Clearing Space  S P A C I O U S N E S S. Longing for a sense of spaciousness and less pressure, I haven't written in awhile - not for myself; not for work, blood, love nor money. Sometimes not writing is a marker of avoidance, of myself, of my inner world, of things that need attention. This time it was a signal of another process. Exploring my living space in a new way, the space of living in my body and my outer home. Unknowingly, my deeper need and pursuit of spaciousness has launched my personal reorganizing renovation, divesting, recycling campaign. My soul went on strike. Demands were simple: a little more breathing space amidst the daily visual noise. It was much easier to turn off the radio or the computer, than the constant visual demands of paper piles, undone tasks, and groceries that needed transforming into edible dishes. Although the demands were simple, the tasks to fulfill this deceptively simple request, were not. Emotionally overwhelming and physically demanding, the pressure had actually been accumulating my entire life in the growing inertia of nostalgia. In keeping with the rising zeitgeist toward minimalism and the magical life changing decluttering a la Marie Kondo*, these phenomenons highlight and sharply contrast the sheer consumer madness afoot. For many a post war decade now, consumerism and excess has been growing, hitting a fever pitch through the 80's up until, well,.....now. Western capitalism and entitlement has created a gluttony of junk accumulation, an economic crisis several times over, based in north American debt load, and the rising obesity and sloth of inactivity, purchase power(nee rather, ease) and technology. These realities, although well known by society, are sadly potently anaesthetizing the public into somnolent numbness and apathy. 'Potently' I say, because this is how many corporations and advertisers design it to be. The need for clearing space is directly linked to consumer culture. IT counters the panicked sensation of drowning. IF you are like me this bombardment creates tension within. Back to, 'AH!' Exhale. The pursuit of spaciousness. Did you notice your shoulders soften with the conscious breath? Fortunately, we can always choose to wake up from this robotic, ceaseless onslaught. Other good news is there is also a rise of more conscious, ethical business, with eco friendly and fair trade emphasis fuelling their vision. Probably even within reach of your very own neighborhood. With the popularity of the aforementioned*, ' life changing magic of Tidying up' and the meteoric rise of the minimalists*, something else is emerging. There is clearly a broader yearning afoot. A yearning for spaciousness. Room to breathe. Room to stretch. To let go. Release. Lighten the psychic burden. My spirit was feeling cramped, and while I value yoga, I needed a deeper stretch and room to expand that I couldn't yet access. Perhaps even deeper, clearing space is a vehicle to heal ourselves and clear the past . Perhaps most importantly clearing helps heal the planet we have so callously and blindly used as a garbage receptacle. Being mindful of new purchases, recycling, upcycling, giving away, sharing resources. In dance, reference to the sacredness of movement and its power and healing in our lives to ground us-- dovetails effortlessly with the joy of an empty space to do so! Whether your personal medicine is an afternoon espresso, a yoga warrior pose or a titillating book, consider that stillness, space and beauty calm our far too frequently vexed spirit . We are then able to release tension. E x-p-a-n--d--i---n----g. My writing had been bottling up. I've missed it. Felt guilt, pressure, confusion, ache and even despair and pointlessness—but through all of these incarnations I held the internal space to witness, observe and not react. Clearing the story; the 'shoulds', the confusion, until a deeper truth emerged. This Parallels the eerie hovering of the wildfire smoke and haze this summer blanketing most of BC; we were forced to be in it, powerless to impact it, and yet learned to be with it, until it lifted; simply awaking one morning to a new, clearer landscape. Breathing easier, once again. Sometimes taking a break from something important to you is not in fact avoidance, but rather reverence. Reverence for the space we seek, the refuge we require, the value we wish to add. The fervour of committed play. I have made this the year for massive give aways and clearing of my space. It continues. No coincidence I am sure, hitting my half century mark. A new identity wishes to emerge, chafing at the old constraints, limitations and programming. I regret, I still have a long way to go and recognize it is a process, an ongoing process. IT is also fun to see positive contagion spread though, as your shift draws your whole family to the quest. Visual clutter it seems, is a stressor which I never fully understood. I rationalized it as representative of a full life, creativity, stimulating, an active mind, a busy life. Perhaps I am simply not willing to be so torn to pieces anymore filling too many responsibilities. A chaotic desk top now feels overwhelming instead of creative. Confusing. Yes, in truth, the patina of living is messy and wrinkled and leaves its stains and scratches. Entropy happens. Laws of nature need to be understood to avoid self reproach. But the practice of clearing is becoming a deep-seated need toward a deeper calm and ease, saving both time and energy. I am already breathing easier. And when I maintain consistent movement toward less and less and less, it is freeing. Emancipation by simply, lightening the load. By taking this action, The gifts are plentiful in return. One can breathe easier. Spaciousness graciously allows the yielding, the surrender more readily. Clearing allows Personal pain, heavy density and stuckness to transform to inner power. S p a c i o u s n e s s allows the essential to e m e r g e. Ms NGH. c 2017/september references 1. *The life-changing magic of tidying up, Marie Kondo, c 2014. (see also Books blog 'a brief affair', jan 2016) 2. *IF you are unfamiliar with them, check them out at, the minimalists for their blog and podcast, netflix documentary and several books. http://www.theminimalists.com/ two average American young guys simply deeply committed to a principle of less is more. Their work elegantly demonstrates the power and beauty of clarity, simplicity and living intentionally. 3. * Nia dance, a holistic approach to movement and wellness in your body, see also my blog, the genius of movement, june-2016, and look for classes in your area it's worldwide! FInd your joy and an ability to maintain a ready, aware and waiting (RAW -a NIA priniciple) openness to daily life.
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 | Instructions for surviving M A R c h MaDnesS. We are all UPSIDE DOWN. Gravity assures that we barely notice this. I remember standing on a chair to review my drawing when I was eight years old, because my teacher told us ''to take a break, and to look at your work from a distance. Change perspective,” sage advise that should be followed, no matter what kind of work, to this day. And I still love standing on chairs. MOST especially in staff meetings. It can be very bouncy being an inhabitant of the mind. I say, dig like a thick legged chicken, and confess your regrets to the earthworms; dance like a s h o o t i n g star, stare into the deep brown eyes of a cow, see all sentient beings for their struggle and sweetness. Drop kick judgement to the next stratosphere, (the curb ain't near far enough ) Blow some b u b b l e s--- Stare at the best painting you can find for hours. Let it come alive for you. Imagine painting it. Unplug from everything. EVERYTHING! Scream into the wind—wearing a dramatic scarf and goggles, so you appear as a cartoon character with it blowing lyrically behind you. Spend the night sleeping in the forest, listen to how alive it is. Scare yourself silly. Speak with the owls, frogs and racoons. W A I T. Be patient. Be still. Breathe slowly. Allow an animal to nap on you until they move. Cherish the tenderness, the trust. The bond. Swallow the great beauty of blossoms like the last visual f feast you will ever see. Be useful out there but don't stress yourself out doing it. Be kind to others, (it's a given) and see how this showers you with multiple rewards, namely, entrance to nowhere when you die but maybe a clever or well meaning epitaph. No, Let's just be kind because it's good to be, no other reason required. If you are edgy, restless, irritable, dry and tired under winter's itchy coat; still waiting for ice to melt, a north wind to stop slapping insults at you, W A I T. This too shall pass. Until then, moisturize. And when the blossoms do arrive, you too will be blessed with the wakening world, once again, the primordial wisdom, tireless intelligence of nature, the reverent resilience that offers us hope, over and over, and over again. (and we need hope now more than ever!) Be the best version of you. Even if you have no understanding of why, what difference it makes, and how many other people seem to do it all better, faster, smarter, it doesn't matter, because they are still not you. And cannot be. And we need all the birds to sing. We need everyone's voice, if we are going to make this planet better. AND, that goes doubly if you are a woman, a child, a minority, one-legged, deaf, schizophrenic, labelled and categorized in any external and offensive way, too fat, edgy, alternative, grumpy, gay, freakish, electric blue, old, poor, disempowered, hairy or sin ugly, just share your song. I think we must. And together, we will find spring. We will come back to life. We will re awaken together. Our blossoming will be magnificent. |
The Bones of Winter
The last day of February rolls out.
Chilly. Clear. Familiar.
Patches of snow. Patches of dirt. A quiet, bored energy prevails.
Dullness. Ordinariness. A day easily forgotten as so many other unremarkable days blur into one another.
But what of it?
The stars remain behind the clouds. Life stirs deep in the soil unseen by the naked eye. Velocity and time continue their kinky relationship. Nothing is truly more or less dull in this day, than what we so easily celebrate as the glory of a summer month.
February merely demands more of us, by offering less.
It prompts us to remain curious about the journey. Poised for the shoe to drop. Tensions of a waning winter build. In prairie cold places, this is also known as cabin fever build up.
It is a stark offering. Tired bare branches reach long, sinewy fingers; intricate silhouettes of their winter bones against the fleshy sky.
Oh, I do long for the warmth of sun on my cheek. My eyes yearn now for the pop of spring blossoms, like cotton candy for the retina. To unburden oneself from the weight of wool jackets.... the sheer lightness of being wearing one's own skin again!
Yet, February is the anchor that holds us steadfast to winter moments. An undervalued stillness. A quiet that regenerates us. IT serves to both prepare and amplify our joyful bursting forth into a different kind of feverish pitch-----
SPRING!
Perhaps February is an unsung hero that showcases so beautifully the power of patience. Stillness.
Mining the dream.
It is the bare bones of winter which gifts us the distinct and delicate birthing of spring.
The last day of February rolls out.
Chilly. Clear. Familiar.
Patches of snow. Patches of dirt. A quiet, bored energy prevails.
Dullness. Ordinariness. A day easily forgotten as so many other unremarkable days blur into one another.
But what of it?
The stars remain behind the clouds. Life stirs deep in the soil unseen by the naked eye. Velocity and time continue their kinky relationship. Nothing is truly more or less dull in this day, than what we so easily celebrate as the glory of a summer month.
February merely demands more of us, by offering less.
It prompts us to remain curious about the journey. Poised for the shoe to drop. Tensions of a waning winter build. In prairie cold places, this is also known as cabin fever build up.
It is a stark offering. Tired bare branches reach long, sinewy fingers; intricate silhouettes of their winter bones against the fleshy sky.
Oh, I do long for the warmth of sun on my cheek. My eyes yearn now for the pop of spring blossoms, like cotton candy for the retina. To unburden oneself from the weight of wool jackets.... the sheer lightness of being wearing one's own skin again!
Yet, February is the anchor that holds us steadfast to winter moments. An undervalued stillness. A quiet that regenerates us. IT serves to both prepare and amplify our joyful bursting forth into a different kind of feverish pitch-----
SPRING!
Perhaps February is an unsung hero that showcases so beautifully the power of patience. Stillness.
Mining the dream.
It is the bare bones of winter which gifts us the distinct and delicate birthing of spring.
Wherever you go, there you are.
I met my shadow self again in the most unlikely of places. A triangle of deep grey luxurious bamboo lycra.
'What, what, now?... ' You say.
For me it's more, “Ack!” a la Bill the Cat!
The lovely Couture Designer, Genevieve, instructs us on the first day of a 5 weekend workshop to create our own garment.
Her prompts include--”hold the fabric,
go with the flow,
feel the bias,
the weight,
feel the energy—f l o w with it...”
Sounds simple enough.
But, after my 1st pin is secured in the mannequin, I find I am on a frozen ice jam more than the relaxed river of silk I imagined. The fabric tangles in my fingers as my mind tangles competing thoughts.
First I willfully force the direction and the shape of material- -the fabric resists.
It's an epic power struggle already.
And there I am, observing myself mocked by this unassuming triangle of cloth.
The deceptive simplicity of this act, draping fabric, allows me the clarity to see the four deadly horsemen of my inner apocalypse.
Clinging, controlling, comparing and complicating everything!
Suddenly, a new fifth horseman gallops towards the posse-- self criticism.
Perhaps you have encountered such bandits yourself?
The antidote to their poisoning effect?
Chill. Relax. Flow. Allow. Yield. Trust thyself.
Effort without tension.
Deep breath.
Unpin.
Start Again.
(This time, side step the dung left by the horsemen.)
When I do relax, forget my agenda and let my limbs and instincts weave together with the sensual flow of fabric (rather than my signature overthinking) the fabric and I both soften, like intimate dance partners and begin to trust one another. Together we begin to mold a dress form.
The sun is out and glints even brighter against the mirror of my inner reflections. Humbling lessons can step on our well shod feet in the most surprising encounters. Observing oneself in our own learning curves illuminates our deeply help patterns—unless we are able to hold beginners mind, without ego.
Not generally my strength.
Once I allowed the process, the process allowed for my inner flow and easily dissolved all the clinging and controlling into a refreshing drink of creativity; and time flew.
To visit the sublime couture designs of Ms. Genevieve herself,
visit her website at: http://www.genevievegrahamclothing.com/ A revelation in hand sewn originals.
So many paths to brilliance.
Undim your light.
nh 2017
A Brief Affair
I rather enjoy hiding out when the world is noisy and mayhem ensues. The dizzying days leading up to Christmas encircling us like a spiral staircase, spinning, heady; is the perfect time to seek refuge. The brief days and long nights of winter. I like the focus night time brings, and as the darkness begins at 4.30...there is lots of it to be savoured.
The permission to sleep. The permission to rest. Delicious.
And what better way to curl up and slow down, then with a book. A wandering, wondering, wild tour of unknown territory; down the rabbit hole of wooly imaginings. Or deft learning.
Books are intimacies we explore, relationships we dive into, with a clear beginning, middle and end. A good book is like a great friend or love affair. One is always happy to see them and it's almost always equally hard to say good bye.
Bittersweet partings catch your breath.
At times constant companions, some you crack the cover and never put down again; others you flip through and push aside with disdain. Occasionally, you may even go through a stack at your bedside; on hand for a brief dalliance at your whim, unaffected if you are reading other tomes.
Some reread books many times.
Some never finish them.... Abandoned. Heartbroken. A cold shudder shimmies through you at the thought of unread pages.
The beginning, like a worthy courtship.
A flirtation catches your eye. A flashy cover perhaps. Alliteration, or a metaphor, you simply cannot resist. Curiousity builds, a mysterious attraction..." Why this story? Why not the one with the clever booksleeve? The promise of an exciting plot? " No, no, it's definitely the quiet, plain bookish one in the corner that appeals most.
Then comes the excitement of the first date!
Your thoughts preoccupied all day by the object of your affection, waiting anxiously for that bewitching hour to gently touch for the first time. Fingertips barely skim the smooth surface. The deep inhale for the smell of your new book. The first clean page turn. Shudders.
And, like many love affairs, the ending comes all too quickly.
The writing was on the wall, you could feel the relationship thinning out through your fingers, lopsided, top heavy, the foundation eroded.
Reflecting back, perhaps it was about the time you spilled tomato juice on it's pages, unable to forgive your carelessness; or the flashing, dynamic prose, once such a vibrant challenge to decipher, until it cruelly pointed out your stupidity. It's unpredictable nature left you ragged and tense.
Perhaps there was a crisis when they realized you were reading other books as well, and they weren't into your lending library lifestyle.
Regardless, however they end, closing a beloved book is a heartache.
Sensing the end is nigh results in sadness, stalling, avoidance.....
There is a mourning period. Forlorn regret, it is over. Even deep sorrow.
Weeks go by before one can even think of fondling another. Leafing through cheap paperbacks, a mere distraction. The wounds, the papercuts, the stains, torn pages, missing passages....what was it all about? You try and reread a chapter or two only to discover,
“I don't remember that! Or, I skipped this section it was too upsetting....”
When you are really lucky, there comes along an epic book, so beguiling, it holds you enraptured.
And yet, one can never regret the mis-education that some book folly brings. It makes you the avid, discerning reader you are today. Still passionate, still curious, longing for more learning.
No one ever forgets their favourite reads. Imprinted timelessly like fossils in our soul.
***
The end of each year part of my 'ring in the new' ritual is collecting a bevy of titles that thrill me.
What will you be reading this new year? What reading did you celebrate in 2016?
.....and by my bedside waiting patiently for me:
Beyond Words: what animals think and feel Carl Safina
Fearless Arianna Huffington
My Life on the Road Gloria Steinem
Sapiens: a brief history of humankind Yuval Noah Harari
Sublime, expansive, juicy, vexing reading to you all, in 2017! Happy New Year!!
The permission to sleep. The permission to rest. Delicious.
And what better way to curl up and slow down, then with a book. A wandering, wondering, wild tour of unknown territory; down the rabbit hole of wooly imaginings. Or deft learning.
Books are intimacies we explore, relationships we dive into, with a clear beginning, middle and end. A good book is like a great friend or love affair. One is always happy to see them and it's almost always equally hard to say good bye.
Bittersweet partings catch your breath.
At times constant companions, some you crack the cover and never put down again; others you flip through and push aside with disdain. Occasionally, you may even go through a stack at your bedside; on hand for a brief dalliance at your whim, unaffected if you are reading other tomes.
Some reread books many times.
Some never finish them.... Abandoned. Heartbroken. A cold shudder shimmies through you at the thought of unread pages.
The beginning, like a worthy courtship.
A flirtation catches your eye. A flashy cover perhaps. Alliteration, or a metaphor, you simply cannot resist. Curiousity builds, a mysterious attraction..." Why this story? Why not the one with the clever booksleeve? The promise of an exciting plot? " No, no, it's definitely the quiet, plain bookish one in the corner that appeals most.
Then comes the excitement of the first date!
Your thoughts preoccupied all day by the object of your affection, waiting anxiously for that bewitching hour to gently touch for the first time. Fingertips barely skim the smooth surface. The deep inhale for the smell of your new book. The first clean page turn. Shudders.
And, like many love affairs, the ending comes all too quickly.
The writing was on the wall, you could feel the relationship thinning out through your fingers, lopsided, top heavy, the foundation eroded.
Reflecting back, perhaps it was about the time you spilled tomato juice on it's pages, unable to forgive your carelessness; or the flashing, dynamic prose, once such a vibrant challenge to decipher, until it cruelly pointed out your stupidity. It's unpredictable nature left you ragged and tense.
Perhaps there was a crisis when they realized you were reading other books as well, and they weren't into your lending library lifestyle.
Regardless, however they end, closing a beloved book is a heartache.
Sensing the end is nigh results in sadness, stalling, avoidance.....
There is a mourning period. Forlorn regret, it is over. Even deep sorrow.
Weeks go by before one can even think of fondling another. Leafing through cheap paperbacks, a mere distraction. The wounds, the papercuts, the stains, torn pages, missing passages....what was it all about? You try and reread a chapter or two only to discover,
“I don't remember that! Or, I skipped this section it was too upsetting....”
When you are really lucky, there comes along an epic book, so beguiling, it holds you enraptured.
And yet, one can never regret the mis-education that some book folly brings. It makes you the avid, discerning reader you are today. Still passionate, still curious, longing for more learning.
No one ever forgets their favourite reads. Imprinted timelessly like fossils in our soul.
***
The end of each year part of my 'ring in the new' ritual is collecting a bevy of titles that thrill me.
What will you be reading this new year? What reading did you celebrate in 2016?
.....and by my bedside waiting patiently for me:
Beyond Words: what animals think and feel Carl Safina
Fearless Arianna Huffington
My Life on the Road Gloria Steinem
Sapiens: a brief history of humankind Yuval Noah Harari
Sublime, expansive, juicy, vexing reading to you all, in 2017! Happy New Year!!
Leonard Cohen.
How could you leave us now, this wretched week of
agonizing defeat
hate and ignorance rise in the south
confusion and disbelief
Leonard Cohen
How could you leave us behind in this world?
I cried out in denial when I heard the news
the smoke and embers overthrew me
Did you know I loved you?
Touching the edge of sin renewed me
Not this week.
It cannot be true,
to lose this soulful starlight?
'we don't want it darker.'..I call out in vain
another paradox,
you killed the flame--
or did you leave a crack in the universe, for the light to seep in
Hallelujah.
eery quiet blankets my world
remembrance:
fallen soldiers,
fallen poets,
fallen civilians....
I don't want it darker,
let's light another flame.
Hallelujah.
11/11/2016
c. norma hoeppner
How could you leave us now, this wretched week of
agonizing defeat
hate and ignorance rise in the south
confusion and disbelief
Leonard Cohen
How could you leave us behind in this world?
I cried out in denial when I heard the news
the smoke and embers overthrew me
Did you know I loved you?
Touching the edge of sin renewed me
Not this week.
It cannot be true,
to lose this soulful starlight?
'we don't want it darker.'..I call out in vain
another paradox,
you killed the flame--
or did you leave a crack in the universe, for the light to seep in
Hallelujah.
eery quiet blankets my world
remembrance:
fallen soldiers,
fallen poets,
fallen civilians....
I don't want it darker,
let's light another flame.
Hallelujah.
11/11/2016
c. norma hoeppner
Travel parallels life. Due to the obvious fact that it is life. Yet, despite often idealized holiday expectations, things still happen. Having previously landed in a foreign hospital myself, I can attest to this wholeheartedly. Life is art and stranger than fiction. Hence, let us begin with a disclaimer. For the sake of this ambling tale, any resemblance to people either real or imagined is strictly coincidental. (*Also, my husband's name has been changed to protect his identity.)
Ready, set, GO. Let the NoNSEnSe begin.
Welcome to my September holiday review of a Canadian road trip from Toronto to Ottawa, Mont-Tremblant, Quebec City, Baie-Saint-Paul and Montreal, with a few other stops in between.
Toronto, that lively, self loving centre of the universe, was the first landing of our tour; initiating us quickly back into city life after sleepy Salt Spring Island. Taking the bus from the airport at yes, 2 a.m., due to delayed flights, was a peak back inside a life I no longer lead. The mere fact that there still was a bus running, never mind full, was a fun re-awakening into nocturnal options. Amidst young people heading to the next party, (it was Thursday night after all,) and costumed eccentrics including bag lady vendors travelling with their caravan of shopping carts onto the bus, the driver seemed unaffected.
Other delights, besides the joy of reconnecting with friends and family across the country, included the cheap and delicious fish tacos, the most terrific north Indian food, and the surprising fact that Toronto is in fact cheap! Cheap gas, cheap eats, cheap coffee, even public transit. Cheap. At least compared to BC. We are also lucky to know talented artist friends that took us to arts festivals, dance shows including the inventive Peggy Baker Dance Projects, TIFF events, and an evening punctuated by an all female Mariachi band from NYC, inspiring us as dancing fools under a convenient and spectacular full moon. No doubt about it, it was thrilling to be back in the hub of humanity.
I was filling up with culture, art, stimulation, OPTIONS, colour, flavours, friends, diversity---and realizing how much I miss and need the stimulation of the city and people, to balance the solitude of rural living.
Next up, Ottawa was our first exposure on the trip to a fully bilingual city, steeped in french, lively to the ear. Just walking down the street hearing the music of various accents mingling, blended with interchanging languages, is enchanting. This is always a favourite part of travel for me, the multicultural aspect. Human diversity and similarity.
Canada's peace tower, striking as the central axis of the Canadian Parliament buildings, is a bell and clock tower. It's majesty brought a deep sense of rarely felt patriotic pride swelling into my awareness. My heart filled with the beautiful warm September weather, pretty gardens and joy of mischievous gargoyles throughout the architecture; was suddenly transported to a harsh reality housed within.
The peace tower conceals a beautifully rendered memorial to fallen soldiers. It was disturbing and humbling to witness the sobering documentation of page after page of soldiers names. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Written beautifully, painstakingly. Ghost names scribed into gilded pages.
Lost souls of too many wars; WWI, WWII, Afghanistan, the Korean war....these books honour their official sacrifice.
A political town, overhearing lawyers briefing over dinner, attending a session of Parliament debating in the house; one realizes how far removed one is from influencing anything; yet how essential it is that we hold influence where we can. Voting. Writing. Petitions. Rallies. I believe this is how travel serves a sometimes loftier benefit and purpose of providing individuals expanded insight, education and when truly lucky, even awakenings and epiphanies. Befriending strangers too, are all worthy events to be celebrated.
Mont-Tremblant brought us just such a lovely surprise, awaiting us at the log cabin we booked. It was no easy feat to find at night, in the inky country blackness. Initially, intimidating barks by a sizable standard poodle and his schnauzer amigo, bellowed through the crisp night air.
The vendor was out. I was cold.
'Was this even the right place?' we wondered.
*'Larry' pushed boldly forward through the door to investigate, ignoring these two 'guard dogs', who quickly turned into welcoming mushy love gluttons. These two furry knuckleheads, Zorro and Naples, became our fast friends and soothed the jangled nerves of city dwelling and provided the requisite grounding and love that only animals can. (Any respectable pet owner understands of what I speak and pines on vacation, far away from their beloved.)
The next day saw a hike up the back hill with these enthusiastic and loving companions, a delightful vigorous hour with Zorro and Naples bounding ahead, to begin the day before another long drive. This air b and b, is worth the trip off the beaten path! (www.Rivkahrachel.com) Mont-Tremblant is lovely countryside any time of year, not just for it's celebrated ski season. Kai, a young German guest sharing our lodging was another reminder of the happenstance encounters that can serve to expand your world view and remind you to push past the parameters of your living room netflix menu.
Quebec City itself was our mutual favourite spot. It was lovely, charmed and historically interesting. The art galleries were impressive. The miles walked revealed layers of life, love, art, cuisine, and history. Food was plentiful. Our lodging was fantastic staying in old Quebec at a former nunnery, the first home for wayward girls in the late 1700's, the classic french design lent terrific European essence to savouring the day, the meal, your life and your coffee. Another successful air b and b, compliments of our fantastic host, Francine!
Quebec city appreciates artists; appreciates art. We attended so many art openings throughout the 3 week tour, several were happy walk by accidents. This trip lit up the thrill of city living again and got this gal out of the forest back into the concrete jungle, soaking up the inspiration of Quebec art legends, language and libations. We even lucked out on the festival de cinema, which had street screenings going all day long! A terrific place to rest your feet and fill your creative spirit.
Driving through the Charlevoix region, was perhaps the quaintest and most fullfilling day we had, complete with picturesque hilly vistas leading to Baie-Saint-Paul, another enchanting town on the St Lawrence. Full of art, joie de vivre, friendly gallery curators and artists, and wonderful bistros, Baie-St-Paul was in mid swing of a local artists festival as well. Quebec in general feels subjectively as though it supports its artists and culture better than other areas in Canada or at least celebrates them with more verve.
Montreal, a worthy world class destination; full of life; music, art, food and various cultures—didn't exactly welcome us with open arms, but rather the spit of a troubled vagrant, as we took our first steps onto city streets.
'Larry' was completely thrown off by his erroneous GPS and failed to listen to common sense and his wife's extraordinary inner compass. This resulted in the usual aches and pains locating our accommodation on a busy city street, struggling for change at the parking meter. An air b and b secured in a 'central walking neighbourhood', (read downtown Sherbrooke St) became a bit of a 13th floor walk up nightmare, due to a broken elevator. Ouch.
After our initial city spitter greeted us, the next person to speak to us literally blurted out,
“Does this look infected?” This was then punctuated by showcasing his scars from a recent 'accident.' We reassured him things seemed to be healing fine.
"Larry” was now already hating my previously beloved Montreal. In fairness, his attitude wasn't the only thing that coloured the not so great 2 days here. The ABSOLUTE WORST restaurant meal of my entire life on our last evening, (YES, recommended by trip advisor no less,) in this usually celebrated culinary city, also greatly served to dissuade favour. (The WORST, I tell you.) 'Larry' swears there was a hacked app cross firing information on that mishap, but I say, trust your gut, not your technology. Montreal is such a great walking city, just stroll around and move toward what calls to you; do not become a heat seeking missile on a mission to some obscure site a la 'Larry' style. [Travel tip for "Dummies": Do not wait until you are 'hangry' to negotiate and find a restaurant.]
Along with lousy sleep due to construction on our apartment complex and almost being tackled returning from the loo at night, mistaken as an intruder by a half asleep Larry,-- all conspired to sabotage impressions of a usually awesome city.
A rookie move, we also mistimed the closed day for Musee des Beaux Art, looking longingly past street sculpture at the treasures denied us through locked doors. This disappointment was offset by one sweet Persian cafe, a hidden jewel in the otherwise murky long corridor of yet even more street construction on a cold, damp morning.
Old Montreal did lend some lovely boutique stores featuring local clothes and jewellery designers to which my creative fashion heart beat faster, as well as a slew of interesting small galleries along the oldest street in Montreal, Rue de St Paul.
Notre-Dame Basilica, the oldest catholic church in Montreal founded in 1642, the original wooden chapel now housed by the current impressive structure built in 1824-29, opened in 1830. Upon entering, the luminous blue vaulted beauty transfixes and transports you as though somehow you are swimming underwater in a teal sea of treasures. It served as a curious soothing balm to the spirit, both arresting and calming to the weary traveller, otherwise struggling with her short sojourn through this city.
The morning we left did bring sunshine, warmth and the redemptive graces of warm Montreal bagels, fresh out of the 24 hr/a day available oven. Accompanied by a perfect latte made by the industrial cafe next door, we began to finally imbibe the finer qualities of a complex city. This along with the contrasts and curiousities of a Hasidic Jewish neighbourhood lent much more interest to a city seemingly plagued by particularly bad construction this year (as reported by locals), much excellent graffiti, (apologies on limited photo documentation) and too many angry or numb looking faces. (That might of just been 'Larry').
Travelling through the province of Quebec at large, you will find there will be no shortage of rich food to indulge in; including french onion soup, warm baguettes, croissants, chocolat chaud, crepes, poutine, a tremendous emphasis on meat particularly pork,[ frightening to this current pescetarian,(wannabe vegan ]and of course wine flowing readily. poutine, for the random non-Canadian reading this, is a Quebec invention of french fries, covered in cheese curds, then topped with gravy. I would call it 'heart attack on a plate', but I can see how, Poutine, has more cachet! One does naturally query, 'what is the life expectancy in Quebec anyway, with all this meat, bacon and cheese?'
One of the most enjoyable meals we had on our journey was in Baie-Saint-Paul, at the Chez Bouquet Eco-bistro; along with the 2 hour lunch we savoured at the Musee national des beaux-arts du Quebec situated in the sprawling Plaines d'Abraham. (I am getting both hungry and nostalgic just writing this.) The french understand the way food was meant to be enjoyed; sensually!
Kingston’s prettiness was a pleasant surprise although admittedly arrived at accidentally, as a washroom break detour. It was a relief to get off the busy trans Canada expansive highway encroaching on landscapes and wildlife, demonstrated by the all too frequent heartbreaking road kill of coyotes, racoons, and various other unfortunate creatures. The tragic weight of human influence. The serious lack of recycling options on this trip was another disheartening concern along this continuum, although Ontario definitely out performed Quebec on this front.
Kingston, at the mouth of the impressive St Lawrence meeting the great lakes; was a very fitting lunch stop for us personally. Many moons ago, “Larry” had arrived in Canada as a young boy sailing down the St Lawrence after 7 days on the Atlantic ocean. We had a lovely lunch under a spectacular weeping willow, one of my all time favourite trees, as he reminisced about his journey immigrating to Canada. A familiar tale for many fellow Canadians. A brash group of young thug sea gulls also joined us for lunch, (it is unclear as to where they originated) squawking about and providing entertainment. This, along with the memory of the recent final tour of the Tragically HIP just weeks prior, lent an odd poignancy to our stroll down the Kingston streets. Another distinctly Canadian landmark moment to wind down our trip.
A short flight from Vancouver back to SSI was smooth and pretty, exposing the intense greens and blueness of the west coast. It's definitely a different world out here. I am deeply grateful for the vast and varied beauty and gifts of this entire nation. As a prairie person in my bones, I felt happy throughout our small eastern Canadian tour; lighter and a sense of being ''at home'' throughout Canada. Wide open spaces were found and savoured. This is a great nation! And I feel my Canadian pride deepened as a result of this 3 week dapple into other bits and bites.
On our first night back home; surrounded by abandoned suitcases and the laundry machine whirring; I turned to kiss “Larry” goodnight and lay my weary head to rest. I smiled the deeply felt smile of blissful, quiet, gratitude. And lo, an owl doth hoot, ushering me into peaceful slumber.
'Cause it remains a timeless truth; ' there just ain't no place like home.'
True Story.
[Now, get out there and explore. Put your phones down first. Trip advisor be damned, there is much more to be gleaned with your inner compass and eyes wide open. Safe travels.]
Playfully yours, nh.
'Action is eloquence', as Shakespeare defines.
It stands to reason then, that the inverse is also true; indecision is paralysis. For example, I have had upteen ideas for blogs in the past 3 months and yet, no posted output. Topics from competitiveness in the creative nature, to Olympian inspiration, to travel logs, reflections on aging, agism, summertime blues, reviews of canadian cities, culture and landscape. So, why the inactivity then?
A constricting combination of self doubt, (what's original? does it matter? Why am I doing this?) and faltering indecisiveness have restricted my writing muscles into a frozen cramp of creative rigor mortis. It could be called the infamous writer's block, but perhaps more fitting; indolence, distraction, and generalized anxiety and neurosis overwhelming the creative circuit. Routine and discipline are important for writing, I am bad at both, at least with prose.
Sharing can feel unnerving and vulnerable at best, even privately and publicly? Well, let me tell you, it takes courage and a bit of steely resolve; Or perhaps some would rather say, a bout of hapless foolishness and an oversized ego, to post your own words to the Black hole of the cyber universe.
The frozen knot of my immobilization comes in part from constant evaluating and comparison;
Is this of value?(how?) Does it matter? (to whom?) DO I and others even enjoy it? This last question is the only one I can adequately answer.
(So please do comment, cheer, jeer, or complain...as civilly as possible, I humbly request of you)
Naturally, certain subjects appeal more to some then others. Some reflections hit the spot, others simply hit a nerve. It is always a matter of perspective. Life itself is subjective. Reading material, creative contributions, endeavours, what one deems an adventure is always very personal, like choosing a perfume. Of course, these days there are far too many allergens and asthma episodes to be wearing fragrance. It is indeed a complicated era, to be marching through one's journey on Terra firma.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, … '' this opening held serious impact as a young girl when I first read Charles Dickens' wise words from the opening of A tale of Two Cities. His words have indeed staid the test of time and could be held true in fact, of ANY era in history.
His lines in fact, encapsulate the very nature of living. Today, we work at finding the joy, being in the moment, appreciating the now, while struggling with stress about the bleak global future, reacting to news and demands of the day and juggling the crazy busyness of modern life. Feeling at times overwhelmed can even lead to over-correcting this until a state of underwhelm is achieved, or numbness, creating a strange creepy stress of it's own.
Is there an antidote to the angst of this cycle?
It may simply be taking action.
The art of making swift decisions is POWERFUL. I think it is also a learned skill for many of us. Swift, to be clear, is also different then rash or impulsive. It simply avoids the dithering, the procrastination. Decisions free up our energy, bringing clarity, focus, and renewal. Even when the choice at hand is very difficult, painful or complex, a decision can launch us into the momentum of healing, letting go and feeling lighter; which is often energized and more expansive. As the buddha teaches, 'pain happens, but suffering is optional.'
Sometimes the decision should be simple, and isn't...say which shirt, shampoo or peanut butter to buy! One can get buried under copious detail researching ingredients, company practices and price comparisons; the mass options and choices of everyday presented us in today's western world is utterly astonishing, gluttonous and confusing. And potentially a HUGE time sucking machine. Three choices, done. Seventeen choices........23? ..........um...........???? Wtf.
This is where, and why, I am training myself to be decisive. This self induced, self administered study program has admittedly been initiated now for a few decades with intermittently poor results or forgotten application; nevertheless, I am now happy to report that I have seen much improvement recently.
Therefore, in the spirit of decisiveness, hence action, I am posting this tonight.
And, as I have just returned from a spacious trip to parts of western Canada, the next blog will be a travelogue of the grand road tour from Toronto to Ottawa, Mont -Tremblant, Quebec City, Baie Sainte-Paul, Montreal and Kingston: complete with cultural hilights, spotlights, fashion, heartwarming animals, culinary delights and disasters, all seen through the golden fall lens of September's soft light.
There, another decision. I'm feeling chuffed.
Now you try it! YES! If there is something that has been weighing on your mind, or dwelling in your proverbial background taking up valuable real estate; and you simply haven't yet made decisions about what ails you, just try it. Whatever the nature of the matter. Chuck it, chop it, recycle it,; call them, block them, invest in it or sell it. Enroll, drop out. Invest in yourself. Sure, outcomes may remain uncertain but notice how you feel after a decision; isn't that lovely?
Your own energy rises again and focus returns. Action is eloquence after all.
Next up:
Part one: Finding one's inner compass through travel.
Part deux: Glad to be Canadian: and here's why.
Stay tuned.
in gratitude, NH. oct/2016
It stands to reason then, that the inverse is also true; indecision is paralysis. For example, I have had upteen ideas for blogs in the past 3 months and yet, no posted output. Topics from competitiveness in the creative nature, to Olympian inspiration, to travel logs, reflections on aging, agism, summertime blues, reviews of canadian cities, culture and landscape. So, why the inactivity then?
A constricting combination of self doubt, (what's original? does it matter? Why am I doing this?) and faltering indecisiveness have restricted my writing muscles into a frozen cramp of creative rigor mortis. It could be called the infamous writer's block, but perhaps more fitting; indolence, distraction, and generalized anxiety and neurosis overwhelming the creative circuit. Routine and discipline are important for writing, I am bad at both, at least with prose.
Sharing can feel unnerving and vulnerable at best, even privately and publicly? Well, let me tell you, it takes courage and a bit of steely resolve; Or perhaps some would rather say, a bout of hapless foolishness and an oversized ego, to post your own words to the Black hole of the cyber universe.
The frozen knot of my immobilization comes in part from constant evaluating and comparison;
Is this of value?(how?) Does it matter? (to whom?) DO I and others even enjoy it? This last question is the only one I can adequately answer.
(So please do comment, cheer, jeer, or complain...as civilly as possible, I humbly request of you)
Naturally, certain subjects appeal more to some then others. Some reflections hit the spot, others simply hit a nerve. It is always a matter of perspective. Life itself is subjective. Reading material, creative contributions, endeavours, what one deems an adventure is always very personal, like choosing a perfume. Of course, these days there are far too many allergens and asthma episodes to be wearing fragrance. It is indeed a complicated era, to be marching through one's journey on Terra firma.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, … '' this opening held serious impact as a young girl when I first read Charles Dickens' wise words from the opening of A tale of Two Cities. His words have indeed staid the test of time and could be held true in fact, of ANY era in history.
His lines in fact, encapsulate the very nature of living. Today, we work at finding the joy, being in the moment, appreciating the now, while struggling with stress about the bleak global future, reacting to news and demands of the day and juggling the crazy busyness of modern life. Feeling at times overwhelmed can even lead to over-correcting this until a state of underwhelm is achieved, or numbness, creating a strange creepy stress of it's own.
Is there an antidote to the angst of this cycle?
It may simply be taking action.
The art of making swift decisions is POWERFUL. I think it is also a learned skill for many of us. Swift, to be clear, is also different then rash or impulsive. It simply avoids the dithering, the procrastination. Decisions free up our energy, bringing clarity, focus, and renewal. Even when the choice at hand is very difficult, painful or complex, a decision can launch us into the momentum of healing, letting go and feeling lighter; which is often energized and more expansive. As the buddha teaches, 'pain happens, but suffering is optional.'
Sometimes the decision should be simple, and isn't...say which shirt, shampoo or peanut butter to buy! One can get buried under copious detail researching ingredients, company practices and price comparisons; the mass options and choices of everyday presented us in today's western world is utterly astonishing, gluttonous and confusing. And potentially a HUGE time sucking machine. Three choices, done. Seventeen choices........23? ..........um...........???? Wtf.
This is where, and why, I am training myself to be decisive. This self induced, self administered study program has admittedly been initiated now for a few decades with intermittently poor results or forgotten application; nevertheless, I am now happy to report that I have seen much improvement recently.
Therefore, in the spirit of decisiveness, hence action, I am posting this tonight.
And, as I have just returned from a spacious trip to parts of western Canada, the next blog will be a travelogue of the grand road tour from Toronto to Ottawa, Mont -Tremblant, Quebec City, Baie Sainte-Paul, Montreal and Kingston: complete with cultural hilights, spotlights, fashion, heartwarming animals, culinary delights and disasters, all seen through the golden fall lens of September's soft light.
There, another decision. I'm feeling chuffed.
Now you try it! YES! If there is something that has been weighing on your mind, or dwelling in your proverbial background taking up valuable real estate; and you simply haven't yet made decisions about what ails you, just try it. Whatever the nature of the matter. Chuck it, chop it, recycle it,; call them, block them, invest in it or sell it. Enroll, drop out. Invest in yourself. Sure, outcomes may remain uncertain but notice how you feel after a decision; isn't that lovely?
Your own energy rises again and focus returns. Action is eloquence after all.
Next up:
Part one: Finding one's inner compass through travel.
Part deux: Glad to be Canadian: and here's why.
Stay tuned.
in gratitude, NH. oct/2016
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