I hear often the phrases " I want a big life", "I want to live bigger", "Living big", and I wonder what a big life means. Is it being famous? Having lots of stuff? Knowing lots of people or doing lots of things around the world? Why is it even a phrase? How can a life be big or small? A seemingly "small" life can change the world for the better just like an apparently larger life.
Okay - I am being obtuse, asking rhetorical questions, but I have a point which was clarified for me when I watched the Christmas classic "It's a Wonderful Life". No life or place is small or big; our impact on the world is how we live, not where or how much of the world we see. To live like George Bailey is to live in a small town, yearning to travel, while your younger brother receives accolades for his big deeds. To live like George Bailey is to make a difference in the lives of others through integrity. Like George Bailey, we seldom know the impact we make on others. We don't realize that the smile we share with a child in a grocery line-up may lead to more politeness. We don't realize that simply saying hello to a lonely student or senior makes a difference. Helping someone shovel a car stuck in snow may help them get home in time to help someone else. It's trite and the stuff of movies but still a good approach to life. We don't know what is a big life or a small life. We don't know. It's a wonderful life.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Sunday, November 7, 2010
All Souls Day
I was in Zermatt this year at the end of October. Life and death seem to touch in this place of high altitude where the Matterhorn dominates the view from cobblestone streets. The trams up the mountain are full of joyous healthy skiers, starting the season early. Travelers of many nationalities and age walk trails and through the streets, marveling at the Matterhorn and history of the village. No matter where any of us walk, we pass several graveyards, all well kept. The largest is flanked by the river and any day, at sunset, there are several people clearing leaves or windswept brush and lighting candles. Almost every grave is marked, not just by its headstone, but by care. Evergreens and heather are common in late fall, but in any season, there are flowers and natural offerings to remember the climbers, residents, and visitors who are buried there.
A few days before I left, an arrangement of greens, pinecones, and purple flowers adorned by two white fleur-de-lys was delivered to the hotel. I asked why. The receptionist, now in her sixties but who in her youth had climbed the Matterhorn three times, explained, " We are Catholic. Monday is All Saints Day". Later as I walked through town, I saw similar arrangements; some for sale at the grocery, some already placed on graves.
I am home now. The remnants of Halloween are apparent. Candy wrappers fly in wind. Jack o'lanterns shrivel in the cold. I recall learning the origins of All Hallows Eve, All Saints Day and All Souls Day when I was about nine years old. I remember being fascinated how the combination of old English, Irish, and French traditions led to carving jack o' lanterns and trick or treating. I remember learning that the customs of Halloween provided protection and that the next two days were very holy.
This Thursday is Remembrance Day in Canada, commemorating the armistice of the First World War and paying tribute to all who have lost their lives in war. This year seems especially somber to me. Even the teenagers who carry boxes of poppies to pin on collars for remembrance have a gravitas that I do not recall. 2010 has been a year on on-going war and natural disasters. Many have unexpectedly lost their lives, and many others have suddenly lost friends or family.
I think of those that I loved that are gone. I think of friends and family who have lost their loved ones. I think of the passage of seasons - the abundance of summer, the barrenness of late fall, the purity of snow in winter, and the blossoming of spring - and I think of nature as a great teacher. The traditions of how we recognize passages change with each generation but we still do revere the cycle of life. I am grateful to have been in Zermatt to be reminded of All Saints Day and All Souls Day. I am grateful for these lessons.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Battle of the Blades
I like the CBC television program, Battle of the Blades, in which ex-NHL hockey players are paired with world class figure skaters and compete in weekly pairs competition eliminations. It brings together many aspects of what I have loved through different stages of my life.
My mother (and you'd have to know my mother to really appreciate the subtleties in this comment) used to say that I was not graceful with shoes on but put skates on me and I transformed. I do know that skating was freedom for me as a child. I was the ultimate in self-consciousness, which meant that off-ice I lived in my brain, without mind/body/soul integration so perhaps there was an element of truth in what my mother said. My brothers played hockey; I figure skated, and a large part of our family life centered on the trips to the outdoor rink where we trained and competed. The road to the rink was circuitous, hilly and dark, the kind of road that was rife for nightmares. In my memory, even those moments of worry were positive as they meant I was going skating.
Activity was an escape from dysfunction inside the house, so I would join my brothers and practice wrist shots and slap shots on the driveway. A few years later, that practice came in handy when I was in the first class of girls attending a prep school that had been all boys for the previous 100 years. There were a number of figure skaters among us and we would spin and jump on the limited ice time allotted. We compared our amount of practice time to those of the hockey players, and formulated a plan. We would form an ice hockey team. Recruiting players was easy, and one of the coaches agreed to help us. Our first game was against the freshman boys. I recall the fans leaning against boards cheering but I do not remember the score. I believe we played that first game in figure skates and were then told that if we wanted to play again, we would need to be in hockey skates.
The transition from figure skates to hockey skates is not as challenging as the opposite. No toe pick but a slightly different balance point. I became a hockey player and a figure skater, a pioneer of sorts, doing anything for ice time. At university several years later, the same principle held true. Hockey was the way to ice time. It was the mid '70s and women's hockey was just emerging. There was no official team, but enough women came together to create a league. The pictures from that time are amusing...helmets, gloves, jerseys, and shin pads layered over tight blue jeans. I continued to wear my figure skates to open ice every Friday afternoon, and still have those well worn skates. The padding on the tongue is dry and the leather full of scratches. I prefer them still to my new skates. Those old skates helped shape who I am.
Watching The Battle of the Blades hockey players trip over their toe picks and laughing as they joke about making fools of themselves on national television is a good lesson for us amateur athletes. It is a joy to see seasoned professionals learning something new. They are like the rest of us. They fall, they laugh, and they get up. They have fear but it's not stopping them. It is also a joy to see these strong and capable women teaching the hockey players the sport they love. The addition of music to movement frees up some of the athletes; constrains others. Choreography - training the body to respond in certain ways time after time - is new to most of the men.
The initial segment highlighted some of the back stories of the athletes, reinforcing that the images we see on Olympic or NHL arenas are only part of the person. The story of Theo Fleury's past addictions, the story of Russ Courtnall's father's depression and suicide, and tapes of Ekaterina Gordeeva's youthful exuberance eating an ice cream cone after an Olympic win and then skating alone without a partner, when her husband and partner, Sergei Grinkov, died suddenly of a heart attack at age 28, all shift our perceptions of professional athletes. With their stories, they again are like us. They have pain and challenge but they go on.
I love sport for its inherent life lessons. I love sport because it reveals greatness in ordinary people, and when two of my favorites sports are combined into one corny but incredibly fun television show, I am happy.
My mother (and you'd have to know my mother to really appreciate the subtleties in this comment) used to say that I was not graceful with shoes on but put skates on me and I transformed. I do know that skating was freedom for me as a child. I was the ultimate in self-consciousness, which meant that off-ice I lived in my brain, without mind/body/soul integration so perhaps there was an element of truth in what my mother said. My brothers played hockey; I figure skated, and a large part of our family life centered on the trips to the outdoor rink where we trained and competed. The road to the rink was circuitous, hilly and dark, the kind of road that was rife for nightmares. In my memory, even those moments of worry were positive as they meant I was going skating.
Activity was an escape from dysfunction inside the house, so I would join my brothers and practice wrist shots and slap shots on the driveway. A few years later, that practice came in handy when I was in the first class of girls attending a prep school that had been all boys for the previous 100 years. There were a number of figure skaters among us and we would spin and jump on the limited ice time allotted. We compared our amount of practice time to those of the hockey players, and formulated a plan. We would form an ice hockey team. Recruiting players was easy, and one of the coaches agreed to help us. Our first game was against the freshman boys. I recall the fans leaning against boards cheering but I do not remember the score. I believe we played that first game in figure skates and were then told that if we wanted to play again, we would need to be in hockey skates.
The transition from figure skates to hockey skates is not as challenging as the opposite. No toe pick but a slightly different balance point. I became a hockey player and a figure skater, a pioneer of sorts, doing anything for ice time. At university several years later, the same principle held true. Hockey was the way to ice time. It was the mid '70s and women's hockey was just emerging. There was no official team, but enough women came together to create a league. The pictures from that time are amusing...helmets, gloves, jerseys, and shin pads layered over tight blue jeans. I continued to wear my figure skates to open ice every Friday afternoon, and still have those well worn skates. The padding on the tongue is dry and the leather full of scratches. I prefer them still to my new skates. Those old skates helped shape who I am.
Watching The Battle of the Blades hockey players trip over their toe picks and laughing as they joke about making fools of themselves on national television is a good lesson for us amateur athletes. It is a joy to see seasoned professionals learning something new. They are like the rest of us. They fall, they laugh, and they get up. They have fear but it's not stopping them. It is also a joy to see these strong and capable women teaching the hockey players the sport they love. The addition of music to movement frees up some of the athletes; constrains others. Choreography - training the body to respond in certain ways time after time - is new to most of the men.
The initial segment highlighted some of the back stories of the athletes, reinforcing that the images we see on Olympic or NHL arenas are only part of the person. The story of Theo Fleury's past addictions, the story of Russ Courtnall's father's depression and suicide, and tapes of Ekaterina Gordeeva's youthful exuberance eating an ice cream cone after an Olympic win and then skating alone without a partner, when her husband and partner, Sergei Grinkov, died suddenly of a heart attack at age 28, all shift our perceptions of professional athletes. With their stories, they again are like us. They have pain and challenge but they go on.
I love sport for its inherent life lessons. I love sport because it reveals greatness in ordinary people, and when two of my favorites sports are combined into one corny but incredibly fun television show, I am happy.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Facebook profiles
When I was a child, I often heard the phrase "Don't judge a book by its cover". One of my favourite songs now is "Diamonds on the Inside" by Ben Harper. This song and, indeed, the whole album have resonated with me for over seven years. The lyrics are nuanced, taking on new subtleties as I grow and change. For a number of reasons, I have always been sensitive to the idea that what matters is on the inside. I believe this now more than ever.
I believe that we often hold ourselves back from living life the way we are meant. Sometimes, we hold ourselves back because we fear what our parents or friends or associates might think. "You want to do WHAT for a living? Do you really think you can do that?" might be the reaction to a child who tells her parents " I want to be the next Ellen DeGeneres". We hold ourselves back because we fear what we want is impossible to achieve. We hold ourselves back because we fear that what we want is not good enough.
One way of dealing with the fear is to create a personna. We hide ourselves behind these masks.
They protect us. You can't see into my soul or even my eyes if I am wearing a mask. I have a personna...mother, skier, climber, yoga practitioner, MBA, teacher. My personna has shifted over the past ten years but I still have one. Some days it is more apparent than other days. If you talk to me, and you hear my vocabulary expand, my mask is probably slipping on and I am relying on my intellectual personna.
When I first started using Facebook, I deliberately tried to be open and authentic. No credentials, just me. Over time, this has changed. My facebook page now shows pictures of me outdoors, generally when I happiest. My facebook page does not show me first thing in the morning as I awake bleary-eyed. My facebook page does not show me worrying. Facebook gives me glimpses into old friends' current lives, but we are all showing only what we choose to reveal. I am a personna on Facebook, not a person.
This is important because having the confidence to be yourself is a task that many of us struggle with throughout life. Certainly, lack of confidence haunts me but it is not apparent to many of my friends, Facebook or otherwise. I am myself enough of the time to know that external symbols of success ( diamonds, degrees, cars) do not make me happy. Facebook can play into fears...it's keeping up with the Jones in 2010...and we all know what happens when you keep up with the Jones and your name is Smith or Chevalier or Raj or Adewaki. You are not being you. So, focus on being you more of the time and being less aware of your neighbors. I will do the same.
That all said, one of the things that troubles me about this blog is that it also creates a personna. By writing, I move into my head and my intellect. I try to be honest but my ego gets in the way. I sometimes feel that I write as if I have answers. I definitely don't have answers. I am writing about my personal experience with the hope that it shines a light so that others question the thoughts that bind them still. I write because I need to, because it is part of who I am.
Namaste.
I believe that we often hold ourselves back from living life the way we are meant. Sometimes, we hold ourselves back because we fear what our parents or friends or associates might think. "You want to do WHAT for a living? Do you really think you can do that?" might be the reaction to a child who tells her parents " I want to be the next Ellen DeGeneres". We hold ourselves back because we fear what we want is impossible to achieve. We hold ourselves back because we fear that what we want is not good enough.
One way of dealing with the fear is to create a personna. We hide ourselves behind these masks.
They protect us. You can't see into my soul or even my eyes if I am wearing a mask. I have a personna...mother, skier, climber, yoga practitioner, MBA, teacher. My personna has shifted over the past ten years but I still have one. Some days it is more apparent than other days. If you talk to me, and you hear my vocabulary expand, my mask is probably slipping on and I am relying on my intellectual personna.
When I first started using Facebook, I deliberately tried to be open and authentic. No credentials, just me. Over time, this has changed. My facebook page now shows pictures of me outdoors, generally when I happiest. My facebook page does not show me first thing in the morning as I awake bleary-eyed. My facebook page does not show me worrying. Facebook gives me glimpses into old friends' current lives, but we are all showing only what we choose to reveal. I am a personna on Facebook, not a person.
This is important because having the confidence to be yourself is a task that many of us struggle with throughout life. Certainly, lack of confidence haunts me but it is not apparent to many of my friends, Facebook or otherwise. I am myself enough of the time to know that external symbols of success ( diamonds, degrees, cars) do not make me happy. Facebook can play into fears...it's keeping up with the Jones in 2010...and we all know what happens when you keep up with the Jones and your name is Smith or Chevalier or Raj or Adewaki. You are not being you. So, focus on being you more of the time and being less aware of your neighbors. I will do the same.
That all said, one of the things that troubles me about this blog is that it also creates a personna. By writing, I move into my head and my intellect. I try to be honest but my ego gets in the way. I sometimes feel that I write as if I have answers. I definitely don't have answers. I am writing about my personal experience with the hope that it shines a light so that others question the thoughts that bind them still. I write because I need to, because it is part of who I am.
Namaste.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
To everything there is a season
One of the things that I like about Bikram yoga is that it is the same 26 poses every time. One of the benefits of this is that I really get to know what is going on for me on any given day. On Monday, I might be struggling to stay balanced for a full 60 seconds in standing bow pulling pose, but ten minutes later I might find my flexibility increased and my head closer to the ground in standing separate leg stretching pose.
Bikram yoga occurs in a closed environment. The room temperature and humidity should be the same no matter where in the world I practice. The dialogue should be the same. The variable is me. The lessons are profound. I am slightly different each day in my strength, my balance and my flexibility. Sometimes the differences are in my body. Other days they are in my focus and mind. No matter where the difference is, I see and feel yin and yang. The truth of this resonates in my body. When I extend a muscle, the opposing muscle contracts. When I lose a fraction of balance, it may because I have gained strength or flexibility.
One night, not too long ago, as I was falling asleep, my mind turned to standing bow pulling pose. I said to myself, "there is no reason for you to fall out of it as often as you do". The next day, I stayed in the pose, with my leg held high and my torso moving parallel to the floor, for a lot longer than usual. Mind over matter. Belief makes a difference.
Life does not occur in a closed environment yet similar lessons are inherent... just harder to see and feel when so many variables are in flux. I wrote recently about patience. When I am finding it challenging to be patient, something else is growing within me. Perhaps, it is conviction or confidence. The seed is there and with time (patience), it blossoms into a gift. Other times, I may be feeling sad. The sadness may be because I am out of sync. It is fall and I want it still to be summer. The key to understanding life' s lessons is to listen to our whole selves, body, mind and spirit.
A favorite song of mine, and one of the few I have learned to play on the guitar, is "Turn! Turn! Turn! ( to everything there is a season). The lyrics are taken almost verbatim from Ecclesiastes:
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace"
Do. Do not...Strength; Vulnerability... Striving; yielding....Firmness; flexibility... Be. Just Be.
Namaste,
Ginny
Bikram yoga occurs in a closed environment. The room temperature and humidity should be the same no matter where in the world I practice. The dialogue should be the same. The variable is me. The lessons are profound. I am slightly different each day in my strength, my balance and my flexibility. Sometimes the differences are in my body. Other days they are in my focus and mind. No matter where the difference is, I see and feel yin and yang. The truth of this resonates in my body. When I extend a muscle, the opposing muscle contracts. When I lose a fraction of balance, it may because I have gained strength or flexibility.
One night, not too long ago, as I was falling asleep, my mind turned to standing bow pulling pose. I said to myself, "there is no reason for you to fall out of it as often as you do". The next day, I stayed in the pose, with my leg held high and my torso moving parallel to the floor, for a lot longer than usual. Mind over matter. Belief makes a difference.
Life does not occur in a closed environment yet similar lessons are inherent... just harder to see and feel when so many variables are in flux. I wrote recently about patience. When I am finding it challenging to be patient, something else is growing within me. Perhaps, it is conviction or confidence. The seed is there and with time (patience), it blossoms into a gift. Other times, I may be feeling sad. The sadness may be because I am out of sync. It is fall and I want it still to be summer. The key to understanding life' s lessons is to listen to our whole selves, body, mind and spirit.
A favorite song of mine, and one of the few I have learned to play on the guitar, is "Turn! Turn! Turn! ( to everything there is a season). The lyrics are taken almost verbatim from Ecclesiastes:
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace"
Do. Do not...Strength; Vulnerability... Striving; yielding....Firmness; flexibility... Be. Just Be.
Namaste,
Ginny
Monday, September 13, 2010
Patience
Certain words irk me. Patience is one of those words. I hate being told to have it and I hate being told that I have it. Either way it irks me.
I have been home from skiing in Chile for nearly three weeks and my knees are still sore. I know that I am lucky that my knees are as good as they are, but I am impatient for them to get better. The problem is nothing that I do will help. In fact, most of what I do harms. So, I must be patient and allow time and gentle stretching to loosen and heal tight muscles, ligaments and tendons. Heat and rest also speed recovery but I am impatient.
The first night that I was home from Chile, I was so sore that I climbed up the stairs using my hands and knees like a toddler. I knew that my calves were tight but I thought I was stretching them every night. I suspect the issue is that I skied for eight days in summer and then sat, with my knees bent, on a plane or bus during the twenty-four hour trip from El Colorado, Chile to home in Edmonton.
I expected that, once I got back to yoga, I would loosen up quickly. For the first day, I focused on locking my knees, even when just standing. This proved to be a challenge, and I realized that it would take more than a day to loosen. There was a lesson for my ego as well. I began Bikram yoga seven years ago, and one of the first poses for me to relax into - Fixed Firm - suddenly was hard. My knees and ankles did not yield when I asked. I sat up and leaned forward. I could not do what I was used to doing. My ego wanted to yell out " this is usually a piece of cake for me... I am just stiff today", but I did not yell out. Part of yoga is learning to put my ego aside and do what I can in any moment.
I am generally patient. I have learned to persevere in difficult circumstances. I do not often respond in immediate anger when provoked. Part of patience is learning when to act and when to let things evolve. I suspect that I am currently impatient because, for so many years I was overly patient. My patience reserves are out of balance.
There are so many inspiring quotes about patience being a virtue that I feel "un- virtuous" by proposing that there ever can be too much patience. So, I scanned quotes and found a few:
Namaste,
Ginny
I have been home from skiing in Chile for nearly three weeks and my knees are still sore. I know that I am lucky that my knees are as good as they are, but I am impatient for them to get better. The problem is nothing that I do will help. In fact, most of what I do harms. So, I must be patient and allow time and gentle stretching to loosen and heal tight muscles, ligaments and tendons. Heat and rest also speed recovery but I am impatient.
The first night that I was home from Chile, I was so sore that I climbed up the stairs using my hands and knees like a toddler. I knew that my calves were tight but I thought I was stretching them every night. I suspect the issue is that I skied for eight days in summer and then sat, with my knees bent, on a plane or bus during the twenty-four hour trip from El Colorado, Chile to home in Edmonton.
I expected that, once I got back to yoga, I would loosen up quickly. For the first day, I focused on locking my knees, even when just standing. This proved to be a challenge, and I realized that it would take more than a day to loosen. There was a lesson for my ego as well. I began Bikram yoga seven years ago, and one of the first poses for me to relax into - Fixed Firm - suddenly was hard. My knees and ankles did not yield when I asked. I sat up and leaned forward. I could not do what I was used to doing. My ego wanted to yell out " this is usually a piece of cake for me... I am just stiff today", but I did not yell out. Part of yoga is learning to put my ego aside and do what I can in any moment.
I am generally patient. I have learned to persevere in difficult circumstances. I do not often respond in immediate anger when provoked. Part of patience is learning when to act and when to let things evolve. I suspect that I am currently impatient because, for so many years I was overly patient. My patience reserves are out of balance.
There are so many inspiring quotes about patience being a virtue that I feel "un- virtuous" by proposing that there ever can be too much patience. So, I scanned quotes and found a few:
"I have just three things to teach: simplicity, patience, compassion. These three are your greatest treasures.” - Lao Tzu- “Patience is waiting. Not passively waiting. That is laziness. But to keep going when the going is hard and slow - that is patience.”
- Patience is something you admire in the driver behind you and scorn in the one ahead. ~Mac McCleary
- "Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.” - Victor Hugo
Namaste,
Ginny
Friday, September 3, 2010
Summer of '10
Sunset - El Colorado, Chilean Andes
It never got hot this summer where I live. The temperature never reached 30 degrees Celsius (approximately 85 Fahrenheit). The weather where I live was an anomaly in North America. Most of the continent sweltered in high temperatures and humidity. My friends in the East are saying " I am DONE with summer". I'm not...I yearn for a few more days of warm mornings. I want my tomatoes to ripen. I'd like my zucchini to grow (yes, even my zucchini has been stunted by the lack of heat and sun). There are only two fruits on the plant. One is the size of a baseball; the other of a pickle. I'd like to mow the lawn at least three more times, and I'd like to gather about thirty sweet pea blooms into a posy.
Pleasurable as summer is, autumn is on its way. Gusts of wind cast some yellow leaves onto the ground. There has been frost outside of the city, and snow in the mountains. School has started and the pace of life is picking up.
This summer felt different to me, and it wasn't just the weather. I entered the season feeling "off". I didn't know what felt wrong, just that I didn't feel right. I experimented with change, looking at houses for sale and job postings, but none of these were right either. Gradually, summer passed and my feelings evolved. I now feel back to myself, back to the person I am and am becoming. No single event or thought catalyzed the shift from unease to ease but many contributed. At the end of this summer, I am grateful for:
- Spending a rainy June day in a natural rock spa in the Gatineau
- Waiting in line for the folk fest to open its gates, and hearing music stream into the air. Realizing that the music was Ben Harper playing an old Neil Young song as a sound check and that I was one of the few people standing on top of the hill, looking down at the stage, almost like a private concert. As the music ended, the Canadian Forces Air Demonstration team flew in formation over the hill three times.
- Hearing Ben Harper play that night on a candlelit hill. He was humble, yet radiant.
- Lots of new music on my playlist..."Time to Smile" Xavier Rudd, "Echoes" Dar Williams and more...
- Reconnecting with an old friend from university
- Camping during a mountain biking trip and sharing the tent with an Australian shepherd puppy, who thought I was a toy kong wrapped up in my sleeping bag
- Being bitten by a deer tick in Ontario and NOT getting Lyme disease (Yes, I did find the tick and had it tested)
- Yoga class, and especially Yin class on Fridays
- Meeting a friendly local in the Kalamalka Provincial Park parking lot who showed me the single track mountain bike trail.
- Acting impetuously on the way back from the park, and trying Stand Up Paddleboarding for an hour while still dressed in my cycling shorts and jersey. Managing to stay dry until I adjusted my stance on the board to enable a tighter turning radius. Falling into the lake and washing off the grime from the mountain bike ride.
- Chilean sunsets ( like the two at the top of the page)
- The host at our hotel in El Colorado, Chile who called me "little Jeannie" after the Elton John song
- Seeing three condors in Chile. The first time I saw one, I actually exclaimed " is that a bird or a plane?" , unintentionally mimicking the classic Superman line. The third time, I saw a condor was just as we were leaving the mountain. I stood with a friend and, arms waving like traffic controllers, we signaled for the bird to come nearer. It did and we could see individual wing feathers, splayed like fingers.
Namaste,
Ginny
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
For no apparent reason
Yesterday at the rock climbing gym, I climbed two routes that were challenging me. One is graded a 5.7, which should be easy for me. I have tried it many times and kept cheating (reaching for a hold off route) at one spot. I have been climbing with skilled woman climber who declared,"Ginny is struggling on this route for no apparent reason". I laughed off the comment saying, "it is because I don't like the colour of the route marking tape". The truth is we all struggle at one time or another for no apparent reason.
I still don't know why I struggled, but yesterday night, I ended the battle. I climbed the route start to finish without hesitation. I shouted " yeah" at the end and that was that. Why I struggled in the past will remain a mystery. The key thing is that yesterday I climbed the route.
Today, I had lunch with a friend. Most of her conversation was about wanting to know why something happened. Knowing "why" won't change what happened, nor would it change her actions. Though she didn't want to admit it, she wanted to know why because she wants to absolve herself from any responsibility for what happened. What happened to her, happened for no apparent reason. Looking back won't help; looking forward won't help.
Even when the reason is apparent, I wonder. I wonder how much is perception. I wonder what caused the apparent reason. I wonder what could be done to change this in the future. I wonder what I could have done in the past. Wondering, like worrying, is no help. We may know; we may not know, and that's okay. We're taught to learn from our mistakes - the hitch is that the circumstances may not be identical and the fix may now become the mistake. Wonder can be a wonderful thing, but only when it is rooted in the present like wondering at the beauty of a sunset or wondering at the dexterity of a two year old's ability to pluck a petal from a flower.
I still don't know why I struggled, but yesterday night, I ended the battle. I climbed the route start to finish without hesitation. I shouted " yeah" at the end and that was that. Why I struggled in the past will remain a mystery. The key thing is that yesterday I climbed the route.
Today, I had lunch with a friend. Most of her conversation was about wanting to know why something happened. Knowing "why" won't change what happened, nor would it change her actions. Though she didn't want to admit it, she wanted to know why because she wants to absolve herself from any responsibility for what happened. What happened to her, happened for no apparent reason. Looking back won't help; looking forward won't help.
Even when the reason is apparent, I wonder. I wonder how much is perception. I wonder what caused the apparent reason. I wonder what could be done to change this in the future. I wonder what I could have done in the past. Wondering, like worrying, is no help. We may know; we may not know, and that's okay. We're taught to learn from our mistakes - the hitch is that the circumstances may not be identical and the fix may now become the mistake. Wonder can be a wonderful thing, but only when it is rooted in the present like wondering at the beauty of a sunset or wondering at the dexterity of a two year old's ability to pluck a petal from a flower.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Summertime
It finally feels like summer in this northern city in which I live. I am slightly sunburned and hot. As I walked the dog, I noticed a scent which reminded of the ocean. I thought, "how could that be? I am thousands of miles from the sea" and then I realized that I was a passing a garden of petunias. Their gentle peculiar scent was what I associated with the ocean. The beach that I grew up on had planters lining the boardwalk and so, it was not the Atlantic that I smelled but flowers.
How nice to smell the flowers without even stopping. Drinking in their fragrance is restorative as is the feeling of laziness that the heat brings on. I feel so lucky, so fortunate for the time to spend in the summer sun and cloud. I am lucky, yes, but I have also chosen a path which allows me such luxuries.
I feel fortunate also that I have woken up in time to realize how much I have. This spring I was feeling restless, unable to appreciate the wealth of my life. Thanks to some good friends and breaking open some old beliefs, I am closer to being who I am than I have been in the past. There is a song by Leonard Cohen that goes:
"Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in"
That sense of being less than perfect, of being vulnerable, is what opens us to the light and, also, how our light gets out. I look at the record of my journey from fear into fun and am amazed by the transformation. I still get scared. I still get stuck. But, I continue to learn to leap when my heart tells me and to just be still when my heart says so. The biggest challenge is clearing away the morass of daily life to hear my heart. Music (and I've had plenty in this summer of concerts and folk fests) ...nature (whose beauty I witnessed in six National Parks this summer)... activity (yoga in my favorite studio, mountain biking in new places, and trying a new water sport - Stand Up Paddeboarding - on a whim) all help me to hear, to be. I am grateful.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Fear of falling + Fear of not falling = Stuck
When I first started writing about my journey from fear into fun, I riffed on two themes, fear of falling and fear of not falling. At the time, I genuinely believed that I was stopped by both fears. Fear of falling was fear of failure and fear of not falling was fear of success. What I believe now is this: I wasn't afraid at all... I was just plain stuck.
As a child, I used to climb trees regularly. Sometimes, I would climb up, up, up among the crab apple blossoms until no one could spot me. Other times, I would stop lower down and linger among the scented flowers. I didn't give much thought about falling or not falling, until one day when I was climbing with my brother. I would have been 10 or 11. My brother was two years younger and famous (at least in our family) for his risk taking. He learned to swim early and well and soon gave up swim racing for surfing, and when that became tame, joined the adolescent boys jumping off the 1240' drawbridge into the river. He was the brave one. I was the tame, conservative older sister. I was sceptical then, one day that summer, when we climbed the crab apple tree and my brother got stuck. He told me so and I didn't believe him. I climbed down and went inside the house.
Shortly after, emergency vehicles raced into our driveway. The rescue personnel told us that neighbors had heard a child yelling for help and thought that someone was drowning in the river. I don't recall whether I revealed that I left my brother stuck in the tree but soon enough, the firemen discovered him sitting midway up the tree. The next day, the local newspaper ran an article with the headline "What goes up, must come down" and described the incident. I was mortified, and yet now, forty some years later, I realize the truth of that headline. What goes up, must come down. You either fall or you don't fall. I am not a believer in black and white dichotomies. I much prefer a continuum. However, if I am just plain stuck because I haven't moved to one outcome or another, it is that much more complicated when there are many choices. Sometimes simplicity helps. What I also realize is that I can chose to be stuck and I can just as easily ( okay...sometimes it hurts a bit like a band-aid coming off) choose to be unstuck. I can also choose to re frame my thoughts about that intermediate period when there is no action, and consider that I take action or no action when the time is right.
As a child, I used to climb trees regularly. Sometimes, I would climb up, up, up among the crab apple blossoms until no one could spot me. Other times, I would stop lower down and linger among the scented flowers. I didn't give much thought about falling or not falling, until one day when I was climbing with my brother. I would have been 10 or 11. My brother was two years younger and famous (at least in our family) for his risk taking. He learned to swim early and well and soon gave up swim racing for surfing, and when that became tame, joined the adolescent boys jumping off the 1240' drawbridge into the river. He was the brave one. I was the tame, conservative older sister. I was sceptical then, one day that summer, when we climbed the crab apple tree and my brother got stuck. He told me so and I didn't believe him. I climbed down and went inside the house.
Shortly after, emergency vehicles raced into our driveway. The rescue personnel told us that neighbors had heard a child yelling for help and thought that someone was drowning in the river. I don't recall whether I revealed that I left my brother stuck in the tree but soon enough, the firemen discovered him sitting midway up the tree. The next day, the local newspaper ran an article with the headline "What goes up, must come down" and described the incident. I was mortified, and yet now, forty some years later, I realize the truth of that headline. What goes up, must come down. You either fall or you don't fall. I am not a believer in black and white dichotomies. I much prefer a continuum. However, if I am just plain stuck because I haven't moved to one outcome or another, it is that much more complicated when there are many choices. Sometimes simplicity helps. What I also realize is that I can chose to be stuck and I can just as easily ( okay...sometimes it hurts a bit like a band-aid coming off) choose to be unstuck. I can also choose to re frame my thoughts about that intermediate period when there is no action, and consider that I take action or no action when the time is right.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Rainbows
Driving home from Lake Louise on a late April Sunday evening, cars were pulled off onto the road’s shoulder. People were standing by the side of the road, as other cars sped by at 130 km, just looking up in the sky at a rainbow that spanned the horizon. It was reasssuring to know that there are others who take time to look at nature despite the rush of our times.
I went to yoga the next day, and during class, I saw fragments of light refracting like a rainbow. Blue, pink, purple were all there, shooting up toward the ceiling. I felt something loosen inside of me and felt safer than I have in a long time. Later, lying in savasana, I answered a question that had been with me for several years. I’ve wanted to move and thought that I wanted to move to the mountains, but lying in savasana that day, I realized that I want to live in a home with soul. The mountains have soul but many of the housing developments in mountain towns do not. My current house has soul but my neighborhood does not.
That same afternoon, I was walking my dog in my neighborhood and found chalk notices printed boldly on several curbs. “Concerned? Come to a community meeting Thursday at 8:00 p.m.” I was confused. The only time I had felt a community within my neighborhood was during the previous year as we coalesced to fight against a high voltage transmission line. The power company was installing the line elsewhere so what was there to be concerned about? Yes, the nearby highway noise and construction dust was a problem but that was well publicized and discussed. What was I to be concerned about now?
My answer came when I ran to the corner store to get some milk. A THC Hemp store had opened. I could understand why the neighbors were concerned. My question to myself then became: “If I know that I can make a home with soul wherever I live, why does my neighborhood matter?”
Good question, probably one whose answer is dependent on life circumstances. Is it easier to make a home where there are kindred souls, where there is inherent beauty, where art is appreicated? Yes. Is it possible to make a home on a battlefield? Probably not. And what about all the places in the middle? We do carry our homes within us and our life circumstances will influence how hard or easy it is for that soulful place to emerge. Rainbows can be seen from everywhere. Right now, my thinking is: why make it more difficult than it needs be? If my circumstances allow, I will choose a place that facilitates soul rather than impedes it
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Practicing what I know
Today is the first in a long time (December 13, to be exact) for which I had no plans. I have been looking forward to it for nearly two weeks. I enjoyed Christmas and all the activity it brings. I enjoyed the start of January and the New Year. I have been doing things that make me happy. But that's just it... I have been doing things. Too many things and I am tired.
I know that to stay balanced I need time to myself. I also know that I need physical activity, wind in my face, and intellectual challenge. I came close to toppling over this week both figuratively and literally. I felt irritable, on edge.
Today I am taking time for myself. I want to write, so I am writing here. I wanted to cook, so I baked cranberry and white chocolate oatmeal muffins. I walked the dog without a grudge. I enjoyed the frosting of snow on the evergreens as I did so. I still feel edgy, but I have started to come back to myself. All those times that I have written about yoga and climbing and skiing and the need to balance precipitously have been practice for me.
Practicing what I know entails hard choices. I am grateful that I enjoy so much that there is not enough time to do all that I want. Day after day, small things make me happy. The smell of paperwhite narcissi, drooping tulips in a vase, snow sculpted by wind, the voices of friends and family. Big things (skiing in the mountains, travelling, fine meals) make me happy too but I am learning that I need to really appreciate the small things. My habit is to list what I am grateful for at the end of the day and then go " there, that's done, now I can sleep". I need to pause for longer and savour the peace.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Let my little light shine
I have tears in my eyes as I write. Lots of things are wrong and nothing is. I feel genuine sadness about two people I have known in my life, one of whom recently passed away; another of whom has been fighting cancer for a year. Feeling sadness, when there is a reason, is a sign of health, and the tears are healing.
I am also feeling sad because a place where, in the past, I have felt free and have regarded as a place of escape, now feels like a prison. I am not imagining a change in the vibe. The change is real and it is not in me but in someone who I regarded as a friend. I understand her unhappiness and her reactions to me but that does not mean that I can be treated as if I do not exist. In the past, I would have blamed myself and gone on a tirade inside my head about what I could have done differently.
There is nothing I could have done differently. I can not control my friend's thoughts. They are hers, not mine. What I can control ( or at least observe) are my own thoughts. The reason that I am writing today is that I am blaming myself a little. I am using the Byron Katie method of asking myself "what is true?" What is true is that I went to Switzerland. What is true is that I traveled to Calgary and enjoyed a training session. What is true is that I love being outdoors and hearing the sounds of children and the wind blowing. What is also true is that I like teaching skiing and teaching at the university. The list could go on...What is true is that I am not a slacker. I am not all about me. What is true is that I have learned to do what makes me happy and I am learning not to let others' thoughts interfere with that happiness.
Just writing this down makes me feel better. If the situation persists, and the place continues to feel like a prison, I know what to do. Shed the shackles and fly where I feel free. I may choose to shed my light in place that suddenly feels dark, or I may choose a brighter place. I have a choice and I know for sure that I am going to that I am going to "let that little light of mine shine".
Friday, August 28, 2009
Just when you think things are under control
I sat down on the couch last night, feeling very satisfied. I had mowed the lawns, weeded the garden, washed the floors, vacuumed, and even cleaned the second story windows inside and out. My to-do list was under control and my house was sparkling. I wanted to rest and enjoy the quiet of a late August evening when I heard a sudden and loud crack. I checked the laundry room to see if something had fallen off the dryer while spinning. No. I thought I heard water running so I checked the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary there. I looked over to the neighbors' to see if their above-ground pool had been over-filled. Nope.
The sound of water became louder. I ran to the upstairs bathroom and discovered inches of water pooling on to the floor and heading to the hallway carpet. I turned off the toilet tap, and the water still ran. I threw every towel that I could find onto the bathroom floor to sop up the water, still not knowing the source.
Once I was convinced that the towels were absorbing the water, I paused to look for the leak. The water was dripping from the toilet's tank. A crack ran the length of the tank and all of the water had emptied. I was grateful that I was home when the tank cracked and thought to myself, at least the water is confined to the upstairs bathroom.
I was wrong. When I went back into the kitchen, water was leaking into the lighting fixture and dripping onto the laminate floor. More towels and paper towels into action. I turned off the light and very carefully lifted the fixture off the ceiling and poured the accumulated water into the drain. Finally, I placed a bowl on the floor to catch the last drizzles of water coming from the ceiling.
Still grateful that I was home, I decided that there was nothing more to do but I wondered how a toilet tank cracks spontaneously, and especially cracks just when I was feeling that there was nothing left to fix or clean. I think the lesson is that there is always more and there is always less and what is more and less is out of our control.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I am not my job, my accomplishments, my labels...
Last week, I dipped my toe into corporate waters and nosed into the future. I had applied for a full time permanent position that built on my twenty years of business development. During a preliminary interview, the recruiter asked "Imagine you have accepted this position and are travelling on an airplane. I am sitting next to you and ask what you do. How would you answer?" My reply was that I would answer as I have for many years - that I would say that I do many things, one of which is working for organization X.
I did not get the job. As I reflect on the interview and the process, I realize that I have come a long way since I last worked corporately. My definition of success has changed. My definition of leadership has changed. I have changed.
I had applied for this same position a few years ago and was short-listed. When I did not receive the job offer, I blamed myself. I felt that I had not performed well enough in the interview, that I was not good enough. I believe in the mandate of the organization. I genuinely believe that I could lead it effectively, however, this time I am not disappointed. I answered honestly and am proud that I showed who I am.
In the past, I did define myself by my job and accomplishments. Now I don't. Sometimes, I miss the shortcut and ease that this provides but other times, I am amused when people try to place where I fit. Two weeks ago, I met a fellow who couldn't figure out my social status, even asking what the square footage of my house was. I enjoyed playing with my reply and told him the colours of my walls rather than the number he was looking for. (There was a slight guilt pang but it was fun.)
I am realizing yet again just how pervasive fear can be. While I was confident that I was being true to myself, job-wise, I felt uncomfortable and anxious in the days following. I yearned to drive my children to school again (an unrealistic yearning since they are adults and have been for a while). I worried about my retirement. I agonized about how the value of my home might drop if a proposed high voltage transmission line were built nearby. I was living in my head...in the past and in the future.
A passage from "The Power of Now" by Eckhart Tolle reminded me of what I know but do not always do. Be in the moment. Interestingly, now that I am paying more attention, I notice that I have a crick in my neck which I often take as a sign that my mind is disconnected from my body. The crick has not disappeared but is lessening. The integration of mind and body that sport provides to me so beautifully is becoming more available in each moment. I am grateful for this and all the lessons that life provides. I am not my job, my accomplishments, my labels. I am me, a human being.
Namaste,
Ginny
Monday, August 3, 2009
Superheroes
When I first started this blog, I described a quote that inspired me. "As you go the way of life, you will see a great chasm. Jump. It is not as wide as you think" . The phrase is attributed by Joseph Campbell to a bit of advice given to a young native at the time of his initiation. Jumping chasms is what it takes to live life fearlessly. The chasm, depending on what scares you, may be leaving a job, saying no to a friend, trying something new or even just being alone and still. I have found the advice to jump very true, and the chasms narrow to mere cracks after the fact.
I recently listened to a song written by Martin Simpson and Eric Bibb that further illuminated the idea of jumping. What does Superman do? He leaps tall buildings in a single bound. What does Spiderman do? Use his spidey sense and powers to move up, down, and sideways. What do kids playing often need? A cape...and that is what these song lyrics are about:He’s one of those who knows that life
Is just a leap of faith
Spread your arms and hold your breath
Always trust your cape
The new idea that these lyrics convey is to "always trust your cape". When I first started jumping, I probably held my breath. I definitely did not spread my arms though I yearned for that freedom. I trusted something, though I did not know what. Since then I have learned a lot about trust. I began rock climbing, thinking that I would learn to trust others. Instead, I learned to trust myself. What I have just realized is that we are all superheroes and we all have capes. Our capes are invisible. Our capes have many names. They are our guardian angels, our inner compass, our faith in a greater power - whatever name (God, the source, the universe) we choose. So, I am trusting my (invisible) cape and spreading my arms and breathing as I make my leaps of faith.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Learning to fall better
Several years ago, a writer who I respect told me that it is hard to write about happiness, and that Anne Lamott is an author who writes well about happiness. I had never heard of Anne Lamott but noted her name. Some time later, I went to the bookstore looking for one of her titles. I checked the store's computer and found that they had five copies in-store. The computer indicated that they were in the Bargain pile , under Religion. I looked and looked and checked under the table but could find no copies. I left without buying a book.
This spring, I returned to the same bookstore and again checked the computer. Not surprisingly, the computer indicated there were five hard copies in the Bargain pile, but it also indicated some paperbacks were available. I was on a bit of book buying binge and had already selected several to take home so I headed to the library next. I checked out Anne Lamott's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith as well as several books by Pema Chodron.
I have now finished reading my pile of books. The recipes from Moosewood Cooks at Home were tasty but my real nourishment has come from Anne Lamott. One story in particular resonated with me. The story was about skiing, and skiing with a friend with terminal cancer. The friend pointed out to Anne that "you're so afraid of falling that it's keeping you from skiing as well as you could. It's keeping you from having fun."
True in skiing. True in life. Now to apply the lesson fearlessly in both skiing and life.
Namaste.
Ginny
This spring, I returned to the same bookstore and again checked the computer. Not surprisingly, the computer indicated there were five hard copies in the Bargain pile, but it also indicated some paperbacks were available. I was on a bit of book buying binge and had already selected several to take home so I headed to the library next. I checked out Anne Lamott's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith as well as several books by Pema Chodron.
I have now finished reading my pile of books. The recipes from Moosewood Cooks at Home were tasty but my real nourishment has come from Anne Lamott. One story in particular resonated with me. The story was about skiing, and skiing with a friend with terminal cancer. The friend pointed out to Anne that "you're so afraid of falling that it's keeping you from skiing as well as you could. It's keeping you from having fun."
True in skiing. True in life. Now to apply the lesson fearlessly in both skiing and life.
Namaste.
Ginny
Friday, May 15, 2009
Light and dark trucks
I feel the menace behind. I look into my car's rear view mirror and there it is. A large Dodge Ram pickup truck, its grill bared like shark's teeth as it approaches me. This particular truck is black with silver trim but in the past, it has been white or, occasionally, blood red. The colour doesn't matter, or even the brand. It is the size that matters - over-sized, thirsty, and looking for dominance.
The truck looms behind me, moving ever closer until I feel its cold breath on my tailgate. I hold my steering wheel and speed steady. With a sharp jerk, the truck finally accelerates into the passing lane and I exhale with relief.
I never see the driver. It is as if the driver is an armoured knight atop a warrior steed. The anonymity helps with intimidation. There is a fraternity of these trucks on the highway and I feel their raw unformed anger regularly. I picture these trucks and their drivers as forces of evil, much like the dark forces in Tolkien or Star Wars.
This realization makes me sad for, historically, the signs of a dark age are family disputes, war, famine, and travellers wandering highways (or, in our times, mall alleyways). Yet,despite 911, despite military involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq, despite poverty, gang violence and familial abuse, we in North America feel that the battle between light and dark is being fought elsewhere. Thinkers, writers and even scientists are warning that earth is at the cusp of a big change but most of us do not realize that we are choosing sides through our daily actions.
The side of light is well represented, but like light itself, is sometimes hard to see. Light is most present in simple everyday acts. Just yesterday, I drove past the corner where a young man dances regularly. This 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.
Yesterday when I saw "The Dancing Boy", he was astride his bicycle adjusting his music player. A dozen multi-coloured balloons were tied to the handlebars and danced in the wind. I wondered what the occasion was but realized there was no occasion needed. It was May 14 and snowing. What other reason is needed for balloons to brighten a dark day?
Today, I saw a force of light leaving a dark truck. I had gone to the garden centre needing green after yesterday's snow. The truck was typical. Large and looming, it impeded me as I tried to park. As I got out of my car, I was surprised that two little girls were lifted out of the truck by their father. A few minutes later, I was walking down the aisle of the garden centre and heard a shopping cart directly behind me. I stepped out of the way. The metal cart was being pushed by the truck owner, with one daughter sitting in the cart and the other one walking beside. As the older daughter passed, she looked up at me and said "thank you". I replied "you're welcome".
The little girl's words and actions are illuminating. And by her actions, she is setting an example to me and to her father, who deep inside is likely still a vulnerable and scared little boy. Without our armour, without our big trucks and houses, without our brand names, we can see one another as we truly are.
The truck looms behind me, moving ever closer until I feel its cold breath on my tailgate. I hold my steering wheel and speed steady. With a sharp jerk, the truck finally accelerates into the passing lane and I exhale with relief.
I never see the driver. It is as if the driver is an armoured knight atop a warrior steed. The anonymity helps with intimidation. There is a fraternity of these trucks on the highway and I feel their raw unformed anger regularly. I picture these trucks and their drivers as forces of evil, much like the dark forces in Tolkien or Star Wars.
This realization makes me sad for, historically, the signs of a dark age are family disputes, war, famine, and travellers wandering highways (or, in our times, mall alleyways). Yet,despite 911, despite military involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq, despite poverty, gang violence and familial abuse, we in North America feel that the battle between light and dark is being fought elsewhere. Thinkers, writers and even scientists are warning that earth is at the cusp of a big change but most of us do not realize that we are choosing sides through our daily actions.
The side of light is well represented, but like light itself, is sometimes hard to see. Light is most present in simple everyday acts. Just yesterday, I drove past the corner where a young man dances regularly. This 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.
Yesterday when I saw "The Dancing Boy", he was astride his bicycle adjusting his music player. A dozen multi-coloured balloons were tied to the handlebars and danced in the wind. I wondered what the occasion was but realized there was no occasion needed. It was May 14 and snowing. What other reason is needed for balloons to brighten a dark day?
Today, I saw a force of light leaving a dark truck. I had gone to the garden centre needing green after yesterday's snow. The truck was typical. Large and looming, it impeded me as I tried to park. As I got out of my car, I was surprised that two little girls were lifted out of the truck by their father. A few minutes later, I was walking down the aisle of the garden centre and heard a shopping cart directly behind me. I stepped out of the way. The metal cart was being pushed by the truck owner, with one daughter sitting in the cart and the other one walking beside. As the older daughter passed, she looked up at me and said "thank you". I replied "you're welcome".
The little girl's words and actions are illuminating. And by her actions, she is setting an example to me and to her father, who deep inside is likely still a vulnerable and scared little boy. Without our armour, without our big trucks and houses, without our brand names, we can see one another as we truly are.
Monday, March 9, 2009
And time passes by
It's nearly four months since I last posted, which almost exactly matches ski season. I have not felt the need to write, nor do I particularly feel the need now. I do know that I love writing and will come back to it, and so this entry is like dipping my toe back into the ocean. I don't know if I will dive all the way in, but at least I am testing the writing waters again.
I haven't felt as pressed for time as I have in other winters, yet I have been busy. I have been at the local ski hill most weekdays. I have taught business two mornings a week at the local University, and I have driven to the mountains most weekends to ski. In other years, I have counted my mountain days. This year, I really do not have a clue. The measure is not how many days, but how I feel. I feel like I have gotten skiing in the mountains enough. Some years the craving to ski in the mountains aches in me. This year, I have logged between 15 and 25 days (see what I mean about losing track) and I know that I have skied good terrain and that I have made the most of the season. It is not a good snow year and my skis show the results. Every trip back from the mountains carried a new edge burr or base ding.
This weekend I took my skis to be tuned and all the burrs and dings were removed. My skis are like new, but with less base and fewer options for more tuning. It's a good thing that people are not like skis. When we get "tuned up", hopefully... generally, it means that we have even more options, and that we don't wear out. When I took my skis out on the cold corduroy snow, they felt balanced and precise. I felt relief. I really do love to ski. It was fun. No wonder the time from November to March passed so quickly.
I haven't felt as pressed for time as I have in other winters, yet I have been busy. I have been at the local ski hill most weekdays. I have taught business two mornings a week at the local University, and I have driven to the mountains most weekends to ski. In other years, I have counted my mountain days. This year, I really do not have a clue. The measure is not how many days, but how I feel. I feel like I have gotten skiing in the mountains enough. Some years the craving to ski in the mountains aches in me. This year, I have logged between 15 and 25 days (see what I mean about losing track) and I know that I have skied good terrain and that I have made the most of the season. It is not a good snow year and my skis show the results. Every trip back from the mountains carried a new edge burr or base ding.
This weekend I took my skis to be tuned and all the burrs and dings were removed. My skis are like new, but with less base and fewer options for more tuning. It's a good thing that people are not like skis. When we get "tuned up", hopefully... generally, it means that we have even more options, and that we don't wear out. When I took my skis out on the cold corduroy snow, they felt balanced and precise. I felt relief. I really do love to ski. It was fun. No wonder the time from November to March passed so quickly.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Happiness
I know what happiness is. It is a feeling deep down inside that bubbles out when I look at a magpie perching on the topmost branch of a willow tree that is bent with the first snow of the year. It is a feeling of contentment when I sit in my house and watch flickering fire light and am grateful for all that I have. It is going to yoga class and being with myself. Happiness is driving home after rock climbing knowing that I have stretched physically and emotionally. Happiness is loving and being loved, in all of love's incarnations.
Some write that being happy is a conscious decision. I agree that we choose happiness but my experience is that I needed to clear a path in my life and my thoughts that would enable me to be happy. The readers of this blog have witnessed some of the barrier falling as I mused upon my fear of falling, my fear of not falling, my pre-occupation with trying and my thoughts. Over the past months, I have written far less than I have in years. Prior to this blog, I kept a journal, writing in it regularly for about seven years.
Through writing both in my journal and blog, I have cleared out my thoughts. There is still plenty of underbrush but the pathways to happiness are more clear than they have ever been. I suspect that I have written little over the past months - one or two entries here a month, one or two entries in my journal - because I was in the process of checking that new barriers would not emerge. I recall that one of my fears was that "the other shoe would drop".
The shoe has not dropped and I am confident that even if it does, I can navigate the way barefoot or with one shoe or new shoes. I am writing again because that is one of the things that makes me happy. This entry feels good.
Namaste,
Ginny
Some write that being happy is a conscious decision. I agree that we choose happiness but my experience is that I needed to clear a path in my life and my thoughts that would enable me to be happy. The readers of this blog have witnessed some of the barrier falling as I mused upon my fear of falling, my fear of not falling, my pre-occupation with trying and my thoughts. Over the past months, I have written far less than I have in years. Prior to this blog, I kept a journal, writing in it regularly for about seven years.
Through writing both in my journal and blog, I have cleared out my thoughts. There is still plenty of underbrush but the pathways to happiness are more clear than they have ever been. I suspect that I have written little over the past months - one or two entries here a month, one or two entries in my journal - because I was in the process of checking that new barriers would not emerge. I recall that one of my fears was that "the other shoe would drop".
The shoe has not dropped and I am confident that even if it does, I can navigate the way barefoot or with one shoe or new shoes. I am writing again because that is one of the things that makes me happy. This entry feels good.
Namaste,
Ginny
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