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I didn't go to yoga class this morning because it's so friggin' cold. The walk to my studio takes about twenty-five minutes on clear sidewalks; on icy, snow covered turf it takes longer. By the time I get to the studio my fingers are numb and yellow from lack of blood. So I just plain decided to skip yoga today. That's a major decision for me because practising yoga keeps me fit and looking as good as I can at my not-quite-advanced age.
As I went about my morning ablutions in an unhurried manner, thanks to my decision to lay low, I had mixed feelings about the wintry weather. While I'm grateful that there's finally genuine winter weather when there should be, temporarily staving off my usual worries about global warming, I also really, really hate the cold. Despite feeling badly about missing yoga today (which is bound to happen quite a few times during the winter), experience has shown me that a miserable walk to the studio won't be mitigated by seventy-five minutes of yoga, because I have to make the trek back home again.
These thoughts were going through my head when I eventually sat down at my computer. I laughed out loud when I opened up the Google browser and saw the masthead depicting the anniversary of Roald Amundsen's expedition to the South Pole. He and his small team of explorers reached the South Pole on this day in 1911.
I know that what Amundsen achieved is historically remarkable, but I just can't get as excited about it as most of the world did when it first happened. I don't understand why anyone would want to suffer hardship, pain, and misery, all the while risking death, just to be the first person (read man) to go somewhere that is uninhabitable and inhospitable. I suppose the same could be said about landing a man on the moon, but the science and technology required to do that certainly advances our understanding of the Universe.
Maybe I'm overestimating myself by suggesting that I have some idea about what is required to survive extreme cold. It's not rocket science. I've lived in northern climes all my life and know what's required to cope with winter, which is why I have absolutely no desire to do it on a bigger and more treacherous scale, like trekking to the South Pole.
When I embark on my half-hour walk to yoga, I know what I must do to prevent frost-bite and broken bones from falling on slippery pavement. The same exercise in fine weather is meditative and pleasant, and the perfect preparation for yoga practise. That doesn't happen in sub-zero temperatures.
At least I have a choice when I decide not to walk to yoga in the cold and dark days of winter, and for that I'm grateful. Millions of people around the world suffer terribly just to get through the day, only to get up the next morning for more of the same. I try not to dwell on such things too much. Feeling depressed about it doesn't help anyone.
I don't understand why anyone would choose to put themselves through hell for the sake of being the first to do anything or go anywhere, unless it's to save their lives. Surviving brutal circumstances is challenging, whether it be privation, war, disease, or natural disaster. The word "survivor" is never more aptly applied than to those brave souls who do indeed survive such adversity.
Then there are people who deliberately challenge themselves by engaging in extreme sports and activities. It must be the Nietzschean thing of what does not destroy me makes me stronger. One can't be complacent living on the edge. But that's not the way I operate. I guess I'm a wuss.
During the darkest, coldest nights of winter, my idea of moving out of my comfort zone is just getting out of bed in the morning. And no, I don't expect a medal. I'm not that spoiled. Being able to sit in my warm, sunny study and write about it is reward enough. So mote it be.
- G.P.
Nature is the greatest teacher of all. I learned that again when I recently went on a brief but meaningful trip to a beautiful part of the world, just a few hours drive from where I live. I hiked along trails with my sister-the-minister on the Bruce Peninsula in central Ontario, and took a boat ride to Flower Pot Island on Georgian Bay, where we swam off its rocky shores in crystal clear, blue-green water.
We covered a lot of ground in a few short hours each day. It was by no means serious hiking; I just wanted to spend some time in spectacular scenery, breathing in fresh, woodsy air, and feeling glad to be alive. Mission accomplished.
The short sojourn wasn't without its physical and emotional challenges, however. My sister, who is an inveterate hiker, and who also served as my tour guide, took me along some very difficult terrain on the Bruce Trail. She's familiar with the various trails because she's walked them numerous times. And if that weren't enough to qualify her as an expert guide, two years ago she walked the entire 885 kilometres of the Bruce Trail from Queenston to Tobermory. It took her two months and all her heart and soul. No wonder she considers that journey a bona fide pilgrimage.
The portion we walked along wasn't especially strenuous, but it was certainly difficult, even treacherous at times, due to very rocky, slippery ground . Normally I enjoy walking, even if it's a tough physical workout. However, the "walking" we did (at times it was more like clambering) proved to be more of a mental workout than a physical one. It was slow going and required absolute focus and constant vigilance. Looking up at the forest canopy or checking out the surrounding scenery was out of the question. My eyes were glued to the hazardous, rocky path. If I let my attention lapse for even a moment, I would slip and almost lose my footing. Although I didn't really enjoy traversing those trails, I'm glad I did it. Once we finished negotiating the rough patches I was able to relax and enjoy the vistas.
All in all, it was a rich and fulfilling time. I gained a new respect for my sister, who's a talented nature photographer as well, and has the requisite sensitivity and patience for capturing rare, fleeting moments of the myriad wildlife that inhabit the lacustrine land we visited. She interacts with wildlife galore on a daily basis, but her special animal and spirit guide is most surely the Turtle.
The road in front of my sister's home in the country is visited every spring by snapping turtles who lay eggs in the sandy earth on the side of the road. The turtles were nesting there for many generations long before the road was built. Their nests are a short distance from the Beaver River, where the baby turtles instinctively migrate soon after hatching. This means they have to cross a fairly busy country road to get to the river. As a result, there are several Turtle Crossing signs along the stretch of road near my sister's home. My sister has saved numerous mother and baby turtles over the years, often getting out of her car to pick up a turtle or two that she's spotted making their precarious way across the road. It has earned her the nickname "Turtle Girl," or Tg for short.
Despite my sister's penchant for finding turtles, we didn't encounter any on our various walks through the Bruce Peninsula and some of its marshes. Nevertheless we headed home after two solid days of the great outdoors feeling tired but happy. We were just minutes from my sister's place when I noticed something reddish-brown in colour appear to fly into the front left wheel of the car. From where I sat in the passenger's seat I thought it might have been a monarch butterfly; but when my sister suddenly swore gravely under her breath I knew we had probably struck a small animal. It turned out to be a chipmunk.
Chipmunks have got to be the cutest and most endearing animals of the rodent kingdom, so my sister and I were very suddenly plunged into the saddest of moods. The timing couldn't have been worse. We were mere minutes from home after a wonderful trip and in such good spirits, and then bam! We ran over a little animal. What kind of karma was that?
Well, it wasn't karma at all. It was just plain bad luck. It's a part of life. Shit happens.
I suppose some of my regular readers might wonder how I can say that when I'm always going on about karma. But not everything's always about karma and payback. There are random occurrences in the Universe. Lots of them. All over the place and all the time. Coincidence and synchronicity would have no meaning if there weren't randomness. When the poor little chipmunk crossed the path of the car my sister and I were in, it was an accident without any meaning, which makes it even sadder. And so, with just minutes to go before we arrived home, my sister and I fell into a deep funk. Damn.
We sat silently lamenting the sad ending to a happy time when my sister suddenly pulled the car over to the side of the road, only steps from her home.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
My sister didn't answer. She jumped out of the car and ran back down the road. I followed, and saw her stop and pick something up from the yellow median. When I arrived a few moments later, I could see she was holding a tiny snapping turtle, perfectly formed and distinguished by its long tail.
"How on earth did you spot that little thing?" I wondered aloud.
"It's what I do," was her reply.
Although I already knew that about my sister, I had now witnessed it for myself. I mentioned the remarkable retrieval of the tiny turtle to her husband a few minutes later when we got home.
"She's got The Vision," he told me. And he didn't mean her eyesight, because she wears glasses. I couldn't help feel a little bit envious of my sister's special gift. But mostly I felt proud, and happy again. A sad ending to a lovely little holiday had been redeemed.
If the accidental death of the little chipmunk was random, saving the baby turtle from the same fate was not. Neither my sister nor I deserved to have our time together spoiled, and somehow fortune intervened to set things right. That baby turtle crossing the road at exactly that time was no accident. Sure, baby turtles frequently cross that road to get to the river (although the little guy my sister saved was born very late in the season), but the placement and timing of the one that saved our vacation was just a little too perfect to be mere chance.
Accidents happen. So does magic. But magic, by its very nature, happens far less frequently. Saving the baby turtle restored a sense of balance to my time spent with my sister.
As spirit guides, turtles and tortoises represent patience, the way of peace, wisdom, and Mother Earth. They are also keepers of portals into the Otherworld. So I felt deeply blessed when my sister gave me the honour and pleasure of releasing the baby turtle on the river bank myself.
I learned a lot about patience and peace in my brief time in the woods with my sister, and I can't help thinking that the baby turtle appeared to make sure I never forget those lessons. My mini-vacation taught me that I wasn't as patient or wise as I thought.
The acquisition of wisdom doesn't have to be fraught with hardship. Of course we can, and should, learn from our mistakes. But knowledge is also derived from being still and silent. Much wisdom is gained from deep listening. I wrote about that very topic in my first book a number of years ago. I'd forgotten my own words about a subject that's very dear to me. So I shall end this brief meditation by quoting myself...
Take time out from the fast-paced, high-tech world to return to nature. Like giant fir trees that have stood for hundreds of years, ostensibly doing nothing, reaching maturity and finding peace is a gentle process, and one that requires infinite patience.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
Happy Autumnal Equinox.
I write this because I'm setting a pattern for the entire season, as well as the rest of my life. Being the first day of fall, the seasonal routine I'm establishing is rather obvious, but I should explain how this sets the tone for the rest of my life...
Anyone who's been following me on this little web knows my obsession with the meaning of numbers, and 22 is my favourite. It's a master number representing making and building, especially foundations, craftsmanship, magic, accomplishment, and dreams made manifest.
Today is the 22nd of September. The autumnal equinox lands on the 22nd frequently, but this year is especially noteworthy because when all the numbers of this date are tallied together they equal 22. As a number that signifies a solid foundation it also means balance. That's a nice coincidence to occur on an equinox, when the daylight hours are equal to night time.
I know full well that noticing such things is the purview of a magical thinker, but that's why I created this little web - to publicly muse upon strange coincidences and synchronicities. So to mark this very special and personal equinox I'm writing this blurb.
I enjoy imagining that today is a turning point for me, when day and night are equal and my life is in balance. With two 22s embedded in this date, I move forward on sure footing. Today isn't just the beginning of the rest of my life, it's the start of the best of my life. So mote it be.
- G.P.
Queer is one of my favourite words. I like the way it sounds - crisp and short. I also like what it means: (adj.) strange, odd, weird, eccentric. That's the perfect definition for a word that begins with an uncommon letter, because only .49% of the words in the English language begin with "Q." And since I've always been fond of people, places, objects, or ideas that are slightly strange or outside the norm, the word queer meets all my criteria for favourite things.
The adjective queer was first used as a noun to mean "homosexual" in 1922. Now it's in popular usage, as in the acronym LGBTQA. (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, queer, asexual ) However, I find the acronym too long and somewhat redundant. I prefer to call all people who love or gender-identify differently as queer. It's an inclusive word with a fascinating etymology that describes contemporary queerness beautifully.
Sadly, my fondness for odd things and people is not shared by everyone. The recent massacre of forty-nine people in a gay bar in Orlando, Florida is a tragic example. Hate crimes against minorities are committed because the victims are not the same as whomever happens to be the majority. The people who died in Orlando were killed because they love differently.
Queerness has a long history of being feared and ostracised, and I don't mean strictly in terms of gender-identity. There are many kinds of outsiders who have been relegated to the periphery of human society for their differences: mad people, fools and clowns, poets, artists, spinsters, widows, the very young and the very old, and other "strange" folks who've been marginalised or disenfranchised in some way. There have been cultures and periods of history, however, when many of these outsiders were respected and even revered for the very same reasons they were reviled.
Outsiders have a different perspective, and can offer a more objective point of view if they are allowed to do so. But looking from the outside in can be dangerous as well. Ancient soothsayers, bards, court jesters, priests and priestesses, or anyone who was considered "touched" by the gods were taken very seriously by the powerful people they advised. Unfortunately, such outsiders often sacrificed their lives if the truth they spoke displeased those in power.
The day after the Orlando shootings, I demonstrated solidarity with my queer brothers and sisters by dressing up in motley attire. I walked to my yoga studio on a brilliant, summer's morning bedecked from top to bottom in multi-colours and patterns galore. My appearance may have been eccentric, even outlandish, but I knew that whatever attention I attracted to myself (although that wasn't my purpose) was to support rainbow-souls everywhere.
As I stood at a stoplight waiting to cross the street, I spied an attractive, hip, young woman on the opposite corner. When the light turned green we walked across the street, passing each other midway. She looked at me with a broad smile. "You look so beautiful," she said. I smiled back and thanked her. It was reassuring to know that there are people out there who appreciate and even admire weirdness and "otherness."
The next day I wore clownish garb again. While changing into my quirky clothes after yoga class, a septuagenarian yogi by the name of Wendy exclaimed "Your outfit's so bright and gay." Wendy wasn't being intentionally ironic when she used the word gay to mean happy, because she didn't know my reasons for dressing so oddly. I took great delight in telling her how fitting her use of the word gay was.
Mortal outsiders have always been favoured by Otherworld spirits. Fairies, who are outsiders themselves, prefer weirdoes and oddballs to mortals who adhere to mainstream convention. So it's entirely appropriate that the supposedly pejorative epithet "fairy" is often used to describe gay men. How ironic is that?
Magic is not the norm. In fact, it's the complete opposite of anything that's normal or ordinary. But just because something is weird doesn't mean it's wrong or bad. It's just different. And like my Otherworldly counterparts, I have always had a soft spot for eccentrics and outsiders. Maybe that makes me a little weird as well. I sure hope so.
I also hope that one day all the weirdoes of this world will be loved and appreciated and for their unique perspectives and distinct ways of living and loving. Differences are something to be cherished and nurtured, not rejected or feared. Different and diverse people add colour and texture to this manifold world.
Where there is no diversity there is no life. Mother Earth is a rare and special miracle in this vast Universe due to the fact that She harbours life - a great variety of life. It's called bio-diversity. Earth is a living, breathing organism. If you want everything to be the same all the time, go to Mars. It's been the same, arid, unchanging planet for eons.
So I'm writing this as a tribute to the forty-nine queer folk who died because they loved differently; and to honour all eccentrics and outsiders who grace this world with their wildly, mildly divergent ways.
May all of you stay weird and wonderful, and above all, stay true to yourselves.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
When there is no desire,
all things are at peace.
Those are the last words of one of the brief chapter/verses of Stephen Mitchell's version of the Tao Te Ching. I long for peace, and these wise words remind me that maybe it's the desire for peace that's preventing me from achieving it. Longing is not a peaceful state. Despite this knowledge, I've always found non-attachment or not longing for goals and dreams a tough call. (Not desiring material things is relatively easy for me.)
Lately I've made some headway on the process of detaching myself from the outcome. And wouldn't you know, it's made my life a little easier, a little simpler. Non-attachment is something you can't work on. That defeats the purpose. In order to let go of longing and desire, it's easier to work on something else, preferably on what is. That's another way of being fully present, or paying attention to the journey and not the destination.
These are popular aphorisms that are bandied about a lot these days, therefore easily dismissed as New Age clichés. It's only since recently rediscovering the ancient wisdom in The Tao that I've finally been able to make it work for me. On any given day I might be lamenting growing older and having failed at this or that, with all the accompanying issues, yet twenty-four hours later I'll experience moments of clarity and equanimity, but nothing's different except for the way I feel. The feeling comes and goes as my life flows along, but when it happens, it sure feels good. Lately it's been happening more often and lasting longer.
The previous blurb may seem to belie my claim that I'm finding my way to a more balanced life, because I wrote about crying almost daily. That sure doesn't sound like a happy person. But as I mentioned, crying isn't always an expression of sadness or despair. Sometimes it's a release, and I think that's why I've shed more tears than usual lately.
Since I began to follow The Tao a few months ago, slowly but surely I'm learning to accept things as they are, loosen my grip on longing, and just let things flow. Going with the flow has allowed me to let my tears flow without judgement or sorrow. As a writer and a diviner of signs, I love that letting tears flow is a lovely metaphor for my new-found knowledge. In fact, on the day I made up my mind not to cry (and I don't know why I thought that was a good idea), I ended up being angry and mean. I blocked the flow. I resisted what is.
The shedding of tears is cleansing. When water stops flowing and stays still for too long, it becomes stagnant and toxic. So from now on I'm sticking to The Way.
- G.P.
Karma rocks. It's reassuring to know that what goes around comes around, sooner or later. I almost always experience the inevitable return of words and deeds, both good and bad, sooner rather than later. That's a good thing. It keeps me accountable for my actions. When I've screwed up, karma lets me know just how badly, and then puts me on the road to setting things right. Sometimes that means a simple, sincere apology, and at other times some serious focused action to make amends.
Last night, thanks to an ancient sacrum/hip injury, I was unable to sleep because it was acting up again - big time. I deserved that sleepless, painful night because I'd been a horrible person at work all day. I was bitchy and even mean, and my karma was almost immediate.
I'm not normally a mean-spirited person, but I was trying very hard not to cry, and that part worked. I didn't cry all day for the first time in weeks. Crying isn't necessarily a bad thing. It can serve as a release of tension and fear. But instead of releasing my anxieties through tears, I unleashed them on a friend as well as a couple of strangers. I behaved in a way that is not conducive to maintaining good relationships, or my job.
A good night's sleep might have reset my system, but no such luck. The karma dump truck was on hand to fulfill its duty. When I finally crawled out of bed, bleary-eyed and sore, I knew exactly why I'd had a painful, sleepless night.
There are a very few coincidences in my life, and I like it that way. The first thing I did was have a really good, purgative cry. Then I apologised via email to a friend at work I'd slighted. Yoga would certainly have helped my mood, but I was physically exhausted and my hip was, and still is, too sore and stiff for a physical workout. But it's a glorious spring day out there, so I treated myself to a big, fat breakfast at a local diner instead. Then, as a sign that I forgave myself, I bought a bouquet of flowers. Now I'm writing this blurb.
I'm taking full responsibility for my actions. I'm going to cry if I need to cry. I'm not ashamed to shed tears - embarrassed maybe, but not ashamed. Shedding tears softens the heart. But yesterday I didn't allow myself to weep, and ended up feeling frustrated and blocked. The tears I withheld turned into anger.
I shall end this blurb with one of my all time favourite quotes from Charles Dickens, one of the most quotable writers to grace the English language...
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.
- G.P.
This morning, which happens to be Mother's Day, I looked out my back window at the empty, unused birdfeeder and was suddenly stricken with sadness. Until a number of weeks ago there would have been many birds, mostly sparrows, gathered around pecking away at the seeds I left out for them. But I had to stop doing that because the seeds were also attracting a rat that lives under the porch next door.
Fortunately, I haven't seen the rat since I took away its food supply - although I'm sure it's still around. But now my little birdies are gone as well. Occasionally I see one or two of them come by to see what's up, but there's no longer a party of chirping birds in the yard brightening my day. I miss them. I think of them as my babies (as I do my sweet kitty) and felt personally responsible for them in a small way.
I'm not suggesting that the tiny bit of care I gave to my backyard birds is even remotely close to what a mother of a human child does. But it's the nurturing feeling I get when I see the little ones that reminds me of what it means to be a mother.
A day doesn't go by when I don't think of my own mother who left this world seventeen years ago. I still miss her. I miss being mothered, even at my not-quite-advanced age. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't need mothering so much if I were a mother myself, but that's a choice I've made, and I don't regret it. Nevertheless, it's Mother's Day and I can't help getting misty-eyed.
Happy Mother's Day to everyone. It doesn't matter whether you're a mother or not, because the surest way to save the greatest mother of us all, our beautiful Earth, is to nurture and care for all living things.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
When you are content to be simply yourself
and don't compare or compete,
everybody will respect you.
The words above are from the ancient Chinese text Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu, translated by Stephen Mitchell. I recently "discovered" this venerable poem and now carry it with me everywhere I go. For many years I'd occasionally pick up a copy and read a little, but it was always too obscure and inaccessible for me. Then I found Mitchell's beautiful version of it and was hooked.
Tao Te Ching means The Book of the Way, and was probably written contemporaneously with Confucius (551-479 B.C.E.). It's a poetic treatise on the art of living, and a precursor to Zen. Perhaps Mitchell's translation made sense to me when all the others didn't is because as well as being a scholar and a poet, he's practised Zen for many years.
So now I have a new book from which to practise my bibliomancy. Every morning I randomly open the slim volume and read the verse that lands before me, and invariably feel as if The Tao was written just for me.
The words from The Tao at the beginning of this blurb have become a mantra of mine. They help me with my OCD (obsessive comparison disorder). Still, I find it very hard to be content simply being myself, because it simply means to be. Easier said than done.
The Tao is about loving what is. (Stephen Mitchell also co-wrote the book Loving What Is with his wife, Byron Katie.) Sure, sometimes what is isn't pleasant or good, but non-judgement and surrendering to the present is a better and stronger place from which to deal with any situation, no matter how difficult. It's called going with the flow, an aphorism derived from The Tao, which was popularised during the cultural revolution of the sixties. I admit that I've been using that phrase a lot lately, almost to the point of cliché, but it's because now I truly appreciate it.
There are many verses in The Tao that give me pause while exciting me at the same time. As I sit very still and ponder the words of The Tao I can literally feel myself vibrating with the thrill of new knowledge. The most exciting thing I've discovered from The Tao is that no one or nothing is ordinary. It simply is, and that alone is a miracle. Such is the magic of following The Way.
- G. P.
Today, April 22nd, 2016, is Earth Day. It also happens to be a full moon. Astrologically speaking, the full moon's in Scorpio this time around. According to the pagan calendar I consult for folklore associated with earthly and astronomical events, this month's full moon is called the Hare moon.
I'm an earth-worshipping, moon-following Scorpio, born in the year of the Hare in Chinese astrology, and my favourite number is 22. As SIGNificant days go, this one really packs a punch. I'm willing it to be a knockout - in a good way.
I wish you all a happy, meaningful Earth Day and a glorious full moon. And please, be kind to Mother Earth.
Blessed be.
- G. P.
I make mistakes everyday. I'd like to think I learn from them, but the part I don't get about this learning-from-your-mistakes thing is why am I not wiser or smarter? With the number of missteps I've taken in my life I should be one of the wisest people I know. Maybe I haven't blundered enough. Is there a magic number of boo-boos that we're supposed to make before we've learned how to live? Sheesh.
I think the weather has made a mistake, too. We had a significant snowfall in my part of the world last night. Waking up to a shroud of white covering the ground did not lift my spirits. I suppose it's a pretty enough scene for mid February, but it's April goddammit!
From my study window I can see the little clutch of sparrows that gather around the feeder every morning waiting for breakfast. But alas and alack I finished a feedbag yesterday and won't be refilling the feeder for a while. There's a rat who visits our backyard to eat seeds that have fallen on the ground. Its nest is under the neighbours' porch, adjacent to the feeder.
So now I have to watch the poor birdies wondering where breakfast is, and the current snow cover won't help them find food elsewhere. I feel like a heel. But the rat has to go, and I can't say anything to the neighbours until I've stopped supplying food for it. I'm assuming they don't like their resident rodent any more than I do.
Until this past year I'd never encountered any rats at all. So I knew something was up when I started seeing them in unexpected places last summer. Then they turned up with alarming frequency on what was supposed to be a dream trip to Bali last fall. But this last one's way too close to home.
The appearance of rats in my life is a deep message. Although I figured out what the message meant while I was in Bali last year, it seems I still haven't really learned Rat's lesson well enough. So now I must sacrifice the pleasure of sweet birds in my backyard to eradicate a nasty, urban pest.
Symbolically, Rat means survival and resourcefulness, as well as the negative aspects of the erosion of foundations, sustenance, and livelihood. I've experienced both sides of Rat's dual nature lately. My aging body, my bank account, and most of all my uncertain future concern me a lot these days. I've received Rat's message loud and clear.
I guess I've still got some work to do, not the least of which is getting rid of the rat next door. When that happens, I'll take it as a good sign. And that's no mistake.
- G.P.
This morning I woke up with a cold sore on my lower lip. It wasn't there when I went to bed last night. But the pursed lips, clenched jaw, and furrowed brow I've been waking up to for over a week now still were. Lately my night life has been peppered with disturbing dreams of resentment and unexpressed anger.
I find that practising yoga is effective for relieving these frustrations and worries, so the first thing I've been doing every morning is practising what I call "face yoga." I've been stretching the muscles in my face and gently massaging my jaw and forehead to release the tension that's stuck there. So I'm not entirely surprised about the appearance of the cold sore.
Cold sores can be a physical manifestation of angry words that either have been spoken aloud, or quietly supressed. In my case it's the latter, which means that my anger was bound to burst out sooner or later, one way or another.
I've been getting cold sores - clinically known as herpes simplex - since I was a young girl. Cold sores, also known as fever blisters, can be caused by excessive sunlight, fever, or stress. There are a number of ways stress can manifest in the body: high blood pressure, head aches, insomnia, diarrhea and constipation are some of the more common symptoms. Grinding teeth and a clenched jaw are also indicative of stress, which I had for the week before my cold sore popped up. All my symptoms, including the tightly pursed lips, were centred around my mouth, the human instrument of speech. Signs of stress could have turned up anywhere in or on my body in a variety of ways, but the stress I've been experiencing was about being unable to express myself. So it makes perfect sense that my anger erupted as a cold sore on my mouth, whence issues thoughts and feelings uttered out loud. It's the wonder of the body/mind connection.
The body speaks louder than words, and is a billboard for some of the most important signs that have shown up in my life. Although I can't say I like having a cold sore, it still makes me marvel at the intelligence of the body and all the signs and symptoms it conveys. The cold sore on my lip is much more than a virus. It tells me exactly how I'm feeling, and that suppressing those feelings isn't good for me. Unfortunately I just can't cut loose with my anger, it would only create more conflict. I know it wouldn't clear the air but clog my soul instead. So I have to find another way to quell my righteous indignation. And I have, right here on my little web.
Okay, I'm not specifically ranting about what's bugging me, but I'm expressing myself nonetheless. The proper use of words for speaking my mind is important to me. Who knew that a blister on my mouth could give me another reason to write? It's a gift.
I know that may sound preposterous, but hey, I'm a magical thinker, and find magic in the most unlikely places. It's a lot more fun to attribute metaphysical significance to something as unpleasant as a cold sore than to simply write it off as a stress induced virus. Besides, I happen to know I'm right. The resonance I feel within allows me a certainty I can't otherwise explain. And that makes me feel better. So I must be right. Right?
If I were able to offer tangible evidence that what I say is so, then it wouldn't be magic. It would be boring, and I hate boring. So I shall conclude this little opus with the wise and skillful words of poet Mary Oliver. Although she isn't a magical thinker, she's most definitely a deep one...
What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
My birth tarot card is The Lovers. When I discovered this a number of years ago, I was mildly shocked, because being half of a loving couple has eluded me all my life. But The Lovers in the major arcana of the tarot does not necessarily mean finding true love with another.
When I read tarot for young people in the throes of hormonal upheaval (frequently confused with the search for a soul mate), they get very excited and think they're about to bond with or meet their one-and-only. That's true only part of the time.
The primary meaning of The Lovers is union, harmony of opposites, and resolution of inner conflicts, often referred to as the "inner marriage." Self-love means a person is whole and complete unto themselves.
When I finally embraced my status as a spinster, I knew I was on the road to loving and forgiving myself. So today I celebrate self-acceptance and self-love. I wish you the same.
To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.
- Oscar Wilde
Blessed be.
- G.P.
I'm obsessed with swans lately. It's another sign, totem, spirit guide or what-you-will that's entered my life and is now taking up a lot of space in my mind. I don't have a problem with that. Swans are beautiful, graceful creatures, and dwelling on the qualities of grace and beauty is far preferable to worrying about things like global warming or the Syrian refugee crisis.
This lovely turn of mind happened because I came upon a poem by Rilke called "The Swan." The particular translation I first read is by Robert Bly, and since I found the words both meaningful and mellifluous, I'm using Bly's exquisite version here. It adds some class to this little web of mine.
The Swan
This clumsy living that moves lumbering
as if in ropes through what is not done,
reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks.
And to die, which is the letting go
of the ground we stand on and cling to every day,
is like the swan, when he nervously lets himself down
into the water, which receives him gaily
and which flows joyfully under
and after him, wave after wave,
while the swan, unmoving and marvelously calm,
is pleased to be carried, each moment more fully grown,
more like a king, further and further on.
There are several subtle layers of meaning to this beautiful piece, but what moved me first and foremost was the image of a creature of beauty and grace "lumbering" on land to reach his element - water. Though awkward and ungainly on land, he is still a swan. He is the ugly duckling of Hans Christian Andersen's tale, growing and moving towards the graceful creature he is destined to be, and always has been.
As a spirit guide the swan represents the already mentioned attributes of grace and beauty, as well as commitment and love, because swans are monogamous animals. Swans are sacred in many diverse cultures. They are associated with balance, divination, intuition, and spirit. Coming into one's own with Swan as a spirit guide is to find equanimity, beauty and grace.
Rilke's poem inspires me. It reminds me that as I stumble and struggle on my path to finding my bliss, to going home, I will eventually find peace and gentility in the place where I truly belong.
And need I mention that after reading "The Swan" just over a couple of weeks ago, images of swans keep turning up in my life? They're proliferating like crazy and I'm paying attention. And even if I were magically challenged and didn't ascribe any significance to the swan's appearance in my life, at least I'm blessed with numerous images of a beautiful bird.
Valentine's Day is coming up so I'm seeing a lot of them on greeting cards because I work in bookish retail, but Swan is appearing in less likely places as well. Last week one of my yoga instructors referred to an asana usually called "pigeon" as "swan." I'd never heard that term before to describe the beautiful, hip-opening pose done lying on the mat. Although I have nothing against pigeons, I much prefer "swan" as a name for the asana, especially in light on my current obsession.
I've been having hip and lower back problems lately, (sometimes aging can be very inconvenient), so what would normally have been a comfortable, easy position for me was painful and difficult to do. The irony did not escape me. I felt like the swan of Rilke's poem lumbering to reach his true home; out of his element, but a swan nonetheless. As usual, my concern for the state of my aging body was pleasantly mitigated by a lovely bit of synchronicity. I managed to smile and wince at the same time as I held the pose.
Coming to bliss is taking a long time, my whole life it seems, and though I often feel like a lame duck, I'm not singing my swan song yet. I'm not doing that until I'm good and finally home.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
I don't own a cell phone. That's right. You've read that correctly. No cellphone. I neither want nor need one. I've never felt the urge to rush out and get one, just as I never felt driven to get my driver's license. (I don't drive, either. But that's another story. And yes, the pun was intended.)
It's not that I flatly refuse to ever get a cell phone, but why should I if I don't have the need? If I had a job that required it, and many jobs do these days, of course I would. But I don't. And I don't have children or aging parents to consider. I've heard those reasons for carrying cell phones, and I get that. But once again, they don't apply to me.
And yet I don't want to feel as if I'm out of date and out of touch. Left behind. A dinosaur. But sometimes it's hard not to feel that way when I'm constantly reminded that I'm one of the few people I know of any age who doesn't own a cellphone.
There have been a couple of times I could have used one, like being stuck at a gas station/bus stop in the middle of nowhere wondering if and when the bus is coming. A cellphone can be very convenient, especially when travelling. But for the few times I would like to have had access to a cellphone, the trouble of remembering to keep one on my person at all times wouldn't be worth it.
I have cogent reasons for keeping my land line (remember those?) and staying clear of cell phones forever. I don't want to be uber-attached to another "thing." I've observed that many people spend a lot of time with their heads buried in their phones, completely oblivious to their surroundings. Cell phones are supposed to keep people more connected and in touch. Maybe cell-phoners are in touch with faceless, disembodied voices, but they also seem to be completely unaware, and often dangerously so, about what's going on all around them and in plain sight. Just how connected is that?
And maybe it's just me, but I get very annoyed and even personally offended when someone sitting next to me at lunch in the staff room answers their phone without so much as an "excuse me," and then starts broadcasting the banal details of what they're planning to do after work more loudly than the people who are trying to have a conversation at the table. People speaking on cell phones act as if they're the centre of the universe. Anyone within their visible range suddenly disappears in favour of the precious device they hold in their hands. I call it the new rude.
The new rude is bad enough, but what baffles me even more me is why all these cell-phoners don't seem to mind that other people, friends and strangers alike, can hear them talk about their personal lives. Don't people have any sense of privacy anymore? Whatever happened to boundaries? It's truly ironic that by being forced to hear other people's supposedly private conversations, I feel as if my privacy's invaded.
Another reason I don't think I'll be getting a cell phone any time soon is that's it's just another thing to worry about losing, like keys or an umbrella, except that losing a cell phone seems to be much, much worse and results in far more serious consequences to one's physical and mental health. In fact, there's even a name for it. Fear of losing or being without the use of one's cellphone is called nomophobia. (a conflation of no + mobile phone + phobia.) That's at least one thing I enjoy about cellphone culture - as a result of a phobia that's prevalent among younger cell-phoners, mostly the millennial generation, a cool new word has been added to the English lexicon. I'm all about words, and nomophobia is a fabulous new one that I love using whenever the opportunity arises, which is a lot these days.
I like being slightly "outside," yet in tune enough to know what's going on. It's like watching from the sidelines - getting a good view without getting involved. Not owning a cellphone/android thingy puts me right there. So I guess I'm complaining about something that's given me something to think and write about, and I enjoy both thinking and writing, especially at the same time.
I'm just fine without a cellphone. I've got my laptop and little web. I'm wired enough for what I need and want. I don't have it all, but I have enough. So I'll end this blurb with a bit of ancient Chinese wisdom that I've quoted here before... Enough is as good as a feast.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
Not all the signs I see are good ones. Today I saw a very pretty, but very sad sign indeed. As I walked home in the bitter winter cold from my morning yoga class, I passed two
lovely, robust robins on a snow covered lawn just s few houses away from where I live. Their red breasts were a vivid contrast against the light layer snow on the ground. Both birds were searching for food in the frozen earth. It was a beautiful and disturbing sight at the same time. It's not yet mid-January and these birds had clearly made their migration back to their northern breeding grounds at least a full two months too soon. Or perhaps they had never migrated south in the fall in the first place. It's hard to say.
Today's wintry weather was a welcome change to the unseasonably and unnaturally warm winter we've had in these here parts of the true north strong and freezing. I've fretted for many weeks now about global warming and the serious imbalance in the rhythms of nature. Seeing the two robins today brought that point home. I also marvelled at how those birds could have known that we've been having an exceptionally mild winter up here, which would explain why they arrived so early. How is that possible? Nature can be as weird as she is wonderful.
There are at least eight weeks of winter weather to endure yet, and despite the fact that it's a freakishly mild one, no doubt there will be a few spells of "normal" winter weather that will likely kill those hapless birds. Even if they can withstand the cold - and robins are pretty tough as songbirds go - finding food will be a major problem. They will probably perish from starvation. Worms, their major food source, stay well below ground level in cold weather.
Those two robins standing on a blanket of snow made a pretty picture, like something you might see on a Christmas card. But it was also a cautionary sign of more strange and unnatural things to come. It looked good, but it wasn't right. Things are terribly off-kilter on this planet of ours. I fear it might be too late to reverse things. We will need a miracle to save her, which would be nothing less than all of humanity getting together to change the way we treat her. That would be a miracle, indeed.
I notice signs. I heed them. This is one I wish I hadn't seen. I pray for those two beautiful birds. I pray for Mother Earth. I pray for us all.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
I am 23,432 days old today. That's a numerical palindrome; it reads the same forwards and backwards. It's another pattern I've observed as I walk the road of life. Noticing patterns and signs such as the ostensibly inconsequential number I'm discussing here keeps me aware of the passing of time, and especially how I spend my time, from day to day, and even moment to moment.
This is not the first time I've told my rabid readers of my age in days, nor is it the last. I expect I'll keep track of my age in days for the rest of my life, and make note of it right here on my little web. I'm well aware that these observations are noteworthy only to me, and are probably some of the flakiest blurbs I write. But I just can't help sharing this silly bit of information, because it's part of the universe I occupy.
It also happens to be a new moon. That's a good sign. Starting the first lunation of the new year with a very special diaversary* bodes well. To quote Maya Angelou, This a wonderful day. I've never seen this one before.
(*Diaversary is a word I invented, pronounced dee-a-versary. It's composed of the Latin words dies for "day," and versus, the past participle of vertere, "to turn." Hence it refers to the "turning of the day." Similarly, anniversary is derived from anno for "year" + versus, meaning the "turning of the year." )
As we travel on this journey called life the days of our lives keep turning, until sadly, one day they don't. But until that inevitable day, I shall continue to count mine, one by one, and marking each one of them as a special occasion. So allow me to wish myself, as well as all my fervid followers, Happy Diaversary!
- G.P.
Entrances matter to me. There are all kinds of entrances - making an entrance, walking through an entrance, writing an entry, entering a new year. They mark the beginning of things. They set a tone. They are symbolic of whatever follows. So I'm writing this entry as I enter the New Year. I haven't written anything in this little web of mine for almost three months. But today, the first day of 2016, is the perfect time to resume a semi-regular writing routine. Gossamer Penwyche has re-entered the blogosphere.
I also care about the appear-ance of the entrance to where I'm living or staying, because it's the first thing I see upon entering my home or lodgings. If it's been a long, hard day, and I'm feeling muddle-headed, I like the hallway to be clean and clear. After a hectic day, entering a cluttered vestibule does nothing to improve my mood. Coming into chaos is no way to empty the mind.
For several years now I've been troubled by the increasingly cluttered front doorway of the house where I live. I stopped dropping hints to my housemate/landlady about clearing out the books and newspapers that have been piling up over the six years I've been there. It only causes arguments. So for several weeks leading up to this New Year's I was fretting more than usual about the clutter in the entrance, which was reaching critical mass.
Clearing "stuff" out of one's life is one of the most effective ways to begin anew, and I was worried that my entry into 2016 was going to be littered with bad signs. Then fate made a welcome entrance. Yesterday, on December 31, my housemate moved a lot of the stuff from the front hallway to a pantry in the back room, well out of sight. I hadn't said anything to her. I didn't dare. She just up and cleared the space on her own. So when I entered my home on New Year's Eve, the tiny hallway was as free and clear of clutter as it's ever been. It was the best sign I could possibly have received upon beginning a brand new year.
My housemate has no idea how deeply grateful I am for the gift she gave me. It left me feeling so light of heart that observing the first day of the year by being and becoming the best possible me was a breeze, and culminated in this long overdue entry on my little web. And for that I'm grateful, too.
I've entered the new year on the right footing and in the right frame of mind. I can read the signs as they guide me on my way to the rest of my life, and Goddess willing, the best of my life.
Blessed be.
- G.P.
I didn't go to yoga class this morning because it's so friggin' cold. The walk to my studio takes about twenty-five minutes on clear sidewalks; on icy, snow covered turf it takes longer. By the time I get to the studio my fingers are numb and yellow from lack of blood. So I just plain decided to skip yoga today. That's a major decision for me because practising yoga keeps me fit and looking as good as I can at my not-quite-advanced age. 
