MAJORING IN MINOR THINGS

Singing in the rain

There is a guy here in Edmonton who dances joyously on the corner of heavy traffic on 178 Street, to the beat of his iPod. I admit he is a bit of a nut, as he wildly dances and sings, as though he was a star on stage for all to applaud. He was even on the news once. People love him because of his carefree and upbeat attitude, a reminder to all our sour driving faces to lighten up.

There he was the other day, singing in the rain, happy as can be, oblivious to the wars raging around the planet, or in homes across the city. I tried taking a picture, but when I rolled down the window, he suddenly stopped and stared directly at me. I ruined his fun, so I couldn't do it!
(Check out http://blog.360.yahoo.com/blog-4DB7pd8zd6ls2BZWxlb1T_Wp9s_yd3M-?cq=1&p=1493 for a video!!!)

"A man is what he thinks all day long."
~Emerson

Rule Number Six

I've been alot lighter in attitude since being back from India. The kids and I call it 'Rule Number Six'. There is a story of an executive who sat in his office. People would storm in, yell and freak out and he would calmly remind them of rule number 6. They would instantly calm down and leave the office. A curious witness asked what rule number 6 was. It translated to: 'Don't take yourself so G'***m seriously!' And what are the other rules he asked? There aren't any the boss replied!

I used this once with my daughter's teacher. She asked my daughter and her friend to write an apology letter for looking at another girl 'funny' and making her upset. I wrote on the back of the note I was supposed to sign; Rule Number 6. I think the teacher was horrified at first, but later had my daughter announce it to the class. A good lesson for all. I remember to ask myself, "Am I majoring in minor things?"


“Life is change. Growth is optional. Choose wisely.”


For any of you who read my orange meditation, it reminds me of another analogy; that we are all like oranges. When we are 'squeezed' by life's pressures, what is inside comes out. "If I have truly cultivated serenity, kindness and self control, only those wonderful qualities will appear. If negative qualities come out, I still have some work to do on my journey to personal mastery." (Robin Sharma)

Events are learning experiences, with no right nor wrong. Many times we need to 'win', with someone being right or wrong. Funny enough, Damian and I had this debate... I admit there may be good and evil in this world, however, I look at what is learned from a sour event, rather than who is right. I am finding that it becomes a growth experience on life's journey, rather than a hindrance to peace. Another Robin Sharma gem: It's not the snake bite that kills, its the poisonous venom that circulates afterwards in the blood stream that is fatal.

“It's not what we eat but what we digest that makes us strong; not what we gain but what we save that makes us rich; not what we read but what we remember that makes us learned; and not what we profess but what we practice that gives us integrity.”
~Francis Bacon, Sr.

CREDIT CARD SWIPE

(Archived from my journal July 19-07)

The Ayurvedic massage...

Since I am missing physical touch and my hamstrings and hips moan from yoga and air travel, I decide to hit the Indian massage parlour. By luck, an appointment is available- 500 rupees for 1.5 hours = $15 CDN? Sold!

Its a business house a few blocks from Anu's Bamboo Hut restaurant. Open and breezy with flowing curtains on the arched doorways. The doors are carved wood and the floors are white marble, like everywhere in India. I ask to use the loo and do the squat and hover method with my pants rolled over my knees. My pashmina and purse are strung around my neck as there is no hook nor counter and the floor is wet with who knows what! I am in bare feet. Yuck!

They call for my massage. "Lady to lady, or man to man." The male receptionist says. In the room, two young Indian girls who look 16 politely ask me to disrobe. They stand a foot away from me, staring as I hesitantly undress. "Everything?" I ask. "Yes Madam." As I get down to nothingness, one lady wraps a cheesecloth loincloth G-string around my waist and crotch. So Tarzan! They stare at my white skin and bare breasts with wide eyes, unashamed of staring. They whisper to each other in their language throughout the session. They sit me on a stool and begin the head massage. The other girl stands in front of me watching. They are tiny, maybe four foot ten. I sit in my loincloth which doesn't cover much and wonder what they think of the Canadian girl with the Asian tattoo and the lasered bikini line. I sit proudly, unconcerned by their judgments, amused, as I know I will never see them again.

I am asked to get on the wooden lacquered antique carved table. I am kneeling on all fours, in my loincloth, trying to maneuver with my butt on display, as I crawl on my hands and knees. "No Madam- on back," they direct. I flip over and they drizzle me with hot oil, like a Christmas turkey being basted. They begin their work in tandem fashion, with a 'mirror image' massage.



With light fingertip pressure, they massage my knees and I giggle as it tickles, and squirm with laughter. The bast part is when they swirled their fingers in a rough motion in clockwise circles around my belly button. Then up the arms and cracking my fingers. I love the foot massage, but remember them on the dirty bathroom floor and having it spread over my body!

They flip me over and put dirty sponges under my pressure points, against the hardness of the table. My hipbones and ankles still dig into the wood. The oil smells of coffee, coconut and mint, almost as though someone was baking. I ask the ingredients and they just say, "Medicated oil."

The one girl's fingers keep finding their way up between my legs in uncomfortable folds. I call it the 'credit card swipe' because they are running their hands up and down my body, head to toe, rapidly. I try to release myself from the moment and not make it anything more, dwelling on her wandering fingers. I think how gross it is how they rubbed my feet, dirty from the bathroom and the outdoors, and then my body and face. Asian music plays in the background, as I flip over again, trying to manage the oily, soggy G-string now dangling uselessly between my legs.

Next, is the sit up steam box. The room now smells of cooking vegetables, perhaps squash or another muddy garden aroma. I sit on a metal stool, on a dirty dishtowel, in my strip of saturated muslin. The door shuts guillotine style with a hole around my neck. Another grayed and oily tea towel is wrapped around my neck to hold in the steam. I don't even entertain the idea of whether they have been washed between multiple clients. This is India I smile to myself.

Ten minutes of hot steam wafts around my body. I try to chat with the girls. "Your English is pretty good...where did you learn? School?" I inquire, impressed.

"Yes Madam." They have soft voices and flirtatious brown eyes. They glance up daintily, batting their lashes. It is their demeanor, nothing more. I ask how old they are, they look so young. They say twenty-one. I talk about Canada; the snow, the clean air, the low population. I ask if they are married. No, they say. They talk about the importance of dowry, in gold. I ask about nose piercings, which all the women have in India (piercings are done at the hospital). "If you like it , you do it. If you don't like, you don't do." I ask about bindis. "You do if you like?" I ask and they giggle.

Time is up and I am dripping with sweat. I step out and get toweled off like a queen but with dirty towels. My hair is wrapped in an oily bun from the Indian head massage. One girl tried to take it out, but I say no. I don't want oil all over my clothes. She adds more oil and a brown powder to my part. (This is traditional here for ladies to put a coloured powder down their part.)

I am dressed and done and pay. Am I missing some 500 rupees? Not worth the fuss. I chat with the Ayurvedic Doctor and they give me murky warm tea to cleanse my system further. I drink and he wants to give me another. I'm feeling groggy, have I been drugged? I decline the 2nd as I start to get suspicious (OK paranoid!)

The Doctor talks to me about treatment packages to support the yoga. I don't feel it necessary. I leave and expect to collapse on the street, delirious from the sedative I delusionally suspect they put in my tea.

I get home safe and secure without passing out. I shower the oil from my body and hair and wonder what is next on my adventure list? I think body waxing. (See August 6 'KAIZEN' blog of mine) It has grown a week and needs to be ripped from its follicles. I feel prettier now that I have been molested by two 21 year old Indian chicks. I'm nice and clean with my hair in a braid like an Indian woman. I keep reminding myself: "I'm in India!!!"

A few weeks later, Rachel and I run into the Ayurvedic Doctor on the street. He asks why I have not been back for more rub downs.

"Did you not receive satisfaction?" He queries in his staccato Indian accent.

I look at him like he grew two heads. "Satisfaction???" What kind of satisfaction are we talking about? Was there more to the story? What did I miss? I am not that desperate!

Rachel still laughs at the ambiguity, repeating in perfect Indian accent..."Did you not receive satisfaction?"

For more ayurvedic info:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ayurveda

OM SWEET OM

I'm trying to find my India in Canada. I still wear my bindi around and its pretty cute for Indian women to do a double take and smile a secret smile when they see a white girl in Edmonton donning the Indian tradition. I hope its not sacrilege or an insult, but I find it a good keepsake or souvenir from my wonderful trip. ***(See Bindi definition below)

Its also a reminder about not eating meat anymore, for some strange reason, the desire has left me. When I understand it in the terms of not causing suffering, it has more meaning. Anyone who has seen "Fast Food Nation" showing cows slaughtered at the meat packing plant, know what I mean. The worst was when Damian and I were in Cuba last winter. We witnessed 2 pigs being tortured, as they were hauled off on the back of bicycles, dehydrated and screaming like human babies, going to be roasted for a party.

Since being home, I have noticed a few other changes. Gratitude is very apparent in my mind. I cherish being with Damian once again, as well as stopping and hugging my kids as often as I can.

“God gave you a gift of 86,400 seconds today. Have you used one to say "thank you?"
~William Arthur Ward

Stopping to 'bless' my food and giving thanks before I eat is also important to me. Savouring the art of eating; tastes, smells, textures, and temperature. It reminds me of a dear yogi friend who captivated me with a simple meditation technique:

Holding an orange, feel it's texture, shape and skin. Feel the weight of the orange in your hand, as you stop and think about where the orange has been. The country, town or orchard it is conceived in, sprouting on a tree in the sunshine. Growing larger everyday amongst the wind, rain and leaves, ripening on the branch. Think about the person who picked the orange and packed it on a truck to travel the thousands of miles to get to you in that moment. Now in your hands, focus your intent as you peel the orange. Juice runs down your fingers, as you section the orange. Tasting the orange, it bursts in your mouth with sweet citrus tang. Savouring each chew on your tongue, aware of swallowing the flesh.

And so on! You can do it with anything, but the idea is to be thankful and enjoy!

...and thats what I am doing at home. Chelsie, my good friend and mother of 3 boys, said how envious she was of me having Lexi as a daughter. She said she longs for a daughter who wants to sit and have tea with her. I never realized how someone else who 'appears to have it all', longs for something that I take for granted. Sometimes it takes the absence of that beloved thing to make the heart grow fonder...

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder

***"Why Bindi? Bindi is derived from the Sanskrit word "Bindu" or a drop, it is supposed to signify the mystic third eye of a person and therefore, when properly marked, becomes the central point of the base of the creation itself. It is a symbol of auspiciousness, good fortune and festivity.

The very positioning of the bindi is significant. The area between the eyebrows is the seat of latent wisdom. This area is known as the "Agna" (6th chakra) meaning "command". It is said to control various levels of concentration attained through meditation. The central point of this area is the "Bindu" wherein all experience is gathered in total concentration. Tantric tradition has it that during meditation, the "kundalini" - the latent energy that lies at the base of the spine is awakened and rises to the point of sahasrara (7th chakra) situated in the head or brain. The central point, the bindu, becomes therefore a possible outlet for this potent energy. It is believed that the red kumkum lies between the eyebrows to retain energy in the human body.

Myths and Significance - The color red
The colour red is significant. Red represents Shakti (strength). Red, it is believed, symbolizes love. Some scholars have seen the red colour as a symbolism for blood. We are told that in ancient times, in Aryan society, a groom used to apply his blood, on his bride's forehead as recognition of wedlock.

It denotes the woman's married status in most of the North Indian communities but in South India it is a prerogative of all girls to wear a bindi.

The bindi, today is a fashion statement. Bindi, on the beloved's forehead is supposed to mesmerise her lover. The bindi still attracts a lot of attention, as it is the first thing that catches our eye. This little dot has always received a place of importance in Indian customs. The bindi carries with it a wealth of meaning and is an on-going link with a very ancient tradition and past." (Shaadi.com)

INVOLUTION

The inner quest for growth and evolution.

On my first morning in Mysore, the cook serves me chai tea and Yashoda, my house mom and I sit and chat about activities in town. Ayurvedic clinics, Chamundi hill and Mysore temple.

Yashoda also comes to my room every night to chat. She talks to me in the mornings and when I arrive home. I think she likes to see what is going on in the room I'm renting, snooping in a loving way. She will even peek into my shopping bags to see what I have purchased. One night she asks if I had a good day and if I have made any friends. I say "No I am not here to make friends" and smile. She scolds me in her sweet insistence and says it takes time but it is important to make friends.

My intention was to journey alone. To get away from the personal and business demands and chaos with people at home. I wanted an inward journey to find that relationship within myself that has disintegrated throughout the years; dissolved into the lives of others through a sort of 'loving others osmosis'. To force myself to endure coming face to face with any fears or other character flaws that are so easily acquired in Western life.

I set new intentions on meeting a new friend...a kindred yoga sister spirit. Thankfully, the universe spilled over and I did discover a few of those wonderful like minded hearts and spirits that I was able to connect with.

One of these comrades profoundly commented on how easily we reach for the phone, reach for the TV, or reach for friends and family when life is boring or a struggle. In India, one has to reach inside themselves. To that deeper part that is so easily forgotten or abandoned, in favour of the easy things that feel good. Sometimes whats inside is not a pretty sight, and we avoid at all costs from briefly glancing into that mirror of our souls. Other distractions include alcohol, eating, socializing, exercise...there are many ways to evade reality!

Many times, I just sat back and observed myself in 'the situation'. (Very interesting if you have ever done this, if not try it!) I was at the local coffee stand, or what I call the Mysore Starbucks, tongue-in-cheek. In reality, it is a fly-infested hole in the wall with a patio out front, where I would sit and have my morning masala chai tea, with foul smelling mud, litter and dogs at my feet. Groups of Indian richshaw drivers and local men folk, loudly chatter and visit. I drink in the sights and the scalding sourish milk concoction, from a small shot glass. Sometimes I take 2 to-go and return the tiny glasses later in the day.

One morning a large group of Western yogis sat and animately converse on the patio. The Indian boy set my 2 chais on a table beside the group. I went with the moment, sat by myself and observed. I was fascinated, as I consciously viewed my emotions as they floated through my body. Not being part of the group felt odd, but good in a way. I was awakened to the awareness of all that was going on around me and in me. I thought- How would I react if they invited me over? How would I feel if they didn't? Normally, I would walk over and join in, being the socializer I am known to be. But it was all about being in the moment without being caught up in it. Sitting back, I calmly contemplated and recognized those needs and fears that link us as humans. I highly recommend it sometime!

Other times, I observed the conversations around me. The empty prattle, I was very familiar with as I myself have felt the need to talk just to fill the void air. Overhearing meaningless conversations, I begins to wonder, Why, as I take in whole discussions about useless nothingness.

In Kerela, Rachel and I had a meditative quiet moment on the beach. We faced the sea, closed our eyes with hands in prayer position, reflecting on the moment and being grateful. We are both standing there in complete stillness for about 15 minutes, when a 'snap' stirs my attention. I look beside me and an Indian man is putting away his camera and walking away. I think, hey I've just been 'karma-lized'! Since I had taken so many pictures of the locals, one snapped a picture of the two praying white girls on the beach.

Friends in Mysore comment on how I am so inquisitive, always asking questions and taking notes. Deep questions like, what would you do if you had six months to live? Or, what would you do if you won a million dollars? I find it fascinating as you really tap into what a person is really about. What lights their fire- passions, interests and treasures. "I get it!" One friend comments. She figures out since I am a writer and in media and TV that I am used to digging and prying and many people are not comfortable with that. Another says I am inquisitive and expect things from people. Hmmm...I have found though that some are dying to be heard and have a story to tell. And I get my pen out...


"The teacher points the way, but we must do our own traveling."
~Buddha

MAHENDI

(Archived from my journal August 9,07)

Puttie is giving me a 'Mahendi' /henna tattoo on my feet. When she picks me up on her scooter at my house, she looks 14. I find out later she is 23. Everyone here looks so young!

We arrive at her house and she offers for her brother to go get me some take out food. Declining, I sit on her bed like a teenage friend and put my feet on her henna stool. On a laptop, a Bollywood movie soundtrack plays as Puttie sings along happily in a confidence not normally seen in the West. As I look around I ask why all the windows have bars in India. She is perplexed and asks "Do they not have bars in Canada? Just plain glass?" Apparantly it is for security...I laugh and inquire if it is to keep the snakes out. She said yes! She has seen them as big as my ankle!


My house in India...bars everywhere

I ask her about life and boys and I am surprised about how open she is as she goes into detail about falling in love. What a drama! Puttie explains how she met a boy of another caste in college and when her parents found out, they made her quit school and forbid her to see the boy again. She says her brother also is having an 'affair', meaning a girlfriend from another caste. The parents know and are trying to force him to break up but he refuses. Puttie supports him: "I help all lovers who love and don't believe in castes. I loved a man for 4 years but my parents didn't allow. We may have promised not to meet but he is still in my mind."

Puttie's parents are still looking for a husband. They have tried to force her already and she flat out refused, saying that she will live at home forever and never marry. If she moves out alone, she can only afford an ashram or hostel and that would embarrass her parents as they are responsible and if anyone sees her there it is bad. I ask if others run away and marry and she says, yes, but that is no respect for parents...she'll be happy alone. Her mother knows what they have done is wrong, but the Dad is strict about the caste.

Typically, the boy comes to meet the selected bride, and if he likes and all the parents like, they marry, despite what the girl thinks. She has no choice- its the parents choice, but sometimes the man is given the choice by the parents. Some men ask for a dowry. Her cousin's husband didn't ask for a dowry...she says he is a good man.

"I don't think I'll love again- I missed one and my heart is full of him. I have alot of sweet memories. Now, my parents think I'm happy and have forgotten him, but I'm not.

I ask her if she thinks about Western ways of love and she says yes, but it too may still fail. There are few divorces in Southern India she assures me. Puttie asks how we marry in Canada and I say whomever we want. She asks, "No problem with parents?" I laugh and say no, they really don't care, but maybe they should. After all don't your parents know you best and what is best for you? I wonder how my life would be different if it was an arranged marriage. No sex before marriage in India and Puttie is shocked when I ask. She looks at me in horror and asks if they do in Canada?

Her mother brings me a hot tea and I wonder if she is listening to our candid conversation. With working from 5:30 am to 2 pm, tutoring students in the evenings, plus henna tattoos, Puttie's schedule is too full for men. When speaking of her students, she says not all kids can go to school here. The school may be free but the parents can't afford the other fees and uniforms associated with going to school. This explains all the children I see selling flowers on the street, working in stores and begging.


Puttie at work

She scrolls on the thin tube of henna paste and explains that if the design gets really dark it means your husband will love you lots and he is a good man.

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care.
But for another give it's ease
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."
~William Blake

Three hours later, her brother walks us to my house. I am barefoot waiting for the henna to dry. Puttie is scared to walk at night, maybe its the snakes, or maybe the boys. I think about the snakes too, but more about my barefeet on Indian streets.

Everything beautiful has to be worked for...

On the flight from India to Dubai, I chat with an Indian man. He talks about his wife and their arranged marriage. He says it took him 7 months to fall in love with her.

LANDING IN INDIA

(Archived from my journal July 15-07)

The clouds break as my plane prepares to land in India. The earth is rusty red just like my dream! Random patches and gridded squares of sand and rock are penetrated by random mountains. I see a heart shaped field amid a forest of palm trees and what looks like a granite quarry. I must admit I am feeling much better now about my decision. Throughout the trip I was having anxiety about what I had been thinking and what was I doing.

The madness erupts when I get off the plane. People pushing and shoved up against the baggage carousel as I try to get my luggage. It is 6:30 pm India time (7 am Edmonton time) and I am exhausted. I come out of the airport and see Indians crammed up against bar rails, many with signs and names. A man comes up and asks to take my bags and I say no repeatedly, as he insists. Another asks if I need a taxi and is shooed away by another. I see my name on a card and feel like a celebrity! Relief. I nod and the small brown man looks as though he won the lottery. As I ask him who sent him, our language barrier is choppy and I see it is difficult for him to understand. We are both frustrated.

He takes my suitcase and I attempt to have him write his name, address of where we are going and license number down for me as security. He does not understand. I call over the airport policeman, dressed in beige and carrying a baton, and he asks if everything is OK. I request for him to take the driver's information down for my protection, as the driver panics and calls Murthy, my travel agent who sent him. We finally translate that it is for my safety I am doing this, not to get him in trouble. The policeman must have seen this before, as he tries to make small talk, asking me about Canada and how I like Bangalore. I finally hop in the car and we are off on the 4 hour drive to Mysore.



First thoughts:

I love it! India is an assault on the senses. It's polluted and loud; busy with traffic and people. Litter and motorized rickshaws are everywhere, set against beautiful architecture in decaying opulence. I realize at this moment that I care more about decorating my passport than houses. Cows and dogs wander the streets, horns incessantly honk in the chaos, weaving in and out like a well-habited system. Right hand drive mini cars, drive on the right side, beside the scooters and crammed buses that share the road with truck loads of people. Colourfully carved ashrams, fruit stands and women in flowing saris embellish the streets. A blur of teal, mint green, fuschia and purple goes by, against Christmas lights and Indian music.

Night falls and the drowsiness overtakes me as I fall asleep in the back of the car. I keep bolting up randomly with the sound of car horns, then fall back down heavily, burdened by 3 days travel. we arrive at my house and I meet my house mother and her mother. The place is beautiful with a heavy, carved wooden door and floors in white marble tile. She hands me a large, old fashioned key and then tells me to 'take rest'.

INDIA CALLING

The following paper was written in June 07 for a writing course I was taking at the University of Alberta. The other students chided me for being in 'crisis', lovingly criticizing me for being an uncaring mother...



THE HOMELESS INTERIOR DESIGNER

REHABITAT




The word ‘alone’, broken down is ‘all in one’, meaning there is no more division. In my dreams, I’ve flown over India, solitary in an airplane, in awe of the sprawling land below. I see mountain ranges in amber, and the sunset sands of a nation I long to visit. Villages and buildings so removed from the urban landscape of the Canadian prairies. I’ve walked beside a river in these dreams, quite possibly the Ganges, along a path, speaking with locals of a different culture and experience. People float by in yoga ‘asanas’, in beautiful poses. As ridiculous as dreams may be, they are a hybrid or an illusion of what we experience in everyday life. For never even being to the sub-continental part of the world, I see it vividly in my mind’s eye. India is calling and the voice, perhaps it is my own inner one, is becoming stronger everyday.

In my land and reality, I live in a booming oil economy, with Alberta’s construction industry bursting at the seams with soaring real estate prices and population increases. As a local interior design consultant I have cashed in on the explosion by providing the homeowner services of beautifying residences with all of the lavish luxuries that a surging income brings to the average Edmontonian. As a very social person, I have always been surrounded by people; friends, clients, my children or various partners in life. The desire to be isolated in this experience is a conundrum.

With four children of my own, running in all directions with society’s expectations of music lessons and sports activities, my passion for yoga has brought me to a new self-awareness and a minimalist lifestyle. Realizing a false sense of living, the fake nails were the first to go. I was in downward dog, and was staring down at these ridiculous plastic fingernails one day and it occurred to me how absurd life had become. Everything was so phony and the fake nails were the first sign. Now, I’m proud now of what have been called my ‘lesbian’ finger nails or that of a hard working woman. It’s real. People comment all the time about how I need to get my nails done for TV or work…I just laugh! Now, my vision is to look at how ninety percent of the rest of the world lives; extreme poverty and pain, while we ponder for a week about what colour of granite counter tops to put in our kitchen.

My dream takes shape as I plan to give away belongings, sell the family home and send the kids to live with Dad for a few weeks, as the first steps to realizing this aspiration. Traveling to India to practice yoga and research homes is just a glimpse into how most of the world lives in a third world country. I long to peer inside the lives, the ghettos, the orphanages, the granite factories and all of the other unseen realities we have turned a blind eye to in climbing the ladder to the illusion of success. Going undercover, I visualize child labour camps where Persian rugs are handmade in child sweat shops and then adorn the floors of the affluent.

With Oprah as my biggest muse, I have been enlightened with the ambition of one day being a guest on her show, revealing my adventures as the homeless interior designer. There have been many times when I’ve stopped what I was doing, staring glued to the television with tears streaming down my face, as I listen to the atrocities brought into human suffering. Female circumcisions, women being stoned to death for adultery and child prostitution, are just the tip of the iceberg. I picture myself being a vigilante and saving all of the poor souls afflicted by the world’s woes. I imagine environmental issues in other nations will also be brought to light, and I can share my experiences with those around me.

During the exploration into other cultural lifestyles, I anticipate being homesick surviving the trials and tribulations of culture shock, revealed through journaling, tears and confessions during this process of self-discovery. Traveling through many towns and villages, discovering the splendor of historical places like Jaipur, the ‘Pink City’, Bombay and the tropical beaches of the Arabian Sea, my journal and camera capture the beauty of ancient architecture and artifacts. Through the ultimate sacrifice of family and a financially secure lifestyle, I anticipate discovering the true meaning of life through my travels, taking myself and my readers on a trip of a lifetime.

The first step begins. My house is officially for sale and the process begins. It’s interesting how easy it is to let go of the attachments. Clothes and toys are donated with joy, as I feel I am blessing others with the ‘stuff’ that no longer serves me. I think about the money I have made on this house and think I could easily live comfortably for six years or so. What about when I return? Will it be foolish to squander the investment and start from scratch again? The promise of riches and reward remind me with the proceeds of a book, to sustain me, as I let go once again of any fear of lack.

Tonight, I return from a trip in the mountains with my life partner and soul mate. Although we are officially broken up, we are still madly in love and the best of friends. Our relationship has never been better. Perhaps this was the catalyst after almost four years of ups and downs and heartache, to finally let go and find that relationship deep within myself.

As I arrive home, I realize that there is no place like home. It is so nice to have a place to come home to, with all of the familiar belongings to greet me, and two cats that bring life to an otherwise quiet space. One cat, Scout, my baby whom I watched being born, loves me with incredible affection. I feel sad in knowing that I will have to find homes for both of these two little souls. Paris, my other kitty has no desire for human contact. My daughter quips that she treats our house like a hotel. Only coming home to eat and sleep. Then there is my old faithful black lab Justus, who has been through it all in the last eight years, and thinks he is a triplet to my twin boys. He was a puppy when they were just ten months old and they loved to love him with all of the roughness that little boys are known for. The kids are at their Dad’s tonight, a relief in knowing there will be less stress in the morning rush of Mondays. Still, my home is just another thing or belonging that needs to be maintained, paid for and cleaned. After staying in a hotel, luxury life, with other people who serve, clean and cook for you, it is easy to get accustomed to. Now in my own home, I contemplate what it will be like to be homeless, as I nestle into the soft down depths of my king sized bed.

Pet update: Scout ran away from the sitter's and Paris' new owner had to put her down due to illness. She now resides on the great scratching post in the sky. Justus, the lab runs free on a farm and is welcome to come home whenever we decide:)