Postcards from Bella Coola

In the wee hours of the morning, I dreamt of that place again. The place that was mine. The place I swore I would never leave. My home. I think it may have been the blackberry jam that my cousin Lynn sent in my goodie package which came in the mail yesterday. The last thing I had before I slept last night was that blackberry jam on toast. Blackberries.... so abundant in my old home. I foraged through those blackberry bushes like a bear, every summer.
*

Twelve years ago, transfer papers were signed, and I said goodbye to 17 acres in the Bella Coola Valley in B.C. that I had previously owned with my ex-partner, Russell. The one piece of earth that I had internalized so wholeheartedly that a part of my soul still lingers there today. The part of myself that said it would never leave. This part of myself checks in with me every now and again, in these dream postcards.

*

In some of my dreams, that place is like I left it. Sun filtering through aromatic cedars and tall, majestic fir, the wind whispering through their soft branches. Glowing mountains looming tall in all directions, waterfalls flowing from hidden glaciers. The shrilling cries of eagles in the high skies, and the low, articulate speech of ravens. Robins do their hop-and-halt dance over the earth. Squirrels scurry up the bark of our old fir tree, keeping a careful eye on me. I watch silently, sitting on the stack of lumber that our neighbor milled for us out of the other old fir tree that we sacrificed for the building of our house. Sitting quietly, I look over the layout for our house. The pegs are still in the ground, ready for the foundation forms to be built, the cement to be poured. I look to my right and see the small workshop we constructed, with an attached living quarters and sleeping loft. In some dreams, this living space has become large, and includes things like running water, which we never had before. In some dreams, I even bump into Russell in there, although in these dreams, we are not together. In none of these 'postcards' is there ever much evidence of that we ever were together, despite that our joint projects, our dreams, lay bare to the winds. Waiting.
*

In some of these dreams, that piece of land that I used to call my home is no longer mine. There is a stranger living there. A new house. Oh yeah, I remember, I sold it. The only thing I recognize now is the old fir tree that we left still standing. A dog jogs up to me to inquire who I am. I stand at the end of the driveway, looking through the bars of an invisible gate, into a world that I can no longer enter.

*

In some dreams, the world there is covered in snow, and I can barely find this place that I used to call home. My old neighbors are surprised to see me wandering in that wilderness neighborhood after being gone so long. They greet me with happy faces and tell me where to find my old property. I go, and finally find the make-shift driveway that we had created all those years ago upon first arrival by carving our way into the forest with our chainsaw. I walk down the wide path, into a small, open space amidst an icy, snow covered forest. This was how it used to look when we had initially opened it up to move in, when we had only been there for a week. I stand there, feeling a cold east wind, listening to wet snow drop off heavy branches. I see my old cat Namu, who ran away when we separated and moved away from our home. I run toward him, calling, but he always seems..... just beyond my grasp.
*

I have often thought of this place like a ghost, haunting my dreams. But now I realize that I am the ghost, going there in my sleep sometimes, looking for my home again. And perhaps it is Russell's dream ghost that I bump into every now and again, as he wanders back there for the tools he left behind.

*

I know that, when the times comes, I will go back there to my home, to when I remember it best, and stay there. I'll watch the seasons pass, listen to those eagles. Watch the raven and fox sitting in an open field together, talking like they once did on a sunny summer day that I remember from so long ago. I will walk down the road from my home, past wild forests and green, open pastures, to the Saloompt River bridge. I will scuttle down the gravel bank next to the bridge, to walk by the river to that special place where the river bends. I will cast my fly-fishing rod, watch its line glisten in the sun. My fly will land on an open, shady spot, and I will watch it drift on the deep, green water. Waiting.

*

And if you ask me to, I will send you a postcard. Just close your eyes and dream.

Dark Moon Bear

The beginning of the Dark Moon is only a day away. The phase of the Dark Moon is essentially the few days before the moon has waned itself empty and dark in the sky. Those from the earth religions see it as a time of deep power, a time of intuition, testing, and communion. For many women, this is a time when the womb also empties itself. A time of retreat and introspection.

*

The week of the Dark Moon, I am again my bear self for a few days. In this shapeshifting experience I lose sense of my humanity, shred by shred. It is a strange, painful, and enlightening metamorphosis. Like a neophyte in the desert mountains of old Mexico, having taken my dose of peyote for the journey inward, I am filled with body-wretching sickness while another form of vision takes hold. It is psychotic, agressive, and raw, but also deeply knowing and wise. In old times, women stayed apart from regular community activities during the Dark Moon; their power was considered to be too overwhelming during this time. So they would congregate for a few days in the women's tents, and enjoy some contemplative rest and communion with their sisters.

*
Despite my caution of segregation, I understand some of the benefits of allowing women to take time away from regular daily activity during these times. I personally think that I would be doing myself and those around me a great benefit to be gone during the Dark Moon. When the time approaches, and the metamorphosis takes place, I can no longer see as my normal self. Things become clouded and dreamlike. My nails elongate into thick, sharp claws. My senses and my instincts sharpen. My back hunches. I grow big and gruff. I let out long, deep growls with the exhalation of breath. My family run for cover as I slowly barrel around the house, carrying myself like the thousand pound creature I feel I have become.

*

Tomorrow is the start of the Dark Moon. Today, I can feel her pulling me in. I had a nap this afternoon while the sun was still high and bright in the frozen world outside. My cats guarding me like sphinxes on either side of the covers, I effortlessly slipped into the world between waking and dreaming, becoming shrouded in strange visions. I drifted in and out of a deep, hormonally drugged sleep, weaving the last threads of a blanket that will begin unraveling tomorrow. I know that kind of sleep means it's almost time. I can feel the tingling in my finger tips where the claws will break through. When I awoke, still groggy, I scuffled over to the cupboards and polished off all the 'forbidden' things, namely the rest of the shortbread. Carbohydrate overload. I think I just felt a button on my shirt pop. But I don't care, because I can't say no to the bear. She's hungry, and there is no denying her.

The Dance Hangover

I have a dance hangover.

*

It has been about 36 hours since the dancing, and I am still aching and exhausted. The world has taken on a fuzzy, static feeling. Out for coffee with C today, I couldn't remember where my conversation threads originated, or where I was going with them. As usual, she was graciously forgiving. I felt hungover. It was a lot of dancing on Friday night. And, with my drunken friends, I even shut down the bar. What a night.

*

It has been a long, long time since I was out dancing like that, which is so strange, because I absolutely love to dance. Twirling, gyrating, booty-shaking madness. And, thanks to a new shirt purchase earlier that day, I got checked out and winked at several times. Every girl loves this when she goes out. Once you start climbing the hill, my friends, getting looked over takes on a whole new feel.

*

I have to say that the last couple months have been great socially. Rather than hobbiting away inside - as I have been known to do - I have been getting out a lot. Not necessarily to the bar (being a non-drinker has this effect), but out for lunch with friends, to brunches with new people, or braving the -40 temperatures to hike the trails around Yellowknife with some gals. Although I don't think one should necessarily judge quality of life by how much one socializes, I think the quality of people that we socialize with really says a lot about our inner life. And my inner life has really been blossoming.

*

But despite the social aspects that have lightened the cold, dark winter, that one night of actual physical dancing was good medicine. I am sore, and utterly exhausted, but in a slightly euphoric way, like a sweet liquor that saturates to the core. It was one more thing that I hadn't done since getting sick with chronic dizziness. It's not that I had never thought about it. I love playing the drums, and I love to dance. It's been on my mind. But I never did go out and do it, fearing that the room would start to rock or spin if I shook myself around too much. And when I finally did get out and dance on Friday night, the room did rock a bit. It spun on a few 90 degree rotations once in a while. I did feel unsteady.

But I just kept right on dancing.

*

Like the dream of being able to ride my motorcycle again, it was just one more part of me that is....well....mine again.

The Unlikely Neophyte

Ugh.

UUuugh.

These are my sentiments after deciding to go for lunch with the gang today at a pub, then engaging in a yoga session about 1/2 hour after my last bite of burger and fries. I don't eat burgers and fries often. Nor do I do yoga often. The last time I did yoga was about 2 years ago. I hated it. It was supposed to be a beginners class, but within 3 sessions the instructor had us standing on our heads. It was a bit much. I didn't go back.

This class at an altogether different centre was a lot gentler, but the room was stifling hot, and, not knowing what to wear, and living in a current climate of -40, I was dressed for winter. So there I was, belly full of burger and fries, and roasting to beat the band while attempting contortions that feel somewhat unnaturally contrived anyway. Fifteen minutes into it, I started looking at my watch while stretching, every passing moment becoming one more victory of being able to hold my lunch in. I was green. But I forged ahead, and likely I will buy a Yoga Pass to continue with this endeavor, because I don't really think it's the yoga that makes me want to crawl into a dark corner and spill my lunch. I'm pretty sure the culprit was the burger and fries.

*

I don't know what it is that feels so 'bootcamp'-ish whenever I am disciplining my body and mind. Perhaps it is the bootcamp methods that I seem to employ when pursuing personal transformations. Years ago I was trained in the Vipassana technique of meditation, which requires extended periods of time of completely sitting still and surveying transitory sensations. Harder than it sounds (for a detailed synopsis, click on the link). My first 10 day retreat took place in Washington state. I got held up at the border crossing in my pick-up truck for saying that I was headed to a meditation retreat when asked about my activities and accomodation for the next 2 weeks in the US. The beads and medicine bag hanging off the rearview mirror didn't help ward off the bigoted meathead in the booth who looked like he was on assignment from the US marine corps. "Pull over", is all he said. Two hours later, after leisurely rifling through all my stuff, they let me go. Half driving, and half map-reading, I gunned it down highways at full speed, worried I was not going to make it for the retreat orientation early that evening. With my attention thus divided, not only was I a likely hazard to myself and all the other cars, but I was a hazard to all life forms. I had just finished checking my map for the name of a turn-off, when I looked up to see a flock of geese crossing the road right in front of me. Splat. The five minutes after that I spent bawling like a newborn baby and pounding my steering wheel, in complete horror and confusion as to what to do. I knew that turning back for them was futile, as all the cars behind me had finished off what I had started. The next couple hours after that, until the time I reached the retreat, I spent intermittently bursting into spontaneous episodes of crying and rocking back and forth. By the time I reached the retreat, I had cried myself dry and didn't have much resistance left in me.

*

It was a good thing I had completely emptied myself, or I may have had too much energy to panic at what was laid before me for the next 10 days during the orientation. The retreat is divided into male and female sections (to minimize distraction), and so I was sharing a large room with several other women. After our orientation, we were told to fetch our things out of our vehicles, as we were not permitted to return to them until the end of the retreat. An hour after the orientation was done, and after we had settled in, we officially began the retreat, and our journey into the 10 days of complete silence. Not only would there not be any talking to others, but any kind of communicative gestures were prohibited for the entire time. This is to simulate, to the best ability, the yogic tradition of isolation when undertaking a meditative journey. Some people may have panicked at the prospect of this kind of isolation, but I had nothing much left in me after taking out a family of wild geese, so I succumbed easily and willingly to purgatory. In fact, at that point I kind of felt that I had it coming.

*

I had many friends who frequented these retreats before me, so I vaguely understood what it entailed. I was aware that some people apparently 'lose it' after a few days. But 48 hours into it, I seemed to be doing alright. There I was, sitting on my mat in the meditation hall for hours at a time, all peaceful and almost smug in my ease of adjustment into what many would consider to be a difficult task. Despite that being smug is antithetical to what we were attempting to achieve, I was secretly smug. I didn't feel like I was going to 'lose it' anytime soon.

*

And then they moved a new person behind me who needed to be by the door. No problem. I went on feeling surprisingly and uncharacteristically well-adjusted. Until she belched into the back of my head. Every five minutes. The first few times I overlooked. But it seemed like that smelly, hot air would whistle past my ears like clockwork, so that after 4 and 1/2 minutes, I began to tense to brace myself for what I knew was coming. I was only 2 days into the course. How would I make it for the remaining 8 days without losing it? I could ask to be moved, but that wouldn't be right considering we were supposed to rise above our cravings and aversions, and simply 'observe' our way through the sensations. BLURP.....(5 minutes passed)....BLURB.....(repeat into infinity). I felt like I was close to the edge after 24 hours of this.

*

But it seemed that fate smiled on me, and rescued me from myself. Perhaps 24 hours of this was enough to atone for the slaughtering of a flock of geese. The women's counsellor tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I could surrender my seat to another woman who wanted to sit by the door. I guess people were starting to crack after all this social isolation and self-observation, and needed to sit by the exits in case they needed to flee from the unrelenting, twisted chatter of their unsettled minds. And despite all the teachings about rising above our aversions, at the mere suggested whisper of moving, I almost took out three rows of meditators while diving to the new location. As soon as I settled in, I let out a sigh of relief. NOW, I could really get down to business (which in real terms translates into 'get comfortable'). No hot belches on my neck. No tensing every 4 and 1/2 minutes. I was on the road to bliss and self-exploration.

*

And then there it was. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Coming from somewhere. A methodical ticking. It was coming from somewhere on my right. What could it be? I let it go. For a minute. Could it be a fly on the window? Although everyone was meditating with their eyes closed, I cracked mine open a slice and looked towards the window on my right. No fly. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Could it be my neighbor's watch? I peeked over to her closest arm. I didn't see a watch there. Maybe it was on the other hand. Tick. Tick. Tick. Holy fuck! I'm going to lose it! Okay, just ignore it. Focus on the breath .....on the breath ......in....out ....in....out .....tick....tick....tick. This is how I spent the next five days. Every day that passed was like a slow mental torture. Somehow I was surviving, only on a moment to moment basis. Each night I thought of gathering my things in the middle of the night and busting out. The poor girl who had taken my spot in front of the belcher fleed from the hall, screaming, after her first 24 hours there. I felt close to joining her some days. I looked for her after her fleeing episode, but it looked as if she was gone for good.

*

It was on the 9th day that I finally surrendered to the ticking. I let it go. Fly, watch, it didn't matter which one of them was the instrument of my self-imposed demise. I ceased to care. And when this happened, I realized that the ticking was actually my neighbor sucking on the roof of her mouth. Who knew? Instantaneous with my realization of this quirky habit of hers was the last rush of my agitation which flooded my senses blind. But as quickly as the desire came to want to rattle her senseless, I was overcome with relief, and a peaceful and compassionate sense of being. I had done it. I had liberated myself from the prison of my mind. For the time being.

*

On day 10, the 60 meditators broke silence in the evening, which officially marked the end of the retreat. People smiled blissfully and openly to fellow strangers. Within the 1/2 hour, the place was a bee's nest of talk. Several people admitted to being tempted to flee in the middle of the night, on several occassions. I pondered how funny it would have been if so many of us had acted on these impulses. We would have all been bumping into eachother in the parking lot at midnight. Would we have said anything to each other, or, in league with the times, silently escaped down the dirt road? But on day 10, it mattered not. We were so happy. I had never seen so many happy people. I think all those beaming smiles were expressions of accomplishment for doing something incredibly challenging. But also, they were smiles of joy, that thank god it was finally over.

*

I know this, because (to a lesser extreme) that is how I feel after a session at the gym, or after today's yoga stint. I was glad when I was done stuffing my square peg into a round hole today - trying to saw off edges to make them fit. But maybe losing those edges is a good thing. A couple months ago, I made a pre-New Year committment to myself that I was cleaning out all the things in my life that aren't healthy for me, whether it be food, lethargy, people, or situations, and making room for things that are. I don't think this is a linear process, or a comfortable ride at all times. But I do think that when we undertake these ventures, we can come out smiling - not because we are glad it's over - but because something good has just begun.

The Four-Cylinder Indian

There are many times, especially when I'm alone, when I think I am hearing things that in fact aren't those things at all. Last night as I lay curled up in bed with my cats, reading the last few chapters of my book for that evening, I suddenly thought I heard something resembling an Aboriginal drum ceremony going on. I heard the drums and the high-pitched cries so distinctly that I actually sat up straight to listen more carefully. As soon as I had done so, I realized that this audio tribal symphony was just the washer banging around with its redundant thumping wish-wash rhythm. As per my last post, I have a fantastic palate of imagination, and so I am never too surprised at my mind's capacity to tranform the mundane. Perhaps my Aboriginal ancestors would even have considered me a visionary?

*

Okay, I agree, that is taking it a bit too far.

*

Although all stimuli that we come into contact with is delicately sifted and garnished with our own special processing flavor, not everything in my every day life makes it through my kaleidescopic imagination. Mostly it's just the usual humdrum input/output stuff that bores me silly. Sure, sometimes I hear chanting phonebooths on windy days, or drums on the wash cycle, but I'm pretty sure that I'm still on a level playing field with the stale norm, and not in need of pharmaceutical assistance anytime soon.

*

There have been a few times, though, when the input/output got a bit garbled, and left me laughing to the point of tears. One of these incidents really had nothing to do with my imagination actually, but rather my inability to interpret the strong english accent of a fellow treeplanter who I think, in hindsight, had some motor skill impairing LSD experiences in the 60's that left her tongue near paralysed. To credit myself, I was not the only one who could not interpret what she was saying most of the time.

*

We will call this treeplanter 'Sally'.

*

So there we were, Sally and I, treeplanting side by side on a flat, brushy clearcut in the back country of Merritt, B.C. in 1997. It was a warm, sunny day, and the last day of the shift before our day off. We were feeling unusually optimistic and very talkative, and our conversation meandered to different topics as we noodled our way through the brush to find open spots for our trees. At one point I asked Sally about England, where she is from. Once in a while during her response, I picked out a few words here and there so that I generally understood what she was talking about. Then she asked me about my heritage, and I told her that I am Metis - having 1/4 Aboriginal blood from my father's side. We then got separated by some bushes for a while, and when we came back together again, I started talking about a recently purchased car with an engine that needed work. And so I rambled on about the car between huffing breaths as I tried to pick up the pace a bit. I could only faintly hear Sally at that point as she trundled along with me, and combined with my scarce ability to translate her unique twist on the english language, I completely misunderstood what came next.

*

"What kind of engine does your car have in it?", was what I thought Sally had said.

*

"A four cylinder", I replied. I figured perhaps Sally was going to give me some insight into my car's engine. But instead, she just gave me a confused, blank look, nodded her head appeasingly, and said, "oh".

*

Later that day, when I rejoined the rest of my crew at the tree cache, one of my fellow planters said to me, "Hey, I heard that your dad is a four-cylinder Indian". Everyone was bent over laughing while I stood there perplexed, demanding to know what on earth they were talking about. Finally they let up and told me what Sally had been mulling over since our earlier conversation.

*

"She said that she asked you what kind of Indian your father had in him. To which you replied that he was a four-cylinder".

*
"So", they asked between gasping laughter, "how many cylinders does that make you?"
*

Back Into the Labyrinth

Yesterday on my Facebook status I wrote that I was burrowing away into my imagination until the beginning of spring. Although I have delineated a limitation to this venture, by no means is my imagination ever really contained within seasonal limits. I am a pretty active imaginer all the time. In the cold, dark months of winter, however, I tend to indulge this innate propensity a bit more heavily.

*

Being an indulger in fantasies, daydreams, and general realms beyond the mundane, it is surprising that I do not have any functional issues. Despite the occassional ups and downs, my daily existence is only slightly hampered by my colourful cognitive life, such as when I am in meetings that require some tuning into the finer details of discussion. There are other skills I have gained to compensate for my compromised mental attendance, but that information is off limits to my Blog.

*

Back in the day when I was a life-drawing model, my imagination actually enhanced my capacity to sit and stare out the window for hours at a time while being sketched by students and professional artists alike. People often wondered how on earth I could do it, but as soon as the timer was set, I would assume whatever pose, and mentally disappear from the room into the labyrinth of my own adventure for extensive periods of time. Likewise, when I came down with an inner ear problem a few years ago that incapacitated me with chronic dizziness, I took solace in copious amounts of gravol for about 6 months, and surrendered to an imagination that delivered me well beyond the confines of my own suffering.

*

My mother often boasts that when I was a child, I could sit and play on my own for hours. But what she never knew was that, at least in my own imagination, I was never alone. No, it was not the stuffed bears or talking toys that kept me company. It was the wee people about 3 inches high, who were very shy but emerged from shadows, closets, and doorways when I was alone. I will never forget the one that would descend from my bedroom doorknob some nights, using a suddenly visible stream of silver rope. Slowly she would make her way, belaying down the door, looking around with darting, sneaky eyes. I would watch, eyes wide as saucers, not sure of whether to be glad for the company or terrified of possible harm. When she landed on the floor, she would skip towards the bed, and at the last moment I would sit up and cry out, "MOM!". But then this little pixie would disappear by the time my mother arrived. I hated the accusatory glare of my mother as she pulled the door shut on my desperate explainations, leaving me steeping in resentment as I stared at the hairline crack of light that glowed through the closed door.

*

The worst of it was when I was about 8 years old, at my grandmother's house on Vancouver Island. I was sleeping with my grandmother in her bed after scaring myself silly with all variety of dark imaginings in my own room. My grandmother had her back turned to me, and though I felt glad for the feeling of warmth and safety that sharing her bed afforded, I was still very wired from some of the ghouls that I had confronted in the darkness before calling for rescue. I lay there on my side, looking at the back of my grandmother's head, ready to drift off into sleep at the sound of her gentle breathing. Then all of a sudden one of the wee people arrived, with funny, curly hair that reminded me of a clown. This little guy was hopping around, pointing and laughing at me. "Shut up", I hoarsely whispered to him, and tried to avert my gaze. Still, he hopped around frantically with his taunts, laughing himself silly. "Shut up!", I said in a slightly louder, more threatening voice. My grandmother was sleeping deeply by this time, or surely she would have awoken. But with his further provocations, I completely forgot myself and everything around me, and took a few vicious swipes at this little guy while he disappeared beyond my angry clutches. It was only when my grandmother started screaming at me that I realized it was her hair that I was swiping at. My explainations did little to abate my grandmother's fury, and actually just seemed to make things worse for myself. After suffering this humiliation, when my little friend returned once my grandmother turned her back again, I just resigned myself to closing my eyes, and turned the other way.

*

After that incident, I never saw the little people anymore.

*

But if I did, I would never tell.

Outside the Box

Brilliant sunlight illuminates the delicate snowy branches of northern birch in my neighbor's yard. Its soft glow almost induces me to trance as I dream of playful sunny days, thus tempting me to wander outside and feel the light on my face. But although these gentle winter scenes allure me t0 venture beyond frosted pane, I know all too well what -45 degrees feels like. Even with a full parka and snow pants, the very air one breathes out there freezes in one's throat like a brick as it enters the lungs.

*

It is quite the experience living in these temperatures. Neither of my house doors open or close properly because the house's shape has been warped by the constricting jaws of cold. The tires on my car freeze flat on the bottom sides overnight, so that for the first 5 minutes of driving every morning it feels as if I am hobbling along on four boxes. The locks on my car no longer work, and the steering column and clutch are almost frozen stiff even after 20 minutes of idling to warm things up. And then there are basic things, like skin being burned by touching anything plastic or metal. Exposing skin to these temperatures is not an option unless it is only momentary. I have almost been frostbitten twice this winter, and it is utterly painful. I understand why it is called frost-'bite'. The bite itself can literally feel like having flesh ripped from the bone with the most crushing teeth.
*
But despite the hostility of the cold, I am drawn to the light like a little moth that has been fluttering around in a dark room for what feels like forever. Sunlight is so precious to northerners now, because we only have light for a few hours a day in the deep of winter. And though I know my face will freeze, and I will catch my breath as it solidifies in my throat, I think I will venture outside the box today. And when I get back, I will put on another pot of tea, and finish reading my book with the cats.

*

There is something about being outside of the box these days that makes being inside feel so, so good.

Into the Beyond

I am glad to say that after my reluctant domestication over the past few years, I spent my first moments of 2009 off the grid, in the wild. Last night, K and I drove 1/2 hour from Yellowknife into the middle of nowhere to a friend's house. As we headed down the highway with headlights illuminating the snowy, shrouded white trees in -45 weather, I began to get the distinct feeling of wilderness that I love so much and always crave. Travelling off the grid into wilderness in such extreme temperatures renews my reverence and awe of the rawness and fragility of nature in its pure form, and our constant vulnerability within it. I revelled in the heightened sense of feeling alive. And so I could not have imagined a better way to crack open a brand new year: pulling party crackers and making toasts amidst the wilderness under a dark, starry night sky.
*

For a wilderness lover, I see this as a portent of good things for 2009.

*

So today is the first day of a brand new year. I presently sit in the dark of our quiet house among candles, waiting for the power-outage to end. The occassional creaking of our house and clicking of my laptop keys breaks the fuzzy silence, but that is all. I am hoping that the power isn’t down for too long due to the extreme winter temperatures outside that have a way of creeping through our doorframes. The constriction of the brutal deep freeze has warped these doorframes into a size that no longer accomodates the proper closure or either one of our doors.
*
Much like Christmas Day, I am sure many people’s special New Years Day dinners will be compromised by this power outage. That aside, I am glad for the dimly lit silence. It plunges us into a moment of pause and reflection which is only fitting for the initiation of a brand new cycle. Although I tend more to count my cycles with the changing of tides or seasons, the transition of a calendar year is still a framework of sorts in which to delineate events and processes. And so, with time on my side in these dark moments by the naked flame, I think back on last year and reflect on some of the landmarks of progress and lessons learned.
*
The predominant theme for 2008 was change, and my first day of work last year on January 8th began with me walking into my boss’s office and submitting my letter of resignation. After a year and a half of feeling oppressed to the point of getting incredibly ill, I decided to sever the chains and walk out the door – leaving behind the best paying job I ever had. I didn’t know where I would go, or what I would do. I just gave my notice, and departed into the unknown. It wasn't the most dramatic resignation, but its long-overdue submission gave me a sense of liberty that I hadn't ever felt in my caged cubicle of the Health Policy office.

*
When I left that office, I was still dealing with a major health crisis that left me barely able to fold laundry or go on a walk without being in pain or exhausted. The simplest things in life seemed like massive efforts, and I wondered how I was going to re-enter the workforce in that condition. But with some of the time I had to evalute what I wanted out of my next job, and aided by a retreat K arranged for me on Gabriola Island in B.C., I wrote down what I was looking for and thought of it often as I nurtured my health. I thought of it while I walked down cool, shady forest paths. I thought of it as I rested or read inspirational books (I recommend The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho). I thought of it while cleaning the house, or getting up the energy to walk with one of my good friends in Yellowknife. I cut out pictures in magazines that made me feel good, whether they were of gardens, food, or forests. And while I waited for my vision to unfold, I gradually began to feel a little better every week. Despite my fears about employment, I was offered various jobs that paid as well as the one I had left, though I refused to make lasting commitments until I found the job I really wanted.

*

Three months later, I got my ideal job, and it includes all the things I asked for. Sometimes I wonder why I had to walk over hot coals to get to this place. But had I not had all those other experiences, I wouldn't have known what to ask for.

*

That kind of transformation isn't really too extraordinary, but it exemplifies a very sound premise of some fundamental life lessons. It's so simple, and sometimes easier to say rather than do. The basic principle that change is certain, and that with a bit of courage and some determination, we can harness the power within it to create what we want.

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Whenever my grandmother told me this over the years, she always made it sould like ordering something at a restaurant. Kind of like, "I'll order the Happy At My Job with a side order of Marital Bliss". She said that when people place their orders to the universe and they come out of the kitchen cold or 'not quite what they had in mind', it means that people weren't ready to receive it, or didn't place their orders correctly. Perhaps she's right. But I have to say, from personal experience, that just because we ask for something it doesn't mean that it will come free of strings. Imbedded in whatever comes to us will be more lessons especially tailored to our own unique needs and patterns, and onward the journey goes.

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Sitting here with the lights now on, listening to the hum of the furnace infusing the once-still house with sounds of warmth, I am ready to prepare the traditional New Years Day ham dinner, and continue beyond the threshold of this day into the unknown adventures of a whole new year.