Counting down

It is the first day of the last month of the year, a.k.a. December 1. Outside all I can hear is wind blowing through the trees. It is a clear blue sunny day. The wind is shaking the Autumn leaves from the trees, sending them scuttling along the pavement. Tree limbs are breaking and falling all over the city and every now and then I hear sirens heading off to help someone remove the heavy limbs from a shattered roof or a crushed car. I am learning to love all the trees in this city. The Japanese maple out back that is still clinging to the delicate, deep red crumpled palms that adorn its branches. The huge oaks out front that, if I close my eyes, sound like the froth subsiding along the shore after a wave has broken. It is a new language, the language of trees, and I am accustoming my body to living beneath the vast canopy as much as I am accustoming my ears to the never ending sound of wind that is one of the few weather features that distinguishes winter in this part of the world from the rest of the year.

The other feature that distinguishes northern California is the fog that seeps in soft like a barefoot thief in the night, enveloping the trees and lamp posts so that when I look out the living room window with my cup of hot tea, there seems to be something mysterious about the street we live on. I feel as though I am looking out onto a scene from a mystery novel, and as though any minute a carriage is going to come clapping down the street and a shady character with a top hat and an upturned collar is going to emerge from it. I kind of love it the way the fog blurring everything gives our otherwise picturesque neighbourhood an air of mystery.

I have been thinking a good deal about the fact that this is December, and about the fact that exactly one year ago I was beginning Reverb10, a month-long commitment to write a blog entry using specific prompts that were emailed to me every day for the month of December. Gwen, the woman who hosted Reverb10 just sent an email out yesterday informing the thousands of people that took part last year that she is not going to host it this year, and that we should do our own thing. Last year she was in Colorado. This year she is in Mexico, and I guess the beach just doesn't scream "write your prompts!!" like the snow of Colorado did. I can totally understand that, but I have to admit that I had kind of been expecting to receive a prompt today to start me off on the journey through December to the new year, so when I woke up this morning I found myself wondering how I could come up with my own way of bringing 2011 to a close and preparing for a new year.

I have been feeling ready for a new direction for this blog. Last December was all about reflecting back on the previous year. I think reflecting back has its purpose, but over the last few weeks I have made a number of changes in my life, and I am really feeling ready to be here, right now--not reflecting back over the last year and not reaching forward into the future. As I type this I am realizing that this was one of the reasons that I created this blog: to create a space in which I could write about presence. It has been interesting that since I began, I have written a good deal more about the past than the present. So the fact that I am finally ready to be writing about the present a year and a half after I started this blog is rather amusing to me.

So as we move into December you may notice a shift in my writing. I am going to start including a good deal more creative writing into my blog. I may throw in some poetry or quotes that I come across here and there. I am going to be using this space as a place to explore where I want to take my blog this month. I am hoping that my process generates some questions or ideas that stimulate your own creative energies as well. As we move through the month, I would love to receive your feeback on which entries you love and would like to see more of. If anything I write or share stimulates your own creative process I would also really love it if you would share images, thoughts, ideas or links to your own blog entry in the comments section below. If you are having trouble making comments, select "anonymous" in the comments pull down menu and then just sign your name after your comment. I do not want to miss out on hearing from you because you are having trouble leaving a comment.

I am really excited to be heading into December with you, friends! I am looking forward to the month ahead and to the possibility for more creative sharing and dialogue. I wish you all a wonderful month, and look forward to seeing you right here tomorrow!

The thing about presence

The past few days were spectacular. Spectacular because I got to immerse myself in a great deal of natural beauty, and surround myself with incredible new friends.

I started the weekend off with Friday evening devotions at the home of some close friends. Many of the writings we read at our devotions this week were about forgiveness, and how, when someone offends us, we must immediately forgive them. I find this to be a challenging one, and we had a great discussion about forgiveness in our everyday lives, which gave me a lot to reflect on and practice over the next week.

After devotions we had a great BBQ prepared by the parents' of the hostess, who were visiting from Puerto Rico. I have never met anyone from Puerto Rico before, and being such an island enthusiast, I was interested to hear all about the island, and what life is like there. It is interesting to me that no matter where an island is in the world, certain themes run like a current through all islands and island cultures. Like what? Like the high rate of unemployment. The high rate of emigration. A strong sense of community and family. The lower salaries than on mainlands. I have never felt much at home in the country I was born in, but then I have never been to islands that are considered part of the US, and I have always been curious if I would feel more at home if I were living on a US island territory.

Saturday morning began early with a free yoga class with Yoga Aross America, at McKinley Park. Yoga Across America is trying to make yoga accessible for communities all over the United States free of charge. It is a great initiative started by Gina Garcia. This weekend we had live music, provided by Alma Desnuda, which created an inspiring and uplifting atmosphere for the 268 folks that turned up to practice yoga on Saturday.

There was a lovely breeze. The music slowed and picked up tempo based on what we were doing. The birds were chirping away, and it was just an ideal way to practice. At the end of class the band played a number of extra tunes, and some woman even served homemade granola in cups to anyone who wanted some.

On Sunday morning some friends and I cycled over to Orphan for brunch, followed by a bike ride out to see a home that one of my friends has just made an offer on. The bike ride took us out along the river, over a bridge, and along the levee. The river was deep blue. The trees arched over us, and the path stretched out endlessly ahead. We made it to the house in about 45 minutes and sat down on the back porch to enjoy the view of a man-made lake, complete with fountain, and a lovely cool breeze. As we prepared to leave, I discovered that my bike had had a rather nasty encounter with some thorns, and had two very flat tires, which refused to re-inflate, even for a short distance. Two of my friends decided to ride back into town to get their car, and then come back and pick myself and my friend Meredith, who kindly offered to stay with me, up. Meredith and I decided to walk to the nearest Starbucks to get out of the heat, so we took off along the scorching roadway, pushing my flailing bicycle alongside us. We had made it to the Starbucks and sat down with our cold drinks when we received a call from our friends who were supposed to be coming to get us: one of them had two flat tires also, so they were walking to a bike shop to get the tires mended.

Long story short: if you want to take a short bike expedition, stay on the paved trails. Apparently sliding down the side of the levee to get to the house we were going to check out was where we picked up the thorns. We did finally get picked up, and went to grab Mexican takeout and then head to the park for a picnic with a bunch of friends who had been patiently waiting around for us to make it back into town! We spent the evening relaxing on the grass, playing bocce (my Italian grandfather would have been well-pleased!), munching on tacos, and eventually heading off to Gunthers, one of the most well-known local ice-cream joints, to end the day.

I got home last night feeling truly happy, and realizing that I had been so immersed in what I was doing that I had not stopped to think about any other place all day long. This blog is all about presence, and what I realized yesterday is that it is when I actually stop thinking so much about presence and absence, and just enjoy where I am, what I am doing, and the people who I am spending time with that I am most fully here. The thing about presence, it seems, is that it seems to arrive unexpected when we stop thinking and analyzing so much and just get on with life with everything we've got to give. You knew that already, didn't you? Just think how much time you would have saved me if you had just commented on my first entry, way back when. Maybe it's time for a blog title change? ;-)

Speaking of enjoying where I am, in my last entry I talked about the farm I volunteer on, Soil Born, and how gorgeous our youth garden is looking. I had meant to upload some photos, but I had a small accident with my camera a few weeks ago when I was frolicking through the crashing waves of the Pacific, and so I had to borrow a friend's camera to take photos of our garden, and was waiting for him to send me some of the shots so that I could share them with you. He kindly emailed those to me this weekend, so I present to you our colourful youth garden:

 

  

Happy Monday evening, people! And have a great Tuesday!

A pattern of hope

"Never lose thy trust in God. Be thou ever hopeful, for the bounties of God never cease to fall upon man. If viewed from one perspective they seem to decrease, but from another they are full and complete. Man is under all conditions immersed in a sea of God's blessings. Therefore, be thou not hopeless under any circumstances, but rather be firm in thy hope." -Abdu'l-Baha 

It is a Sunday night. It has been a very full week, and is turning out to be an equally full weekend. We have been having lots of rain over the last week. Rain that falls like heavy lace over the city, and I find myself feeling like I am moving through a dreamworld, the sound of rain falling becoming as much a natural rhythm of my days and nights as the sound of my own heartbeat. Yesterday it stopped raining for a while, and I headed out for a long walk through the park near our home. Last week it was so warm that many of the fruit and nut trees in the area started blossoming. When I passed underneath one such tree on my walk during the break in the storm the ground was covered in a blanket of white blossom petals and the air was sweet. I looked up through the branches and saw a lattice of snow-white petals and the shock of blue sky shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces peeking through the spaces left between branches and flowers. 

I have been reflecting a lot on hope lately. Mainly because I have been really struggling with having been out of work for going on nine months now. It has been an amazing year, but I am ready to be working full time again. Thus far, however, my readiness for work has not been met with an enthusiastic show of hands clamoring to compete for my services. The quote at the beginning of this blog entry is one that I love from the Baha'i writings. It is relatively easy to be conscious about being immersed in a sea of God's blessings when I have full time work. It is far more challenging in my current situation. 

I have been challenging myself this week to work on consciously noticing things that I am grateful for throughout my day and night. Things that are full of beauty and hope. Today I was woken by a friend wanting to go out to breakfast. I joined her at the Tower Cafe, which is one of the coolest cafes in the city in my opinion -- not so much because of the food, although there are a number of dishes on the menu that I love, but more so because of the environment. The decorations in the Tower make me feel as though I have stepped into a Friday Kaklo painting. Masks, tapestries, vases filled with bright, fresh, colourful flowers; animal skulls and hats; Buddhist statues and gods; tropical-feeling plants; colourful paintings. The tower is bursting forth colour and texture, and feels like a convergence point for just about every wild, vibrant colour-loving painter you can imagine. The restaurant also has a lovely garden that feels like an oasis in the middle of the city. Sitting in the garden this morning with the sunlight filtering down through the trees across our table, Meredith and I enjoyed rich conversation and a delicious meal. She had just come from the farmer's market, and graced out table with a large bouquet of brightly coloured flowers. 

After breakfast I walked home along a beautiful boulevard lined with huge oaks. The sun was shining down through them, and the bare branches were a tangled mass slicing up the sky into thousands of pieces. 

This afternoon I headed to the other side of town to meet up with two other friends. I had to walk through a very luxurious neighbourhood in order to reach the Greek restaurant that they wanted to meet at. The homes in this neighbourhood are all older and are beautiful. Many of them are brick, and some have trees outside whose trunks are so large that it would take at least three people holding hands to span its total circumference with their arms. I passed homes with gardens that seemed to be embracing the homes, and gardens behind fences that were lush with citrus trees, blossoming vines and roses. I also passed trees that were blossoming all along the length of their graceful limbs. One tree, literally exploding with pink blossoms, was so sweet that I stopped beneath it, stood on my toes, pressed my face into a thick effusion of colour, and inhaled deeply. For a brief moment I wished I were a bee so that I could spend my entire spring fumbling among these blossoms, and immersing myself in their sweetness. 

The friends that I met up with have a sweet son named Teo, who just recently turned one. He is learning to walk, so after he patiently sat through our meal, we went out for a short walk in the sunshine so he could strut his strut and show us his stuff. There is something about watching a child take in the world for the first time. Examine a stick. Pick up an acorn. Focus on balancing his body perfectly so that he could propel himself forward. His eyes were wide and clear and focused. Despite tripping and having to sit down or fall backwards against his father's legs on a regular basis, his gaze was full of hope and enthusiasm for the experience he was having. He was completely present. Every nerve ending in tune with his environment. 

Later this afternoon I sat and read my book about the Dominican Republic at Temple, a local coffee shop that has delicious drinks, before walking home. My favourite drink, called "bliss," is peppermint tea steamed with creamy soy and coconut milks, and sweetened with honey. And it really does take me into a blissful state when I drink it! I walked all the way home from the coffee shop, passing through a piazza with a fountain whose water droplet "haze" seemed to hang around the flow of water like a halo, and was illuminated by the sunlight like dust particles; passing through a park lush and green, and filled with couples walking hand in hand; along street after street of trees whose branches were rooted in the blue sky, a mirror image of their roots rooted rooted in the valley soil.

This evening my parents and I were invited to the home of friends for supper. My dad was busy studying, so mom and I headed off across the city to spend the evening with a couple who are two of my closest friends. Azadeh, who is from Iran, usually does the cooking, however tonight her husband Nabil, who is Egyptian, cooked us a delicious meal of salad, soup, rice, salmon and wild shrimp. It was delicious. Our meal was followed by glasses of Persian tea and chocolate truffles. I have mentioned Nabil and Azadeh before. They make me laugh endlessly, and they tell the best stories about the ridiculous situations that first generation immigrants to the United States get themselves into. Our night tonight was filled and overflowing with laughter and deep discussion about faith, service, sacrifice and community. We drove home under a crisp sky flooded with light from a clear-faced pale yellow moon.

Noticing the small details or moments of beauty does not change the fact that I still do not have a full time job. But taking the time to notice these details does help me to become more conscious of the blessings that I am immersed in all the time. Every day has such moments of beauty and joy. Developing a pattern of stopping to notice these things and feel gratitude for them comes easily to some. But for others it requires practice. As the day comes to a close, I am pausing and taking notice of how many moments of joy and beauty my life is blessed with. A sea is made up of wave upon wave of movement towards and away from the shoreline. Sometimes the tide is headed in. Sometimes it is headed out. Either way it is still known by the same name of "sea". And the retreat of the sea -- the regathering of its energies-- is, seen from a different perspective, only a sign of another upcoming rush forward even further onto the shore.

Willing to Not Know

This last week I made a big decision. I decided that I am going to give myself a chance to write. This is no small feat, having been unemployed for going on nine months now. There are things I want to do: like attend friends’ weddings; travel to Iceland, Central and South America, China, and Japan; go out to delicious, colourful meals with friends and family; yoga classes. The list is endless, and it all costs money which I am not, in this precise moment, actually earning.

Talking to close friends over the last few weeks, it seems like we all come to places in life where, although at some level we know with absolute certainty that this is just a finite low period in our lives, we ask ourselves where we are headed? What are we intended to do with our lives? What purpose do our lives have? Ultimately all of these questions lead me to the question: how is my life of value to the world?

I don’t know about you, but I know when I am in a space where these questions are spinning in my head and unsettled in my heart, the silent answer that I never give voice to because I generally would rather people not know is “none.” It’s not that I actually think that I am not of value as a member of the human race. It’s just that for brief windows of time I seem to be momentarily unable to see the larger picture – how this valley fits into the mountain range of life.

I was reading a book this past week. It is called My Grandfather’s Blessings. It is written by Rachel Naomi Remen, who is a physician with a remarkable gift for looking through whatever might be momentarily obscuring a person’s innate spiritual truth and identifying and nurturing the gems that lie hidden within that individual’s soul. Fortunately, in addition to working with individuals, Rachel is also a master story-teller, and she recognizes the power of sharing the stories of the many miraculous lives that have rubbed up against her own over the years with the rest of us. You know how when you meet a truly remarkable person, and their story inspires you to push onwards on your own journey? Well her book is infused with story after story of inspiring lives lived with integrity, passion and courage.

I had lunch yesterday with one of my best friends. Like most of my friends, who want to see me happy and feeling like a valuable member of society again, she was asking if I had found work yet. I explained to her that I was trying to give myself a chance to explore my writing as a career. She suggested I get a part time job to supplement my income while I do this. She also explained that if I told someone in India or China that I was taking time to figure out what I wanted to dedicate my life’s energies to – to explore work that is a natural expression of who I am instead of pouring my energy into work that fits the mould of what others would deem acceptable or successful for a woman with my background and abilities – that they would shake their head and say I must be a spoiled brat. I was shocked. Not that someone would think this way, because I recognize that for those who are just trying to put food on the table for their families, following your heart is usually not a priority. I was shocked that she would share this with me because she had been told this by an elderly woman in China as a young woman when she was trying to figure out her own path in life. But I think that I was most shocked because her comment gave voice to a silent question that hangs over my head every day: what right do I have to follow my heart and find work that I love when so many people around me are struggling? And what makes me think that I will have anything of value to say that people will actually want to read?

I have a nagging suspicion that I am not the first writer to ask myself if I really have anything to say that has not already been said, and said better than I could ever say it. Still, part of what makes the illusion of being in an endless valley of uncertainty so hard, is that when you are in it, it feels like you are there alone, and that you are the only person ever to confront your own purpose in life in this way.

Thankfully, we all have friends who are more than happy to shatter the illusion that nobody else has ever wondered what their purpose in life is. And we have books that share the stories and dreams of other people, who just like you and I, went through periods where they were standing on a cliff trying to decide whether it would be better to remain on the cliff enjoying the view that they knew was certain or to leap off into the unknown, hoping that the act of faith they were taking by leaping would induce wings to grow in the place where none had existed before. As Ruth Naomi Remen says, “sometimes someone dreams a dream for us all.”

People ask me whether I think there is a market for what I have to say. I feel myself getting defensive, and then I realize that it is a valid question coming from a society where we are taught over and over that only certain forms of expression are valuable. When I look back through my still relatively short life, there is not one person I have come into contact with who has not had something of value to share, and more often than not those friends and acquaintances who have not inspired me in some specific way are simply those who I have not listened to. If I gave them my time and my focus, I feel quite certain they would have stories that would move me, inspire me, make me feel something that I did not feel before.

One of the stories that moved me in Rachel Naomi Remen’s book is about an epiphany she had once while walking through a labyrinth. Last fall a friend of mine did a one-day workshop on the life of the soul. She had us all drive out to a beautiful remote area on the north shore of Prince Edward Island. The beach was endless and open, the waves were crashing on the shore, white and frothy, the water itself the colour of grey pearls. The air was salty. Behind the beach were tall sand dunes and behind them a scrubland of wild rosehip bushes covered in ruby coloured rosehips. Behind the bushes was a stand of evergreen trees through which wove an intricate network of walking paths. My friend explained to everyone present that we were going to walk silently through the forest in a sort of walking meditation. Our walk would end at a labyrinth made of shells collected from the beach. We would stand silently around the labyrinth and then slowly and silently walk it, leaving a space of a few minutes between us so that while we were having a collective experience in that we were doing it together, we were also very much on an individual journey with plenty of space for personal thoughts, prayer and reflection. 

I have to admit that I had my uncertainties about it when she explained what we were going to do. I had not expected any such activity when I agreed to attend her workshop. But I decided to open myself to the moment, and found it to be a deep and profoundly moving experience. 

My own experience made Rachel Naomi Remen’s insights more profound. She explains that when you walk into a labyrinth, you seem to be headed right towards the centre, when in reality you are as far from the centre as you could possibly be. And that right before you reach the centre, you are actually walking near the outermost edge of the labyrinth. Her epiphany was that although many times in life it had seemed that she was headed in what seemed to be a random direction, perhaps every step had in fact been very purposefully headed toward the centre. Perhaps, she says, the times that seem to be meaningless or wasteful only seem random because she is still on her path, and that one day, when she is at the centre point, looking outwards, she will realize that the perspective afforded by being at the end of life might completely alter the value and meaning of every one of her life’s experiences.

I was talking to a friend on the phone today back in Canada who also feels as though she is walking through a valley right now. She was with me when I walked that labyrinth back on Prince Edward Island so I shared Rachel Naomi Remen’s story with her. She told me that it resonated with her, and reminded her of something her mother had shared with her once: “Be completely present in whatever moment you are living, and enjoy that moment.” She explained that it was easier to do this when her kids were young and at home. That she enjoyed being a mother. But presence is harder for her now that her kids are married and living on the opposite side of the world. We agreed that presence always seems easier in the past than it is in the present. She and I are in different places in life, but our dream of finding joy, purpose and acceptance in the present moment is shared.

Some of us are better at giving ourselves permission to pursue and succeed at what we love. For some of us, giving ourselves permission to follow our hearts takes practice. Rachel Naomi Remen says that “wisdom comes most easily to those who have the courage to embrace life without judgement and are willing to not know, sometimes for a long time.”

Today is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. In California the leaves are still green, the cool breeze blowing through the oaks the only sign that we are finally moving into fall. I woke up this morning grasping for something to move me into this day, and am ending it feeling grateful for many friends that enrich my life. Friends that question, reflect, remind me to laugh and look to the natural world for wonder and awe and healing. And friends that believe in me when I am in a valley. I am also thankful for words and letters. For the gift of writing. And for the recognition that I am one of those who is going to have to learn how to give myself permission to pursue my dreams. And to succeed. 

Little gifts of summer

I woke up this morning to sunshine streaming in my windows and the sound of birdcall outside in the garden. There are many things I find challenging about life in California, but the weather is not one of them. Having grown up with hot summers characterized by long lazy days hanging out on the beach and swimming in the crystal clear turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, sitting in cafes sipping cold Nescafe frappes and long nights out at outdoor bars until the wee hours of the morning, anything less than scorching hot weather makes me feel like I have skipped a season altogether. A glance at the newspaper tells me it is going to be my kind of day: 40 and counting.

I have been living, or as I tend to tell people, “visiting” California since May, having decided to uproot myself from my home of the last six years on Prince Edward Island, Canada at the beginning of February and blaze a trail through the snow covered contours of the continent in my Toyota Corolla, visiting friends and places of significance to me along the way. I moved to Prince Edward Island to do my Master’s degree in Island Studies in 2004, graduated in 2008 and then stayed on past graduation to get hands on experience working on Raymond Loo’s Springwillow Farms and Anne’s PEI Farm, a group of innovative and creative farmers scattered across the Island who are developing new markets for Island produce. The grant that was supporting me ended in January 2010 and something in me kept telling me that it was time for a change.

Despite the objections of my family and a number of friends (“Alone? You are driving a used vehicle across the country in the middle of winter alone?”) and my own uncertainty about leaving a community I had come to love and appreciate so deeply, I left Canada on the heels of a snowstorm, spending the next six weeks weaving my way through northern Maine, Montreal, Connecticut, Chicago, Milwaukee, Madison, rural Iowa and Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Arizona and California. My first stop that was not snow-covered was Tucson. My destination was my parents’ home in Sacramento, California.

I have been in California for about three months now. I intended to use this as a base to catapult me into my next adventure: farming in Latin America or teaching English in China. Instead, after my initial push to send out my resume and connect to potential work opportunities yielded no results, I have spent the last three months spinning my wheels in a seemingly ever-deeper rut in the road.

This past week the news of the death of a very close friend, Ruth Hampson, helped me to realize that it was time to change my approach to my new surroundings and situation. I had driven out of my way on my journey west to see Ruth. I had been visiting a friend in Boulder, Colorado, and intended to head from there to Prescott Arizona. Ruth was living in an elderly people’s home in Salt Lake City, Utah. I was starting to get a bit tired of all the intense driving in bad weather conditions, so driving into prime ski country was not terribly appealing at the time, but I had not seen Ruth in years, and at 90, I was not sure when I would get to see her again, so I took the detour and stopped to see her for a weekend.

I had met Ruth when I was about 8 years old when she and her husband Arthur moved to the Mediterranean island of Cyprus from the US in their 70s. They made a strong impression on me as a child, moving around the world to a country where they did not speak the language, buying mopeds as their primary means of transportation and bringing along their mountain bikes for when they felt the need for more vigorous exercise. Ruth was a beautiful, classy and mentally sharp woman with a courage that seemed unshakeable. She had been approached to do movies as a young woman but decided to turn away from the world of film because she wanted to have the time to dedicate herself to serving humanity in her day-to-day life. Ruth was a Baha’i, and she taught a childrens class that I attended as a child. She was an excellent baker and cook, loved to read, and had no qualms about jumping off the top of a waterfall, speeding along mountain roads on her moped or learning Greek in her 70s. Ruth taught me was that we only get one chance at this life, so we had better seize the day and get out there and live it. She had no patience for people who wallowed or felt sorry for themselves, and more than once gave me a rather sharp piece of her mind when I made me mistake of complaining about a situation that I felt I wad enduring that did not seem fair or pleasant.

Ruth and her husband Arthur left Cyprus years ago to return to the US because he had had a stroke that left him paralysed on one side of his body. I continued to visit them over the years: in Cortez, Colorado; in Eloy, Arizona, and elsewhere. When I visited Ruth this last time she was suffering from Alzheimer’s, so our conversations followed a cycle of reminding her who I was followed by a period of very deep discussion about life, love (“I miss Arthur a lot. I love him very much. He was a wonderful man”); friendship (“Who did we know when we were in Cyprus? Tell me about the friends we had in Cyprus”) and God and death (I really feel I am ready to die, but I am still here so apparently God is not ready for me yet. He must still have something He thinks I should be doing, but I just cannot figure out what that might be”) and then back to determining who I was again (“who are you again?” “I am Ariana.” “Really? Well I knew an Ariana once, but she was just a little girl.” “Yes, I am that little girl. All grown up.” “How old are you now?” “I am 31.” “Really? Well then how old does that make me?” “You are 90.” “Oh dear. Am I really? That is just too old. I really should be dead. You really are a very kind lady, Ariana. Thank you so much for coming to visit me and saying prayers with me"). Despite her memory loss, we discussed deeper themes than I usually reflect upon with my completely lucid friends. I had no idea that five months later Ruth would pass away, but I was deeply impressed by the fact that despite being incapacitated by age and memory loss she was not content to just pass her days idly in bed. She was still asking herself what God wanted her to do in this life in the brief time she had left.

When I received the news of Ruth’s passing I was in the midst of a wild wheel spinning party, wondering where I had gone wrong and why I had still not found my next step in life after all the heartfelt prayers I had sent out to the universe to direct me on my way. The news of her passing made me realize it was time to stop wallowing in self-pity and make some positive changes in my daily activities.

The first thing I did was sign up for ten days of unlimited yoga classes at a local studio. I have never been all that into yoga. I have always preferred activities that are more vigorous, like running. But many of my closest friends are yoga teachers, and have explained to me that one of the primary focuses of yoga practice is to learn how to be present in the here and now so that you can really focus your life’s energies towards living the richest, fullest life you are capable of. I figured it was worth a try. I started on a perfect hot sticky Monday evening with a meditation class and then decided to challenge myself to doing two yoga classes a day: a dynamic class at 6am, and a balanced or mellow evening class to stretch out my sore muscles so that getting up the next day and doing it all again was even an option.

I have been doing yoga for four days now, and somehow managed to drag myself out of bed at 5.15am four days in a row and be in class at 6 sharp despite not being a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. The morning classes are intense and require my body to do things that I have not asked it to do in a long time. We do sun salutations; we balance on one foot with one hand reaching towards the floor and the other towards the ceiling and our other leg floating out behind us parallel to the floor; we do all sorts of headstand varieties; downward dog; sphinx; cobra; we kneel on our elbows and balance on our wrists; we do push-ups masquerading as releases from other poses; we do back bends and back arches and side bends and child’s pose. We challenge our bodies to be strong and flexible and our minds to be courageous and open to the unfamiliar. Most importantly we practice presence through focusing on deep breathing and letting go of the constant chatter that fills my mind all day long. It has been so long since I did these types of movements that I have to learn to rebuild the strength I used to have. Accepting where I am and finding compassion for where I am while still being willing to push myself through moments of discomfort and struggle is humbling. Experiencing my body grow stronger and more sure of itself reminds me how grateful I am for a strong healthy body.

The evening classes are more about breathing and learning to surrender, to be vulnerable and to accept my present reality and who I am in this moment without being critical or judgmental. As we move through a series of slow poses our teachers share thoughts, ideas and reflections with us to help us focus our minds and hearts. My first evening class the teacher shared: “Maybe you are exactly where you need to be. Maybe you don’t know what is best for you right now and you just need to trust that whatever is happening – wherever you are – is precisely what you need right now to help you move forward to where you are supposed to be going.” Last night I went to a mellow yoga class that was very quiet and meditative. Lying on my back with my eyes shut my teacher came around the room placing smooth hot black stones in the centre of our bellies, and asked us to visualize planting a seed in our body and then watching it grow and turn into a tree and blossom. Holding the hot stone in my palm took me back to an early evening walk I had taken on Brackley beach on Prince Edward Island a year ago. I had found a beautiful swirling olive green pebble that I carried cool against my palm as I walked along the shore. When it came time to go, I did not want to take it with me. I was already wondering where I was headed and had been praying for inspiration. Before leaving, I knelt down facing the ocean, dug a hole in the sand and ‘planted’ my stone as a seed of hope. Lying on my back in the yoga studio, the smooth black rock in my hands seemed to be a confirmation that although I could not see how, I was on the right track.

After leaving my Friday evening yoga class I floated across the city to join my parents and some friends at the Shakespeare in the Park festival for a picnic supper followed by A Midsummer Night’s Dream outside under the clear starry summer sky. Lying back against pillows on my back, my laughter merging with the laughter of those around me, I recalled the many hours I spent over the last two summers nestled in tall grasses on Prince Edward Island watching the black vault above get streaked by shooting star after shooting star and the moon wading her way through silver clouds.

This morning while I was eating breakfast barefoot in the kitchen I heard the sound of mail being slid into the mailbox. Louise Mould, a close friend living on Prince Edward Island had told me I should be expecting something in the mail so I had been expectantly dashing to the mailbox every morning hoping that the mysterious envelope had arrived. This morning I was lucky. Sitting at the kitchen table I sliced open the envelope and reached inside, drawing out a tiny notebook that looked familiar and a handmade card with a print of one of Louise’s beautiful paintings on the front of it. The notebook, it turned out, was one I had discarded in my rush to get out of my house on the Island in January. Louise had picked it up, taken it home and filled the pages with beautiful, intricately patterned and textured pen and ink drawings. Having filled the last page, her note in the front cover said, she thought I “might like it back.” I have been flipping through the pages all day soaking up the shapes that shift through the seasons, noting the incorporation of southwestern shapes during the time Louise had been in New Mexico and the lotus and flowering shapes that slowly emerge as she moved through spring. Louise is always full of beauty and wisdom that seem to float like water lilies upon a deep green pond in late summer. Her brightly coloured paintings swirl blinding sunshine, saturated lush vegetation, rolling hills and swaying Cypresses across the walls of my parents’ house.

Opening my email I find more inspiration. An email from Andy Adams from Prince Edward Island – a reincarnation of the BFG (Big Friendly Giant) from Roald Dahl’s children’s books who mastered the art of gluten free baking while I was living on the Island so that he could bake pumpkin scones (his specialty) that I could eat. Andy, a tall man with a big beard and a booming laugh, is one of the most gentle and loving souls I have ever met. He is also a supportive husband, a loving father and an enthusiastic and active volunteer, always stepping up to help out with cooking and catering, hosting and making everyone feel welcome at community events. Andy’s email was full of encouragement for me on my journey, and I finish reading feeling awe at the brilliant friends I have made during my six years in Canada.

I also have an email from my friend Rafael who is visiting her boyfriend in Chile before heading to Mexico to continue her PhD research on desert oases; Ahava, a woman who is in equal measure a writer, story teller, healer, mediator and organic farmer who, having just completed her PhD is establishing a centre for women on her organic farm on Saltspring Island in British Columbia and who was writing to invite me to come up to the farm; Margie Loo, an organic farmer on Prince Edward Island and woman of immense power, grace and strength who has taught and continues to teach me the beauty to be found in following my heart, and Daniel, a newfound friend whose enthusiasm and commitment to serving and growing in new directions and his light hearted approach to everything is a constant delight to me as I watch him teach yoga, learn about green architecture, write children’s stories and spend weeks of his summer volunteering in Bulgaria to help restore an old farm and turn it into an artists retreat.

Taking a break from writing this blog, I find that the lettuce seeds I planted only a few days ago are already sprouting, tiny green shoots pushing up through the soil. The fine line of green reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend last summer who was struggling through a rough patch in life. We wandered out into his olive grove under which he had planted a vegetable garden, most of which was dead due to lack of watering. Usually very conscientious, I asked him why he was not watering it and he replied that he just didn’t see the point. The only thing still alive were his hardy onions, their green stalks a tribute to the ability of living things to survive even the harshest conditions. An avid farmer, I pointed out that the onions were still alive, and that even that little bit of green was worth hoping for. As we watered the onions, the hot dusty wind blowing through the grove I remember thinking how inspiring and healing working the earth can be. We nicknamed his onions “onions of hope.”

I have no idea where I am headed, but I am learning gratitude for the gift of rich, inspiring friendships, the miracle of planting a seed and watching it grow, and the process of learning to remain present with my heart, my mind and my body.