Sarah 'Zarah' Calvert

Sitting here feeling reflective and pensive on this Sunday in Guanajuato. Relishing in the memories of my recent trip. To say that Bali is magical is somewhat like saying poutine is just okay. I hadn’t really intended on going anytime soon, but when I heard that my pal Sarah Christine was leading a vocal empowerment workshop, and offered me the opportunity to teach yoga, I said, “Hell yeah!”. Fast forward a few weeks after I booked and plans changed; a few women backed out and it was off. However, some little voice inside said, “Just go anyway. There is something there for you.” There was a feeling that something good was about to unfold. And so it did...in a huge way. It turned out to be the best trip of my life. And y’all know I’ve been around (not THAT kind of around!), so that’s a bold statement.

There were four of us who decided to go anyway and create our own retreat, which was a perfect number for taxis and ease of making plans. We all embraced flow state and decided each day in the moment what waterfall we wanted to see, what temple we wanted to visit, and what we felt like doing. Our hotel was not too shabs either. For someone who loves living like a queen, but sometimes not being able to afford it, Bali is amazing. We stayed at bougie places for total deals and relished in the luxury.
 

                                                                     Getting sassy at a water temple

What really spoke to me was the culture, even though I didn’t speak a word of Balinese before getting there. The reverence. The devotion. The lack of hustle. I know many say Bali has changed, and they aren’t keen on it anymore, as someone with no reference, I still say it’s magical.

A magical moment: I was swimming one morning on the northern part of the island, and trying to think of a new artist name; Zarah Calvert doesn’t have a great ring to it. Just as I was pondering and doing front crawl, I opened my eyes to see a fishing boat in front of me named, “Sarahswati” after the Hindu goddess of art, music, learning and wisdom. Could it be more perfecto? I remember 20 years ago, thinking about using “Sarahswati” as a name, but it was already taken by a couple of artists. Change the S to a Z and hello gorgeous!

Here’s another example of magic: Sarah and I had been rehearsing for a few days in our cabins on the beach (Stairway to Heaven...very a propos for musical endeavours) in my cabin that had a huge built-in meditation cave: for real. We headed to Semanyak to meet the band I’d connected with earlier and to record a few tracks at the studio. Mas, the owner of the studio records both audio and video, and I realized I didn’t have a guitar strap for my guitar. The bass player told me there was one place in Kuta that sold them “Debeat Music”. By the time we rolled into the area in our taxi, it was already close to recording time, and I didn’t want to drive around the bustling city and waste time looking for the store, so I ditched the idea. After jamming and then snoozing, I opened my eyes to look out the window to see a sign: “Debeat Music”. I yelled for our driver to pull over and couldn’t believe my luck. Actually, yeah, I could believe it; when you’re in the flow of life and where you are meant to be, shit like this happens all the time.

We had an incredible session and although I was a bit weary of doing a live performance, with a band I’d never met, who had never heard my tunes or had put much time into looking at the charts I’d sent, I continued to trust. The original plan was to use a proper studio in Ubud, but the guys couldn’t find a time that would work for all of them, and Ricki suggested using Mas. I surrendered to what was unfolding and said “YES”. It’s amazing what happens, when you say YES more often.
 

                                                                          In the studio with the band….


A tradeoff was there are a few notes I would have liked to have changed, some phrasing, a little pitch here and there, and a a couple of time issues; the old me (perfectionista) would have dwelled on that for eons. However, Zarah (now “Zarahswati”) in her wisdom sees that nothing is perfect. I’m reminded by the story someone told me about beautiful Persian rugs, that are intentionally made with at least one incorrect stitch, to remind us that we are human and make mistakes. And so, this recording is not perfect. There’s no autotune. There’s no isolated instruments able to do take after take. There’s raw energy and a group of strangers who met one evening to come together to enJOY and create something memorable.
 

I was swimming one morning on the northern part of the island, and trying to think of a new artist name; Zarah Calvert doesn’t have a great ring to it. Just as I was pondering and doing front crawl, I opened my eyes to see a fishing boat in front of me named, “Sarahswati” after the Hindu goddess of art, music, learning and wisdom. Could it be more perfecto? I remember 20 years ago, thinking about using “Sarahswati” as a name, but it was already taken by a couple of artists. Change the S to a Z and hello gorgeous!

Here’s a little tidbit of what that session looked like. I’m still in the process of mixing it, and also creating a music video for the tune, “All This Good”.

On another note (mind the pun), my soul sista Sarah and I have come together to create a new musical offering: “samasama”. In Indonesian it means, “you’re welcome” but translates also as "same-same," creating a feeling of shared positive energy or equality. We definitely have some great positive energy flowing and are super excited to create more magic. Last night I was googling my name to see if Zarah had replaced Sarah on my website, and lo and behold, underneath my website, there were videos of Sarah Christine, sharing vocal techniques. SYNERGY!
 

Now that I’m back in Mexico, I’m marinading in all the good that took place in Bali, and am focusing on bringing this to life. I’m always living Eat, Pray, Love, so this wasn’t that different, and I wasn’t actually looking for anything in Bali. What I received was so much more that I could have ever dreamed: Trust, EnJOY, Sing. Aho. 
Gracias Mama Bali for your blessings. Suksma. 
 

As you can see, the Zafinator knows how to chill. Big time. She’s not fussed with time. She lives in the present moment at ALL times. When a dog barks and attacks her, she’s all good 5 minutes later post-scuffle. When it’s hot, she lays around all day. She simply accepts that we are not going on a long walk or hike, and she’s not going to be eating bones all day; both of which she would love. She doesn’t pout. She simply accepts then relaxes. No guilt for not “doing” anything. When she wants a bit of sun, she lies in the driveway in the full sun, even if it’s only for five minutes, then cruises back inside. She changes her mind all the time and doesn't care what I think (a prime example is wanting in and out of the house non-stop). She’s not obsessed with getting things done in a timely manner. In short, she is Mexican. She’s constantly in tune with what she needs, and is pretty much always in joy, with the exception of all of the firecrackers being set off during Mexican holidays, in which case, she’s hiding in the back of my closet shaking.

I realized I truly could take some lessons from this little bitch. My Canadian sense of linear time hasn’t been serving me well as of late. Last month had me stressed out trying desperately to finish my EP I’ve been working on for the past year. My original intention was to release the tracks LAST June 21 for solstice. Due to my trip to Mexico City for a Hakomi conference last spring, that deadline was pushed back. When I used to write for the newspaper or magazines, I always had a “deadline” that ensured I’d submit my work by a certain time. Now, being an independent and freelance writer and musician, I don’t have a fixed day or time for which I need to complete something. A blessing and a curse. I don’t like the actual word, “deadline”, because it has the word “dead” in it, which doesn’t feel super inspiring or encouraging. I want to have a goal or a vision and an idea of moving forward and producing in a steady and healthy way, without having to actually attribute a day or time to its fruition. Is this possible?  
Last month I was super stoked to set up my new home recording studio with a new audio interface and pro software  to be self-sufficient. After setting it all up, I realized that this high-end new audio interface wasn’t compatible with my software when recording vocal tracks because I couldn’t enable phantom power for my condenser microphone. Oy vey. Obstacle. For someone who is essentially a luddite and often afraid of technology and computers in general, this was devastating. I’m working at getting over my limits and fears, but man, it’s been a trip. My next obstacle was the day that my co-producer was to come over to begin the actual tracking of vocals (with his software and mic), they started construction on my road. Literally the road in front of my house has been bulldozed and the incessant concrete drilling has been making Zafi hide in the closet much of the time, and has forced me to reconnect with my Barrie-hockey-player heritage of swearing nonstop. Zafi has been wondering who “fucking cunt!” is as I’ve been throwing that one around like nobody’s biz. The irony of me starting my day in silent meditation, and then the first words escaping my lips being something foul and negative is really quite funny. Long story short: I couldn’t record from Monday through Saturday with the ruckus outside the house. And Sunday, I wanted to re-balance my nervous system and honour my weekly day of silence. Not in flow to get shit done on my album.

 

Z-Dawg, my biggest fan, chillin' to the scratch track. 

So, for the past week, I’ve let go of what I thought needed to happen. I wanted to record some guitar tracks with my hollow body Gretch, but we realized that since the electricity in Mexico was not “grounded”, when we recorded, we got a persistent and irritating buzz in the background. Nope! No recording of the guitar tracks! I therefore had to realize and accept that I’d done all I could do for this project in Mexico and accept the fact that really can’t control anything. I’ve always known this, but it was another opportunity to remember....again....and again. That Brittany sang the truth with “Oops I did it again”. We are human. We make the same mistakes sometimes. More than I’d like to admit.

I let go of finishing the EP. I took a couple of master classes with an amazing jazz/groove  keyboard player who lives in my town, put on my headphones (to drown out the noise of the work outside) and worked on perfecting my licks and chops instead. And so, the keyboard solos on my tunes will be WAAAAY better than if I finished the tracks now. A blessing. I’m choosing to “always look on the bright side of life”. Why wouldn’t I?! It makes life SO much more pleasant.

The new plan is to finish the tracks here in Toronto, where the electricity is actually grounded, I have access to pro studios and musicians, and it’s not 100 degrees (which to a menopausal woman is like Dante’s Inferno). Letting go. Letting goddess. Allowing what’s happening to happen without resistance. Radical acceptance. And it’s hard. I still throw the “c” word around sometimes, but am now doing so in a more light-hearted way;  laughter follows. I can still be “spiritual” and connected to Source and cuss like a hockey player, but the negative charge is diminishing. I’m tapping into Z Dawg’s energy as I relax into each moment through concentrated awareness of my breath and its power to bring me into a more centred state: pure presence. I’m letting myself relax and actually land back in Canada before I get stressed with the notion of “doing” and “producing”. The music will be released at the perfect time. Forwarding with ease and grace. Open to the flow of what wants to happen in its own time (thank you Hakomi training, for this one).  

Question for You: How do you balance the “doing” with the “being”? How to stay in flow?  Please leave any insights in the comment section here so we can all benefit from each others’ wisdom. Gracias.  

Amor y Luz,

Zarah xo

How a Mexican Mutt transformed a Former Commitment-phobe

“Okay, so it’s only been two years, is it too late to give her back?” My higher self knew that yes, it was definitely too late to give Zafi back. And to whom would I actually give her back? Her original owners ditched her when she was a puppy, and the gal who gave her to me was travelling between the UK, India and Mexico, so that clearly wasn’t an option. I had to accept, that when I said “yes” to this little scrappy scruffy being two years ago, it meant I was in.

Something happens to me when in relationship after the two year mark. I’m talking about romantic relationship, but still. I’ve noticed that my longest relationship (there have been a few in succession) is just over two years. The break ups have been for different reasons of course, but I’m seeing a pattern here. When the going gets tough....Zarah gets going. Granted, the relationships weren’t in alignment, but there is some truth to ducking out a little prematurely. And so, with Zafi, I’m getting to experience a whole new level of commitment. And that feels good.

Since I never had kids, having a fur baby is the closest thing I’ve had. Getting the Zafster ready for her international travels hasn’t been super easy. The first time around, two summers ago, I had to prepare her for the trip by losing a little more than a pound before the trip. She was weighing in at 21.2 pounds, and the limit is 20. So, the week before our trip I became her personal trainer and fed her smaller portions of food, and had her chase me around on my motorbike. I call it the “Redneck Run”. Please don’t call PETA. It was that, or leave her in the sweltering heat of Mexico, just a month after I had adopted her. We had to bond. She had to come with me. By the time our flight rolled around, she was in accordance with the weight limit of 20 pounds, but in reality was too tall for the bag. If you’ve seen her, she looks like a cross between a gremlin and Wilt Chamberlain. That bitch has seriously long legs for a small dog. If they had asked me to open the bag and let her walk around, we would have been done for. I drugged her sufficiently before we got to the counter, and bragged to the Air Canada person that she was so excited to go back to Canada, and how she just loves flying, as if she was an old hack. The Air Canada representative just smiled at her through the weaving in her back, cooed, “what a sweet little doggie!” and asked no more questions. We were in.

Fast forward two years later, and that little doggie ain’t so little anymore. It could be all the chicharons she finds on the sidewalks in our town (amidst all the other garbage she loves foraging), but it’s most likely that she was actually a lot younger than we thought when I first said “yes” to her, and now she’s full grown. Regardless, there is no way that “sweet little doggie” fits in that bag now. Hence, the crate and having to go in cargo. Hence having to do a detour to San Francisco, or somewhere else that Air Alaska flies. They are the only airline out of Puerto Vallarta that doesn’t have a “heat embargo” for animals travelling in cargo. Westjet and Air Canada stop flying animals the beginning of May, which I didn’t know, as I went to book flights May 3rd. I sussed where I could have a stopover and chose SF because I have friends and family here. That was sorted. What wasn’t sorted was Z’s skin issues just before we left.

Three weeks before our travels, we were camping on the beach and she must have got some sort of bacteria from the damp sand at night. As a result, she ended up with three hot spots which she was licking obsessively, resulting in removing all of her fur, and left her skin raw. I took her to two different vets, who told me to use a cream that didn’t work, and then took her to another vet in La Penita. I needed to make sure she was good to go for the trip, because the USA needs a certificate of good health to enter the country. So, she was on a course of antibiotics and steroids to clear up the skin thing, and my plan of training her to hang out and relax in her crate was foiled becuase she had to wear the cone of shame to avoid licking her spots. Man. Navigating galore. Luckily, the drugs worked, and she got the clean bill of health a couple of days before getting on the plane. And no worries with her crate because I lined it with her favourite blanket, and put a few of her fave things in with her, a pair of my shoes being one of them. Ah, the comfort of the smell of the mistress’s tootsies.

On the first morning after we arrived to SF I was worried that I had traumatized her with the trip in cargo. Turns out, she was just cold. And so am I. Wasn’t it Mark Twain that wrote the coldest winter he ever experienced was summer in San Francisco? Word. Each morning, she’s shivering under the blankets, and I’m strolling the streets wearing my touque (Canadian for hat) and down jacket amongst all of these native San Fransisco peeps in T shirts.

I remember experiencing this variation in climate years ago in the south of France as a student, but in an opposite way. We Canadian students were basking in the late April sun in our bathing suits, and the ladies of the Riviera were eyeing us suspiciously in their fur coats. Seems like my blood has become more Mexican and this weather is taking a bit of getting used to.

What I have been experiencing (besides culture shock) is a deepening of love and commitment towards this pooch. The pros of having her as my sidekick are definitely outweighing the cons of navigating getting her on buses and ferries. She has settled into herself as of late, and I’m guessing feels this sense of me truly being her human. As a solo woman who has been used to just taking care of herself for years, this is an opportunity to grow and evolve. There is a certain surrender that’s happening as I settle into the fact that I am indeed her steward, and I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she’s taken care of. Sometimes, it won’t be with me as I’m a creature of freedom and need some solo time, but it will always be with someone who loves her.  And there are plenty. She’s managed to steal the hearts of the hospital staff where my cousin is staying, and prances around making everyone who sees her smile. When I had a moment of grief at the realization that my cousin is now considered to be in palliative care, I sat on the couch and had a good cry. The Zafster immediately jumped up and began licking my tears, and making me laugh. Recalling my rollerskating days, I find myself singing Pat Benetar’s “We Belong”, (which I often do at Karaoke) and although I wish I could sing it for a lover/partner, who has yet to present himself, it currently totally fits with this little furry-faced pooch. “We belong together”. 

A rose by any other name, still smells as sweet.  Shakespeare
 

And so what could naturally be related to this, “A woman by any other name is still a woman.”

It’s been exactly two years since I started using “Zarah” versus “Sarah”, and I’ve been reflecting on my name, and why I felt it was part of my journey to change it. I remember when I used to teach high school English, and getting kids to “get” Shakespeare was such a challenge. The language, the cadence, the intricacies of the rhyme scheme. And yet, this quote was easy to explain. The idea of the lack of importance in a name. What is, simply is. And how often, words get in the way.

I bought a pendant with the letter “Z” last week at a market, and it got me thinking about the notion of names and identity. It’s not like I’m not “Sarah” anymore. It’s just that I’m also “Zarah”. To relinquish my given name completely doesn’t resonate; it was my great-grandmother’s name, on my father’s side of the family. Apparently, when my mum went over to my grandmother’s to celebrate the news of her pregnancy, my Nanny handed her a glass of Scotch and water (her fave libation) and clinked my impending arrival by saying, “Here’s to Sarah”. Neither knew whether I’d be a boy or a girl, but apparently a boy’s name wasn’t even mentioned. They just knew a girl was on the way. After her drink, Mum went back home and called her own mother, my Nana, and asked her what she thought about the possibility of the name Sarah. To this, my Nana’s response was, “I’ve never met an unkind Sarah.” And so it was. And so it is, as I value kindness and particularly “loving kindness” within my Hakomi therapy practice. It’s one of the pillars of the modality.

In my studies at university, the name Sarah was immensely popular; I think there were about six of us in our small residence alone. Apparently 1973 was “The year of the Sarah.” When we introduced ourselves, we had to specify, if it was Sarah “with an ‘h’” or “without”. Clearly, the Sarahs “with an ‘h’” felt ourselves to be superior, for the Sara “without an ‘h’” seemed incomplete. I think it was more of a longing to belong, and kindredness in spirit to be connected to each other by a name with the same spelling. This is one of our inherent needs: to belong.

This university was comprised mostly of private school students from the Toronto area. Most of my peers had known each other for years, so it was pretty cliquey. From the get-go, there was a feeling for me of not really fitting in. The parking lot looked like a fine car dealership: BMW, Porsche, Audi and the like. I had my steed parked outside too; a red Nishiki mountain bike. Thankfully, I had the opportunity to attend a school in France for my third year, and finally felt like I belonged, outside of a conservative institution and in the land of different languages and meeting a new artistic and diverse community.  

After my mum died when I was 32, my life changed dramatically. I quit teaching high school, and went on to study jazz and did my Kundalini Yoga teacher training in New Mexico. It was there that I was given a new name: Amarpal Kaur, which means, “beloved and loyal friend”. This meaning and the essence of the name rang true in a lot of ways. I was definitely loyal to all my friends, and felt loved by them. What never really felt true for me, was the actual name. The fact that someone else who I never met chose a name for me. I was intrigued by how the name was chosen, by using numerology, but that’s about it. Also, when I told people my name, it didn’t really roll off the tongue, and I often had to repeat it. It just felt clunky and like it was never really mine. And so, I never really embraced it, nor chose to be identified by it. I released a mantra album under the name, because I thought it sounded more “spiritual”. Later, when I wanted to have all my albums on Spotify/Apple Music etc. under the same name as “Sarah Calvert”, I found I couldn’t do this, which proved to be frustrating. When I was performing, I never used my spiritual name and there were times when I felt I never truly fit into the Kundalini Yoga community. Most people who were really and truly “on the path” had changed their names and only used their spiritual names, so again, I had this sense of not truly belonging. Many years later, after several scandals involving the Yogi Bhajan, the “master” teacher of this yoga, was revealed, which devestated the community. I later reflected on my reticence to adopt my spiritual name. It just didn’t feel like me. It’s one thing to have a parent and ancestor give you a name, but to have someone else I’ve never met give me a name felt odd. I now see that I too was and am truly “on the path”, and see that it’s my path, and that I’m the one at the helm. No gurus for this gal. I’m my own guru. We all should be our own gurus.

Speaking of gurus, when I lived in India at an Osho ashram, I decided (very last minute) to become a “sanyasin”, whereby I partook in a ceremony, which also granted me a new spiritual name, “Ma Yoga chita”, which also felt like it resonated insomuch as I was a yogini and yoga teacher, but to be honest, it never really stuck either, and I never used it. I always went back to “Sarah”.

There was a book with the title, “Sarah, Plain and Tall”, and whenever I heard that, I thought it sounded like me. I was tall, and I felt a little plain. I was a bit of a tomboy who loved the outdoors and sports and never wore much makeup. I’d be ready to go out with friends, and my mum would always encourage me with, “Sarah, you look good, but put some lipstick on.” Now, years later,  I’ve now become accustomed to wearing lipstick, not because my mum said it looked good, but because I really like it. It’s a fun way to somewhat change your persona. If I’m playing with my band, I like to wear bright bold reds, if I’m feeling somewhat sultry and sexy, I opt for a deep romantic rose. And so, it’s also a propos that Zarah wears lipstick, whereas Sarah didn’t.

My family have been pretty cool through this process. I do however remember my sister in a moment of fighting, (only the way siblings can, with the intention to  hurt) mocked, “Oh my god, and ZARAH.....changing your name? It’s so embarassing.” She chilled out, and also warmed to the idea and now lovingly calls me “Z”, which I adore. My aunts and uncles try to remember, but still call me Sarah sometimes, and to be honest, I really don’t care. Many of them are in their 80s, so to remember what they had for breakfast is a challenge, never mind, knowing someone for 5 decades, then having to switch names. When I told my Dad a couple of years ago about my decision, he was honest and we had a conversation whereby he confided that he thought Nanny (his mom, the woman who actually named me, after her mom) wouldn’t be happy about it. I assured him that wherever Nanny was now, she couldn’t give a rat’s ass about names, and that she’d be raising her glass of Scotch and water to me, encouraging me to keep following my bliss and calling. “Zarah” is the Arabic version (usually spelled “Zahra”) of Sarah, so it’s not really that much of a deviation. My Jewish grandmother Nana, would have had something to say about changing my name from a biblical standard to an Arabic one I’m sure, but now, she’s probably up there (or wherever) with Nanny giving me a cheers and would sing one of her fave tunes we used to sing together, “You say tomatah, I say tomah-to....you say Zarah, I say Sarah. Who gives a shit?” (and she really would say that; she swore like a trucker with her Queen’s English accent. As the queen of one-liners, (usually crass) she was hilarious.

Prior to my name change, I lived in the small hippie town Nelson BC for much of my adult life off and on, whereby people changed their names more often than their bedding. Names like Rainbow, Jai Ma, Sunbeam and such were common, as many souls found their way there and found a type of utopia where they could be themselves, re-invent themselves and live in a more authentic way. What I liked about this, was that people renamed themselves based on where they were at the time, and as a way of being sovereign. When I was there, I never felt the need. I always liked the name Sarah, and lived up to my Nana’s prophecy about always being kind.

During the pandemic, I found myself feeling like again, I didn’t belong in some groups as I chose to not get the jab (I don’t call it a ‘vaccine’ because in the true definition, it is not actually a vaccine) and was often isolated and ostercized by (very few) friends and family. I managed to avoid most of the challenges that so many faced in Canada by staying in Costa Rica and being in a small town based in nature. Just before moving there, I had a soul brother I’d met on Salt Spring Island, who always introduced me to people as “Zarah”. When I’d question him, and say, “Dude, that’s not my name.” He’d always respond with, “I know, I don’t know why I said that!)

Fast forward a couple of years to me moving to Mexico, and doing a women’s retreat examining the archtype of the crone/grandmother/abuela. We did a ceremony on the beach whereby we were buried in the sane as a way to experience our death. When I emerged from the sand, my partner said, “I just love the name Zarah.” She had misheard me, and also, in Spanish, saying Sarah and Zarah are almost the same. In that moment I had a feeling of identifying with “Zarah”. It felt more powerful, warrior-like, sassy and spicy. I had just been kicked off of Facebook and therefore Instagram, for expressing some sentiments about travel restrictions and coersion, and was also blocked from using my WhatsApp number. I’d just joined a ska and punk band and moved away from my sentimental singer-songwriter stuff. It seemed like an opportunity to really create who I wanted to be and to redefine myself. I am Zarah. Hear me roar.

I do admit I used to be skeptical of those who changed their names. I thought it was kinda weird. Now, in retrospect, I think it’s strange that some people find it strange when people decide to re-name themselves. When women get married, or at least the majority of women in the past, they often make the decision to take the last name of their spouse. If I was marrying someone with the last name Dooshendingle, I might choose otherwise. But for eons, it was deemed socially acceptable that a woman would adopt a new name, that she could not choose, and even one that she detested. And one that could possibly sound like a feminine hygene product crossed with a schlong. Can you imagine?

As sovereign free beings we have the freedom to be who we want to be, and that includes, the ability to re-name ourselves, should we so choose to do so. Aho.

Question for You: If you wanted to change your name, which name would you choose and why?
 Please feel free to share in the comments. 
As always, gratitude for your presence alongside me in this journey.

Zarah 

           Mum on my altar (her ashes to the left, which I constantly smuggle back and forth in my carry-on bag)

Happy Halloween...Samhain...All Saints Day....and all that jazz. I’m here in the midst of el Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrations and festivities in the heart of Mexico. I remember when I heard those words as a kid, I thought it sounded pretty morbid and dark. The origins of pagan Samhain was a way for people to get dressed in disguise as a way to hide from ghosts. As a tween, I didn’t think much about ghosts, spirits or ancestors. I much rather would have walked the neighbourhoods at night, dressed up like a punk rocker, searching out free candy. All that sugar was such a perfect way for me to self-soothe any grief I may have had, and the punk rock personal allowed me to express anger and rage that in the “normal” world, I couldn’t really do.  
Later in life, after Mum died (about 18 years ago) I recognized the importance of grieving: fully. Thankfully I was in the progressive little town of Nelson BC where they had a grief support group, that helped me to recognize and realize the aspects of myself that truly needed to grieve. It didn’t mean that I had to be “stuck” in it and “wallow” (although sometimes it felt like I did), but rather that I needed to feel everything fully (the loss, the fear, the disappointment) in order to step into the Light and the joy of living once again. The two facilitators were such beautiful space holders, that they encouraged me to follow their path and become a grief support counsellor when I moved back to Toronto. And so, I trained with Bereaved Families of Ontario and briefly held space for children who had lost their parents or siblings, and saw how valuable it is to have these spaces and discussions surrounding dying.

Today, when I hear “The Day of the Dead," I embrace it fully, and no longer recoil in fear.  Reverence for all of my ancestors has become a part of my daily prayer and practice. Here in Mexico the streets are adorned with vibrant colour of flowers, altars, ribbons, crowns and skeletons (the iconic “La Catrina”). What moves me most is the personal altars people create for their loved ones who have passed. I started to create my own altars years ago after seeing this beautiful honouring practice. And so, Mum, Nanny and Nana sit upon my altar, where they are offered their favourite foods, predominantly sweets. Nana loved her chocolate covered ginger and Quality Street caramels. That woman detested vegetables, never exercised, barely drank water and lived until she was 100. My Nanny also lived until well into her 90s and drove herself to the hospital the day of her procedure, after going to the hairdressers; she wanted to look good if she was on her way out. She was truly classy. And such resilience. I feel like I’ve inherited some of those genes, and thank the matriarchal lineage of my ancestors regularly.

I find the past few days the grief is more present, as it comes and goes in waves. As I purchase home decor items to adorn my new home here, I miss Mum. She loved shopping, had great taste, and loved to find great bargains. And so, my heart feels heavy. I see families strolling in the park, and find myself a bit melancholy when I see the abuelas (grandmothers) being supported by their families as they hobble around, and watch their eyes shine as they watch their grandchildren playing. My choice to not have children comes with its own grief, although not regret as I realize they can both exist at the same time. Will I be an ancestor? I believe I will be, both here and in other realms as I do my best to “mother” my creative projects, be an empathetic ear and deep listener with my clients and kin and leave a legacy of love through my words and music. This helps to allow the grief to flow through me; I don’t repress it or try and get rid of it. I feel it deeply and express it in whatever way it wants to emerge (dance, yelling in my car, crying on the couch, singing in prayer) and am open to what’s on the other side, which is usually peace and joy. And isn’t that why we’re all here? To express all of these profound emotions?  
My invitation is for us all to honour and revere our ancestry, and pay homage to the world of spirits, not just today, but as a regular practice, even though it may be fraught with trauma and pain. I believe that we are all here doing our best, as were they, and we may not know all of the challenges and stories they navigated. And we can transmute this trauma when we ourselves rise in Love and carry forth a new story and legacy of forgiveness, optimism and Light. Aho. 

**Please enjoy the accompanying track, “From Where I Stand” honouring Mum and her eternal spirit**

                                                             Me and the Zafinator, happily “stranded” in Ajijic


Wow! What a Week! Some of you may remember my old article I had with the Express in Nelson, with the same title. That same caption applies to the past week I’ve had. All good. Just totally unexpected. And Wow. Spirit showing up and having my back in a big way.  
I left Canada last Friday morning, after an amazing summer of writing for festivals, hanging with old and new friends and connecting to family. Truly, there is nothing like summertime in Canada; particularly being on the lake. I’m so incredibly blessed to be able to spend time at my boathouse, immersed in nature, and hang out with my pops everyday. Truly a gift. It was such a beautiful time to just be in my own rhythm, and to take some time to truly be in flow. Canada’s summers are so short, that there tends to be a “pack it in” mentality with planning, which of course I get, but I really wanted to veer away from this, and ended up making plans somewhat last minute, and deciding what I wanted to do in the moment. After a long period of not feeling so strong (with adrenal issues, fibroids/anemia), I’m realizing I really have to honour my body and myself with the gift of choosing what to do in the moment. And thankfully, I’m feeling super strong, and could choose to do A LOT of amazing things. So grateful.

Back to last week; I landed in PV where my dear sister Tisane picked me up in my car that had just been “repaired.” You’ll see why there are quotes around that soon. The drive back was smooth, no clunks (as there had been en route to the airport when I left for Canada in June), so I thought all was easy breezy. I spent a few days at my house in lo de Marcos organizing, cleaning, sweating like nobody’s biz, and packing up for San Miguel de Allende; it’s still crazy hot and humid on the coast. So I loaded up the car with my guitar, new electric piano, some stuff and the pooch and headed out on the road. Ready for the road trip extraordinaire.

The plan was to stop in Ajijic Jalisco for the night, to break up the eleven hour drive. Soulshine sister and fellow mantra musician Brenda McMorrow graciously offered her place to me for the night, while she finished her tour in the States. Long story short, one night turned into almost a week. After hitting the road, my car started clunking again about two hours into the drive. I just cranked my audiobook to mask the sound, then turned up the Naad (sound current) and chanted protection mantra to get me here. It worked.

The mechanic said a new part from the dealership would be 30-60 days. Shit. I asked if he could try and locate the part in Guadalajara instead, and he obliged. Luckily, it came in Monday. Luckily, I had a beautiful place to stay whilst I was there. Which got me thinking about the notion of “luck”. Is it really luck or just fate? I truly believe there are no accidents, and Spirit guided me to be here. I used to get triggered when people would say, “Oh, you’re so lucky! You lived _______ “or “You’re so lucky! You do _______.” For me, it’s not really a matter of luck; rather it’s taking risks, booking flights, and searching for places to live. It’s about setting a clear intention about how I want to live my life with a sense of adventure and joy. No lottery tickets are being bought. I say this with hope to inspire those of us who want to make changes and live a more full, rich authentic life. If we trust and are open to the guidance and take the first steps, Spirit will be on our side and help. And so much help came here in Ajijic. I was immediately taken in by Brenda’s neighbours who helped me find a good mechanic, and were so generous by taking me to and fro. Her other neighbour told me about several awesome hikes nearby. I’m so grateful that I got stranded here. I never would have been able to take in the beauty of the area in just one day. The hikes here in the mountains have been glorious, and since I was such a mountain girl for so many years, this really filled my soul. And Zafi’s. When we left the coast, she was basically just laying around, moving from cold tiles to cold tiles (that weren’t really that cold) and panting in the heat. Here, she came alive. As did I. It was beautiful to have a quiet space to just integrate all the travel, the time in Canada, and the healing and growth that have taken place in the past few months.

I’m feeling extremely grateful today (very apropos after our Thanksgiving weekend) for the fact I had the summer to rest, enjoy and take care of my body as it rebounded and recovered from my hysterectomy I had in the winter. Man. That was one doozy of a surgery. So humbling. And I’m so amazed at how the body can heal. I’m feeling stronger now than I have in YEARS. I’m also noticing that my state of equanimity seems to be quite stable right now. The car breaking down didn’t really faze me too much, and I was able to really just be in the flow of what’s happening. I attribute this to many years of meditating, and also my path with Hakomi, which has encouraged me to be more mindful, gentle and nurturing towards myself. Such a gift.

I landed last night in San Miguel de Allende, after a super smooth drive, and will be here for the month, and am curious to see what will unfold here. Always a mystery, and always magic. Gracias for the gifts and powers of mantra, the mindfulness I’ve been blessed to cultivate, and the opportunities that await. So far so good. The place I landed is beyond amazing, and the woman hosting me (who I just met, but had a great feeling about) is a wild woman and true kindred spirit. And so, vamos a ver (let’s see)! Even though I went off a bit on the whole luck thing, you can still wish me luck. I’ll take it. And I wish you all luck AND the knowledge that you can create your own reality with choices that come from following the heart. Thank you for being on this Camino and Journey with me. Mucho amor y luz. Aho. 

“I Am Light” 
-India Arie
 

They say that if you don’t use it, you lose it. Language, muscle tone, writing and creating skills, memory and the mind. My writing feels rusty. My voice (both literal and symbolic) feels underused and quiet these days. My mind feels a bit foggy as I find myself entering the mysterious world of induced peri-menopause. For those of you who don’t know, I had a hysterectomy at the end of January: Funny, as I write that now, I see the prefix of the word “hyster” as in “hysterical”, which I am definitely having moments of as my emotions swirl and twirl. Not so funny that in the past this adjective was relegated primarily to the female sex; the notion of “crazy” or “out of control” related to our anatomy. I’m trying to find the funny-ness again in each moment whereby I forget what I was saying or doing. When I arrive home from the the small village store, knowing I’ve forgotten something. I’ll rack my brain going over my plantain chips, coconut milk and then realize that the missing link is actually Zafi (my pooch) who’s still tied up to tree outside the store. Now that shit’s funny.

Thanks to my Buddhist teachings, I’m able (somewhat!) to try to remain an observer, and to not get too caught up in the thoughts, or create a story or narrative about what my lashing out at the cashier really means. I will say, I’ve had to apologize a few times to various people who although invariably have screwed up somehow, did not deserve my outright rage. I left a message for a receptionist last week that just read, “Sorry about my harsh tone. Menopause and mood. It’s real.” She (being much older than myself) replied with an understanding, “I get it.”

It feels like it’s been so long since I’ve written anything. My monthly blogs have evaporated into the ethers it seems, as I’ve been trying to just stay present to what each day brings. I’m trying not to berate myself for not using my convalescence in a more “productive” way. I’ve had thoughts like, “Look what Frieda (Kahlo, of course) did all that time she was in her bed! I mean, she did have to contend with the rage that her husband was shagging her sister, so she may have had more cathartic trauma to process. I processed my trauma by getting drawn into Outlander and read/listened to books. Not so productive.  I have to trust that during that time of supporting Netflix, Kindle and Audible, SOMETHING has been percolating. SOMETHING creative. I’ve eschewed the Puritan ethic long ago about having to be busy, and to work hard all the time, but sometimes, those deeply ingrained values sneak back and whisper, “Why aren’t you doing more? Why aren’t you writing more songs? Launching your songwriter course?”

The truth is, I just didn’t feel like it. I felt like immersing myself in someone else’s story. As a way to distract myself from the pain? Perhaps. But more, to inspire me with my own journey and to help me create what comes next (aka: calling in my very own “Jamie” pronto!) in the near future.

I also did some deep inner work before and after the surgery (and continue to do so) with regards to my womb space and my ancestors. I had a feeling like a lot of the pain and issues I’ve been facing over the years were related to my matriarchal lineage, specifically my mum and my nana. Considering the (fascinating!) scientific fact that we are actually already in our mothers’ wombs when they are conceived, this really makes sense to me. And so, I worked on a lot of forgiveness for both of them (forgiving men, forgiving themselves) and this helped my healing immensely. I used obsidian (a powerful clearing and cleansing stone) on my belly before the surgery to energetically clear the space. When the day rolled around to head to the hospital in Punta Mita, I was truly ready.

My friends and soul sisters showed up for me in such a beautiful way, and I also learned how to ask for what I need. As a caregiver and nurturer, it’s really easy for me to take care of others, but to receive care myself? Sometimes, it wasn’t that easy. This time around however, I was clear about the fact I needed some help. I created a WhatsApp group called, “Zarah’s Angels” whereby each woman that expressed she wanted to help could communicate. This was so helpful with taking care of Zafi while I was away and right out of the surgery, preparing meals, helping me clean, shop etc. etc. Truly, it was smooth. My Dad came down to visit too, and helped with household chores like watering plants and doing dishes. My sister visited and treated me to massage and great food. Immense gratitude for all the support I received. I’m writing a “How to Sail through a Hysterectomy” manifesto whereby I’ll be giving tips about spiritual preparation, physical support, self-care, and post-op insights, that the doctors never told me about, with the intention to help others go through the process.

Hmmm. So, yeah, I guess I was creating something while I was lying in my bed and couch for weeks. Just realizing this now. The power of writing truly is amazing. I’m dusting off my journals and scraping the rust off my pens and pencils.  It’s May. I hear the birds singing and feel the change in season. Even in Mexico. It’s getting hotter and there’s more life happening with trees and flowers. Nature is singing. So am I. Emerging from the cocoon of healing and winter, I enter this season lighter (in many ways; the uterus and ovary probably weighed about 2 pounds) with a sense of optimism. There’s a power that comes from periods of not doing. I feel myself alive. More light. I am light. Wow. I vow to take more of these moments:

Do you, Zarah, promise to take more times of not doing to support your mental and physical well-being? 

I do. 

Lessons and Musings inspired by a Mexican Mutt 

I just returned from a 5-day camping trip, originally be 3 days, but due to a broken-down car situation, added 2 days. It was my first trip with Zafi, the pooch I adopted last month. What a trip. I’m still in bed, writing, and she’s still zonked out on her bed snoozing lazily into the late morning. We’re both pooped. We both learned. A lot. 

When I was deciding whether or not to take her, I stipulated that she must fit into my life well and easily, because I was in a transition of buying a new house, and working with some health issues. She fit in pretty seamlessly. I know I’m still a wanderer at heart, and intend to continue to travel. She’s under twenty pounds and can therefore fit in a bag in the cabin on an airplane, which is super important for me, and a definite plus. Last Saturday I was excited to bond with her and take her out on the road. She was too; she was beyond keen and jumped into the truck immediately onto my friend Pete’s lap with a “Let’s go!” attitude. Ah yes, this dog and I will get along just fine, I thought as I gazed at her with pride and love. 

Upon leaving San Pancho there was a small truck alongside the road selling woven rugs and dog beds. How perfect! I picked up a small cute bed for her and we were off. En route to my friend’s ranch in Mascota, the road winds and bends as it ascends and descends mountainous roads. So beautiful. And barf-inducing. Not for me, but for poor Zafi who heaved a few times as it was her first real car trip. We pulled over so I could clean out her (brand-new!) bed, that was now sprinkled with vomit and let her get some fresh air. Poor little pooch. 

We arrived and got set up while we waited for our friends to arrive with their extended family. As their car rolled in, Zafi’s ears perked up and she approached the car to see what was up. My friend’s elderly father, gingerly approached, and as he did, she began to bark and growl incessantly. Super embarrassing. I tried to reason with her that this wasn’t our house, but she wouldn’t listen. It took her a while to settle. I’d seen this several times with certain men who pass our house and I wonder why it is that she’s racist towards her own people. She may have been treated poorly by one of her previous owners; who knows?   

Over the weekend, she chilled and became comfortable and affectionate with both the male and female family members in the house, which was a relief. My friend’s have a one and a half-year old baby girl named Olivia who is beyond cute, and this is saying something as I’m not really a fan of babies, or kids for that matter (which is quite alarming considering I was a teacher for so long). Her mom has great style and a sense of appreciating luxury, and has a small hand-woven blanket/mat from South America that she puts out for Olivia to play on. 
Apparently Zafi also has this taste for exquisite textiles and would plunk herself down on it all the time. My friend wasn’t really liking this understandably, particularly since I had found and removed a few ticks from Zafi’s fur earlier that day. I tried to lure her and pull her away all day and put her back on her new bed. Maybe there were still remnants of barf on the bed, but whatever the reason, she was avoiding it like many shoppers avoided me at No Frills last summer when I refused to wear a mask. 

As a psychotherapist-in-training, I’m assuming that the bed now triggers her and she’s remembering the windy road and upchucking of Pedigree Dog Chow. I can’t be sure and I’m not sure how much she actually thinks, but I’d say it’s pretty likely. And so, it was a bit of a struggle with keeping her off Olivia’s alpaca rug, and trying to find her a place where she’d be comfy. In the end, I aired the bed out in the sun, and put some of my cotton clothes on her bed as a blanket, and to get my smell into the fabric of the bed. It worked. At the end of the day, she feels safe with me and wants to be close. That’s pretty sweet. I also totally get that she’s a reflection of me and that she’d rather be on soft alpaca and natural fibres as opposed to made in China foam. I’d rather be in high thread-count sheets instead of shitty polyester ones. I get it. 

Zafi, loving to lounge on cotton blankets

One morning I took her to a waterfall to swim in the huge crater-like lake. There, I imagined we’d frolic on the rocks, listen to the rush of the waterfall, the cry of a bird overhead from time to time, and overall the essence of peace. Ahhhhhh. This all went to plan until I decided to swim across the lake to the waterfall itself. Zafi went wild with barks and yelps. She’d been with me on the beach, and is okay with me swimming out and knows I’m coming back, but here, she was nervous. I forgot to add that the lake is surrounded by volcanic rock and that a whistle will echo and reverberate like nobody’s biz. So you can imagine what a shrill yelp and bark sounds like: armageddon. My patience was being tested. As I was trying to serenely backstroke across the lake I could still hear her yelps under the water. This bitch was seriously cramping my style and my desire for a vipassana kind of morning. I alternated between thoughts of “Surrender, surrender. She too is part of the soundscape of nature,” and “Can vets do larynx removals?” Before you immediately stop reading and call PETA let me explain that I also had serious PMS and had been eaten alive by mosquitoes the night before and had one of my top five most lousy sleeps....ever. Another (less violent) thought was, “I wonder if her voice will get lower as she gets older?”. You know, like young versus old Joni Mitchell. She’s one of my fave songwriters, but I’m not a big fan of her early work, which showcase her high soprano. To me, it’s grating. I love her collaborations with Mingus, after the years of smoking took its toll, and lowered her range about two octaves. Could this be the case with Zafi, and if so, how can I get her to start smoking cigarettes? 

Don’t call PETA yet. I know I sound like a horrible fur baby mum. But I’m not. I’m just transitioning to having serious responsibility. I feel like I don’t “own” her, but rather I’m her steward. And I have to be impeccable with my word (one of Ruiz's Five Agreements); I said I’d take care of her and love her, and I will. I am. Once I relaxed at the waterfalls, she relaxed. I came back to shore, gave her lots of love and attention and chilled with her for a spell. The second time I swam away (about a 10 minute swim), she felt more comfortable and knew I’d be coming back, so just nestled herself in the shade and waited. Quietly. I returned to shore and praised her for her ability to chill, and then noticed that she got in my backpack and ate the oatmeal I’d so eagerly been anticipating. What can I say? I left it within pooch reach, so really, it’s my bad. I also recognized that this is all new to her, this camping and hiking thing, and that her barking and yelping meant that she was nervous I wouldn’t come back. And maybe she was nervous that I wasn’t a strong swimmer. Whatever the reason, she just wants love and security. Don’t we all? 

I reflected on my own lack of patience and thoughts/behaviour for when she didn’t act or do exactly as I wanted, and I see elements of control freak in myself. I also saw some lack of conditional love, and changed that immediately. I mean, did my mum want to give me away when I threw an uncanny temper tantrum on my 8th birthday on the front lawn because I didn’t get one of my own lootbags (the party favour bags the “host” gives at parties, NOT for the birthday girl herself)? Did she scream, “Okay you greedy kid, you just got 12 presents! What’s your problem? One more peep and you’re off to a foster home!” No, she laughed, and continued to love me unconditionally, knowing I was probably just overtired and jacked up on sugar. 

And so, on our curvy drive home yesterday, when she barfed yet again, I held her little head out the window and gave her sips of water as she slept on and off on my lap for the 3-hour drive home. I worried about the tick she had on her ear earlier in the week as I wondered if her ear was as floppy pre-tick bite. She’d look up at my intermittently, soulful eyes meeting mine and we seemed to say, “I am you, you are me.” In this moment of new-age eye gazing, I’m sure that I won’t ever do any larynx surgery, and vow to accept all that she is. Barks, yelps, barf and all. THIS is unconditional love. Thank you Zafi for the constant teachings. Just when I thought I was evolved and had things figured out. Guess again. Woof. Aho.

                                                                             Sunrise at Haliksai

Haliksai. This is the Hopi word that is used at the beginning of a story. Roughly translated to something like, “Once upon a time”, or “In the beginning”. And so, I begin my story of the last month: 

Haliksai. Once upon a time there was a woman named Sarah. Her love of adventure and travel took her to all corners of the world where she met unique and interesting people, and marvelled at the beauty of the world with its diverse cultures, customs and rituals. She felt the call to return to her homeland one summer and spent cherished time with friends and family. However, the world at this point had changed drastically, and she didn’t feel quite like she fit into the “new” world. And so, after a few months of clearing and cleaning (such as having a HUGE garage sale, burning old journals she’d been storing for 20 years) she decided it was time to move again, to a place where she felt more free and safe. 

Although she had a heaviness in her heart saying goodbye to old friends and some of her family, she knew that this was the right decision, and this elevated the heaviness, creating a sense of excitement, possibility and optimism.

Through a dear friend, she was introduced to a beautiful French couple living in Mexico, running a retreat they call, “Haliksai”. Since there were no retreats running, Sarah could stay in their deluxe cabin called, “La Fare” with a king size bed, full kitchen, large dining room, and indoor/outdoor shower. Here, she was in the midst of the Mexican jungle, greeted by colourful birds each morning, jungle sounds, sweet dog energy, and overall: serenity. Just ten minutes away were two remote pristine beaches, where she’d often find herself alone, able to walk, dance, sing, cry, and just be. Through her new friends, she was introduced to interesting heartfelt creative people with whom she resonated deeply and quickly. 

                                                                                  Furry friends

She was given the opportunity to guest star on a French reality show, whereby she took part in a cacao ceremony, danced with fire, and played music around a campfire. Pretty much, all the things she did her own “reality”. This proved to be lucrative, and her sense of being in abundance and being prosperous was amplified. She knew deeply, and remembered at a soul level that she was always protected and guided. 

                                                                       Around the Campfire scene

Next week, she moves into the town of San Pancho, where she’s rented a sweet space, can teach yoga from home, and has made connections with the local musicians and teachers to collaborate and connect. She’s also open to new possibilities and will see where the flow of life takes her. 

Once upon a time there was a woman who always followed her heart, despite the seeming “challenges” and uncomfortable risks to others. Her path was unique unto herself, and not the right path for others, and she continues to follow her heart's calling. For this, she is rewarded with a rich tapestry of experiences, both light and dark, not always easy but always filled with wonder, magic and love.

My Nana used to drive me crazy with her lack of committing to a plan. Anytime I’d want to organize something with her for the future, she’d be totally vague. The conversation would usually go like this, “OK Nana, so, let’s make a plan. How about in the spring I come back to Toronto and I’ll take you up to Barrie for the weekend...sounds good?” To this she’d usually shrug. Even a lesser complicated plan would get a similar response. For example, “Nana, why don’t I come down on Tuesday and we’ll order a Hawaiian pizza from Pizza Nova? Sound good?” Again, a shrug, and usually something like, “I don’t know. I may not want pizza on Tuesday. Or there might be a storm and then no electricity. Or I might be dead.” For real, she’d drop lines like that. 

I’d often get frustrated and say something like, “What d’ya mean, you don’t know? I’m telling you that I’ll be there in May and we’ll head up to Barrie. Why can’t you just make a plan?” 

Nana’s ubiquitous response to any idea in the future was always something like this: Nana: “Oh Sarah, you caaahn’t make a plan”. 
Me: “Well, actually, yes you can. Everyone does except you.” 

Her response was not an aversion to answering questions, such as the common “We’ll see” that parents often give to their kids. That’s a passive aggressive way of saying “No” so kids won’t lose their shit and have tantrums. No, Nana’s response was actually heart-felt and true. She’d often say, “Je don’t know” with her best attempt to put on a French accent. 
No, Nana’s response was truthful and she really felt that it was impossible to make a plan, because it was impossible to predict what was going to happen in the future. 

Her plan to marry her first sweetheart Abe in England didn’t happen because he never made it back from the war. Her plan to immigrate to Australia didn’t happen because she got a response from Canada first and jumped on the first boat to get out of the UK. Having lived during the depression and wartime gave her the concrete knowledge that you can’t really make a plan. I mean, I guess you can try, but just don’t be disappointed when the plan doesn’t come to fruition. 

I’m now experiencing how she felt. As far as I’m concerned, we are now living in wartime, and there is indeed depression, varying from economic to widespread emotional depression. Since I’ve been back from my Costa Rican bubble, I’ve been trying to make plans, that are changing as much as Barbara Streisand changes her outfits during a concert. I booked a flight to BC to visit my beloved Nelson, and had to change it because the province is literally on fire. 

I had a house-sit lined up in Nelson, and that fell through due to the fires and my friend needing to shift her plans because she didn’t want to be camping in the smoke and soot. 

A little while ago I had a plan to visit a friend in the south end of Barrie, and was deterred due to a tornado. Literally...a tornado. 

Making plans with friends who have children is similar; you can bet that the day my bestie and I have a reservation for lunch on a patio, her kid is going to have an ear infection. 

And so, I am now completely without attachment to plans. Living in Latin America for years has also geared me up for this way of being in the world. I remember years ago in Peru making plans with my dear friend Patricia. She’d always be telling me of the most amazing day that she’d have planned, “Oh, tomorrow amiga, we go to visit my horses and we ride on the beach. Then we have ceviche at this little place I love.” The morning would arrive and I’d be ready to put on my riding boots and chaps and saunter into the kitchen to find her in a bathing suit. “Oh, today is so much sun. We just relax here by the pool. I have my cousins coming for lunch.” This whole changing of the plan happened a lot, and really pissed me off at first. When I say at first, I mean for the first few years I lived in the South and Central Americas. It’s been a process. This “change in plans” continued during my time in Nicaragua and particularly the last couple of years in Costa Rica where weather truly dictates what’s going to happen. Oh yeah, and there’s that little virus that’s been going around too, which has made it nearly impossible to make plans, especially travel. I’m now in a space where I am truly comfortable with no real plan. My scheduled puritan upbringing of being in the world of academia and then teaching for so many years trained me to be extremely structured in terms of time and planning; lesson plans, planning field trips for the future, planning trips for my holiday time etc. etc. 

And then something changed. I changed. The world has changed. I started to settle into allowing what the day unfolds, according to weather, mood, energy levels and other people’s needs. So today, I find myself back in Nelson, several weeks after the initial plan of being here, and see that this timing is much better. The smoke has cleared, the two-week housesit that would have left me homeless after the stint turned into a short-term rental in a friend’s place who is away in the States. She has a vintage 1974 Wurlitzer keyboard that I’ve been befriending and a bed that is beyond comfortable. Oh, and the running water is a nice touch (in the boathouse I was basically “glamping” sans running water). Sprit proves once again that this plan is far superior to my initial plan. 

I went out to my land for the first time in about three years and was flooded with gratitude that I have such a beautiful place to steward. When I first bought it, the plan was to build a retreat centre. After working for years in the industry leading retreats and seeing what that actually looks like in terms of being an owner/operator, I quickly changed my mind. This gypsy soul did not want to be tied to staying in one place. So now, the new plan is to create a small spiritually minded community of tiny homes. Yes, there will still be healing and it is indeed a place of retreat. There will be workshops and ceremonies, but it will be in a space of collaboration and co-creation with all who live there, thus enabling me to still flutter my wings and go south. 

I thank Nana for her wisdom, and find myself adhering to her way of answering when someone asks me to make a plan. Today for instance, has already deviated from the plan; my thought last night was to wake up early and go for a brisk hike. I awoke at 8am (very late for me!) and feeling a bit tired. My body landed here in Nelson a few days ago, but my spirit is still catching up. Hence, I brewed a cup of tea and felt like writing this instead. It’s a bit cold and overcast, so I’m now planning to set up my little music studio area instead. I do commit to one plan however, and that is to honour where I am in each moment and to continue to live this life in a state of wonder and gratitude, despite what is happening in the world. I continue to trust that the divine plan is better than my own idea of planning.

Thank you for being part of this journey...your presence is felt and appreciated. 

Love and Light, 
Sarah xo 

QUESTION FOR YOU: Can you think of a time you had a plan that fell through, and as a result, the new plan turned out to be much better than you could have imagined? Please share!