Day 444: Understated

Of the so many gratitude-inducing things that have happened over the last week or so, some of the smallest are the sweetest. A scraggly bird having a shout from a fence post; a more sleek one hopping out from behind a tree; getting comprehensively rained on; fog on the St. Lawrence river outside the flat, taking over, making the landscape magical.

Val Morin needs talking about - satsang, meditation, karma yoga, wonderful serendipities.  A ride, a walk to the lake, photos, conversations, happy intimacies. 

A pie, some cookies, some fruit and a FULL rendition of Hey Jude, complete with shouty end bit. A warm goodbye from new friends. Thank you.

And, just for now, we'll stop at a rich and lovely meeting with a Buddhist priest who had come to play and his lovely friend. I'm full of ideas and fascinations. I'm inspired and very grateful.

A foxed afternoon, my last. Gently, sadly, peacefully grateful for that.

Day 443: Fake

I am the REAL Iron Man. And can I have this Lego, please?

Aah, the innocence and playfulness of a child. The mother across from me is roleplaying with her finger-face, who's talking to her little boy. He interacts with her hand, not with her face, when the hand moves while his mother talks. 

Maman?

They also had a big chat about whether the Iron Man sitting across from him, encouraging him to eat his sandwich, was the REAL Iron Man or just his mother in a mask. He knew it was his mother, but I swear there was a tiny bit of him that still had a little bit of doubt until he pulled off the mask and revealed her. Démasqué! Very sweet.

I'm all yearny for that experience today. As I grow older and the likelihood of me having children of my own diminishes, I often feel a deep ache to look at a tiny creature I've had a hand in creating; to play games and read stories and do goodnight, sleep tight routines. Yeah, this is the romantic side. 

Ow

If I don't, in the end, I've had a cunning idea. If I'm melancholy and wishing I had children, I shall set my alarm for every two hours (and maybe I'll get an app that does some random setting, so I can't GUARANTEE it's every two hours)... The alarm will sound with jagged, screamy noises that won't stop for hours sometimes, even when you bounce up and down, sing lullabies or run litres of water down the sink to make the sound of a running tap. 

One way to make it stop, at least for a while, is to take a bulldog clip and attach it to one nipple, working it open and shut, for at least half an hour, then swap it to the other. Sometimes, though, even that doesn't work. 

Just in case, I'll make sure there are some questionable smells around and occasionally I'll swallow some rancid, yoghurty milk and cough it up over myself, only to wipe it off again with a spoon and put it back into my own mouth (oh, alright, maybe that comes after they've stopped breastfeeding, but that's the beauty of having a pretend child - you can mix it up a bit). 

Your supper, right here, round my mouth

Then I'll breathe and be grateful, as I pack away the paraphernalia of the fake child. I'll remember that I get to do this for one night, to remind myself, whereas real parents get to do for weeks on end, months, maybe years. Then I'll know that there are things to be grateful about not having children. 

I'll adopt puppies and broken birds. I'll volunteer in orphanages. I'll write books about making the most of your life, whatever it brings you. I'll realise that there are many, many, many things worse than not having children, and many, many things that bring joy and love that have nothing to do with this. 

It's not over yet//it's not about the bunny

I'll remember that this was always a choice... I was never forced into not having children. I haven't discovered that I can't... I have chosen not to do this without a good, strong, loving relationship, people and environments that can sustain, nurture and nourish a child. I realise already how privileged I am to be able to make this choice for myself and for this, I'm grateful. 

As I type, I'm being guerned at (and waved at) by a small, toothy girl-baby in a pram. Aaaah... maybe it's time to start with the nipple clamps already. We'll see. And you never know. It's not over yet. For this too, I'm grateful. 

Scary, beautiful, powerful, exciting, humbling.

Day 442: Bears and Butterflies

the lopiest

I have failed in my commitment to blog daily. This is one thing I shall relish in the future, when my current situation changes. There are many things I will miss and yearn for. There are many things I will mourn. This is not one of them. Greater blogging ease will be one of those things to focus on. 

There have been many things to inspire my gratitude in the last week, or however long it now is since I dailied (not dallied... dallying is what I HAVE been doing, not what I haven't).


I am. A film. http://iamthedoc.com/
I liked that. Even though, as one reviewer pointed out, it's easy to eschew financial concerns when you have all the money you need, I don't think that's quite the point. I think part of the point isn't to actively not make money, but to do things not just in order to gain wealth and status, but to satisfy a greater craving. Doing what you love; doing what gives you satisfaction through benefit to others too, and collaboration with them. Living more simply. Making sure your happiness doesn't hinge on having a certain kind of house/car/food processor/TV. 

Of course, none of this is news, but one thing there are some delicious moments in this film. There's some cheesy-as-all-shit power ballad action too. That's a pro or a con, depending on your taste, of course. One of the gifts is Desmond Tutu's face. It's a thing to be observed with joy. His wide, wide eyes. His intensity, softened with a playfulness. 

I came out of watching the film feeling that I wanted to live in a community. It's not the first time I've had this urge, of course. Me, grumpy, self-preserving, so much in need of space, living in a community? Maybe. Maybe it could just work. Maybe I'd learn some of the humility and service that is, in fact, close to my core, but which I don't always do. I still have a fantasy of rearing children and dogs surrounded by trusted and interesting adults with different viewpoints and a level of love and care for other people's children (and pets)... a broadening of the nuclear family. Love in a softer, less exclusive sense. I want exclusive too... 

Oh, the thrill of being loved by a person who can't imagine anywhere better to be than in my arms, in my presence, even though I'm annoying and so full of flaws. And a broader love too. I think it's possible. Where, how, when? I don't know. And who knows - in two years' time, I may be writing a blog about how to have a better lawn than your neighbour, how to have a bigger fence, how to get your kids into a better school so they'll have a better life, better prospects, more opportunities. We just don't know, do we, but if I do, I suspect that perhaps you won't be a regular reader... or will you?


Butterflies. Not sure where that came from, but they're cool, aren't they? There are some big, dark, speckeldy ones around at the moment, and some little flitty white ones and similarly dip-diving black ones. They're probably not black. They're probably dark brown, or purple or something, but my, they're fast. 

plain old running?

The woods were pretty on Monday. Very pretty, very green, full of rich smells (some more ripe than others). It was nice to move, to walk, to talk. It was nice to catch a bus home. Speaking of public transport, a mistake led to moments of cherished contact last night. Be careful where your attention goes, that's what I say. There are often many people getting off the train at Roxboro. It's a hub, if you like. And a massive car park. People get off the train and into their cars, or the cars of waiting loved ones, and drive god knows how far to their homes. I wondered, as I got on, if everyone always makes it off the train... well yesterday, I found out. No. There was a lady in front of me when the doors began to close, and one behind me. She wasn't confident throwing her body between the closing doors. I would have been, but I couldn't get past her. She may have saved me a nasty injury.

potential loper

So, the doors closed. We vaguely pressed buttons and we failed to make the doors change. The train pulled out. We discussed, all incredulous. We stopped the guard, who was regally unapologetic and unhelpful, but in such a way that it was actually quite funny. The only bit of help he did offer us, we failed to respond to. He suggested that instead of getting off at the next stop (in the middle of nowhere), we get off at the one after (possibility of cabs). Well, we didn't listen. I found out from google maps yesterday that we were on a little island, really, REALLY in the middle of nowhere, and in the middle of a river. When asked, he told us the time of the train coming back the other way. Half an hour later. Given that there were no more than 5 minutes between the stop we missed and the one we got out at, and after failing to get through to the mothers/sons of the two ladies who actually live here, we decided a cab was a good idea. 

tooth-beary - lope-worthy?

We flagged down a car, who very helpfully called a cab for us. We waited for the cab. The lady in front was Indian, married for 33 years. She had enormous teeth with enormous gaps in, glasses, and from what I could understand, a PhD. She 'mentioned the war' - how my people had occupied her country for far too long. I agreed. I apologised. She said, reluctantly, 'It's not your fault'. She was very interesting. She talked about marriage and education and commitment. She talked about resistance. She wasn't hugely big on listening... the lovely (and fully trilingual) Russian girl with us had a few stories too, but most got cut off. She had a mellifluous voice, as soft in Russian as in English. She was confident, young, dark-haired and full of sarky remarks about Russian politics and culture - and the Quebecois rail system. I liked them both and I liked the ease with which we three strangers collaborated, decided, organised ourselves and took action.

coyote on a train, oh yeah

So... the taxi came. I asked how much. The driver said $35. What??? For a five-minute trip? Five minutes if you drive all the way along the train track, maybe. If you take the roads, we discovered, you have to first leave the little island one way, onto the mainland, then find a big road that will take you to the next bridge that will take you back onto the island you live on. And this past not only the station you missed, but the one before it. Then you need to curl around to get on to the road that will take you past two recently-visited stops and back to the station, pulling in just in time to see... the train you could have waited for pulling into the station. It was $30 in the end, just under. Thank you, taxi driver, for over-quoting. Feels so much better that way round. 

I learnt a lot. And I enjoyed the camaraderie of strangers. 

things that might lope

I think perhaps I'm not reading enough... or not enough of the kind of things I should be/could be reading. Rich, juicy novels where people pick words that make them smile or salivate. I read far too many 'how to' books, self-help, mindfulness, non-fiction of a fairly basic kind. I want to be bathed in language and to remember how to spell. 

lope or not, this guy is cooool

I resort to a dictionary only when I've tried as many ways as I can think of to spell a word and it still doesn't shed its little red skirt. I'm compiling a list of words I looked up (or worked out). On it, so far are: precedence, lope and languorous. Lope was a definition, not a spelling. I thought it meant a slow, languorous movement (fuck... I just had to look up languorous again - just 'up' on the next line, but still... languorous, languorous, languorous... that's it). Some dictionaries say it's a 'long and bounding stride'. They claim to be the world's most trusted dictionaries. Do I trust them? not so sure. Glad I can just whip up a frenzy of definitions with my fingers and Tim Horton's internet connection, though. That's good isn't it?

Day 441: World

Where next?

This lady made me cry a little bit today. She's a very good speaker. I want to speak like that and to have such passion.

http://tinyurl.com/c7frr25

Also, how lucky am I? Thank you, Rachel Rooney, you absolute queen of a woman, and Jessica Loudon too, for helping me find possible places to live in Brighton. AND how nice to get messages from Laura in Madrid, Gaëlle in Munich and Rosanne in Montreal egging me on to be in their city. I'm touched and flattered.

Day 440: Lucifer?

A dramatic dawn, all greys on whites on bright light shining, clouds moving, blue prevailing. A similarly sumptuous dusk, full of bright skies and perseverant sun, backed by water-heavy skies and fruit-coloured cloud-borders (apricot, mango, orange). Wind making things bitter and beautiful in one gusty puff. The simple fact of seeing both the dawn and the dusk. I never thought I’d say it, but a 5am start has its advantages.

A shared meditation and pranayama session, an individual yoga class. I am spoilt.

A test. Not my first, but my first of this kind. A scientific experiment. I liked it. Well, I didn’t like it in some ways, but I liked that I had the opportunity to do it and to understand it so well (explained by such a clever creature).

A salad, enjoyed with said clever creature in the midst of knowledgeable discussion. A discovery that one thing that draws me to both libraries and universities is a hunger for learning and a feeling of exhilaration around it. Sometimes it stops at that. I love the idea of it though. I get that, I think, from my father. My mother too, no doubt. Bright people.

Sweet and pretty buddleia lining a whole street just below Avenue des Pins, light purple and rich with perfume. A crusty street turned into a sensual pleasure. I particularly enjoyed, not two minutes earlier, the shocked squawk that came out of me when a big garage door opened unexpectedly. It was a concrete deathtrap area (the kind of place you’d expect to get knifed). The lady in her big car looked very nice, though.

A long walk up des Pins, Parc, Mont-Royal and St. Laurent to get to the Sivananda centre. A request to the skies for a bit of positive dog interaction. I was feeling a bit yearny for some. I got through a whole park just looking and made it to the centre having already forgotten my request, only to be greeted by an excitable Santosha (ginger girl-dog, fat like a biscuit, friendly and master-loving) and a whole crowd of funny, down-to-earth yoga types. 

Santosha’s owner and his fascinating fisherman’s face, all wise and wide-eyed. He told me a story about how he’d rescued the girl-dog from a frozen river one winter, risking his life, but only realising it after he made it back onto the bank safe, the ice he’d lain on to save her being kind to him, this time.

Shankara, the most down to earth of all, bandying coffee about and being funny and grounded. The cellist, friendly and talented. Omkah (not sure if that’s how you spell it) whose real name another karma yogi and I discovered- Régin, I think. Good eyes. Good heart. Easy demeanour.

A stint of cold-calling. You know, it wasn’t that bad. I didn’t even have to do it. I just seemed to volunteer to at my own suggestion. I didn’t even announce it. I’ve always dreaded that kind of thing (and often calls in general) but they went fine. Most of them were messages and those few I spoke to were friendly. A yoga-hungry young man who had a million questions about Sivananda, yoga teacher training, yoga manuals and Vipassana ten-day silent retreats. We talked for so long that I missed my moment to go up and do the yoga class (grateful for the offer, though). I enjoyed it. I felt useful. Not just because of any of these things, but all in all. Thank you.

Happy contact with two connected Robs. Helpful emails from Marc and Vinny from Montreal Improv. 

Thank you thank you. And a bilingual hair pun… none of this ‘headlines’ or ‘a cut above’ or such tired shit… this salon’s name was ‘Lucifhair’ (that’s how Lucifer is pronounced in French). Get them. I want to go there. Come on, evil ones, give me devil hair!

We used to have a cat called Lucifer. He was grey and white, cool, but stupid. He reminded me of John Travolta. That was neither a compliment nor an insult, at the time. Since the media's Scientology revelations, it has become all the more fitting. Cool, but not that switched on, maybe. Oh, the judgement in that! To be cool and calm and really zen, I need to let go of judgements. Will I ever be able to make myself laugh again if I do? Am I willing to let go of that? Time will tell...

A train caught. The fact that it was light when I got on and dark by the time I came out of the first tunnel. The thought of going home to a meal prepared by a fond fox.

Day 439: The Seasons of a Day

One day, one city, two weather fronts. Bright sun was there to wake us, so much so that we got all up within half an hour, covered in shorts and suncream to run out in time for the 8.11 train into Montreal for a Mont Royal exploration and the possibility of tam-tam action. Quite a big thing for a fast day, although we had eaten like medieval monarchs the night before… gorged like paté geese, we were.

Thank god for Nicolò’s ‘layers’ wisdom. The weather turned, no questions asked. As soon as we got out downtown, it was like we’d entered another day by mistake. Oops. That’s not where I meant to land. The air had a bite. The wind was up. The skies promised rain and they didn’t’ let us down. I had a spare pare of sports trousers. I’d have been seriously fractious if my legs had stayed that cold. Nicolò had a rain jacket – wise man. We walked up to the lac aux castors (beaver lake) in the rain. The beavers had evidently tired of manual labour and had brought bulldozers. Lac aux Castors was vide – nothing but mud, puddles and the occasional seagull. Ugly, it was. And funny.

We carried on and found the cemetery. More than half of the mountain seems to be devoted to it. Graves lined up close together got us talking about coffins, spirits, vibes and wholes and parts. There were so many names, so many nationalities. Japanese script next to Russian and Greek. Polish names, French names, undoubtedly French-Canadian names, English, German, Italian, Hebrew. So many all side by side.

The wind was raucous by this time, the whole place swirling. As Nicolò took photos, he was accosted by a whippy spiral of white blossoms, pretty snow but with the heavy dark of a rain-filled sky (not the orangey fuzz of a snow-filled one).

To get warm, a long, hot bath and a fabulous book, full of other worlds and courage and surprises; full of emotion and philosophy and stories I’ll take with me to the very grave (Les Royaumes du Nord – Northern Lights, the Philip Pullman classic that we’re using as a French-learning vehicle). Those two things made me very happy (though fasting and a bath that long and that hot are not good together – I did a lot of swooning and belching after that).

Brigitte was a treat. She took us shopping at Adonis (what a great name for a supermarket. Eat your heart out, Tesco, with your unimaginative word smush, narcissistic Sainsbury’s. Asda.) 

We were fasting again – it seems to be a pattern now, that we only ever go food shopping on days where we’re not eating. It was smooth and quick and easy. We only slightly overbought for being hungry. She was appalled, Brigitte, partly because the last time we fasted (and went shopping) was on Nicolò’s birthday and she’d wanted to treat him to a pizza. She had a plan to try again this time, but no… off we are again, fortnightly fasters on all the most unfortunate days. 

We went for a peppermint tea instead, and saw the fullest, lushest mountain of plants and flowers at that shopping centre. So many, just bursting. We chatted. I learnt more about her. I enjoyed it.

I was a grumpy faster. I had a kind and patient companion.  For this, I’m grateful. My own impatience served well in one way: unwilling to cohabit with heavy metal and a detox headache, I went for a walk and found the day to be stunning and dramatic. Windy, clear and bright. Almost warm. Blissful. 

On my walk, I met a friendly man and his dog. We got to talking, as you do when you greet the dog first. I found out he was Polish. He’d managed to move his whole family here thirty years ago, before the fall of the Berlin wall. His wife had left first, with one daughter and he’d followed after with another. What a risk! What a commitment! He’d never worked in his profession (engineer, I think he said) in this country, but he was happy to see his daughters graduate from Canadian schools with degrees and professions that pleased them. It was such a pleasing conversation, I completely forgot my headache.

Raghhhghh (in musical terms)

To some extent, Alien Death Clan (or whoever was shouting from behind a strident guitar and a crashing base) brought the memory of it back, but the goodness was already underway and off we went for another walk not long after, which was just beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. What gratitude for that.

It’s worth saying again how grateful I was for a calm and patient fast-partner. Very.

Day 438: Fasting, Feasting

Saturday started with a tentative fast, just in case. We had enquired about saying yes to an invitation to eat with friends on Saturday evening, so it was only going to be until we got a definite answer to that. If the answer was no, our fast day would be Saturday. 

If yes, we’d eat lunch on the back of the answer, letting moderation leave space for a yoga practice, and then have dinner later.

This latter was the case, and oh my fuck, what feasting we did! We arrived with ‘failed’ Sivananda cookies – I’d got the recipe off the internet and not done quite so well on remembering that instead of measuring things in grams (there are no scales), I’d chosen cups. Not sure the oil quantities fit the same in cups as dry stuff. They were definitely oily biscuits. Tasty biscuits, but oily ones.

Between us, we made a pesto pasta, a bits-laden, tasty salad, a fabulous courgette-red pepper concoction, garlic lemon mushrooms and bruschetta, all served with pine nuts and cheese. After a tour of the impressively-altered house, we followed up with cinnamony tortilla chips, Rosanne’s fruit salsa, creamy yoghurt delight and said drooping Sivananda cookie flapjack-like things. 

Fuck! We ALL ate more than any person needs to eat in that amount of time. We just didn’t seem to be able to stop! Nicolò led the battle against moderate eating, surging ahead with plate after plate, mouthful after mouthful. Luc was defiant and victorious, though. After we’d all declared ourselves spent and fit to burst, he was to be seen licking out the yoghurt bowl. It’s not often, thankfully, that we eat like that. Once in a while, it’s okay, and it was all good, fresh food, in lovely company.

Never has fasting seemed so tempting. Roll through the night, roll on morning.