Peep Show

A dear friend of mine is one of the slowest people I know. It's one of the things I most admire about her. Monica moves through life at a slow, easy pace. She's sometimes a little late for things, but never fails in meeting her commitments and responsibilities. When taking a walk with her, I have to slow down to her speed, because she can't keep up with mine, due to a congenital heart defect. Since I'm never in a rush to get somewhere when I'm with Monica, this is just as well. I love walking, and I do my best to take in everything around me, but walking with Monica pulls me right back to the real speed of life - the speed created by Nature, and not the speed of so-called civilized, urban living.
My friend has been slow all her life, even though her heart condition didn't manifest until she was a young woman. A few years ago I was watching her wash dishes and noticed how slowly, carefully, and almost luxuriously she did something I would normally consider dull and menial - a task I try to get through as quickly as possible. The way Monica rubbed the sponge on the dishes in leisurely, deliberate circles was almost sensuous. I watched her, fascinated, and wished that I could indulge in such a mundane pastime with so much consideration. Indeed, the manner in which she tackled the simple, domestic chore of washing dishes was almost trance-inducing.
Monica's natural rhythms are well-suited to what I call a magical life. She is a sensitive. (And I mean that as a noun, not an adjective.) Traditionally, when wise-women, witches, widows and spinsters accomplished domestic chores with intention, they were performing trance-inducing exercises. Stirring, spinning, weaving and sweeping were often used as aids in creating spells. Anything done when a person is completely engaged and focussed puts them into a mildly meditative state, or a state of flow. Think of the runner's "high." The feet may be racing, but the mind isn't.
My friend's normal, life-long pace has allowed her to experience the unseen world, where things don't work at the same speed as they do here. I've heard stories from my slow friend, and witnessed strange little events around her that other people don't notice or dismiss as inconsequential, but they're always linked to her quiet, still presence. It's poetic irony that Monica's predisposition towards the wise ways of the turtle (Mother Earth totem of Native North Americans), is how she must live with her heart condition. Ironic, yes. But is it a coincidence? Well, you know what I think.
Turtles, and tortoises, are the longest living animals on the planet. They don't rush through life, so they get to live it longer. They're associated with wisdom because of the advanced years they can reach, and they take their time getting there. Some people make a deliberate choice about learning from these animals, and emulate their slow and steady pace in daily practices such as meditation or yoga. And then there are others, like my friend Monica (who are much fewer and far between), who were born that way. Long live the Turtles of this world.
- G.P.

Moment to Moment

A single moment in time is a rare and delicate thing. It's as ephemeral as a passing thought - here and gone. Too often I wish that every moment were a beautiful one, but if I'm in pain, either physical or psychological, cherishing a fleeting moment is the last thing on my mind. Under such circumstances I'm more likely to pray that the moments pass quickly, without dwelling on how precious time is.
Boredom, however, is not to be tolerated. Better I should dwell on one good thing I have or do, even if it's as simple as breathing or walking. Fortunately, I'm able to enjoy both those things together again, without pain or discomfort, after several weeks of being robbed of the joy of walking due to an injury.
Breathing and walking aren't rare, but genuinely revelling in them isn't ordinary, either. It requires sensitivity and gratitude on a moment to moment basis. Life and time are like rivers that are constantly flowing, whether you take note or not, which is why you can never put your foot into the same river twice.
I want to spend today, the first day of December, the last month of the year, the month of the Winter Solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas and New Year's Eve as if I were marking the way I will spend the rest of my life. So that means I must write, to express myself in some way. I choose to spend all the moments on this first day of the rest of my life, which also happens to be on a full moon, so that it matters.
Doing nothing is not a waste of time as long as I'm fully conscious and appreciative of all the quicksilver moments, and of all the things that are happening to me, around me, and within me. I breathe, my heart beats, my blood flows, I see, I hear, and my mind moves from one thought to another. I'm making choices all the time. So much is happening every single moment. All I have to do to make those moments memorable is notice them.
Sometimes I fret that my life is ordinary. In many ways that's true, and I'm often unable to do anything to change the circumstances that make me feel that way. But I can observe, listen and think. I'm not without imagination, and as long as I'm capable of using it, I have enough. So I'd like to finish this simple little blurb on this seemingly most ordinary of days with another ancient Chinese maxim ... Enough is as good as a feast.
- G. P.

A Day in the Sun

A magnificent sunbow graced my view as I sat on the back patio a few days ago. It was a new moon. I was awaiting the arrival of my friend, Doe, to come and help me celebrate my birthday. It was probably the last time I'd be sitting in the back yard this season, because it was an unseasonably mild day for mid-November.
I wasn't doing anything but sitting in the sun and enjoying being still. And breathing, of course. (See previous entry.) It was just past mid-afternoon, but the sun was already low in the sky. Then I saw it, on the right side of the sun - a partial, vivid sunbow, or sun dog, as it is also known. It displayed all the colours of the spectrum. It looked like a rainbow turned on its side. It remained in sight for almost ten minutes. I've seen sunbows before, but seldom as colourful as this one.
I like to think that I appreciate beauty and wonder any time they are present, but if the time happens to be significant as well, I put a magical spin on the whole experience. So what little spin did I put on my most recent encounter with one of nature's wonders? Easy! Rainbows mean hope, rebirth and new beginnings, especially after a storm. New moons signify endings and beginnings as well. And birthdays, unless you're a miserable, life-hating curmudgeon, should be a day to celebrate life - specifically your life. (I get the "I celebrate life everyday" argument a lot from those who moan and groan whenever their birthdays roll around. I have found that those kind of people are usually the last ones who genuinely celebrate life. But I digress...)
Sitting alone, breathing, feeling the remaining rays of sun warm my face, and watching the sunbow shift and shimmer with such subtlety and nuance, was a quiet, soft and solitary experience. Those precious moments would have been memorable at any time, but it wasn't just any time. Timing may not be everything, but it matters. As a result, my pleasure and memory of that incident were enhanced. I'll always remember the time and the place and what happened on that day. And more importantly, I'll remember what it meant to me.
- G.P.

The Spirited Life

Breathing is now on my list of favourite pastimes. That sounds rather absurd, I know; but ever since I hurt my foot and have been forced to curtail my frequent walks, I've had to find another way of enjoying what I have, and what is. The act of breathing, which is part of the autonomic nervous system and therefore involuntary, also works in tandem with the conscious mind. I love that part. Since I'm breathing anyway, and can control it, I might as well enjoy it, right? I find myself more sedentary than I would normally choose to be, and so I am forced to get as much enjoyment out of my indisposition as possible. Apart from the usual stuff like reading and writing etc., I don't want to lose touch with my body. I can't do a lot of calisthenics, but I still breathe.
Getting in touch with the breath is the basis of meditation, which I'm not entirely unfamiliar with. However, I never brought the wonderful lessons and feelings of breathing meditation to ordinary life. Even as I sit here and type out these words, I'm deliberately paying attention to my breath. Talk about multi-tasking! I joke, of course, because my conscious breathing actually makes me feel as if I'm doing less, not more. By slowing down I'm able to focus more. Every time I finish a sentence with a period, I stop and take a deep breath. (Pause to breathe.) It's wonderful. It makes me feel better. It calms me, soothes me. It clears my mind, and makes me appreciate the beauty and wonder of something I do all the time anyway. What's not to like?
If I'm in conversation with friends, I can still breathe consciously while they're talking, and thus listen with more intention and patience, because I'm clear-headed and focussed. Reading, listening to music, or watching a movie have become physically beneficial as well. No more couch potato.
Spiritus is the Latin word for breath, breathing, or life. A spirited person is full of life. Until I discovered the joy of conscious breathing, I was frequently dispirited by my indisposition. And I can't say enough about taking deep breaths when you're upset or losing your cool. The fact is, breathing is good for you. To quote a favourite acting vocal coach of mine, "if you don't breathe, you're dead." One can go for a few weeks without eating, a few days without water, but only minutes without breathing. (Pause now to enjoy a slow, deep breath. Nice, eh?)
It's too bad I had to injure myself in order to appreciate the most basic, automatic act of living. I thought my background in theatre and music had taught me just how important breathing is. I didn't think I took it for granted. And I never thought I could look forward to walking and breathing at the same time as much as I do now. I'll let you know how it goes. I have a feeling it will be truly spiritual.
- G. P.

Everything Matters

A storm was raging within me yesterday. It passed, as all things do, and left a moment of illumination in its wake. I had spent several hours on this web of mine, writing about the up side of being down, because I've been laid up with a bum foot for almost a week now. Despite my injury and incipient ennui, I looked for the good things that came out of being indisposed, and thought to share them with you here. It was not to be.
I am a technopeasant, and my lack of understanding about all the ins and outs of something as basic as my little web can frustrate me to no end. (Please note I am not a Luddite, because I like technology. It's just that I'm clueless about it.) Suffice it to say, after several hours and numerous drafts of recording my not-so-deep thoughts, I was left with nothing on my web to share with the world. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I was not a happy camper.
So-o-o, I shut down the computer, took a deep breath, and hobbled to the mailbox, where I'd been expecting to find a cheque from one of my acting gigs. I knew a little cash would lighten my dark mood. Well hey! Guess what? It wasn't there! Oh for joy for joy. My foot was throbbing, my neck and shoulders in spasm from hunching over a computer for so long, and now a few of the things I rail against every so often, i.e., computers, the postal service, and no $$$, were proving to me just exactly who or what had the power. Clearly not me. Aargh!
Normally I would have taken a long, brisk walk in the chill autumn air to work out and/or walk away from my fury. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. Indeed, it was a large part of the problem. Okay, so what else could I do? Drink. That was coming, believe me. But I first wanted to express my rage. After all, I'm an artist, right? That's what we do, express ourselves. Screaming loud and long was the first thing that came to mind. I wanted to run out into the back yard and scream at the top of my lungs. Despite the inner storm that obscured my judgement with big, black clouds, I knew that idea was a bad one. I've got a pretty good set of lungs and I knew neighbours would come running over to assist me and/or be calling the police. So I had no option but to fuss and fume in the kitchen, swearing loudly whilst looking for a corkscrew. I was suddenly stopped in my tracks with a loud bang and clatter from the laundry room which adjoins the kitchen. A metal shelf which supported all sorts of laundry room accouterments had collapsed. The shelf had given way because the screws that held it in place couldn't bear the weight anymore. It had obviously been ready to collapse at any time for quite a while. However, I found it curious that it collapsed just exactly when it did. It could have fallen last week, or tomorrow, but it fell just when Hurricane Penwyche stormed through.
Strangely, this little accident made me feel better. Instead of raging even more as I put everything back in order, I mused about the timing of a seemingly random domestic mishap. I had been so angry I was shaking. I definitely had very strong "bad vibes." If a butterfly can flutter its wings on one side of the planet, ultimately creating a tornado somewhere else, then maybe my palpable rage could make a shelf collapse. With this realization I suddenly felt I had some power again. I no longer felt out of control.
Eventually I put everything back in its place, including my mood (although the shelf still needs fixing), and settled down to a glass of wine. (Okay okay, three glasses.) But my sense of connection to the Universe was back. A minor domestic upset had restored my faith.
The beauty of this little yarn is, that for now at least, I don't feel like some new age flake who writes blurbs on a hokey blog. I experienced first hand that what I think and feel matter, that energy effects matter. One of my favourite aphorisms happens to be the motto of the distinguished Eindhoven University of Technology in the Netherlands, Mens agitat molem. Translated from Latin it means the mind moves matter. If a bunch of geeks use that pithy little maxim as their motto, then it's good enough for me.
-G.P.

Working the System

Witnessing true gratitude can be as good as feeling it yourself. I didn't realize that until a few days ago, when I was at the bookstore where I work. We had a little event for kids, celebrating the launch of a new book, and a dozen or so children showed up. The mean age of those in attendance was around ten. The kids were a smart, lively bunch. We had several prizes to hand out, most of them little tokens for games of trivia about the book series. There were also two bigger prizes, a bright yellow t-shirt, and an autographed copy of the book, which the staff and I decided would be given away by luck of the draw, just to keep things completely fair.
One of the young boys collected a lot of the smaller prizes because he was really quick calling out the answers during trivia. He was as sweet as he was bright. When it came to playing for the two biggest prizes, we had narrowed the players down to that boy and a girl, because they had tied for accumulating the most points in the previous game. The winner for the t-shirt was to be selected by picking a number between 1 and 10. The young lad in question won by guessing the exact number, which happened to be lucky number 7. He was positively thrilled by his win and said thank you like someone who did so often. It was a pleasure to see.
The second of the "grand" prizes, the autographed book, was given away by drawing names from a hat. Sure enough, the same boy who had been cleaning up, by both wit and luck, won again. When he won yet again my first thought was that something strange was going on with this kid that day. I know statisticians and number crunchers would have had a logical, scientific explanation, claiming that the odds weren't really that great against him winning both prizes. I wasn't using my reasoning faculties, however, when I reacted in my typical now isn't that weird? fashion. I turned to the boy's mother and said something to that effect. Well wouldn't you know, she replied in my language. "He's been lucky all day," she said, "ever since he got up this morning he seems to have been in tune with the cosmos. There's some kind of cosmic connection, for sure." Her words were music to my ears.
This little incident already intrigued me, but what made it even more special was the boy's reaction to his streak of good luck. He wasn't just happy, he was deeply grateful. First he hugged himself with glee, and then proceeded to hug me and two of my colleagues who helped facilitate the event. I've worked with enough children at the store to know that he reacted in a spontaneous and more deeply felt way than most children his age would have done. It wasn't just a case a good manners. This kid's extraordinary, contagious expression of gratitude was genuinely moving. His mother clearly understood that we're all connected in some small way, and although she's probably never spoken about it to him in exactly those terms, he had obviously learned the lesson. He has a good mother, and it shows. His good fortune didn't just make him happy, or his mother proud, it also lifted the spirits of people who didn't even know him.
That beautiful young boy is off to a good start. As he goes through life, it won't always be easy, and it won't always be good, but this kid has a solid foundation for dealing with whatever crosses his path with fortitude, grace and wit. Bon voyage, young man.

Ladybug Day

Ladybugs bring good luck and carry our wishes out into the world to be fulfilled. Or so the story goes. Maybe it's because they're attractive and eat plant-destroying aphids that they're such a popular, fabled insect. This past summer I saw only one ladybug the entire season. Only one! And believe me, I was looking. I always enjoy their appearance and confess to making wishes on them whenever I see them. (More magical thinking. But hey, that's me.) When summer came and went and I'd only spotted one ladybug, I thought there must have been some blight on these benign bugs. Fortunately, I was wrong.
Yesterday, as I sat right here at my computer, I began to fret about the usual things I fret about, followed by the usual prayers and wishes to make everything right. Just as I was finding the perfect words for a brand new wish, I happened to glance over at my study window, which overlooks our back garden, and saw several ladybugs clustered on the window pane. More ladybugs kept arriving as I watched. Suddenly I saw more of them on my window pane then I see in an average summer! It was a mild, Indian summer day, and maybe they were gathering together to nest for their winter hibernation. Or maybe they had all come out of early hibernation because of the sudden warm weather. Whatever the reason, there were ladybugs galore.
Being prone as I am to seeing signs in almost every mundane little event that comes my way, the timing of their appearance lifted my spirits, of course. I took their timely arrival to mean that my wish would be granted. As if that were not enough to satisfy me, I jumped up and grabbed my tarot/totem cards. (It's a tarot deck with a picture of a different animal totem on each card.) I wanted to know if my just-wished wish would come true. (I know, I know. How many wish-granting signs and portents does one need?) Nonetheless, I was feeling connected to whatever was going on around me, and pulled a card. It was the 9 of cups, traditionally known as the wish card, and the creature depicted on the card was the ladybug. The words inscribed at the bottom stated "wish fulfilled." Nice, eh?
A little while later I went for a walk in my lovely, leafy neighbourhood. I was surrounded by red and yellow everywhere, and not just because of the turning leaves. Dozens of ladybugs flew all around and crawled over tree trunks and city walls. I'd seen hundreds of them by the time I finished my perambulations a couple of hours later. Even without my propensities for wishful thinking, the experience was a memorable one. It was something I don't see everyday.
A few hours later, with the delightful ladybug episode fresh in my mind, I met a friend for dinner. As she spoke of her recent travels, and places she's planning to go next, I kept remembering the not-so-ordinary day I'd had right in my own backyard. I haven't been anywhere for quite a while, and unless there's an unforeseen twist of fate coming my way, I won't be going anywhere very soon, either. I could easily have fallen into longing and dissatisfaction if I hadn't just had my ladybug day.
Well, as I sit at my computer a scant 24 hours later, I can see the ladybugs have gone. But my good mood hasn't. Of course I don't really know if my wish will come to pass. Only time will tell. In the meantime, I feel more light of heart than if the ladybugs had never made an appearance. And yes, I can just see magically-challenged people roll their eyes at my ostensibly naive and childish survival mechanisms. So it is with as much good humour as I can muster - and right now that's a fair bit - that I offer all the nay-sayers of this world a big, fat, juicy raspberry. Yum.
- G. P.

A Certain Spin on Words

Sharing my thoughts in writing with strangers is not new to me, but still strikes me as a little odd. Nonetheless, I've grown very fond of this little web of mine. In the past week I've spent more time telling whomever happens to read my words about myself, specifically my on-going "talk less, listen more" experiment. Maybe the fact that I'm talking less these days is why I'm spending more time expressing myself here. I'm also pretty sure there aren't any real "strangers" who are reading this. I suspect only a couple of friends who know about this web might stop by every once in a while.
In fact, "blogging" as it's called (a word I will never use again because I think it's so ugly) has always puzzled me. Why would anyone think that the minutiae of their life is so fascinating to complete strangers? Yet, here I am, doing exactly that. I've pondered this notion a lot lately, and have come to realize it's because I'm an actress, writer and storyteller. I want, and need, to express myself.
I still write in my journal almost daily. I love holding a good pen in my hand and feeling it roll smoothly over paper. I write my deepest, most personal thoughts in my journal. But they are not meant for anyone else; they are not meant to be shared. On the other hand, I have this lovely web of mine to communicate ideas and stories I want to tell.
I also know that my web is one of literally hundreds of thousands out there, and that only a handful of people know about it, and even fewer actually pay me a visit. But I write here nonetheless. The possibility that someone out there, someone I've never met and probably never will, can read my words and follow my thoughts pleases me. It validates me as an artist. I also know that most of my friends and family, people I love and who love me, do not visit me here. I understand that. They are busy, vibrant people with rich, full lives. My little "hobby" (another word I dislike, but there it is) is intended to entertain me, not them. Fair enough. But the artist in me, the person who needs an outlet for self-expression, also needs to be heard.
I'm fully aware that the time I spend here may be no different, i.e. in terms of being heard, than writing in my journal. But there is one crucial difference. If someone were to read my journal (goddess forbid!), they would be exposed to parts of me that are not particularly attractive. This web of mine, however, is meant to express only the best of me, the part of me I don't mind revealing to the rest of the world. In fact, I find it very odd that a perfect stranger might come to know the best of me - but certainly not all of it - when some of my nearest and dearest aren't abreast with what preoccupies me, or lifts me up and out of the so-called ordinary, day-to-day life they see me living. How weird is that?
I also know there are at least a few friends who do visit me here, and I want to thank them publicly. So thank you Rebekah, Cheryl, Barbara and Susan G. Your interest in my web, my stories, and me, touches me deeply. Your expression of friendship and respect for me, and who I am, makes the time I spend here worth it. And don't forget, my dears, and anyone else who may be an unknown member of my legion of followers, what goes around, comes around. Attention is always rewarded with information. And knowledge is power. I wish you well, as I do all people of good will.
- G. P.

Child's Play & Bird Brains

There was an old owl who lived in an oak.
And the more he listened, the less he spoke.
The less he spoke, the more he heard.
Why can't we be like that wise old bird?
I happened to open a book of nursery rhymes at the bookstore where I work on the first day of my "speak no evil" experiment. (See previous entry.) The above nursery rhyme was the one that turned up. Upon arriving at work, I had completely forgotten about my vow, and then a bit of child's verse reminded me of my mission. I've made it my mantra ever since. This rhyme used to be told to children as a reminder that they should be seen and not heard. (How Victorian!) But there is deep wisdom in those words that is useful to people of any age. When I consciously follow the advice in this seemingly innocuous children's rhyme, there tends to be less conflict, less discord.
I guess you can tell that my recent promise to myself still preoccupies me. In fact, it's a full-time fixation. In order to be successful, it has to be, because it requires constant awareness. I hope it's not complaining to say that I slip up every now and then. Sheesh. However, my recent rediscovery of this little gem has given me something to chant to myself when I'm inclined to say something that isn't constructive, upbeat, or at least neutral. So I often find myself walking around and muttering the little rhyme to myself, or suddenly blurting it out loud, much to the befuddlement of others. Sure, I end up looking like an odd bird, rather than a wise one, but I figure that's better than being objectionable.
I've also learned that by not saying anything that's negative or unkind, I'm talking less, of course, and more importantly, listening more. So how do I know when to speak? There is a Native North American saying that answers that nicely. Speak only if you can improve upon the silence.
- G. P.

ReWired

I'm testing myself today. I've made a vow to speak only good and kind words, to myself as much as others. And to make three strangers smile. This may not sound like much, but it means that I can't complain about anything at all in any way for the entire day. It's not as easy as it sounds. Go ahead, try it yourself. Make an effort to go a whole day without a single word of complaint, without uttering anything that smacks of negativity.
Anyway, that's what I'm planning on doing today. I'm up for the challenge, and shall report back here when my day is done. Since I'm working at my place of employment, a bookstore, I'll be meeting strangers and working with friends and colleagues. It will require constant awareness of my every thought, word and deed. A worthy plan, I think. So we shall see what we shall see ...

the next morning ...

Well, it's 24 hours since I made a vow to go an entire day without complaint or negativity, and I am pleased to report that my mission was accomplished. It required constant vigilance and awareness, and although a couple of times I slipped into a judgemental mode at the bookstore when I witnessed unseemly behaviour from spoiled customers or miserable colleagues, I refrained from expressing myself. Of course, I'm not supposed to react aggressively to rude patrons, but I didn't complain about them to fellow workers afterwards. And believe me, I really wanted to.

Being mindful of staying positive and non-judgemental got easier as the day progressed. I guess my brain is already getting used to a new way of functioning. I'd catch myself reacting habitually to certain sticky situations, and then make a concerted effort to change my thoughts. I must have started to set up a whole new neural network. Awesome. By the end of the day I was less tired than usual, and felt more kindly disposed towards the world in general. It's nice to see karma working so quickly.

As Anne of Green Gables would say, "Today is a brand new day, with no mistakes in it." So I'm determined to keep up this little experiment for today as well. I want to finish installing this new program of mine. If I'm as successful as I was yesterday, then I'll go for it again tomorrow. And then I'll do it again and then again, until one day, even if I'm surrounded by disagreeable people or circumstances, I won't have to make such a conscious effort to be a peaceful and pleasant person.

- G. P.

Try to remember ...

September has come and gone and I didn't add a single yarn to my little web the entire month. I'm not sure why. I think I was waiting for a magical moment I felt worthy of sharing. Well, I guess I really am a fool. The whole point of this web is to help myself, and whomever else passes this way, to realize how precious and special each and every moment is, even the bad ones. Because let's face it, this life is all we have right now. Well, I've learned my lesson, so I'll try not to worry about how remarkable my life should be before I consider it noteworthy. With that in mind, here's a brief summary of some of the ordinary miracles I observed last month ...
A hummingbird visited my backyard. That's two hummingbirds I've seen in the city this past summer - the first two I've ever seen in the many years I've lived here. I spotted both birds within a few months of marking the tenth anniversary of my mother's passing by getting a hummingbird tattoo on my ankle. (See previous entry.)
I walked, without an umbrella, face up, in the gentle, late-summer rain. During that same walk a vivid red dragonfly landed on my arm to rest for a while. On yet another walk through our glorious neighbourhood park I spied a great blue heron, poised and motionless in the pond, within feet of the shoreline where I stood. And just a few feet from the heron a cormorant was perched on a wooden post, its wings spread wide, in full sun-worshipping mode.
I also met with a dear childhood friend whom I hadn't seen in eight years. I had called her up on whim, no doubt brought about by a powerful full moon that day, to wish her a happy birthday. It was good to hear her voice when she returned my call a couple of days later, and we caught up on our lives shortly afterwards when we met for lunch. Meeting with her after so long reminded me that life and learning goes on, with all its joy and sadness, fortune and tragedy. It will go on, even if we choose to not fully engage in it. And sometimes, tragically, it forces us to be fully engaged in the most difficult of ways. Grief is a price we sometimes pay for deep love. But Susan, my beautiful and enduring friend, is wiser and lovelier than ever, and has come back from great loss to live more fully and deeply than ever. It was a rich and rewarding experience just to sit with her.
I've learned that life doesn't have to smack me in the face with beauty, joy, misfortune or loss to make me appreciate all the rest of the small and seemingly inconsequential moments. I'm grateful for all of them. I'm an actress and a storyteller, and this much I know for sure - life is not a dress rehearsal.
- G. P.

Ma

Yesterday I paid a visit to my personal "bodhi tree" in our neighbourhood park. I don't pretend that I'll suddenly become enlightened if I sit there often or long enough, but it's a favourite place of mine to just sit and ponder life, nature, the Universe, or nothing at all. There's a labyrinth nearby where I can watch the occasional visitor slowly walk the path to the centre and back out again. All in all, my little corner of the park is a good place to be still for a while.

Anyway, as I sat under my tree, my thoughts wandered to my late mother, who died ten years ago on a blue moon. I often think about her when I'm surrounded by green and growing things, because she was an avid gardener. The front deck at the family cottage was always festooned with a riot of colourful, trailing petunias. Since the bright colours attracted hummingbirds, Ma kept a feeder of sugar-water out for them, just feet away from where we sat. Whenever I see a hummingbird now, I'm always reminded of my mother.

So there I was, wistfully thinking of my mother, when, for no apparent reason, I turned my head to look behind me, and saw a ruby-throated hummingbird hovering in and amongst a bunch of black-eyed Susans. I saw it only moments before it darted away, no doubt seeking better nectar. It's the first time ever that I've seen a hummingbird in the park, but not the first time Ma has "appeared" to me when I've been thinking about her. I don't know for certain why I looked behind me at that moment, but I've a pretty good idea. Suffice it to say, I'm glad I did. Thanks, Ma.

- G.P.

Tree of Heaven

There is a tree of heaven in our neighbours' back yard that dominates the view of the western horizon from our back garden. It is magnificent, and makes a striking silhouette against the indigo evening sky. This past weekend my part of the world had one of the most spectacular, destructive thunderstorms in years, and our beautiful tree was a victim of its force. It was struck by lightning and split in half. So now one of the loveliest features of our view will have to be taken down for obvious safety reasons. My housemate witnessed the lightning strike. The sound of the lightning cracking open the tree was as terrifying as it was deafening. A fire started, but was quickly extinguished by the torrential downpour.
My sister, who happens to be a church minister (yes, it's true! it takes all kinds of people to make up even a small family unit!), was the person who identified the tree for me one day last month as we sat on the back patio. The irony of learning the name of the tree from a person of religious persuasion amused me very much. And then fire from heaven paid a violent visit to my beloved tree from heaven. More irony, to be sure. It was also my multi-talented minister sister and former professional gardener who pointed out to me that a lovely birch on the property immediately behind the tree of heaven was, as she put it, "on its way out." The birch is my favourite tree, and was referred to as "the lady of the woods" by the ancient Celts. Last week, as I was working at my computer, I heard the sound of a chainsaw very nearby, but thought nothing of it until yesterday when I was gazing dolefully upon the shattered tree of heaven, and realized the birch that used to stand behind it was gone. Aye me.
I've now learned that the tree of heaven was introduced to North America from China, and is considered by some to be rather invasive, wreaking havoc in urban settings with its damage to sidewalks and building foundations. The location of our tree rendered it relatively harmless, until lightning struck. All I saw was its beauty, and how it was so tall that it truly did seem to reach up to heaven. It is the same tough, enduring tree that author Betty Smith writes about in her classic coming-of-age novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
I promised myself that when I started up this little web of mine, all the yarns I weave into it would be upbeat and optimistic. Well, I can't find much to be happy about in this little story of mine, but I want to commemorate a grand and gracious tree which has given me many heavenly moments of pleasure in the first happy months in my new home. Good bye, dear tree. I shall miss you.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Summer Sounds

The thrumming buzz of the cicada heralds the arrival of high summer for me - that time of year associated with lazy, hazy days spent sitting on a deck and sipping a beer. Well, it's early August, and goddess knows I've spent many happy hours with friends on the patio drinking all sorts of inebriants, but they have not been accompanied by cicada song. In my part of the world the summer has been wet and cool - not so much that I haven't been able to enjoy the aforementioned pleasures, but enough to retard the parade of summer blossoms. Everything is late this year, including the sweet sounds of the cicadas.
I always make note of the "firsts" of each season: the first robin in spring, the first butterfly, the first dreaded, albeit beautiful, red-gold leaf (I guess you can tell what seasons I prefer), and of course, the first buzz of the cicadas, signifying the dog-days of summer. I usually hear the cicadas by the end of June or early July. After seventeen years underground, the nymph cicadas rise up out of the earth, then climb trees to finally emerge from their membranes as fully formed adults. I was beginning to despair that this year's generation of cicadas wouldn't complete their life cycle. What would happen if it was just too cold and damp for the cicadas to rise and shine? This is a question of biology I'm not equipped to answer. Fortunately, I needn't have worried.
Yesterday, which happened to be a warm and glorious summer day, I went for a picnic in the park with my good friend, Doe. I had just finished voicing my concerns to her about the delayed song of the cicadas, when lo and behold, the joyous buzz of summer landed on our ears! We looked at each other and laughed with glee. It was like hearing an old, familiar song. We revelled in the perfect synchronicity of the moment. How could the day go wrong after that? And it didn't. It was the perfect beginning to a perfect day.
Seventeen isn't just a very good year for old-fashioned crooners, it's a good one for cicadas, too. They crawl out of the dark earth into the light of day, and all those soft summer nights, serenading us with song that's a reminder to celebrate summer, and life itself. Blessed be.
- G. P.

Follow Your Bliss

I was waiting for a subway train when I heard a happy voice call out my name. I turned to see Susan, a committed and enthusiastic member of Cantores Celestes, the choir I used to sing with. (See July 6th entry.) We caught up briefly on each others' news, and by the time the train arrived we were deeply engaged in more serious conversation. We entered the car together, still talking.
I told my former fellow chorister about my reasons for leaving the choir. It was a hard decision for me to make, but I needed to devote more time to developing my career as a writer and actor. And then Susan told me about her younger sister, who had had a successful career as a doctor when she decided to give it up and follow her life-long dream of being an actress. Now she's putting herself out there and busy writing and performing for fringe festivals and local theatres.
I've known a number of actors, unable to cope with the rigours and insecurities of living life on the edge - working now and then, hustling, auditioning, and doing odd jobs between gigs - who have given it all up and gone back to school to study law, and yes, even medicine. But I've never met someone who did it the other way around - going from a well-paid profession to the vagaries and uncertainties of a life as an actor, or an artist in any discipline, for that matter. Sure, there are established professionals who are happy to pursue their artistic interests as hobbies, but giving up a good living for a life in the arts? Wow! Now that's following your bliss.
I couldn't help admiring this woman's courage and commitment. I found it truly inspiring, and it emboldened me to persevere. Okay, sure, Susan's sister has a great job to fall back on, and does so between gigs, whereas most actors' "straight" jobs offer them only minimum wage, myself included. But Susan's sister is a committed artist who has obviously worked and studied hard to get where she is. She's truly earned all the breaks she can get. (Susan is also an accomplished woman - she has a law degree and teaches law at university. Her creative outlet is singing in the choir.)
Fulfilling our potential and achieving our goals can take our entire lives. Hearing Susan's story about her sister made me wonder how many people live what Thoreau refers to as a life of quiet desperation - a life of longing and yearning. Many people don't even know what it is they really want - what fires them up and gets them going. The people who know what they want out of life are truly blessed, and those who actually get out there and pursue it deserve as much luck as fate can dispense.
I'm glad I bumped into Susan and got a chance to hear her sister's story. It gives me hope. So I'd like to say to her, and indeed, to anyone who is brave enough to walk the often bumpy, difficult path to living your dreams - break a leg!
- G.P.

Good Vibes

I sang in a women's choir for 14 years. My time with the choir was filled with music (of course!), camaraderie, study, practise, joy and angst. Each season culminated in a concert for an audience of 600 people. Standing on stage, shoulder to shoulder with almost 50 women, our voices all raised in song, I could feel a powerful connection with the audience and each other, even though our eyes were on the director.
The connection between the performers and the audience is palpable. When everything is just right - notes, pitch, volume, expression, focus and intention, the audience is engaged on a deeper level than just listening. A performing artist in any discipline can tell if that connection has been made long before the audience responds with applause. In order to achieve that ideal performance level, ensemble performers must first connect with each other. For musicians, it is on a physically quantifiable, vibrational level. When I sang with my fellow choristers, the perfect blend our director always sought would be achieved when we vibrated in perfect harmony, even if we were singing in unison.
Harmony is defined as a state of perfect balance and proportion. It is a term applied to music, mathematics and mood. When something is harmonious, it is either beautiful or peaceful, or both. (I make the distinction because music like Beethoven's Ode to Joy is certainly beautiful, although not necessarily "peaceful" in the strictest sense of the word.) When the heavenly bodies of the sun, moon, planets and stars were erroneously thought to orbit the earth in perfect concentric circles, the movement of these celestial bodies was believed to create the "music of the spheres." As fate would have it, the choir I sang with is called Cantores Celestes, which is Latin for "celestial singers." How perfect. In order to create music that sends one's spirits soaring, there must be complete accord amongst the singers themselves, at least musically. I met many beautiful, gifted and special women during my time with Cantores Celestes. A number of them have become dear friends I will cherish all my life. In different circumstances - in an office, for example - I doubt very much I would have made the same intense connection with some of these women, because we are so unlike each other. It was music that brought us together. Despite differences in outlook and beliefs, when we sang together, i.e. vibrated together, we were connecting on a quantum level. Now that's really deep, both physically and metaphysically.
Everyone and everything in the universe vibrates. The human body is a living, breathing, vibrating instrument. When we choose to raise our voices in song rather than anger, we become instruments of peace. That is why music is known as the international language. Sir John Tavener, choral composer and English mystic, says that "if the world is to be saved, it will be saved by beauty." Amen to that.
- G.P.

The Child and the Fan

A small child sat with her father across from me on the subway train. She appeared to be about three years old. I had just rushed onto the train and was hot and flustered. Although I was a harried sight as I fumbled through my pack sack for the book I was reading, the little girl paid me no heed. No doubt she regarded me as just another old lady of no consequence. Boring for sure.

I had difficulty finding the book in my overloaded bag, which made me feel more over-heated and muddled than I already was. To cool myself off I pulled out my Chinese fan. I always carry one with me for just such occasions. I snapped it open and began to fan myself. It's a pretty fan, made of white silk and decorated with pale pink and purple flowers. An Asian woman sitting adjacent to me smiled knowingly. I smiled back. But it was the reaction of the little girl that pleased me more. Not only did she smile, she was positively enthralled. She looked at me as if I were someone who had given her a special gift. A fan was something she had probably only seen in pictures, or heard about in fairy tales. But here was a real, live lady using a real fan in the most prosaic of situations. I admit that I continued to fan myself because I was enjoying her happy attention. A few station stops later her father took her by the hand and led her out of the car. She strained to catch a last glimpse of me as they walked away.

I use a fan frequently for practical reasons, but I had a brief exchange with a small child who found it magical. The entire incident lasted only a few minutes, but the pleasure I felt from unintentionally giving a child a few moments of enchantment lasted me the whole day.

- G.P.

Rainbow Magic

The sun was shining low on the western horizon, and there was a light sprinkle of rain after a heavy downpour. Conditions were perfect for a rainbow, so I poured myself a glass of wine and went out on the front porch, which faces east, and waited for the rainbow to appear. I was not disappointed. A few minutes later a complete, unbroken 180 degree rainbow arched across the eastern sky.
I was thrilled. I had been sipping my wine and muttering little prayers to myself that, should a rainbow appear, a certain wish I've had almost all my life would come true. I've wished that same wish, or a variation of it, many times under similar "if-this-or-that-happens-my-wish-will-come-true" circumstances. Well, guess what? After all these years, I'm still wishing it.
Yup. I'm a magical thinker. The term "magical thinker" sounds as if it should be a good thing, but it's almost always used in a dismissive, derogatory way. Flaky is a word I've heard often to describe those of us who indulge in such modes of thought. Intelligent, informed people do not. But there I was standing on my front porch waiting for a rainbow, and my dreams to come true.
So why was I so thrilled if I've wasted so many precious moments in wishful thinking? Firstly, because a rainbow is a beautiful natural phenomenon that doesn't happen every day. That's why I ran across the street, glass of wine in hand, exhorting passers-by to look upward and behold a wondrous thing. Most of them were thankful I pointed it out, but there were also a couple of people who looked up very briefly, responded with a banal "uh huh" or "oh yeah," and then continued on their mindless way. As for me, I gazed at that rainbow until it disappeared.
I can't see a rainbow without being inspired. Apart from its beauty, it is surely one of the most storied of natural wonders. It is the return of light after a stormy night, a place where you'll find a pot of gold, a bridge between heaven and earth, the royal road of Iris the Greek goddess, the necklace called Brisingamen of Freya the Norse goddess, and the heavenly sign that told Noah the flood was over at last.
So now we know that a rainbow is created by the refraction of light through the prism of multiple raindrops into the seven colours of the spectrum. This fact does not make seeing a rainbow any less magical for me. Indeed, it only enhances my appreciation and understanding of it. Upon first sight of a multi-coloured archway across the sky, my eyes still widen, and a smile still crosses my face before I have time to think at all, magically or otherwise. I'm always left in awe.
Sure, I've been disappointed many times by obsessively associating every natural event to some aspect of my life. But for a few moments I'm spending time in another world - a world of natural wonder, myth and legend. I have no problem with that. And thank goddess for the way the mind filters memories. The disappointments are almost always forgotten, but the joyful recollection of the rainbow remains.
As for the rainbow that prompted these notes, I will always recall the place and the time, because it was significant - to me. I'm finally feeling truly at home in my new digs, and have much to look forward to. The future looks bright, and I'm grateful that the Universe agrees. For now, at least, all the pieces seem to fit, and everything's coming together. If noticing that my inner and outer worlds intersect so perfectly for a brief moment in time makes me a magical thinker, well then, so be it.
- G.P.

Night Life

Sleep is one of my favourite pastimes, although it's probably better to describe my pleasure as falling asleep. I love those moments just before I drift into unconsciousness, when I am neither awake nor asleep. After a hard day of work or play, and if I'm not worried or upset about anything, I look forward to retiring to my bed, so that I can experience that delicious feeling of floating between the realms of wakefulness and slumber. While my body drains of its tensions, my mind wanders freely in the space in-between. Visions appear, even when my eyes are open and I'm staring at nothing in particular in the semi-darkness.

These visions are known as hypnogogic hallucinations, (from the Greek words hypnos for "sleep," and agogeus, meaning "guide.") The hallucinations experienced when one transits from sleeping to waking are called hypnopompic. I've experienced both these transitory states for as long as I can remember. I'm in good company. William Blake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Edgar Allen Poe, Lewis Carroll and Carl Jung are just a few individuals who explored this state and used it as a source of inspiration for their writing. (I wish I could cite a famous female artist, but my research hasn't turned any up!)

The semi-conscious state of falling asleep is the only time I really enjoy a "sinking" feeling, both physically and mentally. I swear I can feel my bedclothes fold around me, as if protecting me while I fall deeper into sleep. These ideal conditions for fabulous sleeping don't always happen, because I am subject to stresses and worries just like everyone else, but whenever I hit the sack feeling pleasantly drowsy, I look forward to the safest, most natural trip down the rabbit hole I can imagine. Strange, inexplicable, and beautiful images float before my eyes. Sometimes I forget that I'm hallucinating, and will sit up in bed and try to grab the illusive visions before me, especially if they appear to be at least a little "normal," such as a bird that has flown through a window and flutters about the room. However, seeing dozens of tiny spiders crawling across my pillow in the wee hours of the morning can be a little alarming, to say the least. Those sort of visions have a way of bringing me back to full consciousness very quickly. So I collect myself for a moment, shake off the cobwebs, and lie back down for another late-night show.

These in-between states are just a prelude for what's to come. The night is still ahead of me, and with it, dreamtime. But that's a topic for another time. Until then, I wish you sound and restful sleep, and a magical journey arriving there.

-G.P.

Excerpt 1 from my upcoming picture book,
The Lady in The Woods

It was in the early spring, on a day full of hope and promise. Feeling courageous and carefree, I had stepped off the well-worn path that wound its way through the woods, and found myself in a whole new world.

Oh, but it was grand to go where I had never ventured before! The earth was moist and pungent with new life just waiting to be born. A profound longing drove me onward, though I knew not where.

Eventually I came upon a bright clearing, deep in the heart of the woods. In the middle of the meadow was a charming stone cottage that seemed to glow with a light all its own. The bushes and flowers that surrounded the little house were in full bloom, weeks ahead of the nearby woods.

Book illustration, design + layout: Shauna Rae — www.shaunarae.ca

“The Lady in The Woods”
Book illustration, design + layout: Shauna Rae — www.shaunarae.ca

Excerpt 2 from my upcoming picture book,
The Lady in The Woods

September’s arrival meant the beginning of a new school year and no more daily visits to the Lady in the woods. Fortunately, my newfound enthusiasm for learning eased the sorrow of our separation.

After I had settled into the new routine at school, I paid another visit to Una. I was so excited about seeing her again that I dashed through the forest, barely taking notice of the fiery autumn splendour all around me.

My first glimpse of Una saddened me instantly. An old woman I barely recognized greeted me. She had aged not just by weeks or months, but many years. Her hair had turned gray, and her face was etched with fine lines. It was only when I looked into her dazzling, multicoloured eyes that I knew for certain it was Una.

She listened attentively as I told her about life at school. It wasn't long before I forgot how much she had aged. I felt as if I had known her all my life.

“The Lady in The Woods”
Book illustration, design + layout: Shauna Rae — www.shaunarae.ca

A Gossamer Web

Greetings everyone!

Welcome to my web. My name is Gossamer Penwyche and this is my forum for discussing things that matter to me, and making connections with people who feel the same way. If you respect and revere our beautiful Earth, are in awe of the magnificent Universe, seek out magic in the mundane and poetry in the seemingly prosaic, then this is a web you won’t mind being caught up in for a while.

I’ve written a couple of books, with another one on the way, and one glance at my web will tell you what you need to know about my interests and sensibilities. Just know that nothing I believe belies any physical laws of nature. But some of what I have faith in isn’t scientifically quantifiable – yet. Ah, the pleasures of pondering the unknown!

This web of mine is about what I know, and would like to know. I won’t always have answers, but maybe you’ll enjoy some of my questions.

So please, smile as you browse my little web. It’s supposed to be fun.

Blessed be.

– GP

Illustration: Shauna Rae — www.shaunarae.ca