From Darkness to Light

Xavier, Meshon, Rachelle and Izzie were my lovely companions this evening as we partook in the Mill Creek Adventure walk. As we drove to the lovely Mill Creek Ravine we sang:

Om Asato Maa Sad-Gamaya |
Tamaso Maa Jyotir-Gamaya |
Mrtyor-Maa Amrtam Gamaya |
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih ||

Meaning:
1: Lead us from Unreal to the Real,
2: Lead us from the Darkness to the Light,
3: Lead us from the Fear of Death to the Knowledge of Immortality.
4: Om Peace, Peace, Peace.

The trail was lit with the most beautiful lanterns. These photos simply don't give it justice.

It was a lovely time. Well, it was lovely after Meshon was able to find a parking spot and once we'd reunited with Meshon and Xavier after losing them. Then there was the crappy butt to deal with in the snow in the dark. There were many many people there as well, so it was hard to walk without bumping into everyone...nevertheless, as we walked amidst the beauty and magical splendor I internally was able to change my thoughts and emotions; I was able to move from darkness to light.

Xavier met a real magical queen named Aurora and even touched her ice crystal ball! And he was filled with the power and energy of a solar flare! Or he shot a magical ball of light from his chest at Meshon.

I'm very glad we went. Each day the light comes a little earlier and fades a little later. I'm grateful for the light. Except for when I'm trying to sleep. I'm all for darkness at sleeping time!

Postcard Story from times gone by

We're sick today. Xavier woke and his little body wretched beside me. I ran him to the bathroom, but not before he puked on Bob Marley (I was wearing Meshon's new Bob Marley t-shirt). He fell back to sleep off and on, wretching periodically for some time. Luckily, by 10am he was asking for toast and has been doing quite well. He's still has some tummy upset but I'm hoping it will all pass quickly. He really doesn't get sick much; for that I am thankful. In any case, I'm not much in the mood or state for writing. So here is a little tiny story I wrote in Senegal. It's a true story. Sadly, it didn't win me a postcard story competition. I hope you are all feeling well and at peace.

The Unk and the Ants Unite

Women wash clothes–scrubbing each inch of colourful fabric against their knuckles,–peel onions, braid each others’ hair and visit. Brilliant fabrics dry on clotheslines, children play with old tires; all the while the sun beats down. Leaning against the cement wall sitting cross-legged on the mosaic tiles, I find the heat almost bearable as a gentle breeze blows through the centrally located courtyard, though most days sweat still gushes from my pores. I have been in Sénégal for almost two weeks and have gone from drinking five litres to three litres of water each day.

I notice a gecko, called unk in Wolof, on the wall opposite me. The unk is scurrying about catching flies and other insects, one moment deathly still, the next in rapid assault. The reptile’s keen eye catches a glimpse of something trundling through the sand and in a flash it attacks. For a moment I think the gecko has decided that the bug is too large and has simply flipped it over. Feeling sorry for the overturned creature and striving to play the role of rescuer, I slowly walk the short but scalding stretch of sand to right it.

Only now do I realize that the odd bug, some kind of centipede perhaps, has been injured. One quick nip and the gecko has removed some vital part of the creature’s form, some appendage that kept it upright.

Why did the gecko leave it to suffer? Why didn’t it gobble it up entirely? Often when faced with suffering creatures I become the merciful killer and crush them; this time I leave the bug to die as it may, on its back, legs flailing beneath the intense heat of the midday sun.

I return to my seat against the wall as a young girl named Amicole runs past yelling, “Bonjour toubab!” The children all gleefully refer to me as toubab and some of the adults also call me “white skin.” I wonder if my volunteering as a teacher here is helping or is it futile, perhaps even harmful. Am I here for selfish reasons? I am experiencing another culture, much invaluable knowledge gained, I hope, but to what end?

Madame Awa approaches. “Salamalekum,” she greets me.

“Malekumsalam,” I reply.

Are you at peace? Yes, I am.

I glance back across the sand to discover that the doomed centipede is anything but at peace; its helpless body completely enveloped by an army of ants. As they continue to consume the live flesh of the flailing bug, I hear the vivacious laughter of school children returning. I take a gulp of water and prepare myself for the onslaught of play.

Avidya: "incorrect comprehension"

I picked up T.K.V. Desikachar's book, The Heart of Yoga, from the Edmonton Public Library yesterday. The 40 Day Sadhana adventurers are reading it in S'toon; I am so happy to get a chance to read it as well! Desikachar is the son of Krishnamacharya, the man who taught B.K.S. Iyengar, Sri K. Pattabhi Jois and Indra Devi (to name a few). Basically, almost everything we in the West know of as yoga stems from the teachings of Krishnamacharya.

Today I was introduced to the four branches of Avidya, which, literally translated, means "incorrect comprehension." Vidya, then, is "correct comprehension." Desikachar notes that avidya is seldom obvious, we seldom recognize that our perception is wrong; "indeed, one of the characteristics of avidya is that it remains hidden from us." Luckily, the four branches of avidya are easier to notice.

The first branch is what we might call the ego, called asmita. It's the thing that makes us want to be the best, to be always right. It's that which makes us look around the yoga class to see if we're doing the poses "better" than everyone else. ("Keep your eyes on your own mat! Unless you have to look at the teacher for instruction.")

The second one is called raga and it is about demanding. Demanding things, demanding more, demanding without truly knowing why or even if we want something. Wanting more because what we have is not enough or wanting to keep things which we are asked to give away. In my case, wanting chips just because I believe I like chips (if I truly taste them, I don't even actually like them–still going strong on the no chips!).

Dvesa is the third branch and it is a rejection of things, of people, of thoughts. It causes us to reject that with which we are not familiar and that which we believe might cause us pain. Desikachar explains, "we have a difficult experience and we are afraid of repeating it, so we reject the people, the thoughts, and the settings that relate to that experience, assuming they will bring us pain again." We all build walls to try and protect ourselves, often times this self-imposed isolation is on a subconscious level.

The final branch is abhinivesa, fear. This comes up in our everyday lives. We feel uncertain about our actions, afraid of being judged. Fearing change or growing old are aspects of abhinivesa.

"These four branches of avidya, singly or together, cloud our perceptions." (all info from p. 10-11) Little by little, slowly, slowly, yoga can help us become attentive of these branches so that we clarify our perception, so that we begin to see clearly. "The goal of yoga is to reduce the film of avidya in order to act correctly." I, for one, would like to act correctly (but that's still my ego wanting me to be good at acting correctly! Hey, it's a start!)

P.S. Again, it's late. I choose not to edit, though I fear you, dear reader, will judge me for the errors I've made.

Ode to a Spider Plant

Writing a blog post everyday is proving difficult. As I sit here tonight I think, what will I write about. I glance around. My spider plant is doing very well. I was recently reading Neruda's Odes (his are amazing...I will simply do some stream of consciousness I think). Here goes:

Ode to a Spider Plant

Your pleasant green herbacious foliage
shoots straight up from your centres
jutting towards the sky
until
each grassy leaf
gracefully falls outwards
spilling bounteously forth
making room for more
cleansing green purity

Each shapely blade
with their daintily pointed tips
striped white along the central channel
are perfect harmonious curves
of energy
and life

You don't ask for much
but you give so freely
thank you for cleaning my air
and for reflecting the light
in this dimly lit room.

I crossed the river!

Finalmente, yo crucé el río! I have been living in Edmonton for over four months and today is the first day I drove the car across the river! I know, it's pathetic but Edmonton has all these one-way bridges. They frighten me. People find it ironic that I have traveled on every continent (except Antarctica) yet I am afraid to do somewhat simple things in Canada. Nobody ever said I was logical (actually, my Grade 11 Physics teacher said I had a very logical mind. I still wonder if he thought he was writing on another student's report card.)

Xavier and I met up with my friend Ana and she brought along a new friend called Vánia. Xavier and I were able to practice Spanish. It was a lovely time and now I know that crossing the river is really no big deal.

Entonces, hasta la proxima vez. Ahora Xavier esta durmiendo en el coche, asleep in the car. Creo que esta un poco enferma; he usually doesn't nap.

Puff The Magic Dragon

Well first of all, Puff frolics in the autumness (or so I thought for many years) and the land, of course, is called Shanna Lee. This song gets me every time. As soon as I hear the line "Puff could not be brave" I weep. Today I was singing Puff to Xavier and his bottom lip began to quiver a little. He's so sweet.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wik2uc69WbU

Is it empathy that makes one cry in some songs? As a child I used to sob when my mom would sing "You are My Sunshine." I would then say, "Sing it again mommy" all snotty faced and teary eyed. Xavier cried once when I sang "You are My Sunshine." He hasn't allowed me to sing the second verse since. Do these songs have some kind of built in make a person cry triggers? Is there some sort of subconscious memory at play? I'm not sure.

Today we sang a new and extended version of Puff the Magic Dragon. You see, Jackie's son, Chuck, came to play with Puff and Puff was happy. Eventually Chuck went off driving in his new car but then his daughter Sally came along. She even decided to keep playing with Puff even after she became and adult, but eventually..."Dragons live forever, not so little boys..." Is this song sad because we grow up and forget about having magic and fun? Or is it sad because we're all dragons yet we so easily forget our true nature?

I kind of like songs that make me cry. Emotions are fascinating. Xavier has been singing "I am a Rock" lately. He belts out the last line: "And a rock feels no pain. An island never cries." I explained that I wouldn't want to be a rock because if I couldn't cry, well then I wouldn't be able to laugh either.

P.S. I didn't edit this. It's time for meditation then sleep. Goodnight sweet everyone.

Thinking of Grandma

If my Grandma were alive, she would have turned 90 years old today. She passed away just over three years ago. I miss her. She was the most amazing person; I learned so much from her and I am forever grateful for her love and wisdom. This photo was taken not long before she moved on:

 

Xavier with Great Grandma Mina

The Following is the Eulogy I wrote and gave for Grandma at her funeral. I wanted to share a little bit of my memories of this dear and divine woman with you:

Love. There are so many admirable qualities I can think of to describe my Grandma but, first and foremost, Grandma equals love. Incredible love for her family and for her friends but also a huge love of life. She could always appreciate the small things, always find beauty and joy in the everyday.

Grandma was born on January 22^nd of 1922. Her early childhood was a happy one; her mother, Nellie, and father, Vern, operated a café and had a machinery shop in Canwood along with running a farm a couple miles out of town. Vern also operated the grain elevator for a time. However, she lost both her parents at a very young age. Her mother died when Grandma was only six years old and her father died a year later. Just last week-end, last Sunday when I was visiting with Grandma she told me, “Life has to go on Shanna. I never even had a mother since I was six years old.” Despite this hardship, Grandma persevered, not only surviving her youth but growing into the kind and loving person we all knew her to be. Grandma was always the most caring mother, grandmother, sister, wife and friend that anyone could ever hope for.

After working hard throughout her youth and teen-age years Grandma met my Grandpa Willie, a man I know only from the stories I’ve heard. Grandma always told me that when they first met, she first noticed his smile; she could see from the start that he had a big heart. Willie and Mina fell in love and were married when Grandma was 18 years old. Willie was 26. Grandma continued to work hard on the farm, raising pigs, chickens, dairy cattle and horses along with, all told, seven beautiful BIG children. Four of the seven weighed more than ten pounds! But Grandma loved and cared for them all, working hard sewing and knitting clothes for them and always making sure there was food on the table. Dad always said that they never went hungry. Now that I have my own big little baby I try to imagine how hard it was to raise so many children with no running water. Grandma actually told me that she loved washing my brother Billy and my cloth diapers because she had a washing machine and it was so easy! I’m sure we could all learn from her work ethic. From these seven kids sprang Grandma’s family, 15 grandchildren and 8 great-grandchildren to date and Grandma always had more than enough love to go around for us all.

My earliest memories of Grandma are of arriving at her house early in the morning when Billy and I were quite small. Grandma loved staying up to watch her 11 o’clock news so she’d often still be in bed when we got there. We’d run into her bedroom and say, “Grandma! Can we play Mountain?” So our old Grandma, who would do absolutely anything for us, would, while lying on her back in bed, bend her knees up to make a knee mountain. We’d climb right up and sit on top until the mountain would start to tremble and shake and then collapse beneath our weight. Billy and I would laugh and giggle saying, “again, again!” Poor Grandma had to have a hip replacement a few years later…

But she would always play with us. She was never too busy to be the Big Bad Wolf as us two little piggies ran from closet to closet, making such a mess. She almost never got angry with us though, except this one time…

I kept opening the refrigerator door and looking at the contents within. She warned me to stop letting all the cold air out but I kept on opening it up. Finally she said, “Shanna, if you do that again, I’m going to give you a licken.” So, I did it again. Well, I got a little pop on the butt and Billy ran to my rescue, kicking his Grandmother for spanking his sister.

A little while later when Grandma was visiting Israel, mom found Billy crying and packing a little suitcase.

“Billy, where are you going?”

“I gotta go get Grandma from the Holy Lands. She’s gonna fall in a hole over there and she won’t come back AND she’s mad at us cuz we kicked her!”

Well, when Grandma did get home Billy gave her the biggest hug and sat on her knee for hours.

Grandma’s love never dwindled and as we got older Grandma never missed a ball or hockey game, play or concert. She was always there if she could make it. She loved watching ball the most though, and it was heartbreaking to see her so sick this summer as her little Rachelle was winning Westerns. I’m sure she would have done anything to be able to be there. We all told her all about the games and she was the proudest lady in St. Paul’s Hospital, telling all the nurses about how her grandaughter was not only the Most Valuable Player of the tournament but the Best Hitter as well.

Though she didn’t always have quite so much reason to be proud of us playing our sports, she was sure we could do no wrong. Grandma was watching me play Ringette years ago and when I got a penalty she asked Uncle Larry what I’d done. It was probably for body checking but Uncle Larry thought it would be funny to tell a little fib. “Well, Shanna hit that girl right over the head with her stick!” he said. Grandma's quick reply: “Well, what did that girl do to Shanna first?”

Grandma’s love for us all was so great. She never once forgot a birthday. I wrote this eulogy on my birthday and I’d like to think she was giving me one last gift, the greatest to date: the chance to honour her life. She even took time to remember the birthdays of those loved ones she lost along the way. Last year I called Grandma from Japan just to talk to her. It must have been on November 14^th because that was Willie’s birthday. She said, “Do you know what I’m doing? I’m having a nice cup of hot cocoa made just the way Willie used to have it with milk and cocoa and sugar all heated on the stove.” I could just see her sitting on her little phone bench enjoying the warm sweet drink. She cherished the memories of the people she missed and told stories about them, keeping their memories alive. I never knew my Grandfather or my Uncle Bill but the stories Grandma told have given me much joy, just as the stories we’ll all tell about Grandma to our children will not only bring joy but also teach love and kindness, generosity and courage.

I told Grandma on the day she died that I will always smell Xavier’s feet and say, “eww, peufty stink!” Until he giggles just like she did to all of us and when Xavier comes to me and says, “I’m Hungry.” I’ll reply, “If you’re hungry catch a bungry.” Then I’ll promptly feed him. If only I can someday cook and bake as well as Grandma could. We’ll all miss her homemade buns and cinnamon buns, her cabbage rolls, her gingersnaps of which I was known to eat many. One day as I was leaving Grandma’s house, hands full of cookies she said, “How many do you have?” I looked down and counted. “Seven.” She just laughed. Some people, especially her boys, will miss the lutefisk dinners that come along every Christmas. I do have some graham flour and have rolled the flopra many times before with Grandma so I’ll try my best to keep the tradition alive, rolling flopra and remembering all the wonderful times I was so lucky to have spent with my Grandma. She taught me it was ok to be silly, to love life, to keep your family close to you and she taught me to pray.

I remember lying in bed as Grandma taught me the Lord’s Prayer. I had a pretty good memory so it didn’t take too long. My Grandma had enormous faith but she was never judgmental or petty and if anybody had reason to become angry with God, my Grandma did. Instead she was thankful every day of her life. When she had cancer about 12 years ago she would say how lucky she was as she watched news of the genocide in Rwanda. She told me that some of those people running for their lives might be just as sick as her so she was so thankful to be safe in her own home. She always said it isn’t hard to look around and see that someone out there has it tougher than you, that there is always a reason to be thankful. I hope I learned that lesson from her.

No matter what, Grandma was always praying for us all. I know she prayed for me because as I went through all the letters and cards she’s ever sent me I noticed that they all ended the same way. “God Bless and Keep You. I Pray that Every Night.” X’s and O’s. Lots of big X’s and O’s. And you know, if I ever felt worried while abroad I would think, “I’m ok, Grandma is praying for me.” When I prayed the night Grandma passed away I knew I didn’t have to ask God to keep her, she went straight into heaven. I simply kept repeating, “Thank you. Thank you God for giving me the most wonderful Grandma in the whole world.”

Thank you Grandma, for everything. For being you.

I could keep going for hours for there is no shortage of nice things to say about such a wonderful woman but I think I had better stop and let some other people share their memories if they would like to do so. I know one person who is proud of me and thinks I did a good job, Grandma was always proud of us and loved us all. When she hadn’t even the strength to answer a yes or no question, she still managed to respond to “I love you” with a warm, “I love you too.” And she knew we loved her for the last thing I heard her say after telling her we all loved her was, “Of course you do.” How could we not love such a kind, loving and generous woman.