything! Life can seem pointless (after all we’re all going to die) and precious all at the same time cus after all life is short …AND we are all going to die.
I write this blog for me. This is a space where I pour out my heart and thoughts. Here I can express the best that I can be, own up to the worst; turn my negativities into fodder for insight and create something positive in the process; have fun with humour; be creative; find inspiration; write of hopes, fears dreams, dreaming and intuition. It centres my mind in the power of positive thinking and the healing realms of creativity and imagination.
Friends read it on occasion. My sister-in-law and fellow council member called over a week ago now, wondering what was up - “I checked your blog and you haven’t entered anything for over month!”
“A month; has it really been more than a month?”
Actually, just checking now, it’s been over 2 months!
I tried to explain what was going on within me but found the spoken word inadequate. I couldn’t talk and organize my thoughts at the same time in a succinct, intelligible way. It’s only through reflection, writing, writing and more writing; letting the thoughts tumble onto the page that the truth, as I’ve experienced it, unfolds.
Where has the time gone? It seems like I stepped into a black hole (not a metaphor for depression, maybe a worm hole is a more appropriate term) and got spit out the other side. My own life has been busy in the process of its own re-organization – learning and offering new modalities for my clients and re-envisioning what I want to do with the new work space created as a result of ongoing renovations.
With the passing of the preceding generation I and my generation are becoming the elders of our clans and this reality changes my perception of my own future. Retirement, somewhere down the road, no longer is a theoretical slippery slope towards decline but is becoming a real possibility full of new opportunities to be explored.
What would I do if I wasn’t a wholistic health worker? Hmmm, the question brings back a conversation I had with my Dad when I was in my 20’s. He was disappointed that I hadn’t done anything with my “God-given talent” for art.
“What do I have to say? I haven’t really lived; haven’t seen anything of the world. I can draw but so can all the others in my university art classes – what made me special in high school is run of the mill here. So, maybe who knows, maybe I’ll get back into it when I’m older. Ha, when I’m retired.” I said with a laugh.
“Yah, maybe then I’ll have something to offer.”
Who knows? Maybe.
And death of course is inevitable…but until that time there is life to be lived. And on the eve of Pam and Glyn’s departure for the pura vida of Costa Rica to make happy memories with fellow council member Flo I wish them all buen viajie on this next stage of their lives.
that all life is interrelated.
We are all caught in an inescapable network of mutuality,
tied into a single garment of destiny.
Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.
We are made to live together because of the interrelated structure of reality.
(Martin Luther King, Jr. (A Christmas Sermon for Peace, Dec. 24, 1967)
(I got this quote from Yoga+ Joyful Living magazine Winter 2009/10)
I have had writer’s block.
It began after a sorrow filled few months. Since last October, 2 members of the council lost their mothers. Another’s beloved father-in-law also passed away this fall; her mother had died in the spring. I have followed the journeys of these people that I love from the announcement by physicians that the death of their mothers was imminent, to the final outcome. And, I have witnessed their deepest sorrow.
One of the mothers was my good friend Pat. After her passing on Wed Oct 7th I found myself unable to write or post anything. It was not that I was bereft of ideas to write about, it was just that my heart was stuck.
During a long walk on the sunny afternoon after her funeral, when I just needed space and time for reflection, I realized that in order to get my pen flowing again I needed to write about this. I wrote other stuff but, aside from my last entry, nothing felt right. The guardian of the realm of blog posting was saying, “nope, not this one not now. Give me what you really need to write about, what is in your heart. Until you do that you’ve got nothing to say.”
It is only now that I can do so.
My experience of the workings of the world is that when someone dies a void is left. And as the universe re-organizes itself to fill the vacuum that is left behind, everything you once knew as solid is tossed into chaos: relationships, perspectives, priorities, values, sense of purpose; everything! Life can seem pointless (after all we’re all going to die) and precious all at the same time cus after all life is short …AND we are all going to die.
I write this blog for me. This is a space where I pour out my heart and thoughts. Here I can express the best that I can be, own up to the worst; turn my negativities into fodder for insight and create something positive in the process; have fun with humour; be creative; find inspiration; write of hopes, fears dreams, dreaming and intuition. It centres my mind in the power of positive thinking and the healing realms of creativity and imagination.
Friends read it on occasion. My sister-in-law and fellow council member called over a week ago now, wondering what was up - “I checked your blog and you haven’t entered anything for over month!”
“A month; has it really been more than a month?”
Actually, just checking now, it’s been over 2 months!
I tried to explain what was going on within me but found the spoken word inadequate. I couldn’t talk and organize my thoughts at the same time in a succinct, intelligible way. It’s only through reflection, writing, writing and more writing; letting the thoughts tumble onto the page that the truth, as I’ve experienced it, unfolds.
Where has the time gone? It seems like I stepped into a black hole (not a metaphor for depression, maybe a worm hole is a more appropriate term) and got spit out the other side. My own life has been busy in the process of its own re-organization – learning and offering new modalities for my clients and re-envisioning what I want to do with the new work space created as a result of ongoing renovations.
With the passing of the preceding generation I and my generation are becoming the elders of our clans and this reality changes my perception of my own future. Retirement, somewhere down the road, no longer is a theoretical slippery slope towards decline but is becoming a real possibility full of new opportunities to be explored.
What would I do if I wasn’t a wholistic health worker? Hmmm, the question brings back a conversation I had with my Dad when I was in my 20’s. He was disappointed that I hadn’t done anything with my “God-given talent” for art.
“What do I have to say? I haven’t really lived; haven’t seen anything of the world. I can draw but so can all the others in my university art classes – what made me special in high school is run of the mill here. So, maybe who knows, maybe I’ll get back into it when I’m older. Ha, when I’m retired.” I said with a laugh.
“Yah, maybe then I’ll have something to offer.”
Who knows? Maybe.
And death of course is inevitable…but until that time there is life to be lived. And on the eve of Pam and Glyn’s departure for the pura vida of Costa Rica to make happy memories with fellow council member Flo I wish them all buen viajie on this next stage of their lives.
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