India - Fifth Post

We arrived in Mysore on Sunday around 1pm after a 20 hour journey from Arambol, Goa. We took an overnight bus with MRI-like sleeper compartments. Trixie and I shared one and luckily I could lie down, because I couldn't sit up (we were on the top "bunk" and the roof of the bus was too low). The roads were so rough that at certain points I felt like I was inside a bulldozer. I got nervous when the bus swayed turning corners and thought for sure we'd be toast before we made it to Bangalore. But we made it. From Bangalore we took a 2 hour train ride (a luxury ride in comparison).

Here in Mysore we are staying in a private home that Trixie lived in for 4 months a few years back when she first came to India. The house is owned (and lived in) by a family consisting of a retired mom (Swaji), her adult son (Gautam), and his new wife (Katiya). The house is in a really nice area of the city and they have a beautiful garden and really nice property. There are 9 new puppies there too and the moms are VERY protective of them. We are occupying the top floor of the house, have private (and very clean) bathrooms, and are treated like gold. I've had my first restful sleep this trip (even though it's in a single bed and I worry I'll roll over and fall out!) It sure beats sleeping in a hut!

We are doing some pretty intense Ashtanga yoga classes here. The teacher, Shushadri, is really into pushing students deeper into the poses. I'm blown away by the depth to which I can get into poses when he or his son or one of the teacher trainees adjusts me. I'm actually enjoying the intensity of this style of yoga as the Iyengar yoga we did in Arambol was quite slow and precise. Ashtanga on the other hand has a nice flow and we work at our own pace.





This is Sheshadri, the guru at Mysore Yoga Mandala








We are also taking Bollywood dance classes here! It's hilarious! The teacher (a man) was showing us the "woman's moves" today - they included things like doing a catwalk and sassy pelvis thrusts. He was wearing a dress shirt and dress pants (the Indian uniform, I think), and watching him do these really feminine moves was quite funny. He had them down pat. I really enjoyed it and was flattered when he said to me "you a dancer, yes?".

I have been riding around Mysore on the back of Trixie's motorbike. At first I was refusing to do so, but later gave it a shot. I'm surprised at myself! I find it really liberating now, and am not scared. I am beginning understand the traffic patterns after watching drivers, and she's a really good driver. It helps that she knows where she's going (and that I now have a helmet).

I leave for Bangalore tomorrow (Thurs) for my Nia workshop which is happening on the 1st and 2nd of March. Last I heard we had 30-40 people registered and there will be both print and TV coverage!

India - Fourth Post

Being here in India has given a lot of time to reflect. I find myself thinking about how much emotionally stronger I have become since the last time I was here. Every time I turn around, my experiences show me that I have developed a greater tolerance for the unexpected. It's a truly wonderful feeling, to be so relaxed, flexible and dynamic in my responses to India's little annoyances. A few examples come to mind.

In 2005/6, when I first visited India, I would have been seriously irritated by:

all the mosquitos I attract
...but now I'm not. Even though they seem to love to nosh on my face, and I am left with pretty sizeable swollen welts on my cheeks, chin, nose and forehead, I don't let it phase me.
I imagine that these blotchy red bumps are there on purpose, to camouflage the real me. Trixie told me that when an Indian child is thought to be extraordinarily beautiful, the parents will put black marks on their face with charcoal to avoid attracting attention and to reduce the likelihood of the child becoming excessively vain.

the fact that my sandals are disintegrating and changing colour
...but now I'm not. Although they were in great condition when I arrived, something about all the dust and sand and heat has dissolved any glue that attached the bottom to the soles of my shoes. There is no shoe cobbler here in Arambol, so I had to consider my options. Since it's pretty important for me to take care of my feet and wear comfortable footwear, and since comfortable footwear just doesn't seem to exist here, I have resorted to duct tape. The miracle travel companion. My left shoe has already undergone this duct tape treatment, and now the right shoe is getting ready for it's operation. Jose, a Spanish friend from the yoga course, wondered if this was a Canadian fashion...

Often, when I leave the internet cafe,(having left my shoes outside when I arrived), I cannot find my sandals and for a split second think they've been stolen. That's because I'm looking for the blue coloured Columbia sandals I arrived with, not the brown/red sandals they have become.

the constant barrage of "hello, taxi" or "taxi m'am?" each time I walk past the taxi stands (which happens probably 25 times a day)
...but now I'm not.
There are 2 clever ways to deal with this. First, technically, when someone says "hello, taxi", it is appropriate to say "my name is not taxi" and continue to walk on by. And when asked "taxi m'am?", I enjoy patting my thighs or pointing to my feet and saying "THIS is my taxi!". That always gets a smile! Especially now that I have my duct taped sandals...


all the errors in English spelling
...but now I'm not. Why should it bother me that a "margarita" is listed in a menu as "Marge Rita" and a "Strawberry Daiquiri" as a "Srawbenny Diquiri", or that a "treadmill" is described as a "threadmill"? And what exactly is a "Veg bugger", "Pitch Snaps" or "Hot & Tengy Squids with salt, paper and fresh baizel"?





Yup, I've come a long way these past couple of years! I just celebrated my one year anniversary of discovering the best "cocktail" for me. Gone are the moments of terror, utter helplessness and numbing anxiety that were once a daily ocurrence. Now, I'm blessed with a freedom of spirit that is still foreign to me but a very welcomed guest that I hope decides to hang around...

(I have been working on this post for about 5 days now. I am adapting to what feels like a dial-up connection although everyone insists it's not...I have been unable to upload all the pictures I'd like to because it seems every computer in Arambol is not equipped to do what I need it to do!!!!)

Sunday Scribblings #39 - Sleep

What kind of a relationship do I have with sleep?
Here's the story...

I am living with a drug-induced sleep disorder. An anti-depressant I'm taking to manage my bipolar disorder has the lovely side effect of inducing Periodic Limb Movement Disorder or PLMD in sleep-ology language.

Although it sounds all pathological and everything, it's actually quite an amusing problem to have. As the name suggests, during the night I experience what everyone commonly knows as "twitches". Whereas it is normal to have approximately 5 of these twitches per hour, I experience up to 20 per hour. This frequency of movement was painstakingly recorded by a poor sleep lab technician who had to watch a full 8 hours of me sleeping while monitoring my neurological activity, my O2 saturation levels and my heart-rate (can you imagine a more dull job?!)

Actually, it's not me who experiences these shudders of physical activity. I myself am not aware of them, for I am sleeping! However, my husband is acutely aware of them. He tells me that, at times, it's as if he is is sleeping in a vibrating bed. You know those old beds in dirty motel rooms where you put 25 or 50 cents in and you feel like you are in the middle of an earthquake? The ones that are oddly disturbing yet fascinating? That make you question whether you are having a seizure or not? Like that. At that rate, I figure I must be ramping up to a pretty tight frequency of vibration during those times - like maybe in the 1000-1500 Hz range? My body would make a pretty fine tuning fork if I could harness that buzzing at will!

It's odd, isn't it, that I would not know that this is happening to me? Essentially these jolting movements are shocking me out of deep sleep, and so I don't really ever wake up feeling refreshed. I guess, then, that the daytime sleepiness is what's the most bothersome.

What is rather interesting, though, is that, while I'm sleeping, I find myself incorporating these spastic movements into whatever physical activity I'm currently practicing. This translates (in my mind) into a kind of physically active dream. Yet it's more than a dream, because I know I am moving, and seem to be consciously creating the movements. Hard to accurately verbalize, but that's the experience.

So, for example:

~ When I studied Speech-Language Pathology, we studied an oral-motor stimulation technique. It involved me (the therapist) to use my hands to guide the movements of a person's lips, tongue or jaw. Many a night I twitched my way closer to my husband who was the recipient of some pro bono oral-motor therapy!

~ More recently, as I immersed myself in the study of Nia, my jerk-y movements were transformed (in my mind) into beautiful sequences of cha-cha-chas, blocks, chops and jazz squares.

~ And this week, while I study at the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center in beautiful Arambol, Goa, India, I feel those convulsive-like movements charging my toes to become straight, my toe mounds and heels to push down and my spine to align!

So does it surprise you that my husband and I can no longer sleep in the same bed?! Since we decided this was the route to go, he has enjoyed a greatly improved quality of sleep and has greatly reduced his chance of injury (an inadvertant kick, or punch) while sleeping!

Sleep...a strange and wonderful phenomenon!

India - Third Post

Still in Arambol, and am soaking the heat into my bones to take with me back to Canada. I will not complain about the fact that I am constantly sweating, that my hair is frizzy-curly-out-of-control, or that I am radiating heat from my body. No, I will just drink more water, cool myself in the Arabian Sea and savour it. I'm feeling India take over now leavng me nice and mellow (or "shanti, shanti" ~ "peace, peace" as they say here).

I'm enjoying the yoga. We have daily 3 hour classes, but the instruction and detail is quite clear and reinforces so much about my Nia practice. The more I heard from our teacher, the more deep respect I felt for Debbie Rosas and Carlos Rosas, the founders of Nia, as they have managed to integrate so much wisdom in the practice. If I didn't think I needed to use the heel lead before this week, I'm truly convinced of it now!





This is me in wheel pose!





I've met some pretty cool people who are taking yoga for the first time. One guy, Kenneth, let me take a picture of his tattoo which was most inspiring, given his story (he also has bipolar disorder)!


We (Trixie, Tserring and Giovanna - my travel companions - and I) were at the Arjuna market on Wednesday. It's a big western/Indian market about 40 minutes from Arambol. Jose (a spanish version of Robin Williams who is also taking the yoga course we're in) joined us and kept us laughing throughout the day.

This time, I really reigned myself in on the shopping. I decided it makes no sense to spend $ on things I will only wear here, and things that will have a short life-span due to the cheap quality of the goods.

From Arjuna we went across the beach to Baja where we went para-sailing. Floating high above the sea was special, but the ride was quite short. Nonetheless, it was fun, and a British tourist told me I looked like Sigourney Weaver on the way back - maybe she was a little drunk, or was enjoying the chillum (hash) a little too much!!

Yesterday we went to the capital of Goa(Panjim) as well as Old Goa. It's about 1 hour away from Arambol. There was nothing much really interesting for me there - just some churches (christianity is big here) and an archeological museum. I went in the museum, but sat outside for the church. The organized religion thing is still not something I enjoy - I feel like a hypocrite patronizing such holy places, actually. I feel the respect, don't get me wrong. It's just that I feel I'm giving up a bit of my own divinity and truthfulness to myself even just by being there.

The moment I sat down on the bench outside the church to read my Lonely Planet, packs of young Indian men migrated towards me to have their picture taken with this foreigner. All they would have gotten was the top of my head as I was reading. One after one they sat down, just far enough away that I potentially might not see them, but close enough to get us both in the shot. There were even 2 men standing about 5 feet in front of me with a space between them - so I was in the shot, in the middle, but in the background. I find this highly amusing, and am reflecting on this as I type with a huge goofy on-the-verge-of-giggling grin. Even more bizarre to me is that they wouldn't ask me to pose - instead they chose to have their picture taken with the top of my head!

We saw a rather scary car crash while we were eating our lunch yesterday though. A bus ploughed into the driver's side (right side) of a small 4 door Tata car. The car was mangled but luckily no one was (visibly) hurt. It was the bus driver's fault, but of course he jumped off the bus and started yelling at the driver driver of the car. A big crowd of "witnesses" and many nosy people gathered, and the police eventually came (within about 20 minutes or so - pretty good by Indian standards). I was surprised that they seemed to be taking the whole thing quite seriously - they cleared away the Tata and then were measuring the intersection where it happened and were taking notes/filling out a report. What will happen to that report is another story....it might just collect dust on someone's desk or be "lost" if insurance is involved. It was a scary sight.

We went on a sunset cruise from Panjim, forgetting it was Valentine's day. We were all driven a little squirrly by the Goan Trace beats pumping loudly through the speakers, but made light of it, enjoying the "local flavour" of our adventure. The DJ invited couples up to dance (Trixie refused to be part of a "couple" with me!), and then the men, followed by the women. What a sight. The men were bumping and grinding (mucho pelvis action!), and were generally a pretty tight and large crowd. The women were few and far between. Quite the opposite in Canada, unless, of course you're in a gay bar. Difference is, men in gay bars can actually dance, men here in Goa were attempting very awkward Bollywood dance moves. I enjoyed watching their creativity, though, and got a snap....


When we left Panjim, it was dark and our driver was narrowly missing everything he passed. After a few gasps, Trixie said "hey, we're in no rush here" and he slowed down. I have been sitting in the front seat for our excursions, so it is even more frightening to see the close encounters within such close proximity.

I'll sign off now...there's already been one power outage while I have been here. Apparently there's a problem with a submerged cable somewhere which is responsible for the frequent power interruptions?!

Sunday Scribblings # 38 - Fridge Space

Odorific. Fridge space.

Baking soda crowded crispers liquifying onions (increasing the spaciousness).
Egg cups fix albumin glued shell fragments only fingernails can free.
Shelves hoard nearly empty peanut butter, pickle and jam jars we refuse to finish.
Tupperware science experiments ripen the sour aroma.

"Why is there so much fridge space?"

The life cycle of the fridge space.
An aging process and often a rebirthing in my fridge space.
Abandoned casseroles reincarnate as parasytic lichen, moss, spores.
Spaciousness of this cooling unit which hardens eyeliner before you sharpen it and jello before you eat it.

"I forgot to pick up milk."

There is room, yes, there is a space for all.
Excess space invites a scarcity mentality.
Too little space and abundant calm settles.
(Especially when we're talking beer fridge space!)

"I can't find any space in this fridge for the groceries!"

There would be more fridge space if I threw out the 20 bottles of 10 year old unused nailpolish that apparently keeps longer in the fridge.
Everything has an expiry date.
No such thing as eternal life when it comes to fridge space.
This is an invitation to find space.
I can cultivate a spaciousness with a little effort.

"Then throw out that loaf of mould".

Odorific.
Fridge Space.

India - First Post

India.
!ncredible !ndia (that's what tourism India tells us on the billboards when we land; first in Mumbai, and later in Goa).

Here after a 30 hour journey involving 3 take offs and 3 landings and one very winding and reckless cab ride. Writing after several extended-naps-interrupted-by-meals in our straw hut near the beach. Getting back online and in touch with the world and out of this fantasy land that I find myself in. Finding my groove in this special place. That's pretty much what I've been doing.

On the journey and now here, there has been this sense of being simply level. No panic, no excitement, no worry, no anticipation. It was quite a smooth...soft...really comfortable feeling. I'm thanking Andrew for that. I got to spend a few days babysitting him before I left, so I think I had his 3 year old "live in the moment" mentality really allowed me to be open to whatever unfolds.

The "memorables" so far include:

- being part of this community of straw huts that is the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Centre (no, we are nowhere near the Himalaya's, but the folks that run this centre also set up in Dharmasala - in the Himalayas - in the summertime when it's too hot here)
- sleeping to the sound of the wind rushing through a gazillion palm trees outside our hut and then being woken up to the sound of a kitten mewing.
- discovering my feet in yoga class this morning!
- pink doggies (the sand/soil is a rich iron-oxide red, and all the stray dogs who started out life with white fur now have pink fur)
- the almost immediate dissolution of my standards of personal hygeine (my feet are red from the sand, and will be the entire time I'm here...)
- all the Western caucasian hippies (many aging - or aged? - and many young families with children), the entitlement to dreadlocks, cigarettes, motorbikes and carefree lifestyles oozing from their pores!


!ncredible !ndia indeed!

Sunday Scribblings #37 - Foul

Moving through life has disgusted, polluted and contaminated my senses. It's unavoidable. Still, filthy, grimy, visceral memories surface when I think of the foul experiences I have been a part of:

Standing in a shower that doubled as a toilet.

You can imagine my horror when, in a small village in India, I discovered that I was expected to stand where someone had
urinated to have my shower. Yup, the family toilet was one in the same as the family shower. A cement refrigerator-like box with a small cut out at the bottom of 2 of the 4 walls (for drainage) was where urination and bathing happened. Without flip-flops, I decided to forego showering for the 2 nights I was there. I preferred to marinate in my own b.o. than to soak my feet in the family's urine.



Tasting a splash of food from someone else's mouth

As a new Speech-Language Pathologist, I was asked to perform a swallowing assessment on a woman with very advanced stage Huntington's Disease. To begin my assessment, I watched her daughter feed her and realized that this woman was unable to swallow. The woman was also not fully alert, and I was growing concerned. I asked the daughter to stop.

I cringed at the thought that perhaps she would choke. Indeed, she started coughing, and I grew nervously anxious. Leaning in to encourage her to cough forcefully, she did just that - and I got a cheek and lip-ful of her regurgitated food. Instinct kicked in, and I lipped my lips, instantly realizing what I'd done....eeeeewwwwww!!!


Dropping my water bottle in the toilet post #2

The digestive aftermath of a bran-flake breakfast chased by 2 cups of coffee ended up in the toilet. Ahh. Relief (you know that feeling, come on, admit it!). I get up to grab the TP, inconveniently located out of arms reach, and my leg sets the wobbly toilet in motion. Normally, no problem. But today, my water bottle topples over from atop the lid behind me, right into the excrement. Think bran and coffee. I need not say more. Worse, I was in public. There were no rubber gloves, I had no choice but to get in there...







As my mom would say, I've had my share of "gungy" experiences....many involving bodily fluids.