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?)

The island of the ancestors

He spins the dramatic story of the healing journey we are about to take. Every word is enunciated for dramatic effect and he speaks in a commanding, resonant voice, "You will go down to the sea. A boatman is waiting for you, to take you across the waters, which may be very turbulent. Though you may feel fear there is no need to be afraid as he knows the way and is a very skilled seaman. You will arrive at the island of the ancestors where all those in your lineage reside, from the most recently crossed over to the dead who existed eons ago."

"As you make your crossing, riding the waves and the storms, ask yourself: who am I seeking, what questions do I have for those who have gone before me who can see across time and space, who can tell me about the afterlife, the time between lives or gift me with insight regarding the earthly life I am presently living." His voice trails off as the beat of a drum faintly echoes in the distance, becoming  stronger and closer with each strike of the beater.

Filled with anticipation and excitement I ride on the beat of the drum, the heartbeat of mother earth herself as my heart falls in sync and breaks open.

This is like no place I know; part Hawaiian but also other. The undergrowth breaks under foot with each step and I realize I am walking through the cool shade of a rainforest. The turquoise blue of the ocean is just beyond the dense foliage; the waves break rhythmically on the shore. As I am about to step onto the expansive beach, something stops me. From my place in the shadows I see, a few yards away, a rustling in the dense brush that borders the deserted white, sand beach. A tiny, frail, figure wanders out, stepping tentatively as one lost in a dream. The sun, shining too brightly from a brilliant, unblemished blue sky causes her to squint and cower just a little. Pale, grey, bleached out after 90 years of life, she and her faded, flower print nightdress almost blend into the sandy backdrop.

She looks around for the first time in a very long time and begins to ask herself, for the first time in a very long time, Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here? Where did I come from?
Instinctively, she looks out to the sea knowing that it has all the answers.


The sunlight dances on the water like tiny glistening diamonds. They merge into the form of a young dark haired man who comes forth from the ocean. A tanned, dashing figure with sea blue eyes and heart-filled smile; he gently approaches her. She warily stands her ground, looks him up and down through dim eyes under her furrowed brow.

"I've been waiting for you for so long and now you're here," he reaches for her hand but she pulls away. "You were lost but you've found your way now. It's alright. It's time to go but first you have to change." She clutches her hands to her chest gathering up the folds of her nightgown close to her body, turns away from him then looks over her shoulder. He waits patiently. Finally, sensing he poses no threat she eases her position.

"Step out of this," he makes a sweeping gesture over her tired, old form. She looks over her arms and her hands. And then as she touches her face a shock wave of memories pass through her. Her dulled hazel eyes clear, allowing her to see that it is her beloved who beckons with an outstretched hand and loving heart. Looking into his eyes she remembers all and in that moment her old body drops to the sand; a discarded cloak revealing her true self returned, resplendent in the vibrancy of  youth resurrected. The lovers see each other for the first time in a long time. She reaches out to him, puts her hand in his and their hearts unite.

I remained spellbound unable to come out of the shadows nor walk away. How long I stayed I couldn't tell. After some time resting in each other's embrace they looked to the sea, strode into the surf, dove under the waves and became one with the dancing, sunlit waters.

The crashing waves became the drum calling me back.

I did not get to the island of the ancestors instead I serve as a witness to tell of their union and their journey home. Perhaps the locks of her hair that I strew out into the ocean in Hawaii in ordinary reality opened the way for crossing over into non-ordinary reality and the island of the ancestors.

In the spirit of ALOHA, A HUI HO Mom and Dad!
MAHALO for the opportunity Robert!

Over there...

HI all,

As you may know I now am managing 2 blog sites, this one and AWAKENING CHOICE DREAMS which appears at my website of the same name. On the latter site I'll explore all things related to dreams and dreaming - how to, Dreaming 101, history and interesting facts on dreams as well as experiences at workshops as a participant and a teacher (as long as students are willing to share their experiences/dreams with my readers).

I figure dreamwork is best shared with a sold audience, though I can't imagine what it would be like not to be interested in dreams, I'm not out to convert anyone.

Having said that, I find it difficult to compartmentalize my life - I work at what I love and dreaming spills into everyday life for me so you will still get dream stuff here but most likely dreams will provide sources for creative writing - we'll see how this works. This site is about heart, soul and mind matters as I travel through the mind fields of life so it's kind of a mish-mash; like my mind.

I'll notify you when a post appears on the other site so you can pop over there if you are interested in dreams. So, please bear with me as I get the hang of working the 2 sites.

Click on the link to go over to AWAKENING CHOICE DREAMS for the latest post on how I work with Robert Moss' Lightning Dreamwork Process, especially if you are interested in working with your dreams or attending the dreamcircle this Wed night June 20 from 7 - 9 p.m. at AKASHA'S DEN in Oakville. I'd love to see you there!

Sweet Dreams,
Nance

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

Maya's Sanctuary

On Mothers' Day I was one of 5 therapists providing bodywork sessions at the Ladybird Animal Sanctuary Fair. I did Shiatsu while 3 massage therapists and 1 reflexologist worked their magic. From 1 - 5 p.m. we pretty much went non-stop in the theatre space at the Pearl Company in Hamilton while bands played, literally overhead, in the music venue upstairs.
Elsewhere in the venue there was drumming, yoga, face painting and arts and crafts for kids. Moms got to enjoy sessions with us and have their tarot cards read. Between sessions I grabbed 2 pieces of cake from one of the many bake sale tables and perused the artist stands.
Rod and I have 2 wonderful rescue cats - Maya and Flippy so this cause is close to my heart. Maya came to us from Oakville Humane Society and Flip from Burlington Animal Aid (now Burlington Humane Society).

"How long are you in for Maya?" we ask her.
She kinda looks pathetic; like she's in incarceration.
She's just finished playing with one of her
"fuzzies" (note it in foreground).
.

As you can see, she's a lovely black kitty. What you can't see are the cute white spots on her throat, chest and tummy. She and Flip are our fur babies. Maya was a 6 week old kitten who came into OHS with her litter mates and over a dozen other neglected cats rescued from a bad situation. A little over a year later she was the only one remaining from the batch. A high percentage of cats in shelters are black. Superstition plus the fact that they are more modest than their flashy counterparts means they are often overlooked.
Though daily efforts were made by the staff to socialize Maya, she was a frightened kitty slinking about for out places to hide when she was brought to meet us in the visiting room. Her future didn't look promising but she captured our hearts and though we had intended to get one cat after our beloved cat Max died (also adopted from Burlington Animal Aid) we couldn't not take her home. The next morning we both agreed we'd be coming home with 2 cats.

She hung her head down with both paws
over the rim of her kitty box at OHS and looked so sad.

"She will probably always stay in hiding, in a closet or under a dresser," we were warned.
That didn't matter to us. She'd have to opportunity to wander about the house if she choose; or not.
I was however concerned that she and Flip may have difficulty bonding. So we took our time in introducing them to each other. Over the next few days we alternated confining each to a bedroom while the other was free to roam the house. Maya chose mainly to remain under the dresser. But they sniffed each other through closed doors. We switched their rooms and left the other cat's towel behind so that they could get used to the other's scent.
Then came the meeting...

We placed each cat in their crate facing each other at a distance. In increments we inched them closer and then leave them for a bit. When there was only a small space left between them we dangled string and toys for them to play with. They fixed their eyes on their prey; their paws almost touched every time they swiped at the objects before them. Slowly we opened the doors and they emerged. And from that moment on Flip became Maya's mentor and social therapy cat. For the first few years when Maya wasn't in hiding she was glommed on to Flip.
And though she may hide when company comes and let you know very quickly when she's had one pat too many with a warning hiss and bat of a paw with claws retracted, every time I look at her I'm reminded how lucky we are to have our little rescue kitty.

That's Maya's story and I'm reminded of it every time I see her like this. And, though it doesn't look like it she'll tell you that she's actually very happy hanging out on the rungs of the stool in her home...when she's not taring around the house, bugging us for pats or to play with her numerous fuzzy toys.