Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Well, I didn't vote for you!

I went to bed dreading an outcome that's been confirmed this morning, by logging onto the beloved CBC... our Prime Minister is now Stephen Harper.
Thanks to dimwits everywhere, voting as a kneejerk reaction to propaganda surrounding a liberal scandal, there is potential that we about to see abysmal changes to this country we call home. Under a Harper government we may see very Canadian staples like the CBC, government sponsored healthcare, our privelege NOT to participate in silly war activities like our neighbours to the south - oh yeah, and our basic human rights. After these changes, I suppose we can just call it America instead.
Sure he's proposing tax cuts, but all the money in the GST won't pay for what he's threatened to take away. Most everyone can afford to pay a %7 tax on items they purchase, but definately not everyone can afford to pay for access to healthcare. But, Stephen Harper and his corporate buddies can, so I guess that's what matters most.
At least only a portion of us lost our heads, and they are only a minority government. We'd better hold on and pay attention - we're in for quite a ride...

Monday, January 09, 2006

The Half Baked Sundae

Yup, it's all in the name -don't ask - how else could we have come up with this?!
Anyway, for a fabulous munchie of your own, try this!

Mix up some cookie dough, preferably something with chocolate chips. Bake whatever dough has escaped being eaten as raw dough. Take the cookies out of the oven BEFORE they are totally done - they will be slightly crispy at the very edges and very soft and melty in the centre.
Serve warm cookie over small scoop of ice cream (it's okay, I said "small scoop," see?) Delish! The melty cookie softens the ice cream and this is sooo yummy! Plus, depending on how much raw dough was consumed, you might even have some cookies left over to eat the next day! (a la suggested serving on the package)


My Grandma Pat

This was something I had written for a yoga magazine contest - they asked for a piece of writing about a person you have met that emodies what it is to be a yogi. I wrote the piece, and, true to my fashion, did not procure a FREAKIN' STAMP in time to send it... (I never seem to have a stamp when I need one, does this happen to anyone else? I'd like to see a new system, one where each address has a code of some sort, and all outgoing mail can be billed to an account associated with that code... but that's a theory for another day.)
I thought I'd post this here, just because this is where things of a typed nature should be. So, without further ado, enjoy:

They say, “Children and animals know things.”
Even as a young child, I knew that my Grandma Pat was a bright light, a precious gift. I feel blessed to have had her in my life. I was too young while she was alive to know that she was the first yogi I’d met. It’s only now that I’ve begun my own study of yoga, that I realize she was far ahead of me on the path already.
She was gentle, loving and patient. Her presence did not COMMAND attention, her ways were far less intrusive. Instead, you felt compelled to take notice, to take in every word, to be touched by her energy. Whatever was brought to you by her presence or her voice was a small gift to be cherished forever.
Pat exuded strength. She was widowed early, left alone to raise four boisterous boys, and their princess-come-tomboy sister. (my mother) She was loving, patient and handled conflict with endless equanimity, her mantra being, “This too shall pass.” She passed her wisdom and ways on to my mother, and I find myself striving to live up to them as well.
She was a teacher throughout her life, and in her last teaching position she worked closely with new immigrants, not only teaching them English, but helping them acclimatize to their new country, often on her own time.
My Grandma Pat was a great lover of life, nature and the universe. She adored violets, sculpting the clay she dug from her garden, and watching the lake beside her house. She had a profound respect for everything from the smallest insect to the vastness of the night sky. Some of my best memories include evenings spent curled up with her on the couch watching Carl Sagan on Cosmos.
She even had a bit of a physical practice, yet I doubt she would have called it yoga. From a very young age, her parents had her go outside every day to do breathing exercises, regardless of weather. And her physical exercise was comprised mainly of a series of stretching movements, which, looking back at it now, were very rooted in yoga.

There are many times I find myself thinking of her in the quiet that comes to me at the end of my practice. It is in these moments when I feel close to her again, where I feel a connection with her thanks to the balanced calm. Although I only had her in my life for ten years, she has been a part of me always. And although I have always recognized how special she was to me, it has not been until I began my yoga practice that I have rediscovered a connection with her and learned the one word which acknowledges her for what she was. I think of her each time I say it: Namaste.

Go On, ask me if I feel targeted!

Lately, I've noticed a curious and not completely undisturbing phenomenon. I'll be out shopping, for groceries, at the drugstore, at IKEA for dog's sake, and I'll hear some catchy tune from my youth, blaring over the speakers. I first noticed it when I was walking up an aisle at the grocery store, and they were playing Duran Duran. Then, as I started paying attention, I noticed that many places where I was spending my money were playing the songs I knew all too well. Cure, New Order, Duran Duran, Banarama, the Go-Gos, early Madonna, A-Ha... the list goes on. I think I heard Spandau Ballet somewhere the other day.
Now this is not the music I currently listen to, but it was at one point... and the more I started thinking about it, the more I realized that I'm now part of somebody's (many people's, apparently) target market. That's a creepy feeling, when you really think about it.
I remember chuckling to myself and friends about bad seventies make-out music and all that happy-crappy fifties stuff, or Elvis, being played in such places... but now, I'm just lumped in with the rest of those old folks, those of us with increased disposable income, and decreased youth.
Yes, it makes me feel like I have a bullseye on my back, but I guess it also means that I'm getting older, something I can't do anything about.
So I might as well just grin and bear it, and hum along with Culture Club, OMD and all those other golden oldies!

Thursday, January 05, 2006


When did I stop creating?

>>full time job - - I began wanting things and places

That's when
Misplacing value, putting it where it does not belong.

At the same time, I stopped having fun, being fun, being silly...
and shifted focus to what others thought about my actions, my words

although they were all mine!

This must be what it is to grow up?

Can it be undone?


Feels smooth and alive, and tastes clean and sweet, a bit sharp.
Rumoured to be the colour most easily processed by the human brain, and that our blood appears green at a certain depth beneath water.
Green bounces: my cat's green eyes watching a green ball

Green is giving, sharing, growing - - how odd the ancients decided it should represent envy, and the almight dollar in the south.

Green is toy slime, rolled beneath my five year old hands
The christmas jello with the cabbage in it.
A praying mantis named Eunice, my pride and joy for a brief summer.

The crunch of a tart apple covered with soft caramel.

Rude numbers on my alarm clock.

Sweet smelling grass to lie in.
Dry rasp of palms blowing in a tropical wind.
Fresh basil and Lime