22. CALM BETWEEN THE STORMS or STORMS BETWEEN THE CALM?

Is life a series of storms punctuated by periods of calm, or vice versa?

I woke up yesterday morning with a pond in my back yard from the huge dump of rain we had overnight. Today the skies cleared briefly and I got out for a hike. Another storm is supposed to be on the way, and I am concerned. Climate change is real, but I need to calm down. This rain is still probably easily within normal limits. In fact, what I’m currently reading suggests it is.

Emily Carr writes, over 80 years ago:

It has poured for five days, wholehearted teeming rain…. Today, loud, boisterous wind is added. The sea is boiling over black rocks…. Every pot and pail in camp is overflowing. After the water shortage it seems so reckless to throw any away….

…Bads and goods have hurled themselves with velocity through this day…. Any hour any condition may prevail. The woods are tender one minute and austere the next, sometimes riotously rich, coldly pale in colour….

 It has taken me until my 50s to start reading the work of Canada’s beloved Emily Carr. Hundreds and Thousands is a compilation of her journals from 1927 to 1945. A paperback copy given to me by a friend years ago leaped out at me from the bookshelf recently and I have been sitting by the garden window every morning to read and re-read, just bits at a time, slowly.

… The world looks round and small and complete from the top of Beacon Hill, like a toy world with no beyond…. Yes, I have thought this myself!  You forget all about Asia and Europe and Africa and the rest, and the wars and famines and earthquakes. The wild flowers and the broom and the nesting birds all seem so much more important than horrible things in the newspaper. Is it selfish to feel so?  I wonder too.

In her day, others saw Emily Carr as an eccentric, a “difficult woman”, a spinster. Even I, who have always loved her paintings, pictured her simply as the little round woman who didn’t get out much, kept a monkey as a pet and had few friends. I am embarrassed to say I’m only now learning the truth.

Carr was well educated and traveled, and was no misanthrope; she just tired of superficialities and longed for special companionship. She regularly entertained guests who came to see her paintings, and generously kept allowing them in, despite their lack of enthusiasm, and despite how long it took for her to gain any traction in the art world. Most people just didn’t “get” her.

She was a perfectionist, full of self-doubt, a sensitive soul in a world dominated by men and the moneyed. She was always seeking to improve—her skills, but mostly her expression, in getting closer to capturing or distilling the spirit of what she saw into a representation that did it justice. She was hard on herself, but as she aged, she cared less about what others thought, and found confidence and pride in her work. In her I have found kinship.

 …What’s the good of trying to write? It’s all the unwordable things one wants to write about, just as it’s all the unformable things one wants to paint….

 …Why want to paint? When the thing itself is before one why not look at it and be content? But there you are. You want something more. It is the growth in our souls, asking us to feed it with experience filtered through us.

Carr lived just outside of downtown Victoria, BC. It excites me to think I have wandered the very same streets she walked, and gazed in wonder at the very same views. She ran a rooming house in which she also lived and worked, but during the summers she fled in a caravan to the forests of Goldstream or the Esquimalt Lagoon. Today these trips in a car take less than half an hour, but back then it was a serious effort to get her caravan hauled out into the wilderness.

There, she’d spend her days at nature’s doorstep, falling in love with the trees and ferns, and practicing the discipline of putting pen to paper, paintbrush to canvas, wood to the stove, despite aches and pains, loneliness and bad weather. She had peaceful productive days, and she had wasteful frustrated ones. It am amazed to discover she experienced epiphanies just like ones I’ve had, and voiced some of the very same questions about world and self. But of course, as long as we humans have been expressing ourselves in words and pictures, we have been noting the same things, in our own myriad ways. This is a comfort.

…The first dismal rain of winter…. Everything shivering and dripping like the time between death and the funeral. War news dismal, fires sulky….

…Stop this yowl and go to your story and enter the joy of the birds. Wake the old sail up, hoist it up in the skies on lark songs. …

Trees blossom and leaves fall. Birds fly. Storms come and go. Calm escapes us. Calm returns.

21. How can we make peace?

On the heels of Hiroshima and Nagasaki memorial events, with major world leaders posturing alarmingly, I watched “Arrival” today at a friend’s suggestion. It’s an amazing film, and very timely. Without giving too many spoilers, it’s an alien invasion, and the key to humanity’s survival is finding a common language. This got me thinking even more about the state of our world.

It feels really dire, scary, and yet, if I didn’t have TV or the internet, I’d be more or less oblivious. Yes, what’s going on is very real, but so are the flowers and bees in my garden. And what’s also real is this deeply felt sense of knowing, which I have always possessed, that all we need is love, because love is all we are.

LOVE is our common language. The problem is that “love” is just a word, one that has as many shades of meaning as people on the planet. It’s a noun, it’s a verb, and we adjectivize it too. We toss it around a lot. I certainly do when I feel enthusiastic about almost anything! I don’t mean to be simplistic when I say all we need is love. The nitty-gritty “how-to” of creating world peace may be very complicated, but it will flow out of one very simple thing.

I am talking about the very energy we are made of, the essense of all creation. I could say “God” or “spirit” but these words are also inexact, highly-charged, and can be misinterpreted. “Universal energy” comes close. But there really is no exact word because I don’t think it’s possible to put something so outside the confines of language into words.

Love is not an emotion or an action or a concept. But we can have feelings and actions and thoughts that are manifestations of love. The DOING comes out of the BEING. I know I am an idealist, but I truly believe that if we can all live from this place, then what emerges naturally will be the energy and feelings and ideas and actions that create peace. It’s possible. But I must admit that it may not be likely. There are those on Earth who for some reason lack the ability or awareness or interest or will to love. I won’t give up hope, though.

I must also admit that when I speak with conviction I run the risk of sounding like a zealot. Zealots think they’re right, and are convinced that the things they do are for the good of all, which isn’t true—as far as we know. So no matter how much I think or feel that I’ve tapped into the Ultimate Truth, I also know it’s not necessarily the case. I guess that’s where faith comes in. I must simply live according to what I believe to be true, and get on with it.

I am human, so I don’t always act lovingly. I get annoyed when I have to wait in line, and disappointed when a friend cancels a long-awaited date. I have fun complaining about the things that irk me. I sometimes forget how much there is to be grateful for. I get caught up in my selfish little picture, forgetting about the big picture. Such is the nature of daily life. But I consider it an honour and responsibility, every day, to be a conduit for love. And to do this, I just have to remember how I live in my dreams. Not dreams as in “aspirations” but as in the movies I see when I’m asleep. I think I’ve mentioned this before.

At night, on the rare occasions when I am threatened by monsters, by disaster, or by evil of some kind, my response is almost always love, although it takes a few seconds or longer to get there. But in my moment of realization, doom instantly dissolves and I am wrapped in the warmest, safest, most blissful, colourful blanket of peace you can imagine.

We make peace when we choose love!

20. What’s the next question?

I know,  I’m a big cheater.  haven’t blogged in some time, and I’m scratching around for a topic. I feel strangely confined by this question format I’ve devised for myself. I thought I’d have a lot of fun sharing all the myriad of questions I come up with on a daily basis and exploring answers with you. I am incurably curious! But I guess although I have fun researching in the realms of art, music, psychology and science, I don’t feel confident sharing my findings, because I’m no authority really on anything but my own life. So that’s why most of my questions so far have been ones I ask myself.

In a way, those are the most important, and I have to trust that just as I am interested in other’s journeys towards self-realization, there are those out there who find my inward delvings compelling.

My other excuse for not writing more is I’ve been short on time as I wrap up work here at home and get ready for my mini-book-tour this summer! I am sure I’ll have lots of observations when I return, and more time to share them!

xo
C.

19. Who has seen the wind?

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

~ Christina Rossetti

This is one of my favourite poems from childhood. My mother read it to me with the delicate authority that came from being a primary school teacher and stage actress. I loved the poem, as it helped mitigate my fear of wind. I always dreaded that the tall douglas firs I watched swaying dramatically on stormy days would crash onto the house.

The last few days in this too-long winter have been more windy than usual. I don’t let occasional snow stop me, but I sometimes opt not to hike in the wind. My ears dislike the feeling of whooshing air, my hands get cold, and I’ve come close a few times to being hit with falling branches in the woods. But, there are such things as hats and gloves and more wide-open trails, so what really stops me?

The wind also sometimes leaves me feeling stirred-up and unsettled, which is something I can’t dress for or change my route for. I usually try to ignore this and brave the elements, but today I turned on the music to drown out the gusts, and danced around the living room. Then I sat down to write. The wind outside my window is making the branches slap against the house and the sound drives me to distraction. But I decide to take this as a challenge to focus even more intently on what I’ve set out to do. Keep writing. Who knows what ideas might blow my way?

Several years ago in early autumn I visited a dear friend in New Hampshire who took me into the country to visit a friend of hers, a writer and professor. Martha lived alone in a rambling old farmhouse surrounded by fields of tall grasses, ringed with stands of tall graceful white-barked trembling aspen (or poplar). As we walked up the lane, the trees were stock still, but each individual yellow leaf on every tree was quivering. The aural effect was that of a small rushing stream. I found this both gently enlivening and calming.

Martha welcomed us in and we sat for a good long while on her front porch drinking iced tea. Our host seemed to me one of the most grounded people I’d ever met. Her head was full of knowledge and ideas, but her energy was so connected to the earth. She was not unlike the poplars.

Then the wind picked up, and I asked if we could head inside and tour the house. There were a good many rooms and a good many pieces of Shaker furniture to admire, and a good many well-loved books to sigh over. The tour concluded up a narrow set of stairs to a small long room under the roof’s steep peak. The study. A plain wooden desk and chair sat at one end, and a cozy reading chair at the opposite. Bookshelves filled the walls, and every available surface was covered in stacks of papers of half-read books. The windows were open, and the wind rushed through, sucking sheer curtains in at one end and blowing them out the other. Papers fluttered madly under paperweights and books.

This was not the same calm breeze that made the yellow leaves quake, and my first instinct was to shut the windows forthwith. I would never leave windows open in my home on a day like this. My eyes were glued on Martha. She was so unperturbed by the chaos. Suddenly, something shifted inside me and I experienced the wind in a whole new way. It was refreshing. It cleared out the dust. It brought inspiration, perhaps (which would be fitting, considering the word “inspiration” comes from Latin for “to breathe”).

I resolved then to let it be, to let the wind be the wind and bring what it may. One of my favourite songs, Vince Guaraldi’s “Cast Your Fate to the Wind”, which I’d loved for musical reasons, took on new metaphorical meaning to me. I would try and be mindful of the occasions when I strained to control the uncontrollable and remember to let it be.

Martha led us back down the stairs without closing the windows. The rest of that afternoon I continued to marvel at her respect for the wind. And, obviously, this memory continues to inspire me.

I have been “too busy” doing other things to write often these days, and I tend to let the memory of the physical discomfort (in the form of neck and eye strain) discourage me rather than the satisfaction of the creative process encourage me. But it’s good to be back.

18. How do I shake off this bad dream?

I awoke early yesterday morning from a nightmare of an earthquake. It was incredibly realistic. Turns out there were four earthquakes in Italy just around the time I was dreaming. Not aware of this yet, however, I chose to interpret my dream metaphorically.

I have always dreamed occasionally of impending doom and disasters, natural or otherwise— earthquakes, floods, bombs, falling elevators, housefires, car accidents. I used to panic. But in the last few years I have impressed myself with how I cope. First there is a quick shock as I comprehend my and/or the world’s impending demise. Then, an instant realization that I can do something to change the course of events. Next, my own joyful acceptance of the situation averts the disaster magically and I wake up refreshed.

But this was different. No joyful acceptance. No fear, exactly. I felt annoyed and powerless. It was like: “Oh crap, do I have to die NOW? How inconvenient! I have so much more to get done!”

This overtly mirrors how I feel at times in general lately. Not always. (Friends, do not worry!) Some mornings I bounce out of bed with a happy sense that wonderful things can happen. But others, I am more overwhelmed than eager. However much I might want to crawl back into bed though, I still get up every morning and face the day. Especially yesterday, not wanting to slip back into the earthquake.

I know I’m not alone in feeling this combination of overwhelm and impending doom. If you put any faith in astrology, you can blame Jupiter. And for me, I can blame a lot on menopause! On a more global scale we can blame the media and technology for the huge volume of information that we’re confronted with all at once. We can blame our bosses and schools, who heap us with more projects and responsibilities than any one person should be expected to handle. We can blame our own shortened attention spans, due in no small part to our own choices, but also to those choices being manipulated by powerful corporate interests. We get distracted, sometimes unwittingly and sometimes willingly, because we feel the need to escape the very real scary stuff going on in the world politically, environmentally, etc. There is so much beyond our control, so much suffering.

And of course, at this moment, beyond our control, is the imminent US presidential inauguration. This feels like a genuine disaster. OK, that’s hyperbole, but certainly there will be serious consequences that play out in the next days, months and years. Further speculation I’ll leave to the pundits.

So, this is the Big Picture. What’s going on in my very own Little Picture? After finally publishing a book that took over two decades and a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, I feel like I “should” be enjoying more relief and satisfaction. I do feel these things, but they’re overshadowed by looming tasks: jobs I need to undertake if I actually want the book to succeed out there in the big world. Tasks that don’t immediately seem enjoyable to me but daunting and draining.

My “to do” list in other areas is also pretty long, but it’s all mostly stuff I enjoy. However, this still poses challenges on my time and energy management. I can hear Derek in my head, talking about priorities. That’s the darn thing; for every complaint or problem I have, our very own book provides a multitude of ways to deal with it.

So, for right now, here’s one:

Take just one step.

We know these days how important it is to learn how to just BE. It can be really healing to just sit quietly and enjoy the moment, to detach for a while from striving and self-criticism and the craziness of the outside world. It’s really important. But, it’s equally important to DO. What’s the point of living on this amazing planet as a human bestowed with an amazing body and brain, and then just sitting?

Ideally, we want a balance between being and doing. This keeps us engaged yet not overwhelmed, able to make a difference for ourselves and others. We don’t have to go from A to Z in a one leap. We don’t have to save the world single-handedly. So, sometimes, if you feel overwhelmed by bad dreams, literal or metaphorical, open the door and take a step. Each step leads to another, which leads to another.

After breakfast, I put on my raincoat and headed out for a walk. And suddenly I looked into the sky and felt more than ready to face the day.

17. How do I slay the dragon called “PERFECTIONISM”?

I asked myself this question as I waited to go on stage. I got the answer later that night.

It was the day of my choir’s winter concert at one of the city’s premiere performance spaces. The stakes were high for everyone, especially our director, but we all felt the responsibility to craft something beautiful for our audience. I was nervous, but not terribly, despite feeling like I had a woodpecker in chest! The fates conspired in our favour, and we created magic. And I aced my big solo.

What a relief. When I’d done the solo at our mini-rehearsal earlier that afternoon, the director said, “Your pitch was on the high side.” Better than flat, to be sure, but this can indicate tension or pushing. I know that my chronic neck problems and allergies mean that my voice can be suddenly constricted by gunk or tension or a combo of both, but I think if I’d heard the pitch error, I could have eased up. The building’s acoustics are good. When you put something out there it fills the space and comes back to you. Not like the long rich echoes of the French cathedrals last summer, but a nice clean ring. So why hadn’t I heard myself going sharp? I don’t know, but I did trust my director’s ear, and her reassurance that I wasn’t hugely off, only a little.

Still, before going on stage, I sought reassurance from my buddies, and I ruminated. I couldn’t just leave it. Why couldn’t just accept my foibles and move on? Perfectionism. It’s like a dragon, I thought, that must be slayed!

This incident was all the more loaded because it came on the heels of something that happened that morning before I left for the concert hall.

As some of you may know, I just published a book, my late husband’s memoir (which I co-wrote). It’s such a HUGE milestone to finally have it out in print, and Derek’s life and love and wisdom can be shared with the world. I can rest easy knowing that if I myself die an untimely death, I have fulfilled this big chunk of my life purpose. I am relieved, and proud, and I don’t yet still believe it.

A couple of weeks ago I sent off gift copies to a small handful of friends whom I’d wanted to acknowledge for their support. Last week, one friend, Chris, wrote to let me know he’d started reading and had found a few typos. I was not happy to hear this, but not entirely surprised. It’s not at all unusual for even well known authors’ works to contain errors in the first edition. Chris said he’d send me a document of all the errors once he’s finished reading. I thanked him, and was fairly confident that the document would be short.

It wasn’t. I received it the morning of my concert. Bad timing. I shouldn’t have opened it. It was three pages long! I glanced over the list of at least two dozen typos. How could this be? I was stunned. And, as I read—it wasn’t just typos. He had included some gentle editorial “suggestions”. I went beyond stunned to shocked. How dare he? I hadn’t invited his criticism. I quickly shut my laptop. I couldn’t let this bring me down. I had to be up for the show.

I couldn’t help ruminating, however, as I got dressed and began warming up my voice. My pride was bruised, because heck, I’m the Grammar Queen! But just as on some level I could (later) understand objectively why my voice had gone sharp, I could see how typos made it into print. It dawned on me, with a sinking feeling, that in the long back and forth revision process with three professional editors, I had either forgotten to save my corrections, or sent the publisher the wrong file. And in my haste to get the book out before Christmas, nobody did one last read through from cover to cover. It was my fault.

I felt so ashamed. But angered too, about the unsolicited advice. The thing is, I could well relate to his wanting to give suggestions and advice. I have the same instincts as a proofreader myself! I was grateful for Chris’s eagle eye, and trusted he was only wanting to help me have the best book possible.

But I had not submitted a manuscript; I’d presented him a completed, printed book, and the fact that he thought I would change it to suit him was galling. The choices Derek and I made in crafting the book were intentional, reflecting long conversations and years of labour. Our baby—the book—was birthed a month ago now. I couldn’t take it back!

I realized later that I actually can take the baby back. With print-on-demand, I can easily pay a fee and upload the new file to the printer and online retailers. So it was a slightly premature birth, and I can incubate the baby for another week or two while I fix the typos. I’ll call the first run a “collector’s edition”. Typos included at no extra charge! 🙂 But I need to be careful that I don’t make this a habit, constantly revising after the book is released, just because it’s possible.

The book now has wings, or legs rather. It gets to go on a journey, have a life of its own beyond my total control. It would be utter folly to bend to the whim of readers, friends or not, or bend to my own neurotic perfectionism. That only fuels the dragon! Like with the concert, I should just try to do my thing and move on. It’s different with a live performance, though. You do it once and it’s over. A book is out there forever.

This was a good reminder for me that not everyone who reads the book, including friends, is going to like or agree with everything, including wording, style, tone, content, and explicit or implicit messages. I need to be prepared for that. The book is not perfect, Derek was not perfect, and I am not perfect. No such thing. I think maybe the opposite of perfection is humility. Humility and human both relate to the earth. Being grounded. This is what I needed to get through the afternoon’s concert.

By the time I left the house in my concert duds, I felt calmer, but there was still a sense of being pricked by loose ends that had to be tied up before anyone noticed. And then there was the real possibility that something else could go wrong with the book! But soon, I was on stage, surrounded by beautiful voices, mine among them. There was no choice then but soar into the glorious moment.

After the show, I was famished, so friend Lorraine and I went to the Chinese Buffet down the street to celebrate. After the meal, we opened our fortune cookies. As I read mine, my mouth gaped open. It said: You will make many changes before settling satisfactorily. I nearly collapsed laughing. What an apt commentary on my writing and publishing process.

That night Lorraine stayed over. She called me into the guest room as I was putting away my music. She’d been reading the book. “You have to see something. It’s a message for you—on page 202.” I was intrigued and asked her to read aloud. She read:

“This was one great lesson in walking that fine line of the ego. It is important to be able to receive praise and own the positive attributes and accomplishments that others notice. However, it’s also important to listen to criticism and reflect on what we might change to  better ourselves. It’s also good not to take either too much to heart.”

Thanks to Derek, and to ME, for this timely advice! You don’t slay the dragon in one fell swoop. We take away his power slowly but surely by ignoring him with a smile.

16. Whose birthday is it, anyway?

Ours.

My husband wasn’t much for birthdays. He pretty much celebrated life every day. But he knew how much I loved birthdays, and would always ensure that I had a special time on THE DAY. I am missing him right now.

Last year was my 50^th, and I went full tilt, writing a music blog every day for the 50 days leading up to my birthday. Then I did a racy photo shoot in my birthday suit. Then I recorded and shot a goofy music video for Youtube. I also held a musical recital for my friends, working on my repertoire for months, polishing and memorizing every song. It was so touching and meaningful to have friends come and appreciate the results of all my hard work. I was on a roll! I felt at my most alive and creative and fit

But this year’s different. I haven’t accumulated many more wrinkles or lost too many brain cells, but 51 does feel like an anticlimax. I am trying to see it in a positive light, though. I have nothing to prove. I can rest on my laurels!

I recently read Escape from Camp 14, the biography of Shin Dong-hyuk, who grew up in an internment camp in North Korea. The extent of his deprivation is truly shocking. Prisoners there were treated little better than livestock. He had only vague concepts of the outside world and freedom, and few experiences of love or joy. The only happiness for Shin was a full stomach, which was a rare occurrence. There was certainly little to celebrate, and no holidays were observed except the birthday of the country’s leader, Kim Jong-il’s. From what I gathered, he wouldn’t have understood that in most cultures common folk celebrate their birthdays annually.

As a young adult, Shin escaped the prison camp, apparently the only one to do so. One could imagine that the experience of freedom in the outside world would be exciting, and that with all the possibilities and choices at his fingertips, that he would have been overjoyed. But it didn’t work out that way. He found it incredibly challenging to navigate this freedom, and learn the ropes—getting a job, making friends, even simply using money—but it was equally difficult navigating his own expanding sense of morality and blossoming concept of “self”.

As a result of being physically beaten and tortured in the camp, he suffers from PTSD. He was also psychologically abused, brainwashed to believe that he was worthless. This is something that couldn’t simply be overcome, even though he has made true friends who love and support him. He feels enormous guilt for his own dishonesty and cruelty, for choices he made that hurt others, despite his having little choice if he wanted to keep living. He doesn’t know how to forgive or love himself.

On a much smaller scale, many of us are similarly lacking in compassion and positive regard for ourselves. Our birthday may feel like any other day. But, as self-indulgent as it may seem, we SHOULD celebrate our birthdays. It’s a way to combat depression, anxiety, loneliness, apathy and indifference. In a world that sometimes seems so full of misery, violence and injustice, a world that seems to celebrate all the wrong values, birthdays can remind us about the small things that bring us joy. Like cake! And singing together. And friends. These are actually no small things.

We have a socially sanctioned day to appreciate our own greatness! And we have the opportunity to make wishes for the year ahead, to start a new chapter. I like having a birthday on Samhain, which is Wiccan New Year. I feel like I have some collective energy behind the intentions I set! But I can also guarantee that there are folks who share your birth date. Imagine combining the strength of all your wishes!

I am sometimes saddened to hear when people don’t like birthdays. OK, I get it if you’re so spiritually evolved that you don’t have an ego and don’t even subscribe to the idea that individual identity is a thing. Aside from those folks, other people find celebrations just plain over-stimulating. I get that too. But, if it’s because you don’t want to be reminded you’re a year older, or if you feel that it’s “just a day like any other day”, then get over it! Why not take the opportunity to celebrate the miracle of your own existence?

My mum loved celebrations, and would often write me poems and make hand-crafted cards, along with delicious cakes from scratch. I appreciated the efforts she went into, and I grew into that kind of person myself, although I have to say that it seems to take more energy these days to make things by hand. But birthdays remind us to let our friends and family know they’re important to us. I am truly thankful for the people in my life.

My husband taught me this song, and now I share it with you:

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to me,
Every day we are born,
And every day we are free.

It is a gift just to be alive.

15. Why is fall so funky?

(I don’t mean musically.)

Autumn is officially underway now. Resistance is futile.
Yes, I am still learning to let go!

The summer-to-fall transition was particularly bumpy for me this year, after spending six fun weeks away in warmer climes. My return coincided Labour Day, with folks rushing about, their tide of busy-ness threatening to drag me along. There was also a palpable shift in the weather. Days seemed shorter and cooler, and despite some rain, everything looked brown and withered. It was only the beginning of September and my path to the mountain was carpeted in soft crackling leaves. Beautiful, but too soon!

In talking to friends recently, several mentioned their own difficulties in negotiating the change in season. They described a sense of melancholy. This seems to accompany the decay we see around us in the natural world, and the musty, sweet smell of mummified blackberries rotting on the vine.

There’s a feeling that the party’s over. We likely associate autumn with a return to work and school, with sitting indoors, and having to conform to expectations and constraints. And, the decreasing warmth and light have real, measurable effects on many of us, including our physical and mental health.

But, if I really tune in, I also notice feelings of excitement and hopefulness. Autumn can also be a chance to start fresh. In fact, some spiritual traditions celebrate their New Year in the fall. Wiccans mark the holiday of Samhain on November 1^st, which is just about halfway through the fall season.

Spring and fall are different, but each is vibrant, fecund, in its own way. The way I see it, spring is extroverted and lighthearted, as we venture outdoors more, drawn by the warmer weather, increasing light, and emerging buds. Spring is about the emergence of life from seeds that were planted in fall. Blossoms are busting out all over! Autumn—she is more introverted and serious. We go inside, both literally and figuratively. But fall is fruitful too. What was planted in spring is now ready. It’s harvest time!

If you look closely, you may find forests of mushrooms pushing up through the fallen leaves in the woods! Where I live, there are even still blueberries and strawberries out in the fields, along with oceans of kale and mountains of pumpkins. And it is a bumper year for apples. I left home for a casual stroll today, and several blocks from home I realized I should have had a snack. But no sooner had I identified my hunger than I came across a banquet! In the middle of a park stood a tree so laden with apples that its branches hung to the ground. The grass around the tree was strewn with fruit, much of it yet undiscovered by insects, birds and deer. What a feast! I picked up a huge firm apple, brushed it off and took a bite. Cold, and crunchy and sweet!

Let this abundance be an inspiration as we negotiate the seasonal shift in energy and mood. We can nourish ourselves with the fruits of our labours, and focus on our own great wisdom and talents to help get us through the darkening days, just as we see little creatures squirrelling away nuts! And we can remember that sometimes all we need to do is reach out, and what we need is right in front of us.

By now, October 10^th, Thanksgiving here in Canada, I am enjoying fall. I am energized by the cool morning air, and I treasure the lingering afternoon warmth, when I drink my tea on the patio, walk or putter in the garden. I have returned to work projects while trying to make good on my pact to be balanced and take on too much. I am grateful for my life.

I am feeling the FUNK, but in a good way!  In the groove. Bring it on, James Brown.

14. Can every day be like a holiday?

(Cue the Dandy Warhols.)

My first impulse: Yes, of course!
My second, considered answer: No, nor should it be.
Upon further reflection: Well, maybe, in small ways.

So, I got back two weeks ago and this blog post has been simmering ever since. Have I been procrastinating, or—trusting myself that the writing will emerge when it’s ready? Hmmm…a little of both.

People ask about my travels and I say, “Amazing!” It’s a kind of lame, catchall word, but the trip was so full, so enriching, stimulating, rewarding, revealing, that I don’t know where to start in describing it.

After the choir tour, which I talked about a little in my last post, I went to Hamburg, Berlin and Amsterdam, connecting with good friends. As an introvert, it was challenging at times to be in company so often, but mostly it was fun. And I will go so far as to say that with the right person or people, traveling together is better than going alone. It feels somehow easier to enjoy being with people when I am away. This seems odd to me, but perhaps travel facilitates extroversion because I have no work and home to escape to.

I did have some significant chunks of time alone, which I made the most of. Some folks are content to rest on the beach at an all-inclusive resort and be catered to. There is nothing wrong with this, but it’s not what I seek. I want to see and hear and feel and taste and smell as many different things as I can, and see what happens when I do. Outside of the comfort zone is where the seeds of change are sown.

Vacating our familiar surroundings and leaving the responsibilities of home behind, we have the opportunity to witness ourselves reacting and responding to new situations. Can we let go of habits and patterns, or are we behaving in the same old ways? If so, why? And is that OK?

***

Although I just stated that travel offers us a chance to reflect, I realize I don’t make the most of this in the moment. I keep too busy! It’s not until I return home that I dig into the process.

If I am lucky, nobody knows I am home. It’s a kind of limbo I revel in. I am reluctant to do the same old thing. Sometimes I can’t even remember what the “same old thing” is! I float in the freedom of possibility. Soon I’ll feel the urge to dive back into routines and responsibilities, but I can resist for a while. I can see myself more clearly, and can consciously inhibit habitual patterns and postures—in every aspect: materially, psychologically, physically. Of course this option is always available to me, but somehow the opening seems bigger during this limbo time.

Walking in the front door, home is comfortable but seems a little unfamiliar. I like this slightly off-kilter, disoriented feeling. It’s amusing. Wow, that wall really is GREEN! Why is the sofa angled this way? Where did I hide those chocolate bars I was hoarding? Why do I stand here to chop vegetables instead of over there? I remember that I used to do my tai chi routine at 8:00 am. Do I still want to do this?

Many of my habits may stem from very practical considerations, which I forget at the moments. They may once more emerge, in an organic fashion, which is OK. This feels different from taking up habits without consideration.

Reflecting on my time away, and starting to think about what lies ahead, I am full of enthusiasm and determination. I inevitably exhort myself to reform my life! I want to be my “best self” like I am when I travel: more alert, more open, more extroverted, spontaneous, flexible and relaxed! Life seems so much simpler, too! I want to wake up, and eat, and walk, and talk, and work, when my body feels like it. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all do this?

Hmm. I have to question these impulses and investigate my assumptions. Am I really more fun and spontaneous on holiday? And is it really a healthy ambition for me to want less structure anyway?  I see that my “best self” is actually kind of an illusion.

I was shocked how quickly I jumped out of my habits on holiday, even my good ones. The sight of other people enjoying coffee and pastries in the morning was enough, over a few short weeks, for me to push aside my “clean eating” habit, and develop a new, not-so-healthy one! This was not peer pressure; I think it’s because I have highly sensitive mirror neurons! (This means I have great empathy, which is a really good thing, but it also means that I get hungry watching people eat, when I may have already eaten a full meal.)

I also can see that I’m kidding myself that I spent my time (outside of choir commitments) going where the wind blew me. Nice image, but this just isn’t me! I was still ­ME, the person who likes to get things done. I did create structure, even if only in small ways. The only difference was, instead of planning things weeks or months in advance, I planned activities and destinations a few days, or a few hours, in advance. I did spend hours wandering and exploring, but within a loose framework.

I see that I have been judging my logical side, the part of me that makes schedules and plans (left brain stuff) as inferior to the spontaneous, creative, fun (right brain) side. But true best self combines all these aspects. Balance!

My tendency to organize and create order is not unhealthy. Yes, it can be a way to cope with anxiety, but it is also a very reasonable strategy for time management. I am a person with a lot of interests, and I like to get things DONE. And to get things done, I make commitments to others and myself. This is very functional. Where it gets dysfunctional is when I’ve taken on more than I can handle—too many jobs and favours and social engagements. So this is something I can keep an eye on. I know I have gone too far when I’ve broken my daily calendar down into minutes, and am looking at “Take a bath: 8:00-8:30”!

When we travel, we get caught up in the excitement and think, “Why can’t every day be like this?” But holidays and vacations, by their nature, are a diversion from our “everyday” responsibilities and surroundings. Of course we suddenly feel free! Of course we treasure this feeling and want more. But does this mean every day should be like a holiday? Some might thrive on a life of constant change, but many of us can’t do this, nor should we.

Most of us inhabit a world that requires us to live, work, consume, and even play, within structures. This is not wrong; it’s just how we roll. Everything in the universe follows some kind of pattern. It’s natural.

However, it is still true that travel can kickstart change. We return home feeling enlivened and enlightened. Invariably, though, after sinking back onto familiar ground, the high wears off, and it requires effort and intention to remain as awake and aware. This is where those seeds that were sown on holiday can now germinate. It’s not always easy in the face of responsibilities and commitments, but we can still make different choices, give ourselves more time to wonder, wander, take new paths. It’s worth it.

And, in the end, routine isn’t bad. To take flight occasionally, we need to be grounded first. It can feel wonderful to get back into a familiar groove. As long as it doesn’t become a rut!

 

 

13. Do I really have to let go —again?

Yes — again and again and again.

The last time I posted, I was on my way to France to join my choir on a short tour and 9-day choral festival. Tour now over, I am back in Nice to decompress and get ready for the rest of my summer spent with friends in Europe.

My choir is a community of talented, smart, caring women. The singing together—some of the most gorgeous repertoire, in some of the most beautiful spaces—brought us closer. And I am missing them right now.

The tour was well beyond my hopes and  expectations. In Nice, audience members told us that we moved them, made them feel, gave them a reason to smile again after the recent tragedies that have devastated the city and the country. There were few dry eyes in the house, onstage or in the seats. With each following concert, folks came up to us wanting to thank us personally. After one of our last performances, in a small village square, we were served a huge open-air dinner as the sun set, and our hosts feted us with folk songs. They touched us just as much as we touched them.

The choral festival offered performances by world class choirs, and from what we heard on the streets, ours was one of the most popular! But I am not meaning to boast. I was honoured to know we were a crowd-pleaser. My own favourite choir was Slovenian, and from their first notes, their music raised goosebumps on my arm, and caused tears to flow. They were, in that brief hour, the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. It was an auditory orgasm as I kept feeling myself lifted to greater and greater heights of aural ecstasy. I left the concert venue utterly speechless. To try and describe the profound experience in words seemed to take something from it.

Traveling itself can do this for us, in providing novel opportunities for sensory pleasure and deep meaning.  As we go along, gasping at the sea and mountain views, the galleries, the cathedrals, and revelling in the new tastes and smells, we transcend the ordinary. The drive to capture these things and events is so strong, so seductive. But the camera and notebook  take us a step away from our own experience. Knowing this, sometimes I just leave my tools in the bag. I close my eyes, and let myself soak it in.

Then, the performance is over, the echo faded, the sun set, the meal finished, the lover left behind. Then what? We must move on. A saying comes to mind: “If you love something, set it free. If it come back, it’s yours; if it doesn’t, it never was.”

I am not sure I totally agree with this statement. The first part, yes. I know that I continually need to let go of things and ideas and experiences and people, no matter how much I love them, so I can live in the present and remain open to the flow of life. We must not set ourselves up for disappointment and stagnancy by clinging, or by defining ourselves or anyone or anything else too rigidly. This is not easy.

But if we let go of a lover, and they return to us, they are not “ours”. And if we let go of experiences, like the sublime concerts I have been a part of, they will not come back. Moments like that are temporal and ephemeral, and we can never relive them. Being an artist, I will always want to interpret and share what I feel and what I witness. But we can never really recreate or fully capture these events. The thing is to live them fully in the moment. However, the part of ourselves that comes alive—with the music, with the intimacy of a kiss, with all your attention focussed on the sunset or any beauty-filled moment—can come alive again, at a different time, in a different way. But it takes letting go. Forever and always letting go.

The whole bus ride back to Nice after the choral festival, I was in tears. I did not want to leave the music and my friends and the breathtaking  landscape. But it was over, and my choice was clear: let go. And now, here I am, enjoying what the day has offered me.

If you love something let it go. And then—there is MORE.