A view of the world

Yesterday, I wondered whether, if I moved to the mountains, I would take the views for granted. I suspected that my answer was no. Today, it was confirmed. Some friends who live in the mountains sent me pictures of the first snowfall. They were not taking the view for granted. They took pictures and wanted to share the beauty with others. Each day is new and each day brings something unique to learn, see, hear or experience. Gratitude for these small daily pleasures is what keeps magnificence fresh. I have made a practice of reciting at least a few things that I am grateful for on a daily basis. Often, I do this in savasana at yoga. Sometimes, I do it during the day, especially when I am stuck in traffic, and sometimes I do it at night.

A few years ago, I made list of things that I love. When I think daily of what has been pleasurable for me, I do not turn to this list. I choose what is true for that particular day. On Tuesday of this week, there was a full moon. I looked out at it throughout the night and then later, I learned that the full moon in September is a harvest holiday in Korea, similar to Thanksgiving in Canada or the United States. This, and other things, made Tuesday special. Today, I was bouldering at the gym and watched a birthday party of young children. Some climbed naturally, using their free leg to flag and provide balance. Others were fine until they got to the top of the wall and then -oops- "how do I get down?" The staff were good at telling them how to position their feet in order to be lowered comfortably. I smiled as I watched.

A holiday in Korea and kids climbing are not enduring pleasures for me, but they made me appreciate the day and smile. The list of things that I love is enduring and comprised of small moments such as the smell of peppers sauteeing, afternoon sunlight on my back, the sounds of water - trickling, splashing, running, thundering, being alone in the car with good music playing, and the smell of trees. And, yes, skiing, looking at mountains, and catching a wave are on the original list. I have added to it over the years and looking at the list just now made me realize how far I have come in turning my fears into fun. My list just gets longer and longer.

Seeing the world in colour

One of my fears is that, if I move to the mountains , I will stop seeing their magnificence and ever changing character. I've asked people who live in the mountains "Do you take the view for granted?" and I get back mixed answers. Some do; some don't.

A few minutes ago I looked out the window to my backyard. On this late September morning, the colours are brilliant. The sun caresses the red leaves of my only maple tree into a lustrous shine. The golds of perennials and trees vary in hue, from pale amber to dark bronze. The green grass, the silvery sage of my Russian Olive, the blue grey textures of spruce and other forest colours set the varied warm colours of the oaks, ashes, dogwoods into contrast. I've looked out on this backyard for over twenty years. If I can still see its beauty and changes, why would I fear that I wouldn't do the same in the mountains?

I suspect that I have nothing to fear. My fear is rooted in the time when I was stuck and frozen. A common literary and cinematic device is to film or describe the world as shades of grey, without colour, and when the protagonist makes a life changing decision or gains insight, colour enters the story or film. When a person is feeling grey or flat, the world does not look bright. Breakthrough moments of insight are associated with the light - "seeing the light', "light bulb moments". Even when it is dark and we are dark, we have that spark inside ourselves that provides illumination, insight and light. The world is not monochromatic. There is pleasure and pain, fear and fun. The contrasts are necessary and the world is meant to be seen in colour. I see the world in colour and I see the changing fall colours. That is true and will be true, wherever I am.

Catching and riding a wave

The other night as I was drifting to sleep, I thought about catching and riding waves. I grew up by the ocean, and catching and riding waves is second nature to me. I began to think what it would be like to learn for the first time how to catch and ride a wave.

The first step is to enter the ocean. There are basically two ways - run through the surf and dive in immediately, or wade until just your head is above the water and slowly dunk. People who are comfortable with the ocean generally choose the first way. They just dive in, without regard to the water temperature, lacking knowledge of where the footing may drop off or become rocky, confident that they will skim through the water, stand, and be safe.

To others, just diving in is difficult. Gradual immersion, slowly testing the temperature, the current, and the footing (even checking for seaweed or - eek - jellyfish), is easier for people when the particular ocean spot is new or they are unfamiliar with the sea. This is probably the way a person intending to catch and ride a wave for the first time would enter.

Once in the ocean, and wet top to bottom, the next step is to gauge the waves and get a sense of where they begin to build, crest and then break. This takes experience so the first timer will need to watch carefully. Waves also come in series and I have tried to discern a pattern in which wave will break most evenly. There is no pattern. So, a person wanting to catch a wave must stand and watch, and stand and watch, but eventually commitment is necessary. To catch a wave, you decide "the next one is it". You move to where you think the wave will start to break and then watch as it begins to crest. At this point, you are looking out to the horizon over the sea. When the wave crests, you turn and swim hard until you feel that your power is no longer needed. Your arms then stay forward pointed like a steeple over your head and the wave propels you forward. Effort at this point is wasted; you are in the wave. Soon, you will sense the power fading and the closeness of the sand. At this point, I turn onto my back, riding the last glide and then get up. Whether I turn to my back or stay on my stomach, the wave has dissipated and I stand up and shake the sand out of my bathing suit.

Lessons learned from catching and riding a wave:

• You have to get into the water - run, wade, swim, but get in
• Observe the environment and see what is going on
• Commit - at some point, you need to turn and allow the wave to catch you
• Relax and enjoy the ride
• Life leaves its mark - there's always some sand in your bathing suit.

My dog's story

One Saturday last January, a ski instructor where I teach saw two black bundles of fur abandoned beside a country road a few kilometres away from the ski area. Two young Rottweiler mixed puppies were shivering in the cold. The instructor picked them up and continued his drive to the ski hill where the puppies were greeted by a horde of pet-loving skiers, boarders, and lifties. The puppies were quickly adopted.

I do not generally teach skiing on the weekends so I learned about the puppies on Monday. My reaction was "I'm glad that I wasn't there. I'm sure that I would have loved the puppies and wanted one, even though a Rottweiler mix seems too fierce and big for me." My family's dog had passed away two years earlier and I was adamant that I enjoyed the freedom of not having a pet, of being able to pick up and go to the mountains without booking a kennel or finding a hotel that takes pets.

A week later, I was at home late in the afternoon when I received a call from one of the ski school supervisors, "When are you next coming in?" I answered, "I'll be there in about an hour. I'm coming back to pick up my daughter". The supervisor's response was a cryptic, "Good, I'll see you then."

I arrived at the ski area and in the office was another puppy. This one had also been abandoned but near a school in a rough area. One of the teachers had found him cowering as children threw stones at him. The teacher (who is also a ski instructor) thought of how easily the puppies were adopted the previous week, wrapped this puppy in a jacket, and drove to the ski hill. The puppy looked ragged and gaunt, appearing to have lived on his own for weeks. His coat was greasy to touch, his tail hung down, but he had a beautiful face and expressive sad eyes.

The community of instructors at this particular area seems to have an affinity for abandoned and abused animals. The Snow School Director takes injured race horses, stables them, rehabilitates them and loves them. Another of the instructors has a Husky with piercing blue eyes who was abused as a puppy. It was to him that I turned and asked questions about caring for a special dog. Tyson held him and calmed him and passed the puppy to me. There was no decision. I had known from the moment I walked in, that even though I was the last to hold the pup, he was going to come home with me.

I named him Bode, after a talented but undisciplined ski racer. I have since talked to other skiers who own dogs named after ski racers - Grandi, Killy, Tomba - but my dog's name may be influencing his personality. He is cheerful, affectionate, full of life, powerful, nippy, playful and ADD...and it is not me saying that. The professional trainer that teaches me how to train him has said that. As with people, I try not to think of his past and focus just on how he is today. Today he is calm and obedient. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? but Bode and I will greet the day together.

Opening heartstrings and hamstrings

I have been doing yoga regularly for several years and have seen many changes in my mind, body and spirit during this time. When I first began yoga, I recall feeling some energy around my ankles and feet that was new. I related the feeling to the fact that, when I was an infant and toddler, I had devices attached to my legs to correct congenital hip dislocation. Imagined or not, I felt like I had not been able to kick my legs freely enough during that time, and I was freeing myself now to move independently.

As my yoga progressed, I felt myself soften in other ways. I have always had a fairly flexible back and was frustrated when I couldn't move into full camel pose by reaching my hands down to my feet. I would lean back and waves of emotion would sweep over me and I would feel fear and panic and lie down.

The fears that I felt as I leaned back with my heart facing upward and open had nothing to do with the moment. They were past and future fears. By learning to be in the moment, I learned to open my heart and experience feelings in a new way.

I caused a car accident a few years ago by speeding (aided by adrenalin from finishing a basketball game and a thumping Bruce Springsteen anthem on the car stereo) and missing a yield sign. No one was hurt but both cars were a mess. Their car was written off and mine nearly was. I worried and beat myself up figuratively for days. I went to a yoga class, and went through the series of postures. Camel pose is near the end and I tried the posture as usual. I had never gotten into the full backbend but I did that day and discovered that underneath all the worry was gratitude to God that no one had been hurt. I was thankful. It was a very unexpected emotion. So now, I welcome the camel pose because if I do it, I may gain insight past my thinking and into my feeling.

I still do sometimes struggle to get into the full position. Some days I feel fear again and, then I observe the fear and realize that I am in a yoga studio and am kneeling with my head and throat moving toward the back of the room, and I am then able to continue into the pose. When I struggle, it has very little to do with my body and a lot to do with my mind.

My hamstrings are a different matter. They are tight and, until recently, haven't seemed to loosen much in the years that I have practiced. I have been letting go of fear for several years. Sometimes, it peels off like the layers of an onion. Sometimes, it comes off like a knife slicing the onion into quarters. Over the past few months, fear for me has been abating in large chunks. Somewhere I read that having tight hamstrings is associated with fear. Our hamstrings are tight because we are poised to take flight. We are always ready to move. My hamstrings are finally beginning to loosen, and it is good to feel strong and soft, powerful and vulnerable at the same time. I am learning to differentiate when I need to respond to fear and when I need to just be.

Namaste,
Ginny

Trying

I've often been called tenacious and I am proud that I am one of those people who keeps trying and doesn't give up. For many years, I used mountain climbing as inspiration. Climbing a mountain is difficult. Setbacks are to be expected, but the rewards when you reach the summit are very satisfying, and then with the learnings obtained from that climb, you start on a new one. Tenacity when climbing a mountain or reaching for a challenge is useful.

Trying is different. It is not the same as tenacity. If I say that I will try something, I imply that I am not fully confident that I will achieve it. Even the "old college try" implies a wild and desperate attempt to make a play. A dictionary definition of trying states: "causing strain, hardship, or distress".

Recently, I’ve learned that, while I really truly enjoy challenge, I sometimes make things more difficult than they need be and that easy is not a cop out. Ease of movement and expression is a reflection of joy. In yoga, I've been trying to touch my forehead to the ground in a certain pose. I've been told that I'm close, which makes me want it even more and try even harder. The result is the opposite of what I want. I stiffen up and my head is even farther from the ground. Easing up and allowing my body to relax is the key in this pose. Easier to say than do, but trying certainly doesn't work. It causes strain.

And what about tenacity? A dictionary definition states: "the quality of being determined to do or achieve something, firmness of purpose". A synonym is courage. The difference between trying and tenacity is then in intent and resilience. Trying lacks firmness of purpose and mind while tenacity implies the mental and moral strength to persist in meeting strain or difficulty with resilience. Sounds good to me. I will try to be even more tenacious. No... I will become even more tenacious and eventually with intent and resilience I will touch my forehead to the ground in dandayamana-bibhaktapada- paschimotthanasana.

Vitae Discae

I've been thinking a lot about learning over the past weeks and days. Last month, I said to someone that I wanted to continuously improve; their response was that improvement implied that I didn't view myself as already good enough. What if I had said that I wanted to continuously learn? I think her reaction would have been different. "Vitae Discae" - learn for life. Isn't that a value that is consistent with a vital and changing life?

So, "vitae discae" it is. I want to learn for life. Hence, my preoccupation with learning. Do I learn something new each day? The answer is usually yes, but as I reflected on the sources of my learning I realized something new. Ordinarily, I would say that I learn from newspapers (I subscribe to three), books (my children didn't need to go to the library in high school; they just went down to the basement and found one of the classics that I have held onto), and the Internet. I learn from my own experience. But, the new realization is that conversation is the greatest source of learning for me because when I am in a dialogue with another person, I'm not in control of what I read or access, think or feel. The conversation must be of interest to both of us. And what interests me is whatever the other person is interested in.

This summer I had a three hour long conversation with a southern U.S. lawyer who is a Vietnam vet. He came out of that experience wanting to understand the war not only from his perspective but that of others. He has amassed tens of thousands of books and movies about the Vietnam war. He told me that he does not have a television set but that his walls are lined with bookcases and even so, books are piled everywhere on the floor. When the conversation started, I could name three books and four movies about the Vietnam war. By the end of the conversation, I had taken out a pen and listed ten new titles that I wanted to read.

I had another long conversation about motorcycles and track testing with a young man . We were driving from Edmonton to the mountains to go rock climbing and he was in the passenger seat next to me with a British motorcycle magazine. He read me excerpts. I asked questions. He described his goals in terms of his riding his bike. He also described his fears. The time flew by and soon our drive had ended.

Neither war or motorcycles is a topic I would have sought out. Those conversations serendipitously arrived and I learned a lot. So, yes, I will continue to seek out books about herbs and gardening. I will read biographies of people who I respect. I will read history and science, but the learning that is unexpected, the learning that comes from passionate people is the learning I most treasure. I like learning what I didn't intend.

Sea Glass

When I go to the beach, I walk head down, eyes scanning the sand. I am a sea glass collector. Ever since childhood, I have been fascinated by the texture and colour of these pieces of rubbish. I keep sea glass in a clear vase and gaze upon it when I need soothing. Most of my glass ranges from bottle green to aqua blue. I have some shards of brown and a few pieces of my favorite, bright cobalt blue. I look at the weathered and frosted surfaces and am transported back to the beach. I can smell the salt, hear the gulls, and feel the gritty sand. Still, I ask myself, "why do I like these abandoned fragments?"

The answer is that they show the passage of time. A bottle thrown in the ocean as waste today that rolls up the shore in a week shows none of the rounded and polished character of sea glass. A bright shiny piece of glass has no appeal. It takes time to make sea glass and, even though its origin is as man-made litter, the pounding salt ocean leaves its mark and makes the glass more valuable than it was when pristine.

It's not just sea glass that I like. I like other old things. I still own my first doll, Betsy Wetsy, whose glassy eyes are unchanged but whose skin has turned slightly green over the years. I have a wooden trunk that I found in the basement of the house in which I grew up. I have never had it appraised. I just live with it wherever I am. I have other antiques and I look at their scratched, time-worn surfaces and wonder what stories exist under their patinas. I like old trees. I love old houses. I like their creaks and connections to the past. I do not think of myself as anthropomorphic, yet when I reflect on my love of sea glass, antiques, old homes and even old toys, I realize that I value old things because they are real. Being real in this sense, is epitomized by the story of the Velveteen Rabbit.

"Real isn't how you are made...it doesn't happen all once. You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But theses things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Snake Charming

When I was taking my North Star life coach training, we each were asked to fill in the blank. "Money is __________". The people that answered first said things like "money is freedom", money is a river", "money is travel". The filled-in blanks all contained positive connotations. I thought to myself, "uh,oh, I'm in trouble, my money metaphor is 'money is a snake'". Snakes are slithery, slippery and scary and it didn't help that I had just finished the last Harry Potter book with its images of snakes and snake countenances. My connotations were definitely not positive. So, I put the metaphor aside and didn't think about it much until I was coaching somebody about money. At that point, I realized that it was time to stop procrastinating and deal my feelings toward money as evinced by my metaphor.

I thought about the metaphor off and on during the day, and that night just as I was falling asleep, I turned it around. "Snakes are money". I thought to myself "okay, how do I turn snakes into money" and the picture of a snake charmer popped into my head. Without snakes, snake charmers have no livelihood or money. Snake charmers are in control of snakes, and in cultures outside of North America, snakes have very different, very positive connotations.

The notion of being in control seems to have freed me from some of my anxiety about money. I have known for some time that I have always had enough money to do what is really important to me. I've always feared, though, that there would be a day, when I wouldn't. I am a snake charmer now and the money will be there if I do my work. And within days of turning my metaphor from scary and negative to one positive and strong, I had several money-earning opportunities come my way. Some were low-paying; some were higher-paying. Some were doing things I love; some were doing things that I can do and do well but don't love. The point is that I can choose and if I choose according to my true self, I will indeed live a "charmed" life.

Contradictions ?

I've noticed that sometimes the way I describe how I try to live my life seems contradictory. Soar, but stay grounded. Take action, but be still.

These concepts are not contradictory. When I describe stillness or being grounded, I am sometimes being literal but more often than not, I am describing a feeling at my center, at my core. Not being centered or grounded is when I feel like various parts of me are pulling in different directions. My heart might be saying one thing;my mind another. I might be thinking so hard that I pull the energy away from my limbs and I get cold hands and feet. My head might even feel that it is disconnected from my body, that it is just slightly off of center. (This is similar to the stuffy, clouded feeling that cold medicine can invoke). I once said to a friend when I was mountain biking that I felt ungrounded. The trees and bushes felt like I was going past them too fast and I felt like a bullet train traveling down a track without control. He suggested that I picture the pedals and wheels as extensions of my feet and legs. The suggestion helped.

In contrast, when I am grounded, centered, or still, I feel integrated. My mind and body are working together. A friend asked me how I felt skiing moguls, and my answer is that when I ski moguls well, I concentrate on keeping my core strong and the rest of me soft and fluid. My mind is still working but instead of yelping and screaming for attention, it is calmly and efficiently working in the background. Instead of my mind thinking about lunch, the difficulty of the run, or the weather, it is focused on uniting with my body and my body responds to that lack of interfering stimuli with power. I love that feeling of togetherness, of unity between mind, body and spirit. When I am integrated, I can be active and the activity takes on flow and joy. When I am integrated, I can be still and I am full of joy. I can be both active and still at the same time. Soar (in your spirit) and be grounded (in your self).

Lasagne

Earlier tonight I was climbing at the rock gym. I was climbing a route that is easy for me, one that I have done many times. I was moving over a corner and I heard a voice from beneath telling me where to put my hand. I heard another voice suggesting that I position my right foot on a hold near my thigh. The same voice then said (I thought), "Lasagne".

At that point, I fell off the tower laughing. I was on top rope belay so as I hung suspended in the air, I asked " What was that about lasagne?" One of the climbers who had been watching me, responded " I said the spectators were on you". "Spectators were on you". "Lasagne". Say them out loud fast and maybe my mistake becomes apparent.

The real reason that I fell off the tower wasn't that I heard a word out of context. I fell because I knew people were watching me and I was self conscious. Self consciousness is a fear which I haven't yet written about but it is a fear that has plagued me and inhibited me through much of my life. I'm learning that the solution is to play with the fear, to invite self consciousness in and then tease it and be silly. Laughing helps turn the fear into fun. How could I stay self conscious hanging by a rope in the middle of a gym talking about lasagne and laughing at myself?

Does it count as a fall?

One day while awaiting my turn at the crag, I was telling my climbing friends that I had a new nervousness about biking. I've been mountain biking with a better rider for the past two summers, and it was only on our last ride together that I'd stayed upright on my bike the whole time. Now that I knew what it was like not to fall, I didn't want to fall again.

I recounted that, prior to that amazing ride where I stayed on two wheels the whole time, I'd been riding a narrow single track trail when I came to a puddle. I moved my bike to the right to avoid the puddle. My handlebars hit a tree which toppled my bicycle and me sideways in slow motion completely into the very puddle I was trying to avoid. My friends told me that the fall didn't count.

I then described a ride earlier in the season. We'd been cycling for an hour and came to a steep pitch which was unrideable. The plan was to carry our bikes up the hill, remount and ride away. My friend easily reached the top. Midway up, I lost my footing and slid on my knees back down the hill with my bicycle, straight into a patch of thorny wild rose bushes. Laughing, my climbing friends decided that fall didn't count either because I was walking up a hill. I wasn't cycling.

I think my climbing friends are kind but wrong. Those were falls and they count. In figure skating competitions, a fall on a jump counts but a fall when just stroking may or may not count. If a skater falls by catching an edge on uneven ice, there is no automatic deduction, however if the judges feel the integrity of the movement was compromised, they can reflect the fall in the score. To my mind, this isn't right. A fall is a fall. If you're doing something challenging and you fall, so be it. If you're doing something easy and you fall, it is still a fall. There are no good falls and there are no bad falls. All falls count and what you do when you get up is what matters.

Carpe Nocem

Carpe Nocem - "Seize the night". As a society and as individuals, we tend to focus on daytime activities, seeking to get the most out of each and every day (or alternatively, on a not-so-good day, just looking to get through the day). Night is viewed as dark and scary, a time to sleep and await the next dawn.

Recently, I haven't been sleeping as well as usual. This happens to me during periods of change. I'm not sure why, but I imagine that it is because my brain is processing and creating new paths of neuro-circuitry. During one bout of change, I used to wake up, go down to the living room floor, put headphones on and listen to a poem by William Blake set to chorale music:

Heaven in a Wild Flower

To see the world in a grain of sand.

and Heaven in a wild flower.

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

and eternity in an hour.

He who binds himself to a joy

Does the winged life destroy:

He who kisses the joy as it flies

lives in eternity' s sun rise.

During this time, night was liminal, a time between day and my thoughts, when I was connected to my essential self. My night dreams were vivid, compelling, and complex. I still am drawing meaning out of them. Some nights, I would ask for dreams, seeking the direction that they provide. Other nights, I would ask just to sleep and rest.

Over the past months, insights have come in dreams but also when I am just falling asleep. I have solved problems, seen what needs to be seen, and decided. I am grateful when I look at out the moon, now low in the sky as the harvest comes. Stars, lightning streaks, street lamps and car beams create shafts of brightness in the night sky. I am finding that in the dark, I see the light differently and gain new perspective. Night is a time of mystery and meditation and I am as alive in it as I am in day.

Bicycle speeds

When I sat to write tonight, a song popped into my head. The song is "Time is" by It's a Beautiful Day. The phrase "time is, time is" refrains somewhat shrilly throughout the song creating a sense of urgency and incompleteness. I've been go, go, going for days now and that's how I feel. Everything I need to do is urgent and everything feels incomplete. This isn't true. I am prepared for work tomorrow, there is nothing urgent to do and I have completed everything that I need to do.

The sense of urgency is fueled by me. I have been busy and the busier I become, the harder it is to stop. It's almost as if I am riding a bicycle down a hill, gaining speed and if I push hard on the brakes, I will catapult over the handlebars. A sharp stop and I'm down. By writing, I'm trying to gradually slow the bike and coast down the hill.

The bicycle analogy works at several levels. I don't want to go through life at a single speed. Three speeds aren't enough. I need at least twelve and maybe more. The gradations of the hills and valleys of life call for a variety of ways to pedal. And today, was a day in which I started pedalling hard in a low gear, gained momentum and moved fast. I shifted up in the afternoon, adjusted my cadence and tried to pedal leisurely. Late afternoon, and I climbed another hill and now in the evening, I'm decelerating again. I could calculate my average speed but the average would mask all the variation in a typical, ordinary, beautiful day.

Play

There are so many ways to play, to have fun. I like adenalin-laden sports. I like the quiver in my stomach and the feeling of satisfaction when I accomplish a task I initially feared. There is something in my composition, whether it be body or mind, that likes challenge. I have written primarily about the ways I play in sport. I also like to play with words. Sometimes the words spout like a faucet being turned fully on; other times the words trickle and I rearrange and edit until I am happy.

I play at odd times. Recently, I was taking an after dinner walk with friends and we came to a bridge over a creek. I chose to skip the bridge and instead use the rocks in the creek as stepping stones. This way of playing takes me back to childhood. It is reminiscent of walking down sidewalks and not stepping on cracks. It reminds me of playing on the rock jetties by the ocean, and it even reminds me of hopscotch. I also play when I walk my dog. When he pulls on his leash, I pretend I am skiing a steep pitch and need a lot of body angulation to stay upright. Earlier this spring, I was at the ocean after a windy night. The wind had pushed the sand into steep banks. I imagined that I was jumping off a cornice in the mountains with skis on.

I have friends who play in ways that have no appeal for me. I do not enjoy motorized go-carts. I am not a fan of miniature railroads (though I do like dollhouses). I am not interested in bungy-jumping or zorbing. Motorcyles are not me. But these things are them. To each his own, but play, play, play.

A legacy

As we go through our lives, we leave our touch on the people we pass. Sometimes the touch is as light as a smile skimming the hairs on our wrists; sometimes the touch is slightly prickly like a burr floating by. From these two extremes, the sensations we leave intensify. The following is the story of the impression one man, his house, and his land left on me:

When my brother told me that I was going to have a special evening in a special place, I was skeptical. After all, I’ve been in beautiful homes and had great meals. I was sure that the evening would be pleasant but “special”? Special was the night I was the only person skating on Lake Louise. The snow was gently falling and an ice castle, leftover from a television special, glimmered in the reflection of Christmas lights strung through the eaves of the Chateau. Special were the days after my children were born, when we nestled together and each change in the weather represented something new. Dinner would be nice, but I doubted that it would be special.

I was wrong. My brother began to fill me in on the details as we drove toward the home of his older friend, Harman Manning. He told me that Harmon had lived in this house called Homelands all his life, that the land had been in his family since 1690, and that the current house was built circa 1768. My brother explained that his own attachment to the house was strong - his engagement party was held in the dining room.

My first impression of Homelands was of windows. Looking up at the house from the long driveway, I saw a veranda flanked by mullioned windows on one side, probably sixteen or so. The impression was not of elegance or architectural purity but practicality. This was a house which had been built for a purpose and which had grown over the centuries to serve the family’s needs. The wooden veranda was unlike any I had seen. It was laid plumb with the grass so that the view was unencumbered as a guest looked east. The view from the veranda was largely unchanged since the early eighteenth century; there was an expanse of lawn, and then trees undulating with the hills and the wind.

Anxious to show me the house that meant so much to him, my brother quickly introduced me to Harmon and then took me on a tour of the house. It was then that I began to realize just how special this house was and how unique the family that has inhabited it for three centuries.

I felt like an archeologist discovering the first layer of a major dig, except that I did not need delicate tools or precision in excavation. Everywhere I looked, there was a story. Here, in front of my eyes was first hand evidence of how a family lived in a single house for nearly three hundred years.

We’ve all read about the times before electricity and some of us may even romanticize that we’re like the young Abe Lincoln reading and learning by candlelight, but few of us have actually lived without artificial light. The dining room at Homelands is still in use and is still unlit by electricity. We were not eating in the dining room that evening, but as we stood gazing at the room, my brother described the night of his engagement party. The table was set with crystal and china. Candles lined the mantle of the fireplace and several candelabras lent light and perspective to the table, casting illumination and shadow in concert with conversation and anticipation. The link to the past was solid. No matter the year or the clothes, the table hosted people - people on the brink of change, joyous people, befuddled people – people living life. Simply by closing my eyes, I could hear laughter and, the mesmerizing buzz of conversation as if these sounds were lodged in the woodwork of the room.

Every room was like a museum – most of the bedrooms had fireplaces, although the “tour” went so quickly that I couldn’t tell whether they were working. The rooms felt full, with the remnants of everyday life. There were two places, which we stopped. One was the nook encased by the mullioned windows that I had spotted when we first drove up. In my imagination (and perhaps reality), the desk, which comprised the width of the narrow room, still had an inkwell. I could picture generations at the desk, some writing diaries, others letters, still more doing the household accounts.

The other place we lingered was a hallway. Under the eaved ceiling, filling the length of the hallway was a built-in table, the surface of which was filled with stacks of pictures, magazines and newspapers. There were old issues of National Geographic, childhood essays and report cards, Life magazines, newspapers announcing the outbreak of WWII. The effect was reminiscent of the stacks in university libraries. Here was a place in which time disappeared, in which the only purpose was one of immersion in the past and seeing where and what you could learn. Like the early days of the internet when the fun was in the unexpected discovery of new paths of information, one could surf in these papers for hours. Open any magazine; scan an article and another, choose another magazine and read it front to back.

Outdoors, the scale was entirely different. Here, trees planted in the 17th century and still unidentified by arborists reached upward. Perennial gardens sang in the summer light. In contrast to the soaring maturity of the evergreens and playfulness of the perennials, two trees anchored the landscape. At 50 feet tall, their branches gracefully arched downward to the earth. These trees were not weeping; their reach for the earth shimmered with respect – the epitome of “groundedness”. Walking round one of the trees, my brother and I discovered a gaping hole. Unlike its twin, this tree’s branches no longer fell to the earth like a circular waterfall, hiding and protecting the inside. One-third of the branches were gone and the strong interior tree trunk was now visible.

The tour of the house and grounds ended. My brother and I rejoined the others in the screened porch. Jazz from an unknown radio station was playing lightly in the background. I perched on a wicker chair, gathering the folds of my skirt over my knees in a half-conscious tribute to the women who had lived for centuries on these grounds. During dinner, conversation turned to the night that the large tree lost its limbs.

Harmon had been sleeping and heard noises, crackling and then silence. His first thought was that some of the ivy had come off the side of the house. Gradually coming awake, Harmon realized that the sounds were farther off and went to investigate. He was shocked to discover that the tree which had framed the sky above his family land for so long was the source of the noise.

Within two months of the tree losing its limbs, Harmon's nieces (who co-own the property) were questioning whether an 86 year old man could maintain the land and, in fact, had put the property up for sale.

I cannot imagine how Harmon felt. What I do know is that the house and lands are beautifully maintained – not in a pristine, manicured way – but with a patina of care and respect. The fabrics are worn; the pine floors are uneven, the tread of footsteps having eroded a path from hallway to living room to kitchen. I also know that the tree was not damaged because of lack of maintenance. Nature and time have a way of leaving their marks. Would one prefer to be like Dorian Gray, youthful but with a hidden attic of repulsion, or like the Velveteen Rabbit, worn by love?

In eyes not accustomed to seeing magic in the passage of time, the house‘s value is tarnished because of the age of its furnishings and lack of amenities. To some, the damaged tree also diminishes the appeal of the property. Perhaps nature was sending a signal in cutting down the aged branches of the great tree. I think Harmon knows this and is hopeful that either the house will not sell as a result of the gash in the landscape or that the new owners will see beauty in imperfection and, while not blood relatives, will continue the legacy of Homelands.

Postscript - I wrote this in November 2003. Homelands was sold shortly afterwards. A condition of the sale was that Harmon be allowed to live on the property, in the barn that was his art studio. Several months later, Harmon was visiting a nearby city, sitting in his car in a parking spot. Another car whipped by and hit Harmon's vehicle. Harmon never recovered from his injuries and passed away. I only met Harmon the one night in July but his touch lingers, soft for those of us who barely met him and more strongly for others. For me, his story shows the power of connectedness - to people, to nature, to history and to art.

Busy Days

These first few weeks in September are busy. I remember the list of things to do when my children were still young: buy school supplies, buy new shoes, register for sports (soccer, basketball, gymnastics, skiing), meet the teacher, and all the ordinary responsibilites of groceries, housekeeping and career. My children are grown now but it is still a busy time. My summer was laid back. I could do my work when I wanted; meetings were few and far between.

Today was different. Today was a busy day. I had meetings and I had unexpected business phone calls. I had more e-mails in my in-box today alone than all of last week. I moved from task to task, checking off each on my to-do list. I am now sitting down alone for the first time today. I think my dog senses my energy because he is frantically playing with a toy for "power chewers", making figure eights around my work area. I am trying to turn to my inner self, to my true self and see how I feel about this busy day. Did I enjoy it? Were there things that I did that were unnecessary? Were there things that I did that brought me joy?

Already, I feel calmer.

Thoughts and feelings

My original plan for this week was to share some of the moments that have been most magical for me and ask you to share the same. My reasoning was that the newspapers are full of moments, mostly bad moments in which mankind is hurting. I read the newspapers regularly, subscribing to three papers - one national, one local and the weighty Sunday edition of the New York Times. My morning ritual for nearly 30 years has been to come downstairs, make some tea and read the paper. Lately, I haven't read the papers with the same relish. The news is too sad. So, I was planning to counter this in my own small way by writing about happy moments. I still will, but not in the way that I originally planned.

I had an intense weekend. I walked the dog for hours, I mowed the lawn and I cleaned the floors, I read a book and I thought. Doesn't sound intense by most standards but the intensity came from my thoughts not my actions. Thinking is not a good thing for me and I tend to do too much of it. When I think, fears creep in, jump in, loom in every crevice. When I am feeling, I feel much better. So, I tried to just observe my thoughts, ask myself what is true, and concentrate on what I was feeling. Yoga helps me move from thinking to feeling so I went to yoga class.

My yoga studio has installed a new humidifer and the room was crowded on Labour Day Monday. The extra bodies contributed extra heat and humidity. I focused on myself during my yoga practice. I focused on my breath. I tried to breathe in and out through my nose rather than my mouth. At the end of class, I felt like a puddle. I had sweated a lot. My towel was wet. My hair was dripping. I stayed in savasana for over 20 minutes until my heart calmed down and I felt ready to leave. As I was by the door, a young man came in for the next class. He asked how class was. I replied "Tough, and hot". He said "You look happy".

And so, here is one of my happy memories of a day last winter when I was skiing with friends.

I went to the mountains to ski on a day trip with four other women ski instructors. The snow was fantastic and the sky was bright. We were skiing down some glades and came to an open patch which no one had skied yet. We didn’t know where it led. The others hesitated, but I said I wanted to try it and headed off. The others followed. We came to some snow covered rocks strewn about like a garden on Mars. We skied over the rocks into another forested area with a narrow path that others had skied. Cindy went first. I followed. As I approached the opening, I heard her yell “jump”. I leaned forward like a ski jumper, straining on my bindings. There was a deep gully and I cleared it, landing on the flat. I popped out of my bindings and slid forward on my belly like a penguin. I got up laughing and saw my two skis lying perfectly parallel over the gully. The others started laughing. We were in a special spot with the mountain protecting us on one side, the rocks to another and tall trees to a third side. The fourth side led back to traditional trails. We stood in the glade enjoying the cold and the sunshine and our laughter and agreed it would be a great picnic spot. We continued out and continued laughing and being silly and having fun all day.

Namaste,
Ginny