Author: bondjanet

hi folks…

“Meaningful dialogue is absolutely necessary if one is to remain human.” (Thomas Merton New Seeds of Contemplation)

After quietly congratulating myself for having done what I set out to do, (fifty-two in fifty-two) I rested on my laurels for a few days, until my “itchy fingers” told me I was missing my blog Ohana and the focus it gave me!

Contemplating my next steps on this great blogging adventure, I’ve begun formulating a course on leading an examined life that I want to share with those of you who wish to pursue your inner growth and development in a little more depth. And for those of you who just want a weekly reading, you can do that too.

In a series of six or eight segments I plan to focus on the various teachings and practices – and the written resources – that have informed my personal journey, or those whose journeys have inspired me. While introducing some of these ideas in my blog, such as journaling or balanced breathing, I felt that there was more I could do to provide structure and generate further discourse around developing one’s inner potential. From personal experience, I can state, unequivocally, that there is so much more to explore. And to share.

One of my writing teachers, Paul Belserene, motivated his students with this admonition: “Just get to the heart of the matter, and tell the truth.” For those of us who have been focused on building what pundit David Brooks (The Moral Bucket List) called the “resumé virtues” — a list of the degrees and achievements that testify to our socio-economic successes; the focus on his “eulogy virtues” — one’s spiritual life or soul journey has been hit-and-miss at best, if not entirely absent from our lives.

This course would be aimed at addressing this void, at enhancing our self-awareness and understanding, and fostering more meaningful dialogue among those closest to us (including our innermost selves), yet with whom we often relate in a superficial and ultimately unfulfilling way. As we go along, I hope we will become clearer on how to discern what feelings and beliefs ring true for us, and what opinions and conditioning no longer give our lives direction and meaning. Or authenticity.

In order to do justice to this new chapter, I intend to spend the next few weeks outlining and fine-tuning this course offering, and plan to put something online by the beginning of February — after our move to the North Shore (of Vancouver). Once again there will be an option to subscribe ( or not, no offence taken) to the (free) weekly installments of Leading an Examined Life: The Next Chapter.

I hope I’ll have the opportunity to continue learning and growing with you as I embark on the second incarnation of fifty-two-in-fifty-two! Inshallah, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Jolly Kwanzaa, Naw Ruz, Now Rouz, and Gung Hay Fat Choy. And of course, Mele Kalikimaka. If you don’t see your particular festive greeting, it’s because I haven’t fully got to know you yet. Like I said, so much more to explore…

“Aloha is not a word with a simple translation. It doesn’t mean just one thing. Aloha has several meanings. But it’s so much more than just a word.” (Joe Flanagan)

Here I am, back in Hawaïi, contemplating my 52nd blog, and in awe at all the changes that a year of ’living Aloha’ has wrought. Having returned to B.C. (kicking and screaming) in August after spending nine months on the Big Island, I was determined to finish my commitment in the place whose language and culture have had a powerful but ineffable effect on me, as it has had on so many people. This ineffable effect has been called, by some, the Aloha Spirit, and it permeates the islands like something organic, something intangible, something simply embedded in the land and embodied in its people. 

To look more deeply into the many meanings of Aloha (from “hello” to “goodbye” to “I love you”, to name a few), I ordered the English-Hawaïian dictionary created by Mary Kawena Pukui with Samuel H. Elbert. Checking the fine print, I saw that it will arrive around Christmastime. Oops. So back to the internet I went, gravitating to what Joe Flanagan offers by way of explanation:

“…more than just a word, aloha is also a way of life. You may hear the phrase “spreading the aloha spirit.” What exactly does that mean? To answer that question, let’s break down the word into two parts.

     “The Hawaiian word “alo” means “presence” or “share” and the word “ha” means “breath of life” or “essence of life.”

     “So the word aloha is something that you experience, your interaction with life, passion, joy, something that’s present within you. But at the same time, it’s something that you share, something that is spread to those around you, sharing that energy and joy that is within you.”

By this definition, Aloha is not – or should not be – exclusive to the islands of Hawaïi. How often do we register, as our duty to humanity, this sharing of the energy, passion and joy that is within us? The degree to which we take this message seriously, that we pay forward our gratitude, share our passion and our happiness, is the degree to which we embody the spirit of Aloha. 

By this logic, we are responsible for clearing away any obstacles to this exchange of positive energy or essence, this flow of love, compassion and understanding. To me, this means leading an examined life. Tracking my footprints, taking responsibility for the effects of my thoughts and actions and their impact on our planet. It is what inspired me to write a blog for fifty-two weeks. To use any words I might possess – or learn – to convey the meaning and spirit of living Aloha. And what did I learn in the nine months I spent living on the Big Island? 

I learned to pace myself rather than rush around madly trying to tick off boxes created by my inner task master.  

I learned to plant seedlings and stay in one place long enough to see them grow. To harvest arugula and tomatoes, and find homes for an over-abundance of basil and mint, for dozens of lemons and bananas, and the Breitenbach’s surplus mangoes (with permission, of course!) Not to mention learning to compost. The results of which are finally ready, I might add, to spread on the flower beds, though some of the straw etc from those fateful Christmas wreaths look suspiciously “composed”. Aka unchanged from their wreathing days. 

I learned about the patience required to play a musical instrument and render the simplest version of “Over the Rainbow”. Badly. But I still dream of jam sessions down at the beach (or around a campfire at the bottom of the Grand Canyon – the location doesn’t matter) with far better players than me. The more the merrier. 

I learned the importance of getting in touch with what matters, what gives my life purpose and meaning — sharing what I’ve gleaned from decades of studying yoga psychology, philosophy and spirituality in workshops and classes. Daring greatly, as Brené Brown would say, to offer my innermost thoughts in a weekly blog. Which brings me to…

MAHALO

The latter portion of this week’s blog is dedicated to thanking the people who have come on this journey with me. Like Aloha, the Hawaiian word for thank-you, Mahalo has more nuances than that of expressing gratitude; it is both a noun and a verb that convey admiration, regard, respect and esteem. Praise and appreciation. 

I hold all of that and more for the people who have taught me, by walking their talk, how to be living examples of Hawaiian values and proponents of Hawaiian language and culture. Those who have created large-scale community initiatives like Mike Hodson’s (of WOW Tomatoes) Farming for the Working Class; medium-sized initiatives like Mattie Mae Larsen’s Upcycle Hawaïi; and smaller, individual efforts, like Sandy Littelfield’s “tiny houses”. 

There are so many more people with whom I have interacted, shared joy and energy and passion and empathy while living briefly on the Big Island, and many more friends and family on the mainland who equally give my life its true heart and meaning. 

Mahalo nui loa to you all, and to those who have been willing to explore, in their own quiet way, the topics I thought relevant to the theme of leading an examined life. Mere words cannot express my gratitude. 

ʻO wau nō me ka mahalo. ― Respectfully yours, Janet

“Follow your bliss and the Universe will open doors where there were only walls.” (Joseph Campbell)

It’s a beautiful, misty morning in Whistler. The deck is damp and glistening with the rain. The maple tree, only recently aglow with brilliant yellow leaves, is now etched, dark and spidery against the shifting gray skies. Occasionally the clouds part and reveal the snow-coated peaks of Armchair Glacier looming across the valley where, not long ago, I would paddle on the glassy-calm waters of Green Lake. With each rain in the valley, the snows creep lower and lower down the mountain. I remember the barely-containable excitement I felt as a teen in years when the snows came before Remembrance Day, and I’d head eagerly up to Jasper or Banff to scrape my way down the half-white, half-grass-brown mountain. That’s as close an example as I can find of following my bliss. Hmmmmm. That was also several decades ago.

What does following my bliss mean, or look like, in my seventies? I know what it doesn’t look like. Despite the appeal of Campbell’s one-liner, it plays into a pattern that is all-too-prevalent in today’s burgeoning self-help industry. The notion that catchy phrases like “Follow your own star”, and “Existence wants you to be you” etc. are the guiding lights of one’s life can lead to more confusion than clarity. Meaning, I am not the only one who is seeking purpose and meaning, who is questioning the status quo and wanting to go beyond pat prescriptions for happiness.

Another obstacle to discerning what gives my life meaning and purpose, and making my unique contribution to the world is what Eric Maisel calls “automatic thinking”. By automatic thoughts I mean words and phrases that come to mind unbidden and unrecognized. Opinions and biases that have been conditioned into my psyche before I had the power to discern their validity. These become unconscious rules to live by, and because they were imprinted from birth, become both the manual for my survival, and the dictums of my self-worth.

Because of their unconscious nature, these automatic thoughts can quash innovative ideas that percolate up from my creative lifestream before they reach my conscious, reasoning faculties. Instead they get stomped on by an over-riding, self-protective personality aspect whose purpose it is to keep me safe, boxed-in by the status quo.

How to keep these automatic thoughts from interrupting my intuitive, imaginative inner processes? I picture a cordon of “keep off the grass” signs that protect the new green shoots from wayward footsteps that might squash their progress.

I see my reflection time as that cordoned-off space in which I let my creativity run freely. And my journal serves as an easy receptacle for these ideas. Unconstrained by must-do lists and other practicalities, one can — for a time — imagine solutions and outcomes that may at first seem like escapes from reality. A graphic example of squashing my own creativity comes in the form of a mental commentator who says, “Surely you’re not going to use this topic and these thoughts for your next-to-last blog!” But experience has taught me to “hear the inner naysayer and do it anyway”.

The inner naysayer is like an old governess who wants me to toe the line of the ruling tribe. To step out of familiar, conditioned patterns of thought and behavior takes a major leap of faith. I have to trust that my education, experience, and — equally important — my sincerity have earned me the right to share my ideas with other people who may well be dealing with the same cares and concerns, or hopes and dreams. And by other people, I mean you, my loyal reader.

By this train of thought I arrive at the answer to what “following my bliss” means in my seventies. It means creating opportunities for open and honest communication. Not always profound thoughts on the meaning of life, but always a two-way stream of empathy, mutual respect and shared humanity.

It means honouring a gentle passion that has been burning, like a low but steady flame, throughout my decades of study and training. It’s simply this: I want to know what makes me tick, what makes you tick, and how, between us, we can advance our self-awareness and understanding. Build character and stamina to meet life’s challenges head-on. Not so much to become “better” people in a comparative or hierarchical sense, but better at navigating the many shifts and changes that occur over time with what transpersonal psychologist Ken Wilber calls “grace and grit”. The grace to accept the indignities of aging (such as my embarrassing episode of vomiting on the street) with a degree of equanimity; and the grit to make our lives matter, not in spite of but because of our decades of tenure on the planet.

I have tremendous respect for — and some envy towards — the youth of today. And awe at the vast array of anti-aging interventions and ameliorations now available. But I can’t help thinking I have a larger purpose than turning back the clock with lasers and Botox. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

Instead, I gravitate to “Tawanda’s” reply to the taunt: “Face it lady, we’re younger and faster!” in the film Fried Green Tomatoes:

“Face it girls, I’m older, and I have more insurance.”

“The principle thing in this life is to keep one’s soul aloft.” (Gustave Flaubert)

Before I get to the meat (or vegetable, for you vegetarians out there) of this blog (since I don’t yet know what it’s about), I wanted to correct a misapprehension that arose from my mention of moving to the North Shore. The move to which I was referring is to the North Shore of Vancouver, specifically Ambleside, in West Vancouver. Ergo the North Shore of English Bay. Not the more famous North Shore of Oahu, but one can dream of such exotic climes while sifting through the slightly less icing-sugar sands of Ambleside beach.

So, having cleared up that misunderstanding, it’s time I justified this break from the mystery boxes that need sorting in the basement. Oh. And for those of you who were alarmed by my episode of wobbly up-chucking (as was I), there are some follow-up tests to be done, but I’m more or less back to normal. I’m grateful to the lot of you for giving me an excuse to frame that unsettling day in the most productive way: an ode to the kindness of strangers.

Now on to blog #50. Yikes. I’m closing in on 52. Who wants me to continue?

Some of you may be familiar with the term “scope-creep”, which basically means that you set out to replace the old oven and before long you’re selling a kidney to pay for a new kitchen. What I have become aware of is a phenomenon I call “stuff-creep”. We had a very talented decorator come and “stage” our home so as to present it’s best face. We were not mired in clutter in the first place. But in two days our abode was reverse-transformed (devolved?) from a home to a house. Stripped of personal effects and redundant pieces of furniture, it feels like somebody else (or nobody) lives here. The decorator/stager explained that one decorates a residence to give it character and personality. When one stages a house, one takes the personality away, in order that prospective buyers can imagine moving into the “gently-used” rooms. The result now being that we can never find anything we need. We dig into the cupboards and drawers where she temporarily placed soap dishes and Q-tips and spoon rests etc. so as to actually function here again. In no time, the carefully curated counters and floor space re-accumulate the minutiae of our everyday lives. If I were to take a time-lapse photograph one could watch the “stuff-creep”, for example, into the front hall. First a couple of pair of runners would make an appearance, and gradually a phalanx of slippers, shoes, sneakers and boots would be lined up against the now bench-less wall, and then the camera might catch one of us wandering around absentmindedly, looking for someplace to sit and don the aforementioned footwear, while pondering where our coat, keys, glasses and hats have gone. Shoot me now.

This slightly over-dramatic reaction calls for a concerted mental-emotional-self-intervention. Perhaps a dip into Pema Chödrön’s Living Through Personal Crisis. Except I find that the latter was actually written by Ann Kaiser Stearns. I’ve never read it and find the title too intimidating. I’m not in personal crisis. I’m just moving from one shore to another, with the prospect of being closer to the beach and ocean that is my second home. Among other benefits. What Chödrön actually wrote is called When Things Fall Apart, but again, things aren’t falling apart. If anything, things are falling into place. (With the possible exception being my body.) We are getting things done at a hare’s pace, though perhaps the tortoise will win the race. The tortoise being the part of me that needs time, as a Buddhist friend suggested, to “Accept. Distill. Rest”. I tried to find out who to credit for that aphorism but Google only offered a host of distilleries. However, distilleries relate to spirits, so aren’t that far off, after all. (And may be what’s really called for in this case).

By this circuitous route I begin to see that, rather than jumping around like a hare pursued by the hounds of second-thoughts and self-doubts — the “stuff-creep” of my mind — I can keep my soul aloft by drawing in my senses as the tortoise draws in its limbs, and sinking beneath the agitated mental waves to a deep, calm meditative place. And simply breathe. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four…

See-you-next-week two, three, four…

“People, people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world.” (Barbra Streisand in “Funny Girl”)

On Thursday last I had a very strange experience on the way to the eye doctor’s office. Without notice I suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous and my whole body felt limp and noodle-y. I wove my way down the street like a drunken sailor (probably that comment is no longer PC) and didn’t quite make it to the doctor’s office. An ambulance was called. I spent the next twelve hours in a hallway in Emergency – always entertaining – had several jabs and scans, and went home early the next morning. Tests are ongoing but COVID has been ruled out. Could be that I’m pushing too hard to get the house up for sale (who knew how much junk we were hiding in plain sight?) and get through a slew of “COVID-deferred” appointments in order to leave for the land of Aloha. I’m determined to finish my 52nd blog in Hawaii, where it all began. (At this point I’m prepared to swim there. At last count five family members had COVID and I’m scared to step out the door.)

But more than anything, I want to focus on the kindness of the strangers who bent over my doubled-up body to see if they could help me. Fearing I had COVID, I initially shooed them away, insisting that my husband was coming to get me, but to whom, in my confusion, I twice gave the wrong address, sending him in the opposite direction. Sensing some urgency when I vomited on the street, the same kind lady who’d been waiting for him with me, called an ambulance, which seemed to take ages, or maybe it just appeared that way when the remains of my breakfast were pooling at my feet. Barely able to lift my head, I noticed the feet of a small but concerned knot of people hovering solicitously around me, rubbing my back and murmuring encouragement. Very brave, considering I could have had COVID.

The paramedics who arrived (one an earnest trainee who is going to excel in his chosen field) were equally competent and caring, asking pertinent questions or chatting amiably for the few short blocks it took to reach the hospital. Turns out the other, more experienced paramedic was a fellow ocean “dipper” who suggested good swimming spots on the North Shore after hearing I was moving there. (I know, there’s so much more to tell you. Life keeps happening while I’m making other plans!) So too, the ambulance driver went above and beyond the call of duty, hunting around the busy (an understatement) emergency department to find me a wheelchair, and eventually a bed. So moved by this compassion, I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in a state of dozy “all will be well” equanimity.

It helped that I listened to hour upon hour (upon hour) of healing mantra, relaxation and meditation recordings that distracted me from the noise and activity swirling (quite literally) around me. Towards the end of my visit, I switched to Frazier reruns, laughing to pass the time until Jim came back to ’liberate’ me. Laughter is indeed one of the best medicines.

I. Just. Can’t. Imagine. Working. Under. Those. Conditions!!!

Never has it been more apparent, or compelling that our health care system and the front-line workers in it are under tremendous, soul-crushing pressure. I do not have any easy answers to the bigger issues behind the scenes that unfolded before me in Emergency. But I know what eased my anxiety. The kindness of doctors, nurses, orderlies and strangers on the street. The simple act of asking if I wanted a warm blanket (I eventually accumulated enough to remake an inverse of the Princess and the Pea) was appreciated like water in the desert. As was the offer of actual water after hours spent wilting away in a corridor.

I wish there was a way I could personally thank all these hardworking people for their support and caring and expertise. When I described the incident to a friend, she said it restored her faith in humanity. As it did mine. Upon reflection, I realize that my best contribution may well be to pay it forward. Repay my debt of gratitude with random acts of kindness. Be present and attentive to whomever, or wherever, I see a need.

P.S. As if to drive home this theme of the kindness of others, one ill grandson’s hockey team dropped off a care package of treats for him and his siblings; a grand-daughter missed a “stuffy-themed” (as in stuffed animals) birthday party so the hosts included her via Zoom; and muffins were dropped off to yet another self-isolating family. Random acts of kindness all. Bringing into high relief the importance of community, of looking out for neighbors and strangers, and leaving the world just a little bit better by your individual efforts.

And a reminder to always carry water and a couple of snacks in one’s backpack or purse for Emergency ’room’ purposes.

Oh. And get a COVID booster ASAP.

Éviter les contrefaçons (Avoid fakes)

In aid of making a major move (more on that later) I spent some time sorting through the long-neglected items in our basement storeroom, which is to say our entire basement. In so doing, I came across one of our middle son’s paintings from grade school that was lovingly kept, along with a large box of comics that he and his brothers had collected from the shop beside Sophie’S Cosmic Cafe (at the time our family’s favorite dining place) and other such precious childhood mementos as a parent is wont to save. Needless to say, the painting was no Monet. But, fast forward to today, and our middle son has made a name for himself as a shame educator, blazing his own trail as boldly as the legacy of my favorite painter, and founder of the artistic movement known as Impressionism, Claude Monet.

One of the reasons Monet’s works remain universally popular is the remarkable visual depth of his paintings. What few people know is that, while he often applied opaque colors straight from the tube to his canvases, he achieved an incredible depth of field by also applying multiple washes, thin layers of very dilute colors that the eye/brain will register unconsciously, and almost literally dive into the scene. It is a long and laborious process for which few artists today would have the patience. Which is why, even to the amateur eye, one can usually discern an original Monet from a fake.

As the remarkable works of art that all human beings are, we too consist of multiple layers, facets and attributes which make us, on one level at least, the unique characters that we are. But to identify with our uniqueness is to fall prey to an illusion of separateness; we often fail to perceive just how much we have in common with others, and our surroundings. One of the greatest obstacles to recognizing our common bond is what Eastern yogic philosophy calls Maya.

Maya, or illusion, is a very tricky thing. Think of it as a film, indeed several rapidly shifting films, being projected on a blank wall or screen. It’s easy to imagine getting so engrossed in the images on the screen that one does not remember the blank wall upon which the films are projected. Only when the projector is turned off are we once again aware of the backdrop on which all of these impressions fall. Suppose we don’t like what we see on the screen? Are we aware that we can turn the projector off, and voluntarily restore the expansive space that is our true nature, our consciousness?

Knowing that we can indeed turn off the projector is a first step in regaining control of our thoughts, our illusions, and the course of our lives. Without knowing it, we colour, filter, distort, and label what is right in front of us. Needless to say, we are not really seeing ‘what is’. We are seeing a combination of what is there, and what we filter out or fill in with our repeated thoughts and conditioned beliefs. The sum total of which can be attributed to our false self, or ego. Our egos, with their opinions about good and bad, right and wrong, desirable and undesirable (and our attempts to attract or avoid the latter) become the arbiter of our experience.

“Ego is, in a sense, a false thing, but it isn’t necessarily bad. You have to start with ego, and use ego, and from there it gradually wears out, like a pair of shoes. But you have to use it and wear it out thoroughly, so it is not preserved. (Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, Meditation in Action).

Trungpa explains:

“The clarity of our consciousness is veiled by prefabricated concepts, and whatever we see we try to fit into some pigeonhole, or in some way make it fit in with our preconceived ideas. So concepts and theories—and, for that matter, theology—can become obstacles”. (Ibid)

According to Trungpa, the way to transcend these obstacles to our clarity of consciousness is through some form of meditation, some form of stepping away from the program or storyline our egos have created. While there are many other credible methods, the practice that most appeals to me is Trungpa’s basic form of meditation: cultivating awareness, or simply trying to see — and connect with — what is. The basic pattern of this kind of meditation, which Trungpa calls Vipassana or insight meditation, is built on three fundamental factors:

“First, not centralizing inwards; second, not having any longing to become higher [or other that what you essentially are], and third, becoming completely identified with here and now.”

This does not require the arduous efforts at purifying or perfecting myself that some books and teachers advocate, and which are no doubt laudable, in their own way. If anything, I am advised to examine — one by one — my concepts and ideas and, if not discard them entirely, then see them as part of the content of the movie that I have historically identified as “me”. I am encouraged to undergo a process of asking myself which of my cherished beliefs are real, and which are false, supplied by my ego to help survive the scrum of daily life. In order to do this Trungpa advocates beginning with the same breathing technique that I have found useful for calming myself and letting go of charged emotions. Simply focusing for a few minutes on the breath, inhaling to an easy count of three or four, and exhaling in the same way, allows the distractions and feelings of the moment to drift quietly away, Trungpa’s wearing out of the ego.

From this space of egolessness, however temporarily, I can track my footprints in my journal, and be my own devil’s — or divine — advocate. Through a consistent dialogue with myself I can better see what, under honest scrutiny, rings true. Or false, as the case may be. Only I can assess if my thoughts and speech, words and deeds are authentic to me, and congruent with the ideals I seek to embody. The results of this self examination can be revealing, indeed. As Lao Tzu said: “Knowing others is wisdom. Knowing yourself is Enlightenment.”

Or, as the French might say: “L’habit ne fait pas le moine”: The vestment does not make the monk. Or yogini.

“However confused and disorganized life may seem to those who believe themselves to be adrift on a sea of contradictions and chaos, it is always possible to find clarity and order for those who believe life to be basically meaningful. The existential position is neither that of belief in chaos nor that of belief in order. It is that of belief in people’s ability to create meaning and order, in spite of seeming chaos and absurdity.” (From Existential Counseling and Psychotherapy in Practice by Emmy Van Deurzen)

From my vantage point overlooking the British Columbia Parliament buildings, I can hear the muffled music (a thudding drumbeat that’s making me mildly anxious) and the crowd noises emanating from Ryder Hesjedal’s 10th annual Tour de Victoria. Competing with the voice of the announcer’s loudspeakers, a soap-box orator is ranting about Canada being a free country, versus Nazi Germany, and being variously cheered and jeered by some of the countless bikers and onlookers gathered on the closed-off Government Street, dotted with the white and red tents that pinpoint the start and finish of the event. All very exciting. I am beyond relieved to be a few hundred feet away from the fray, blogging as calmly as one can while hearing the frenetic strains of some heavy metal rock band or sound track. 

Egads! I’m showing my age!  

At first glance, the scene unfolding before me strongly resembles the “sea of contradiction and chaos” of which Van Duerzen is writing. But for those participating (or orating), this event could well be the culmination of months of planning, discipline and training. Not to mention the outstanding conviction of officials, volunteers, police and others who made Hesjedal’s charity event a roaring success. Which is why I gravitate to what Van Duerzen has to say about existentialism: so long as I find meaning and purpose in doing what I do, I can let others be and do whatever they choose, (within reason, of course, and within the letter of the law). Though I have only the most superficial knowledge of existentialism, what I do know rings very close to what I know of Sakti Yoga philosophy, especially as it has been distilled through the teachings of Swami Sivananda Radha. In her introduction to Kundalini Yoga for the West, Swami Radha writes: 

“The complexity of life has become such that one becomes either panicky or lethargic. In the latter case, the attitude of “It doesn’t matter anyway” may act as a key sentence in the mind and, through its unaware repetition, may achieve an almost hypnotic effect. Once settled in the mind, it is kept alive by emotions that can be both desperate and depressive.”

She follows this with the antidote to the feeling of being caught in Van Deurzen’s world of “seeming chaos and absurdity”:

“The sense of the inner self, of that knowing from within, is the only secure foundation on which to build one’s life.” 

I agree. How much better to consult one’s inner guru, one’s moral compass, as it were, than to be ruled by the faceless masses? I suspect that the man currently offering his political views at full volume believes that his cause has meaning and value. The hundreds of road-bikers who trained, travelled to and rode in the Tour, and all those who supported them no doubt assigned value to their efforts, whether consciously or otherwise. As well they should. The man or woman on the street, going about their daily rounds, have chosen, to the best of their ability, the route and reason for what they’re aiming to do. 

Yoga — and Existentail Therapy, I am learning — seek to increase an individual’s awareness of his or her options and choices, and encourage one to take a degree of responsibility for their actions and circumstances. To assign meaning to their own unique lives, and act according to the integrity of their beliefs. Swami Radha would call this “cooperating with the evolution of consciousness.” Such has been, if not my rallying cry (I’ll leave that to the loudspeakers), then a means of justifying my own existence as I bob around in that seemingly chaotic sea. 

Thomas Merton chimes in on this topic when he writes: “The constant din of empty words and machine noises, the endless booming of loudspeakers end by making true communication and true communion almost impossible.” (New Seeds of Contemplation). Again, his antidote is simple: communion, in the sense of meaningful dialogue “is absolutely necessary if one is to remain human.” I would add that meaningful dialogue with oneself is equally essential. Using myself as my own laboratory, doing “experiments with truth” as Gandhi would say, is the best way to assess whether my thoughts and feelings congrue with my words and deeds. 

It has to be acknowledged here that I am among the privileged few who has time, as some would say, to stare at my navel. I include you among the privileged few who have the leisure (and I hope, inclination) to read the blog that comes of it. The point is, those of us who have access to the opportunities that fate, birth, happenstance (or our own best efforts) have opened up for us, still have a need to discern which among these have individual heart and meaning. Which agree with our temperaments and predilections. Our morals and ethics. Existential therapist and author Eric Maisel exhorts one to “make explicit the relationship you want to have with life”. At the start of the day I have to decide, from among the myriad options around me, what I will pursue. What I will see through to completion. So that, at the end of the day, I can say — with Swami Radha — that “living is a particular art, and I have made the best of it.”

Which at this point means making the best of the chocolate peanut butter cup with which I intend to reward my efforts with existentialism. Or maybe some potato chips? Pistachios? Choices. Choices. Choices…

“I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart, and passing over all the foolish, weak things that you can’t help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.” (”Ich liebe Dich” by Erich Fried)

There is, temporarily at least, an awesome spider web suspended across our livingroom window — glinting rainbows suspended on silvery threads that stir ever so slightly in the morning breeze. Not having seen its construction, I’m puzzled by two messy-looking segments directly above and below each other. Unlike the uncannily precise lines radiating around the rest of the web, one segment in particular has threads that crisscross each other like untidy shoe-laces. This, in turn, reminds me of last week’s blog that I concluded with: “Only Connect”.

Since writing that piece I had something of an epiphany. I had been thinking in terms of connections between people, and how one needs to weave a web of friendships that help withstand the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”. But subsequent readings and reflections revealed that the single most important connection I can have is with my innermost self. My inner guru, as it were.

Because I was experiencing a peculiar sense of disorientation and upheaval (read: pervasive anxiety) during a hectic trip to Vancouver, I undertook to center myself with readings on equanimity in Sharon Salzberg’s Lovingkindness. The following reminded me of navigating the city:

“Most of the time, our hearts and minds respond to the ten thousand joys and ten thousand sorrows by careening back and forth, over and over again, between elation and despair, the violent movement for and against what our experience is. Or we respond with denial in its many manifestations: indifference, repression, not noticing, muffled anxiety, feeling disconnected.” (italics mine)

Salzberg observes that this “violent movement for and against” our experience arises from a need to control the uncontrollable, and offers a consolation, of sorts, in the humble acceptance of “what is”:

“As we begin to understand this, we move from a mode of struggling to control what comes into our lives into a mode of simply wishing to truly connect with what is. This is a radical shift in worldview.”

My radical shift in world view was liberating. While in the city I witnessed so many instances of suffering that, at first, I couldn’t wait to escape to the solitude of the mountains. But my inner guru realized that, rather than an escape, what I needed was a way to embrace events unfolding around me, unflinchingly, as in Emily Bronte’s “No coward soul is mine.”

No coward soul herself, Salzberg continues: “When we become willing to experience everything, the confidence and certainty we once sought by denying change we can find by embracing it. We learn to relate to life fully, including the insecurity.”

I was reminded of one astonishing way to embrace insecurity when I re-joined an eclectic group of ocean-swimmers dubbed the “Jericho Dolphins”, for their Saturday morning swim. Water temperature 14C degrees. The only criteria for inclusion in the group, as far as I could tell, was the willingness (some would say foolhardiness) to expose oneself to the elements with a daily — as in year-round — ocean swim. While I wore an entirely inadequate 1.5mm wetsuit top, (I left my flippers at home, deeming them “uncool”) I observed the only concession a few swimmers made for the frigid temperature was some neoprene bathing caps that I sincerely wished I had on hand.

But these are not fool-hardy people. Very accomplished in their various fields, they bring not only a wealth of education and training, (in Cold Water Immersion, among other things) but something equally valuable to an ordinary layperson: the compassion, empathy, sympathetic joy and equanimity that Fried is describing in his poem. Each in their own time and way has shared their hopes and disappointments, challenges and victories, joys and sorrows, and all have found healing in that vast, impartial ocean. And in the support and camaraderie of an exceptional pod of “dolphins”.

On this particular morning, I too experienced that healing power. With one patient swimmer holding back to accompany me, I fell far behind the others. Through blurry goggles I could pick out their fluorescent Swim Buddies (inflatable buoys that alert boats etc. to their presence) as they rounded a small barge in the near distance. My heart sank when they looped back towards me, only to head for another ’goalpost’ in the form of a blue boat, with talk of further markers beyond that. An inner voice warned me that I was figuratively (if not soon literally) in over my head, so I called out to the others that I needed to turn back for shore. The ocean swallowed up my voice, so I hesitated in a limbo of not knowing which way to go. Then, as in an actual pod of dolphins, a swimmer looped back to check on me. Giving me her Swim Buddy, she accompanied me right to the beach, then waited (like Flipper, I imagine) until I’d walked steadily back to the club, and then swam effortlessly off to join the others.

Later, in the hot tub and locker room, there were friendly ’debriefings’, including the messy bits of our lives, like the wonky segments of the spider web. And some good-natured teasing, about my “accessorizing” with a half-wetsuit, among other things. Even some tough love: “it’ll be what it’ll be” one swimmer sagely, but kindly, commented when I’d shared a particular problem.

In sum, I went home with a renewed sense of capability, of having done the thing, as Eleanor Roosevelt would say, that I thought I couldn’t do. Along with renewed determination to embrace the changes, unknowns and opportunities ahead of me.

And equally determined to get myself a fancy 4/3mm wetsuit and Swim Buddy before I ever take that particular plunge again!

“The world is too much with us, late and soon…” William Wordsworth

Getting around the city of Vancouver now freaks me out. It didn’t use to. Of course, it doesn’t help that my eyesight has declined dramatically since last I drove anything but a golf cart. (And no, I don’t actually golf). Thankfully, I do have glasses, so they’ll have to do until cataract surgery comes to the rescue. But really, cataract surgery? What is my world coming to?

The fact remains that, after so many months huddled away in safe, (aka small, out-of-the-way) places, the task of navigating the “new normal” in the city where I’ve lived for thirty plus years is daunting. Nightmarishly so. The unfamiliarity of even regular haunts has shaken my confidence greatly. A simple visit to a go-to restaurant requires us to mask up, provide proof of vaccines, a picture ID, and then dine in a plexiglass cubby that reminds me of the carrels at Cameron Library back at university. Of course it becomes routine after the first couple of days (or weeks, in my case), but a part of me rebels at the idea that this is now what passes for routine. Where’s the fun in it?

Places that already intimidate me — medical and dental clinics, hospitals, labyrinthine parking lots, are made more so by the new protocols. One has to wind one’s way around stanchions (a word I’ve just learned) like those at an airport; follow the yellow arrows marked “in” for one door and “out” for another; sit or stand on this spot and not on that; sanitize hands; get temperature checked; don designated masks. Yesterday at the doctors’ office the greeter? gate-keeper? instructed me to throw out my mask and replace it with a strikingly similar one of hers. Seriously?

After my appointment, in a streak of rebellion, I ’followed’ the arrows backwards and triumphantly walked out the “in” doors to where my hubby was waiting in the car. Nobody came after me. There was nobody within fifty feet. It felt like I’d successfully robbed a bank. Simple pleasures. Aside from this small victory though, I find it hard to see any humour in what passes for daily interactions. But life is rife with absurdity.

After meticulously following the numerous instructions necessary to get a coffee at the corner café, we wandered outside to sit at a table that hadn’t been wiped since Joe Who was prime minister. There was, however, a charming centerpiece — a bottle of hand sanitizer. Guess it’s a “clean-your-own-table” kinda place. And then, after running the gauntlet to visit the doctor’s office I head out into a street blocked by a mob of shouting, sign-toting anti-vaxx-anti-masking-ex-essential-health-care workers defending their right to spread — if not COVID variants C,D and E, then a vitriolic chorus of “THIS IS NOT THE LAND OF THE FREE!” or some such rhetoric. Join the club.

But that’s not the topic of this blog. I just got sidetracked – as the ancient Greeks would say – on my way to the Agora. Actually the expression goes “a funny thing happened on my way to the Agora”, but, as I said earlier, I fail to see the humour in the forty-eight hours I spent in the city. So instead, what struck me as an important theme is a strategy for putting the “hum” back in the “drum” of redundant daily activities. If Martha Stewart can establish an empire out of domestic drudgery, I think I should be able to leaven the heck out of vaccination passports that somehow can’t be had, despite dutifully having gotten vaxxed. And when was “vaxxed” even a word? My nemesis, aka spellcheck, didn’t bat a digital eye at it.

In sum, I think I’m having an existential crisis. As with all of COVID-19, I have to admit that I also didn’t see this coming. I cooked and baked my way to fifteen extra pounds while sheltering-at-home for the first blurry months of the pandemic. I hobby-gardened, played ukelele (badly), took virtual classes, zoom-talked, taught yoga and blogged (but drew the line at getting a dog). And as I said, I got vaxxed. And I thought that would be that. We’d all learn something positive to take away from this weird blip in human history and then we’d GET ON WITH IT, ALREADY.

So I started reading about existential crises and came up with a quote from philosopher Blaise Pascal:

“All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”

I don’t know where to go with that. I don’t know anyone who has spent more time in a room alone than everyone-I-know has this past year and a half. However, I found a faint beam of light in the following comment by Thomas Ligotti: “Without meaning-charged emotions keeping your brain on the straight and narrow, you would lose your balance and fall into an abyss of lucidity.”

I’m not entirely sure what he means by this, but it points to a significant component of the human experience: meaning-making. Every thinking human being has got to find reasons to get up in the morning. Reasons, or meaning, for why we do what we do. And these reasons need enough emotional investment to power us through the actual doing. I went swimming this morning because I know the exercise calms and clears my mind. I took a chai tea and housewarming gift to an ailing friend because it made us both feel better; I cooked a healthy dinner, and shared half of it with my neighbor because I could relate to her uber-busy day. I posted a photo on WhatsApp and enjoyed a lively chat about recipes, as much for the connectivity as for ideas of what to eat. And now I’m blogging a kind of message-in-a-bottle to anyone who, like me, needs people. Needs relationships that give life heart and meaning. And to whom one can reach out after a couple of hairy, new-normal days in the big city. Sorry Mr. Pascal; I disagree. Sitting quietly alone in a room ain’t for me.

Which leads me to conclude this blog with the epigram of E.M. Forster’s Howard’s End:

                 “Only Connect”. 

Please do. Me to me. You to you. You to me and me to you. And lots of other people, too. We’re counting on you.