"HAPPY JUICE"

From May 2005 to April 2007 I wrote a column in this paper. At first it was titled Trundling Along the White Trail, then it became Scampering Along..., and then finally it was Dancing Along.... Three years of personal essays, I thought, was enough but apparently not. There’s a longing for reflective writing, both in me and the readership, so I am picking up where I left off, as best as I can.

The next transformation, I had predicted, was to be Flying Along the White Trail because it implied an achieved sense of freedom. But I didn’t feel quite there yet. Then last week, completely depleted of energy by bronchitis, I was reading something and the word ‘emptying’ stuck in my mind. I skimmed the next few lines then came to: Because we have let everything go, and are preparing to start very new with a very clean slate... This really struck home. Perhaps this cold was an opportunity to stop and look at what else needed to be emptied. In order to fly, one must lighten up, let go of all that no longer serves. If I truly wanted to fly, I had to give up any of those old emotions that kept me feeling separate or inadequate. I could no longer afford to look back at what could have been or should have been. Those thoughts were like chains, keeping me heavy, keeping me down and draining my energy.

The focus I now realized had to be on creating happiness. I now saw that creating happiness was the fuel for flight, and if I could keep my focus on it, I’d be soaring. Of course it wasn’t just about creating happiness for me alone, but rather taking on the persona of Sorceress of Happiness and generating it all around. (What a fine image, hahaha!)

With these thoughts in mind, I watched the comedian Dana Carvey do a monologue and in it he talked about ‘happy juice’, and I thought, wow! that’s a perfect way to describe the fuel. I taught Reiki and Chi Kung and tried to explain the Eastern concept of chi, ki or prana but nothing really captured the essence the way happy juice does. Picture walking down the street: those who have a good flow of happy juice are light on their feet and easy to smile, while those whose happy juice channels are blocked are heavy and dour and seem off in some parallel universe. Their souls seem to keep repeating the same old struggles and wrong-doings over and over again like a skipping record. They can’t get past the dreaded words or events that victimized them so are before us but not really there – no happy juice, no happiness.

Since the word emptying made its mark in my psyche a few days ago, I keep referring to it when unpleasantries occur. I don’t hold onto resentments or anger, with myself or others, I deal with them as quickly as possible so I can get the happy juice flowing again: empty grief, fill up with happy juice. If I am to fly, to be the Sorceress of Happiness, it is essential to forgive and accept. I must remember: “We’re all on a path, and each place on that path is honourable.”

I feel like I’m in sync with the world as I write this because as I sit on the dock on this gorgeous morning, birds of all kinds are coming to greet me. Blue heron swooped around, loon popped up and turkey hawk glided past. What a wonderful feeling. Hey maybe that’s why black fly and mosquito keep nibbling at me, they’re helping me shift my focus, reminding me to stop looking back and stay present. Create happiness now and the happy juice will flow. So here I am again, exploring life and writing about it. And this makes me happy.

This new title, White Trail, is simple and empty of embellishments. There are no limitations or expectations; there’s just a place to start from and return to. No baggage required.

A SWAN SONG

There’s nothing like a carefree, spring day with nothing to do but go for a walk. Even though the windows need cleaning and the winter clothes had to be put away, I grabbed my camera, whistle and mini-knife and headed back into the bush anyway. Carpe diem!

The rain had just settled, and I longed to see once again the place I’d called Treasure Island. I hadn’t been back there since the snow had settled and thought that with the numerous wind storms we’d had, the trail would have been littered with fallen trees and branches that needed removal. All there was for me to do, however, was enjoy the scenery. The buds were bursting; the air was intoxicating; only beauty was around.

The rocky outcrop overlooking Treasure Island was the original place I’d come to when I needed to be alone to think. Back then I hardly ever had words to describe my emotions. It was only by walking through the woods and kneading the sentiments with my steps that understanding would arise.

As I relaxed and let myself blend in with my surroundings now, I could hear my heart telling me my thoughts needed some spring cleaning too. The new ways were ready to be unpacked; I just had to clear out more room so they could fully unfold.

Always there to help, Mother Earth took me into her bosom and lightened my load by filling my heart with song. The northern flickers, the grackles, the cowbirds and red-winged blackbirds all put on a show singing and flittering happily about. Before long, I was so captivated by their performance my troubles had lost their grip. I moved up close, grabbed a seat on a fallen tree and, with my two-toned whistle, joined along and became a part of the show.

With a little imagination, I could decipher all the characters in this musical romance: the love birds, played by the flickers; the fowl-mouthed villain, played by the grebe; the lovers’ gang, played by the flighty grackles and red-winged blackbirds; the villain’s gang, played by the assertive, clacking woodpeckers and honking geese; and then there were the grouse who must have been the girl’s parents because they were all ruffed up. For a B story, there were the flies baiting the frogs. Meanwhile, the three turkey vultures silently circled because this whole scene was beneath them. And I, of course, played the narrator.

Ah to be filled with light-hearted merriment. It’s amazing how therapeutic creativity can be in the midst of chaos. It seems to be able to reign in the absurdities and give them some kind of structure to make things all right. Music is an example of this. Twenty-five different instruments playing different notes can easily become a cacophony, but give them the structure of a song and they can stir the soul. When one has learned to step back and see the beauty in chaos, one has learned to see heaven on earth. There is a structure, a schema, behind it all which I’ve come to interpret as: struggle and emerge. But that’s not the end, as I once thought it was. The completed wisdom is: struggle and emerge so you can help others emerge.

What does that look like, what does that mean: emerge? I think I can sum it up best by paraphrasing an aphorism I came across at the end of a tea bag: If you can’t see beauty in all, you can’t see beauty at all. And so I am finished for now: looking for meaning, using words. Joseph Campbell, in The Power of Myth, said: People say that what we are all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think this is what we’re really seeking. I think what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive. To me that means opening my eyes and appreciating the beauty that surrounds me and fills me in so many ways. There are many, many methods, besides words, to experience this and it is time for me to go and explore them.

I have been motivated through the years by these guiding words of the Japanese poet Basho: Seek not to follow the ways of the sages of old; seek instead what they sought. From what I’ve learned, what it was they sought was beauty: in all its expressions. So off I go; so here I am – heaven on earth – in and amongst the beauty – giving a hand to others so they too can join in in the rapture.

And to that I sign off by singing: A-a-men!

THE HEROINE’S JOURNEY

It was beautiful day after yet another snowstorm, so I got dressed, shouldered my camera, and headed to the trail in search of my next story. Not twelve steps out, however, I stopped in my tracks and thought about what I’d recently been contemplating: the difference between the Hero’s and the Heroine’s Journey.
The Hero’s Journey is a story of mythic proportions whereby the protagonist sets out on an adventure to conquer his fears (his enemies). Although it’s called a Hero’s Journey both males and females, such as Luke Skywalker in Star Wars and Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, participate in it. The Heroine’s Journey on the other hand is not about going out to conquer, but rather going within to appreciate. This is what my book Neesa’s Backyard and the movie The Legend of Baggar Vance is about. Again, the Heroine’s Journey is not exclusive to women as the protagonist in The Legend of Baggar Vance is a male golfer.

As I recalled from The Da Vinci Code, masculine energy is represented by the spear and feminine energy is represented by the cup: symbols for going out and going within. Just as testosterone and estrogen are not exclusive to either men or women, neither are masculine and feminine energies. We each have both within us and must work at balancing the two. This concept is represented by two interlinking triangles known as the six-rayed star or the Star of David, and it is what Jet Li’s Fearless is about; a champion martial artist only becomes legendary after he has developed his feminine energy to be as powerful as his masculine energy.

So instead of going out to seek a story, I turned around and came back home where I found pathways and stairs that needed shovelling and a wood holder and birdfeeder that needed refilling. I’ve come to understand that what brings me happiness isn’t acquiring new things but having less and caring for and enjoying them more.

Caring, it seems, is a lost art. We put our elders in retirement homes, which some call orphanages for the old, and we call shopping a recreational activity. How does that make sense? In this consumer society we’ve generated, it’s cheaper to buy a new vacuum cleaner than it is to repair the old one...that is if you could find the parts. The thing is, when we throw things away, where is away? Just because it’s hidden from view in an empty mine shift or a landfill site across the border doesn’t mean it’s impotent. How is this indifference sustainable?

The way a society evolves is by letting go of what no longer works and leaping to what does. Old patterns are comfortable, however, and fear of the unknown leadens our feet. But we’ve now come to a point in history where if we don’t jump, we’ll die. If we don’t start caring and repairing instead of ignoring and acquiring, we’re doomed.

The winds of change are howling; go home and take care they say. Take care of what you have and nurture it so it is strong and resilient. Happiness can’t be bought, it must be patiently cultivated. This is the Heroine’s Journey: going within to connect not with our limited physical power but with the soul’s infinite power.

I’m not trying to imply that the feminine way is good and the masculine way is bad, but instead to remind that they need to walk together – two feet, two eyes, two hands–balanced, interdependent, making each other stronger.

What I love about being in nature, on the trail or in my backyard, is that it balances me so I can hear my inner voice. What it is saying to me these days is, don’t be afraid. Just let go – let go of aggression, let go of having to win, let go of the idea that you need more. You already are powerful, you already are happy, you already are loved, you already are alive: YOU ALREADY ARE WHO YOU WANT TO BE.

Beyond the realm of the dualities, of masculine and feminine, there is the harmonious blend of the two which is Mother Earth’s energy: the energy of beauty, peace and love. By increasing feminine energy to balance the masculine energy that surrounds us now, we could all affect the change that is necessary to create peace and sustain life. Yes, there is an energy crisis, but it’s not the one so often portrayed. If you are concerned about this planet, be aware and take care in all you do.

The Hero’s Journey is about going out to conquer in order to return and better society. The Heroine’s Journey shows us that more important than what we do is how we do it. When the what and how are aligned with the natural way, peace will be restored.

“WE”

I joined a book club a few years ago and have had the privilege of discussing some pretty wonderful books with some equally wonderful women. One thing I’d noticed was that, even though we’d read the same books, we each seemed to get something different from them. It was like the issues we were personally dealing with, or had dealt with, were mirrored in how we understood the book.

The last novel we read was Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, and I was half-hearted picking it up since the person I borrowed it from didn’t get through it. When I first started reading, I was angry. I really disliked it but had to keep reading because of the book club. After a hundred pages, I started skipping ahead fifty pages, then another twenty, then another fifty, and still I wasn’t impressed. Then I went to the last twenty pages and read something so shocking I figured maybe I’d give it another try. Flipping back, I realized I was so used to fast-paced plots from the movies, I was expecting the same thing from this book.

But the beauty of Bel Canto wasn’t in the plot; it was in the characters. Not a lot occurred, but so much happened. It was about a hostage taking incident in South America, and one of the hostages was a brilliantly gifted opera singer. When this woman sang, time stopped. To be in her presence as she performed was to be uplifted by the gods. In the months they were together, lives were transformed: love flowed, latent talents in both the rebels and captives blossomed, and magnificence in all forms were noticed and appreciated. Before reading this, I had never really understood the transcendent power of absolute beauty and the yearning (perhaps unconscious) we have to be in its midst. Patchett truly inspired me.

The book I’m reading for our next gathering is The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, and I am so in awe of this novel too. Again, I was reluctant going in, this time thinking it was so old and outdated. But the more I read the more relevant and ominous it felt. With the gap now widening between rich and poor, and droughts more prevalent, I’m finding this book rather eerie. I’m only half way through, and what touches me profoundly is the character of these people. The times had changed and they lost their home and way of life, but still they didn’t forget what truly made a person rich: kinship. Food and shelter, no matter how meagre it was, was shared. These folks may have been dirty, but no matter what, they cared deeply for each other.

Steinbeck talked about how fear weakened people and made it easy for others to divide and conquer them. He also talked about how dangerous it was for those powers-that-be when ““I”” became ““we,”” and how with “a little multiplication” of the ““we”” most anything was possible.
Perhaps I’m understanding this from these books right now because I’m coming to recognize that no matter how much I learn, how open my mind is, without an open heart, a heart capable of nurturing and perpetuating beauty of all kinds, I will continue only to yearn for that which I seek. The clarity, the truth, the grace I have touched but cannot hold on to, happens when the wisdom in my head flows to both my heart and my hands. When I becomes we, it won’t matter what worldly limitations I may experience, for the power of my group will buoy me.

I suppose both of these novels are sort of retellings of the biblical Job story: even when everything is taken away, there’s always some form of beauty around to uplift and remind us of our true nature.

When we replaces I, our culture will have finally taken the leap to maturity. This is what the great leaders have been trying to tell us. This is what the great writers, and artists of all kinds, have been trying to show us: beauty and power from unity are at the ends of our fingertips waiting to be grasped.

The women in my book club understand this, and I am so privileged to be a part of their group.

NEW YEAR’S LESSON

Earlier this week I was out for a walk and came across two sets of wolf tracks. I pursued the ones that were headed in my direction, and when they veered off trail, jumped up a rock-cut and then returned, I was puzzled so went to have a look. Once up top, I saw snow-covered fox tracks and quickly understood the diversion. I guess the wolf was just as curious as I was. From there, it meandered further down the hill, over to a frozen swamp, circled back up, and trundled on. Even though these tracks were pretty fresh, I knew I’d never catch up with it. Still, I hoped to catch a glimpse of the beautiful, elusive creature so sat down and put myself in neutral.

I had come out on the walk thinking about discipline and wanting to cultivate more of it in my life since I’d already broken my New Year’s resolution. Mother Nature it seemed, being a kind and gracious teacher, was obliging me here with a lesson. Dear friend, perhaps you aren’t being successful with your attempts at discipline because you don’t truly understand it. Here, have another look. It’s not what you think it is. Really, it’s not. Relax and have another look. Peering around through the trees, I began thinking about the wolf and its behaviour. As I settled down, what had occurred to me was that even though the wolf had been on the hunt, like all disciplined warriors, it remained calm, followed its instincts and quietly persevered. In case I missed the point there, when I got home, I came across a quote I had written in my journal: Adopt the ways of Nature. Her method is one of patience. Hmm.

I had previously come to realize I needed tutoring in this subject a few months ago when I got a treadmill and tried to acquire instant health. I thought I was being reasonable, actually, by starting with a ten minute walk followed by a twenty minute run, but it didn’t take long for my body to start revolting. Achilles tendonitis and plantar fasciitis soon had me hobbling, but because I was determined, I kept at it. Discipline, I had thought, was about choosing a new way and then forcing yourself to stick to it.

Fortunately before I could do any real damage, I had to go in to the city for a few days. While there, I stopped in at a runner’s store and sought advice about shoes and orthopaedic inserts thinking poor alignment was the cause of my problem. After hearing this, the guy just snickered and, wanting to confirm his suspicions, asked how long and how often I had been running. After my reply, he just shook his head and kindly began his lecture.

Apparently the best way to begin a running program that best suits the body is to start by alternatively walking one minute and then running one minute. Soon you graduate to walk one: run two, and then walk one: run three, etcetera. Eventually you’re where you want to be and your body is comfortable with the stress. At first this was a real nuisance because I had to keep pushing the buttons back and forth, adjusting for the different speeds. But then I came to appreciate the method and saw that it was sustainable and would allow me to thrive. Discipline, I had learned from observing the wolf tracks, wasn’t just about perseverance, it was also about patience and awareness.

Something shifted within and one of the things I became aware of was that discipline, like the changing of the seasons, had a certain, undeniable rhythm to it. Here we are in the winter: a time of darkness and hibernation. As we head into spring, and as daylight gradually increases, things will slowly start warming up and moving about. Before long, there will be a quick acceleration in the growth rate and life will abound and multiply. In summer, the high level of energy will become the norm and life will flourish. And in the fall, it will all gradually begin to slow down and then stop again. This too was the way of discipline: difficult at first to get going, becoming increasingly easier with practice, stabilizing and then becoming difficult again. As I tossed a log on the fire, I gasped because I had realized it had built up in this pattern too: kindling, branches, and then logs. Wow, this was the way all things evolved – including gaining patience: have patience gaining patience.

I shall apply this new understanding with compassion, and perhaps in the spring I will be able to rename this column: Running Along the White Trail.

OH CHRISTMAS TREE

“Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas unless…”
If my husband had to finish that sentence it would be: Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas unless we had a Christmas tree. So on December 9th, off we snow-shoed into the bush to find a beauty. It was another grey day and the crust on the snow made the trekking slow, but we had a song in our hearts and on our lips and were excited about our prospects.

Alan led me in one direction where he thought there was a stand, then I led him in another where I was hopeful of finding something perfect, but in the end all we could see were scraggly Charlie Brown trees. He’d rather have nothing at all than one of those, so we looped back home.
The next morning, he just wasn’t happy so asked if I would mind going to town with him to buy one. This normally sounds like such a small request, and in fact, normally he could have gone on his own. We, on the other hand, living 2 km past where the road ends, weren’t used to normal, and with achilles tendonitis in my right foot, a return trip to town was an effort for me. But with the chance to bring joy to my beloved, I strapped the snowshoes and a smile back on and hiked out the roller coaster trail to the car with him.

After first taking care of some errands and stopping for a slice, we went shopping for the tree. Most were perfect for what we normally looked for, but with the kids not visiting and the early snowfall, this year wasn’t normal either. After moving some of the big boys around, we found the ideal spruce in the very back against the wall. Not only was this tree symmetrical and sized to fit in our vehicle it was also possible to carry.

Back to the trail, on with the snowshoes, and off we went back home. Alan dragged the tree the first 500 metres over the frozen lake, and then the fun began. As an analyzer, I love to figure things out, so with Alan hanging on to the heavier trunk, I tried putting a rope around the top, but that was just too awkward. Then I had an image of two hunters walking, and between them was a dead animal hanging from a pole. So, I went off trail as soon as I found a long, sturdy, dead branch and convinced Alan we should try it. He was sceptical at first but then conceded it did help. Forty-five minutes later, and after taking a ceremonial picture of our prize, we had the tree standing up outside and relaxing into shape.

As darkness descended, Alan brought it in and started putting the lights on: a sacred, age-old tradition of his. Then with eggnog in hand, I finished it off with tinsel, candy canes and red bows.
I must admit, the whole atmosphere of our house had been transformed by the glorious presence of that glittering tree. Even though there were no gifts underneath, it had a majesty about it akin to all things nurtured and cherished. It was truly uplifting.

As I stood there admiring our creation, I felt refreshed! It was like something inside of me had been aroused from hibernation, and I realized what I loved about a Christmas tree was how sensuous it was. There was the prickliness of its needles, the clean spruce fragrance, the lights sparkling on the tinsel, the peppermint candy canes ripe for the picking, the feelings of belonging and continuity, and the remembered sounds of music and laughter.

Perhaps this was why Christmastime was so exhilarating for many; like the tree, our senses were lit up and life took on a whole new, vibrant dimension. It’s almost as if by exciting and uniting all the senses, the feelings of kindness and charity were activated. What a blissful way to live…all year long.

Which reminds me, if you were to ask me to finish that first sentence, it would be: Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas unless I wished that the joy of the season carried through and became the normal way of being all year long.
May all our dreams come true.

Happy Holidays everyone!

LINKING

Three years ago my step-son and his life-long buddies started a tradition at our place the first weekend of November: boys’ weekend. I started a tradition that weekend too: go somewhere else. This year I drove to the city and had a chance to catch up with some friends, see a play, and most importantly enrich my family bonds.

On Sunday morning, I met my mother, aunt, and five cousins at my sister’s house and after a time of catching up, we got to the business at hand: linking these three generations to those that came before us through the process of making cinnamon buns.

When my grandmother taught me how to make the buns twenty years ago, I was the sixth generation in the family to learn – well technically, the fifth because my mother and her cousins were never taught. Today I was going to connect the links and extend the chain by teaching not only my mother and aunt, but also by teaching my aunt’s two grand-daughters – the seventh generation.

The word religion is from the Latin, re ligio, meaning linking back: linking back through our ancestors, to the animals, to the earth, to the solar system, to the universe, and all the way back to the big bang and the Creator of life itself. And so in repeating this recipe in the manner it had always been prepared, we were about to perform an act of linking: a religious act.

Feeling this reverence, I circled the women and girls around the table and led a ceremony using candles, ritual and prayer. We then began by each putting a cup of flour into the pot, thus linking us all with our creation and with all creation involved in making this flour, and these baked goods, possible: the sun, the rain, the earth, the wheat, the farmers, the grain millers, the truck drivers, the grocers and everyone and everything else involved in helping this happen.

Salt, sugar, oil, butter, and sour cream were added and then Melanie, the youngest, cracked the eggs open, one by one, first into a bowl to make sure they were okay. My grandmother told me this was done because if an egg was bad, the other ingredients would be spoiled and the process would have to start all over again. Nanny Ray grew up with very little, so waste was to be avoided at all costs. Kari, a recent bride, then began mixing it all together – “one way,” my grandmother had said and I now found myself repeating, “stir only one way.” I hadn’t figured that one out until I disobeyed and ended up with flour flying everywhere.
The yeast was added, the dough kneaded, then the big mixing pot was put on the stove beside a small pot of simmering water. I then covered both with one of my grandmother’s tea towels, just as I was taught, and then passed on to the others that this was done to help the dough rise quicker.

I shortened the first rising so those who had to leave early could help cut the dough into buns. When this was completed, we put the pans back on the stove by the simmering water and went for a long lunch.

The best part of the process, the part the older ones remembered and were often allowed to help with, was adding the cinnamon. When the buns came out of the oven, they were broken apart and cinnamon sugar was sprinkled over the steamy dough. After a few minutes back in the oven for browning, and a moment to thank and remember Nanny Ray and Baba (my grandmother’s mother), we linked seven generations by nourishing our bodies and souls with those heavenly treats.
I don’t know if the others will carry on in the traditional way. We joked about the significance of the number seven and how it seemed to suggest something evolutionary. Mechanical kneading machines and other time-saving devices were mentioned but somehow they just didn’t seem right to me. I guess I’m a bit reluctant to let go of some of the old ways; I seem to be rooted in what’s natural - and that changes slowly. Simplicity, patience, and conservation are what worked for those who came before me, and now as I keep expanding in my knowledge and understanding, I try to ward off chaos by staying rooted in those ideals.

From the feedback I received, the day was a success. Linking back and linking together, the girls – and from what I hear, the boys too - had a most enriching experience.