Whimsy

Whimsy appeals to me. I don't like kitsch or outright puns, visual or verbal, but I like whimsical art and books. Interestingly, when I look up the definition, the appeal lessens.

whimsy
n 1: an odd or fanciful or capricious idea; "the theatrical
notion of disguise is associated with disaster in his
stories"; "he had a whimsy about flying to the moon";
"whimsy can be humorous to someone with time to enjoy it"
[syn: notion, whim, whimsy, whimsey]
2: the trait of acting unpredictably and more from whim or
caprice than from reason or judgment; "I despair at the
flightiness and whimsicality of my memory" [syn:
flightiness, arbitrariness, whimsicality, whimsy,
whimsey, capriciousness]

Definitions aside, I still am attracted to whimsy. The triad of pictures hanging over my fireplace is whimsical. All three are of animals, a fox, an antlered deer, and a bighorn sheep. Two have wings. All three have curlicues in the backgound or foreground. I interpret the background swirls as stars. Those in the foreground I believe are snow. In my imagination, these animals evoke mythical archetypes. They are guardians, tricksters, angels. They are playful and yes, with wings, they are flighty. I look at them and I see nature, strong and powerful - nature, light and capricious.

I have a serious piece of art in my living room. It depicts clouds. Yet, when I look at it, the impression it leaves depends on my mood. Sometimes I see the clouds as mittens joining together. Sometimes, I see the clouds as menacing convergence. Gazing at clouds and the sky is freeing and when I look at my art, I am free to fly, to let my imagination roam, to be free of reason or judgement. Most would not call this piece of art whimsical but there in an element of freedom and lightness in the subject matter.

To be free or reason or judgement. This is why whimsy appeals to me. For someone who has lived in her head, who is over-educated and still subscribes to three daily newspapers, the notion of being free of reason, and especially judgement is compelling. Whimsy removes the need to think. I can just feel and not worry what others think. Whimsy is my explanation for the unexplainable, for the magic in the world. Whimsy is fun and odd. I like whimsy, and like magic, I believe we need more of it in the world.

Two sides of being a sponge

I was thinking today about sponges, and realized that there at least two sides of being a sponge (and no, I don't mean one side is for scrubbing and the other is for soaping). I was thinking that being told I am a sponge means that I am absorbing others' fears, thoughts, anxieties, opinions and energies. I tend to think of being a sponge as negative, as taking on the unhappiness. But what if the reverse were true? What if I were a sponge and took on the happiness, excitement, joy and positive energies of others?

I was also thinking that being a sponge means that even if I harden a bit, it just takes a bit of moisture to soften me again. To be hard is to be inflexible, to be unable to bend with the wind, the snow, or the weight of life. A hard sponge breaks apart and has no purpose. A soft sponge is like a cushion, able to blunt life's impacts.

I was thinking of other analogies for being strong and soft at the same time (and, no, toilet paper ads don't count). I was thinking of willow trees and toasted marshmallows. I was thinking of chocolate covered soft ice cream and wind in all its incarnations. I was thinking of how I like to be when I ski moguls. But these other analogies don't have the same resonance for me as does being a sponge.

Being a sponge is personal to me. I was once given a sponge to carry as a reminder not to be one. Being a sponge is part of who I am. There are two sides to that sponge, a soft side and a dry side. The soft side allows me to be empathetic, to feel others' feelings. The other, dry, side lets me absorb others' feelings. The risk with absorption is that the feelings are overwhelming. In the past, when overwhelmed, I would retreat, avoid, and dry up. A pivotal point in my journey from fear into fun occurred when I was watching the movie, The English Patient. There is a scene where the patient, who has been completely burned, is brought outside on a stretcher. It begins to rain. I felt like I was that dry parched soul feeling the healing moistness of that rain. I opened up and began sobbing. It was the first time that I had really cried in years. Once I softened in that way, tears continued to come when they needed to. And so, I am still a sponge open to others' feelings and energies, but I am learning to take on only what I choose.

P.S. I realize that this sponge analogy is open to many spoofs (just like that more famous cartoon sponge). Oh well, at least, I live in a cold climate rather than undersea in a pineapple.

Coming to neutral

Right now, in my skiing, I am working on coming to neutral as I begin a new turn. The reason that I need to come to neutral is to re-balance and establish a stable platform for the new turn. I've been visualizing and thinking about this part of the turn for most of the week, and as usual, my thoughts didn't follow a linear path but moved laterally (which is actually what I want to do when I ski). My thoughts turned to the life lesson inherent in coming to neutral before beginning a new turn.

Many of my friends are programmed to go, go, go. To stop and be with alone with themselves is a feeling never learned or abandoned. I suspect at least some of my friends are afraid to be alone with themselves. This makes me sad because they are missing out on knowing their own inner richness and beauty. To actually stop is scary so I have been reflecting on the notion of coming to neutral as a means of helping them see that that constantly going is a recipe for imbalance just as flipping from edge to edge when skiing will eventually cause imbalance.

Years ago, I also was afraid to be alone with myself. I was a classic type A achiever and if someone suggested that I might want to try yoga or meditation, my reaction was "yuck, that is too slow for me". I would go into the office on weekends. I recall flying to Calgary on a Sunday afternoon after one of my daughter's birthday parties. I didn't take summer holidays when others were off because I believed that I would then attend higher-profile meetings in their absence. When I wasn't at work, I would bury myself in a book, sometimes reading even as I stirred the pasta pot. On a Sunday afternoon, I would feel the urge to go to the mall just because I thought I had nothing else to do. I have learned now to be alone with myself. I can sit in a room and just be... When I am too busy, go, go going, I yearn for that time alone with myself and deliberately carve out a time and place. I did, however, learn to be alone by taking small steps. These steps, for me, were akin to coming to neutral.

My first small step was to begin a conscious program of exercise. Moving helped me reconnect with myself. My next steps involved long drives in the car with music. The drives had purpose; they were usually to and from the mountains but the time in the car was mine alone. From music in the car, I turned to music in the living room with headphones on. I began to pay attention when I cooked, to savor the aroma of garlic and red peppers sauteing in olive oil, to inhale the scent of oranges studded with cloves. And several years after I began re-balancing, I attended my first yoga class with one of those friends who, ironically, has not yet learned to come to neutral. Yoga is now a central part of my life and one of the means by which I pay attention to myself and the moment.

Life is a series of moments. They are all connected, just like one ski turn flows into the next. The lessons in my life are interconnected with my lessons from sport, which is precisely why I love sport so much. To move freely, to balance on edges, to un-edge, re-balance and move freely again are characteristics of skiing that embody many of the qualities that I want in my life. Coming to neutral is necessary to be balanced and I aspire to that flow in both skiing and life.

Namaste,
Ginny

My business

"Mind your own business". How many times have I heard that phrase or thought that phrase silently to myself. It is trite and has a somewhat bossy connotation, like "don't tell me what to do". Yet minding our own business is exactly what each of us is meant to do.

I can't mind anyone else's business. First of all, I don't know it. I might think I do, but I don't. Second of all, I can't even if I try. It would be a strain and impossible to mind someone else's business. Sometimes, we are asked to mind someone else's business and, in my experience, this is where trouble strikes and stereotypes pervade. The bossy mother-in-law, the controlling boss, the nosy neighbour. Not a good thing, though good fodder for television sitcoms.

I do mind my own business. There are parts of life that are mine. I decide when to write in my blog, when to go skiing, when to do my contract work, when to go skiing. I even decide when to call my daughters and friends. All those things are but a sampling of my business. Others may disapprove of how I conduct my life, my business, but when I mind my own business, I am true to myself.

There are parts of my life over which I have no control. As much as I might want these things to be my business, they are not. I recently received numerous e-mails, one of which angered me. I chose to let it sit without a response and within a day, the situation had resolved itself. The aspect that had angered me was none of my business and by not attaching to it, I stayed calm and focused on my business. A key learning here is that others' reactions to us are not our business. Those reactions belong only to the other.

"Things will take care of themselves". I haven't subscribed to this notion. I have believed in doing, taking action, but I am learning slowly that things do take care of themselves, especially if those things are not my business. A lot of those old pithy aphorisms (Mind your own business, Things will take care of themselves, Let it be) may be trite but they are true. I still do believe in action but only at the right time, in the right way and with respect to my business. What I am learning slowly is what is my business is a lot less than I thought. (Which is good, because it leaves me more time to ski, play, and enjoy life.)

The Dancing Boy

There are many people in my life whose name I don't know. There is the man, whose dog is named Georgia, who is always chasing after her as I walk Bode. There is the man in the booth where I pay to park at the University. There is the postman that I see filling students' mailboxes when I walk to and from class.

There are other people in my life whose name I know from their nametags. There is Raquel at the grocery store who almost always is at the express checkout. I asked her why once. She answered that she likes the constant flow and doesn't get stressed by the busy-ness.

Most of the people in my life recognize me whether or not we know each other's names. There is one person who is a regular in my life who would not recognize me. This person likes to be known as "The Dancing Boy". "The Dancing Boy" is a young man now, but he was a boy when he first entered my life and the lives of many others who reside in Edmonton's West End. There is a very busy corner, intersecting an east-west highway with a north-south artery. Traffic invariably backs up and drivers fume as they sit still in their cars.

In about 2000 or 2001, I first noticed a boy about 14 or 15 years, bundled up against the cold in winter, with headphones on, grooving to the music. When light signals changed, that would be his stimulus to move to the next corner, still bopping as he crossed the street. I worried why he wasn't in school, but I worried more if he wasn't there. Seasons and years went by and still, "The Dancing Boy" was out in all weather dressed appropriately and dancing. Drivers stopped fuming and watched and traffic seemed to move all the better itself when "The Dancing Boy" traversed the corners.

In the earlier years, his dance was completely oriented to the beat of the music. I often mused that the thundering drum of traffic contributed to his patterns. I could tell the type of music he was listening to by the cadence of his beautiful but somewhat uncoordinated moves. Then, there was a period, where I didn't see him. I wondered whether his parents had moved and whether he was on another street corner, this time in the south of Edmonton. Last fall, I spotted him again several blocks north of his original intersection. His moves have changed. He lip synchs now and his dancing now has more elements of guitar playing and stage showmanship. He is adding his perspective to the stories told by music resonating in his ears.

I saw "The Dancing Boy" today and was inspired by him as I often am. I don't know much about him. I know that he likes music,likes to dance, and likes hoodies and hats. What inspires me is that he is obviously doing something that he loves, regardless of what other people think. The fact that he loves dancing on street corners in traffic shows, and as I am stopped in traffic watching him, I look at the people inside the other cars. We are almost all smiling. Seeing someone do what they love has that effect. Smiles and joy are contagious and the world is a lighter, better place. Keep on dancing, whatever your forum - street corners, bathrooms, kitchens, studios, gyms, stages, snow, ice or bicycle. Just keep on dancing and smiling.

A quiet Saturday morning

I am enjoying Saturday morning. I could have gone skiing or to yoga. I could be cleaning the floors, walking the dog, or doing office work but instead I am enjoying Saturday morning. What makes this Saturday morning different than others is that I set the intention earlier in the week not to plan anything. I did not set an alarm. I came awake gently after a dream about old places and felt secure and content. I was fairly certain that it was morning , that it was a good time to look at the clock. And it was. It was about 8:00 am. So I slid out of bed, stepped into slippers, zipped on a fleece, petted the dog, and turned up the thermostat.

Those few moments are the kind I love most. They are very ordinary but very human. All over the world and throughout history, people come awake, greet their families, and prepare for the day by building a fire, turning up the heat, putting the kettle on. The sameness is what appeals to me for we are all the same as we open our eyes to the new day. There is vulnerability and genuineness, and then our brains kick in reminding us of where we are, who we are and what we have planned for that day.

I came downstairs and opened the blinds. The brown clusters on the maple tree are laced with early morning light and the evergreens look darker than usual. The sky is pale pure blue with long spackled shreds of white cloud. It is going to be a beautiful day. Sunny, clear and crisp.

As a treat, I decided to make coffee rather than tea. I am sipping it now and feeling the start of a caffeine buzz. (One thing that I have discovered is that when you don't drink coffee regularly, you really do feel its stimulant effects). I will finish my cup and then pour the rest of the carafe down the drain as too much caffeine will disrupt the equanimity that I feel.

The phone just rang. I debated whether to answer but I did. My equanimity is still with me but my writing flow is gone. I am looking forward to the rest of the day and what it will bring.

Namaste,
Ginny

Happy books

I am reading a serious, good book, a prize winning book. The book is a fictional story of a family during the Nigeria-Biafra War of 1967-1970. I am learning a lot and the book is well-written and evocative. And that's the problem...it is so evocative that it's not fun to read. The descriptions of malnutrition " kwashiorkor" are heart wrenching. The descriptions of death are graphic but the saddest descriptions surround the deterioration of the human spirit during the war. I haven't finished the book yet (and I've been reading it since October which is an eon since I usually complete a book within a few days or a week), so I don't know whether the ending is uplifting but I doubt it. Such an ending would not be true to the book or the nature of war. War does not just kill those who die; it can also kill those who live.

Books like this are necessary. They serve to educate and remind us of life, all aspects of life, no matter where we live. There is great sadness in the world. There is torture and war and other unspeakable crimes, but I believe there is also great light in the world. There are many people who respect each other, who see the light even through the darkness and strive to make the world a better place. These people are not just the Nobel Peace Prize winners; they are the ordinary folk among us who smile at strangers, who let us merge in traffic, who emanate cheer even standing in line at the grocery store...and the bittersweet, great thing is that many of these people are calm, composed and bright simply because they know the value of life.

I vow that the next book I read will be a happy one. The trouble is that happy fiction is hard to find. I've read all of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Series with its gentle approach to life and human foibles. I'm not particularly fond of British or American humor. P.G. Wodehouse and Bill Bryson do nothing for me. I've read and re-read the Little House on the Prairie series so many times that I can quote passages (though I always skip over Pa's fiddling). I enjoy books with a touch of magic. Bernard Malumud, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Chaim Potok all have elements of this aspect in their writing. I recently discovered an Alberta Ismaili writer, whose book of short stories, Baby Khaki's Wings, left me feeling a quiet peace. My favorite author, though, when I want to read about happiness is Laurie Colwin. I highly recommend all her books but two, in particular, stick out for me. Happy All the Time and Shine on Bright and Dangerous Objects.

So, friends, help me out. I need some recommendations for happy books. They could be classics that I have never read, classics that I should re-read or new titles that I have not yet found. It will be fun to share the books that make us happy.

New Year's Yoga

I went to yoga class today at 3:30 in the afternoon. It was packed. I recall when I first started going to mid-afternoon yoga several years ago, I wondered, "who are these people? why aren't they at work?" I could not imagine a lifestyle that provided flexibility enough to go to yoga during the workday. (I really was tethered to my office, laptop, and cellphone in those days and I now shudder and recoil at the recollection). I don't know who the people were at class today but good for them for coming. Over the years, I have made friends with many of the afternoon regulars and they work, just like me. They are actors, nurses, pharmaceutical sales reps, teachers, restaurant owners, and entrepreneurs.

If they are like me, the class was one of letting loose the emotions of the holidays. I noticed as I lay on my mat waiting for class to begin that my neck felt warm and flushed. I stood and the redness was apparent. It was as if my body were signalling that it was time for me to get reconnected top to bottom. Two of the instructors were taking the class rather than guiding it, and they loosened the atmosphere by giggling and pointing to their male friend who was wearing a Christmas bow on his headband. But soon, their focus turned to yoga.

Post-New Year's yoga classes are infamous for "drama". People are caught up in the aftermath of their family visits, functional or dysfunctional. People have often overeaten or overspent. People are overwrought. Today's class was not horrible for drama but there was some. Loud, pained breathing could be heard. Lots of people took breaks and lay down on their mats. For someone as self-conscious as I am, I maintained my composure, working steadily at each pose. For the second class in a row, my hamstrings loosened up enough to allow me to bring my leg parallel to the floor in Standing Head to Knee Pose. I noticed a similar ease in Standing Separate Leg Stretching Pose. Physically, there is no reason why these poses should suddenly have become easier. I have been going to yoga less and skiing a lot (which tightens hamstrings).

I suspect the reason that the poses are becoming easier has to do with my state of mind. Several years ago, I asked an instructor about these poses and she described them as poses in which you surrender. No wonder I found them hard. I am a warrior. I will not surrender. Yet, I am realizing that hard as I may fight, I am not in control. There are forces larger and wiser. Without even realizing it, my struggles this holiday season may have taught me the value of surrender. Relax, let things be easy and they are. I am loosening my control. Hamstrings and heartstrings, both. I am ready to let things be. (And now, cue the Beatles).

Wind and visibility

I spent the past two days skiing in the mountains. Again, I am reminded of the lessons of nature and how varied our human response is. Snow had fallen in the mountains mid-week and skiers entered the gondola from the base of the village expecting great conditions. What they got - great snow - but also high winds and limited visibility. In the lodge as I was putting on my boots, I ran into an aquaintance who lives in a nearby mountain community. "Hey Barry, how's it going?" I asked. "It's @$#%& out there", he replied. "High winds and no visibility. It's brutal. I'm going home."

My daughter and I headed out. We have a routine at this ski area as we do at most. Warm up runs and then on to more challenging terrain. The groomed runs that we use to warm up our ski legs are among the most exposed on the mountain. The temperature was fine, just a few degrees below freezing, almost balmy for Alberta in January, but the wind was strong. As I felt it bite into my face, I used a tactic that sometimes works. I thought of dermabrasion and how roughing up skin with a light peel actually benefits my complexion. It didn't really help. Dermabrasion by wind stings a bit, but the distraction of visualizing something unrelated to skiing or wind, did make me smile. My daughter and I slid off the chair lift and agreed that we would decide what to do after we had skied the first pitch. The snow was glorious and I skied fast for my first run. We stopped and looked uphill to the continental divide. The wind was thrusting the new snow into swirls and grey snow clouds were moving in. We decided to go ski on terrain more protected from the wind. There was less vertical to ski but it would be warmer.

I enjoyed my day skiing. The two highest chairs did stop operating for a few hours because of the wind, but my choice of terrain was unaffected by the wind. The snow was great and rather than working on my carving, I worked on my mogul skiing. The sun emerged briefly for an hour and then snow squalls began in earnest. After every ride on the chair, I would shake off the white covering from my shoulders and legs. The visibility didn't matter. One of my goals was to stop checking out every bump and planning my line; instead I wanted to just ski it as it happened. Ski by feeling rather than seeing. The results were good. I had a lot of fun and pushed myself to turn in places I ordinarily wouldn't. There was the one mishap when I turned too close to a bamboo pole marking a rock and ending up sitting on the rock but other than that, I stayed on my feet. I felt a great deal of satisfaction.

The next day, my daughter and I went to another ski area in the same mountain park. It is not as large as the one we had visited the day before and attracts a different clientele. We had skied for about two hours and were about to head in for coffee when I heard my name. Two friends who live in the nearby town had called out. I had spoken to them the night before and they were planning to ski the larger resort. "What are you doing here?", I asked. " The wind was high and visibility was bad. We took one run down the Divide and decided to come here instead". Essentially, they taken a twenty minute car ride, a twenty minute gondola trip, a fifteen minute chair, skiied for about three minutes, taken another chair for ten minutes and skied for fifteen minutes before downloading into the gondola for a half hour trip to the other ski area. The skiing was fine at the smaller area but the snow was not nearly as good.

So, three sets of keen skiers all dealing with wind and visibility in different ways. Expectations clearly played a role in our varied reactions. My daughter and I were the only non-locals. We had invested more time and energy into getting to the ski hill than the others. The lesson to me is one of allowing and going with the flow. The conditions weren't conducive to carving on groomed runs so we adapted and had fun. The other set of friends chose an alternative adaptation by not worrying about sunk time but instead going to a ski area where the conditions would allow them to ski the way they wanted. And the third...well...he's like the little piggy who went whee, whee,whee, all the way home.

Chords

The holidays are almost over. One of my daughters is heading back to her university today; the other leaves on Monday. I found that my emotions over the past weeks were complex and many-layered. Certainly,I felt more sadness and frustration than I have in a long time. The events of the month were not the cause of some of my unhappy emotions; my thoughts were. Even as I struggled to re-frame my thoughts, I was aware of many moments in which I experienced joy, gratitude or peace. One of the things that I am learning is that I can hold several emotions within me at the same time and they all do reflect aspects of what I am feeling. I can be frustrated and then look up at the sky and be in awe. I can be sad and then hear a carol and feel child-like. Maturity is not being on a even keel all the time. Maturity is not holding a single note. Maturity is a complex symphony of emotions with a broad range. Depth,breadth, and the ability to recognize when a single pure note is needed or when a chord is required are all part of my life's song. So, even though, I struggled with minor chords over Christmas, I still felt joy and caroled and cavorted. Here are some of those moments:

Looking up at the sky on New Year's Eve
Having a Christmas story read aloud to me
Cooking Christmas dinner and timing it so everything came to the table hot
Hearing one of my daughters exclaim "I like Christmas lights"
Listening to the piano player at Jasper Park Lodge play Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas

Getting to a hotel room and finding a murphy bed
Stuffing stockings and opening mine
Seeing others' joy in the gifts that I gave
Finding pictures in the foam of a latte
Being with loved ones, especially on the 23,24,25th

Splitting firewood
Gazing at the little tree with ornaments made by my children over 20 years ago
Chasing a friend down a hill with skis on

Reflecting on the meaning of Christmas alone in my room
Drinking a perfect cup of tea
Lying in savasana at the end of yoga class and hearing the instructor say "choose love, not fear"

Choose love, not fear. A good mantra for the New Year.

Namaste,

Ginny