I told you so

If you know me, you likely have to bear the brunt of listening to me rambling on about Shambhala at some point. I’ve been volunteering since 2016, and that place keeps luring me back even though the level of work it takes is astonishing. Not only the packing up and getting there, and then packing up and leaving, but the countless hours my Team spends on meetings, prep, guidebooks, implementing new tech prior to the Festival, and the physical time spent at Medical every day. I work two 12 hour shifts (day and night) plus I’m there every morning onboarding the next team for orientation, as well as daily meetings and regular check ins with my MOAs to make sure things are going well. I’ll have a lull for a few months and then in January, things start up again. Emails, applications, and meetings.

So of course, my family is in the direct line of fire when I obsessively talk about it. My daughter joined me on the Farm in 2023, but my son has been resistant to my attempts to get him to go. His friend all go and have been trying to get him to attend for years too.

I was sitting in camp last Wednesday, thinking about napping before my night shift and he texted me out of the blue asking if I could find a guest pass for him. “Ah fuck,” I thought to myself, as I had already gotten rid of mine weeks ago, “Not a snowballs chance in hell.” But I asked my neighbour camped next to me (he volunteers as a medic) if he had given his “plus 1” away. “Nope, I still have it” he said, and, well, that was it. Three minutes later I texted Nick that he was in.

The plan was that he was going to surprise all of his buddies. He arrived Friday, and strolled nonchalantly into their camp and they all flipped the fuck out.

Friday night is the first night all the stages are open (Two stages open Thursday night), and that evening I got one single text from him.

“This is crazy”

Three simple words that somehow summed it up. Yep, this place is crazy. It’s loud, wild, free, fun, unique, loving, weird, beautiful, and filled with humans who embody the vibe of true PLUR. Shambs is on a different level. No one litters, not a single cigarette butt or water bottle or napkin on the ground. Hugs abound with calls of “Happy Shambs”. Sharing and caring everywhere.

Saturday night we connected for a quick chat. He was on a solo adventure, exploring all the nooks and crannies of the festival. And he said a couple things to me that made my heart explode with joy.

“Mom, you were right. I get it now. You have to be here to understand.”

My smile was so big and I hugged him with all my heart.

I told you so, kiddo. Listen to your mom next time.

It’s a place that defies the ability to describe. You really have to be there to know.

Maybe I’ll see you on the dance floor next year!

Oh May

I find it really hard sometimes to choose a favourite month. They’re all decent contenders except dreary old November and can winter end already February (amirite?). January, with a promise of new beginnings and returning light. December with it’s sparkle and joy. October, all sassy with its exuberant reds and oranges. Even September, as summer waves farewell, brings bounty in the garden and relief from the heat.

But nothing draws me in more than a month that give us growth. Green bowers, showy blooms, intoxicating scents with the unfurling of life. April truly bursts forth with a vengeance. But oh my gosh, May. May brings us gifts in the form of warm downpours and the first distant thunder. Pinks and yellows and purples greet us in the myriad of tulips standing straight up from the earth. Days can vary from hot and sunny to cool and calm. Coniferous trees decorate themselves with the brightest green of new growth. Gardens are ready to host the various seeds and starts that we’ve all been obsessed with since late winter. Sitting outside in the early evening and listening to the zzzz of the hummingbirds grabbing a snack before bed and the robins chirping their evening song is, quite honestly, food for the soul.

I have been getting into the habit of waking each day with a mindful awareness of the here and now. Saying to myself “I CAN wait” instead of “I can’t wait” for the various upcoming summer days. It really zips by far too fast, so taking even a few moments of quiet appreciation and just sitting with the day that we are in makes me feel more connected and grounded. It holds me to it, somehow. I dread feeling wistful and melancholy about not being “in the moment”, slightly panicky that I didn’t enjoy it enough. Speaking aloud to myself helps too. Maybe my neighbours think I’m a bit batty, wandering my gardens and commenting on the fragrance of the breeze and how the chimes in my apple tree are creating a melodic backdrop. But it solidifies the consciousness of my intent. My words tattoo the very moment I am engaged in directly into my soul.

It’s a sensory overload, this month we are immersed in. The lilacs have made their grand entrance a bit early this year and after a few days of much-needed rain, we are infused with that scent. Happy bees buzz around me, as if to say “Can you believe this? It’s a FEAST!” Girl, I say back, it really is.

The air is soft and somehow sounds carry differently. Mowers in the distance and boats coming home at dusk evoke some childhood connection to an indefinable happiness that gives me goosebumps. I can’t explain it, but some deeply entrenched core memories are woken. It happens when I hear the laughter of neighbours off in the distance, it happens when I hear far-off music at night. My inner child is giddy.

What a gift. What a treat and a treasure, to have this month of May. This sweet month of growth, not only in nature but in our souls as well.

Embers

I remember the first time I met her, in my early 20s, while working at a Hungarian restaurant in Nelson. I had just moved there, tagging along with my family. I was a bit untethered, trying to figure out what I was going to do after two years of post-secondary school and thought I’d give this artsy hippy town a try before launching.

I immediately liked her. We became fast friends, and then inseparable besties, hanging out after work and then eventually becoming roommates. I was with her when she met her boyfriend, I was the first person she called when they got engaged. I was her bridesmaid, and I was there when her babies were born.

She was there, too, for me, when I met the man I was to marry, when I had my babies and when we bought our house and moved.

That was when we began the mutual drift apart. There was no ill intent, no fights, no marker to look back and and see that point of when we stopped hanging out. Just a gradual shift, and then one day I realized it had been months since we talked. And weirdly, it felt okay. Her kids were older, she was in a different phase of life and I was immersed in the thick of baby/toddlerhood.

She came to my 40th, and I went to hers and it was lovely to see her and share laughs. I would see updates on Facebook and we’d like each other’s posts. I heard that she got divorced, and then met someone new and moved out of town in the opposite direction.

The way the universe works sometimes reveals itself in making some good come of bad. It was a tragedy, a horribly senseless loss in her life that revitalized our connection. We ended up talking at the funeral for so long and after a whole bunch of hugs, promised each other that we would get together.

And we did. We met for drinks and dinner, and it was like no time at all had passed. We slid right back into the easiest conversation, catching up on both of our lives. We laughed so much. And we shared some sad stuff too. Our evening ended with full hearts and promises of more gatherings.

I drove home that night with a smile on my face and a sweet contentment that has been with me all weekend since we hung out.

There are friendships that are fiery and hot and burn out very quickly, leaving just ash behind. Those serve a purpose, to keep us warm at the time. But there are other friendships, those slow burns that never go out. There will always be embers to blow on and rekindle. I’ve been lucky enough to have a few precious friendships that stand that test, not only of time, but of change. Life evolves, but these connections stay firmly rooted in our souls.

We blew on those embers, and that warm glow flickered into flames, and I know I want to feed that little fire to keep me warm. I never want it to go out. I want to warm my hands on those flames of friendship once again, to share and laugh and be silly and be there for one another, just like we’ve always been.

Equinox

The morning dawned in a muted way. Robins that were eagerly chirping yesterday were a bit less eager in their calls when I woke. I knew without looking out the window that the first day of spring arrived with Mother Nature’s sense of humour via a silly snowfall. It didn’t amount to much and was melted by noon, thankfully, so it didn’t settle the gloomies too hard on my heart.

I adore spring. Even when it’s still a brown dirty landscape and cold winds blow while the sun tries to bring its warmth, it’s just full of promise. For me it’s the sweetest anticipation. All of the delights are ready to be served: a full course meal on a platter has been placed in front of us, just out of reach. The barest scent of warmish air, the streams of melting snow running down the road, the light lasting longer each evening. It’s heading our way.

Little green tulip noses poking up through the cold soil, braving the threat of frost. Opening all the windows once it hits 5º, letting all the stale wintery air out and freshness in. Seeing seeds and tubers arrive in the stores draws me in, and suddenly I have a cart full of colourful joy that is yet to be. Isn’t it just the absolute best?

My affinity for this all is deeply tied to me being born on the spring equinox. I’ve forever felt a deep attachment to it, as if Spring has always been mine, and I get to share it with you all. The little girl in me still skips down the road, arms flung wide, asking my dad to get my bike out so I can ride it around the block. Hearing those little bits of gravel popping out from the tires as my legs get used to pedalling once again.

It’s a time to sit in the wonder of seasons. The Earth is tilting her northern half to the return of life. To late evenings outside, sudden rainstorms that drench us in moments, and a cacophony of green ready to burst forth.

We made it. We made it through the darkness and cold, and we are ready to be, once again, embraced in the unfolding beauty of Spring.

Half Moon

There was a layer of low cloud that skimmed along the length of the lake this morning. Above it hung the waning half moon, set against a pearly blue sky as dawn slowly woke up. The mountains forged the framework, dark at the bottom and emerging into the purest unmarred white at their peaks.

It was a scene I couldn’t take my eyes off of as I drove to work. It brought about a sense of peace in my heart. A welcome sense as the world is even more tenuous and worrisome than ever. I find myself grasping at moments like this with panicky desperation, trying to stay calm through a quiet and constant sense of foreboding. Grabbing at joy and shoving it in my pockets like a greedy child in a candy store. Hoarding happiness, saving sweetness, conserving comforts.

There is a sort of dichotomy these days. We are living in a time that affords us technology that would make a Victorian child faint. We have access to the entire world by getting on a plane and launching into the great blue yonder. We have vast amounts of STUFF at our fingertips. But we still fumble for more.

And the world feels like it’s taken a deep breath in, as if Mother Earth is waiting to see what we do. The exhale will come, and I don’t know if it will find us in utter ruin, done in by our own selfish nature, blind to what is happening. Blind and indifferent.

There are many who see it. So many who see the truth and reality of the climate crisis and capitalistic political dominance and religious fascism, creating a trifecta of destruction. And some who don’t. I find myself puzzling over this when I hear nonchalant comments from folks in their daily lives. Comments that lend to a blasé outlook. There are times I want to scream ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION???? And other times when I wish to be like them, safely oblivious and unbothered.

I know as a human that there needs to be a balance. So when I see vistas like I witnessed this morning, it becomes a part of my armour in a way, protection I can wear around my heart. It gives me a bit of strength, I think, because no matter how dark it may get, there will always be the moon and the sky and beauty, gifting us all moments of peace and tranquility.

Saturate

The summer has waned, my friends. The September sun traverses lower along the horizon on its daily journey, creating shade on my deck where there wasn’t any, even two weeks ago. Even though the days are warm, sometimes even careening briefly into hot, the melancholy of the past tense of summer is settling into my soul.

I adore summer. The heat, the storms, the daylight until bedtime, the birds waking us up at 4 am, the heavenly silk of the water of my lake, immersing myself into her to cool my body down. The gardens and blooms, the bees and butterflies, the calls of the robins, and the perfume of it all.

If I could bottle it all of it, to bathe in it, I would. I would saturate every cell with summer. Steep in its life and warmth until I know nothing but the rustle of the leaves of my apple tree as I close my eyes, watching the dappled shadows of the sunshine make shapes on my eyelids. Infuse my bones with the air of dusk in late July, allow it to permeate me with sweet raspberries and warm wind and the baked brown sugar scent of pine and larch and fir. If I could create a summer salve to rub into my skin, one that allows me to melt into my towel on the beach and sleep, blissfully, for a few minutes, only to wake up and swim yet again. I would be forever imbued with the peace of sultry nights, sitting outside in silence, watching the bats dive forward from their roost in my chimney, as the stars begin their perpetual glimmer in the deep sapphire and purple of the night sky. I have a constant yearning for all of this, never more so than when it’s just past. A tendril of grief, maybe, an indulgent moroseness for the days where the need for warm clothes is just a memory.

Every fall, I struggle for a bit to find the grace to accept the cold that waits for us. I do eventually come to terms with it, and yes, even love those days of brisk sunshine and rosy cheeks, seeing your breath on a cold snowy morning. But right now, knowing the season that I love so much is so far out of reach and we all have to navigate those dark cold nights yet again, it’s just a bit disheartening.

So every single day that the sun offers her heat, and not just her light, I make sure to soak it up as much as I can. So that my body is saturated with that warmth for as long as possible.

Dearest me,

Ah, memories. Thanks to modern technology and various social media platforms, old posts and forgotten pictures can pop up, allowing contemporary mini time capsules. We no longer have to rely just on our minds to evoke those days gone by.

My phone chose to give me an album that somehow pulled up a picture of me, taken 13 years ago. One that was taken in the summer, when I was 40, when I was tanned, when I was fit as fuck, and ridiculously (dare I say it??) stunningly beautiful. I was in a bikini, standing knee-deep in a mountain stream, smiling up at my husband who took the photo.

I took a few moments, looking at that photo. My hair in a messy ponytail, draped over my shoulder. My smile, echoing the enjoyment I felt that whole time. I recall that day: we had ridden up into the mountains on a hot summer’s day, seeking huckleberries and icy cold creeks.

I also recall my constant negative review of my body, thinking my stomach wasn’t flat enough, my arms not toned enough, my whole self just wasn’t enough. I had been obsessed with running and working out, and also sadly, overly obsessed with self-deprecation.

There’s such a multi-level 20/20 hindsight to this, as I write this as a 53 year old woman. First of all, it never ever EVER matters what your body looks like. I spent so much time thinking that perfection was the ultimate goal. That I HAD to look hot. Sexy. Muscular. That my worth was primarily tied into how others perceived me. I denied my body certain joys to make sure I contrived a false sense of importance by staying as fit as I could.

However, being fit felt really good. I slept better, I could do more, I know that I really received a lot of enjoyment and fulfillment from all that I did to push my body by running, lifting, yoga etc. My vain little peacock side was satiated. Plus, it helped with all my chronic pain issues. I couldn’t imagine how life would have been if I hadn’t been as devoted as I was, and still am.

Yet, I still doubted myself. I still berated myself. I still thought I wasn’t “all that”.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFT.

As I stand in front of the mirror, with my post-menopausal (and post-hysterectomy) body that has changed in ways that is humbling and kind of fascinating reflecting back at me, there is a level of gentle acceptance. My body is a bit softer, a tad curvier, and a little more squishy than it’s ever been. I find myself at times desperately wishing for that body I had when I was 40. That body that I, when I was 40, found fault with. Ain’t THAT ironic. And a teaching moment. I see the tummy, the “love handles”, the skin that wrinkles and sags. I wish it away, and I shouldn’t. I think Oh, if I just work out and eat less….. but the truth, the biological facts are smacking me in the face. I am in my 50s. I will never be young again. And that is okay.

So, here I am in the moment, toggling between wishing for a better me, despairing and judging and wishing and also knowing that when, in 10, 15, 20 years, I will look back at myself RIGHT NOW and think “oh, if I could only have THAT body”. The lesson that revealed itself to me was a stark reminder that longing never ends, that aging is inevitable if you’re lucky, and that acceptance isn’t finite but a journey.

I am no longer who I was, but I am who I will always be.

Just a smidge of woo-woo

I think I am generally a science-y kind of gal. I’m not one to believe in the “metaphysical”, even though I’m still drawn to Wicca (throw-back to my witchy youth) and I still get a kick out of horoscopes. Oh and yes, I have a few crystals placed around my house. I burn incense in my altar, and I bless my home. I own witch salt… ok, ok, so maybe I am into the metaphysical?

Anyways, I digress. I guess I’d like to believe in all of the woo-woo, but I also have a streak of cynic in me that holds me back from going full-on. That said, we all have experiences in our lives that are hard to explain, no? I’ve had a few.

In the fall of 2020, I lost my paternal grandmother. It was the first loss in the family in a long time, and we broke all the Covid rules about gathering around her as she lay in the hospital bed. She passed away peacefully after a week of being surrounded by family, laughter and love.

About a month or two later, I was walking my dog. It was a lovely snowy day. As I walked, I spoke to her. I said that I loved her and I missed her and that we were all doing our part to make sure Grandpa was looked after.

I felt something then. I felt a tangible cloak of emotion, love in its sweetest and gentle form, settle around me. I was embraced. I felt her. It was a feeling I have never experienced before, one that I find difficult to describe. I said, “Grandma, send me a sign that you are okay. Send me sign, anything, send me a rose!” (Her middle name was Rose)

I wiped away my tears, and the feeling faded away. I was left with gratitude and calmness.

A day or two later, I was in my office and my boss came out and said “Come check out the new art I bought for my room!” I got up and went into her treatment room/office.

There, hung on the wall, was a print of roses.

Now, I didn’t even think of that at the time. It was only later, during savasana after my yoga practice, when I lay on my mat, deep breathing, that the realization slammed into me and I sat up, marvelling and astonished.

Now, was that a coincidence? Was it my unconscious self creating that sensation of love? Was it all in my imagination?

The skeptic would say yes. And sometimes I think so too. But.

But.

That feeling of love was almost palpable, like an invisible silken scarf draped on my shoulders. I like to think she was there, and was able to extend her arms around me, allowing me to feel her love. And in her own way, an otherworldly influence in my boss’s choice for art.

I’ve never felt her since, and that’s okay. Because you know what? She’s okay.

Brain Gym

You know, hitting 50 wasn’t as bad as I thought, and now that I’m sliding into my mid-fifties, I can say that wow, yeah it wasn’t as bad as I thought but it sure is bringing a lot of shit I wasn’t expecting.

Amping up my game to offset some of the aging particulars has been in my arsenal for quite some time. A big shout out to retinols, Vitamin C serums and peptides for starters. Making sure I stay active, too, is part of my regular routine. A good diet of balanced nutrition, cutting back on alcohol, not indulging in the puff puff pass as much as I used to (lol wink wink) and recognizing my body’s need to rest more is key to maintaining a balanced existence.

I think that the most important thing that I have done, though, since turning 50 was deciding to learn something new. Actually, two new things.

I signed up for Duolingo to learn Spanish. After a few half-hearted attempts, I dedicated myself to 15 minutes every morning. Two of my friends are also learning, so we joined forces to buy the full subscription which is definitely worth it. I’m now 398 days in of daily practice, and a trip to Mexico in November proved that I’ve actually retained what I have learned when I put my (limited) abilities to work. My proudest moments of the trip were helping our taxi driver with directions all in Spanish, and figuring out what our lovely waitress was asking us at the end of a meal one night. Yes, yes, I am sure I fumbled the pronunciations and of course my verb tenses aren’t outstanding, but that feeling of understanding and being understood was so rewarding.

The other thing that I have taken on was never my intention, but rather the inspiration from my sister. You see, last year she gave me a skein of cotton rope and a how-to macrame book for my birthday. Now truthfully, I was a bit, I dunno, chagrined, I guess. Maybe a bit offended, if I’m honest. I mean, I’m not a crafty bitch. I’ve always felt that my attempts at art have been cringey at best and downright embarrassing in retrospect. But with her encouraging inscription in the book, a day or two later, I dug in to a simple plant hanger project.

Well. Almost a year later and I can say that I am HOOKED. Holy moly, I love this art form. Creating wall pieces, making functional and pretty hat hangers, and other bits and bobs have been my saving grace as I struggled through some stressful times. I find myself tying knots in my mind if I wake up at 2 am, heart racing and panicky (thanks Menopause, you horrid thing).

The most wonderful thing I can say about it is that I am creating art. The simple satisfaction that settles in when I finish a piece is like no other. It’s good for my brain, it’s good for my heart, it’s good for my soul.

And that, my friends, is always a good thing.

Carpe diem and jump in

When I was a child, anytime we would drive places in the summer time and come across a river or creek, I remember always wanting to stop and jump in. The water, bubbling over rocks before pooling into deeply green and blue back eddies were beyond inviting. The subtle swirls of the water in those pools hypnotized me.

We never stopped, though, in all the road trips and camping forays we did. I don’t ever recall asking, since I figured the answer would be no. To this very day, the sight of a river hugging the highway on a hot summer’s day evokes a longing in me that has never been fulfilled.

Until Sunday. My husband and I packed up a lunch and the dogs and some towels and headed up to Duncan Lake for the afternoon. As we drove by the Lardeau river, admiring the pale green of the water, I mentioned how inviting it looked. He agreed. So after a few hours spent frolicking (no word of a lie, we played like kids!!) on the beach at the lake, we headed back. We passed the one spot that I had spied but by then it was in the shade and the access didn’t look easy for a couple people in flip flops. So we turned and went back to the bridge and found a path down to the water’s edge. The river at that spot deepened to a large pool of unknown depth before veering off to some shallow rapids. Alluring and beguiling, the pale peridot water didn’t have to coax us at all.

And so we plunged in. It was refreshing and cold, a stark difference to the tepid waters of the lake that we had just swam in. The pull of the current belied the calm surface, and as always, humbled me to the power of water.

It was a quick in and out, but the icy glacier-fed river quenched that constant burn of childhood yearning. Quenched, and yet somehow ignited a zest for more.

I know now, as I have entered into my 50s, that stopping to smell the roses, or in my case, plunging into a beautiful river to soothe my inner child’s wishes is a form of healing. One where that little girl who fervently wanted to jump into water just because has had her wish finally granted. I felt her gratitude and her contentment that day, that invisible part of me whom I often ache to nurture and reassure. Through her, my joy was immeasurable and my own heart was satiated.