The view from my bedroom at the Ashram.
Two years ago at Yasodhara Ashram in the Kootenay Mountains of Western Canada I had the perfect Christmas. A walk alone on the beach followed by a beautiful brunch with my good friends, a gift exchange, helping cook Christmas dinner and then after dinner time alone reading books. It was the perfect balance of time alone, time in nature and time with people I loved.
Continue reading “Can Christmas Day be perfect when you’re quarantined sick in bed?”
Ahhh! It’s so terrifying to post this on the internet. But it is the truth.
I am writing a book!
This all came about because, as many of you know, for two years I wrote a 108 poems in the fall to raise money for the Young Adult Program at Yasodhara Ashram, which means I have over 200 poems written on all different kinds of topics.
Three years ago, my boyfriend of 4.5 months broke up with me. And so it was a process of untangling our lives and letting go.
After a couple of weeks of not talking to him and crying a lot, the crying stopped and I slipped back into talking, texting with him.
A lot.
Last night I landed on my head at a dance class. I can’t quite remember what happened, but my hands weren’t free and I landed with a clunk, on my head.
Drama – the part of me that freaks out. What did I do wrong?? What can I do to make sure this never ever ever ever ever ever happens again? Was I being too bold? Too adventurous? Was I gunning for the spotlight? Too full of myself?
Facts – my neck is slightly sore. My mom, who is in from out of town, and is both a physiotherapist and a body worker, treated me this afternoon. After that I felt better.
Facts – nothing is broken. My body will heal. I have a small pain in my neck.
Drama – “How could you get injured?!” “How could you be so mortal?!” “How could you make such a fucking stupid mistake?!”
Facts – Get over yourself and get over the minor inconvenience of a small pain in the neck.
Landing on my head could have been serious, but luckily, this time, it wasn’t.
And I can see how the DRAMA runs into my life.
Often, if I’ve emailed or texted a friend and haven’t heard a response my immediate reaction is, “She hates me.” Along with a fictitious but believable enough storyline about why.
And finally – I am learning to say – enough with it. Get over your grand and polarizing speeches with the statements of never again shall I get hurt in that stupid way by enacting these thirteen pieces of personal preventative legislation. Enough with your dramatic interpretation of simple situations and the need for epic confrontations with family and friends to “get to the bottom of it.” Enough with it.
Life is simple and life is short. I have the choice of whether to be kind, or not, in each moment. And this kindness can extend to myself, to understanding that I do also make mistakes and that is okay,
Or not.
This is my choice.
I tell my sister that she should tell her story, write it out and then post it on her Facebook wall and yet I’m terrified to tell mine.
I don’t want to tell anyone. I want to keep it quiet, close to my heart. I want to pretend that I don’t make mistakes, that I always acknowledge my privilege, that I’m perfect. I want silence.
I ran a workshop for a group of LGBTQ newcomers a couple of weeks ago on criminal law. I was the organizer, the facilitator and the panel moderator. I recruited the volunteers, set the agenda, chose the scenarios we would use.
And then after the workshop I got some feedback that one of my volunteers felt oppressed, that I didn’t do my job as the panel moderator in balancing which voices were heard and that several components of the workshop were disempowering for participants instead of being empowering.
And I said I was fine after I read it but part of me went into a spiral. I can’t do my job, I’m not good at my job, I’m actually just perpetuating the cycles of oppression that I thought I was trying to stop, I’m a bad person, I don’t deserve the good that I have in my life. And these voices felt like they were strangling me.
black. sticky. strangling.
But I told myself I was fine and that I didn’t need to tell anyone, that I had come so far that I was beyond needing to tell others, or that they wouldn’t understand anyways. Any and every story to convince me to keep silent.
But I’m not above shame. And just because I lived at an ashram for two years doesn’t mean that now I’ve worked everything out and that I can fight all my battles on my own. I still need help, I still need people to listen to my story, I still need empathy.
I am not invincible and I’m far from perfect. I am trying so hard to create experiences that are empowering for participants and sometimes I fail. This time – I made multiple mistakes. But that doesn’t mean that I give up and stop trying at all.
And so I am scared that I will fail again, but I am trying to learn from my mistakes and create something better. I am trying to be brave and not listen to these voices that tell me to crawl into a hole and never to come out again. And I am trying to move out of silence and through the shame.
I was reading the comments on one of Sufjan Stevens’ newly released songs. Someone (dragonman) said something insightful about the meaning of the song and someone else replied ‘Dragonman, I think I’m in love with you.’
And I thought – wow – can you fall in love in the comments section? But then again, as a newly converted online dater, the comments section suddenly doesn’t seem too far off.
We live in a digital era, where every aspect of life has a digital platform. From personal (FB), to work (LinkedIn), to political (twitter) to dating (OKC) I am online. Each with it’s carefully tailored profile – the perfect picture, tone, diction for the specific platform. And as I start to date strangers, I suddenly realize that giving out my cell phone number is far less personal than giving out my last name.
And so it’s scary and there’s a vulnerability in painting my thoughts, opinions and photos online. But there’s also the freedom that comes with being vulnerable. This is me, these are my thoughts. Take what you will.
And so I give out my last name and cell phone number and say take what you will.
This is me.
It’s the first warm weekend in the city so I bike to the park
I find a big tree to lean my bike and my back against
Dappled light
And I am alone
Everyone is out – families, couples, gangles of cyclists – playing frisbee, having picnics, drinking beer and I suddenly hope desperately that I’ll run into someone I know – an old friend, a new friend, an acquaintance, anyone – so I can join into this togetherness of being with loved ones in the sunlight.
But then I notice two small girls each holding the leash of one small dog,
running down the steps,
laughing.
And a skinny Indian boy standing up on his bicycle riding fast,
And two small boys run up to me and ask if they can hide behind the tree with me.
“Who are you hiding from?”
“My dad!”
They run away giggling to the next tree ahead.
And I finally notice the first flush of leaves, lime green, bordering the sky,
and the sweetness of a young couple sitting on a bench beneath the trees
and I realize everything is as it should be.
And I remember there is beautifulness
to being alone,
and there spaciousness
in being single.
Even as I step away from the possibility of romance
Turning away from the manipulations
Step out
Drawing my strength forward
Step out
And I can still feel desperate
Still need
Still cling
And I can cling to hope
for a simpler life
And consider falling in love with the man with the British accent on the subway
And cling to hope
to someday date a grown up who is inspired by the beauty of simple living
And choose not to date the tennis photographer
who reminds me of Pierre
And I can still cling
to hope.
And I can’t let go of the fight
Can’t get the tense out of my body
Can’t surrender to the rhythm that is my life
The battle that is within
is expressed
ungracefully.
I end up hurting my neck.
I saw an old friend last week and she said – I didn’t know if we would still be friends. We were out on a walk, bundled in jackets and toques in the cold rain, stopping occasionally to let the dogs go pee. She didn’t know if we would still be friends, and yet somehow we are. And this particular friendship seems to constantly surprise me. Superficially we seem to grow apart but at the same time our lives always parallel enough that we can still understand each others secrets of the heart.
I am in the process of moving back to Ontario after spending the last couple of years in British Columbia. And as I step back into old places and relationships from which I’ve been gone a long time, I am finding that I don’t remember all the street names. But I still remember what’s important. I remember the secrets of these places and of these hearts.
And now as I sit in bed, as the tail end of a cold sweeps through me, surrounded by bags half packed, I’m mentally preparing to move to a new city. Trying it out. Playing it by ear. Improvising to create the life that I want.
I can’t know what it will be and I’m okay with the unknowing. Today I lay in bed sleeping off the sickness. Tomorrow will be a new day.
