tag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:/blogs/just-be?p=3"You're only human." Billy Joel2023-12-06T07:54:06-08:00Sarah Calvertfalsetag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/73152752023-12-06T07:54:06-08:002024-03-26T01:05:36-07:00 "...Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, In the spring, becomes the rose" Bette Midler<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/366515/04d32e079643fabd268f82f9b0c4346d91ec1bf8/original/img-2902.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p style="text-align:center;"><i>A rose by any other name, still smells as sweet. </i> Shakespeare<br> </p><p>And so what could naturally be related to this, “A woman by any other name is still a woman.”</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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”.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p><br>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.</p><p>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!)</p><p>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.</p><p>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?</p><p>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.</p><p><i><strong>Question for You: </strong></i>If you wanted to change your name, which name would you choose and why? Please feel free to share in the comments. <br>As always, gratitude for your presence alongside me in this journey.<br><br><span class="text-huge" style="color:hsl(0,75%,60%);"><i><strong>Zarah </strong></i></span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/72971602023-11-01T08:08:05-07:002023-11-01T09:28:26-07:00"May the strength of the ancestors encircle you." Sarah Pirtle<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/366515/308b18e651168c384a53ac5c66501894d05e678d/original/img-2739.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <i><strong>Mum on my altar (her ashes to the left, which I constantly smuggle back and forth in my carry-on bag)</strong></i><br><br>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. <br><br><strong>**Please enjoy the accompanying track, “From Where I Stand” honouring Mum and her eternal spirit**</strong></p>4:15Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/72861962023-10-11T07:50:25-07:002023-10-25T03:46:52-07:00"On the Road Again" Willie Nelson<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/366515/f854f0388f6481f8c30dfddda9aa6b5b7c80d35b/original/img-2597.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <i><strong>Me and the Zafinator, happily “stranded” in Ajijic</strong></i><br><br><br>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/72021392023-05-03T08:03:05-07:002023-10-11T05:19:09-07:00"I Am Light", India Arie<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/366515/d2143ba5f129bfaf6439574910d40a4db50b974d/original/screen-shot-2022-06-16-at-4-50-06-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><i><strong>“I Am Light” </strong></i><br><i><strong>-India Arie</strong></i><br> </p><p>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.</p><p>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.”</p><p>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?”</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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:</p><p>Do you, Zarah, promise to take more times of not doing to support your mental and physical well-being? <br> I do. </p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/69954282022-06-16T11:24:49-07:002023-01-27T01:17:34-08:00"All we need is just a little patience" Axyl Rose<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/c28a39b0f9f6f98fa2c036b27143906cf5990e24/original/me-and-zafi.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><em><strong>Lessons and Musings inspired by a Mexican Mutt </strong></em></span></p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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? </p>
<p>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. <br>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. </p>
<p>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. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/9049bd2c93faafcd070cc0a9a024caaed24d72a5/original/zafi-guitar.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Zafi, loving to lounge on cotton blankets</em></p>
<p>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? </p>
<p>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? </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/68219492021-11-26T09:13:07-08:002022-04-15T04:40:22-07:00"Once upon a time..." from Sir Ferumbas, 1380AD<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/f5046d936c7abe4999c5efa868f6d3f69522b80d/original/sunrise.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <strong><em> Sunrise at Haliksai</em></strong></p>
<p>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: </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/2fef54bb85c062692176015c6d3bfb84b1ce22d8/original/poochies.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <strong><em>Furry friends</em></strong></p>
<p>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. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/36cc279dbbc23ccfa755c3df169729bb2d906c89/original/0b3d702c-c5a7-4166-848c-142aba77591c.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <strong><em>Around the Campfire scene</em></strong></p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/67397922021-09-08T09:46:51-07:002023-12-10T09:06:59-08:00"Before you cross the street take my hand. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans." John Lennon<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/970fd62f164e89f6668f8a1b44fec6c6360156cb/original/trust-pic.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />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. </p>
<p>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?” </p>
<p>Nana’s ubiquitous response to any idea in the future was always something like this: Nana: “Oh Sarah, you caaahn’t make a plan”. <br>Me: “Well, actually, yes you can. Everyone does except you.” </p>
<p>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. <br>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Thank you for being part of this journey...your presence is felt and appreciated. </p>
<p>Love and Light, <br>Sarah xo </p>
<p><strong><span style="color:#2980b9;">QUESTION FOR YOU: </span></strong>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!</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/66876692021-07-15T09:20:10-07:002023-01-27T01:17:34-08:00"I'd like to be under the sea." Ringo Starr<p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SssebdqXUc4" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p>
<p>Day 11 (of quarantine in Canada) </p>
<p>“I’d like to be under the sea in an octopus’ garden in the shade”. </p>
<p>I’m sitting here in my boathouse in Barrie on Day Eleven of my quarantine. My gracious sister has decked the place out with cozy candles, new bedding, a sweet little kitchen area and best of all, a record player and some of Dad’s old records. I've been listening to Abbey Road a few times...still SUCH a classic. Apparently Ringo Starr wrote that song as a response to what was happening in his band (The Beatles were the band by the way, and if you didn’t know this, I’m not entirely sure why and how we are friends, but that’s okay): complete and utter chaos. He simply wanted to escape the drama of what was happening with the band: communication issues, egos, jealousy, anger, miscommunication. I get it. </p>
<p>I feel like for the past year and eight months, I had the good fortune of escaping chaos and crazy of the recent/present times, living under the sea in my own octopus’ garden in the shade. Well okay, it wasn’t actually under the sea, but it was often right beside the sea, and the garden was actually a jungle, and yes, but true to the song, there were times in the shade. Having been based in Costa Rica for the whole “pandemic” which I deem to be a “plandemic” of sorts, (potentially more on that in subsequent posts) was a blessing of which I’m fully aware. I’m not going to get into all the different theories, assessments and my personal views as to my take on what’s happening right now, rather, I want to connect with you all, and not create more division. We’ve got enough of that as it is. </p>
<p>Now I want to stress that although I was in the tropics, it was not paradise all the time. I dealt with a lot of jungle-related skin issues such as flesh eating parasites, staph infections and other sorts of funguses that my delicate Canadian skin and constitution simply could not withstand. I had an ear infection that refused to vamoose for about four months due to the humidity and my resistance to antibiotics. That being said, I did retain a great tan and when my hair started to grow back after shaving it all off, it seemed to lose all of its previous gray. It was actually a really beautiful time. While my loved ones were in lockdown I was esctatic dancing and playing music, and I don’t think I really grasped the collective trauma of what was happening here in Canada until I returned. I can actually feel it. Why did I leave many people are asking me, and I can only answer that I was called to come back. Ernest Holmes wrote, “Nature will not let us stay in any one place too long. She will let us stay just long enough to gather the experience necessary for the unfolding and advancement of the soul.” And so, I feel like I’ve gathered a lot and it’s time to be back in Canada right now, despite the challenges. </p>
<p>If one were to look at my quarantine situation now at the boathouse one might think that once again, I find myself in paradise. And yes, on the outset, it would seem that way. However, looking more closely one would find that the roof is leaking, and that on Day One of arriving, along came the rains. Apparently it hadn’t rained here in six weeks. Literally, every conversation I’d have with Dad over the past couple of months would contain a detailed weather report. He actually is really interested in the weather...it’s not just small talk. Every chat would go something like this: “Hey Dad, how are you?” to which he’d reply, “I’m okay, but Christ, do we ever need rain.” I’d try and steer the topic to something I find more interesting like food and offer, “What are you having for dinner tonight?” and he’d respond with, “Oh I don’t know, I wanted to go to No Frills today to pick up some stuff for salad but it was so hot. You know we haven’t had any rain here in about a month. A MONTH! Christ, we need rain badly.” It seems like I’m his good luck charm because as soon as I touched down in Canada, the next day it started down-pouring. And the heat wave was put on hold too. There are some days down here recently that I’m wearing a touque (that’s a warm winter hat for all you non-Canucks) 2 pairs of leggings, 2 sweaters and my sister’s light purple large linen bath robe. And on my feet I’ve got Totes socks that are sticking to the large green Crocs that my Dad loaned me. I kind of look a strange female variation of Jeff Bridge’s character The Dude, except I’m carrying around a mug of green tea or cacao as opposed to Kahlua. My hair is just as unkept and greasy as his though, because I can’t go in the lake right now. Me...the dolphin who LIVES to swim has to stay out of the water while an erupted cyst on my shoulder heals. I thought that my skin things would be over once I left the tropics. Guess again. I’m breathing deeply. A lot. </p>
<p>I’ve had the government call and leave messages that they are going to possibly arrest me for non-compliance and then when they put me through with a real person to talk with, the call has dropped. Twice. There was a miscommunication whereby I hit the number 2 instead of 1 on my phone during a questionnaire call because my new Samsung phone’s fonts are too tiny for me to read, and I couldn’t find my glasses in time during the call. To try to call back and reach anyone is futile, unless you want to spend hours on hold listening to shitty music interspersed with threats in both English and French. I prefer Abbey Road, thank you very much. I have indeed “complied” in terms of quarantining alone, doing two tests and sending them in and reporting every day on my symptoms or lack thereof. This is not the Canada that I left in November of 2019. And yet, within this chaos and despite the fear-provoking measures that are taking place around me, I am still finding moments of gratitude to be here. A few days ago (during a storm and experiencing PMS) I questioned why I left my octopus’ garden in the shade in Costa Rica, but the sentiment was dispelled quickly when I think about actually hugging my sister for the first time in almost two years on Sunday, and seeing all of my family members on Mum’s side at a reunion up north. I plan to visit and reconnect with dear friends and loved ones while I’m here, and enjoying the beauty of Canadian summer, with all of its extremes and uncertainties. I simply miss my peeps and am happy that I’ll be seeing them in the flesh. </p>
<p>The past eleven days has been a true testament to my spiritual practices I’ve developed over the past 20 years. Namely, my relationship with equanimity and the ability to respond to situations and events with a neutral mind. I awoke this morning after a deluge of rain all night to various pools of water on the floor (after the roofer was here yesterday and “fixed” it), wind whipping in the screens and the temperature deemed that I put back on The Dude outfit after yesterday’s sauna. Instead of going into “What-the-Fuck-am-I-Doing-Here?! mode, I bundled up, made a smoothie and found gratitude in the efficacy of the kick-ass blender I have here. My blender in Costa Rica sucked. I looked in my fridge at all the organic eats I have, and am grateful for the nourishing lunch and dinner I’ll make. Dad has been dropping off food for me, and even though it pains him to buy organic which he thinks, “is a bunch of bullshit and it’s just overpriced”, he’s doing it. He’s helping to take care of me. With this gratitude in mind, I woke up, got outta bed, put the touque back on my head (yes, I’ve been listening to a lot of the Beatles this week)....then made a cuppa. The warm mug in my hands made me smile, and I realize that I have indeed missed Canada. I kind of missed being a bit chilly when I was there for so long and missed all the changes of seasons. Today I look out at Lake Simcoe, and am grateful that I am here (even if I can’t swim in it right now), and not in an octopus’ garden. </p>
<p>There may be chaos going on around me, but I am in control of what is going on inside me. I continue to lean into the love during these times. As I roll into the last few days of my psuedo-Vipassana retreat/quarantine I accept all that is and relish these days of contemplation, integration of the last year and a half and am invoking my imagination, dreaming up what I want to see next in my life. It’s exciting times. </p>
<p>As always, I thank you for continuing along this journey and camino with me. <br>Love and Light, <br>Sarah xo </p>
<p>Question for You: How have You dealt with fear and isolation this past year and a half?</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/65594632021-02-26T08:24:54-08:002022-05-20T18:48:55-07:00 "Trust and self-assurance, that lead to happiness...." Don Henley<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/970fd62f164e89f6668f8a1b44fec6c6360156cb/original/trust-pic.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em> View from my bed here in Yelapa.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Trust. One would think that this is a relatively easy emotion/way of being for me, looking at my way of being, where my life has taken me, and all of the spiritual practices I delve into. Sometimes it is easy, when I’m in flow and things are rockin’ and I’m feeling good. Other times (more than I’d care to admit), not so much. Last week was one of those times. </p>
<p>As some of you know, Costa Rica has been my home base for almost a year now, and to NOT travel, and to NOT be on a plane for a year is actually quite unprecedented. This hasn’t happened since grade ten. I’ve loved it. The feeling of rooting into one place, being able to say “yes” to events that are happening a couple of months away, and knowing I’ll be there to attend. It’s been amazing. True to form, the gypsy soul began to sing and sigh in late November, urging me to move a bit, and so I travelled to the Pacific beach town of Santa Teresa and then the central mountainous region of Chirippo to shift it up. I landed in great places, met great people, did some offerings, and continued to heal deeply, all because I was in a state of trusting in the unknown, and trusting that the universe continues to support me. I was fully in the flow. </p>
<p>Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago, and I had to make a decision about more travel, when my heart actually just wanted to stay in Costa Rica. We tourists have been lucky that for the past year, the need to leave the country to do a visa run every three months was pushed ahead...several times. Thus, I haven’t had to leave. This changed and we were told that we had to leave before March 2nd, and were allowed to re-enter after this. For some reason, this put me in a state of stress. First off, the thought of travelling and being in airports wearing a mask and being around a lot of other people wasn’t exactly enticing. My other concern was that I’m not exactly travelling “light” right now, and am travelling with a gong and a shitload of supplements that friends from Canada brought down. In addition, the burning question was, “WHERE to go?” For many of you in Canada who would relish the opportunity to travel, particularly in Central America, I know this may sound trite. That being said, I kind of freaked out. I wanted to go to Nicaragua, but the land borders to return were closed, which meant an expensive 23-hour trip stopping in Miami, which didn’t really feel good. And so, I decided on Mexico because the flight route was easy, cheap, and Mexico does not require a Co-vid test. </p>
<p>Right up until the last minute I was in a state of fight-or-flight about my decision. It’s weird, but for some reason when it comes to travel, I get stressed and question my ability to make a right choice with flights, times, places to stay. It’s like a dentist who is afraid of teeth. I’m a traveller afraid of travel. I’ve been looking at this (with the help of a friend who sees my patterns) and see that it comes down to a lack of trust in myself. When I look further, it means I have a lack of trust in the universe and in Spirit. This isn’t great. It has caused me a lot of suffering in my life, and I’m ready to shift it. Now. </p>
<p>Early this month, I spent an amazing two weeks at Posada Natura near Manuel Antonio with a group of awesome light-workers from Toronto, and their energy was contagious. With their help, I was ready to dive back into Trust again. Being with a group of like-minded community really helped me to move through my blocks and fears. A reminder that I don’t need to do this all on my own, and that my Lone Wolverine days are finito. As Spirit would have it, once I made my plan to travel to Mexico for my visa run, and committed to trusting that it was the “right” one, it was smooth sailing from the get-go. </p>
<p>My friend Jesse dropped me off at Brigitte and Freddy’s place(friends from the Kootenays) in Esterillos just outside of Jaco...door to door service. I spent a couple of days with them reconnecting, doing yoga, being on the beach, deep stimulating conversations, eating good food and enjoying each others’ company, which I know is a rarity for many people right now, who are confined to one or two people. My friend Karen (also from Canada) drove me to San Jose the day of my flight, whereby I stayed at my friend Janine’s place for the day to do some city things and store some of my “stuff”. My fear of schlepping all my stuff and arduous travel had dispersed, and as a result, my travels were super smooth and actually enjoyable. I did have a minor panic before I headed to the airport. The Uber that I pre-ordered didn’t show because of the driving restrictions in San Jose. As the fight or flight started to kick in and my mind flashed forward to no cabs being available at midnight, missing my flight, dealing with airlines etc. I stopped myself and said, “No, this is not how it’s going to be. My day has been WAY too smooth to have this happen” and I calmly googled a cab company in my friend’s neighbourhood, made a call, and the dude happened to be a five minute drive away. He whisked me to the airport, no problems, no being late. Easy peasy. </p>
<p>When I arrived at the airport in Puerta Vallarta, my dear friend of 20 years Tisana was there, with her beau to greet me. This rarely happens in my life where I’m actually met at an airport. They helped me with my stuff, and we had a smooth day of enjoying fish tacos, art galleries, then catching a ferry to Yelapa, where I am now. Smooth. Easy. In flow. </p>
<p>My place here is stellar. It’s a huge new beautiful house that I’m renting a room in for super cheap due to the fact that no one is coming here. Also a good thing. It’s really quiet and calm. There’s only one other woman who is in it (sometimes) and she’s awesome. It’s right beside Tisana’s house so we are getting a chance to catch up and spend time together after a three-year hiatus of not seeing one another. There are musicians who live next door and we’ve already jammed and performed a bit. The drummer is a pro with Ableton and has offered to help me get my new MIDI controller set up to create new music. There is an amazing group of women here and we’re doing a boat trip to a local beach on Friday. There is dance. There is a sweat lodge each week. There is live music. There is yoga. There are no cars here and I walk around barefoot. A woman at the local bakery is making me gluten-free and dairy-free treats upon my request. I’m not saying this to gloat by any means. My intention is to show how when I place trust in myself, I say to the Universe that I trust her as well, and she provides. Big time. By dispelling my fear, I see that whatever decision I make, I can trust that all will be well. Had I chosen Nicaragua, that would have been amazing as well. It doesn’t matter so much where I am and what I choose, it’s the fact that I trust in the unknown, KNOWING that I am supported by Spirit always. It’s my invitation for us all to put our energy into trust, despite the chaos and the unknown. Trust and gratitude in and you all. Gracias, gracias, gracias.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/65154712021-01-07T05:21:17-08:002023-12-10T11:26:48-08:00(Doggies) are a girl's best friend....(NOT diamonds).<p><span class="font_regular"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/84cc30e61c65adcfa34e222b8a4c266b94087f87/original/img-5646.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular"><strong><em>Me and Scoobs</em></strong><br><br>A few new moons ago, I wrote down some intentions. I thought about what new experiences I wanted to call into my life. Kind of cliche, but I know we all do it; the ubiquitous New Year’s resolution, the beginning of a yoga class, sitting in ceremony or simply setting new goals for ourselves. Very new-agey I know, but also very profound. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Usually I have similar intentions each month, revolving around health, clarity, peace in my mind and body, and that sort of thing. However, several months ago I wrote down, “Furry friend”. I was calling in dog energy, and wasn’t exactly sure how that would manifest. Originally, my friend in Puerto told me about a litter of pups born recently at her neighbour’s place. I went to check them out, fell profusely in love with ALL of them, and then settled on two in particular that I really vibed with. I left on my month long birthday adventure in the middle of August and would decide which pup I wanted on my travels, and he’d be ready for me when I got back in September. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">During my travels, I was staying with a good friend (and fabulous healer) Kristen Grayce, in the mountainous region of Chiripo. She literally lives in the middle of nowwhere amongst a smattering of small local houses. One morning I went for a little stroll and as I was walking by a small house I heard, “Senorita, hablas espanol?” (asking me if I spoke English). I replied yes, and she quickly and bluntly said, “Do you want this dog?” as she pointed to her front porch where a large chocolate lab was sitting, beside a small mutt. “The big one” she clarified. I went on to tell her I had a puppy waiting for me in Puerto and couldn’t possibly take him. I glanced over and saw he was on a really short rope, but he seemed pretty content, smiling and panting away. She explained that it was her daughter’s dog, and her daughter had been sick so she was taking care of him, but couldn’t afford to feed him. I told her I was sorry, but couldn’t take him and wished her luck. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Over the next day or two, that lab popped into my mind several times. So, I decided to call the local shelter to see if they’d be able to find him a new home. I didn’t like the short rope he was on, and I also didn’t like the way she yelled at him to sit down. She was trying to show me he was obedient, but it was clear that she didn’t want him around and he was a burden. I heard back from the shelter and they were completely full and weren’t taking any more dogs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">On my last morning there, I went for another walk before the long 8-hour drive back to Puerto Viejo and walked past the house again. The woman was there hanging laundry, and the pooch was there, lazing and dozing on the porch. I told her that I called the shelter and they would be in touch if anything changed, and hopefully he’d find a home. She thanked me and I continued my walk, all the while thinking that I had to take this dog with me. While walking back to Kristen Grayce’s, I stopped to give “Snoopy” (pronounced eh-Snoopy) a little pat. He was chubby, his fur was a bit matted and dull, he had some goop in his left eye, but his eyes shone. This dog had some amazing chilled energy and was just grateful that I stopped to give him some love. That sealed the deal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I went back to my friend’s place, called a few of my peeps in Puerto to see if anyone would take him. A good friend Luciana said she would babysit him for the two weeks I’d be away doing the Moondance then in San Jose, and then I could figure out how to find him a home after that. My landlords were cool with him staying with me while I did this. And so, I drove back to the house, chatted with the woman and her daughter on the phone (who was distraught and in tears, but grateful that he was finding a new home). As soon as I popped the trunk, he jumped into the trunk and sat there happily awaiting the road trip. A fellow traveller. I loved him already. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">During the ride home we stopped, had some pees and small walks and I just felt calm and happy in his presence. He’d pop his head up from time to time to say “Hey, thanks for getting me outta there.” When we got home to Puerto I took him to Luciana’s place, who also immediately fell in love with him. She and her roomate Milagros would be the perfect foster mamas and ended up taking him to the beach and parties, where he was a hit. EVERYBODY loves this dog. I mean, it’s crazy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">When I returned from my travels, I brought him back to my place and we began our new journey together. And what a journey it was. I forgot to mention that when Snoopy jumped in the car to leave and I was about to drive away, the woman said breezily, “Oh, and when it rains and storms with lightning and thunder, you have to pat him.” I thought that was no big deal, a lot of dogs don’t like storms. I had no idea that he was actually a PTSDD (post-tramautic stress disorder dawg), and that we’d both be in for a ride with the tropical rains of the Caribbean. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">During the first rainfall (without thunder or lightning) I noticed that Scoobs was starting to shake and look around anxiously. Before I knew it, he bolted over to my next door neighbour’s house and hid under their bed. Luckily the two ladies there were quite understanding and liked dogs. I brought him out from under the bed, walked him to my place and put him under the bed there. I sat on my bed and read, playing some relaxing choral music and looked underneath from time to time to soothe him. He was like a Parkinson’s patient on coffee, the poor thing, for most of the night. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">He had several other “incidents” whereby he got off of his collar, jumped over my veranda when I had him in my room and his name immediately became Scoobdini...the escapist. Several times he went to Luciana’s which was great, as I knew where he was. But other times he ran off into the jungle, wide-eyed and panic-stricken, and ended up at random people’s homes in the middle of the night, or the local pizzeria, hiding in their kitchen. Thanks to Facebook, I was able to locate him each time and bring him home. My neighbours lent me a crate from their dog, and using that, along with some CBD oil (a little for me, a little for him), we were able to navigate the stressful storms together. Several months later, he had calmed down and was able to weather many storms in a place whereby he felt safe and protected. Such a gift for him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Of course there was reciprocity in the relationship and the gifts he gave me were numerous. His gentle, easy demeanour. His loyalty and immediate obedience; there were many times I’d just think, “get your stick” and he’d perk up, get a stick or coconut and bring it to me for a long game of fetch in the ocean. His joy of just “being”. His love of lazing around, which was crucial for me during a recent healing crisis of a crazy 3-month long ear infection and myriad skin issues. He taught me how to just relax. The fact that he’s 8 years old (the original owner told me about 6, but I think she told me that to make sure I’d take him and not have to face vet bills) was also a blessing for me. As most of you know, I tend to like the younger fellows, who are always so much fun, usually extremely handsome, and at the same time not quite mature enough to handle my woman-ness. Scoobs blazed the trail for me hanging out with masculine energy closer to my age. He’d wait for me on the beach patiently while I swam my lengths, often swimming out to me, and back to shore, to make sure I was okay. He had my back. When he’d take off to Luciana’s place, he taught me about my need for control and how to surrender. He had his own mind, and I totally get if he wanted to switch up his scenery. He encouraged me to loosen up. He reminded me what it was like to make a sacrifice in the name of love. I had wanted to attend a full-day workshop, and my dog care fell through at the last minute, so I couldn’t go. After so many years of being solo and a free bird, it was humbling to not be able to do what I wanted. And yet, this felt good. I was serving, and putting his needs ahead of mine in the name of unconditional love. One afternoon I brought him to my friend’s place about 15 minutes away in a Tuk Tuk. He LOVED the Tuk Tuk by the way. We were chilling in her house and one minute he was there, the next...no sign. The neighbours left the gate open so he got out to explore. Who could blame him after all those months on a short leash on a concrete porch? I got on my motorcycle and began beachcombing. I kept missing him by minutes. One person reported, “Oh yeah, good lookin’ dog. I just saw him ten minutes ago following two girls that way towards Cocles.” Another person said, “Oh yeah, he was playing with some kids for a while over there about ten minutes ago.” After an hour our combing the beach, I drove past the local soccer field where a game was going on. There was Scoobs. Sitting on the sidelines watching the game. If there had been doggie beer, he would have been swilling one for sure. I called him over, and he wagged his tail like mad, most happy to see me as if to say, “Dude! I had the greatest day!” I couldn’t get mad at him. I had to laugh, even in my frustration and after all my worrying. Guru Scoobs really helped me worry less. I had to relinquish control and accept that he was his own being. I love so many things about him but most of all, I remember the way he’d look up at me adoringly from time to time; we’d lock eyes and in that moment silently say “Thank you” to one another. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I haven’t experienced this kind of connection with an animal up until this point, and I now know how many friends say they can’t live without a dog. That being said, with my lifestyle, which is still a little nomadic, schlepping Scoobs (aka: eh-Scooby) around Costa Rica is quite unrealistic. and I’m back on the road. After 8 months in one place (unprecedented since university over 20 years ago) I had itchy feet and needed to get out and travel. As for Scooby, it’d be different if I had a car, but that’s not the case. I thought about getting him a sidecar for my motorcycle, but with the rains/storms, that’s not a great idea. And so, as I continue to practice non-attachment (for example, the experiment of shaving my head to not be attached to my looks), I’m taking it up a notch with the pooch. Luckily (for both of us), my awesome neighbours and former landlords (also from BC by the by) agreed to take him, and they are sending me updates, photos and I know that he is well taken care of. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I feel I was the bridge to get him off his short leash, away from the screaming woman and food-colouring-filled cat food he was eating. He also helped me to bypass getting the puppy, which was a good call. My puppy’s sister was our neighbour and she was and is a lot of work. With my healing crisis, a puppy would NOT have been a good match. He crossed my path and exactly the right time. He’s now a Puerto Viejo dog through and through. A beach bum. A slow-moving geriatric. A coconut-chomping, stick-fetching dog with whom everyone immediately falls in love. He’s special. Everybody sees it and feels it. And so, it’s with gratitude that I acknowledge that we were each other’s medicine, during a space in time where we needed each other. Even though I may not settle down in Puerto Viejo, I know that Scoobs will be there for as long as he can, following hot girls on the beach, rolling in the sand, swimming in the sea, wanting to take in an afternoon soccer match, and always bringing joy to the people around him who are fortunate enough to be his steward. Aho.</span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/64336762020-09-14T18:42:53-07:002022-05-25T06:13:01-07:00Time makes you bolder, children get older, I'm getting older too." Stevie Nicks<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/38e81d1abcdda25e935685e71a23f61176f01f41/original/mum-and-me-argh.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <strong><em>Mum and I doing our "Calvert" face; many siblings on my dad's side of the family smile this way.</em></strong></p>
<p><br><span class="font_regular">I begin this blog today, on September 14th, on what would have been my mum’s ?? birthday. I use the ?? because she didn’t want people to know how old she was. When she met my dad, she shaved a few years off her real age, and from that moment on, she was several years younger than she really was. The moment we found out about her real age, was like a scene from Seinfeld. We were in the synagogue in Toronto, just after my uncle Alan had passed away, and the rabbi asked Mum how much younger she was than Alan. My nana chimed in, “Five years.” My sister and I looked at each other, and were confused, doing the quick math in our heads. My mum then became irritable, “Oh Mum, shut up!” We then realized that our own mother had been living a lie. All in the name of love. All in the name of feeling too old for my dad, or feeling like she was not enough. At the time, we laughed about it, and even when she died, we refused to let anyone know her real age. It has become a family joke, and we honour her legacy by never exposing just how old she really was. Recently, I’ve been thinking about why she felt she had to lie, and how this little lie, and others like it, can be insidious with regard to self-esteem and self-worth. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">In the past few months I’ve been witnessing my own responses to the ageing process. Since I shaved off my long blond locks in April, my new tresses have been coming back in a whole new way: mostly gray. Sometimes when I’d look in the mirror I’d shirk and wonder who that old lady was in the reflection. Granted, the lighting in my bathroom is horrific and even Heidi Klum would look lacklustre, but I digress. The point is, there have been moments when I’ve been resisting my age, and actually even resenting my age. The whole point of me getting rid of my hair was to experiment with my identity and my ego, and I have to admit, I haven’t been feeling super elevated and self-realized all the time. Then the guilt and shame of feeling less than sets in, which can leave me feeling worse. What kind of a yoga teacher am I if I’m still attached to my appearance?! I’m a sham! Worse...I’m an old sham! And so on. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Mind you, these thoughts are not always at the forefront of my mind; the majority of the time I’m doing really well, and feel confident and clear, despite the gray tresses (and the sun spots, and the new wrinkles around my eyes and lips). A few weeks ago I visited a wonderful healer in Chiripo named Kristen Grayce McGary. Together, she and I did some deep healing work, with focus on shifting some ancestral wounds and letting go of some “stuff” that isn’t even mine. I believe that the whole ageing thing was one thing that I had to let go of. I remember Mum looking in the mirror and drawing the skin on her neck back, and musing aloud, “See? If this was just a bit tighter...” I personally didn’t notice any difference. To me, she was still my amazing mother; stunning gray-green eyes full of light and fun, beautiful beaming smile and hearty laugh. I wondered why she thought that having her cheeks or neck a bit tighter would make a difference. Now, entering mid-life, I notice my own thoughts, and see that I have had moments whereby I thought that my face was starting to sag a bit, and I feel old. With the work I’ve been doing to set myself free of ancestral wounds and old beliefs, I’v been able to shift this. A lot. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Immediately I now catch myself, and if and when those self-destructive thoughts arise, and reframe them into feeling “older and wiser” versus “old.” I’m so much more aware of what I like, what I dislike, where I want to put my energy, and letting go of old patterns that don’t serve me anymore. I see the freckles on my face and feel gratitude that I spend so much time in the sun. Every summer I spent outside at camp, and as a young adult teaching sailing. I see the wrinkles around my lips and eyes and remember all of those winter days skiing in the alpine mountains of Canada and France. Lips chapped from the cold, heart warm with the joy of swishing around in snow. This beautiful rich life and all the elements in nature have all left their mark on my skin, and etched their stories into my soul. The stories and essence of my ancestors also leave their mark, and it is only with this age and discernment that I can now choose which stories serve me, and which stories I can release. With love. With gratitude. With wisdom. Happy birthday dear Mum. You were, and always will be enough. A-ho.</span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/63973752020-07-30T09:05:32-07:002022-05-21T08:26:44-07:00"There's No Place Like Home" Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.<p><span class="font_regular"><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="WjxdfDsS-Sw" data-video-thumb-url="https://img.youtube.com/vi/WjxdfDsS-Sw/mqdefault.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WjxdfDsS-Sw?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="180" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe><br>"I Go Home" by Sarah Calvert<br><br><br>For the past few months I’ve been reflecting on the notion of “home” and what it means to me. Last week I celebrated Mum’s life on the anniversary of her death (I know, it sounds a bit contradictory) and brought in such feelings of gratitude, as I remembered so many memories. This grief has shifted immensely in the past couple of years, but particularly in this past year. It could be time, my spiritual practice and evolution, or just more and more acceptance of what is. Regardless, while I sat and remembered her, I had pangs of homesickness. I remember 137 Shanty Bay Road as the place where my life was formed from the time I was four until I left home at 19. There, we celebrated, grieved the loss of loved ones, danced, made music, ate many feasts, laughed and cried watching movies and listening to music. We spent days at the boathouse swimming, waterskiing, drinking Molson Export and having parties into the wee hours of the morning. Yes, this place was home for me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I then chatted on FaceTime with my dear brother from another mother who is living in my cabin in Nelson, and I could see on the screen my other “home” where I have so many fond memories of making music, sitting in my outdoor tub under the stars, snowshoeing with Babaji the mountain dog, walking along the creek in the shade during the hot summer months. I also have the not so great memories of having to kill mice, freezing my ass off in the winter and dealing with frozen pipes. That being said, this too has been a home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">And yet, this feeling of homesickness was not for a certain place. I’ve made homes all over the world: Peru, Antigua, all over BC, Toronto, Nicaragua and now Costa Rica. But last week I came to the realization that these are actually just places, and houses to put my stuff. This unease actually comes from a place of not feeling at home in myself. I see that last week I wasn’t really meditating consistently, and have been extremely social with dance events, parties, potlucks and overall “busy-ness”. It’s been great to connect with so many beautiful people, and I’m grateful that here we CAN connect with each other in social ways, but I wasn’t taking time for myself. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Mum’s anniversary was a great touchstone for me to slow down and take time to just be, breathe, reflect and do nothing. Of course I know the importance of going inside and taking time for stillness; I’ve been on this path for a long time. I guess I just forgot and got taken off track. I took a couple of days to be in silence (mostly) and a lot of stillness, journalling, watching a bit of Gangaji and Sadhguru, dancing by myself, doing yoga and breathing. Wow. What an instant way to recalibrate.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I have no idea how long I’ll be here in Costa Rica, but am not feeling called in the near future to head north. I’m feeling like I’d like to plant some roots here, possibly looking for another house to buy. No matter where this vessel may be though, I recognize the importance of being at home, here in myself. I wrote this song a few weeks ago as a reminder to myself that I am always at home. We are always at home, and this home is peaceful and filled with joy: our birthright and our natural state. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Question for You: “When do you feel most at home?” <br>I’d love to hear from you, as we are all in this together. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">As always, infinite gratitude for being part of this journey. </span><br><span class="font_regular">Love and Light, </span><br><span class="font_large"><span style="color:#2980b9;"><strong><em>Sarah xo</em></strong></span></span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/63017342020-05-01T14:06:32-07:002023-12-10T09:09:08-08:00"And now I feel so different..." Sinead O'Connor<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/a9a46e58a5f8d9157e20b7fe6d828db3599fc8aa/original/img-4887.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <em>Sitting writing this blog post, finding the essence of the Goddess, despite how I feel I look. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Courage over Comfort.</p>
<p>I’m not sure where this phrase came from last week, but I wrote it a couple of times in my journal, wanting to keep it my memory for either a song lyric or a blog post. I really had no idea I’d be using it as a prompt for a spiritual experiment last Tuesday afternoon: shaving my head. </p>
<p>Yup. You read that right. Hair. Gone. My long silver/blonde/brown locks were shorn to the quick...then burnt up later that night in my fire pit in ceremony. I’d been toying with the idea of shaving my head for as long as I can remember. Every time I’d go back to Barrie to visit one of my best pals Jen, who is also the <em>best </em>hairdresser I’ve ever been to, I’d ask her if she’d consider shaving it for me. To this she always replied with something like, “Not in my salon! Get somebody else to do it. You have great hair dude!” (Usually sprinkled with some cuss words for emphasis; we are Barrie girls after all.) </p>
<p>When I was in India, I thought about it for a couple of reasons: one being it was so bloody hot, and the other being that it’d be a sadhana of sorts (spiritual practice). I chickened out for a couple of reasons, the most prominent being I was in a relationship with a fairly famous cricket player, and was worried that without my long sexy tresses, he’d lose interest. He had Bollywood chicks throwing themselves at him, so I felt I had to keep my idea of beauty intact, stay on my game...keep my hair. </p>
<p>Later, while living in Canada, I’d use the bypass of it being so bloody cold most of the time, which is actually true. Having a shaved head underneath a ski helmet doesn’t provide the most insulation. I’m usually cold in the best of times so the idea of using my hair to keep me warm made sense. <br>Many of you know I’ve been living in warm climates for the past decade or so during the chilly Canadian winter months, and yes, I thought about getting rid of my locks during those times, but there was always another bypass: a music festival I was playing, a music video I was shooting, time spent in L.A. where the modus operandi is usually to look stunning at all times. I’m a bit humbled to say that I bought into that for many years. I don't wear much makeup, and haven't bought into that, but I have bought into placing value on my hair.</p>
<p>As a pre-teen my hair became part of my identity. My mum used to take me down to Toronto to Holt Renfrew’s upscale salon once a year to get my hair highlighted. They did have a great student discount, so there was that, but still...pretty extravagent for a kid from small-town Ontario. This highlighting business continued well into my 30s, whereby I’d often spend inordinate amounts of cash making my hair brighter, which I felt could not only lighten my locks, but lighten my mood too. </p>
<p>I remember coming back to Ontario after a bout with severe depression in my late twenties, and my mum immediately took me to the salon to get my hair done in an effort to make me feel better. She always did the best she could and I love her immensely, so there is no blame, but there is a question of why didn’t we delve into the real issue of why I was depressed? And yes, looking good can make you feel better...temporarily. I remember the Saturday Night Live sketch with Billy Crystal who was imitating Fernando Lamas and crooning, “It’s not how you feel dahling, it’s how you look, and you look mah-velous!” I think many of us take that to heart, and often overlook what’s really going on that’s making us feel so shitty in the first place. And so, we go to the salon, we go binge shopping, we eat copious amounts of Ben and Jerry’s, in attempts to feel good. </p>
<p>I’ve decided that I wanted this to stop. Now. Not next week, after I do a photo shoot on the beach. Not next year after I release a new album. Now. I want to really walk my talk and continue with this “Camino” or journey into freedom. True freedom. Without attachment. I heard Shimshai’s beautiful song, Suddhosi Buddhosi the other day at a friend’s house, which made me stop and think about what I’m attached to most. I’m pretty good with giving up my “stuff” and can let go of material objects pretty easily these days, but when I dove into the notion of my appearance and beauty, that was another story. Everyone has always commented on how fabulous my hair is. It had become something with which I had identified my actual being, which is total bullshit. I can say in my workshops and writings/songs that “I am enough” and all that jazz, but can I live it? It’s pretty easy to write a song inspiring people to know that they are enough, despite their physical “flaws” or “limitations” when you are blond, tall and lean and fit into what our present day society deems “beautiful”. It’s another thing to inspire through living it. And that’s what I want to do. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/8d0d4ef657ec013e88c4f4354e037edbf158fbcb/original/004-1500px.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> Embodying what I deemed a "Goddess" presence during my CD Release event in Canada.</p>
<p>And so, the other day, as I began toying with the idea of doing the full shave, I googled the spiritual significance of shaving one’s head, and up came an explanation by Sadhguru, one of my fave teachers, who said that if a woman shaves her head on the day before the new moon, it is super powerful as a sadhana, and that the energies will flow more readily to the upper part of the body. It was the day before new moon. My friend Fabrice came by to give me a massage, and he and his beloved both have buzzed noggins, so I asked him hesitantly if he brought his buzzers with him. When he replied that indeed he did, I burst out with “Shit. I think I want you to buzz my hair.” And so, after setting an intention and sitting with the idea for about 5 minutes in silence I said “yes”. A Jewish proverb that I use came to mind, “If not now, when?” </p>
<p>That night it took me a few hours to look in the mirror, and when I did, I felt like I looked like an old man. The shorn hair close to my skull was super white, my face was so prominent, with all of its newish lines and wrinkles, and I immediately started crying. I realized that this was not a practice in trying to look good, channeling Sinead in her early days or attempting to be cool. I’m also not losing my mind (as my Dad feared when I told him). No. I’m actually experiencing a true clarity of mind right now. This was and is a practice in letting go and keeping my ego in check. It still is, and will be for some time as my hair will slowly grow back. Hair is powerful, energetically. I remember after Mum died I visited an Anishinaabe healer in Midland. She told me that my hair was holding a lot of grief, and that to get rid of this, I could wash it with cedar water as a way to cleanse and clear. I feel like last week, I took this to a whole new level. I feel very clear.</p>
<p>This morning I look in the mirror and see the silver stubble coming through...sprouting if you will. I see the lines around my eyes more prominently without all that hair masking them. Lines that show I have laughed a lot in this lifetime. And I mean, a lot. I will continue to laugh a lot. I see the lines around my mouth from half a lifetime of smiling, and on my forehead, I see skin speckled with discolourations and freckles from years in the sun. And I mean, many years. I’ve been outside for most of my life as a camper and camp counsellor, ski and sailing teacher, outdoor guide, and overall, worshipper of nature. I smile at my reflection. I look into my eyes and see within them, my own soul. The universe. Tomorrow I may catch my relfection in the window and be momentarily shocked and grieve my former lovley locks, but it will be fleeting. For I know that as I contine to choose more courage over comfort, I pave the way for my own life filled with beauty and love, and dive deeper into freedom. Sat Nam.<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/6d9e6eca9a65145523e3ee0c390ac4600efe10f8/original/img-4879.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> It's all part of it: the Light and the Shadow. The masculine and the feminine. I embody it all.</p>4:55Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57947182020-03-04T11:34:55-08:002023-09-10T07:54:02-07:00"Surf City here we come" The Beach Boys<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/bd7b6e1b856952a1abe59136e62827bf0c728a6d/original/img-4022.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>Floating around on waves in the ocean has been known to induce many insights and encourage life-changing epiphanies. This raw connection to the elements brings us into close relationship with the environment, and ourselves. Some may ponder life’s fleetingness and the sense of groundlessness. Some Buddhists have been known to see the correlation between waves and thoughts, and how they come and go. Perhaps not as deep and profound as those who have thought before me, I too had a revelation in seeing the myriad of similarities between surfing and dating. </p>
<p>Based on Ometepe Island in Nicaragua for half the year, I’m used to being on the lake and doing lake things like swimming, paddle boarding, kayaking, and the odd synchronized swim routine for friends when I’m feeling sassy. I do however go off island several times a year to catch some waves in Popoyo and Maderas on the western coastline of the country. It was there in Popoyo last week that my “a-ha!” realization came. </p>
<p>Due to the fact that I almost never date, and the same can be said about my surfing hobby in relation to real surfers, this is clearly a given similarity. But the connection between both activities runs deeper than that. The most obvious for me is that both surfing and dating induce a mild state of fear. I’ve had enough near drownings with my surfing days in Costa Rica to know that you don’t mess around with Mama Ocean. The first time I surfed was more than twenty years ago, and due to my youth, naiveté, and cockiness in believing that I was an athlete, I made the mistake of surfing in Playa Hermosa, south of Jaco, on a super big day. One wave totally trashed me and left me feeling like I was in a washing machine with the level set for heavily soiled clothing, for about an hour. In reality, it was probably more like two minutes, but it was the longest minute of my life. And one of the scariest. Once I was washed up on the beach, I took some verbal abuse from my fellow surfers (rightly so!) and scampered away with my tail between my legs, vowing to not make the same mistake again and to find a beginner beach. </p>
<p>The same can be said for dating in the sense of being fear-provoking. I’ve had a few dates that went on for perhaps an hour or so, and yet, they felt like a week: “Will this guy ever shut the fuck up and stop talking about himself? Will he ever and ask me a question?! Does he know that going into every mechanical detail about a specific piece of farm equipment is generally not that interesting?” And then I’ve had an experience with criminals, which is also scary. I met a dude on a surf trip years ago in Hawaii, and apparently after one rendez-vous under the stars one evening, he’d fallen in love with me. I was open (okay, maybe a bit desperate) so decided to give it a go upon returning to my home in British Columbia, Canada. After him not showing up for a date we had planned in the state of Washington, (I even crossed the border for this guy!) I googled his name to see if he may have been in an accident en route to our chosen spot. It was then that I saw all of his mug shots for various arrests, including spousal assault and carrying a concealed weapon. It now made perfect sense why he wanted to meet in the States. He couldn’t cross the border. I dodged a bullet there. Probably literally. I vowed in that moment be more discerning with dating, and to do some research in the future; I would not make the same mistake. Similarly if I’d had done some research all those years ago in Costa Rica about the waves in Playa Hermosa, I would have realized that they were way out of my league. Discernment is a virtue. </p>
<p>My session out on the water the other day was also like dating in terms of waiting. Waiting to catch that perfect wave, and in the dating world, waiting to find the perfect guy (one should note that I am currently forty-six and the longest relationship I’ve had is 2 years). As I straddled the board (uh, no, I’m not going into any of those comparisons folks. I’m a classy broad) and looked out to the sea, I kept my eyes on any potential waves that would be appropriate for my skill set. Basically, giving my environment the once-over. It reminded me of being at a festival or gathering whereby I’ll let my eyes wander about, sussing out the potential man situation. A few times I’d see a wave or two coming in and think, “Is this the one? Could this be the one?” and then against my better judgement (and often impatience after having waited for a long time), I’d paddle, paddle, paddle, only to find that the wave was actually mediocre, and if I’d had waited another couple of minutes, the waves following that wave were actually much better in terms of shape and form. I’ve seen this lack of patience before with finding men too. In my gut, I always know when a man is right for me, but since my love life much of the time can be compared to the rains in the Sahara, I sometimes forget my gut voice and try him out anyway, drinking from the pool of mediocrity, only to end up feeling disappointed. During that dreadful date with the less-than-stimulating conversation about farm equipment, who knows if my true prince was somewhere else? He could have been waiting to find me and wanting to talk about George Martin’s influence on the Beatles, or the waves in Popoyo. The moral of the story here both on land and in the sea is: patience. </p>
<p>The question is: is there really a perfect wave or perfect partner? On the flip-side, sometimes I can miss a really great wave or really great dude waiting for the more perfect wave or more perfect dude that actually never comes along. It’s a fine line. That being said, I’ve also noticed that when one great wave comes along, a whole set of them accompanies. From seeming nothingness, and eons of waiting, here comes seven, at the same time, so take your pick! Which wave to choose?! It’s the same with potential love too. For ages there is nothing, and I start to consider becoming a lesbian again (you know what I mean lesbian friends...I don’t want to get into the being born a certain way argument!) , and then all of a sudden: voila! Seven guys knocking down my door and now I have to choose. Decision making not one of my strong points, this can often be overwhelming. Mostly, very few dates actually work out, and then I’m back to the whole contemplating becoming a Buddhist nun thing again. That’s usually when my friends chime in to assure me there are plenty more fish in the sea. And many more waves to catch as well.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/62372772020-02-03T19:35:00-08:002022-05-29T23:22:03-07:00"Day is done, gone the sun..." Taps<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/36264dd4592b41717ea6a4cc68481ca6031dfc94/original/img-3764.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />“Day is done, gone the sun, from the lakes, from the hills, from the skies...God is nigh.” Most evenings at dusk I sit on my porch and sing this song, watching the sun sink into Lake Cocibolca’s horizon here on Ometepe Island in Nicaragua. With every unique sunset in its intricacies of colours and patterns, I do feel that “God is nigh” or that Spirit is near. Often, as I wake up to birdsong and see the sun rising over the volcano behind my home I’ll belt out, “Oh what a beautiful morning! Oh what a beautiful day!” Last week I was chiming “Feliz Navidad” like nobody’s biz, to all the neighbours, recounting those August 25th mornings when Joe Vetro (the hunk we all adored at girl’s camp) would walk around the junior section with his guitar serenading us. Clearly, Kitchi has left its imprint upon me, and the music that I experienced at camp has shaped who I am today, and how I live my life. </p>
<p>For me, music is associated deeply with ritual, and as a spiritual teacher and musician, this notion of ritual and music go hand in hand. When I lead my retreats, we always gather in the morning to do some sort of meditation or yogic practice to start the day mindfully, which is reminiscent of “morning thought” at flagpole. Before we eat, we gather around the food and sing songs of gratitude and thanks, a practice instilled at camp of course. We often have a night of devotional music and reflection, a ritual I revered every Sunday at chapel. On the last night of my retreats, we sit around a campfire singing traditional tunes. It’s a way to unite people, despite race, colour, creed and religion. Campfires for me are now seen as an informal “ceremony," and I’ve already had a couple here at my place in Nicaragua. My experiences with various ceremonies in Peru all incorporated some sort of music, whether it be shamanic drumming or singing. In India, many of the practices that resonated the most involved some sort of chanting and music. Music and sound has been the vehicle to help take me into an altered state. A place where I am most in touch with the universe, and most importantly, with myself. When I attended my first Kundalini Yoga class twenty years ago the class finished with a chant that left me in tears. I wasn’t consciously sad at the time; I’d just spent a killer day at the local ski hill. However, that music moved something in me that allowed me to have a cathartic experience, getting rid of subconscious garbage I’d been unknowingly carrying around. It changed my life. Singing and swaying in a group of people, tears streaming down my cheeks, I think back to that first class, and am reminded about other times like this: closing campfires at Kitchi. </p>
<p>Here’s where the whole “Everyday people just don’t understand” theme really comes into play. Gary Bard so eloquently summed up our experiences in his song, in a way that is simple, and yet profound. I’d tell my friends at home about closing campfire, one of my favourite (albeit bitter-sweet) happenings at camp, and they’d be confused, “Um, okay, so you all just sit around a fire and sing and cry? That’s weird.” But we know that to be amongst like-minded souls with a love for Kitchi and its values, and to be open and vulnerable with each other through our tears at a young age was so rich and healing. I believe it set us up to be more reflective, to celebrate friendships and to be empathetic compassionate human beings. Those campfire songs told the stories of our lives. Carole King’s You’ve Got a Friend solidified friendships in a way that we didn’t need to have a conversation; singing and swaying together was enough. I still call on Kitchi friends today when I’m “down and troubled”. James Taylor’s Fire and Rain inspired us to believe that indeed, we would see each other again. I can still hear Sarah Hill’s sweet voice coming in on verse two. When I close my eyes around a campfire today, I can hear Graham Weber strumming Blue Rodeo’s Lost Together. That music became a fabric, weaved by so many voices and memories, and I take that with me wherever I go in the world. </p>
<p>And so, as a songwriter today, those songs from the heart informed the way I write. I allow myself to become vulnerable and to write as honestly as I can, knowing that my experiences, although unique to me, are actually universal: love, loss, experience, learning, growing. This is the human experience. I’m currently working on a musical theatre project, a “spiritual musical” if you will. Our morning anthem Oh What a Beautiful Morning from Rogers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma set the tone for having a positive outlook and appreciating the day. It’s my hope that through music, I can convey much of what I’ve learned, from Kitchi and my journey, to encourage more kindness, compassion and love in this world.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/62390162019-11-08T09:55:00-08:002023-12-10T08:52:54-08:00"Relax." Frankie Goes to Hollywood.<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/bc03a8524aae26136646690e5e4c2dc984ef43a0/original/img-3634.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Yoga nidra sesh while waiting for the ferry in Swartz Bay</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_regular">So many of you know that I’ve been touting the benefits of yoga nidra for several years. My friend Jaya Leigh introduced it to me ages ago and I’ve been practicing it diligently, especially since I started to heal my adrenal fatigue issues. Yoga nidra is otherwise known as “sleep yoga," and come on, who doesn’t want to have a little more sleep in their lives? Particularly those of us who have babies and are completely sleep deprived? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">And so, I have a couple of downloaded versions on my phone in my music library that are my go-tos when I’m travelling (which is a lot of the time). One of my faves is Karen Brody’s rest meditation/yoga nidra recording from her book “Daring to Rest” . I read her book last year and followed her 40-day program which included three different yoga nidra practices, each building upon each other, and culminating with a sense of DEEP and PROFOUND rest. I felt amazing. The yogis say that doing a 20-minute yoga nidra session is equivalent to having a one-hour deep sleep. The brain waves that are activated during a yoga nidra session are the ones that slow our brain activity down. In the day to day, we access our beta waves, and that allows us to talk, drive cars, and fulfil our regular daily tasks. When we do a yoga nidra session, we access the alpha waves, and often the theta waves. In this place and space, there is less thinking and more rest. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I’ve been known to do yoga nidra sessions in various places: airports, ferry terminals, park benches, friends’ couches, the back of my car, hammocks, beaches and other public places. All I need to do is find a place to lie down and put my headphones on. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Several years ago I introduced my dad to the practice when we were in Invermere BC skiing. We were staying at a friends’ place and they have two awesome (and very busy)! kids. Since I don’t have kids, and Dad is old and lives solo, we were pretty pooped with all of the hustle and bustle of the household. Plus, we’d skied our butts off all day, so we were exhausted. We excused ourselves from the carnival (which is their living room) and shut ourselves into the spare bedroom for 20 minutes. After our session (we listened to Liz Hill’s practice) on YouTube, we emerged from our yoga nidra nap rested and replenished, ready to take on the rest of the day. Dad was amazed at how much energy he had, and how calm he felt at the same time, “What the hell was that? I gotta get that and do it at home.” I told him he’d need a) internet and/or b) a stereo system. Since he’s allergic to computers and doesn’t like technology, and his stereo only plays FM stations, this would be challenging for him. And so, he only does the practice when we are together. <br>For those of you who know my dad, you know that he is, well, how shall I say this? Gruff. Rough around the edges. A Barrie boy through and through. His ex-wife had a chip truck called “Grumpy Mike’s” with his face on the side of the truck. Everyone who knows him knows this about him. He makes me laugh constantly with his grumpy comments and mannerisms, because underneath, he is a softy, with a huge capacity for generosity (he let a homeless man stay in his storage unit for years, and would often feed him) and love. I’ve posted many-a-story about Dad, and his unique and comical mannerisms in the past. He’s like the character of the father in A Christmas Story, particularly in the scenes where he’s fixing the furnace (Dad was a furnace and air-conditioning guy by trade) and you can only hear muffled sounds emanating from the basement (cursing and swearing). Every sentence Dad utters usually has the word “Christ” in it, and although he’s a Catholic, he’s not using his saviour’s name in reverence or prayer most of the time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Yesterday’s yoga nidra session with him should have been a Seinfeld episode. Here’s what went down: <br>Dad was laying on the bed and I put my portable speaker next to his head between the pillows while I set up my computer on my desk. I guess the last time I used the speaker I was rockin’ out pretty hard because I left the volume on full tilt. When I pressed play, Jodi’s voice boomed, “Close your eyes. Begin to feel yourself moving back from your everyday life....” and Dad, in his state of being startled by the volume shouted, “Christ! That’s fucking loud!”. Not off to a good start for tapping into the parasympathetic nervous system (the part of the nervous system that says, “Slow down.”) After adjusting the volume, I lay beside him on the bed and told him he should have his palms facing upwards towards the ceiling. With that, I gently took his hand and flipped it over, as I would when teaching a class. What was different in this scenario however, was that my students are usually in their 30s-50s and don’t have severe arthritis. When I flipped Dad’s hand over he shrieked, “Ow! Fuck! What are you doing?! My hands are sore!” Setting the scene was progressively going from bad to worse. After finally adjusting the volume to a peaceful level, and then getting him comfy and relaxed, I lay down and got myself comfy. It took me a few minutes to get into the meditation because I had a serious case of the giggles due to the schmozzle of starting the thing. After a few minutes, we were both super relaxed, and the sides of both of our hands were touching. This almost made me weep. In addition to being grumpy, Dad is not the most demonstrative person I’ve ever met. He’s not a big hugger per se (getting better in later years due to my insistence), so the fact he was comfortable almost holding hands was a big deal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">After our session, we both felt much more relaxed and grounded, and I noticed he was a lot more present for the remainder of the evening. More inquisitive about me. Less grumpy. Now, if only I could get a yoga nidra recording to be broadcast from an AM radio station.</span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/62390182019-10-31T10:00:00-07:002022-05-31T21:23:32-07:00"You've got the eyes of a stranger." Toto<p><span class="font_regular"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/d7885897670af9e7a50bc1f251aad759c970ff90/original/img-1276.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular"><strong><em>"Excuse me Sir.....I don't think you should go up there!"</em></strong><br><br>“I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers” was a memorable line that came out of Tennyson’s A Streetcar Named Desire, and it’s always resonated with me on so many levels. Being an intrepid world-traveller and constantly meeting “strangers”, I too have relied on kindness. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Yesterday, I found myself in the role of the stranger, offering kindness. It was a cool and dreary Toronto fall day, where the gray sky seemed to envelop the whole city. I was going to get some blood-work done at a nearby clinic and after numerous attempts to make an appointment online for two days (Mercury in retrograde), I decided to just head on in and wait. When I got to the building, I was greeted with annoyed faces and numerous huffs and puffs from people in the lobby. All three elevators were out of order, and everyone had to use the stairwell. Not such a big deal for those of us with appointments on the second or third floors, but kinda a big deal for others who were on the eleventh or twelfth floors. I could hear people complaining, “I mean three elevators out of order? Why would they do that?!” When one woman complained to me just before I began going up the stairs, I calmly replied, “Well, I’m sure this is a pain in the ass for them too. I don’t really think that they want their elevators to not be running either.” She just gave me a “humph” and moved on to someone else who would commiserate with her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I started the jaunt up the stairs for the sixth floor (not so bad!) and it was like I was at the end of the Boston Marathon, for geriatrics. I was passing a lot of people with either silver hair or no hair at all, and were clutching the hand rails, stopping to catch their breath, and swearing. When I got to the second floor, there was a woman who was yelling at an old man who must have been very hard of hearing and was hunched over, clutching the handrail for dear life, “Sir! Sir! You can’t go that far! You have to turn around!” It turns out that the old man was not hard of hearing, but he just didn’t speak English. Nor did his wife who was toddling along behind him. I asked the woman what was going on and she told me that he had an appointment on the ninth floor, and that clearly, this wasn’t an option. She had followed him up one flight of stairs and had witnessed him almost fall several times, and had caught him. His wife was about 4’7”, so not much of a “spotter”. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">I asked the wife who the doctor was on the ninth floor, but she too spoke no English and answered in either Polish or Hungarian (or some other Eastern European language I’m assuming...it sounded like she said something about pirogies) and lifted her hands to show me nine fingers. Clearly, our conversation wasn’t going very well. By this time, another young man, whom I’ll call Freddy (he looked nothing like a Freddy, and actually looked Arabic, but I don’t want to give him a stereotypical name) came on the scene and asked if he could help. The woman asked me to stay with him while she went down to get security. It was really a bad idea for this man to attempt another seven floors. While we waited, the old man kept trying to climb the stairs. It was painful. Freddy walked in front of him and took his arm, and I stood behind him to spot him in case he fell backwards. By the time we reached the third floor (almost ten minutes later), it looked like the old guy was going to have a stroke. I stopped him and began playing charades in an attempt to dissuade him from going any further, “You can’t go up the other stairs!” I stated, looking into his eyes, and making hand gestures that were reminiscent of a bastardized Hokie Pokie, shaking my head and walking my fingers around in the air towards the upper floors. He just looked at me with kind pale blue eyes and smiled, nodding as he attempted to give it another go. Freddy and I resumed our positions as leader and tail runner. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Finally, the security guy came to meet us, with a woman who worked in one of the offices who spoke Polish. She began talking to them in Polish, and again, nothing was understood. Could they have been Czech? Romanian? Regardless, the security man brought him a chair to sit on, and the other woman headed up to the ninth floor to find out who the doctor was. At this point, Freddy and I made our way to our respective appointments, smiled to one another and felt a certain unspoken bond in our brief, albeit meaningful camaraderie. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Even though we were “in a rush” to get our business done and to make our appointments, we let this fall away as we attempted to help a fellow human in need, and to try to prevent harm. It really was a beautiful moment in a lot of ways. Since I’ve been back in Toronto, I’ve found it challenging to be in a place that is so fast-paced and busy. I’ve been the recipient of serious road rage several times, and have been almost crushed to death while embarking a streetcar by people who are clearly in a rush. My moment with Freddy and the old couple yesterday has helped to fade those not-so-great-moments I’ve experienced. I’m hoping that by leading by example, some of those people who were running by us on the stairwell, complaining and swearing will be inspired to slow down. Yogi Bhajan encouraged us all to “be the lighthouse” and I’m hoping that yesterday I could shine my light and show what it is I can offer: my time and my energy to uplift and serve others. Sat Nam.</span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/62390142019-10-23T09:50:00-07:002022-05-20T18:52:16-07:00"Teach Your Children Well" CSNY<p>I saw a woman wearing a tee shirt many years ago in a security line in an airport in Australia that read, “Oh no! I forgot to have children!” I had to stop and take her picture. </p>
<p>I felt like I was in the same boat. It’s for this reason that I was hesitant to contribute for this month’s blog about raising conscious children. I’m not actually raising children for several reasons, the main reason being that I don’t have the dude in my life right now with whom I’d want to raise them, and I never had the maternal calling so much that it pulled me towards having a child on my own. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/366515/08fef0bde7fa9e7b4c916ef8e84d3b091e522fff/original/img-8337-1.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>That being said, I was a school teacher and camp counsellor for many moons before devoting my time to teaching Kundalini Yoga and creating music. During those years, I got many glimpses of how parents were raising their kids...some of those glimpses were beautiful, but sadly, many of them weren’t, at least in my experiences with teaching in the school system. </p>
<p>I won’t get into the whole description of how lack of respect starting at home was then passed on to the teachers. Nor will I go into the many crazy events whereby I was a recipient of some pretty serious verbal (and once physical) abuse. </p>
<p>I will, however, relay that when I spoke to parents whose kids were having issues, they were often quite defensive and would put the blame on me—that it was my fault their kids were behaving poorly. After many of those phone calls, I decided I could teach and serve in other ways, and left the public education system. </p>
<p>What I noticed is that so many of these kids were really crying out for some sort of routine and sense of stability. I know when I don’t have any routine I behave poorly: missing doing my sadhana, eating a bag of chips for lunch, having Netflix binges. Many of these children were being moved around from parent to parent with no real sense of schedule or routine. There was simply no discipline. </p>
<p>As a kid, I had the privilege of having routine with my schooling, my after-school paper route, piano lessons, practice time, dinner at a certain time, homework, connecting with mum time, then bed. I had discipline enforced on me with my piano lessons and homework, which of course I didn’t love, but it made me the musician I am today, and allowed me to see through experience that practice is valuable. Finishing things is valuable. </p>
<p>On the flip-side, my experience of working with kids in a camp setting has proven to be amazing in terms of seeing how important it is to raise healthy conscious kids. I recently attended a summer camp reunion up in northern Ontario in Canada; I attended it from the time I was eight until I was 22 and worked on staff. </p>
<p>We were celebrating its 100 year anniversary and people from all over the globe came back to be on Beausoleil Island to reminisce, reflect, share stories and songs, and give gratitude to the place that helped form us. The majority of the alumni have gone on to be successful adults in both their personal and business lives. Many are philanthropic and do acts of seva on a regular basis. Many are helping others in terms of teaching, healing and serving. </p>
<p>I wrote an article last year for the camp’s publication about how my life at camp helped to set a foundation for my spiritual life as a Kundalini Yogi. We started each day with “morning dip” in the chilly Georgian Bay, which of course, is akin to the cold showers Yogiji recommended so many years ago. We then attended “morning thought” around the flagpole, whereby a staff member would read a poem or thought that was spiritually oriented, and we’d reflect on this as a sangat. </p>
<p>The day was filled with healthy outdoor activity to keep our bodies fit, and there were times of song and rest. After lunch we’d have an hour to rest, which of course, Yogiji recommended doing after eating. Although there was no formal meditation at camp, there was a structure that encouraged mindfulness, activity, rest and reflection. </p>
<p>Without parents around, we had autonomy to grow without their conditioning, and to make our mistakes, learn, grow and thrive. We were able to “feel safe and secure in our own unique identities," which Yogi Bhajan said was so important for children, and we learned to communicate clearly and consciously. This, I believe helped to create so many healthy, strong kids—myself included. </p>
<p>That being said, although I don’t have children of my own, I do encourage my friends who have kids to send their kids to camp. My camp was a YMCA camp, with Christian values, but was non-denominational; my sister and I were Jewish, and there were many others with different backgrounds. </p>
<p>The lessons I learned there were in line with the teachings of Kundalini Yoga and the Aquarian sutras. I see the value in kids being together outside of the traditional school setting—in nature and being nurtured spiritually. I still go to camp...this year I went to Ladies Khalsa Camp in BC and felt like the routine of sadhana followed by learning, eating good food, resting and being in nature was so very valuable. Gratitude for camps.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57947162015-09-10T11:05:00-07:002022-01-10T22:06:17-08:00"Who Are You?" Pete Townsend<p>This is a question I've been asking myself a lot lately...with the prompts of conversations with friends, readings from Sri Ramana Maharshi, and Gangaji. As I embark upon a new chapter in life (moving back out west) and trying to re-define myself in terms of what I "do", it's been a bit of a shit-show, to be honest. Spiritually, that is. The idea of moving back to Nelson has been a dream for the past 7 years, since I left, and now that it's come to fruition, I'm a bit scared. I guess the whole 7 year itch thing kind of makes sense; I've been away, having an amazing time travelling the world, meeting all sorts of wonderful people along the way (like Pete above), and now, I'm itchy. Rather, I'm tired. Tired of moving around every few months. Tired of trying to figure out where to go next. And so, here I am in Nelson asking myself what is next for me out here. I know I don't want to go back to the public education system, and I know that I don't want to go back to touring my music right now. I'm simply too tired. But that's what I've done! But that's how I made my money out here! Now what?! And so, after much contemplating, I've decided to just stop for a while. Stop the searching. Stop the seeking. And trust in Spirit, which I usually do, but lately this trust has been a bit muddled and murky with the anxiety of "what to do next". <br><br>The idea of "who am I?" has been one of the most prominent (and perplexing at times) spiritual questions for centuries. I know that I am a teacher and leader/guide, musician and all of those other things, but those are things that I DO. And so, my question lately is asking myself who I am, as opposed to what I do. It's tricky to navigate and it leaves me feeling a little raw and exposed. I thought I knew who I was, but in reality, right now, I'm not sure. How do I plan on juggling that perplexing question? STOPPING. That is not something that comes easy for this gal. For those of you who know me, you've seen me running around like a chicken with its head cut off...running from airport to airport, country to country, yoga class to yoga class and so on. I realize I've been running around for the most part of a decade and it's time to stop. Nelson seems like a pretty good place for that. I'm pondering creating a small community here on my property, or at least building myself a cabin to call my own. It's time to create a home somewhere, and the Koots still feels like home. <br>While I'm here, "stopping", I'll continue to breathe, be, and create music; the next album should be interesting as I explore the notion of starting to settle down, without settling for less than I want. I'll also continue to explore who I am...and at its essence, I already know the answer: I am truth. Sat Nam. <br><br>Question for You: Who are You?</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57946862015-06-09T10:55:00-07:002024-03-26T01:05:36-07:00"If you are young at heart..." Carolyn Leigh<p> Last week in Peru I had one of those moments where I thought, “Shit. I’m getting old.” I was getting ready to head out on a day trip to the hot springs and was putting my boots on at the door. Rather, I started putting my boots on at the door but bent over and felt a little “creak”, and so I backed up like a slow UHaul towards my bed, plunked myself down and put on my boots there. Usually I just bend down, slip my feet into my boots, do them up whilst standing and bending over. Lately though, I realize that I’m now consciously looking for chairs, beds, benches or anything to sit my butt down on before I put on my boots. Does this mean I’m getting old? I’m almost 42 for cripes’ sakes! </p>
<p><br>However, once there at Lares hot springs, I woke up and got my head out of my butt, so to speak. I had travelled there with two dear friends whom I met last year at Lares: Eduardo and Ines. Eduardo is Peruvian, and 80 years old. Ines is his wife, originally from Holland, and is ten years his junior. First of all, the way those two travel around in their Land Rover, camping out all the way from Lima to Quillabamba and around the Cusco area blows me away. When I met Eduardo last year in the hot pools, he was so animated and full of life, showing me books about the area, telling me about the spirits of the mountains and inviting me outside of the gates to their truck for lunch. There, I found Ines chopping veggies and preparing a simple yet tasty lunch. I joined them, and from thereon in, we became fast and furious friends. I spent my last day in Lima with them last year, and they took me to their home for dinner before bringing me to the airport just after midnight…still full of energy and vibrant. </p>
<p><br>Back to Lares last week: At night after our soak, Ines and I hung out at the truck and made some mulled wine, then downed almost the whole bottle while sitting in the front of the truck chatting until almost 11pm. Ines wasn’t the least bit tired; her energy is amazing. For breakfast the next morning, we met once again at the Land Rover and sat outside in the sun to enjoy our oatmeal and coffee. Ines gave me a camping chair to sit on, and then plunked herself down on the ground to enjoy her breakfast. I tried to tell her to have my chair, but she refused saying, “I like the fact that I’m 70 and can still sit on the ground comfortably.” She’s amazing. Once we were in the pools, I sought solitude and situated myself in pools that were sparsely populated. Eduardo on the other hand was the centre of attention in the tepid pool, filled with kids aged 3-7. There, he taught about 3 of them how to swim, was swinging them around, bobbing them up and down, and taking kid after kid for a “ride” around. His face was filled with joy and his energy was absolutely astounding. My idea of “old” was completely blown out of the water. These two had so much to teach me. </p>
<p><br>On the way home we stopped to visit some ruins where Ines chatted up the workers, trying to find out all the information she could about the land; her curiosity and eagerness for new knowledge is truly inspiring. She worked for UNESCO for years in education and her passion for learning makes me feel kind of lazy and makes me want to learn more. Her optimism and enthusiasm makes me want to drink more coffee or chew more coca leaves. When we stopped in town to pick up something from the pharmacy which is very common in Canada, I realized that I had to go to 4 different pharmacies to find it. When I expressed my frustration she just smiled and said, “That’s the interesting thing about Peru…sometimes you have to go to many places to find what you need, but in the end you find it. Enjoy the differences in this country.” She is so patient and really accepting of all situations. She is a true mentor in so many ways. <br>Eduardo has brain damage from several decades ago when the political scene here was hostile and the Shining Path, was anything but shining. He “knew too much” and was actually given shock therapy in hopes of repressing what he saw and knew. His mental health has deteriorated, and although he’s still loveable and sweet, he has some quirks. Recently, he has embarked upon collecting various unique items, mostly, rocks. He gathered about 25 rocks yesterday and schlepped them into the truck, and when he goes to gather more, Ines has to get rid of the first batch without him knowing. She is the epitome of patience and her devotion to him is beautiful. She simply accepts things as they are and believes that her life is beautiful. <br>This week they drive to Lima, stopping in hot springs along the way, enjoying the scenery, enjoying each other, picking up and throwing away new rocks and stones. I’ve vowed to let go of the idea that I’m getting old and will do my best to walk in their footsteps; their energy, enthusiasm, love of life, love of knowledge and constant learning, travelling, and walking. I’ll find a chair to sit on, do up my boots, and go forth into the world knowing that I am and will remain young if I choose. The other day my courageous and brave Wild Women and I walked the Inka Trail and our last lunch spot was Winyawana, which is “forever young” in Quechuan. I thought of Ines and Eduardo there and said a silent “gracias”.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57947172014-11-12T11:05:00-08:002023-12-10T08:53:20-08:00"These boots are made for walklin'..."" Nancy Sinatra<p>Taking myself out for a walk last fall on the Camino </p>
<p><br>“If we walk far enough,” says Dorothy confidently, “we shall sometime come to someplace.” The Wizard of Oz <br>Hmmm. I love this thought. It was a year ago more or less that I walked the Camino de Santiago in what took about two months. Almost 1000 km or roughly 500 miles. For me, that’s far enough, and I did most definitely come to someplace. That someplace was Finnisterre (the end of the world), then to Barcelona and back to Canada. While walking the trail I had an epiphany. Or two. One of which was the idea of moving back to Nelson to build a small retreat community on my land. I’d be able to have my own house (the cabin is super cute, but not much room for a recording studio and all my instruments), as well as having a couple of cabins that I could use for retreat purposes, or renting out. I had found so many sacred spaces along the Way that sang to my heart. And they weren’t the five star hotels or fancy pants places I stayed a couple of nights to “treat” myself. Where I found myself most at home was in the small pensions that had a sense of warmth to them; literally and figuratively. <br>One of my favourite places to stay was in the mountains just before Ponferada and after Rabanal in Spain. His place came recommended to me by a fellow Kundalini Yoga teacher. There, I found comfort in sitting in front of the fireplace with Manuel, the old neighbour who comes to sit there every day to pass the time. Jaime is the epitome of a good neighbour and he goes to pick Manuel up every morning, brings him to his house, they have lunch and dinner together, and then he walks him home. <br>What I loved about Jaime’s home was that it wasn’t anything super fancy, and yet it had a real warmth and elegance to it. Everything that he had, even though it wasn’t a lot, was lovely to look at and to touch. We drank our wine from beautiful crystal glasses that were set on a table adorned with linen and simple yet lovely plates and decor made from nature. The beds were comfy and the rooms were sparsely decorated, but what was there was tasteful and gave me a sense of who Jaime was. Our little candles and incense burners. The small table that overlooked the mist covered mountains. The simple and yet useful/comfortable chair and reading lamp. All of this was not the Ritz by any means, but it made me feel like I was at home. So much so that I decided to stay an extra day and night there and alter my plan. I didn’t want to leave. It was after my stay there that I decided that I wanted to create sacred spaces where people can come and feel like they can relax, unwind. I want to create spaces on my land that people will feel like they won’t want to leave. And so, I’m starting this week with a full survey of the land to see where some sweet spots might be in terms of laying down some foundations in the spring for a couple of cabins. <br>When I start to get overwhelmed, which I do at times when I think about ALL of the things that need to be done before actually STARTING to build (and I get overwhelmed with choosing paint colour sometimes), I go for a walk. Lately it’s been with the sweet pooch that I’ve inherited with the property: Babaji. When I walk, I instantly feel more grounded and more clear. I started writing a song about it. If you want to listen to the scratch (the first draft), you can have a listen here. <br> <br>When I take myself out for a walk, there’s no need to talk. Just listen to the song upon the breeze. When I take myself out for a stroll, I get in touch with the whole…wild world and all her mysteries. <br>Question for You: I’d love to know how walking plays a role in your life… <br>As always, thank you for continuing to come with me along this amazing journey. I look forward to hearing from you. <br>Much love and light, <br>Sarah</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57946822014-11-11T10:45:00-08:002022-04-14T05:48:59-07:00"Slow and low tht is the tempo" Beastie Boys<p>Long Duck Dong from Korea whom Kiara and I fell in love with. He taught us a few forms of meditation and told us to focus on our "abdolman" and to practice "compassion", which, with my ears and his accent I took to mean, "the passion", so I focused on the possibility of a fiery Spanish passionate love instead of my breath. It was a different form of meditation. When Kiara and I told him that we were both 41 and single he sighed, "Ohhhhhhhhhhh. That a big problem." </p>
<p>Lourdes from Pamlona after we told her we were looking for a cafe in her vacation village outside the city, "Only a coffee?! Then you MUST come to my house. I have coffee and you don´t have to pay!" She then proceeded to give me her packet of rice cakes when she heard I didn´t eat wheat. Talk about generosity. <br>Celebration to Reflection <br>After Kiara left, I was feeling pretty blue, but luckily I had Angelica my new German friend, also a high school teacher and lover of the mountains, to eat meals with and chat. Usually we´d walk by ourselves, meeting at different points for coffee or a meal, then meeting at the albergues or hostals later in the night. Juan from the Canaries joined our crew, as did Andrew and 3 sweet sisters from Australia, a couple of peeps from France, a former school teacher from Scotland, and another German gal. For almost a week we´d walk sometimes together, sometimes alone,but would always meet up at cafes and bars, and stay at the same albergues together. It was fun. Until for me, it wasn´t. I realized that I was drinking way too much (wine is included in the menus and is cheaper than wáter), and I noticed that I was starting to feel a bit down. I craved some alone time, and even though I loved this group dearly, I felt like I needed to take some time out from the constant socializing. I needed to reassess why I was here on the Camino. Surely not just to experience being with people all the time and drinking too much so that I felt lousy. We had so much fun in Burgos with tapas and dancing, and the next day I took in the Cathedral and monastary while Juan and Angelica kept walking. I ended up having a picnic on the porch of a museum in Rabe de las Calzados, which was closed, but in the shade. In pulls a car into the museum´s driveway and I find it´s the owner of the gallery/house who wondered why there was a blond girl with her shoes and socks off eathing cheese and olives on his front porch. He explained that the gallery was closed, but invited me in anyway and showed me his life´s work: truly amazing. I spent about an hour looking at his paintings, sculptures and multi media pieces before he invited me to bring in my food and eat inside in a civilized manor. I shared my cheese, he made a salad and we shared his leftover fish soup over a cerveza before I headed back out. He gave me a card for a friend of his who had an albergue in the next town of Hornillos and said I should stay there. Angelica had already reserved a room for me at the municipal so I thought I wouldn´t be able to stay at his friend´s place. The thing about the municipals are that there are usually about 30 people there, with snoring people galore. I much prefer the smaller private alberges with only 4 or 6 to a room. In Hornillos I met the crew and we made a community dinner together which was pretty sweet. I went outside with my cup of tea and heard,¨Hey...are you the Canadian musician?" Turns out it was the artist´s friend who had been looking for me. He invited me to his place where I´d have my own room and a guitar, so I packed up my bag and headed down the road. Much more tranquil. More more what I needed. I found that many serendipitous acts like this were happening, and my constant making plans to meet the group, trying to keep up etc. was not really working for me anymore. And so, with that, after a week of amazing walking, comraderie and fiestas, when Angelica left at Castrojeriez, I decided to go a bit slower, which meant that I´d break off from the crew and go my own way. It´s a decisión that was a bit difficult as this means that I might not catch up with my friends, with whom I had become so close. They are and were familiar, but I am here to step out of my confort zone. </p>
<p><br>Reflection </p>
<p><br>Sincé taking a step back, saying goodbye to Angelica and Juan, I am on another type of Camino. So far I´ve met a few great new people, and the other night embarked on a night walk in the pitch dark for 8 hours under the new moon´s starry sky. If you follow the Milky Way, you can make it to Santiago. I´m now half way there as of yesterday, and I´ve been spending much more time alone, writing, meditating, and feeling overall back on track. I´m alone, but not lonely. The Camino continues to teach me what I need, which is really not all that much. Fresh air, a bed, food, comraderie and music. Gracias Camino. <br>I now find myself in a sweet albergue outside of Astoria called Albergue Verde which is so exactly what I need right now. Full of open hearted women running the place, I´m eating organic foods, doing yoga and dancing when I´m not reading Pema Chodren. A hippie´s heaven. I have finally listened to my body and spirit and slowed down for a few days. The Camino is constantly teaching me to honour what I really need. In Leon a few weeks ago I stayed in a hotel for one night that had a spa so I could sauna and steam away my oncoming cold. I spent the nights before in rooms with people who were snoring up a storm and exhaling all of their colds into the hostal air. I realized I don´t actually need to do that anymore...I have a choice and I´m not in any rush to get to Santiago. In fact, since I am more than half way there, I really am nervous about getting there too quickly. I don´t want this journey to end. <br>Up ahead of my a couple of days is a monastery where you can stay for 2 days so I will most likely do that. If I keep on going the way I have been, I should reach Santiago by New Years! Kiara has now coined me the Snail of the Camino. Here at the Albergue Verde, the motifs are snails, which is so totally a propos. I´ve let go of feeling slow, of possibly missing friends I´ve met along the way, who are now a couple of days "ahead" of me. I´m learning that there is no such thing as "ahead" anyways. I´m just going at my own pace. Slow and steady. <br>Once again, thank you for coming along on this journey and I´ll be back blogging in a week or so. <br>Much love and light, <br>Sarah</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57946832014-10-22T10:50:00-07:002022-02-16T23:59:53-08:00"You can go your own Way." Fleetwood Mac<p>So....I was going to post my last two blogs over the past few days and I´m not sure if Mercury is still in retrograde but it seems that every time I tried to log onto computers where I´d be staying, the wi fi would be amiss, or the computer was so old that it couldn´t support my blog platform or to be honest, I was just too tired to type. I´ve been keeping a journal of the Camino so far, scribbling bits and pieces along the Way. <br>Tonight I sit in a Little town in the province of Leon, and Erneto has graciously allowed me an hour to use his personal computer as there is no computer here at this hostal. And so...I type. <br>I´ve broken up the trip into 3 segments, so if you want to read one part at a time, then be my guest. I don´t imagine that you´ll have so much time to read my whole novella with one read. Or you might....Regardless of what you read, I send you gratitude for coming along on this journey with me. Here we go...Part Uno: <br>Reunión <br>Kiara and I met in Bordeaux after not having seen each other for almost 5 years. She and I met in university and have remained close over the years; we still can´t believe we´ve known each other for 20 years. We headed to her mum´s place about one and a half hours from Bordeax airport and stayed in the sweet¨"Maison Rose" in the Little village of Lit et Mixte for 3 days before heading out on our Camino. We ate, drank, biked and caught up, and her mum was so gracious and hospitable. Not to mention her neighbours, Elmer and Aya, who drove us to St. Jean Piere du Port, which is the beginning of the French Camino, or the Camino Frances. They all dropped us off at the tourism office, where one of the lovely volunteers set us up in a B and B. This B and B was not the type of B and B you´d normally think of. Oh no, this B and B we ended up coining: Bedbugs and Bitches. Yup. The very first night Kiara got a crazy case of bed bug bites at the hostal. The bitch was the lady who owned and ran it, and apparently is notorious for being crazy. She has a bench outside her front door, which looks inviting, but she doesn´t want anyone to sit there, and if they do, she goes upstairs and "waters" the plant boxes, which are conveniently located over top of the benches. If you sit there, you get soaked and she just shouts, "It´s your problem! I´m just watering my plants!!!" Her nickname in town is the Commandant, or The Commander. We chose to call her Jean Valjean, the lead role in Les Miserables, because that´s what she was...entirely miserable. <br>After a first night like that, anything was better, so that was a good thing. Without going into every detail about our 11 days together, I´ll just say that our highlights were so unforgettable that I´ll just name a few. Apres bug bites, the owner of the next hostal brought Kiara to the doctor and she got treated with no problems. We fought the wind in the Pyrenees for the first couple of days, got caught in a torrential downpour before Ronceveax (think about the scene in Romancing the Stone where they slide down a huge watery landslide...that was pretty much us). The province of Navarra is beautiful and mountainous, so I felt right at home, and pretty much made my decisión to move back to Nelson when I do move back to Canada. </p>
<p><br>Over the next few days we had beautiful weather and stayed at some sweet places along the Way. Usually we´d stay in an albergue with many other pilgrams, but a few times we splurged on some doublé rooms. One was in Zubiri, when in the middle of getting changed, I bent over in my underpants to go into my pack and the owner Juan just happened to open the door at that time. He got a Little bit of soft Canadian porn, and wasn´t really embarrassed about it at all. The Spanish are much less modest than us Canucks. Please note that this is a Spanish keyboard and it is doing some autò corrections, so if there are typos, I blame it on that. </p>
<p><br>To say that Kiara and I were slow would be like saying that Paris Hilton is a bit materialistic. We had 65 year olds whizzing by us as we sat and languised over a 2 hour lunch and bottle of wine. Our Camino was much different than that of others. But that is what I´m learning so far, is that this Camino is MY Camino and I don´t have to do it the same way as anyone else. Another highlight was tapas and rioja in Pamplona, where again, we did our Camino our way and took the bus into the city instead of walking for an hour and a half on hard pavement. I could blame Kiara´s plantar faceitous but really, I was quite keen to hop on the bus Gus. Some people are horrified and think it´s sacriledge, but to me, it´s survival and what I want to do. We also hopped a bus a few days later for 5 minutes to bump us up and miss about a 1.5 hour walk in the late scorching sun. Into Logrono, we hitchhiked for 5 minutes to skip the late afternoon scorching sun and walk through a nasty industrialized área. Yes, our Camino was not so traditional. It was crazy, we´d simply say, I wonder if there´s a bus, and within about 2 minutes one would come our way. Or I´d say, I´d like a guitar at the next hostal, and sure enough...there would be one. Kiara was getting a bit freaked out with the whole manifesting thing...she´s not one of my yogi friends, but is a sister nonetheless. </p>
<p><br>We did have a sweet night´s stay in Navarra where there was only one other guest...a lovely Korean profesor who´d been there for 15 days with a bummed knee. Turns out his pack weighed almost as much as he did and he had to bail on the rest of the trip. We made a dinner together, and he taught us a few meditations before bed before I taught him a bit of yoga. It was truly a sweet Exchange and we realized that even though we didn´t speak each other´s languages, we spoke the language of good food and meditation...universal.</p>
<p><br>After hitting the fountain of wine in Rioja...let me explain: There is a fountain at a winery that offers free wine from a fountain. Because Kiara and I were so behind the rest of the crew, we hit the fountain at exactly the right momento in the late afternoon, armed with a bar of dark chocolate. Needless to say that took up another hour or so. After Logrono, we headed to the next town of Najera, where we spent the afternoon by the river bank sipping wine and eating chocolate with a new friend Angelica. She´d just arrived from Germany to pick up where she´d left off last year and her friend had already gone ahead. I assured her that if she stuck with me, there would be no rushing. We had a terrible dinner, and celebrated Kiara´s last night in the main square, or Plaza Mayor with some White wine, watching all the kids play soccer. The next morning, Kiara walked me and Juan, my new friend from the Canary Islands to the bus, where he and I would catch a bus to the monasteries outside the city. I felt like I needed to be with someone else, because I knew how much I would miss Kiara. Juan called us the Camino Twins, and he understood when I spent most of the the morning crying. It was like the last day of camp saying goodbye to friends. She and I had a teary parting and I really struggled for the first couple of days without her. Something was missing. However, I know that this Camino has so many different stages and phases so I packed up my pity party and started a new party, with Juan and Angelica as my sidekicks. I´m realizing on this Camino that I am never really alone...there is always someone to talk to at meals and at hostals, and the connections here are created so quickly. The connections I´m making here are helping me learn so much, mostly about me.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57946712014-10-08T10:45:00-07:002021-12-25T13:41:54-08:00"On the road again..." Willy Nelson<p>So, as many of you know, this week's blog is actually about a week late, due to the fact that I have now been coined, "The Snail of the Camino" by my sister from another mister: Kiara. Not only did I take almost twice the amount of time to walk as I thought I would, but my blogs are about a week or two behind as well. Yup. I am pretty slow. <br>Last week at this time, I was on a bus from Finisterre in Spain (otherwise known as "the end of the world", to Santiago. I had already touched down in Santiago the week prior, but had to return to catch a plane to Barcelona the following morning. The last couple of weeks of my walk were absolutely magical; not that the first part wasn't, but there was a different energy that pervaded over the last little bit, as I approached Santiago. I ran into a few people that I started the walk with, figuring that most people would have been finished eons before me (most of them were), and the magic of the Camino not only reunited me with those people, but new kindred spirits too. <br>In Galicia, I met an amazing woman named Lioba, who ran the public albergue or hostal in La Faba, a tiny village. While there, she and I gathered chestnuts from her yard to roast, and made nettle soup. During dinner, I realized I had left my credentials (or pilrim's passport, with ALL of the stamps where I'd stayed, and got me into the public albergues), at the casa rural I'd stayed at the night before. I had a whole apartment all to myself so took time to clean and clear my bag, getting rid of old receipts and such. Within the pile of papers I'd put in the kindling pile beside the fire, was my credential. Oops. Luckily I had the woman's number so I called her to see if it was there. It was. Lioba took the phone from my hands and quickly made arrangements to drive down the following morning to pick it up for me and meet me in O'Cebreirosthe next day for lunch. What an angel. The next morning we did a yoga practice together before I headed out on 3 hour hike to O'Cebreiros, without a pack. Liboba put my pack in her car and brought it to me at lunch. I can't tell you how amazing it felt to walk for a few hours (in the glorious sunshine, mind you) without any weight on my back. She is a true pilgrim and her family have history with the Camino, starting an albergue and walking the Way several times. She knew how important it was for me to get my credentials back. I was so grateful to have met her. She truly was like an angel for me, full of unconditional giving and love. <br>Fast forward a few weeks later: the last few days before Santiago were magical and I befriended two amazing women, Pepe from Menorca, and Andrea from Brasil. We walked alone during the days, but shared a room at night, which meant that we could have a private bathroom, and not sleep with big hairy dudes who snore like nobody's biz: heaven. Another two angels that entered my life; Pepe had told me that there was one Sunday a month where they used the big Botafumeiro, or big swinging metal container holding incense. And we could easily make it by Sunday. The last couple of days we found ourselves walking a bit slower, hugging more trees than usual, listening to the sound of the streams and rivers for a bit longer...not wanting the walk to end. It did finally, and we celebrated in Santiago with champagne, pulpo (the Galician specialty of octopus) and we recieved our Compostelas, or certificates with our names in Latin, saying that we had indeed walked the last 100km of the Camino. <br>Pepe left on Monday for Finisterre, but I wasn't feeling great so I waited one more day to head out. I'm so glad I did because I got to see a sweet concert by the cathedral by Morag of Calgary, her beau and a couple of digeridoo players. I danced up a storm, and felt so much better by the end of the day. The next morning I headed out alone, ready to see Muxia, then Finisterre before the end of my trip. Unfortunately, I awoke the next morning sick as a poochie and had to take a bus to Muxia...there was no way I could walk, and my flight was already booked (note to self: never book anything until you are absolutely DONE your Camino, if possible.I digress. I ended up staying two nights in Muxia, which is absolutely stunning: the waves crashing upon the shore, the sacred rocks, the mellow people. On the second night I gave a little one-hour concert at the albergue whilst sucking on cough drops and sipping lemon water..."The show must go on!" That night, I was cursing the fact I'd booked my flight already, which meant I had to rush to Finnesterre when I wasn't feeling so hot. I looked at a poster on the wall and saw the words, "Are you ready to go home yet? Or do you need a few more days?" with a description of a post-Camino retreat in the country with a fabulous writer, and could stay by donation. I so wanted to stay, but couldn't get hold of the airline to check about changing my flight. In walked another angel: Manuel from Italy. Turns out he worked for the airline at one point, went online, and found a way for me to change my ticket so I could stay a few more days. With that, I booked my stay at the retreat...The next day I headed to the Little Foxy House" to stay with Tracy. </p>
<p><br>Her house was perfect...tea, warm, cozy, books, music, a huge bed, bathtub, cute cats and homey food. Perfect. I stayed for two days, and then Tracy (yet another angel) drove me to Lieres, where I would walk the last 15km to Finnesterre. I really wanted to be able to walk into the town, even though I wasn't feeling great. The weather was picture perfect 18 degrees t shirt and sun weather as I made it to the beach at 5pm in time to put my feet in the water and watch the sun set into the sea. Angels were with me that day giving me the gift of the sun. </p>
<p><br>The next morning I walked to the lighthouse and burned a few tokens of my journey: leaves, a journal entry, and my silk scarf I'd made from my sleeping bag liner. I decided to walk back the long way which I'd heard was more beautiful, to get the 3pm bus back to Santiago. Well, to say I got lost is a bit of an understatement...there were so many different logging roads and trails that I found myself at one point after walking over an hour, heading back to the lighthouse which I'd visited in the morning. I was swearing and cursing and coughing and just wanted to be back in town. It was at that moment I looked downhill and saw a makeshift house/tent and a squatter, putting up a tarp. I was a bit nervous to ask for his help, but at this point I was desperate and in a bit of a panic. So, I yelled an "Hola!" From the shelter appeared a bearded young man in his late 20s or early 30s with a smile that could burn away the Galician mist. He was a former monk and had been living in the bush for 2 months. He reassured me I was only 10 mins from town. When he found out I was from Canada he told me I had to go to the Hungarian albergue and say hello to Valentine, the dude who had been running the hostel. He was a good friend of Dennis' and was moving to Toronto in a few days. "You have to stop in and say hello from me. Please". I told him I'd try and meandered back into town with his directions. <br>I figured I woudn't have time. It was now 1:30 and I thought there was no way I could go back to the hostal to get my things, get my compostella for Finisterre and then catch the bus. I did all this and saw it was 2:45 by the time I was at the bus station. I glanced up the road and saw the Port Fin Hungarian hostal so figured I could swing by to say hello to this Valentine fellow for Dennis. I rapped on the door three times, and a moment later a young handsome fellow opened the door. I started speaking in Spanish, but he asked me to speak in English. It was Valentine. He invited me in for a quick tea and was so grateful that I stopped by with salutations from his friend, and contact info from me. He was moving to Toronto in a few days and didn't know a soul there. We chatted for 10 minutes before he walked me to the bus. It pulled up. We hugged. A beautiful heart opening hug. I didn't want to leave and so I looked at the bus and said, "I can always take the 4:45 bus". And so, we sauntered into a restaurant where I ate and listened to his amazing stories of his life, and his Camino. We shared such an amzing 2 hours just listening to each others' stories. Again, he walked me to the bus and this time, I had to take it to get to Santiago that night. We shared a beautiful hug, a sweet kiss, and I got on the bus, smiling. He told me that I must be an angel for just stopping by, and for offering to help him with Toronto life. So many angels entered my life on the Camino that I like to think I can be an angel for someone else. </p>
<p><br>This for me has been the magic of the Camino. Sharing time and stories. Exchanging energy and helping one another out. It is this lesson that I bring home to Canada, then to Antigua, then to Peru...the essence of when we give unconditionally, we find ourselves the recipients of this unconditional giving as well. <br>Question for You: When have you had an experience of TRUE giving lately in your life? When have you recently had something given to you and what did it mean to you? </p>
<p><br>As always, I look forward to hearing from you and thank you with all my heart for coming along on my Camino. Much love and light, <br>Sarah</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57946852014-09-17T10:55:00-07:002022-04-02T10:31:17-07:00"La vie en rose" Edith Piaf<p>My first date in Paris with a Ventian named Marco was going reasonably well until he asked me if I'd consider taking money to sleep with him. For real. <br>I met him alongside the Left Bank of the Scene on Saturday evening, after I'd spent a lovely couple of days with Lionel in the 11th arrondisemont. I'd met Lionel through my friend Ayline in Peru and he was a gracious amiable host. Not only did he feed me incredible goat's cheese and fantastic French bread (the best in Paris), but he also gave me a session of "Hair Therapy", whereby he used tarot cards, his intuition and my hair to help me move through blocks. It was incredible and I already feel so much lighter, which is good considering I'll be walking almost 800km over the next 6 weeks. </p>
<p><br>Back to Marco: he was in Paris meeting his sister for a week of holidays. We met, chatted, bought a bottle of wine and snacks and sat alongside the river for a couple of hours. I was swept away with the romance of Paris and could have been a little more discerning I suppose. He seemed very short but sweet, but it turns out he was just short. Walking along the bank of the river we must have looked like an Italian Dudley Moore with one of his blond tall wives. I thought a little smooch wouldn't hurt anyone; I was very clear that we would just be kissing and holding hands and there would be nothing more. He was okay with that, until he wasn't I guess. I told him there would be no kisses if he smoked his cigarettes, which he seemed okay with for the first couple of hours. He was okay with that, until he wasn't. And so, after him sparking up a smoke and his not-so-romantic proposal inviting me to partake in the oldest profession in the world, I bit him a hasty adieu. I tried not to beat myself up about being so naïve so I sang "Je ne regrette rien" to make me feel better. It worked. I am only human after all. <br>The next day I spent happily solo, and taught my first yoga class in French at the Lole boutique in Le Merais. I also romantically wining and dining myself in Paris and visiting all the sites. The hightlight was an amazing gospel show at an old Cathedral near the Champs d'elysees. It was pretty cool to sing about my little light shining, in the middle of an ancient church in Paris. Apres show I wandered into the Four Seasons and sat to take in some jazz by a trio before heading home to bed. Paris is amazing and beautiful, but I was ready for the country and ashram life. I was ready to go inward, wake up early for sadhana, chant in the ambrosial hours of the morning and ready to begin my journey: The Camino.</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57944282014-06-03T10:40:00-07:002022-05-20T18:51:07-07:00"I'm getting older too." Stevie Nicks<p><span class="font_regular">As I sat with my Nana last week at her long-term facility, I had a strange occurrence. As I sat there massaging her worn and old 94-year old tootsies, with her lying in her bed, there was an infomercial on TV featuring Cindy Crawford and a doctor from France, called “The Youth Guru”. They had created a line of beauty products to restore skin and stop the aging process. Yes, they actually used the word: “stop”. I thought to myself: Are you kidding me? I looked down and Nana and thought that we’re all going to end up here anyway, why are people trying to deny this? We are so obsessed with trying to stop the naturally aging process, which to me seems so very unnatural. As I sat with Nana, I wondered where the time went; it seems it was not so long ago that she was hopping on buses to come and see us in Barrie, after getting off planes from places like England, Sri Lanka and Florida, with treasures to share from her trips. These days, the only trips she is taking is down to the dining room to take her meals, and then the trips in her mind, which are currently bringing her back to her childhood days. She’s constantly reciting nursery rhymes, particularly, “Hey diddle, diddle,” which she usually just paraphrases into her now infamous phrase, “Over the Moon”. I have a feeling that she knows she’ll be going over the moon soon, and that her days here in this realm are limited.<br><br>What’s really interesting to me is that although she can’t remember what she had for lunch, which may have happened only 15 minutes prior to this, she can remember the words to most American Songbook tune, and other jazz standards. So, lately I go and sit at her electric piano, which is sitting in her room, and play “Name that Tune” with her. I’ll only have to play a couple of bars, and she’ll chime in with the lyrics, “…missed the Saturday dance, heard they crowded the floor….” It’s truly amazing. Hearing songs that she knows brings her comfort, and I can totally relate to that, as we all can I’m sure. Hearing that favourite Depeche Mode tune that you slow danced to with a certain someone at a patroller dance in grade 6, can bring you back to that time of innocence, when all you had to worry about was your next math test.</span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57946702014-03-12T10:45:00-07:002022-05-11T08:37:17-07:00"It's no fun being an illegal alien." Phil Collins<p> <br>You can say that again. First off, I want to apologize to those friends who came to the fabulous Sun Ra on Tuesday night to see me. Sorry I couldn’t make it. I was in jail. Well, sort of. Funny how things change so quickly; last week I was posing with Pete Townsend, and this week found me detained in a cell. <br>Last week’s blog reminisced about how I got off one boat in Guadaloupe and came back to Antigua with another boat. Easy. Uh…not so much, if you don’t know the protocol. Apparently I should have been signed off the first boat as a crewmember, and put on the list of the returning boat and cleared customs when I reached Antiguan shores. After telling a few people my saga, they suggested I find out what the deal was with customs. And so, on Tuesday morning, adorned in my yoga gear after a class I headed to English Harbour to clear up any confusion. My, my, you would think that turning 40 would dispel some of my naïveté, but alas. When I arrived and told them my story, my passport was taken and I was told to have a seat to wait until the supervisor came in later that afternoon. I was not allowed to go to the bathroom on my own (and for those of you who know my bladder capacity, you know that those officials had a lot of trips to and from the loo with me in tow), and sat for over two hours before the supervisor came in. I was escorted into the office to speak to James, a demure gentle man who seemed to understand my plight, and yet felt like his hands were tied and had to call his supervisor in St. John’s. I wrote out a statement, admitting that I unknowingly didn’t adhere to protocol, and thought I would just get a wee slap on the wrists with a “don’t do that again” warning. My blonde locks didn’t help me this time. Neither did the polite smiles, nor the tears that came later. Nothing was working and I found myself in an immigration paddy wagon late afternoon heading to St. John’s. </p>
<p><br>Upon arrival there, I was “greeted” by the officials there who told me that I was now a stowaway and I’d have to wait to see their supervisor, who unfortunately had already left the office, meaning I’d have to stay in custody, overnight. The air conditioning, along with my slight dehydration and lack of food rendered me freezing, and was told that I could call someone to bring me food and clothes for the night because, “it gets pretty darn cold here at night.” Luckily, my friend and fellow yoga teacher Lyn came round the station equipped with an arsenal of necessities: chocolate being number one. It was going to be a long night. She, like me, was incredulous as to why I was being treated like a criminal, when I really hadn’t intentionally done anything wrong and had gone on my own accord to try to rectify the customs situation out myself. The officials had no real answers and basically just gave us the runaround. Lyn left her book for me, and I asked for some paper and a pen to write, but found it hard to concentrate. I meditated to Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, and did some pranayama under the fluorescent lights and white walls of my “accommodation” aka: cell. I was even more upset as I’d been rehearsing a load of jazz standards to perform that evening in the harbour. At around 7:30, which was the time I was to start my performance, I did indeed give an a cappella performance and sang about 6 songs to the bewilderment of the officers at the front of the building. They could take my cell phone, my passport, and my freedom of mobility, but they could not take my voice…. “No they can’t take that away from me…” I noticed the officer sitting on the chair tapping his toes and swaying to my tunes, so at least somebody was happy. It certainly wasn’t me. I offered one of the women officers a piece of chocolate to try and bribe my way into good standing, and was dismayed when she took over half the bar of chocolate. This was simply too much. “Excuse me, but I said you could have a piece. If I’m in here all day, I’ll be needing that. Can you please just break off a smaller piece and return my chocolate to me?” She was a woman. She got it and meekly handed back my sugary treasure. <br> <br>My “bed” was a hard bench just over five feet long with a couple of old chair cushions fashioned as a pseudo-mattress, and my pillow was the blanket from the other cell. My feet dangled over the edge and constantly fell asleep throughout the long night. They wouldn’t turn the lights out until after midnight so I tried to tie a shirt around my head to block out the lights, and sleep on my good ear to block out the hum of those lights. When I awoke, I laid the blanket on the floor and did an hour and a half yoga session followed by a meditation. At one point, one of the women came back to check on me, “You’re so quiet. I wanted to see if you were okay. What are you doing? Praying?” I told her I was doing yoga and her eyes perked up, “Okay now, show me some moves that I can do to get rid of this here belly,” she said as she patted her midriff. I told her to come in and I showed her a couple of asanas she could do to tighten up her flab. Man, these guys had it good, they got a free concert the night before and now were getting private yoga sessions. <br> <br>After 9:30am I was taken in to see the supervisor again who told me his supervisor wanted me out on the next flight. I had already deduced that telling the whole truth really wasn’t getting me anywhere so I held up my hands helplessly and told him all the West Jet flights were booked; I had already checked as I wanted to fly out a bit earlier to get home in time for my sister’s birthday. Luckily, he took my word for it without going online; I think he wanted me to be set free and keep my ticket because I heard him on the phone, “She’s got a ticket booked for February 12th…it’s not even 2 weeks away. All the other flights are booked.” By 11:00am I had a stamp on my passport dictating that I had to leave the country on the 12th and was not allowed back in the country for 6 months. <br> <br>“I guess this means I can’t really extend my flight, right?” I sort of bashfully smiled. “No miss. Your vacation is over.” <br> <br>I was ecstatic to get my passport and phone back and be taken to the bus terminal to head home to Marsh Village. Never before had freedom, which I have taken for granted for so long, been such a revered sensibility. I’m so used to going where I want to go, when I want to go that I really had a shift in my perspective and am so humbly grateful for the freedoms that I do have. I now sit at my friend Lucy’s overlooking the harbour, sipping tea, warm and fed, and am reflecting on how this experience has really shown me the power of community. I had people all over calling lawyers, willing to pull strings, worrying and caring about me and sending me good vibes. I’ve been fortunate to meet and befriend so many lovely people in my short stay here, and I’m already a bit melancholy with the prospect of leaving so soon. It could have been worse though and I could have got a $10000 fine and been on the next flight out. As it stands now, I think I’ll spend the afternoon on shore, set some new intentions for this new moon (which will probably include crossing all my t’s and dotting all my i’s when it comes to paperwork) and have a short siesta on a bed, with real pillows. Yes, life is good, and I can see that I am indeed blessed. Anyone else have any pirate stories or stowaway stories to share? Anyone else out there whose had a similar experience? Please share!</p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57946692014-03-04T10:45:00-08:002022-05-10T10:32:14-07:00"The Kindess of Strangers" A Streetcar named Desire<p><span class="font_regular">Last night at the pub in Golden, someone called me a hobo when I told him I didn’t’ really have a home right now and was on the road. If he saw how much stuff I was schlepping around, he might have changed his tune. I’m not exactly carrying around a stick with a small bandana affixed to the end, carrying my few belongings. Here’s a quick tale about my stuff and what I’m carrying around these days: <br>I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers…” Blanche Dubois of A Streetcar Named Desire.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular"> <br>This morning was a great example of that. My sister from another mister Melissa Jane dropped me off at the Greyhound station in Golden just after 7am for the bus to Radium Hot Springs, where I am sitting now in a sweet little coffee shop, awaiting another sister to fetch me and bring me to Invermere. The stranger I encountered was Chad, the burly and sweet bus driver who helped me drag my bags onto the bus, which is a huge feat unto itself. (see photo) No one can say that I travel light: one pair of touring skis, one pair of alpine skis and a set of cross country, which in turn means I have 3 sets of ski boots, touring gear, clothes, guitar pedals, CDs and my toiletries, which take up an overhead compartment by themselves. Chad could have easily let me handle my bags myself, like the grumpy driver I got from Radium to Golden a couple of weeks ago and left me on the side of the hiway to fend for myself, but he didn’t. I couldn’t buy my ticket online so he had to take cash, which he wasn’t supposed to do. He also was supposed to charge me an extra $15.00 per bag (I have 3) and he only charged me for one. He was supposed to drop me at the Esso station, but took the extra 5 minutes to take me to the coffee shop to wait for Cassy, and he helped me schlep my bags in. Then, when my friend Cass arrived, I started to take my first bag outside to put in her trunk; behind me came two other people heaving my heavy bag and skis to the car, without even being asked and I had not been chatting with them at all. They did this all on their own accord. That’s the kind of kindness I’m talking about. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">This is my first trip out here without my own vehicle, and I admit I was a bit skeptical and nervous about traveling solo, with so much stuff, without wheels. So far, so good. I’ve been able to hitch up and down to the ski hill with no problem, usually with the drivers dropping me off at the front door of the yoga studio where I’ve been staying. Even last month in Antigua, I was able to hitch around, get rides to and from gigs from friends and strangers and basically live without a car. It reminds me to ask myself, what do I really need? I’ve realized that I (along with most of the people who run in my circles) have way too much stuff. I saw this a couple of weeks ago as I moved the majority of my stuff from my ex’s to my dad’s basement in Ontario. Although I’ve paired down considerably, I still need to go through my stuff that is not only cluttering Dad’s basement, but so that it’s not cluttering my mental space too. Now that I’m homeless, and apparently a hobo, I really should be traveling lighter so I’m vowing to sell my two pairs of skis this winter to replace them with one pair that I can use on the hill and in the backcountry. It may not sound like a big change, but it’s a start. Any suggestions on how a multi-instrumentalist can pare down? I’m open to suggestions. <br>(NOTE: last night at my show in Invermere at Safta’s, I asked a few locals here if they knew anyone who might be renting out short term vacation homes for when Dad gets here. One jovial fellow Bob immediately said, “My wife and I will be away the first week of April if you want to stay at our place…it’ll be empty!” Yup. The kindness of strangers makes my heart smile).</span></p>Sarah Calverttag:sarahcalvert.ca,2005:Post/57911412014-02-14T06:40:00-08:002021-10-23T03:24:46-07:00"Your're only human." Billy Joel<p><span class="font_regular">I realized today that I only have 3 days left in Chandigarh, and there are several gardens that I had yet to visit. Originally I had intended to go to the museums of local art and history, but saw that they were not open on Monday. Plan B: The Fragrance and Hibiscus Gardens, which are conveniently located side by side in Sector 36. I hopped on my bike and headed towards the main road, which was unfortunately extremely busy; I had to navigate 3 huge roundabouts at rush hour and people were honking at me left, right and centre. There is no way I would even consider riding with my Ipod here, or having a couple of early evening mojitos then riding; you have to be completely on your game. I finally made it to the Fragrance Gardens and tried to sniff the air; not very much going on was my first impression. I parked and locked my bike and then walked inside the gates. As usual, every brown head turned in the place and all eyes were upon me as I walked towards the dalia garden. I thought, that’s strange, dalias don’t really have a scent. Regardless, their colour (albeit a bit wilted in stature) beckoned, and it was the least busy part of the park. I continued to saunter around taking pictures of the beautiful violet blossoming trees and searching for aromatic flowers. There was one small section of roses, so I approached and put my shnoze into the petals……nothing. <br> <br>I then noticed a man in red, in his late 30s, waving at me from the distance. I had my glasses on so pretended not to notice and kept walking. As I circumnavigated the park, I noticed that he was always in my vicinity so I decided to switch directions. On my way back to my bike I followed a couple who were skirting the (dried up) river banks back to the entrance. Lo and behold there was Big Red (not so big as it turns out) whipping his schlong out and standing about 10 feet away. Repulsed, I picked up my pace and started heading to the entrance/exit quickly; the couple ahead of me didn’t really seem to make any sort of response to this odd scenario, which I found even more strange. They simply continued to walk hand in hand as if nothing had happened. Before reaching the gate, I turned around and saw that again he was stalking me. I shooed him off as you would a fly in the air with the back of my hand and scowled. I knew that I needed to brush up on my Punjabi/Hindi and learn some swear words. I hopped on my bike and rode across the street to the Hibiscus Gardens thinking that I could lose him there as he was on foot. He must have run because 10 minutes later there he was again, hot on my trail. I decided to call it a day and headed back towards my house on the bike; enough was enough. I was so irritated and angry, and had flashbacks to a flasher my sister and I had seen on the TTC several years ago. What we learned: never trust Ponch (as in from Chips) mirrored glasses and Adidas short nylon running shorts on a subway…..very dodgy. Back to Big Red: I fled on my bike and got back on the main road and noticed another garden, the Shanti Kurj, on my left, which was another garden I had wanted to see It looked pretty peaceful with few people there so I decided to head in for a quick stroll as my previous stroll had been abrubtly halted and I still had time to walk before class. I parked my bike and headed towards the roses which were now in full bloom, hoping that these roses smelled after the dissapointment at the so-called “Fragrance Garden”. The only aromas I got was of garbage and feces when I fled the park and had to bush wack back to the main road to avoid Big Red. Vile aromatherapy. <br> <br>Again, I was stopped by a hipster who was about 20 talking on his cell phone; again mirrored glasses…..dodgy. He stopped in his tracks and said he’d like to get a photo with me. I responded with, “No English” and kept walking. Crossing a sweet little bridge I came across two men about the same age as the hipster and they started just taking my picture, without even asking. I was starting to lose my patience. I remembered what Yogiji had said about being graceful in the most ungraceful moments and tried to keep my blood temperture down. My book and my bed were sounding better by the moment and so I turned back and headed towards my bike. En route I was stopped by yet another 20 something ish guy who said, “Excuse me, can I talk to you?” My new line is: “ No English. French,” knowing that not many people from around here knows what “bonjour” means so I think I’m safe. <br>I was now miserable and irritaeted at the same time, and in a true moment of onomatopoeia, it started downpouring: the first real rain that I had seen since I had been here, and here I was on my bike with 15 minutes to go. I decided then and there, that I actually love the rain, particularly when it is hot and sultry out so I hummed the whole way home, soaking wet, having to wipe the raindrops from my eyes, and passing all the folk who had parked themselves under trees to avoid the rain. The only incident I had was that a guy in a car pulled over, rolled down his window and leered, “You looking nice.” I responded with, “You looking fat and you should be on the bike” and left him there running the red light. Not so graceful, but hey....I'm only human. </span></p>Sarah Calvert