A yogini at large

“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.

“Sometimes life guides us and sometimes we take life by the horns. But one thing is for sure, no matter how well organized we are, or how well we plan, we can always expect the unexpected.” (Brandon Jenner)

The other morning I watched a squirrel dangling head down from a branch of the fir tree outside my window, adeptly dislodging cones that made a loud plonk on the metal roof of the shed below before bouncing to the ground, from whence this industrious rodent could properly deconstruct them and “squirrel” their seeds (pun intended) away for the winter. Meanwhile, from the comfort of my bed, I wanted nothing to do with the coming colder months.

Witnessing this squirrel’s intensity of purpose prompted me to consider how proactive I am about preparing for what lies ahead, on so many levels. While I wasn’t exactly a ’dab hand’ at earning Brownie badges, I seem to have adopted their motto: “Be Prepared” to a fault. “Be Prepared” as in imagining the worst case scenarios and making contingency plans for the latter. (If not also creating self-fulfilling prophesies.)

In practical terms that translates, for example, to having everything from bandaids to antihistamines to two pair of goggles, a couple of bathing caps, a tube of defogger, a UV shirt, a ball cap and perhaps roll-up visor, at least two pair of sunglasses — for bright and dull light — and for the past nineteen months, a couple of masks that get coated with sand and sunscreen, oh, yes, a tube of sunscreen or two in my beach bag, in addition to a separate bag holding my flippers and snorkel gear, and perhaps a 1.5 ml wetsuit top, hood and gloves, depending on the time of year. Oh. And also a change of clothes in case I emerge from the pool, lake, or ocean feeling cold.

All this preparation prompted one of my swim buddies to recommend I hire a gear sherpa, a caddie who could hand me the right piece of gear to help get myself in-and-out of the water expediently. (She also couldn’t resist pointing out that, despite these contingency plans, I never seem to have a swim cap that stays on, or swim goggles that don’t leak or fog.) I was crushed. To think of it — I’ll never get a latent Browie badge for swim-preparedness, despite my best efforts. This being the case, what does it say about how prepared I am for the changes brought on by my current age and stage. The winter, as it were, of my life?

Some of you, dear readers, may be slightly ahead, or behind me on this aging trajectory, (or not even in the same ballpark, in which case you can stop reading) and you may have varying degrees of command over your faculties, but ultimately all of us are confronted with our mortality. Autumn presents me with this reality more so than even my birthdays, because it coincides with other endings that I lament keenly. The carefree days of summer fun with children, and now grandchildren, segue into school schedules, homework-that’s-way-above-my-pay-grade, and a plethora of extracurricular activities. Aka less and less time to spare for me! You’d think I’d be past all that by the time I was seventy. And I am. To a large degree. But as a veteran mother and now grandmother, my mental calendar-keeper is still traumatized by September. Also June and December. Like my bushy-tailed neighbor, aka squirrel, if you just tuned in, I get a little frantic about planning for the coming winter ’famine’.

But I see a message in the glorious yellow maple leaves falling languidly to the ground, across the deck from me. The tree cannot resist this annual shedding of its finery any more than I can resist the inevitable decline in my memory, reflexes and energy. The clouds drifting across the robin’s-egg-blue sky cannot resist the motion of the wind. Or the mountains resist the coming coating of snow.

But there is one advantage that I have, which is to exercise my power of choice. The capacity to choose my attitude to whatever is happening. Accept “what is” and perhaps recruit my imagination to make the changes as positive as possible.

I can lament summer’s end, or embrace “soup and sweater” weather. I seldom crave a hearty stew any time from June to September, but nothing whets my appetite better than a slow-cooked beef daube on a rainy weekend in November. Just as the seasons of the calendar bring with them certain welcome pleasures, so too there are seasons of my life that offer both consolation (for my figurative loss of leaves), and hint at new discoveries just out of reach. Unexpected encounters, adventures, invitations and ideas that might come into my life at any time. The kinds of changes that I would welcome, instead of hiding under the covers from.

So for the time being, I’ve revised my “be prepared” motto to “expect the unexpected”. A variation of “plan for the worst and hope for the best”, only without devoting too much time to the planning and instead investing energy in best-case scenarios. Or simply believing, as in the old Beatles hit ”Let It Be”…“There will be an answer, let it be-ee.”

P.S. I almost dropped a very loud F-bomb when the third unsolicited political-candidate-call interrupted the writing of this blog on ’expecting the unexpected’. Oh, the irony…

E’onipa’a…i ka ’imi na’auao (Queen Lili’uokalani)
“Be steadfast in the seeking of knowledge.”

The other day, September 2nd, marked the birthday of the last (and only female) reigning monarch of Hawaïi, Queen Lili’uokalani. This tidbit was posted on Instagram by Kona Bike Works, and my hubby helpfully sent notice of it to me, thinking I might find her, and her motto, an interesting topic for this week’s blog. After some research into her life and works, I felt inspired to do justice to a Queen who has, in the West, become little more than a footnote, or Instagram post, in Hawaïian history. Not so for present-day Hawaiians. With a little investigation I came to realize that the Western translation of Lili’uokalani’s motto, that of being steadfast in the pursuit of knowledge, does not do credit to the broader meanings embedded in her message. Or their continuing relevance to the people of Hawaïi.

For one thing, her motto was penned at a time of great personal duress: after only two years on the throne, Lili’uokalani was forced to abdicate her queendom and country to the unilateral — and some would say illegal — annexation of the Hawaïian islands by the United States. When certain Hawaiians raised an insurrection, the Queen was convicted of treason and sentenced to five years of hard labor in prison. This was soon commuted to nearly a year of house arrest. Still, it was a dramatic fall from grace, by any standards. 

This is not the place to comment on those historic events, but I was fascinated to learn how Lili’uokalani persisted in a quest to recover her sovereignty, and how, even under such adverse circumstances, she led a productive, purposeful life that left a lasting legacy for the people of Hawaïi. She wrote a great number of songs and poems, notably “Aloha ’Oe” or “Farewell to Thee”, which has become a common cultural symbol, and authored an autobiography Hawaïi’s Story by Hawaïi’s Queen. 

Written during her imprisonment, the book documents the course of events that led to her overthrow, and, together with Aloha ‘Oe, has become an unofficial rallying cry of the current sovereignty movement in Hawaïi. Among other things, her efforts contributed — in part — to a posthumous apology from the U.S. government. In the 1993 Apology Resolution, it was acknowledged that “the native Hawaïian people never directly relinquished to the United States their claims to their inherent sovereignty as a people over their national lands…” (Wikipedia). 

What is significant to me about all of this is the message of conviction and persistence that is embedded in Lili’uokalani’s songs and letters, and especially in her motto: “E’onipa’a…i ka ’imi na’auao.” To better understand her message, I was compelled to delve more deeply into the actual language the Queen used to express her views:

“Onipaʻa” is a combination of “oni”, or “to shift”, and “pa’a”, which means “to set solid”. Literally translated, then, onipa’a means “fixed movement”. Seemingly an oxymoron, this concept was explained metaphorically by one Hawaiian source as the seaweed that clings firmly to the rocks below, and yet sways to and fro with the current’s ebb and flow. It could be interpreted as Lili’uokalani’s steadfast belief in the rightness of her cause, as well as her resilience to ride out the era’s shifting political currents. In sum, she had the courage of her convictions, but was also willing to listen and learn, which is a skill-set which we could all use, and which relates to the latter half of her motto: “’Imi na’auao”. 

According to one description: “‘Imi na’auao’ means to seek enlightenment, wisdom and education. The quest for knowledge and enlightenment is an essential factor to get you where you want to go and reach your goals!” (Sep. 14, 2011, Jon Kimoto – KS Blogs). 

Hence the oversimplified translation of Lili’uokalani’s motto might expand the “search for knowledge” to include a “quest for enlightenment, wisdom and education” which, again, are values one might well embrace. 

I may be guilty of cultural appropriation, but to me a broader view of Queen Lili’uokalani’s motto might read: “be grounded in one’s core beliefs and values, yet remain open to new information and interpretation, in the pursuit of enlightenment, wisdom and understanding”. And, I might add, “with an openness to other ways of knowing”. I have always been drawn to investigate the complexities of the Hawaiian culture and language, to explore the deeper meanings embedded in simple expressions like “aloha ’oe”, “onipa’a”, and “’imi na’auao”. These deeper meanings point to Indigenous ways of relating to the world within and around them, so that an understanding of the latter might inform my Western-oriented education, and expand my POV. 

Author Lilian “Na’ia” Alessa addresses the dichotomy between Western, scientific ways of knowing, and the traditional, intuitive wisdom of Indigenous cultures: “Western science and Indigenous worldviews are often seen as incompatible, with the Indigenous view usually being far less valued by society at large. But an inside look at Indigenous ways of knowing shows that they offer unique and dependable insights, in precisely the areas where Western science is often weakest.”  

She continues: “Western science excels at unraveling the unseen — our medical technology a testament to this precision — while traditional knowledge reveals the dynamics of larger systems, particularly animals, plants, and habitats, and the wisdom of our place among them.”

It comes as no surprise to me that my Western education was lacking in some key ingredients. After several years of studying Western psychology, I noted that the latter made no mention of a soul journey, or the evolution of consciousness, which is why I long ago gravitated to Eastern psychology, philosophy and spirituality. Though not conclusive in the way that scientific experiments and results can (usually) be universally replicated, the Eastern approaches to the mysteries of our existence point to an inward journey, and to being one’s own laboratory. Not to do so risks living according to our instincts, or cultural conditioning. Neither of which lead to anything but a caricature of ourselves, a weak intimation of what we have the potential to be.  I’d rather embrace Queen Lili’uokalani’s philosophy, in hopes that my legacy will inspire and motivate people to remain steadfast in their search for enlightenment, and reclaim sovereignty over their own “life territory”. 

P.S. I was going to reward myself with a chocolate peanut butter cup when this blog was done, but I ate it half way through. Maybe even closer to the beginning…

“Don’t sweat the small stuff. And it’s all small stuff.” (Richard Carlson)

Years ago, a mother’s helper taught our grandchildren a game called “Rose; Thorn; Bud”. (She also taught them how to do the “Fork Wave”, but I’ll save that for another day.) The “rose” represents something you want to savour about your day. The “bud” represents something you learned, and the “thorn” stands for something that you would prefer not to have happened. I like to think of the thorn as something that made me dig a little deeper, as actual thorns or slivers often do, perhaps to discover a bud — aka learn something — if not find a silver (or rose-y) lining.

On family holidays we often play this game at the dinner table — with everyone participating — which gives us all a snapshot of each other’s day. Occasionally during the day I’d overhear one of the grandchildren say: “This is my rose.. “(thorn, or bud, depending on what’s happening in the moment) as if to remind themselves of what they would later share at the table.

I thought of that game earlier today, on a boat ride with a few somewhat overactive grandchildren. To put it mildly. The word “thorn” came to mind as I witnessed their juvenile antics, (also “wine”, “beer” and “Prozac”) so that, as soon as we docked, I promptly drove home to collect my thoughts and write about not sweating (I typo-ed “swearing”) the small stuff!

But at the same time, I was reminded of a comment my eldest grand-daughter made when I asked her to suggest a topic for this week’s blog. She had just seen a film in which the protagonist was re-living the same day over and over again (surprisingly, it wasn’t Groundhog Day — one of my favorites) until he or she learned to appreciate the small things in life. Her suggestion was to write about paying better attention to the small things. Coming from a fifteen-year-old who lives with some of those excitable tykes, this struck me as the perfect occasion to take her advice. There was so much more to savor on that boat ride besides the clamour of four boisterous youngsters.

The choppy ripples of the sage-green lake spangled with sunshine too bright for my eyes. The extravagant plume of water spraying up behind a speeding jet-ski. A cloudless French-blue sky crisscrossed with helicopters and float plane traffic. The undulating fringe of evergreen trees skirting the gray shale and dirty snow of Armchair glacier. Even the gassy smell of exhaust as we slowed the boat through the no-wake zone was redolent of so many summer days spent on or by the lake, any lake. Soaking in all these sights and sounds; alternately feeling the stiff breeze on the water and the still heat of the dock; enjoying all the sensations that will fade in a couple of months; accepting all the pluses and minuses of a well-spent summer.

In no time I had forgotten the irritations of the boat ride and was plunging into preparations for a big family dinner. Something I take great satisfaction in, despite the chaotic way it is consumed at the table. The advice to appreciate the small things compelled me to pay closer attention to the dinner setting; a centerpiece of pedestal candles alternating with random bits of greenery from the garden, arranged in an odd assortment of small vases, made the table eccentrically festive.

The important priority, as it has always been, was gathering and “breaking bread” with the family. A second priority has run parallel with the first, and is that of tracking my footprints in what I call leading an examined life. In fact, the point of the latter has been to better relate with the former. To lead by example. To establish a spiritual practice and gather tools like the rose-thorn-bud game, that better enable me to deal with the everyday challenges of life in family and community.

With respect, then, for family and community, it behooves me to set standards and expectations about how I want to behave, decide what kind of person I want to be, what sort of legacy I want to leave. More often than not, it is in the small things that I most practice what I preach. Because, as Richard Carlson would say, most of my time is taken up with the small stuff. But that small stuff gradually adds up to a sort of living legacy, one that will testify to the integrity of my beliefs.

In a book called “What Does It Mean to be Human” (Franck, Roze, Connolly), Arthur Lang, a noted sociologist and author, shares his belief in leading an examined life: “To live is to write one’s credo, every day, in every act. I pray for a world that offers us each the gift of reflective space, the Sabbath quiet, to recollect the fragments of our days and acts. In these recollections we may see a little of how our lives affect others and then imagine, in the days ahead, how we might do small and specific acts that create a world we believe every person has a right to deserve.”

After all, to quote from the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, “Everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not all right, it’s not yet the end.”

(Except in this case, which is the end of this blog on not sweating, but actually savoring the small things…)