Lucky Me

People who travel are among the most fortunate people on the planet.  Many of them are also the most spoiled and arrogant.  I've written about this a couple of times on this little web of mine, and I feel like doing it again, so here goes...

Travel expands the mind.  But I know too many people for whom it only expands the ego.  It gives them an opportunity to talk about themselves and recite facts and figures of the places they've been and the things they've done that are supposed to make then more interesting people.  Well bully for them. 
I find people talking about the places they've been and the things they've seen really boring.  Names and numbers are a real snore. I prefer to hear about what people think and feel, and what they've observed and learned from their experiences.  If that means telling a tale of something that happened in an exotic location, then by all means do so.  It gives context and substance to a story.  But place and people name-dropping is not storytelling.  Travel should make a person more modest, not pretentious.
There's a journal being sold at the store where I work which declares on the cover that "the world is a like a big book, and those who do not travel read only one page."  How arrogant.  How offensive.  The reason most people don't travel is because their financial and personal circumstances don't allow it.  Sure, there are a few people who can afford it and choose not to, but they're a tiny minority compared to the billions of folks who grow up in scarcity and want, and for whom travel is no more than the stuff of dreams.
Being exposed to the wonder, beauty and diversity of the world is a truly humbling experience.  Relative to All That Is, we seem small and insignificant.  And yet we are still very much a part of all Creation.  We are literally stardust.  Everything and everyone is derived from the same source when time began.  We are in the Universe and the Universe is in us.  We are miracles, each and every one of us.

Travel should open the mind, not clutter it.  Seeing more of this beautiful world ought to make a person broad-minded, spacious, and clear - not full of themselves.  Being rapt is a humbling, beautiful feeling.  A truly humble person recognises who and what they are in the grand scheme of things, and has no problem with the fact that not everything is about them all the time. 
Being able to travel is a gift, and a privilege many people in prosperous countries don't seem to appreciate.  People should  return from their travels feeling grateful and overwhelmed with the grandeur and beauty that is this beautiful earth we share, rather than waiting for a chance to aggrandise themselves.
I try to remember to say grace every time I sit down to eat.  Most of the time I forget, but not when I travel.  I bow my head in humility and gratitude for a brief moment, feeling grateful to be sharing in Nature's bounty.  I feel quiet joy in simply breathing.  And the beauty of that simple act is that I can do it anywhere.  May I never lose sight of the fact that I'm a part of the greatest miracle of all - Life.
- G. P.

In the Zone

Moving out of one's comfort zone is supposed to be a good thing.  It's about challenging yourself.  Doing something you've never done before.  Learning something new.  Although I can't say that every day I do something I've never done before or learn something new, I feel as if I get out of my comfort zone just getting out of bed in the morning.  And I do that every day.

That's right, almost every single morning I struggle to leave my bed.  It's not because I don't want to face the day ahead, but because I feel so safe and comfortable between the sheets.  I like it there. 
It hasn't always been that way.  I've had long periods of time when I experience nightmares and fitful sleep.  But not lately.  Nowadays, for a couple of hours before I rise I enjoy deep sleep or pleasant moments of that blissful state between waking and slumber.  It feels wonderful.  The strange thing is, I used to feel exactly the same reluctance to get out of bed when I was mired in depression.  Go figure.
Maybe I'm having trouble getting out of bed because it's just plain easier to stay there and do nothing.  But I'm honestly not that lazy or irresponsible.  Honest I'm not.  Or maybe it's some residual stuff from years of being afraid to face the cold, cruel world out there.  But I know better than that now.  It's simply that I just really, really like lingering in bed and often wish I could stay there all day.
One thing's for sure, though - I have to reframe my thinking.  Even at the best of times, I consider life to be hard.  And I'm in good company, because Buddha himself thought so too, and ended up creating an entire religion to deal with it.  Although I'm not about to found a new faith to ease the trials and tribulations of this mortal coil, I've found another way to help me get out of bed every day.
I'm a writer, and words are a writer's main tool.  So I've decided to reword my beliefs about being human.  Instead of thinking of life as hard, I now consider it a challenge.  I don't mind a good challenge every now and then, especially if it's rewarding; and surely nothing is more rewarding than rising up to live a good life.
I still cherish those precious minutes between waking and pulling myself out of bed as much as ever. They remind me of being in the womb or soaking in a warm bath.  But I know I can't stay there forever - at least not on this plane of existence.  Maybe those still, peaceful moments are some of the rewards for owning up to the challenges of leaving my comfort zone.  I guess I must be doing something right when I'm out there facing life head on, because it feels so good when I'm not doing anything but feeling good.
- G.P.

Mission Accomplished

I woke up feeling cranky today, and I don't know why.  Maybe it's the inhumanely hot, humid weather we've been having in these here parts.  Or maybe not.  But writing slows me down and forces me to think clearly, especially when I know others will be reading what I've written.  So here I am.
As soon as I made the decision to write this little blurb, a blue jay began to cry in that steely, high-pitched, slightly grating way they have.  Despite the sharp edge of its call, I find the sound comforting, because it reminds me of the best of my childhood - growing up and playing in gentle, temperate woodlands.  The blue jay outside my window has persisted in calling to me for several minutes, perhaps advising me that expressing myself right now is a good idea.  That's one of the meanings for Blue Jay as spirit guide - communication.
In the few short minutes I've been typing out these words my surly mood has subsided.  I don't feel the need to complain anymore.  Another way to turn a bad mood around is to express gratitude.  Therefore I'd like to thank Saraswati, Hindu goddess of learning, the arts, and communication, as well as my feathered friend who's still cackling outside my window, for helping me return to a place of equanimity.
Just the fact that I can write at my desk and pause for a moment to look out my window at a lovely garden is even more reason to feel gratitude.  I do this almost every day, yet I still frequently dwell on what I lack.  I have enough, and as the ancient Chinese saying goes, enough is as good as a feast.
Enough said.
I feel better now.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Wanderer of the Night

Robin was a hero to me.  He was also one of the greatest theatre directors my home and native land has ever known.  Oh to hell with equivocation - he was the greatest.  And I adored him.

He passed away over a week ago and news of his death hit me very hard, even though I haven't seen him in almost twenty-eight years.  I'm surprised how deeply I feel his loss, because he was active in my life for a scant eight weeks so long ago.  But now that I reflect back on that time, I realise it was one of the most intense, transformative, and rewarding periods of my life.
He directed me in an epic play (it was a cast of thousands - okay - only 36, but for straight drama that's big), and literally hundreds of actors auditioned for him.  It was a hot ticket, and miraculously, I landed a leading role.  It was the pinnacle of my non-career.  Robin plucked me out of obscurity and depression for a short while to give me the deepest learning experience as an actor and artist I've ever had.  Before he directed, he had a successful career as a fine actor, with boyish good looks and charm to spare.  It was that same charm that made him a charismatic leader.  No wonder I was so thrilled to have been chosen by Robin. 
He took a risk hiring me, and liked to remind me of it.  "What director in their right mind would hire an unknown actress in a leading role?" he asked rhetorically and ever-so-dramatically one day while working with me in rehearsal.  His question was a comment more about himself than me.  He was a risk-taker, and loved to flout theatrical convention.
I craved his attention any way I got it, even when he hurt my feelings.  He sometimes played head games with his actors, and there were a few who despised him for it.  But most people idolised him, and I was one of them. 
I was one of his most avid acolytes, and he knew it.  He took advantage of it as well, sometimes to the point of being cruel.  There were a couple of occasions when he dug around in my open wounds and exposed the worst in me.  But he got what he was looking for - the best performance I was able to give.  And I loved him and worshipped him for it.  He deserved his huge, fanatical following, because all the outrageous things he did and said were out of his passion for theatre, and to serve the ultimate good of the play.
One of his ploys was to have every character on stage secretly lusting after somebody else, even when it was completely irrelevant to what the playwright had intended.  I observed that aloud one day in rehearsal.  "Very true," Robin replied, "that's why my plays are so exciting."  And he was right.  His productions crackled with electricity, as did the rehearsals. 
He was full of wit and charm, and had a real potty mouth too, which he used to good effect.  I can't remember the context, but once he referred to me as a Saskatchewan Slit.  Afterwards some of my cast mates asked me if I were from Saskatchewan.  (Just for the record, I'm not.)  Despite having the dubious distinction of being one of a few cast members upon whom he liked to perform emotional vivisection, rehearsals were always interesting, if not exciting, and frequently a lot of fun.  He was a theatrical wizard, and a genius in the true sense of the word - a tutelary spirit.
He arrived in my life not long after I had embraced paganism and the magical path of spiritual feminism, a.k.a. witchcraft.  Typical of someone with a new passion, I was overly enthusiastic about sharing my beliefs and opinions, which gave Robin more fodder to make fun of me.  I didn't mind one bit.  I was always seeking his attention because I wanted to be a part of the magic that came to him so naturally, and which he manifested in his brilliant shows. 
The eight short weeks I spent working with Robin were sprinkled with fairy dust.  I mean that (almost) literally, because even his name evoked magic.  Robin Goodfellow is another name for Puck, the famous fairy trickster of English folklore, who is also a character in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.  That bit of synchronicity did not escape my notice, and I revelled in it.  Names are a big thing in the practise of magic, and I put great stock in the fact that he bore the moniker of a magical, mischievous sprite.  Everything he said and did bore out his name.  Of course Robin probably didn't care about such things, even if he knew of them. 
He conjured his brand of magic on and for the stage, and did it better than anyone else I've ever known.  The theatre, just like the spirit world, is an in-between place, a world of make-believe and imagination.  It's where mere mortals known as actors become shape-shifters and live forever.  It's a place where magic abides.  And it's the world where Robin ruled.  Treading the boards of Robin's domain was to experience the magic, mischief and mayhem of the Otherworld, and for the less wary, the cruelty as well.  Robin had a wicked wit.  But such is the nature of the trickster and spirit guide.  I found it ironic that Robin made fun of my magical thinking when he was one of the most bewitching humans I've ever known.  He executed his stagecraft using the same methods of manipulating reality that wizards use in witchcraft.  And the result was nothing less than awe- inspiring.
When Robin hired me I thought it would kick-start a career I just couldn't get off the ground.  But alas and alack, I didn't fulfill the promise he saw in me.  His recent leave-taking reminds me yet again to finally lay to rest all my lamentations for a failed career.  His death is the most final and dramatic life-stage direction ever.
Another namesake of Robin's is the North American bird.  The red-breasted robin is a harbinger of spring, and represents renewal, resurrection and rebirth.  Although I grieve the loss of Robin, I celebrate the gift of renewed hope for a new phase in my life that his passing evokes.  I'm slowly but surely letting go of past dreams, and embracing a new passion and future with my recent certification as a yoga teacher.  Robin's magic still touches me after all these years, and always will.
The note I wrote to him on a communal card from the cast when the play ended rings even more true today.  Although a few cast members teased me for my over-the-top sentiments, I was so smitten I made no apologies.  Nor do I now.  So I shall end this remembrance of Robin with those same words...

You have hurt me and healed me,

strengthened and deepened me.

You are my god and I love you.

Blessed be.

- G. P.  

Feeling Fine

Some days I feel as fragile and fine as my name.  This is one of those days.  But spider webs are far stronger and more resilient than they look.  They literally "hang in there" during strong winds and rain, and sparkle with dewdrops that are far heavier than the delicate threads that hold them up.

I visited a seer for spiritual healing a few weeks ago.  I had barely sat down beside her when she told me I had crossed over from the fairy realm.  For a brief moment I wondered if what she said to me was the sort of stuff she said to everybody.  After all, her clients must surely be spiritual people, prone to belief in other worlds.  But the yoga teacher who recommended her to me assured me that's not what she says to everyone who sees her.  She speaks specifically and personally to whomever goes to her for healing. That's why I was blown away with her very first words.
Jarmila, the extraordinary healer I visited, saw right into me.  It doesn't matter that I'm not literally a changeling - a fairy child left in place of a human child during infancy - she was referring to the inner workings of my heart and soul.  She described the history of my inner life, and brought me back to my roots - my fairy roots.  Even now I feel a bit foolish and flaky saying that, but I can't deny that I've had a life-long obsession with fairies and otherworldly spirits.
Jarmila knew absolutely nothing about me when I first met her; not even my name.  Yet I felt totally transparent as I sat with her, though not the least bit exposed or vulnerable.  Despite her penetrating glimpse into my very being I felt completely safe.
At first I wasn't sure how my visit with this gifted seer healed me.  I was impressed by her prescience for sure, but didn't know how it could help me.  It took me several days to figure that part out.  Jarmila gave me permission to be myself.  Many years ago I made a vow that I would seek out beauty and magic wherever I may be, and if I'm in a place or situation that seems devoid of these things, I will create them.  It became a mantra of mine. Well, wouldn't you know, Jarmila told me that, too.  "You have magic," she said, "and you crave beauty."
Wow.  Her jaw-dropping insights pleased me.  It was great to hear that I have magic from the likes of Jarmila.  She's about as magical as they come.  But genuine healing happened because she acknowledged the real me, and valued my fears and insecurities as well as my strengths.  Everyone wants to know that their true self is worthy and good.
Jarmila is the second seer I've met who has helped me love myself just as I am.  The first one was Kusali Devi, the living goddess I met in Nepal.  My fears of being ordinary or being deemed flaky dissolved with both these shamans.  They reaffirmed my belief in magic and myself.

My desire to live a magical life will never die.  It's part of who I am.  But sometimes my faith wobbles. After all, I'm only human. (Or maybe I should say partly human!)  This morning doubt was creeping its way back into me, so I set out to stabilise myself by writing this blurb.  Writing forces me to think clearly; and now that I've remembered Kusali and Jarmila's words I feel comforted.  I know that the fragility I felt when I began writing these words was actually sensitivity to things unseen, or unrecognised.  That sort of sensitivity isn't always easy, and can sometimes hurt.  But it's another way to find beauty and magic.  The American pshychotherapist David Richo says it best:  Our wounds are often the openings to the best and most beautiful part of us.  
Blessed be.
- G.P.

May the Flake Be with You

I haven't been a complete flake on this little web of mine for a while.  Okay, I know, that's relative. But I'm talking really flaky. So I'm changing that now. Here I go again...
I'm pleased to announce that today I am 23,232 days old.  It's a numerical palindrome - it reads the same forwards as backwards. Cool, eh?  If that isn't reason enough to celebrate this most auspicious of days, I don't know what is.  So that's exactly what I'm doing. Celebrating.  Partying.  And here's how...

During my early morning ashtanga practice a long, bright beam of sunlight shone right across my mat, so that every time time I did upward dog during surya namaskar (salute to the sun) the sun was shining directly onto my face.  
What else could it be but a sign?  It meant that the Universe was helping me observe my "day in the sun." 
I continued the festivities when I got home, by eating the flakiest bit of pastry I could find at a local bakery.  It was a yummy, unhealthy breakfast, complemented with a strong cup of coffee.  What better way to begin the day than with yoga, fatty oil, sugar, and hot blast of caffeine?  It doesn't get better than that.  
But wait.  The day's just begun.  Who knows what eccentric little synchronicities await me? 
Time to go.  Gotta read my tarot. 
Goddess, but I do love this web of mine.
- G.P.

Surya Namaskar

Happy Summer Solstice!

and a blessed Father's Day, too.

- G. P.

Dream Catcher

I recently had a dream that changed the way I feel physically and emotionally. Perhaps calling it a dream isn't quite accurate.  It was more like a flash of a dream; a vivid image that appeared very suddenly in my sleep, and then disappeared just as quickly.
I dreamt I saw the interior of my injured left knee, where the femur and tibia meet.  It didn't look like an x-ray in fuzzy black and white.  This was a very realistic image of what my knee would look like if the skin and top layers of tissue had been cut away to reveal the bones, muscles, and ligaments in vibrant, real-life colour. The muscles were shades of blue and green, the bones white, and the blood vessels various tones of red.  As I looked at my knee something flipped, flapped, or popped ever so slightly.  I was aware that some sort of subtle realignment or adjustment had occurred.  And that's all there was to it.  The whole thing was over in a few memorable seconds.

I remember that I wasn't the least bit alarmed; I felt certain there was nothing to worry about.  It was almost as if the image were flashed unto the screen of my sleeping consciousness to give me important information. Afterwards I slept soundly for the rest of the night.  When I awoke the next morning I had completely forgotten about my dream.
I went to early morning yoga practice that day.  I felt unusually light of heart and I practised as if I'd never sustained an injury at all.  I moved through all the poses with more mobility than I've had in over six months since my injury.  When I came to the series of asanas (poses) that involve a lot of exterior rotation of the knees, I suddenly realised that I hadn't been favouring or nursing my knee at all.  In fact, I hadn't thought about my bum knee since the moment I awoke, and usually she's complaining all the time.  Her persistent whining always reminded me of a cranky two year old child, so eventually I named her Neela.  (Neela is Sanskrit for blue, which is how she's made me feel.)
Anyway, when I realised that Neela had been quiet all morning, and I could move her around with more ease than I'd experienced in over six months,  I suddenly remembered the dream-bite I'd had the night before.  I couldn't help thinking that there had to be a connection.  And I knew it wasn't my penchant for signs and attaching meaning to every little thing, because I'd completely forgotten about my dream until that very moment.  And what a moment it was.

I knew something extraordinary had occurred.  It was thrilling.  It was all I could do not to jump up and announce to my fellow practitioners  that Neela was feeling so well that I was able to sit cross-legged without any pain at all.  For months I'd been avoiding that position.  I especially wanted to call out to my my two yoga instructors, Svitlana and Christine, who have been watching me weep, wince, and wobble my way through early morning ashtanga for many weeks.  But I said nothing because I thought it might be a fluke, and that Neela would eventually return to her stubborn, recalcitrant self.  But that was almost two weeks ago.  And just yesterday I sat very briefly and ever so cautiously in the iconic lotus pose. Neela's far from completely healed, and I don't know if she'll ever be as flexible as she once was, but she doesn't make me feel like half-a-yogi anymore.
Until this ostensible bit of spontaneous healing happened, I was certain that Neela would require surgery, because her condition hadn't improved in the six months she was ailing.  In fact, at times she would flare up and get worse.  I was frustrated and frequently depressed, and I couldn't understand why Neela wasn't getting better, in spite of all my care and caution to keep her safe from further harm.  That's why my doctor finally ordered an MRI, which I'd had only four days before the night of my dream, and the subsequent quantum leap forward in healing.
When I got the results of my MRI, I was relieved to hear that surgery wasn't required.  And I'm also glad that my quick-fix-dream occurred before I got the results.  I was so certain I'd need surgery that being told I didn't would have made me worry that I was going to be stuck with Neela's obstinate ways for the rest of my life.
In the normal course of things, I figure Neela is just about where she should be after six months, especially with the slower rate of healing that happens with age.  But this wasn't a normal course.  Most of the the healing happened all at once.  When I got the results of my MRI, only two days after my mini-miracle, I told the doctor about my dream.  I asked  her what she thought.
     "Scientifically, I don't have an explanation," was her reply.  I liked what she said.  She acknowledged that she couldn't give me a scientific answer, but tacitly suggested that there might be a meta-scientific one. (Materialist scientists would no doubt be appalled at the term meta-scientific, which I think I just made up.)
I'm fairly certain that my deepening yoga practice is responsible for the glimpse I had into my knee.  Yoga works on the subtle body as much as on the physical one.  The subtle body is a series of energy channels within the body's nervous system that's accessed by the imagination, creative visualisation, yoga, and meditation. Physical or emotional injuries have a counterpart in the energy system, and can be treated at that level.  My "treatment," however, happened unconsciously in my sleep.
It was my wise friend Margaret who suggested that it happened when and how it did - facilitated by my yoga practise, of course - because I'd let go of some lingering emotional hurt or issue that no longer served me well.  After some serious thought I eventually realised it was my non-career as an actress that I'd finally released.  I've previously written on this little web of mine about how difficult it's been to completely surrender to my fate as a failed actor, and how my ever fading hopes simply refused to die.  But my passion for yoga and the many hours I've spent in my teacher training programme have given that derelict dream the final heave-ho. Abolishing negative energy has cleared space in my life to find a new path and make new plans.
Neela's months of resistance to healing weren't just because of a physical injury.  I was hanging on to old, worn-out patterns that blocked me spiritually and emotionally.  Ego and pride got in my way as much as a small rip in my meniscus.  True healing at the level of the subtle body happens when one recognises the connection of body, spirit and mind.  Yoga showed me that.  And it's not mere happenstance that I originally injured myself practising yoga.  Resistance caused the injury, and resistance prevented it from healing.
A siddhi is a paranormal, supernatural, magical power or accomplishment attained through spiritual practices such as meditation or yoga.  Numerous cases of advanced yogis performing siddhis like levitation or bi-location (appearing in two places at once) have been documented.  I don't claim that Neela's sudden improvement after a snapshot of a dream to be a bona fide siddhi, but I'm certain that whatever happened was because I practise yoga.  So I'm calling it a super-mini siddhi.  My mind was showing me that I can, and should, use my mental faculties to heal my body.  The last words I wrote in the first blurb about my injury were Yogi, heal thyself.  (see Feb. 2/15)  My dream must have been my unconscious mind reminding me to quit carping and just do it.

Occam's Razor is a theory attributed to William of Okham, a 14th Century logician and Franciscan friar who devised the principle that natural occurrences can be explained when all the causes that are not certain or reasonable have been eliminated, so that whatever is left must be the truth.  In other words, the simplest explanation is likely the most accurate. This scientific principle suits my purposes perfectly, because it validates my belief in magic, a.k.a. miracles, siddhis, etc.
I began practising yoga over five years ago because I wanted to develop my spirit and mind as much as my body.  I knew it could help me live a richer, more meaningful life, and that's exactly what it's done, and continues to do.  It heals me from both inside and out. And best of all, it keeps me on the path to Magic.
- G. P.

Spinster Love

Who do you love most in the world?  Someone asked me that yesterday.  What a question.  But I didn't have to think for too long, because I've given it some thought in the past.  So I said "Lulu." Who's Lulu? the querent asked.  "My cat," I replied.  
That's right.  The non-human being I love the most is my beloved kitty, and mainly because she needs me. It's good to feel needed.  And as far as I know she's the only being who does.  And because I love her, she trusts me.  She may not love me the way a human or a dog might, but her need and trust are enough for me.

"So who's your best friend?" my curious companion asked again.  I didn't have to think about that either, because it's another issue I've considered for many years.  
I don't have a "best" friend.  I don't like to put my friendships in a hierarchy, nor measure my affection for people in terms of more or less, deeply or not-so-much. Different friends and family members offer me different things in our relationship with each other.  I seek out their companionship when I need whatever it is they offer me best.  It could be good conversation, a shoulder to cry on, someone who listens, or someone to talk and just keep me company when I want to be quiet and still, but not alone.  As long as it's sincere, any kind or degree of love is good.  Some friends I see often, others rarely. But I don't consider one a "better" friend than another, and I am blessed with more than a few.
I once saw an episode of one of those wonderful BBC television series set in the Scottish Highlands, where two friends discussed the nature of love and companionship.  One of the characters, who happened to have second sight, spoke about how some people spread their love around more or less evenly, rather than showering it on select individuals.  I remember thinking I was one of those people.  The same character also went on to say that some people have their share of misfortune loaded on them in one or two devastating blows during their lives, while others have hardship or mishap sprinkled pretty much consistently throughout their lifetime.  I knew I was one of the latter people, which is also why I prefer to love the same way.  It's easier on the soul.  And for that I'm grateful as well.  Deeper, fiercer attachments open up a person to deeper pain and loss.  So when I answered that my little Lulu was my greatest fuzzy love, I knew I truly am a spinster.  So mote it be.
- G.P.

Mother Goddess of the World

Nepal changed my life.  I was there for one brief, magical, month two and a half years ago, and since then not a day has gone by when I haven't felt some reverberations from the time I spent there. Recently I've thought of little else since the first cataclysmic earthquake happened.  The many tears I've shed and the few dollars I've donated seem futile in the face of the massive suffering and pain caused by Mother Earth's righteous anger. 

So I write these few words to acknowledge the greatness of Nepal and its people.  And the land herself, where Chomolungma (Mount Everest) reigns supreme. The mighty Chomolungma still stands, solid and strong, after two devastating earthquakes and multiple aftershocks. Chomolungma, in the native language of the Sherpas, means Mother Goddess of the World.  She is most aptly named.
When I wrote the previous story about Mother's Day, Chomolungma and her people were very much on my mind.  She symbolises the greatness of Nepal, and the divinity of all Creation. She cannot be conquered. She cannot be destroyed. Her people may have been deeply, devastatingly shaken, but their spirit, like Chomolungma herself, will never be broken. 
Long live Nepal.
- G. P.

Love is Blue II

Magic is alive and my Goddess-Mother is afoot, or at least on-the-wing.  Mother's Day must be one of the most magical days of the year, because it honours the deepest and most abiding love I know - a mother's love.   My brilliant, beautiful cousin Laura, daughter of my late, great goddess-mother Gita Tante, sent the extended family another extraordinary picture of the bluebird of happiness.

I've written previously about this visitor to Laura's garden (Love is Blue, July 9/14), and about my certainty that it was a manifestation of Gita Tante.  I'm well aware that my magical thinking on this little web of mine must seem pretty far-fetched and flaky at times, even for me.  And I admit that sometimes a bit of doubt creeps into my world view, spoiling the mystery I long for.  But Laura's email this morning has finally eradicated the last vestiges of uncertainty for me. Just check out the picture of the stunning Indigo bunting that appeared at Laura's bird-feeder today of all days.  It also happens to be the first time since my earlier post that Laura has seen that bird.
If you haven't read it, or don't recall the story I told about Gita Tante and the bluebird of happiness, then this little blurb will mean nothing to you.  So by all means, catch yourself up and read the first chapter of this tale.  (See aforementioned date and title.)  And even if you don't, enjoy the gorgeous photograph Laura managed to not-so-accidentally capture.
Laura's email arrived while I was thinking about my own mother (Gita Tante's older sister), and when I had just finished sending Mother's Day wishes to my sister. Today is also my parents' 64th wedding anniversary, neither of whom are in this world anymore.  So yeah - mothers, daughters, sisters, and family were on my mind just as Laura's email came flying into my inbox.

For several days now I've been asking Ma to send me a sign that "everything will turn out alright" - I do that a lot - and boy oh boy I got it. Big time.  If my goddess-mother as the bluebird of happiness making an appearance on Mother's Day isn't the sign I asked for, then I don't know what is. (Ma and Gita Tante are obviously still organising family celebrations together.)  Thanks to a web of family ties that cross all worlds here and beyond, I've received a huge dose of happy magic just exactly when I needed and wanted it the most. Word sure gets around.  And the word is Love.
Blessed be to all mothers, and all children of mothers.
- G.P.

Spider Love

The first spider of the spring appeared in my bathroom today.  She looked so pale and fragile.  I worry she'll perish from lack of food, because she's the first and only bug of any kind I've seen this year. 

The spider is my main totem, and the designated totem for writers and storytellers. Like the spider, I spin and weave tales on the little web you're caught up in right now, and the larger tapestry of all the stories, big and small, that describe who and what I am.
Seeing that spider made me smile.  Her appearance bodes good things.  I wish her well.  And I wish you, dear reader, the same.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Clarion Call

It's truly spring again, even though it's a grey, rainy, blustery day.  Outside my study window a big blackbird has commandeered the birdfeeder, and is struggling to keep his balance on a perch far too small for him.  The wind's knocking over empty garbage cans and flipping umbrellas inside-out.  Oh yes, spring is here. 

Every year I hear people complain that we don't get spring in these here parts.  According to the people who make such claims - and there are a lot of them - the seasons change from winter right into summer, with no spring in-between.  And if there is a spring, it lasts a couple of weeks, or days.
Well, I have news for all you folks, what you see out there, from the vernal equinox right up until the summer solstice, is the season we call spring.  Sure, some of it may seem like winter for the first month following the equinox, and there are days, weeks even, which feel summery as early as mid-May.  But that's how spring comes to this part of the world, and always has.  It's not an even, upward arc of sunny days and warmer weather until the summer solstice.  It's up and down all the way to the end, just like life.  All life.
Who says spring is supposed to look like the images that show up when you google spring?  Spring is the most gradual and subtle of the four seasons.  Spring is the first sighting of a green shoot peeking up through last year's fallen leaves, and seeing that same shoot covered by a light dusting of snow the next day.  Spring is spying the first robin who's arrived a bit too early, but toughs out the lingering winter weather to feed on the worm-laden, wet earth of late April.  Spring is mud and puddles and heavy rains.  It's overflowing city drains and woodland riverbanks, and worms escaping flooded ground to crawl across slippery sidewalks.  It's the barely-there first buds on bushes and trees that only those folks who are looking can see.
Most of the time spring is a season that's not in your face.  It's a slow, sure process of growth and rebirth.  There are, of course, spectacular days of sunshine, comforting warmth, and fresh, fragrant foliage in a myriad of pastel colours.  But those are the peak days of spring.  Since when is a season supposed to be at its peak to have legitimately arrived?
Spring makes its appearance modestly.  Most people don't see it coming.  But spring does its sneaky, subtle thing right under our noses, until one day even the dullest and most unobservant of folk declare that spring is finally here, or arrived too late, or not happened at all because it's summer already. Up until then they complain about what a lousy spring we're having.  In the meantime, they walk by or right on top of tiny miracles growing beneath their feet.
Spring clears debris and decay and unearths natural treasures.  Life reborn and renewed.  And it's happening all the time.  To be a part of it all and enjoy life unfold you just have to stop for a moment, breathe, and be still.  That's how it works for me, anyway.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

small wonders

Passover - day 2
there's snow on the ground
    it's April
         Easter Sunday
the feeder's full 
     a feast for birds
sparrows mostly, oblivious to unkind weather
celebrating survival
every day a resurrection
- G.P.

Cool Fool

Happy April 1st!

April 1st isn't just April Fool's Day, it's a First Day - in this case the first day of a month - and first days signify beginnings.  So guess which Tarot card I pulled on this April Fool's Day?  The Fool!  No fooling!

The Fool is number 0 and denotes fresh starts and beginnings. That's not just cool, it's a sign! So call me a fool. I care not a jot!  Signs make me happy, and reaffirm my belief in Magick. 

But I can't say anything better on this first day of April than to quote from one of the greatest wordsmiths in any language ever.  

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.

- Shakespeare

- G.P.

Breath Control

Practising yoga is making me more sensitive, and I'm discovering that's not always a good thing, at least not in a feel-good kind of way.  My increasingly heightened sense of awareness sometimes really messes me up.
Yesterday I attended Yoga U. for my yoga teaching training course, and participated in a pranayama workshop (Sanskrit for control of breath or life force).  I've written numerous times on this little web of mine about my love of breathing, so I was looking forward to feeling calm, rejuvenated, and uplifted by the end of a three hour session of deep, sustained breathing and meditation.  But that's not the way it happened at all.  I was deeply affected, for sure, but not as I had hoped or expected to be.

The first half of the workshop was practising a series of poses to open up the body and create space for prana to do its thing.  There were a variety of poses in varying degrees of difficulty, and I felt fine with all of it.  I enjoyed feeling my body being cleared of tension and emotional blockage.  When we eventually came to the breathing and meditation, I hoped that I'd be able to settle into the simple, profound act of breathing.  But there was nothing simple about it.
In our final resting pose, which was lying on our backs for an extended period of time (it's hard for me to say just how long - one isn't watching the clock while doing breathing meditation), I began to feel aches and pains all over my body, including some very old, dormant injuries, as well as my bad knee, which is still on the mend.  In fact, my knee was throbbing, and I'd done nothing to aggravate it.
I lie in savasana, the final resting pose we'd assumed, almost daily, and it's always peaceful and pain-free.  Not so this time.  Although I'd managed to clear my mind of the typical big and small worries that make up ordinary consciousness, my body was taking on a load of energy that I couldn't dismiss or ignore.  It's hard to keep a clear mind when the body is yelling and screaming.
The heightened sensitivity I've developed since starting to practise yoga five years ago sometimes makes me feel as if I'm a tuning fork; resonating with all the sounds and energies around me, i.e., the vibrations.  Most of the time it feels good, especially when I'm listening to the deep, sonorous tones of the syllable OM.  Those are the moments when I consistently feel pure bliss.  Another notable experience I've had regarding my body as a receiver was when I participated in an ayahuasca ceremony a couple of years ago.  On that particular occasion I hadn't drunk the potent tea, but I still felt every sound and movement, no matter how loud or soft, pulsate throughout my entire body. Although I wouldn't describe it as blissful, it was still a thrilling, trilling, pleasurable time.  The pranayama workshop wasn't.

I instinctively understood that I might have been absorbing other energies, from whatever sources or people that were around me.  I could still feel the physical vibrations of ambient sounds such as cars driving by outside, but I was unable to fathom the reasons for my intense physical discomfort.  Most disturbing of all was the pain I felt in my upper right arm and the numbness that emanated from it all the way down to the tips of my fingers.  It occurred to me that what I was feeling could be symptomatic of an impending stroke. As foolish as it may sound, I didn't worry, because I was certain it was my body feeling the effects of surrounding energies, despite the fact that the pain and numbness in my right arm persisted the whole time.  I had to keep breaking out of stillness to massage my arm and stretch and flex some feeling back into my tingling hand.
I suppose some people might think I was being a new-age flake hoping for some metaphysical explanation for what could have been a life-threatening condition.  That would be a classic case of dangerous denial.  But honestly, I'm not that stupid.  If I'd felt those same symptoms under any other circumstances I would have checked into an emergency ward right away.  I've since googled the symptoms to see what else they might have indicated, and discovered a host of unpleasant go-see-doctor-right-away type stuff.  Nevertheless, I still feel fairly confident that I don't need to seek medical attention.
Much to my relief, the physical symptoms dissipated as soon as the meditation was over.  But I was left with lingering, disconcerting thoughts of what-the-hell-was-all-that-about?  If the body is a vehicle for the soul, my cage had been profoundly and literally rattled.  While other students commented on how relaxed they felt and wished for more, I was glad it was over.  I also felt as if I'd failed.  I muddled through the rest of the day distracted and disturbed, but still dealing reasonably well, or so I thought, with the small successes and failures that make up a day at Yoga U.  Nevertheless I was very grateful to finally go home and pour myself a glass of wine.  (Okay, so I'm a bad yogi.  And I drink coffee, too.  And do other stuff real yogis don't do.)

But the restful state of mind I was hoping to find at home didn't happen.  I was home barely a few minutes, with thoughts of the day still spinning my wheels, when I heard the horrific report that the recent Germanwings plane crash was deliberately caused by a suicidally deranged pilot.
Even though terrible tragedies happen all over the world and are reported almost daily, this one affected me more than most.  I'm a white-knuckle flyer and have had a macabre fascination with airplane disasters all my adult life. Add to that my recovering depressive's obsession with mental illness and suicide, and you have a dreadful news item that's sure to affect me personally.  Even a second glass of wine didn't relax me enough to make me feel "normal" again.  By the time I went to bed I wasn't feeling "sensitive" anymore.  Instead, I felt like a wet noodle - no mind, no soul, and no spine.  I couldn't get the news or the day's in-body experience out of my head, and ended up having a fitful night of very little sleep.  The peace and calm I'd been looking forward to never came.  I had become a sponge for all the sad and sorry stuff that was going on all around me in the larger sphere of my life, which included another very recent tragic event in the neighbourhood haunts of my past.  When I "cleared space" in my body to allow life force to flow freely through me, I was also allowing unacknowledged and unexpressed pain to enter me.  Although it wasn't my pain, I felt it anyway. It's known as empathy.
I realise now that my meditation wasn't a failure.  It just wasn't what I was used to or expected.  Yoga has taught me that we shouldn't be focussed on the the outcome of our actions.  It's the actions themselves we should focus on. (That's a principle in Magic as well.)  Meditation is meant to make us completely aware of the present.  The guru who led the pranayama workshop told us a yogi is  "one who is in control."  That doesn't mean being a controlling person, but being in control of ourselves.  We can't always control our circumstances, but we always have the choice of how we react to them. Therein lies our control, our power.

I began the workshop with expectations of another outcome, but just because I didn't bliss-out doesn't mean I failed.  That strange and unpleasant meditation was a learning experience. And when I can't let go of the western win-lose paradigm, I remember that we learn more from so-called failures than we do from success.  I'm learning how to learn.
Perform your duty without attachment, remaining equal to success or failure.  Such equanimity of mind is called yoga.
- Bhagavad Gita
Namaste.
- G.P.

A Fresh Start

Have a Magical and Meaningful New Moon and Vernal Equinox.

Blessed be.
- G.P.

Bury My Pride at Wounded Knee

Make medicine from suffering.  That's a Zen koan that pretty much describes the best and worst of my life these days.  Almost two months ago I injured my left knee from over-extending myself during yoga practice. I've torn a ligament on the inside of my knee, and now I can't do some of my favourite asanas (poses), which involve, of course, the knee.  I can't sit cross-legged on the floor - my default resting/meditation position - let alone sit in the iconic lotus pose.  And that really bugs me, because my ego has been hurt as much as my knee, if not more so.

I have a certain amount of natural flexibility, and since I began to practise yoga almost five years ago, it's become a point of too much pride for me.  I enjoy bending into shapes that many people of my vintage can't. Some of my feelings about small accomplishments in my practice are very unyogi-like, because they're about my ego, and not my well-being.  That's why I'm suffering.  Aye me.
Using the word "suffering" to describe my situation is a typical hyperbole of mine, but it's because my hurt knee is constantly on my mind and in my face. Apart from feeling various degrees of discomfort and pain in ordinary, everyday activities, it has completely altered my yoga practice.  To describe it from an egotistical point of view, I'm just not as good as I was before my injury.  I'm lopsided and out of balance, because I'm able to do numerous poses reasonably well on one side, but look like a weeping, grimacing, aging, and aching novice when I attempt to do them on the side of my bum knee.
My injury has brought me to my knees, and I truly wish I meant that in the literal sense.  This is one of those times I'm sorry a good metaphor doesn't mean more than that, because I enjoy kneeling, both in and out of yoga practice.  I have a small altar in my bedroom, where I like to kneel and pray.  And once a month I attend satsang (Sanskrit for "sacred gathering") to participate in some kirtan (call and response chanting), another place I'm unable to kneel, even though I normally do.  It's ironic that the few moments I spend kneeling in the aforementioned circumstances are the only times when I feel genuine humility.  The Universe certainly has a wicked sense of humour. 

Louise Hay, author of You Can Heal Your Life, says that knee problems and injuries may indicate issues with ego and pride.  I can't speak for everyone, but in my case it's an uncannily accurate assessment of my situation.  I'm pursuing a course in yoga teacher training, and have met some very interesting and committed people.  Although I don't know anyone very well yet, the two women I've had a chance to speak with on more than just a polite and passing level have both suffered far more serious knee injuries than me.  I've listened to their stories and realise how I lucky I am, because both women required surgery, which I don't, thank Goddess.  (I should also mention that neither women seem to have inflated egos.  As far as I can tell, both lovely ladies are modest and unassuming.  They got their respective injuries from falling off a bike and downhill skiing.  I'm pretty sure they weren't showing off.) 
Once again, Fate has sent me a couple of messengers in the guise of two of fellow yogis. Who else would I first get to know at Yoga U. but the very people who could help me heal?  But the lessons from my other favourite school, Universe U., don't stop there.  A few weeks ago I went to the local Y for some hydrotherapy, which included a whirlpool bath, sauna, and a swim in the pool.  I knew the buffering effects of warm water on slow, gentle frog kicks would be good for my knee.  I've visited the Y a number of times over the past few years, but this was the first time the life guard at the pool was wearing a large knee brace.  I kid you not.  It was a hell of a way to tell me that swimming was the right kind of exercise for my injury.

Up until a few days ago I wasn't really healing my knee. Thanks to misplaced pride I thought I'd "push through" the pain.  I was in denial.  I didn't want to admit that my injury was as bad as it is and did far more than my knee could bear, making it worse.  I wanted to be able to do lotus again, and I wanted to do it now.  Any sort of knee injury takes a while to heal, but I egotistically thought that I could be an exception to the rule.  I've been childish, impatient, and stubborn, and made my knee worse than it was than when I first injured it.  Pride goeth before a fall.
Okay.  So I've learned a hard lesson, and realise that my injury was no accident.  Christine, my Yoga U. teacher - a smart yogi and a wise woman - keeps reminding me that yoga is even more a mental discipline than a physical one.  I knew that already, but as usual, I had to hurt myself so that I could heal myself.  This is a pattern I'd really like to release.  Sheesh.  
Whatever the cause of our suffering, Zen teaches us that it is an opportunity to awaken spiritually.
- Timothy Freke 
I've had a profound lesson in humility.  It's taught me to let go of what I think I should be, or would like to be.  Now I'm concentrating on being a doctor instead of a patient.  My new mantra is Yogi, heal thyself. 
- G. P. 

Write is Might

The pen is mightier than the sword.  

May it ever be so.

Je suis Charlie.

- G.P.

Colour Me Clean in 2015

As fate would have it, or karma, or whatever's operating overtime in my life right now, I had a crappy Christmas, both eve and day, and an unfortunately similar New Year's Eve.  There was lots of unexpected conflict and barely-suppressed anger and resentment, and I wasn't even with my relatives enjoying the usual dysfunctional family Christmas. (I mean that in a good way - the way all families have no- holds-barred holiday get-togethers.) I thought since I'd be spending time with friends rather than relatives, certain protocols of behaviour would be in place.  Boy oh boy I sure got that wrong.
So here I am on New Year's Day writing on my little web in the hope that I can shift gears and reset the tone for 2015.  As this day goes, so does the whole year, and so far I guess I'm doing well enough to offset a wacko festive season and an awkward New Year's Eve.  Writing a blurb for my blog is a good start, because it denotes work in my field, but it was all the stuff I did before I sat down at my computer this morning that turned things around before it was too late.
To secure a fresh start, I had to wash away all the crap that's come down for the last week or so.  So I did.  I cleaned the bathroom, which included the toilet bowl and shower stall.  I scrubbed and rubbed and watched my anger get flushed down the toilet and flow down the drain.  Then I washed myself.  After that I threw out the garbage from my waste baskets and cleaned the front hallway entrance of the house.
The wyrd* thing about all this is that certain events in my life, which I've written about in the previous two blurbs, were eerily portentous of the cleaning and purging rituals I've undertaken on this first day of the year. After all, I never get interviewed to talk about my non-career, let alone in a bathtub, but that's what happened.  All the lavender-scented soap and incense I've been washing with, and in, has taken on more significance than I originally thought.  Yes, lavender is a lovely, soothing fragrance, but this morning's symbolic ablutions reminded me that the word lavender is derived from the Latin word lavare, "to wash."  The French laver and English launder are derived from the same root.  
Once again, the universe has been telling me for several weeks that I should literally wash away whatever crap's been collecting in the garbage bin of my unconscious.  Although it hasn't been the best of holiday seasons - far from it - I love the synchronicity of it all.  Sometimes all the signs that proliferate my life mitigate the unpleasant little stories they foretell, and so colourfully illustrate.  Life is about the stories we live, and finding a common thread that connects them all inspires me, and fills my world and web with magic.
So I'm grateful that despite a bumpy start to 2015, I'm okay.  By paying attention to the road signs on my journey through life, I've managed to make a significant and fresh start to the New Year.  I wish you the same.
- G.P.
* wyrd - Old Norse word for fate, from which English weird is derived