In Praise of Warriors.

A few weeks ago it was again the “What if?” time for me. What if I’m not a warrior?

It comes round once every year, or it should do. Despite arguments in favour and concerns about its accuracy and X-rays, whatever our age most women screw up their courage and book a mammogram.

Age is irrelevant, even though many women are told after 65 or 70 they do not need to have one every year. At a recent breast cancer day a leading local cancer specialist told the assembled women his youngest patient was 23, his eldest 92.

As the day for my mammogram drew closer, I admit I considered not going. Once there it was a swift process no time to read more than a few pages of my book before I was sitting, naked top half of my body barely covered in a wrap, waiting, feeling slight empty. Apart from the squishing it was soon over.

Then came the waiting and the thinking. Perhaps because I have spent the past year very close to breast cancer, offering yoga classes to ladies I call my Warrior Women, ladies fighting and surviving breast cancer, I knew first-hand what they  have been through; what they have survived.  It also coincided with the mail strike so the results letter was even longer in arriving

It gave me ample time to wonder if I would have the Warrior strength. Would I choose conventional treatment or, as several of my warriors, opt for holistic methods? Would I even have the courage to go through it all?

Yogically I know thinking about what “might be” is unproductive, a waste of energy, even against all yogic principles of living in the present moment. But we are human and I believe we should allow our minds to consider possibilities, make some preparations, just as we make wills and investments for our older years.

During the waiting weeks I mentally thanked my warriors, for the many different, but ultimately positive examples they had shared. Their cancers and treatments have varied greatly; survival years, re-occurrences, ongoing medications, reactions to treatments. The important gifts they brought to each other and to me were their determination, their resilience, and most of all their laughter.

When the letter finally came I stood outside by the mail box shredding the envelope. The words of reassurance, of relief, flooded my mind and body. I offered thanks to the Great Goddess. I offered thanks I can continue to share yoga classes for another session, welcoming more warriors, welcoming back others who are finding strength, calm and companionship in difficult times and helping them to adjust to a ‘new normal’ as my dear friend Wendy used to say.

Thank you, Warrior Women.

The Joy of Movement. Dancing from the Inside

Today, Sunday, June 26, was a day of dance. For me a day of joy.

Though I spend most of my days moving as I teach my yoga classes, and believe movement is an essential, elemental and primeval part of our earliest development, dance is the movement that gives me the greatest fulfillment, that nourishes my soul and allows my body to speak. It infuses my yoga; I love creating and teaching vinyasas.

From my years as a performing arts reviewer I know dance is the most difficult of the arts to express in words; but dance also gives my body words. Words that sometimes it did not know, did not know it needed to say.

Margie Gillis

In Moncton professional dance workshops are not as frequent as in several places I have lived. So it was with happiness I bought my tickets for two workshops that were part of the Atlantic Dance Festival.  So this morning I found myself flowing through a session on interpretation with Margie Gillis, one of Canada’s greatest contemporary solo dancers.

“Found myself”. The words came straight out of my body, and express exactly what happens when I move spontaneously and come out of my mind into my body.

That of course is what we try to find in a yoga practice. I say it many times a week. Margie Gillis’ dance philosophy is “dancing from the inside out”, which also resonates with what yoga is about. This also connects with my Iyengar yoga training; the focus on being internal, aware of how the body feels underneath the skin, and letting the energy within flow.

Thread

Among Margie Gillis’ works to enjoy are Thread – about aging and the connections we weave; Voyages into the Inner Landscapes, and Fluid Stability. As well as being a wonderful performer, Margie is also an eloquent teacher. The two do not always co-exist; it is her passion for dance that she communicates.

It was an amazing 90 minutes of letting go, of listening within and feeling; very improvisational. We worked in pairs, we moved swiftly, we moved slowly, we arched to the sky, we released to the floor. At the end Margie was complimentary about my movement and I floated home for lunch. Not really needing actual nourishment.

In the afternoon I experienced the Bharatanatyam style of Indian dance, taught by Atri Nundy from Toronto. This is a classical dance style from Tamil Nadu in Southern India; comprising 64 basic steps and communicating through facial expression and many mudras or hand gestures. Not surprisingly it takes years to become a professional.

These pictures show just how beautiful it can be. Certainly we were so far from this.

When I was studying yoga in India a few years ago we saw several performances and were privileged to see male student dancers preparing for a career as Kathakali performers.

To my surprise, loving most aspects of Indian culture, I did not find this style of dance nearly so satisfying or joyful. As you can imagine it takes a lot of intense concentration to master the intricate foot movements – lots of stamping – and the mudras. In contrast to the morning it was all in the head and very little in the body, as it would hopefully eventually become after years of study. Of course nothing happens instantly - how often do I say that? – but after the freedom and inner expression of the morning I felt constricted, a little overwhelmed by a bit too much information and wanted so simply curve my arms around my torso and flow freely across the studio.

But my body welcomed both experiences and is the more open for them.

A Brief Blossoming. A Very Best Friend. Food for Thought.

Several incidents in the past week, caused me in quick succession to, marvel, catch my breath, and shed a tear, at courage and question some collective values.

 First was the too brief blossoming of our cherry tree. Always a marvel of nature. But this year a cool wet spring following a record snow-fall winter delayed its unfurling by more than a week. Each day I gazed from my studio window, anticipating the cloud of pale pink organza that wraps the tree. Refuge and food for birds who snack on its berries and from our bird feeders hung from its branches, the tree is a valediction of nature’s re-birth and joyful beauty.

 This year the blossoming was a more than a week late and after rain and one exceptionally windy day, all those fragile petals carpeted the ground.

 Thankfully it will continue to offer protection for the chickadees, sparrows and thrushes, we will keep the feeders full and come October the berries will again provide food.

 An incredible journey proved once again that a dog can be humans’ best friend. Much as I love my cats I gasped at the story of Mason, the rangy terrier caught up in the Alabama tornado and flung far from his family, home and familiar surroundings. Not only this but badly injured. How he crawled back home on two mangled front legs is almost beyond belief. But he did. Here come the tears again.

 First reports made me cry even more. The story was his family was giving him up for adoption as they could not keep him while rebuilding their home  and own lives.  My yoga training teaches me not to judge, but my heart broke. Is not Mason part of their lives? Was it possible to go without something to provide for him? I know from years volunteering with Humane Societies and animal rescue organisations, the double pain Mason would go through. Also studies show how much comfort animals offer us in painful times.

I too have been in a similar situation. Many years ago moving back to live in Britain, quarantine was still in effect – six months of it. I had four cats and had arranged for two of them to fly back and go through the required kennelling. Almost immediately I realised I could not choose, I had no right to condemn two of my companions, my responsibilities to the uncertainties of hoping for another forever home. I knew older animals have a very low rate of adoption, and like a child a pet is for life. I did not have much money but I immediately arranged to take all four. Never for a moment did I regret it. Three of them returned to Canada with me some years later – and amazingly after two trans-Atlantic flights still loved me.

 A day ago reports were that Mason’s family will be waiting for him when his legs have healed. That is when everyone, and Mason will heal.

 On the same day that I heard hockey fans may be prepared to pay $196,000 for a box from which to watch games when the Xxxx Xxxx move to Winnipeg, I read that 925 million people in this world of ours go hungry every day. That’s not even thinking of the people who do not have access to clean water, adequate medical treatment and shelter.

 I question our priorities, but most of all I question our collective responsibility to humanity. Do we care, really care? Can people not pay less? Sit in the bleachers, miss a game or two? And give to others.

 And, yes, I do donate whenever I can and encourage my students to do so.

“May all sentient beings be free from suffering”   The Buddha.

With Thanks, a Tough Goodbye

Last Thursday, May 12, a Memorial Service was held for my dear friend Bruce Lee, ‘Mon Oncle’ as I sometimes called him.

Bruce lived in Toronto and I am currently living in New Brunswick. Once again not only the pain of saying goodbye to a friend, but of not having seen them, shared a meal or outing for many months. Phone calls, e-mails and letters help but are rarely a true connection.  Too often while I have lived one side of the ocean or the other or in another province this has happened; the heart-ache never lessens.

Bruce would have celebrated his 95^th birthday in November, and celebrate is one word all his friends would have used about his life. An amazing home renovator-re-builder, stained glass artist, self-taught craftsman in many media, he was able to bring a master’s touch to every project he worked on, and they were many.

Born in Alberta, Bruce grew up on his family’s farm during the hardscrabble days of the Depression. As you can see he was a good-looking young man, and stayed handsome. One of three boys he was interested in the quilts of those days; the patterns and fabrics. A detailed description of these early years is related in his memoir, self-published when he was 92.

I first met Bruce and Joyce, his wife, almost 30 years ago when we all lived in Guelph. They were across the street neighbours who quickly became good friends. After Bruce had come east and worked in Montreal and Toronto, and travelled a great deal, they came to Guelph and bought Duncan McPhee Interiors, located in a lovely mid-nineteenth century building. From this ideal location Bruce and Joyce sold exceptional furniture, upholstered and wood, sophisticated home accessories and gifts as well as art and framing supplies.

Most of the wallpaper and curtains in my Guelph house were from the Lee’s store. I still have some of the curtains and as I look around our home here just about all the artwork has Duncan McPhee frames. Tonight at dinner I remembered buying the place mats on a trip to Elora with Bruce, probably on a visit when living back in Britain. Bruce also persuaded me to buy the blue and white striped sheets we sleep in.

We shared a mutual love of art, the arts – Joyce, like me, loved ballet – and antiques. My first foray into selling antiques at the well-known Aberfoyle Antique Market outside Guelph was supported and success inquired after. Later when I expanded to Toronto’s Harbour Front and other locations Bruce advised and sometimes helped with small restoration jobs.  Through this I met the Canadian war artist Will Ogilvie and his wife, who lived behind the Lees, and sold some items for them as well as buying from them myself.

This photograph was taken visiting my former antiques partner Frances who had moved to Warkworth, Ontario

Bruce modestly said he was “handy with tools”. Possibly the understatement of the century. From the renovation, almost a re-design, of

Liverpool Street

, the Lees lived in a multi-storey town house in Toronto before moving to a period house on

Wright Avenue

. There Bruce made forty windows many with stained glass, built a new garage with a two-storey addition above, finally giving Joyce her weaving room.  Lastly there was Stonegate, where we once again marvelled at his amazing and meticulous work that transformed a basic house. The man was handy!

Joyce and Bruce bought a small home in Dunedin, Florida and we were fortunate to visit there. Bruce loved a bargain and outlets as much as I do, so it was always happy hunting.

Sadly Joyce died in Florida, while Bruce was driving her to hospital. Once again I was in Britain when this happened. On a visit later he gave me some of her weaving wool and pieces she had woven. Treasured.

‘Mon oncle’ came into being one time I was visiting from Britain. Out for dinner I knew it would be almost impossible to persuade Bruce to allow me to pay, to repay him for his hospitality and friendship. As we ordered our wine I went to the ladies room, an excuse to tell our waiter I would do the same after dinner and would he have the bill ready, as ‘my uncle’ would certainly want to pay. The ruse worked perfectly. Though Bruce did admit as we left laughing he had wondered about my waterworks.

The most important day we shared was when Bruce escorted me down the aisle in Guelph to marry my husband Gary. A happy day. A good memory.

Many good memories. Thank you, Bruce.

Of princes, presidents, parliamentarians, and presents

A week of history-making of major significance, magnificence and achievement.

A week in which a small thoughtful gift gave me great pleasure, and hope.

Last week I wrote about spending the royal wedding day antiquing with a friend. After a surfeit of pre-wedding photos, biographies, histories, analysis and speculation, the ‘big’ day seemed almost an anti-climax. In any case I knew it would be shown again and again, should I want to see any of the celebrations.

Don’t get me wrong, I am in favour of the monarchy. Of the continuity of history, the stability, the holding together of a nation above the petty divide of party politics, the enduring mystique and pageantry.

After all I spent my childhood and formative early adult years in Britain. Though as a Welshwoman I was always hoping for a green passport with a red dragon emblazoned on it. 

The Queen herself says it is a job, upholding the commitment and legacy of the family firm; which she does with grace, fortitude and an air of apparent unfaltering interest.  I wish the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, a city I lived close to and know well, all happiness, I just find it impossible to be interested in the minutiae of everyday royal lives. Of the glimpses of the wedding I caught, what moved me most was the glory of Westminster Cathedral, its soaring architecture testament to centuries of belief.

The remainder of the seven days past were about defying the odds on terrorism, on securing a mandate to lead a country. About partisanship, about glory. Whether recognising the end of bin Laden’s terror-focused life or the sea-change in Canadian politics, there is always the right versus left, elephant versus donkey, red versus blue that frequently becomes bigger than the real achievement or outcome. And neither am I remotely interested in the daily lives of politicians, presidents or prime ministers. So often the early hopes dim and fade, the colours lose their initial brightness, the music fades away.

The enduring image of my week is the picture at the beginning of this week’s diary.

One of my students recently went to visit his family in Japan. They are safe but he witnessed his country in deep sadness and loss. Though as he said the Japanese people have found strength and survived through unimaginable horrors before.

With all this on his mind he still had the graceful thought to bring me back a gift, of incense. I lit it as a prayer for peace.

A Different Prince or How I Spent 'The Wedding' Day

An early riser only in the most exceptional cases, I knew a 4 or 5 am wake–up was not going to happen last Friday. By the time I’d bathed and washed my hair the happy couple were leaving Westminster Abbey.

Besides I had other plans. By 10 am my friend Pauline Duguay and I were on the road to Prince Edward Island, a trip we had been planning for some time. The 12.9 km foot bridge soared ahead as we approached under cloudy skies.

Pauline owns one of my very favourite shops –Boutique Recycl’ Art & Antiques on John Street in Moncton. This shop is a visual delight, every space on two floors filled with furniture and useful and decorative items from past decades. I've written aboout the shop in a previous series 'My Favourite Places' (knowmoncton.com/favorite-places) and it was one of my choices in my feature 'Shops etc' for Style at Home, October 2010.

A 1930’s building, formerly a grocers and barbershop with an upstairs apartment, it is a perfect, creative and artistic example of today’s mantra: ‘Reuse, Restore, Recycle’. Whenever anyone asks her what’s new in the store, Pauline always says “Nothing; everything I have is old, some of it’s made new again.”

These days ‘useful’ pieces are eagerly sought. Armoires, cupboards, shelves, tables with drawers and shelves leave her store as fast as she can find them. Pauline spends hours stripping, sanding, and refinishing with stain or paint and says she loves it. She sources items from all over the Maritimes and New England, which is why we headed to the Island where she knows all the dealers and craftspeople.

As always on these trips Chester, a poodle-terrier mix and the shop’s welcoming mascot accompanied us. He loves an adventure, supervises well and wanders easily round all the shops, content while Pauline discovers old treasures big and small.

Friday is my only ‘free- for me day’  and we were lucky with the weather. It’s years since I had been to the Island and was amazed at the spring-greenness of it compared with gardens and fields in the Moncton area. We visited Victoria-by-the-Sea, a charming coastal village before heading to Summerside.

It was too early for most seasonal cafes to be open so we settled for a first-time-for-me lunch at Wendy’s. Being vegetarian fast food is not big on my menu but I was happy with a baked potato and a small salad.

Next stop was to see Wayne, a craftsman who builds custom cupboards from old wood. With Chester guiding we loaded a seven-foot entertainment centre into the trailer, plus another cupboard painted a soft blue and a small bench.

The sun was now shimmering on the water and a visit to Robert Coulson’s antiques shop unearthed some good finds. A deco glass fronted bookcase, a yellow glass water set, a pair of delicate wine glasses and assorted china and earthen ware. I found a large bowl painted with colourful fruit, just right for my yellow and green kitchen, and a decorative silver plated spoon.

With the back of the van almost full we made one more visit, stopping on the way to take in a typical PEI wide open landscape.

BC Antiques in Kensington yielded a lovely cabinet and a perfect-for-two love seat. But as we did not have room for them, they will be picked up on another trip to Prince Edward. Meanwhile back at the shop Chester was well-pleased with his day, as were Pauline and I.

All Wired Up – Wrapped and Coiled

Although my husband has spent his career as a journalist and newspaper editor he has recently become very interested in creative arts. While acknowledging and being impressed by his skill, I’d like to think this might be partly my influence.

During the past couple of years he has taken art classes with Joe Collins at McKenzie College, producing some still-life paintings of pears and apples and couple of beautiful landscapes of one of our favourite places in Maine.

Knowing of his interest in wire jewellery I was excited to see a short course offered at New Brunswick Community College – and found the ideal birthday present, and a new creative outlet.  The evenings spent there were not only relaxing for him but produced several lovely gifts for me as well. With our birthdays only a couple of weeks apart, it was a one-for-two inspiration.

From his work, in just six hours, I received two pairs of dangly silver earrings, a Celtic-style copper ring with a blue-green stone, a wire-wrapped blue stone pendant with an intricately coiled clasp and a second pendant of interwoven cobalt blue wire rings circling an iridescent bead.

Over the years I’ve collected lovely slices of agate and polished stones.  Naturally I’m hoping some of these will soon be wearable art; the kind I see in fashion and jewellery magazines.  At least until the next class is offered this autumn.