I'm in a purging mood. It is afterall my brand promise as well as my prerogative. I can't stand weeks like these where nothing works out. Let's see where shall I begin? I know. How about I tell you about my retarded bank and a true story of incompetence. I lost my debit card. I hold up my hands, I let it slip out of my bag into the back of a cab in the less than 5 minutes between me using it at a cashpoint and the last few hundred metres to get home. I noticed it immediately the following morning and had the card cancelled. What can I say shit happens and I'm only human. The bank said: you will receive a new card in 3 working days. That was March 30th. It's now April 15 and still no card. The bank in question lost it. LOST it. So, the card has had to be re-ordered and isn't expected for another 3 (to 5 - they built in a little leeway) working days. In total, and this is assuming it will be there as promised, I will have been without easy access to my money for 20 days. And to make matters worse - the onus is on me to call them to check the card is in before schlepping down to the branch to pick it up. I promise all customers there on that day, a very very good show should the card not be there.
Moving on. I received a parcel from Canada containing a gift for The Lish who was 6 on April 8th. I was not home when they tried to deliver it and since I would put money on me not being home again, I went online to use their amazingly clever and thoughtful redirection service. I asked for the parcel to be sent to my local Post Office. It spat out a confirmation number. The following Saturday I took The Lish, who by this point was excited to the point of nervous collapse, to collect said package. No such package had been delivered.
Now, it is true that this week, I'm especially short of oestrogen and were that not the case, I may have been irritated but would have been able to avoid the red mist - as it was - it being that time when women will kill if looked at the wrong way, and along with the recent memory of the fuckwits at the bank, I was in no mood for another failure at my expense. In short - the CCTV inside that Post Office will corroborate: I. Lost. It.
My last words to the subpostmaster were: YOU SHOULD NOT BE RUNNING A POST OFFICE! So another wasted journey but I still had enough energy left for one more rant which I reserved for this particularly incompetent shipping company's contact centre.
It is admittedly not my proudest moment.
My parcel is still at the depot, not having been "actioned" for 7 days since having requested the redirect. Had I not called, I dare say that parcel would have remained there until the end of time.
And lastly, my ever patient friends, I asked my TV service provider to come and fit another cable box to end forever the squabbling over the TV remote. From now on I get to watch whatever the hell I feel like and so does The Silverback - and THAT I believe will be the secret to our success. But TV companies do not feel our time is as precious as theirs which is why they feel they can justify giving five hour time slots. The audacity of it! The utility companies know better then to mess with the consumer like this but it seems TV service providers have other prorities. On Saturday, after my delightful experience at the Post Office I had to stay at home between the hours of 1 and 6 pm just for the cable guys who, of course, turned up in the last hour. Then proceeded to destroy the bedroom, (for which I had requested the second cable box). Disappointing all round. Perhaps it's punishment for allowing a passion killer like a TV into this sacred room.
All I can say is with this much bad luck in one week - something good has got to be just around the corner. No? One lives in hope.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
" I see dead vegetables"
I made it to phase 2 of the Dukan diet, also known as, the "cruise" phase. This is the phase that follows the "attack"one which consists of cutting out everything but protein rich foods. It's not too hard to do as long as you never ever run out of chicken. What this phase does is shock the body into shedding excess water (long story but it has something to do with body chemistry) and pulling energy directly from a food that not only takes calories to digest but provides energy more directly to the cells than other food groups. Let's see if I can explain this. There are essentially 3 types of food groups: proteins, carbs and lipids. For every 100 calories of proteins, the body uses 30 to turn the protein into energy which means if you ate 1500 calories in a day you're only actually ingesting 1050 calories as the remaining 450 have been used in digestion. The numbers aren't quite as appealing for carbs and lipids which sucks of course. If only it took the body as much of an effort to digest chocolate.
It's very clever really. I should add that there is a rationale other than simple weight-loss here. Dr. Dukan was looking for a diet that had almost immediate results enough to keep a clinically obese patient engaged. After this initial phase he then ensured the diet became more balanced (you alternate protein only days with ones where veggies are allowed). At this stage - your body still gets that shock to the system but you're no longer having imaginary conversations with broccoli.
This second phase basically goes on for as long as it takes you to lose the desired amount of weight. Or of course until you lose the will to live. For me, I've estimated a week to 9 days before this happens - hell I made it almost 3 years in Canada - I CAN DO THIS!
I'll tell you about how you're supposed to keep the weight off later. Of course the irony of this all is that I forgot to weigh myself at the start of this crazy trip - mainly because like most things I do - I was motivated more by a sense of adventure than planning.
It's very clever really. I should add that there is a rationale other than simple weight-loss here. Dr. Dukan was looking for a diet that had almost immediate results enough to keep a clinically obese patient engaged. After this initial phase he then ensured the diet became more balanced (you alternate protein only days with ones where veggies are allowed). At this stage - your body still gets that shock to the system but you're no longer having imaginary conversations with broccoli.
This second phase basically goes on for as long as it takes you to lose the desired amount of weight. Or of course until you lose the will to live. For me, I've estimated a week to 9 days before this happens - hell I made it almost 3 years in Canada - I CAN DO THIS!
I'll tell you about how you're supposed to keep the weight off later. Of course the irony of this all is that I forgot to weigh myself at the start of this crazy trip - mainly because like most things I do - I was motivated more by a sense of adventure than planning.
 |
| Vegetable Porn |
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
You can Dukan!
So, I'm giving the Dukan diet a whirl. I'm not overweight, not really. I'm just you know, 40 and going through a mid-life crisis.
All my life up until I had my Lish Losh, the scales never tipped over 48/50 kilos and for the longest time I maintained a steady 45 kilos or 7 and a half stone despite being well, a bit of a lush in my 20s and a slave to carbs since being weened onto solids. In this sense, I've really done ok. One could say I've been lucky with my metabolism. I would be doing myself a great injustice if I didn't also admit to being fairly sporty - or is that vain? And I went through a phase of vegetarianism too.
Today, I weigh in the region of 55 - 58 kilos which on a frame as small as mine shows. And it simply will not do. After a week at the Ashram on 2 meals a day, it was no surprise to find that I'd lost over 5 kilos and was almost back to the "worse case" old self. However I will say this - age (and no doubt that thing that stretches your body into shapes you last saw a clown make with long balloons - what's it called? ) Oh, yes. Pregnancy - does things to your body which means even at my "worse case" old self weight, I still don't cut the same old figure.
Still, I cut a much nicer figure than at 58 kilos. And I mean, not to sound conceited (though of course I am, very) I do yoga almost every day - so I'm far from being "out of shape". So yeah. Age.
Anyway dieting was the furthest thing from my mind. While I do have a very unhealthy obsession with macadamia nuts, I'm certainly not a glutton so really, I'm not your obvious diet candidate. But during a mind-numbing sleep-walk through my trusty row of charity shops in West End Lane on poopy weathered Bank Holiday Monday, I found The Dukan Diet book for a couple of quid. It was a lazy purchase motivated by boredom and disappointment with "The British Weather" but goddamit! Dr. Dukan talks a good game. He had me after just 2 pages. Before I knew it I was making a shopping list of "allowed" foods.
Today is day 2 of the DD and I have to say, it's totally sustainable. I'm not in the slightest bit hungry, though I will admit to finding the first "attack" phase a little prescriptive. This is the phase where you are only allowed lean protein, which the clever Dr. D describes as "72 protein -rich foods". In reality it means you'll be eating fish, chicken or beef and nothing else for the next week. So you see, while it's all really very filling and for the most part quite satisfying, by day 6 you will start to hallucinate broccoli. After this phase which the Doc recommends you keep up for 5 days, you are allowed veggies - 28 different kinds of the little darlings but not potatoes, rice or corn and avocado is punishable by 100 lashes in the town square.
The downside and of course there always is one when it comes to diets, is that it takes the spontaneity (and fun) out of lunchtimes and when you work in Soho, that is a problem. There is temptation on every corner and I'm not talking about the type that trot about in mini skirts and fishnets.
So tomorrow I can start adding a selection of 28 veggies to my 72 protein-rich foods which basically means I can have carrots with me chicken. I shall look forward to that.
All my life up until I had my Lish Losh, the scales never tipped over 48/50 kilos and for the longest time I maintained a steady 45 kilos or 7 and a half stone despite being well, a bit of a lush in my 20s and a slave to carbs since being weened onto solids. In this sense, I've really done ok. One could say I've been lucky with my metabolism. I would be doing myself a great injustice if I didn't also admit to being fairly sporty - or is that vain? And I went through a phase of vegetarianism too.
Today, I weigh in the region of 55 - 58 kilos which on a frame as small as mine shows. And it simply will not do. After a week at the Ashram on 2 meals a day, it was no surprise to find that I'd lost over 5 kilos and was almost back to the "worse case" old self. However I will say this - age (and no doubt that thing that stretches your body into shapes you last saw a clown make with long balloons - what's it called? ) Oh, yes. Pregnancy - does things to your body which means even at my "worse case" old self weight, I still don't cut the same old figure.
Still, I cut a much nicer figure than at 58 kilos. And I mean, not to sound conceited (though of course I am, very) I do yoga almost every day - so I'm far from being "out of shape". So yeah. Age.
Anyway dieting was the furthest thing from my mind. While I do have a very unhealthy obsession with macadamia nuts, I'm certainly not a glutton so really, I'm not your obvious diet candidate. But during a mind-numbing sleep-walk through my trusty row of charity shops in West End Lane on poopy weathered Bank Holiday Monday, I found The Dukan Diet book for a couple of quid. It was a lazy purchase motivated by boredom and disappointment with "The British Weather" but goddamit! Dr. Dukan talks a good game. He had me after just 2 pages. Before I knew it I was making a shopping list of "allowed" foods.
Today is day 2 of the DD and I have to say, it's totally sustainable. I'm not in the slightest bit hungry, though I will admit to finding the first "attack" phase a little prescriptive. This is the phase where you are only allowed lean protein, which the clever Dr. D describes as "72 protein -rich foods". In reality it means you'll be eating fish, chicken or beef and nothing else for the next week. So you see, while it's all really very filling and for the most part quite satisfying, by day 6 you will start to hallucinate broccoli. After this phase which the Doc recommends you keep up for 5 days, you are allowed veggies - 28 different kinds of the little darlings but not potatoes, rice or corn and avocado is punishable by 100 lashes in the town square.
The downside and of course there always is one when it comes to diets, is that it takes the spontaneity (and fun) out of lunchtimes and when you work in Soho, that is a problem. There is temptation on every corner and I'm not talking about the type that trot about in mini skirts and fishnets.
So tomorrow I can start adding a selection of 28 veggies to my 72 protein-rich foods which basically means I can have carrots with me chicken. I shall look forward to that.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Nothing but goodness on a day like today
Today is the spring solstice - a day when we wholeheartedly give up an hour in exchange for lighter, warmer and greener days. A very fair swap indeed and a pleasure doing business with you, nature. There is only one place to go in London on days as deliciously fresh and sunny as today. The park. Any park. And there are plenty to choose from here. We chose Primrose Hill along with hundreds of other sun thirsty Londoners. What a joy to see people literally drinking down gulps of sunshine and park life. Smiling, relaxed attitudes everywhere. Happy. Content. All it took was a little mild weather.
I don't usually do well on playground duty. I find it duller than church. Watching kids play is about as entertaining as watching the laundry go round and round in a washing machine. Most parents feel the same way. I would put money on it. Show me a parent who lives for taking their kids to the playground and I'll show you a very unstable personality. A delusional liar, in fact. After years of spending Saturday afternoons standing around a steel and plastic obstacle course, you can't help feeling a little resentful. It's inevitable. It's human nature. But not today. Parents were kicking off their shoes, peeling their socks off and rubbing their toes in the soft sand of the sandpit. This never happens. I promise you. The sandpit is usually as inviting as a cold bath. But today, parents were building forts with working draw bridges and actual size moats.
Open arms at the end of a slide replaced vacuous stares broken only by the most serious of playground injuries and only then to enable the rolling of eyes. There were standing ovations in appreciation of rope climbing prowess and those lucky enough to get time on a swing were over-joyed to the point of rapture. Not even the ridiculously dressed person selling balloons at equally ridiculous prices could elicit even a modest measure of cynicism. Balloons for everyone!
This was codeine strength leisure; parents were wiping saliva off their own chins. Two whole hours passed before I even thought about making a move. And even then it took everything I had.
Life was invented for days like today. And all it took was a little bit of sunshine.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Over The Edge sent me Over The Rainbow
Last night I went to the British Film Institute with my friend "the film fanatic". I do not exaggerate when I say he has seen EVERY release London has shown in the last 25 years - worth watching and even some that weren't. I kid you not. This is a boy who would stay up into the wee small hours to watch the Oscar's live in the days before cable TV when you had to wait for Channel 4 to air it. He is of course a BFI member, has attended creative writing courses, has turned his hand to writing screenplays and bought (or begged or borrowed) a Hi-Eight camera with the serious intent of "making a film" and you know what I say? Good on him. Fair play to the fella. I wish him well.
He works in market research.
Anyhoo. He never fails me on a night out at the flicks so I don't usually pay too close attention to what the film is called or about, even though the last time round he did take me to see a 70s cult horror movie called "The Corpse Grinders". Less said the better. Last night was no exception. I had no real idea what I was off to see.
Turns out the BFI is running a series of what it calls: Screen Epiphanies where a different famous writer, producer or film maker of some description is invited along each week to share the film that most inspired their life and career. Well on the night I went, it was the turn of director Joe Cornish (Attack the Block, The Adam & Joe Show) and his screen epiphany? Over the Edge. Matt Dillon's first film.
Described in the blurb (and I really couldn't have put it more succinctly) as a modern youth classic, it is a film I had for a long time thought didn't exist. I'd convinced myself this vague memory I had of a film with Matt Dillon as a young boy, set in a youth centre in the middle of a sort of desert town was merely a composite of myriad early 80s teen angst films. The reason being that I had never been able to find it again after that one time I watched it at the age of 14, in my bedroom going through the similar nihilistic affectations. It resonated and titillated. And then it just disappear. Over the years I tried to remember what it was called to see if I could find it somewhere but with no luck. Then the t'internet came along and with it came a renewed fervour to try again. I would go through bouts of Googling but nothing would ever come of my efforts. In the end - I figured it just didn't exist.
That there should be such a place as New Grenada (the fictional town where the film is set) where bored cool as crap kids had created such a Bohemian environment entranced me. The location - an eye-wateringly boring modern suburban shithole is echoed in such films as The Breakfast Club etc.. and they owe it to Over the Edge.
The IMDb site gives the following synopsis- why reinvent the wheel? So here goes:
"New Grenada is a planned community set in the desert where there is nothing for the kids to do, save for a rec center - which closes at 6 PM. The parents, in their zeal to attract industry to their town, have all but neglected their children. As a result, the kids begin to create their own entertainment, which involves vandalism, theft, and general hooliganism. During an incident when one of the kids brandishes an unloaded gun at town cop Ed Doberman, he is shot and killed. When the parents gather the next night to discuss the killing and the level of lawlessness among the youth, they soon find out that their kids have had all they can take."
A full blown riot ensues where the disenfranchised pre-teens trash their junior high school and carpark - a 15 minute sequence during which the terrified adults are locking inside the school.
But the film boasts more subtle accomplishments: a brilliant integration of rock music mirrors not just the "punk" mood but turns viewers to listeners drawing mind, body and soul into a specific era completely.
Joe Cornish's reasons for liking this film so much are uncannily similar to mine - 'cept he had the whaddya call it?...vision and talent to go onto become a film director. Me? Well, I just went onto watch loads of films. And where would the film industry be without people like me and my film fanatic friend eh? I ask ya? eh?
But there is more. Turns out this is also Kurt Cobain's favourite film. Credited in fact with inspiring the "grunge" look - particularly the blond fella second from left in the image (plays the character of Claude). So there you have it. Ground breaking.
But look don't take it from me - watch it for yourself. Then tell me the 14 year old in you doesn't relate.
He works in market research.
Anyhoo. He never fails me on a night out at the flicks so I don't usually pay too close attention to what the film is called or about, even though the last time round he did take me to see a 70s cult horror movie called "The Corpse Grinders". Less said the better. Last night was no exception. I had no real idea what I was off to see.
Turns out the BFI is running a series of what it calls: Screen Epiphanies where a different famous writer, producer or film maker of some description is invited along each week to share the film that most inspired their life and career. Well on the night I went, it was the turn of director Joe Cornish (Attack the Block, The Adam & Joe Show) and his screen epiphany? Over the Edge. Matt Dillon's first film.
Described in the blurb (and I really couldn't have put it more succinctly) as a modern youth classic, it is a film I had for a long time thought didn't exist. I'd convinced myself this vague memory I had of a film with Matt Dillon as a young boy, set in a youth centre in the middle of a sort of desert town was merely a composite of myriad early 80s teen angst films. The reason being that I had never been able to find it again after that one time I watched it at the age of 14, in my bedroom going through the similar nihilistic affectations. It resonated and titillated. And then it just disappear. Over the years I tried to remember what it was called to see if I could find it somewhere but with no luck. Then the t'internet came along and with it came a renewed fervour to try again. I would go through bouts of Googling but nothing would ever come of my efforts. In the end - I figured it just didn't exist.
That there should be such a place as New Grenada (the fictional town where the film is set) where bored cool as crap kids had created such a Bohemian environment entranced me. The location - an eye-wateringly boring modern suburban shithole is echoed in such films as The Breakfast Club etc.. and they owe it to Over the Edge.
The IMDb site gives the following synopsis- why reinvent the wheel? So here goes:
"New Grenada is a planned community set in the desert where there is nothing for the kids to do, save for a rec center - which closes at 6 PM. The parents, in their zeal to attract industry to their town, have all but neglected their children. As a result, the kids begin to create their own entertainment, which involves vandalism, theft, and general hooliganism. During an incident when one of the kids brandishes an unloaded gun at town cop Ed Doberman, he is shot and killed. When the parents gather the next night to discuss the killing and the level of lawlessness among the youth, they soon find out that their kids have had all they can take."
A full blown riot ensues where the disenfranchised pre-teens trash their junior high school and carpark - a 15 minute sequence during which the terrified adults are locking inside the school.
But the film boasts more subtle accomplishments: a brilliant integration of rock music mirrors not just the "punk" mood but turns viewers to listeners drawing mind, body and soul into a specific era completely.
Joe Cornish's reasons for liking this film so much are uncannily similar to mine - 'cept he had the whaddya call it?...vision and talent to go onto become a film director. Me? Well, I just went onto watch loads of films. And where would the film industry be without people like me and my film fanatic friend eh? I ask ya? eh?
But there is more. Turns out this is also Kurt Cobain's favourite film. Credited in fact with inspiring the "grunge" look - particularly the blond fella second from left in the image (plays the character of Claude). So there you have it. Ground breaking.
But look don't take it from me - watch it for yourself. Then tell me the 14 year old in you doesn't relate.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
I discover Karma yoga and the warm familiarity of routine
Ok, so I've been back in London (and work) for almost 2 weeks now, but let's for a moment just pretend that I'm still in paradise - join me in this folly for just one more blogpost on this incredible journey. I mean look at the place!
After half a week the routine at the Ashram was soo familiar, time passed very slowly indeed. Add to this the fact that I'd also made friends - the best sort too - independent but engaged - the type of friends that didn't feel that obligation to stick together all the live long day but knew we could if we wanted to.
With the exception of the last couple of afternoons where the immediacy of "the end" brought me and these friends closer in the clinging hope that we could make "the end" simply go away, I would otherwise go lie on the beach. I'd invariably find some ridiculously excluded spotand put in a solid four to five hours of dedicated adoration of surya (The sun). I read 3 books on that eye-wateringly beautiful beach all told. That's unheard of these days. What is more, it was starting to feel normal. Like my life should feel. That has NEVER happened on a holiday. I've always been quite ready to come home.
But you see here I had "the schedule". At around 3 o'clock I'd go have a shower to wash the sea, salt and sand off in preparation for late afternoon yoga which was immediately followed by dinner (vegan and not indulgent in any way shape or form - I lost 5 pounds).
Then: Enter the official witching hour.
By 7pm the sun would have just set leaving that deep magenta, light lilac tint in the sky. At this point, I would do one of two things - clamber onto my bunk to read some more or huddle outside the ashram's little boutique with other like minded socialites and watch the exclusive world of the Sivananda cult go by. Usually this was the point when I'd actively seek out my friends and squeeze into that free hour all the words I hadn't spoken all day.
At 8pm we'd file into the temple for evening satsung. There is something very comfortable and comforting about a routine as set as this. I can see why some personalities are inclined never to leave; why some people once immersed in the safety of this sacred schedule are left unable to leave it after any significant amount of time. Hell, I was only there for one week and I felt like I was being pulled from the cosiness of a mother's (ok a nice aunt's) bosom when the dreaded "eviction" notice came. I'd seen that note 3-4 times in the week I was there - never addressed to me until Friday.
There is was flapping like a dog's wet tongue. A note on my door reminding me of my check out time Urghh.
So the following morning I broke with routine. After breakfast, the time when I would change into sun mode and pad off down the beach, I instead offered to help the kitchen staff with the mountain of dishes left by the other guests. Perhaps the sheer drudgery of it would help reprogramme my mind into accepting it was really time to leave and go back to the "real world" where you have to do dishes. I discovered doing the dishes at the ashram is considered Karma yoga. Jesus Christ - how can you feel bad about that? I wished I offered to do them more often and now it was too late. I knew then I would simply have to return.
I walked with the pitiliess steps of a Greek tragedy to my room. It was time to go. I looked at the yogis doing other forms of karma yoga, briefly watched those in yoga teacher training sitting on a wooden platform studying anatomy or some such module. I visited the temple one last time and bumped into "Jesus" not literally, an English fella with long hair and a beard that looked just like what we are led to think he looks like and it struck me: I really don't want to leave. I know these people! These are my people!!
Then the biggest blow of all. Time to say goodbye to my friends. The only consolation being that they too were leaving. I choked. I cried.
Unspoken, unheard and unseen was the heart-dwelling promise that we would meet again.
After half a week the routine at the Ashram was soo familiar, time passed very slowly indeed. Add to this the fact that I'd also made friends - the best sort too - independent but engaged - the type of friends that didn't feel that obligation to stick together all the live long day but knew we could if we wanted to.
With the exception of the last couple of afternoons where the immediacy of "the end" brought me and these friends closer in the clinging hope that we could make "the end" simply go away, I would otherwise go lie on the beach. I'd invariably find some ridiculously excluded spotand put in a solid four to five hours of dedicated adoration of surya (The sun). I read 3 books on that eye-wateringly beautiful beach all told. That's unheard of these days. What is more, it was starting to feel normal. Like my life should feel. That has NEVER happened on a holiday. I've always been quite ready to come home.
But you see here I had "the schedule". At around 3 o'clock I'd go have a shower to wash the sea, salt and sand off in preparation for late afternoon yoga which was immediately followed by dinner (vegan and not indulgent in any way shape or form - I lost 5 pounds).
Then: Enter the official witching hour.
By 7pm the sun would have just set leaving that deep magenta, light lilac tint in the sky. At this point, I would do one of two things - clamber onto my bunk to read some more or huddle outside the ashram's little boutique with other like minded socialites and watch the exclusive world of the Sivananda cult go by. Usually this was the point when I'd actively seek out my friends and squeeze into that free hour all the words I hadn't spoken all day.
At 8pm we'd file into the temple for evening satsung. There is something very comfortable and comforting about a routine as set as this. I can see why some personalities are inclined never to leave; why some people once immersed in the safety of this sacred schedule are left unable to leave it after any significant amount of time. Hell, I was only there for one week and I felt like I was being pulled from the cosiness of a mother's (ok a nice aunt's) bosom when the dreaded "eviction" notice came. I'd seen that note 3-4 times in the week I was there - never addressed to me until Friday.
There is was flapping like a dog's wet tongue. A note on my door reminding me of my check out time Urghh.
So the following morning I broke with routine. After breakfast, the time when I would change into sun mode and pad off down the beach, I instead offered to help the kitchen staff with the mountain of dishes left by the other guests. Perhaps the sheer drudgery of it would help reprogramme my mind into accepting it was really time to leave and go back to the "real world" where you have to do dishes. I discovered doing the dishes at the ashram is considered Karma yoga. Jesus Christ - how can you feel bad about that? I wished I offered to do them more often and now it was too late. I knew then I would simply have to return.
I walked with the pitiliess steps of a Greek tragedy to my room. It was time to go. I looked at the yogis doing other forms of karma yoga, briefly watched those in yoga teacher training sitting on a wooden platform studying anatomy or some such module. I visited the temple one last time and bumped into "Jesus" not literally, an English fella with long hair and a beard that looked just like what we are led to think he looks like and it struck me: I really don't want to leave. I know these people! These are my people!!
Then the biggest blow of all. Time to say goodbye to my friends. The only consolation being that they too were leaving. I choked. I cried.
Unspoken, unheard and unseen was the heart-dwelling promise that we would meet again.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Day 3 at the Ashram - in which I make friends
Against all the odds I make friends today. Not just any friends but people that I have a distinct feeling of having met before...you know in a past lifetime (in true ashram fashion, one lifetime is simply not enough). I have no other explanation. We each live the reality of a different decade; one of us is in our 60s, one in the 40s and another one in the 20s and I'll wager that while, yes you will guess which is which from the picture below, it may well take a couple of minutes. And that is the power of yoga my friends.
You know, I may well live a 100 lifetimes (may already have) and I will never be able to understand or fully explain what it is that draws certain people together. I mean why these two girls? Out of tens and tens of others. And at a time when I was only really planning a week of sun, sea, yoga, mediation and reading. No other ambitions outside of those. As a group, everyone there seemingly has very little in common with each other outside of yoga and by no means is it a common denominator. Believe it or not there are degrees of devotion to the activity. It's a delicate balance. One day I absolutely cannot live without doing asanas while another I willingly give it all up for a cup of coffee or glass of wine but mostly I'll take yoga over anything else. It's all relative in the end.
So here I am, in Nassau - The Bahamas, an island I always thought would be at the very limits of my financial means. It's day 3 and I know I will be back next year and the year after that and one year I will bring The Lish with me. I realise at that point that nothing is really ever out of reach in life, nothing. It's all about how much you want it and how dedicated you are willing to be to achieve it. Sometimes all it takes is a leap of faith. I spent weeks deliberating, calculating and pondering the sense of this trip. Last year I went to Spain for a very different type of yoga retreat (a yoga holiday if you like, of the sort you take when you're too scared to try an Ashram) and it served it's purpose well. That trip triggered what became a daily yoga routine that has endured to present day. It's because of that experience (and a niggling sense that I was missing a trick somewhere) that I'd felt the need to find something much more hardcore. In the Sivananda Ashram - I found this.
So let me tell you a little story about hardcore. It starts at 5am. This is the time the cowbell clangs apologetically signalling the start of a new yogic day. I anticipated physical pain and a mental refusal to comply. And who is to say this wouldn't have been the case had I not been suffering from jetlag. Instead I'm irritatingly sprightly. The half hour meditation is easier today. For one, I know what to expect and thankfully jet lag has a way of raising you up high before plunging you into nauseating fatigue without notice. So while I arrive at the temple with a spring in my step - it isn't long before tiredness takes every drop of juice from me and all I have the energy to do is sit quietly, eyes closed thinking of nothing - which is lucky since that is what is required of you. Then chanting. Then yoga. And only then are you given the simplest of meals.
I'm titillated by the insanity of it all. It's 10:30 am, I have been up for 5 hours and the day is only really beginning (I've done so much already) and I've still got so much to do. Not least the serious business of sun-bathing before it's time for afternoon yoga and satsung comes around again.
All in, I figure I'm rampaging through an 18 hour day like it's nothing. And I can't wait to do it all again tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)