Itchy healed wounds

I am trying to be honest with myself. It is hard. I know that something is bothering me and, while I can identify potential reasons, none of them feel true. What I know is that I do not feel like the same happy hopeful person that I did a few weeks ago. I know that my temper is short and that I am jealous for no good reason (is there ever a good reason?). I know that whatever is bothering me will pass, but I want this time to hurry up and go by, and I want to get on to the good stuff. Another problem is, that when I feel this way, I anticipate stress and problems. I am dreading the first week in January when I have to reschedule meetings and juggle commitments. I could understand the dread if I were enjoying myself today but I'm not. I have fallen into old patterns, and am not living in the present. I am living in my head.

I am living in my head and my thoughts are what are causing me pain. My thoughts are not real. Yet ironically, just before I wrote that sentence, I was thinking of writing that I am being real - real in the sense of not perfect, real in the sense of experiencing unhappiness, real in the sense of having past wounds heal but itch from time to time. Both are true. I am being real and I am living in my head. And, having written what I have just written, I realize that what is bothering me are my past wounds. They are itching quite badly. So what is the cure? Moisturizer.

Moisturizer is what I would apply to my skin if it were itchy. What is the pychic equivalent? Tears. I have been applying tears. I noticed walking the dog yesterday that my eyes were tearing up. I held back tears when talking to a friend. I forced tears into anger earlier in the day, and last night in the darkness, I finally let go and cried hard. This morning I have cried softly. And now that I realize that I was being a hard, brittle sponge and that salt water through tears and sweat is the cure, I have softened again and am pliable and strong. It is strange how a realization, how a thought (but a different thought) can change how I feel. I feel better now.

Our inner children

No matter how old we get, our inner child is visible. For example, I teach fourth year undergraduate business classes, and most of the students are in their 20's. Some are older; very few are younger. Yet, when these students write a test, I see their kindergarten selves. Some lean sideways on the desk, head on elbow, writing with great concentration. Others daydream. They look left, they look right, they look at their nails. One girl shuts out the world, putting in earplugs and wearing a big bucket hat. And most, just look young and beautiful.

I see my own inner child when I snowplow. I have skied since I was young and my hands cock up as if directing my feet when I do wedge turns. When I teach young children to ski, I see the same phenomenon. Their shoulders and arms try to orchestrate the movement of the legs. I saw my mother's inner child when I said good-bye to her a few weeks before her death. She was lying peacefully on her bed and I looked at her and did not see pale, jaundiced skin covered in wrinkles but babysoft skin and innocence.

Our inner children are all beautiful. They are who we are. Our children represent potential, hope, and the future. As I grow older, I see wrinkles forming on my face and I witness my own reactions, often not based on what just happened, but on what happened years ago when I was just a child. This is one reason why being in the present is so vital to my well-being. I have learned to be kind to my inner child and am glad that she is still there, not grown up. She is able to see the wonder of life and feel the sadness that life also brings. As I grow older, I see another part of me developing, a wiser older woman, but there is still that child-like part of me that loves kindergarten, that cocks her wrists as she snowplows and cries easily in both joy and grief.

I started this blog entry before Christmas and today, two days after, my sympathies are with the family and close friends of a young man. A 25 year old ski instructor, blessed with one of the best smiles in the world and a passion for skiing, died after hitting a tree while skiing a powder run on a mountain resort that had just opened. I find that I am recalling moments with him, and in every moment, it is his smile that I see. It was infectious and joyous and the light of his smile will shine onward.

Namaste,
Ginny

Peace on Earth

The stars shine with love
The snow whispers quiet
We all smile in the same language
Peace on earth

Old patterns

When I am stressed, I fall into old patterns. I have witnessed myself doing this at least three times this week. The first time that I saw myself falling into old ways was on Thursday afternoon when I came home to 37 e-mails and 7 urgent phone messages. The reason for so many messages is that I had worried the night before, solved a problem when I came awake at 4:00 am, and tried to get the solution documented and e-mailed off to the right people before I headed outon my day at 7:30 am. Whether it was lack of sleep, stress, or the combination, that's where things began to go awry.

I changed the spreadsheet, composed the e-mail and sent it off...or so I thought. Turns out, that I had forgotten to attach the spreadsheet. It also turns out that I left my cellphone on in the pcocket of the coat I had worn the previous day, so all the calls letting me know that I had not attached the spreadsheet rang and rang in the closet. Guilt ravaged me (a slight overstatement, but not much) when I came home and realized what had happened. Guilt triggers stress so I was soon swearing (yes, I actually did swear at my computer) as I tried to attach and re-send the message. As happens, when I am stressed, I make mistakes so it took me much longer than it should have to get the spreadsheet ready and e-mailed. Murphy's Law then took over, and the e-mail server decided to take a coffee break and wait 40 minutes before delivering my e-mail.

I knew all the feelings that I experienced as I tried to remedy the situation. I recognized that I was stressing. I felt the same way that I used to. I even got the same old stomach ache. So, why didn't I take action to disrupt the old patterns? I think I enjoyed the familiarity and the adrenalin. I think I also enjoyed having an excuse to be angry at myself, at others, at the situation. I was already stressed before I forgot the attachment and the phone so this allowed me to go to the old feelings.

These old patterns seem to arise more in the holiday season than at other times of the year. The other two situations in which I observed myself behaving in ways that reflect old beliefs were replicas of Christmases past. "Plus ca change, plus ca meme" - Not necessarily true, but the way I behaved. I know that I am not alone in reverting to old behaviors. I also know that I should be gentle with myself. What I find most interesting, however, is that these patterns are so hard to break. Even the language I've used as I've written tonight reflects old beliefs. I wrote "I think" a lot. I wrote that "I tried to...". I know that change is a cycle and that each time I revisit a past belief or pain, there is a more healing and growth. So, I am trying to look at my patterns as an opportunity to grow, to make that leap from fear into fun. I love the Christmas season, but there is some fear involved. There is also some fun and everything between. And that is life. And it's a wonderful life.

It's here - that crazy Christmas season

It's here -that crazy Christmas season. I thought I would manage this year to experience a quiet joyful lead-up to Christmas, then a few days of skiing with my family and then a peaceful Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I was wrong. I am ill with the seasonal affliction of too much. I have too much work. There is a contract signing and press release for a project I've been working on, with people flying in from overseas. I have a final exam to give and then grade on the same day as the press conference. I have friends coming in to town, wanting to have dinner. I have a full house and I need to clean and cook (which can be fun, but only when there is time). I still have some gifts to buy and wrap. And, there are friends that I want to see who are equally busy and I worry that we won't manage to see one another until the second week of January. And I haven' t even mentioned that I want to go skiing, climbing, and to yoga and can't find time.

So, in this hodge-podge of things, what must really happen? I must breathe everyday. The good thing is taking breaths does come naturally. Taking deep breaths doesn't, but at least I am aware that I should allow my lungs to do their work . I must sleep. That will happen. What I can't control is whether I wake up at 4:00 am with my brain churning. What I can control is how I react if I wake. Let it be. The days will pass and Christmas will come and I will be ready. I may not have the cleanest house ( I never have). I will have the exams graded ( I always do). The trees will be decorated. Lights may or may not be up outside. I will see the people I really want to, and I will be gentle with myself as I make choices, to see or not to see, to do or not to do. What I want most for Christmas is to be present with those who I love.

Namaste,
Ginny

Winter night walking

I've been walking my dog, Bode, at night for the past two weeks. Edmonton, where I live, is quite far north and it is dark early in the winter. I've been walking him early in the morning and then again late (for me) at night. Both times are peaceful but the energy of the neighborhood is quite different at 6:30 am than at 9:30 pm.

In the morning, there is activity. People are shoveling their walks and drives. Cars are backing out of driveways and heading out of the neighborhood, almost on automatic pilot. Lights are turning on in houses. It is still quiet but there is a humming. It is the start of day.

In the night, I am almost always the only one out. Last night, there was couple walking a large dog. Bode and he strained toward one another, but then the owners turned a corner, and Bode quickly forgot his interest in the other dog. There is a park in the middle of the neighborhood and when I go past or into it, the lyrics of "Good King Wenceslas" come to mind:

Good King Wenceslas looked out

On the feast of Stephen

When the snow lay round about

Deep and crisp and even

Brightly shone the moon that night

Though the frost was cruel...

The line from "The Night Before Christmas" also seems apt..."the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave the lustre of midday to the objects below". When I am walking Bode and turn into the park, it is as if I have stepped back in time, back to simpler times, when snow fell and winter was harsh, but when the light of the moon and the stars provided guidance enough. I feel at peace in the park. There are evergreens silhouetted against the cerulean sky. The prints that Bode and I left from the previous nights are still visible. The shape of the moon varies from night to night. One night, it seemed the smallest sliver possible. I like seeing the changes in the night sky and I feel its importance in myth, history and our collective consciousness. Winter night walking gives me joy.

Feelings (aka aches and pains)

Over the past couple of days, I have spoken to a number of friends about their aches and pains. One friend has a sore back. Another has damaged knees. A third was complaining about her shoulder; another about hips. As for me, my toes are sore again.

Warning - some people find the following story makes them cringe...so if graphic description of toe pain makes you want to turn the other way, go turn the other way and resume reading after the following two paragraphs.

I know myself best so I'll start by exploring my sore toes. I honestly can't remember the first time that I noticed that I had sore toes. I do know that I was still a teenager because I remember driving home from a New Jersey ski resort (Great Gorge) without my shoes on because my toes were frozen. A few years ago, I injured my big toenails so badly and the pain was so intense that the podiatrist removed them so that I would be in less pain and new nails could grow back unencumbered. I limped around the house for two days with my big toes swaddled in blue gauze, and then pushed my sore toes back into ski boots and headed to the mountains. I didn't realize that blood warms areas in need of healing so, despite the minus 18 degree temperatures at Lake Louise, my toes sweated and then (expectedly) froze. Frostbite resulted and I dealt with tiny bits of blackened skin as well as my lack of toenails for the rest of the season.

Apparently, nails take eighteen months to fully grow back so the next season my freshly grown toenails went back into my boots. They were fine until I went mogul skiing, and even though I have a good boot fit with little fore/aft movement of my foot within the shell, I banged up and bruised my toenails again. This is a common skier ailment. I went mogul skiing yesterday and my toes are sore again, with a bruise developing on my right big toenail.

Sensitive readers can resume here.

So, are my sore toes telling me anything other than to not ski moguls (which I love doing and won't stop)? Yes, they are telling me they are cold. I know my toes well and while a bit of numbness is good, there is a point at which I know to go warm them up. Are my toes telling me anything else? Yes, they are telling me when I am trying too hard. They curl up and strain to the top of the boot. This is a signal to relax. Do my toes hurt when they are not in ski boots? Again, the answer is yes. I notice my toes in two places - at the yoga studio and when I am trying to sleep. I suspect that my toes signal to me that I need to relax and fully ground myself. This is definitely what I feel in the yoga studio and I can physically look at my toes, see how I am standing, and relax my muscles and my mind. In bed, I use a prop to feel grounded. I put a pillow over my feet and the weight helps with warmth and feeling connected.

Toes are an extremity. Sometimes, when my toes are cold, it means that I am pulling myself within to stay warm. This is a physiological response to extreme weather. When that happens, I need to warm my toes. Sometimes, when my toes are cold, it means that I am uncomfortable in a situation - the weather could be warm - and I am pulling myself within to stay safe. I am retracting to my core. It is a physiological response to emotional weather. When that happens, I need to check in with myself and see why I am curling in. Sometimes, just noticing is the fix. Sometimes, I discover that I need a different response, perhaps to speak up or to move away.

The point is that our bodies are part of our internal compasses. When something doesn't feel right, when a toe or an elbow or a nose is sending a message, we need to stop and check. My friend with the sore back said she stomped around like an angry pirate dragging a limp foot for days before she realized that, in addition to her trips to the emergency room and medication, she needed to stop doing and just rest. My friend with the sore shoulder did injure it several years ago but she also carries life weight (that kind that weighs nothing on a scale but tons in our spirit) on her shoulders.

Charles Dickens evoked this life weight in 1843 when he described the ghost of Jacob Marley, Scrooge's business partner, with his heavy chain of money boxes and ledgers wound round him. Dickens' A Christmas Carol contains many messages are that relevant not just to winter but to all seasons. Like Marley, we carry our daily business with us. Unlike Marley, we can become conscious of its weight and take actions to lessen our bodily burden while we are still in our mortal coil and able to the experience the joys of life. Joy is weightless. So, check your body compass regularly and see how you feel.

Scared to be Wild

I am a domesticated creature, otherwise known as super erudio urbanus mulier. I'm not even sure that I was born wild. My parents told a story about the first time I met Santa Claus. Apparently, I was dressed in red velvet and approached him shyly. When I reached his knee, I didn't clamber up but curtsied. My parents were proud. I went to interviews for boarding school when I was still just a pre-teen, a seventh grader. I actually wore short white gloves to the interview at the school where my mother had gone (to my credit, I ditched them in subsequent interviews at different schools). If I had a wild streak, my personality and upbringing sublimated it early.

When I first thought of being wild, I thought of Hunter Thompson or Janis Joplin, frenzied and unkempt. Dark glasses, hiding eyes. I've thought for days now about wildness and last night I realized that I am being unfair to "wild things". There are many aspects of wildness and that is what appeals to me so much about nature. Nature is wildness; it is not tamed, domesticated or cultivated. Nature can be gentle providing the rain for crops, flowers and trees to thrive. Nature can be brutal, storming hail on fragile summer stalks. Nature can be extravagant, creating lush jungle forests or nature can be stark with limned dark mountainside. These contrasts are the wildness of nature. The wildness is not just the hard negative. It is the softness as well.

If I am scared to be wild (and I am), then I am denying part of life, for life is contrast. Carpe diem: carpe nocem. Pain:pleasure. Dark:light. To be fully alive, we need to explore all aspects both hard and easy. I have muffled my voice for many years, modulating it and my choice of words like a lady. Perhaps it is time for me to swear like a stevedore (although I really still can't picture myself doing it). It is time however for me to be vehement when the situation warrants. I am too tactful, too diplomatic and my point can be missed. A wild animal protecting her young is not tactful. She is strong and direct. I can relate to that example. I can also imagine the gentleness of animals and the fierceness. Neither is good or bad; they just are. Wildness is not frenzied and unkempt. Wildness is acting true to yourself, your instincts, your essential self. Sometimes what attracts you is what you need, what is missing from your life. I am drawn to the outdoors and its wild nature. I am seeking what I miss and am finding who I am.

More on being at home

I was reflecting on my entry from yesterday, and something seemed missing. I think I know what I missed. Physical place does have a role in being at home, but you can't be at home in that place without being yourself. This is kind of like "all rectangles are squares but not all squares are rectangles".

For example, certain places have an energy that attracts me. Lake Louise is one of those places. I have had three of the most magical experiences of my life there, skating on the lake, climbing on the cliffs at its back, and skiing on the mountain. The Rocky Mountains are vast, but Lake Louise and its surrounding peaks have a special pull for me. The pull is spiritual. I feel like my soul opens up and I can really see the power, strength, gentleness and fragility of nature and life. But for this to happen, I must be at home with who I am. I use other words to describe being at home - centred and grounded are two. If I am not centered, then I am closed to feeling and seeing the true mountains and lake. In the years when I was stuck closed without realizing it, I would say that I loved the mountains but when I got there didn't enjoy the experience. I was cold. I had the wrong clothes. It was raining. I was out of shape. I always had a reason not to open up and see the magnificence. And so, this is what I mean by saying that you have to be at home in yourself to be at home in one of the places that feels so right.

Even when I was stuck closed (which sometimes I also call being frozen), I sought out places to relax and just be. My bath was one of those places. It has windows on three sides so that light and nature shine in. I added to the wattage with candles. I would often put soothing music on and pour aromatic bergomot oil into the tub. I would let the water wash over me and I felt cleansed of all the beliefs that kept me from being me, and for a brief time, I thawed amidst the water and steam. I was at home, literally and figuratively.

Now, that I carry my home within me, I open to the special energy of places much more easily. I am at home in the yoga studio. I am at home in the climbing gym. I am at home at the ski hill (...and a couple of years ago I realized why this particular ski hill attracted me. It is on the banks of the North Saskatchewan river and, despite the distance between Alberta and New Jersey, it reminds me of the beauty of the hills beside the Navesink and Shrewsbury rivers where I grew up). I am at home at home. I feel my soul open when I visit the ocean. I feel my soul open when I with certain friends and family. And, when my soul opens, the world is an incredible place full of paradox and beauty.

The Road Home

Recently, a friend e-mailed me a question:" I’m sitting here looking out my window at the family across the street and it started me thinking about something. Knowing that you are in the same position, I was wondering your thoughts. How did/do you feel about being in a city where you had/have no family or friends who know your history?"

Her question got me thinking. What is home? Is it where you grew up? Is it a physical place? Is it where your mail is delivered? Is it like "Cheers-Where everyone knows your name?"...or is home something else?

I was once asked to describe the rooms in my house and I wrote:

The sun and sky on the walls
Windows that show the yard
Paintings of nature and animals
with magic, bookcase in the living room
Cookbooks lining kitchen cupboards
Soothing bedroom and bath

This describes the place that I call home but it is not my home. My home is within me. It is who I am when I am fully engaged. It is who I am when I am happy. It is who I am when I am sad. Homing is coming back to myself, back to my intuition. It is who I am.

My history has shaped me. It has contributed to who I am, but I define myself and continue to shape my own beliefs. The past is largely irrelevant, especially in terms of home, especially in terms of going home in the holiday season. College students, young professionals, recently married couples are not returning home when they take trains, planes and cabs to the places they grew up. Thomas Wolfe's famous American novel "You Can't Go Home Again" relentlessly and eloquently drives home the point that nothing stays the same. So, even I as change and grow, I am still me and my home is within. Aristophanes said "A man's home is wherever he prospers". And so I am on a continual road home because I prosper when I am most myself.

Namaste,
Ginny

Taking time

This is the longest interval I've gone without blogging other than when I have been out of town. There are a couple of reasons. For the first few days, no topic came to mind. Then, I became really busy. And, even today, I am not sure what direction this entry will end up taking. Time will tell.

I have a lot going on that is positive. I came home from teaching skiing on Friday to find some urgent work-related messages (I'm managing a project in two countries with three organizations that operate very differently). I sat down at my computer and responded before I had even taken off my ski clothes. After dealing with the situation and working through the guilt that I put on myself for not being available earlier in the day, I decided I needed some time to myself. I put on my pajamas, added a down vest for extra warmth, ...oh it was so comfy...and prepared for a quiet evening at home. A friend, who I seldom see because she works hard at the business she owns, called and asked me to join some other friends for coffee. I went even though I knew that I would miss my own quiet time.

Saturday was similar. I had a list of tasks each of which I enjoy, but cumulatively made me feel stressed as I hurried to complete the list. Most of the things on my list related to Christmas preparations and I do them because they have meaning to me. For example, I like to make wreaths. Generally, I linger over the scent of the fresh boughs and am particular as I choose and tie the ribbon as a final accent. This year, I am satisfied with the look of my wreath but because I hurried, I did not enjoy its creation.

Sunday was different. I was at the ski hill but in a new capacity. I led my first session training other ski instructors. I wasn't nervous (except a bit of apprehension about how my toes would deal with the minus 18 Celsius temperatures). I was confident as I explained the importance of keeping the groups of students moving on a cold day to the other instructors. I was confident as we started with one skill and built on it through the session. I learned that my voice doesn't carry outside as loudly as I need it to. I learned that, even training other instructors, they each have different needs. While I knew this in terms of their physical skiing skills, what this first session reinforced for me, is that each also have varying pyschological needs that need to be addressed. Later, in the day, I also worked with other instructors in customizing their lessons to their clients - whether that meant splitting the class in two, bringing cold children inside to warm up or helping parents understand what their children learned in lesson.

That night, I was reflecting on how busy I am and thought of a section in "Finding Your Own North Star" by Martha Beck in which she describes some of what happens when you are finding what you are meant to do. The first step is to "work like a dog". Yes, that is how I've been feeling. I've been working non-stop. I often think to myself, "Life is good when there are so many things that you want to do that you can't find the time to do them".

On to Monday, which should have been a joyful day. Six of us were scheduled to ski with one of most accomplished ski instructors in Canada. I was looking forward to learning from him. It was cold again yesterday and the school groups cancelled. The lion's share of skiers and riders on a weekday are school groups; the general public comprises a very small percentage. There was tension as different functional factions negotiated as to when lifts would open. The ski hill did open, but late, and the snow making was left on. This reduced the enjoyment for all but also created a safety hazard. The visibility was so reduced that I struggled to see the lift towers. I can't imagine how customers less familiar with the terrain felt. The snow making did stop after lunch but, as someone with a strong customer focus, I felt disappointed in the decision making I witnessed. I did enjoy skiing and learning but my overall energy felt tainted by what I had seen.

I came home and was very tired. I wanted to crawl into bed by 7:00. Instead, I was working on my international project and, again feeling guilty. I just wanted to cry and didn't know why. Tears did come and they flowed until my dog, Bode, came and licked them away. I cried again an hour later and they stopped when I got a phone call from a friend. I went to bed shortly afterwards, thinking I don't know why I want to cry, maybe I'm just over-tired.

The alarm went off and Great Big Sea was playing, then Joni Mitchell. I thought this augured well for the day. I went off in my car to teach the last class of the term at the University and tears came again. But I was alone in my car, and apparently, everything that was jumbling about in my mind sorted itself out. I decided what I need to do to stop feeling guilty about my work; I developed a plan to challenge myself on my skiing, and I came to the realization that a half-formed hope that I harboured really isn't part of my path to my North Star and that I need to let go. I also decided that, while almost everything I am doing, is positive, I want to start prioritizing and really focus on the activities that bring the most joy. Being a plus one in terms of happiness doesn't bring me as much joy as something that is plus 10. So, even though a few years ago a plus one activity would have been great, now I need to prioritize it lower than I used to. I am grateful that I do have so many things in my life that rate high on the joy scale and I want to make time to do and fully experience the ones that generate the greatest happiness for me rather than do everything.

And guess what? I came home from teaching and time opened up over the next few days. I suddenly do not feel overworked and feel that I have time to savour what I love.

Namaste,
Ginny

Follow the happy feeling

On Tuesday I wrote about being happy and today I woke up with a very different feeling. I felt tired and heavy and questioned whether I liked what I am doing in terms of teaching at a university, consulting, ski teaching and life coaching. I felt like crying but couldn't (wouldn't?). I knew in my heart that one of the reasons that I felt tired is that I am tired, but still questioned whether what I wrote on Tuesday was true. Is it true that I no longer fear failure or success?...or am I just wanting that to be true?

As I drove to the university for an early morning meeting with a student, I thought about my activities over the past few days and what my beliefs were about the outcomes. I realized that I have some work to do on some beliefs, that I wanted to be perfect in a couple of situations and was hard on myself when I perceived otherwise.

My day shifted when I met with the student. She had come to me earlier in the week looking for advice on whether to go to grad school or look for work, and in both cases wanted direction on which grad school and which type of work. I didn't give her the answers that she wanted but asked her some questions. She told me that her parents had given her direction and advice and she knew that she wanted something different. She also described how that was the very reason she was talking to a number of her professors and instructors. She was looking to them to provide the direction she feels she is lacking. We talked about how only she can read her internal compass and how only she knows when a direction is right or not for her. We also talked about how she was replacing her parents' advice with advice from others. I asked her to make a list of things she likes to do, environments she likes to be in, and group them however she wanted.

Today, the student came in with five pages of lists and recounted how she felt when she wrote down information about grad school. She said she felt "panicky". We talked some more and she described how she would feel in other circumstances. She was articulate and perceptive. After comparing a few alternatives, her conclusion was: "Follow the happy feeling". I like that. "Follow the happy feeling". Happiness is not always in your grasp, but you can see it and know that it is there ahead of you. I am still happy. Not in every moment, but overall I am following the happy feeling. So, the student taught the teacher, and isn't that what teaching and learning is?

Being happy in the world

Before I went to Switzerland, I wrote about being happy and being afraid that it wouldn't last. At the time, I was happy anticipating the trip. I've been home for a month now and I am still happy.

The reason that I am learning to be happy is that I no longer fear "falling" or "not falling". Failure or success. It doesn't matter. And with the fear of both falling and not falling dissipating, I no longer fear happiness and so I am beginning to experience it. I am, however, learning that I have a lot to learn about happiness. Two blog entries stand out in my mind as helping me on my path.

• Trying is a blog entry that I quote to myself or someone else nearly everyday. When I looked up the dictionary definition of trying, and realized that it means causing hardship, strain or distress, a light bulb went on. I try too hard and by trying I choke happiness. This is a theme I am riffing on now in pretty well every area of my life.
• Fear and Happiness is also helping me clarify my beliefs about happiness. In it, I describe when I realized that I was happy but didn’t trust it to last. I turned to Finding Your Own North Star and Martha Beck’s words on the topic (Don't hoard your toast, be overwhelmed by joy, be in the moment) really resonated for me.

The changes that I feel and see as a result of allowing (note the distinction - allowing myself to be happy rather than trying to be happy) are subtle. Yesterday, I had of those phone calls which used to cause my inner lizard to take control. I listened to the call and did nothing right away. This morning, I woke up knowing exactly what the solution was. I implemented the solution and the problem is fixed. I find humour in more situations. I used to second guess a lot of the things I said to people during the course of a day. At its worst, I would come home from work and replay every conversation, cringing and wanting a mulligan on my day. Now, I seldom rehash what I said once I say it, and it is even more rare that I want a re-do. That's a lot less internal criticism and anxiety on a daily basis ( plus it gives me more time to do the things that I like!)

One thing about being happy is that it shows. And while I'm happy to show that I'm happy, I still feel a little exposed. But, I've spent too much of my life covered up - it's time to show who I am. Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls is a song in which one stanza always made tears flow,"And I don't want the world to see me, Cause I don't think that they'd understand, When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am".

In the past,when I heard the song I really felt the paradox of not wanting the world to see me but at the same time, just wanting to be known for who I am. It's taken years but I've learned that I know who I am and that knowledge is why I'm okay with being in the moment, being me. And if I'm just me, it's okay for the world to see me and, if the world doesn't understand me, great, and if the world does, great. It is great to be in the world.

The beginning of a wild journey

I have a book, well, I can barely call it a book anymore, which was one of the first that consciously started me on my journey from fear into fun. The book is "Women who Run with the Wolves" by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D. The reason that I can barely call it a book is that I have read it many times over the past ten years - on airplanes, in bed, and most frequently in the bathtub. Between being waterlogged and well-thumbed, the paperback book is now aged yellow and in many pieces. I have bought multiple copies of the book but have given them away, keeping my own ragged one as a talisman.

It is no wonder that this book has so much meaning for me. It is comprised of stories told through myth, folk and fairy tale that illuminate the consistent nature and stages of life of women across generations. For example, there is a section describing "Homing: Returning to Onself." The story here is a version of the Celtic Selkie and is called Sealskin:Soulskin. The return of intuition is described in Vasalia and finding one's own pack in the Ugly Duckling. Clarissa Pinkola Estes tells these classic stories and others in a riveting and inimitable manner and then provides Jungian insight into why these stories are so powerful, why they sear deep into our pysches and why we need them to stay true to ourselves, to our essential selves, to our wild and natural selves.

As a child who felt isolated, I found solace in books. They were my source of education and nuturing. They were my mother. I read voraciously and among my selections were classics, myth and fairy tales. As a teenager, I continued to read myth, fantasy and fairy tales and, as an adult, I still do. I believe that these stories hold truth for us and that, especially in our culture where we are bombarded with noise and messages, we need the stories that our foremothers told and that their foremothers told and that their foremothers told.

The premise of "Women who Run with the Wolves" is that the feminine instinctive nature is endangered. To me, this instinctive nature is akin to what Martha Beck calls our internal compass, our internal North Star. We need our instincts to live the life we are meant to. For me, I am a woman who also longs for the wild. I am still scared to be called " wild" but to live in the wild, to follow the call of the wild makes my heart sing and my feet dance. "Women who Run with the Wolves" tells stories from our past when we did live in the wild and then helps me understand how they apply to my present.

Initially, I dove into the book, reading front cover to back. This reflected where I was in my personal development at the time. I was looking for answers and I was thinking linearly. Now, I know the book well enough that I turn to certain sections for reassurance or new insight. Sometimes, I just find a page and let what is on it guide me for a time.

Through time, I have learned that it is more than okay, that it is necessary, to say to the world and family , "give me some time and grace to be by myself, to restore my spirit " and then come back, refreshed and light. Through time, I have learned that tears are healing, that to quote Martha Beck, "you don't cry when you lose hope, you cry when you get it back". Through time, I have learned to ask for dreams. Through time, I have sussed out the meaning of many night dreams and have seen some of my deepest, highest reaching dreams come true. Through time, I have learned that there is always time, time enough to do what you want to do, be what you want to be, if only you feel.

Connections

Today is American Thanksgiving. I wrote earlier in the week about the sadness I felt creeping in as the holiday season approached. I let today evolve. I was conscious not to push myself to do something, anything to stay busy. If I had worked non-stop today, I would not have been true to the emotions I feel within me. I needed a day for quiet and a day of connecting to family and special friends.

I had an early morning latte with a friend, and then was quiet most of the morning. I taught at the university but other than that, no television, no radio, no books or magazines, no computer to stimulate me. The quiet soothed me and by mid-afternoon, I felt ready to connect with the world. I picked up the cordless handset and was about to dial one of my brother's number, when the telephone rang in my hand. It was one of my daughters calling to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving. She's been having a good week and it was a pleasure to talk to her unexpectedly during the day.

I then called my brother. He was just finishing his Thanksgiving meal and described in detail how he basted the turkey and how the turnips didn't turn out quite right. He was excited to report that he has new skis. Weirdly, his skis are the same as mine - longer but the same brand and model. If this had happened in childhood, we would probably have argued over who was the better skier. (Actually we did have that debate when we last saw each other in the summer, but didn't go there today. Some childhood frictions are like the Energizer Bunny; they keep going and going. )

My other daughter phoned while I was waiting for the pizza to be delivered. She was also calling to say Happy Thanksgiving and we chatted about the work in her lab and the snow in Ottawa.

I then talked to my other brother. His children had performed in a play last week and he recounted his feelings watching them on stage. THE REMEMBERER tells the true story of Joyce Simmons Cheeka, a Squaxin Indian girl who was chosen as the "rememberer" for her tribe. It was her duty to pass on the stories, history, and wisdom of her people. In 1911, Joyce was forcibly taken from her home and sent away to a government boarding school. The play tells the story of her patience, humor, and curiosity as she forms a bridge between this new world and the world of her ancestors. My niece played Joyce and her older brother played Joyce's grandfather who passes on the role of "rememberer" to her. I spoke to both my niece and nephew and we talked about the play, whether they had read a book called "The Giver" by Lois Lowry, and how their sports (basketball and ski racing) were going.

It has been over six months since I last saw my niece and nephew but I still felt connected to them over the phone. Perhaps, it is because the little I know of the play THE REMEMBERER, reminds me of another holiday when I read "The Giver" for the first time. Neither my niece or my nephew had read the book but they both knew of it.

For me, "The Giver" is a story much like the "Velveteen Rabbit" though it is written more like a parable than a bedtime story. Both describe the pleasures and pains of living a real life. "The Giver" is about a twelve year old boy who is singled out to hold all memories of pain and pleasure, while the rest of the community exists in a grey numbness. A favorite section is when the boy asks "The Giver" for his favorite memory.

Jonas felt the joy of it as soon as the memory began... he could smell things cooking, and he heard soft laughter. A golden haired dog lay sleeping on the floor... a small child went and sat on the lap of the old woman, and she rocked him and rubbed her cheek against his...

Jonas hesitated."I certainly liked the memory...I couldn't quite get a word for the whole feeling of it, the feeling that was so strong in the room."

"Love," the Giver told him.

Jonas repeated it. "Love". It was both a word and concept new to him...

"I liked the feeling of love", he confessed..."I can see that it was a dangerous way to live"

"What do you mean?"

Jonas hesitated. He wasn't certain, really, what he meant. He could feel that there was risk involved but he wasn't sure now. "Well," he said finally, grabbing for an explanation, "They had fire right there in that room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace. And there were candles on a table. I can certainly see why those things were outlawed.

"Still," he said slowly, almost to himself." I did like the light they made. And the warmth".

Not all connections are love; but all love is connection. Whether it is a young Native American building bridges between the past and present, whether it is a story about how life is meant to be lived in colour, with pleasure and pain, whether it is talking to family members daily or much less frequently, we all need connection, and with connection, we stay real. Yes, there is risk in being real. But much can be healed with light and warmth, and as healing as connection is, love brings even more growth. So, I am going to throw another log on the fire and keep the candles burning.

Thanksgiving

This Thursday is Thanksgiving in the United States. I was born and raised in the U.S., but came to Canada to go to McGill when I was 18. I have lived here ever since. Thanksgiving is celebrated in both Canada and the U.S. but at different times and with different traditions.

I miss American Thanksgiving. Where I grew up, late November was the start of the crisp cold. Watching football, whether Pop Warner, high school, or college games on television, was the norm. The meal didn't vary - turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry, maybe sweet potatoes with marshmallows melted on top, and pies for dessert. It was a simple holiday without the complex emotion of Christmas.

When I first came to Canada, I often went home for American Thanksgiving. This meant skipping some classes, toting textbooks on the train or plane, and then returning Sunday with textbooks unopened. One year, I brought turkey sandwiches with stuffing and cranberry to another American student who was unable to go home. I don't think I would get a gooey sandwich like that across the border these days.

When I was older and raising my own family, we celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving. I toyed with the idea of also celebrating American Thanksgiving and once bought tiny pilgrim candles to set a seasonal table. The end of November is too busy a time with a young family to take a day off from work to cook a meal when no one else is celebrating. (Or so, I though then. Wouldn't it have been nice to do that? 20/20 hindsight can also be rose-coloured.) So, if I wasn't enjoying an oven roasted turkey with all the trimmings, I decided not to cook at all. My Thanksgiving tradition became ordering pizza on the third Thursday in November.

For the past few years, I have visited my brothers in New England. I teach part time at a University so this sometimes meant catching a "red-eye" on Thursday night, missing the main meal, but being there for the leftovers and family time over the weekend. It is a good time to visit family. There is a sense of imminent celebration but the energy is still low key. This year, especially, I am missing my brothers. My mother passed away last April. She hadn't been able to travel for the past few Thanksgivings but for her, Thanksgiving was the kick off to Christmas. And how she loved decorating and buying gifts for Christmas!

I was expecting to feel a bit sad come Thursday, given my nostalgia for American Thanksgiving and the sense of my mother really being gone. I was surprised when the sadness crept in last night without my realization. I'd had a busy day yesterday, beginning with a conference call at 7:30 am, interspersed with e-mails, research, meetings at the University with students, a meeting downtown at 5:15 pm. Shortly before 8:00, I was at home on my computer still working. I recall thinking to myself that it was one of those rare days when I actually crossed off all the items on my (short term) to-do list. I glanced at my in-box and had an e-mail from my brother asking if it was okay if he dispersed some money before Christmas from my mother's estate as a gift. My automatic response was "Sounds like a good idea. Mom would want gifts" and I pressed send.

I went back to my work and noticed that I felt heavy and very tired. I phoned a friend and said "I just want to say Hi. I don't want to talk for long. I'm going to bed soon, but I just wanted to say hi." We talked briefly. I shut off my computer and went upstairs to bed. As I was writing in my journal, I realized why I had suddenly become so tired. My brother's message was like a time-release capsule. I had been waiting to feel sad and the gel cap had dissolved. I felt sad that my mother is no longer here to buy extravagant un-needed presents. I felt sad that the phone calls which always came whenever I sat down to eat would not come this year. I felt sad that she wouldn't be asking me what the girls wanted for Christmas and then sending something more suited to a Floridian than a young Canadian. I felt sad. And then I realized that I had wanted to let someone know that I was sad before I even knew that I was sad. I wanted to connect with someone before I went to bed that night. My heart knew what I wanted before my brain knew.

Today, I don't feel as sad. When I was typing, some tears surfaced as I wrote about my mother's decorating and gifts, but they quickly evaporated. I was sad last night. I was sad for a moment earlier, but overall, I am thankful. I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful that it snowed a little bit last night. I am thankful for scented candles and boisterous dogs. I am even thankful for pizza places that deliver.

Namaste,
Ginny

Looking Forward

When I was skiing at Lake Louise, we were asked to be especially conscious to look forward as we skied down one run. I noticed that keeping my head up is not natural for me. I realized that I have a habit of tucking my chin into my jacket. At the time, I attributed it to years of protecting myself from the wind by hunkering down into my clothes and pulling my shoulders up. I also realized that I felt taller, stronger and more balanced when I looked forward.

Looking forward must be something that I am meant to do right now, because today in yoga, the instructor asked me to look forward. This has never happened before. In yoga, you are asked to be your own teacher in terms of both physical alignment and personal growth. Several years ago, I had difficulty looking at myself in the mirror. I developed a hazy gaze which gave the appearance of looking forward but which hid the fact that I was hiding from myself. Gradually, I learned to look forward when I had two feet planted on the ground. However, I was aware that there are two poses which specifically require you to look forward and not down as you move through them. They are both poses in which you balance first on one leg and then the other. I do them using a spot point for balance but rather than looking forward into the mirror for my point, I look down to the carpet.

I was in one of the poses today when the instructor asked me to lift my chin and turn my head slightly to the right to look forward at her. I smiled, lifted my chin, and turned my head. I had a similar physical response to the one I had skiing - I felt taller, stronger and more balanced.

The synchronicity of being asked to look forward in two different sports within the span of a few days struck me and I begin to think about my downward gaze. It is not just with me in sports. Almost every photograph of me as a child and adolescent shows me, head slightly turned, chin tucked down. In the past year, I've been conscious of this and lifted my chin for the camera, the result being pictures that feature too much neck. I still have not found a natural pose, looking foward at the camera. Why is this? This is because I am self conscious. There is an inherent irony in being self conscious, yet unable to look straight forward at yourself. I am conscious of myself but cannot look at myself. I know that in the past I was afraid of what I might see. I know now that I almost always like what I see. So, I am beginning to look forward and, as with many changes, have occasionally over-corrected (chin way up, too much neck). Simply by being aware I will begin to look forward more naturally.

There is another inherent irony in the phrase, look forward. It sounds like advice not to be present in the today, not to be in the moment. This is not what looking forward means. It means greeting yourself in the here and now. It means recognizing the beauty and complexity of the present and who you are. It means looking yourself in the eye and smiling, and then feeling your neck and shoulders relax. It is a way of truly being.

Namaste,
Ginny

Letting loose on Wiwaxy

I am back from skiing again. I was at Lake Louise, one of my favourite places in the world. This week's trip to Lake Louise was for a convention of ski instructors. Only one run was open but, in addition to about 130 instructors, there were equally keen snowboard professionals, skiers and boarders. The run can get crowded, especially in corners and as we pass one another. We make fast laps on the run; hence it's nickname "Wiwaxy 500". I've gone to the convention twice previously. Both times, most of the mountain was open so this was the first year that I experienced the Wiwaxy 500.

I'd been told that you don't really notice that you are only on one run for three days because you are concentrating on your class. This is true but I am hanging every "Let it Snow" banner that I have. I really just want to let loose and ski ungroomed soft snow up to my ankles or knees. This will happen. It is just a matter of when.

What was fun for me on the Wiwaxy 500 was that I did let loose. The first day of convention I was taking a class on ski improvement. The Level 4 instructor is someone who has seen me ski over the years and has talked to me on lifts and so knows some of my foibles. At the end of class, I asked him for some advice on which other sessions I should take at convention. His advice matched my intuition. I am full up with technical advice and just need to ski.

So, the next day, I took a race coaching clinic. The head coach did not give me or others any technical advice. The intent was to discover on our own when we felt fast, when we felt balanced, when we felt on edge and how those feelings interrelated. We skied with our boot buckles undone. We skied runs deliberately looking ahead, at the other skiers, at the trees on the periphery and at the glorious mountain views ahead.

That night I received an e-mail reminding me to breathe in the scent of evergreens, look at the views across the valley to the lake, and enjoy meeting new people. I had looked at the views but had not yet inhaled the scent of the trees. It was a gentle reminder to look beyond skiing and to look at life. So I did and the next day was even more fun.

One of the reasons that the next day was fun is that I chose a session which again did not focus on classical ski improvement. It focused on outcomes. The Level 4 asked us each to identify the biggest strength and weakness in our skiing. I answered that my weakness is my head, meaning that I over-think, and that my strength is the joy I feel when I ski. Over-thinking sometimes inhibits me from feeling the joy and freedom. Another skier answered that his strength is that he just skis and his weakness is that he does not think of technique. I looked at him and said, "Put us together and we have the perfect combo". The Level 4 said "That's just what I'm going to do" and challenged us to observe each other's skiing and develop a plan to build on the strengths while addressing the weakness. The desired outcome: Better Skiing.

My partner's tactic for me - just follow him as he skied fast with varying turn shapes. My tactic for him - just feel the pressure under his boot. We both surprised each other and we both had fun. Part of the fun of being partnered was that we are so different. I am a woman, middle-aged, and a traditional ski instructor who loves to ski but thinks too much. He is a young man who coaches park and aerials, who loves to ski and, according to him, doesn't think too often of technique. Despite these differences we helped each other ski better and found mutual respect. Not bad for two "race car drivers" on the Wiwaxy 500.

That loosened me but there was more in store. The Level 4 soon had us pretending to karate chop and move like a sumo wrestler. Next we skied with our arms in motion, almost like we were swimming through the mountain air. Untraditional ski improvement, but motion and movement were enhanced. I stopped thinking and just did it. What a feeling!...and that's what it was - a feeling. Yeah! Having felt it, I can feel it again and I look forward to letting loose the next time I ski.

To-do lists

What does it mean if you have something on your to-do list for years and years? I have had "clean the basement" on my Outlook task list for a couple of years. I actually had two other items on my Outlook task list for several years, and I felt very satisfied as I checked them off as complete this summer. I finally fixed both the front steps and the side steps to my house.

Back to the original question...(not that I am procrastinating or anything), the reason that I haven't cleaned the basement is that it is not urgent. I only feel the need to clean it when I go down to the basement and see the mess. I only rarely descend that set of stairs so I only rarely see the mess. Some believe that the rooms in our houses mirror our internal psyche. Using this logic, I have cleaned the rooms in my psyche that people see but I still have internal work to do. I agree that I still have some deep underlying work to do but I also believe that I have done a lot of housecleaning and, overall, my basement isn't as messy as I think it is. I just need 1-800-Junk to come and haul the stuff away. So, what's stopping me? I am. Perhaps, I am clinging a bit to the past. Most of what is in the basement represents the past - books and magazines, baby clothes, old toys, old skis. Having written what I have just written, I see that I need to collect just a few keepsakes and donate the rest. And having written what I have written, I realize that I have been taking small steps to clean the basement. I have made at least three trips to Goodwill this fall. My plan is to make two more trips before December, and then after Christmas to call Goodwill for pick-up and then 1-800-Junk (it really does exist) for what Goodwill won't take.

My Outlook task list is my minor, but long term to-do list. I usually have another to-do list of more urgent items going on a yellow pad of paper. Right now my list has four columns and 26 items noted. Before I went to Zermatt,my to-do list had three columns (For Work, For Me, For Trip) and a total of 45 items that I wanted to complete. A friend teased me about needing a spreadsheet for my list and questioned whether I really needed to do all the tasks. It was clear that she would have found the list intimidating and the sheer volume of work would have stopped her cold in her tracks. This is an example of how we're each unique. What scared her, frees me. When I make a list, I am taking the clutter out of my brain and putting it on paper. I can then make an assessment of whether something is important, urgent or neither. It also prevents me from worrying about whether I will forget something. The reason that my lists are long is that I break tasks into small pieces. This makes them more manageable for me, but definitely is not the way to go for everyone.

Of the 49 items on my Zermatt list, I crossed off 34 of the items. The rest went undone. I really didn't need new headphones for my MP3 player, so even though that was on the list, it didn't get done. I didn't buy Swiss francs until I got to Switzerland, and I didn't plant new bulbs in the front yard. I made good choices and prioritized well. My to-do lists work for me and that's okay.

BTW - my inspiration for this blog was a note on Blogger that a book, based on a blog of to-do lists, has just been published. I didn't visit the website until after I wrote this entry but if you are interested in to-do lists, visit www.todolistblog.com. You can always add it to your list of things to do!

Namaste,
Ginny

Bouldering Problems

The rock gym where I climb sets a new series of bouldering problems every month in ascending order of difficulty. Competitive types go to the gym on the first Friday night of the month and work on the problems, with other climbers and spectators encouraging them on and giving them "beta" (information). I'm told there is music with a strong beat and that it is lots of fun. My friends keep suggesting I go with them some Friday night, and my answer is "maybe after the ski season". Part of the reason why I haven't gone yet is that I am a competitive type and yet I am not confident in my climbing and bouldering when presented with a new series of problems. I also know that I am self conscious and suspect that the "beta" could be overwhelming for me.

I prefer to work on the problems a few days later, and that is what I did this past Monday night. I realized on Monday why there are called "problems" and how thinking ( which I often malign) actually helps solve them (doh!). I also realized that what I call thinking sometimes isn't thinking but a trick my mind plays on me.

There are rules for solving the problems. The first one is that you need to have two hands on the start and both feet on holds to begin. After that, you are allowed to use only the holds taped for the boulder problem number that you are solving. You can (unless specifically noted otherwise) use the features inherent in the climbing wall (corners, cracks, bumps, imperfections, etc...). Most people start out by looking at the problem and visualizing where and how they will put their hands and feet. Once they have visualized the first move, they begin a dance which is seen in crags and gyms. The dance is simply the climber standing at the bottom and putting their hands in the air, micmicking how they will move. Left hand up, right hand two inches to the right. left hand moves four inches, right hand matches on the same hold. Sometimes hips sway and legs move into a high step but hands dominate the dance. When I first started climbing, I would look at experienced climbers and wonder how they could develop such intricate patterns just from looking at the holds on the wall. It's taken two years, but I too now visualize the moves.

For example, I was looking at two problems at the upper end of my current climbing range. I looked at #11 and just didn't see a way. I looked at #12 and immediately pictured how I would move and what I would do. I was with a climber far more experienced than me and she doubted that I could do #12. She showed me how to do #11, but even with her beta, I just couldn't manage to take my right foot off a hold at the same time that I was reaching around the corner with my left hand. The problems are in increasing difficulty so theoretically #11 should have been easier for me than 12. But, we are all individuals, each with specific strengths. I tried #12 and fell off several times when I used the beta of my friend. I then decided to try it my way and climbed to the finish of the problem.

The success I had with bouldering problem #12 illustrates some key points. Belief that you can do it - I believed that I could do 12 but not 11, and my belief was borne out. My experiences in the corner where 12 is located have been more positive than in the door well where 11 is. This influenced my thoughts, positively in the case of 12 and negatively in the case of 11. As a result of this learning, I realized that I am not in the moment as much as I might be when I let an extraneous, irrelevant past event influence my current state of mind and action. This is a good point to be aware of as I move through bouldering problems and life. We are all different. What works for one person might not work for another. Individual variation is part of the beauty of climbing and life.

Snow Bright

It snowed yesterday. I woke up, knowing that snow had been forecast but through the window from my bed I thought the forecast was wrong. I went downstairs and realized that it had snowed! The first snow of the year! I tried to decide if there was enough to break out my favorite snow song. But no, I decided that this snow was not deep enough to warrant the Hawksely Workman "First Snow of the Year".

I am genuinely happy when there is snow on the ground. It feels magical to me as if the earth had been transformed. I have been thinking about why it is that a snowy landscape energizes me. At first, I thought it was because a blanket of snow hides the unsightly. Perhaps there is an element of this, but there is more. I love snow because of the way it reflects light.

In November, before the snows come, the earth is grey. No leaves, no flowers, no green, november. The greys make us sleepy and lethargic. Like the earth, we want a period of rest. When snow falls, the world is bright again with the accumulated flakes acting as prisms to reflect the winter sunlight. On a sunny day, the landscape is practically ablaze with light. The minute particles of snow are separate and scintillating. There is something primeval about enjoying the light. We have it in abundance during some summer months, but in winter light is scarce. We create it in our homes through candlelight and firelight. When we go outside, we soak it in.

I know writing about sunlight in winter is counter to theories about seasonal affective disorder. For me, at least, snow and winter bring many of the ingredients for happiness: Crisp, clear days, wind, changes in weather, crunchy snow, soft muffled snow, sunlight. Add activity: skiing, skating, walking, sledding. And then vary the amount of companionship, sometimes alone, sometimes with good friends or family, sometimes with new people. And then I am happy.

Climbing trees in Zermatt

I just realized that I climbed a tree in Zermatt. In fact, I've been told that when I was in the tree, a photo was taken so it looks like I am hugging the Matterhorn. When I wrote about climbing trees shortly before I left Alberta for Switzerland, I did not imagine that I would fulfill my goal of climbing a tree just for fun so soon and so unconsciously. And as I suspected, I didn't cry out like Robert Munsch's Mortimer "clang clang, rattle bing bang, I'm going to make my noise all day", but I did enjoy the climb.

It was a Friday afternoon and skiing was cancelled because the winds were blowing too fiercely on the glacier. Most people went shopping or napping but three of us decided to explore the high ropes course in Zermatt. We barely knew each other. I knew a bit about them from introductions at dinner previously. One was the husband of a woman with whom I have skied at Lake Louise; the other was British and still mourning the death of his wife the previous year.

There are three levels to the ropes course, involving various balance-y walks and ziplines. The walks and ziplines are joined by trees and the pattern takes the participant gradually higher. We all navigated the first level and the Canadian fellow went off to join his wife elsewhere. The second level began with a rope ladder, involving loose rubber rungs. Frank went first and struggled. I laughed to see him awkwardly step and fall and recover. I used a slightly different but just as awkward technique, placing my knees first and then stepping up. Frank seemed to enjoy his struggle and loosened up. I saw him smile for the first time on the trip. As we made our way around the course, Frank gained confidence and smiled and laughed. It felt like a treat to see someone who clearly was still in pain, emerge at least temporarily and enjoy themselves again. On that day, playing in the trees outside was a joy for Frank and it warmed my heart to see him have fun. I also had fun.

Showing my feelings

Yesterday, I did a happy dance in celebration of a silly little accomplishment. The fact that I felt joy over something so small, much less showed my happiness through a jig surprised me. I was at the ski hill and we were practicing a chair lift evacuation. There are teams of three working to get skiers and boarders off the chair lift in case of an emergency. It is something we practice and seldom use.

I was feeling that I wasn't doing things right. The head patroller didn't like how another instructor and I anchored ourselves, and suggested (strongly) we do it another way. Shortly afterwards, I tried to flip the rope over the chair and failed. The person teaching me told me to take a wide stance, keep my head down, like in golf, and move the rope from my right uphill foot to my left downhill foot. Like in golf, I failed to keep my head down and failed to move the rope to the correct spot. Soon, the head patroller came by again and made me show him how I brake manually (which went well) and how the safety engages as a brake. Again, he didn't like my anchor position and made me shift. He indicated that an experienced person could do it the way I originally was positioned but that a newbie couldn't. His remarks frustrated me because he knows nothing about my experience belaying or anchoring - he just assumed that I didn't know what I was doing.

So, a few minutes later, a friend of mine was practicing flicking the rope to remove the rope-saver from the cable. She was flicking properly with her right hand but then pulling down with her left to straighten the rope, which prevented the rope-saver from moving. She tried several times. I had never tried but thought I could do it. I took the rope, flicked my wrist, the rope-saver moved, and voila! I was dancing up and down on the hill. A small success but I did celebrate it (and got teased for a while afterwards).

Spontaneously showing my feelings does leave me feeling vulnerable. I felt silly for being so happy over such a small thing. What is true, however, is that there was a lot more involved yesterday morning in my happiness than just flicking the rope. That small movement relieved a lot of my earlier frustration and proved a point only I knew that I was making.

While I was in Zermatt, I also showed my feelings unexpectedly. It was the morning when the level 3 exams were beginning. I was at breakfast with a friend who was taking the exams and his wife. We'd been chatting and heard a booming voice from across the dining room (the same booming voice that had sung traditional sea chanties a few nights earlier while slightly intoxicated). The fellow with the voice was talking about taking the level 3 course and how there was no potential disappointment because there were no exams available until later in the season. My friends and I heard the comment about disappointment and burst out laughing. We all laughed hard, wiping tears from our eyes - my friend who was taking his exams, his wife who was taking another course and me. One of the examiners was at the table behind us and asked with a smile in his voice, "Are you laughing at what I think you are?"

The feelings that I expressed as I laughed were complex. I was releasing a lot of the anxiety that I had created. I was laughing because the comment felt naive. I was laughing because, even without exams, disappointment is a possibility. I was laughing because my friends were laughing. I laughed in some disappointment (just a little), a lot of relief, and some awareness that others would not understand that my decision not to take the exams is a decision rooted in allowing rather than trying. Later that morning, several people commented on how relaxed I had looked at breakfast.

Showing my feelings does leave me feeling vulnerable because only I understand the complexity of my feelings. A single word often simplifies what perhaps should not be named. An expression might look like disappointment to others but, to me, there may be relief, satisfaction, frustration and anticipation mixed in the many layers of emotion. An expression might look like competitiveness (as did my happy dance) to others but, to me, I am only aware of how I feel in the moment. As I learn to show my feelings, I am learning that others' responses to my feelings do not validate or invalidate me. My feelings are my own, and the people that I want to spend time with are those who recognize when feelings are authentic and transparent and appreciate that I am me.

Subtle Balance

Skiing is about balance. Life is about balance. Balance is both simple and complicated. I learned a lot about balance while I was skiing on the glacier in Zermatt. My first day on snow started out roughly, when my alarm clock didn't go off. We were supposed to be outside completely ready to go at 8:30. I was lying in bed in my hotel room and heard noise but didn't see much light through the window so I supposed that it was still early (6:30 or so). Something made me look at my watch and it was 8:15. I leaped out of bed, brushed my teeth, put sunblock on, threw my ski stuff together and hustled out. I had a leftover banana from the night before and an energy bar, plus I'd gulped down some water in the room. I was ready to go at 8:30.

The first day back on snow is always about regaining balance on skis. A good test is whether you can ski down a slope in just your boots. As we came out of the restaurant after lunch, the level 4 instructor who we were skiing with, slid gracefully down a pitch on her boots. The rest of us lurched forward and backward, and some avoided the whole issue by gingerly side-stepping down. The level 4 noticed this and told us that when she is coaching racers she doesn't let them ski gates until they are completely balanced when just boot skiing. I was able to boot-ski down the same pitch but not for several more days.

The second day back on snow, I awoke at the right time but my legs felt shaky and unbalanced all morning. It might have been the altitude, it might have been me adjusting to the food, or it might have been that I was slightly dehydrated, but I did begin to feel stronger in the afternoon. I made some good turns and received feedback that I need to feel the move to the inside (which for skiing "insiders" means that I need to work the lateral plane of balance).

On the third day back on snow (and this is beginning to sound like the "Twelve Days of Skiing"), I felt good about my skiing and received feedback again that technically my form was sound but in terms of function, I needed to move more to the inside and that this would help me become more dynamic. That evening, however, my mind began the insidious process of thinking too much. I realized that it was my thoughts that were concerning me and worked that steps that help establish mind-body balance for me. My thoughts continued their invasion the next day. I began to second guess my skiing competency and whether I was ready to take the exams. I wrote in my journal. "I am holding back. My thoughts are holding me back. If I don't take the exams, will I feel like I have left something undone?"

The next day I tried. I tried and I tried. Now, those of you who read my blog regularly know that, in my view, trying is not a good thing. Trying implies that I am not fully confident that I will achieve my goal. When I try, I stiffen up. Trying causes strain, and strained skiing is not fluid and dynamic.There is inherent tentativeness. And so, it was not a day in which I skied with joy and abandon. It was a day in which I was hard on myself and compared myself and messed up my skiing by trying and thinking too hard.

"Do not try. Do or do not" - Yoda. Good advice. Since I was trying, I began to think of not taking the exams, of just skiing and enjoying my time in Switzerland. I skied the next day and skied much better. I also liked myself better. I was more helpful to my classmates and more genuine in wanting the best for each of us. I still had a few days in which the instructors would evaluate us and in which I could assess my own skiing. I thought about some of the other things that I have been exploring in my own development. Would not taking the exams constitute a "fear of falling ( or failing)? or would I feel like I had left something undone, that I hadn't reached for that last hold?

The answer is no. In my heart, I was not ready to take the exams. I see the evidence in my own writing. In this blog, I wrote that "I am not concerned whether I pass or fail my exams. I love to ski and I love to teach skiing. This is an opportunity to refine my skills in a setting that epitomizes alpine skiing. I will have fun skiing, I will eat pasta on the Italian side of the mountain every day for lunch, I will drink a little bit of wine, I will eat chocolate, I will make new friends." When I thought about the exams, I pictured myself getting my teaching or my skiing but not both.

And so, I chose not to take the exams. I know that getting my level 3 certification is an achievable goal. I know that with more time on snow my balance will improve further. And I know that one day soon (very likely later this season), I will wake up knowing that I am ready to take the exams. I achieved the goal that I set out for myself when I went to Switzerland. I had fun skiing (especially once I relaxed), I did eat pasta every day on the Italian side of the mountain and especially relished dipping bread in smooth bodied olive oil, I did drink a little bit of wine (but not too much), I did eat chocolate and I did make new friends. Again, I am learning the subtle balance between ease and challenge, and that makes me happy. Life does not have to be trying.

Human Endeavors

While I was in Zermatt,I was repeatedly reminded of the scale of human endeavor through history. Like many, I have forgotten much of what I learned in school. When I saw the Alps, fragments of school learning came back to me. In particular, I recalled that Hannibal had crossed the Alps on an elephant. As an eighth grader, I simply memorized the fact and didn't consider its implications. Two weeks ago, when I first thought of Hannibal and the distances and terrain that an elephant would have had to travel, I was astounded by the implications. What vision could have foreseen that the steady lumbering gait of an elephant could provide footing in the mountains? How were the animals fed? What other logistics were involved? I struggle to imagine elephants crossing the Alps now in 2007 when helicopters ferry goods from base to peak. How could elephants and an army have crossed the Alps roughly 200 years B.C. during the Second Punic War?

Historians still debate Hannibal's actual route across the Pyrenees and Alps. It seems clear, however, that the elephants originated in North Africa and the army is speculated to have included 38,000 infantry, 8,000 cavalry and 37 war elephants. No wonder Hannibal is attributed with the famous quote " We will either find a way or make one."

I visited the Matterhorn museum in Zermatt, expecting to learn more about the 20th century climbers who scaled its peak. I did learn about them but I also learned that in 1985, the glacier released the remains of an armed man dating back to the 16th century. Even with modern footwear and oxygen canisters, the glaciers and peaks near the Matterhorn are treacherous. Yet, 500 years ago men sought to traverse the mountain peaks. Their legacy was captured in glacial ice and now their iron weapons remain.

A display featured pictures of a more modern man. Ulrich Inderbiner qualified as a mountain guide at the age of 25 and actively worked until he was 95. He stood on the peak of the Matterhorn more than 370 times between 1925 and 1995. He died at the age of 104. He wrote: "I live how I climb a mountain, my walk and rhythm is slow and deliberate, steady and determined".

What amazing things we humans can achieve.

"To be more human"

I'm back from skiing in Zermatt. I love mountains and have traveled through many North American ranges. I've been in the Canadian Rockies, the American Rockies, the Sierra Nevada, the Appalachians, the Alleghenies, and even the Ozarks. The Rockies are magnificent. When I drive into one of the National Parks in Alberta (Jasper, Banff, Lake Louise, Waterton or Yoho), I am transported from my everyday life into a more meaningful connection to nature. I feel close to the heavens in these mountains. There is a spirit and strength in the mountains which inspires me. I was curious to see how I felt in the Swiss Alps.

My first impression of the Matterhorn and the narrow valley in which Zermatt nestles was conditioned by childhood reading and Disney. The Matterhorn is iconic. Anyone who has visited Disneyworld or Disneyland knows what it looks like, and the Alps were as I envisaged as a child. My first impression was shattered once I rode the tram and gondolas to the top of Matterhorn Glacier Paradise. At 3883 meters, I was the highest I've ever been on earth. To my right, were some climbers roped together walking over the glacier. As a skier, I walked through a tunnel, put on my boots and skis, and emerged onto a glacier populated by many nations. We were Swiss, French, Canadian, Russian, Moldavian, Italian, Japanese, Norwegian, Swedish, Dutch all united in a passion for skiing. At the end of the first day, I took an elevator through the mountain to a lookout and climbed steps to go even higher.

I felt like I was above the heavens. I was definitely above the cloud cover and as I looked around, I felt infinitesmal. I was just a speck in vast and complicated mountainscape. There was a crucifix on the lookout with words in French, German and English. The translations were not identical but the English words were " To be more human". If being more human means feeling vulnerable while striving forward, feeling small while appreciating nature and God's grandeur, feeling grateful to be alive then I took a small step that day to being more human. But, I may not have understood at all what it means to be more human. All I know is that this was the first of many times during my two weeks in Zermatt, when tears came to my eyes, words failed me, and I felt overwhelmed by the beauty of life, the power of the mountains, and the courage of those who live and die in them.

Peace,
Ginny

Gone Skiing

I'm putting up the "Gone Skiing" sign on my blog. I'm leaving tomorrow for Switzerland and will be skiing for two weeks. I plan on unplugging so I don't expect to post a new entry until my return.

I am so excited about this ski trip. I love the feel of the wind against my face, the smell of the evergreens as I ride the chairlift, the quiet hush of snow falling. I love the little quiver of adrenalin that I feel before launching onto a hard run and the satisfaction when I’ve done it. I love the freedom of movement. I love the sense of being close to out of control but in control when I ski moguls (Oh, no, oh no, oh no… oh I’ve done it!) I love laughing when I’ve fallen in the snow and am wiping the wet stuff off everywhere. I love looking at the mountain cirques and the sky and clouds. I even like it when my toes freeze just enough that they no longer hurt. So, one of the reasons that I'm excited is that I just plain love to ski.

Another reason is that I will be skiing in Switzerland. Ever since I read Heidi as a child, I've been fascinated by Switzerland and the Alps. I love mountains, and Zermatt, where I'm going, is at the foot of the Matterhorn. To make Zermatt even better, there are no cars in town. You take the rail there and then walk, bike or ski (depending on the season). Since Zermatt is at altitude, there is year-round glacier skiing. In October, snow will be falling at the higher altitudes while warm autumn afternoons are still a possibility in town. By going to Switzerland to ski, I am fulfilling a childhood dream.

And, I am excited because I am pursuing another goal - to take my Canadian Ski Instructor Level 3 course and exams (which is an internationally recognized standard). I had planned to take the course last year but wasn't able to finish.

Last winter, I was teaching two university courses and teaching skiing in between classes , and didn’t feel right asking for time off to ski for week so I arranged my year to take the Level 3 course after classes had finished in April. In March, my mother, whose physical condition was never good and had worsened over the past two years, got significantly worse. I initially planned to go see her in the interval between classes ending and my Level 3 course starting, but my brother convinced me it was urgent.. Travel from Edmonton to Florida takes a full day so I went to see her in the first weekend in April, cancelling class on Friday. She was under hospice care but seemed to have several months left to my eye. She was confused sometimes and needed a cane or walker but she dressed for dinner and we went out. My daughters went to see her the following week and she went to the beach club with them on April 5.

I was hopeful, then, that she would last past my course. On Friday April 13, I left the house to pick up another instructor who was taking the course which began on Monday April 16. As I was driving to his house, I received a call from my brother who was on holiday in Florida about two hours south of where my mother lived. He told me that the nurses didn’t expect Mom to survive the weekend.

I skied that weekend and was in constant touch by cell phone. I spoke to my mother on Saturday morning before she fell into a coma. I talked regularly with my brother who had driven up to be with her. He returned to his family on Sunday morning. I headed off to the course on Monday planning to take things one day at a time. We had just started the indoor portion, when my phone rang. My mother had developed a fever and had worsened again. I skied that day, glad to be at Lake Louise, glad to be with others who love life. That Monday night my mother died. My brother said that the funeral would be on Friday and that the family would be arriving in her town on Wednesday.

I told the ski instructor that I was sharing a condo with and no one else on the course. We had driven from Edmonton to Lake Louise in my car, so he arranged for his wife to meet us halfway on Tuesday night so he could have his car and then I would drive his wife back to Edmonton in my car. I participated in the course on Tuesday but my thoughts kept going to my mother. I cried for her when I was alone on a poma tow called “Top of the World” which takes you to the peak of Lake Louise Ski Resort. The view from the top is panoramic and world famous but the tow ride is a bit desolate.

That afternoon, when the course conductor had completed his wind–up, I told my classmates that I would not be able to continue the course with them, that my mother had died and I needed to go. They understood and were supportive and said kind words. I drove home back to Edmonton, caught flights to Florida and joined my family at the funeral. Shortly afterwards, I went back to Florida for a third time to clean out her apartment. Obviously, I was grieving my mother but I also felt the loss of the opportunity to take the Level 3 course.

I was home for two days after cleaning out her apartment when I received an e-mail from the Canadian Ski Instructors Alliance. They were planning a trip to Switzerland to ski in October. It was perfect. One of the things that I have learned through life coaching is that when you experience a loss, you mourn or try to replace what is gone. I mourned my mother but this trip is an opportunity, to not only replace the loss of the course, but, to better it. I have always wanted to ski in Switzerland and the Level 3 course and exams are being given. And so, I am going to Switzerland to ski and there is no doubt that my skiing will be more free, less burdened than it was last April. I am not concerned whether I pass or fail my exams. I love to ski and I love to teach skiing. This is an opportunity to refine my skills in a setting that epitomizes alpine skiing. I will have fun skiing, I will eat pasta on the Italian side of the mountain every day for lunch, I will drink a little bit of wine, I will eat chocolate, I will make new friends. I am happy and grateful for this opportunity. And I'll share my feelings with you when I am back.

Namaste,
Ginny

Musings on musings

I have lots of thoughts today and they seem unrelated, so I'll see what I type as I type.

Musing One
I said yesterday that I want to climb a tree again. I really do. I also said yesterday, that when I was in that tree, I would shout out like Mortimer "clang,clang, rattle- bittle-bing-bang, I'm going to make my noise all day". I really do wish that were true but it isn't. I am an inhibited, shy sort and shouting out isn't something that I do often or do well. I will probably be self conscious enough being up in a tree that the best I'll do is whisper the phrase, but who knows? If the sun is bright, I might speak, shout, whisper, or be silent. I will be happy to be in a tree.

Musing Two
One of my daughters told me yesterday that she has never climbed a tree. That makes me feel very sad. But, when I reflect, it also makes me happy. Think of the new found joy she will experience when she climbs her first tree at the ripe old age of twenty-something.


Musing Three
My dog, Bode, has learned to open the cupboard door to where I keep the garbage. I spent a large part of yesterday and most of the hour that I have been home today, saying "Uh, Uh - No!" and turning my back for an instant to find leftover lasagne on the floor, or a chewed up milk carton, or a broken egg shredded, or slimy lettuce bits. I'm glad that he is learning (just not what he his learning) but I wonder what I am supposed to be learning from this?


Musing Four
Sharing what worries you can make other people laugh. Last week I booked my own flights to Switzerland. Travelocity very clearly stated that I would need to transfer from Heathrow to London City Airport and the transfer didn't cause me to bat an eye as I chose my flights. Once I confirmed my flights, worry set in and to assuage it, I decided to investigate. I googled London City Airport and discovered that it takes between 60 and 90 minutes to get there from Heathrow. No problem, I have 4 1/2 hours between flights. I also learned that London City Airport largely serves the financial district in short hop European flights. A new worry set in. I would be carrying skis, a big duffle bag, and a backpack. Not exactly what the blue pinstripe financial set brings as luggage. Would my skis fit on the plane? Would the check in personnel have the facilities to deal with my duffle bag? So, I called Swiss Air and asked the agent if the plane could handle my skis? I could hear her almost muffle her giggle, but then she couldn't help it, she had to laugh. Of course Swiss Air allows skis on its planes. At least, I asked and now I have one less worry and know that I made at least one person laugh that day.

Climbing trees

At 62, Robert Munsch still climbs trees. This makes me happy. Why? Because anybody who climbs trees knows how to play and I care about playing, and anybody who climbs trees past the age of 12 has retained a sense of child, a sense of their essential self. Plus, Robert Munsch is one of my favorite children's authors, having written I'll Love You Forever, The Paperbag Princess, Thomas' Snowsuit, Mortimer, and many others. So, it is good to know that someone I admire in one respect, I can admire in another respect (and I believe the two are related).

I read that Robert Munsch still climbs trees in an article in The Globe and Mail. The article also states that he likes to cycle and walk his dogs. He says "The good thing is, I have to walk the dogs every day. Once I'm out there I do the rest of the stuff. I've been climbing trees since I was a little kid. I just never stopped. Climbing trees is like climbing mountains, except it's less expensive and they're closer."

Which got me thinking about climbing trees and climbing other things. As a child, I loved to climb trees. We didn't just climb; we made up games about climbing. One of the trees that we climbed tilted precariously toward the south, its trunk was void of branches and there was a crack from the ground to where the branches finally spread. We would time each other as we put our hands in the loamy crack, brace our feet against the tree and scamper up to the branches. Another game could only be played in the spring when the crab apple blossoms were in full bloom. The game was to nestle and hide into a spot entirely covered in the fragrant white blossoms. There would be five or six of us at once in the tree. One person would not climb but would stand a distance from the tree and try to spot us. The last one spotted won.

I recall once when we were playing this game, my brother climbed high into the tree and couldn't (wouldn't?) climb down. I think it was just the two of us playing that day, and as his older sister, I walked away in disgust, sure that as soon as I turned my back, he would climb down. He didn't and started to yell, "Help, help". I ignored his cries. I was embarassed a few minutes later when a fire truck pulled up and firemen helped him out of the tree. We lived by a river and his cries for help carried. A well-meaning neighbor heard the cries, thought someone was drowning in the river, and called emergency services. I was even more mortified a day later when a newspaper article appeared with the headline "What goes up, must come down". I remember this so vividly probably because I felt guilty and embarrassed but I've never thought to ask my brother what his memory of this incident is like.

I miss climbing trees. The trees in Alberta are not suited to climbing the way they are in other places. I haven't seen a child in a tree in a long time. Reminiscing about climbing trees has inspired me to a new goal. The next time I see a climb-able tree, I will climb it. It will be fun looking out at trees to determine a suitable one and it will be fun seeing where I next am when I finally climb a tree again. And when I'm in that tree, I will think of Robert Munsch and Mortimer, one of the characters he created, and will shout out like Mortimer would. "Clang, clang, rattle-bittle-bing-bang, I'm going to make my noise all day".

A grook

I've been getting interesting reactions to my blog from family and friends. Some see it as a way of staying connected to me, even though we are many miles apart. Some see it as a way of getting to know me better and some see it as proof that I'm "losing my mind". After all, I write about the difficulty of feeling what I am feeling. And so, I dedicate this grook written by Piet Hein over 30 years ago to those who don't get how hard it is to really feel:

We are taught to live,
we are
taught to feel.
We are taught to conform and conceal.

We are taught so well
what we
ought to feel
that we cannot feel what we feel.

P.S. Once you start really feeling, you feel quite easily. It is getting past what we are taught so well that is challenging. And calling the poem a grook isn't a sign that I am losing my mind. A grook is from the danish "gruk' , a short aphoristic poem. The term was invented by the Danish poet, mathematician, and scientist, Piet Hein. As an additional piece of trivia, Piet Hein also invented games like Hex, Tangloids, TacTix and the Soma Cube.