life:actually

A year (or so) of cathartic vignettes by a Canadian living in London, England. Visit @life.actually on IG for unfiltered accompaniments from my journey (or follow my personal account @vishmili).

[life---actually]

Words cannot express the gratitude I feel today as I leave one place to another, met on both sides by such love and friendship. Thank you to each and one of you who have encouraged me and supported me in this adventure, which began some time ago and nonetheless continues.

As some of you know who have been reading, I’ve been blogging and IGing for a while now at #lifeactually, which in some way ran parallel to @vishmili as an encapsulation of the moments of the past year and a half or so. Over the last couple of months, something happened though: I no longer could quite distinguish to which profile my musings belonged. It’s as though the two sides of me melded somehow and became one perspective; no longer some new me adventuring vs some old me connecting nostalgically; perhaps because I had decided it was time to transition into something else? Or, perhaps, because the newbie perspective is no more. In either case, today, with this post, I retire one half - though in no way cut it away completely. It’ll still be here, and though I didn’t anticipate it then, this blog helped me get a little (or a lot) closer to understanding what (ironically) life actually is about. For future musings, find them at http://idefiningi.blogspot.com (yes, it’s old).

I’ve learned a lot in the last four - and especially two - years, when my life took new (good) turbulent turns. It opened my eyes to what is possible when we venture out of our comfort zones. When relationships transform, when home is redefined, the relationship we have with ourselves and how we perceive ourselves relative to our world changes. It opens up the world - as if in a lucid dream - empty, in a way, but also so full of capacity if we hone in on the juices of the present and embrace transience in all its forms.

So, as I get ready to board a plane this afternoon and make a new alteration to this dreamworld of mine, I feel light. Inquisitive and excited to live outside new comfort zones. Today, I’m not leaving home nor am I going home. I’ve found home here - part within myself, part in awakening to what is around me always. And I thank everyone - then, now and later - for playing such an integral part in this experience and my learning.

[London, Hampstead, 10:22am]

[life---actually]

Whenever a trip comes to an end it’s a bit of a down time for me, as if exiting a fantastic dream; and knowing that after you leave, you won’t be able to re-enter that same world again or ever find it how you left it. Because even with a return ticket, you never come back the same.

I write this getting ready to leave Chiang Mai after travelling through Thailand all month. I feel a bit tired this morning, having had a few back-to-back early starts this past week - for sunrise dives, countryside bike rides, elephant visits… or just plain anticipatory peering out my window at a new day breaking in a new place. 

I almost wish I had one more day. But: I also know we could always want one more day… could always ‘use another’ Thai massage, one more temple sit, one more market stroll… Especially here in hospitable Thailand where everything seems easy and attainable. (If it weren’t for mosquitos and no-flush toilets, it’d be paradise.)

It’s 7:22am, I’m a bit achey from sleeping funny (perhaps anticipating my flight today), as I wait for my breakfast to come. I’m on Ratachdamnoen Soi 5 (I think it’s called?), the cutest street I’ve discovered here yet: a narrow road lined with gardens and dotted with serene yoga spaces, cushion cafes, local eateries and bakeshops. Yet, as I take in this 'last’ morning (how dramatic), I realize I have had enough massages, enough breakfasts, temples and shopping. Like the Buddhist proverb hanging in that tree at Wat Phra Singh read, 'Until death, there is nothing enough.' <\b>Unless you figure out how to live so that everything is enough. 

So, as I depart this wonderful place, I’m thankful for coming here at all. It invigorated me for all sorts of trips and dreams and things to come - like, my next departure and move back to Vancouver…er, in just a few days :P

I think back to my favourite moments from my travels and I meditate not on the hope or wish to do them 'one more time’ but rather, I meditate on the experience of each and with utmost gratitude for really taking them in as they were happening. I remember the feeling of lying back in the dark waters staring up at the almost-full moon having surfaced after my first night dive on Koh Tao. I remember how foreign I felt as a creature when I put my face against the elephant’s cheek, staring into his brown eye. I remember the belly-deep hysterical laughs with Lluna that unleashed after the Thai ladies pulled our bodies apart that one time. And the heart jerk when her and Marčin handed me a Polaroid of us as a goodbye token. Being truly present in those moments then makes them much more alive to me now, and though they will fade as all memories do, this lesson won’t - this lesson in living and what it is to live…enough.

This trip, like others, has removed yet another wall to the world, has given me trust that the universe will take care of me - partly, by giving me more confidence in my ability to also take care of myself. But also by teaching me that the only way to having enough is really being present for what you have now. 

So here’s to the next trip, or rather, the rest of this long long trip that each of us is on, a dream we create, made of moments strung together into one single long meditation, always being present enough wherever we are and whoever we are, because we, too, are enough.

[life---actually]

This is the first time that I’ve travelled completely solo someplace very new and for more than just a few days. For one, travelling alone is much quieter. This makes you much more aware of certain things, as you focus more on the details, take in your environment and journey much more mindfully. Here are four thoughts that have accumulated over the last four days, since I touched down in Bangkok and made my southern journey to explore Koh Tao:

1. Not missing a selfie stick!

Believe it or not, in a city of 15 million, you can almost go a whole day without talking to anyone, apart from a few mild interactions with shopkeepers, which, when you’re limited to a few Thai words, isn’t very gratifying. That’s why I think it’s been a sort of blessing that I’ve had to ask others (or was approached) to take a photo of me. Some lovely conversations ensued as did some cute photos.

And the shots I didn’t get a chance to look great in? Well, I’ll reserve them for my memory. If they fade, oh well.

2. Viewpoints.

Lovely, yes, but it’s been much lovelier going down to the actual place, rather than watching it from afar. Sure, you can have both, but I’ve never been much of a fan of them to begin with. Even in Sinatra in Portugal, I preferred the walk up and down more than the arrival itself (a tad Buddhist, eh?) Right now, I’m tanning on Freedom Beach (pictured above), and after seeing it from far away in anticipation, I must say I am appreciating it much more when it’s here, now, and up close. It feels more real.

3. Take trains.

This is the second time in my life that a few short hours on a train exposed me to a wonderful new person and potential friend. Something about train journeys opens people up perhaps, as the landscape goes by out the window - it allows serendipity to take over and seat you next to someone special who draws you away from the window gazing.

On my way out of Bangkok, I had the pleasure of meeting Pattayam (whose nickname is Apple, funnily enough), a girl my age who was travelling home to see her mom in Chumphon district. Within a few hours, we learned so much about each other, honestly shared life challenges and whole-heartedly exchanged advice, and before hugging goodbye, were imagining my next visit to Thailand so that “Apple and Cherry can eat durian at the family farm!” Whether that happens or not, to have found such closeness as this on a trip by myself is wonderful enough.

4. Don’t let the anxiety about getting sick make you actually sick.

On my second day in Bangkok, in a moment of weakness and impatience with my own indecision, I finally sat and ordered some ginger chicken and rice in a local joint I happened upon. It took three bites for me to realize the chicken was lukewarm, and as I looked up to assess the situation, I was horrified to learn that all the dishes were pre-prepared and sitting out in the heat: Pretty much the biggest no-no when traveling to places like Thailand (and the same rule that was essential to saving me from food poisoning in India- eat made-to-order piping hot meals.) I quickly stopped eating, paid my bill, and had a mild freak out, imaging my trip ruined, with the added weight of having to board an overnight train and high-speed ferry in the following 12 hours). As my stomach churned from my anxiety, I also recalled the story one guy I met the evening before told me, about the chicken meal that he presumes had him bed-ridden for 4 days in Bangkok the week before.

The nightmares piled. I googled. Everything pointed to, “it’s too late. Brace yourself.” So, in a moment of clarity, I decided to forgive myself and still knowing I am hungry/should eat (appetite, still mostly questionable), I walked down to one of Bangkok’s famous pad tai places. I ordered, and while waiting for my order - in one last attempt to ease my mind, forced myself to throw up (with no success, having eaten so little). I got some Thai tea to go as well at a different place and said, “To hell with it. One last good meal in Bangkok!” I ate with gusto and didn’t let my thoughts dwell on a past mistake or a potentially horrific future.

As luck would have it - because sometimes the universe wants to teach fools, rather than punish them, I think - I was fine and have been ever since. Stomach of steel? In either case, this was a test for my mind, too.

….that’s all for now :)

[life---actually]

It was my last day in the office yesterday. For the most part, the days preceding didn’t feel all that different - in a sense, more mundane than before, almost as if I was trying to delay the inevitable ‘bigness’ of this final day.

I’ve been here before, a year and a half ago, when I was preparing to close up my life in Vancouver and make this trek over to London. All these months gone by, I am again faced with the strange truth - that there are always more goodbyes than reunions. It seems the things I missed about home (or conversely, the things that excited me about my once-unknown life in London) are fewer in number than the number of goodbyes and departures from.

Just a few weeks ago, in some sentimental attempt to romanticize my leaving London, I stood outside Canada House having just picked up my new passport. “Goodbye, dear horses of Trafalgar Square. See you in some later chapter,” I exclaimed to myself.

A week later, I funnily enough found myself walking by those same horses on my way to meet a friend (albeit for another goodbye).

All this makes me realize the impermanence of goodbyes and departures and paradoxically, their ever-presence. We are always saying goodbye, whether we notice it or not and for the most part, we can just squeeze out as much “now” out of things, regardless of whether - and despite - seeing their impending end.

The last couple of weeks, even as I am going about with my goodbye rituals around London (goodbye, Portobello market! goodbye yoga at work!), I realized the newness around me too. That same Saturday at the morning rave in Notting Hill, I was there with three new friends; two I met at a new friend’s birthday the weekend before; another, a friend from work who reached out to join us. It was very special to see that it’s never too late to open up. (The fourth girlfriend there, mind you, was one I had said goodbye to back in Vancouver when she decided to move back home to London! So what does that say…..)

Yesterday at work was special. We went for a team lunch, and in contrast to other office gatherings a few months ago, I noticed how much more closeness I felt to everyone there. Afterwards, I went for coffee with a few office mates and realized also the grand potential there for even deeper friendship. For a moment, I felt sad, that I’ve had to say goodbye so soon. But I spent more time reflecting on how lucky I am to have nurtured the friendships that I have in such a short time. It’s never too late: That theme of goodbye shouldn’t close us up to new hellos - which inevitably become more things to say goodbye to… So, in light of that: goodbye. For now. :)

[vishmili]

An awesome year

While I reminisce about the awesome experiences I’ve had this year in a mad effort to post some inane #best9of2016 instagram image, I’ve fallen into a trap: of counting. Whether 9 or 16, a definite lazy and arbitrary concoction of ‘the best of′. How many trips? How many lessons? How many books? Laughs? Leaps?

But rather than quantify 2016 by scrolling through my blessings, memories, and new places and things I’ve experienced, I will qualify it - as a year that was just plain awesome. 

awesome (adj.) 1590s, “profoundly reverential,” from awe (n.) from 1300, aue, “fear, terror, great reverence." 

(It’s not accidental that ‘awesomeness’ comes from fear. To uncover beauty, to discover deeper truths, requires a willingness to step into the dark.)

This last year has been very much about pulling back the veils, relabelling my fears as curiosities and potentials and shedding light on blind spots and unknowns. It’s been about entering new spaces (not just passport in hand) to uncover layers within myself - and ultimately, to find that part in me that stands in awe. 

I’ve been lucky that my darkest moments still inspired awe, weren’t debilitating, but instead, recharged me and challenged me. I saw them as opportunities to uncover new facets of myself and my understanding of the world, and hold on to perspective. It’s a learned skill, I admit; but one that has allowed me to discover the awesome, bring flow into my life, and find more joy.

My only resolution for next year, really, is to keep this up; to keep my curiousity, enthusiasm, and openness alive - and whether surrounded by knowns or not, by the dark or light - to find the awesome in the banal, the familiar, the routine. Everything can become old and fall into a pattern, unless we bring to it insight and effort to appreciate it anew.

In 2017, I’ll find myself in Vancouver. But it feels like I’m going someplace new. Maybe I am. 

[life---actually]

be(longing)

In today’s 5Rhythms class, the teacher left out a book open on a table that usually only holds candles to light the dim space. I have to say that its words lit something up inside me. 

“Our bodies know that they belong; it is our minds that make our lives so homeless.”  ― John O'Donohue, Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong

Overrun by emotions from reflecting, amidst the music, on @jasonsanders​‘s visit - and departure, I read its pages, still flooded with memories of us dancing together just days ago, of sharing space. Now I shared that same space around me with a room of strangers. I wasn’t as present in my movements as I usually am; I had trouble surrendering to the rhythm.

“Guided by longing, belonging is the wisdom of rhythm. When we are in rhythm with our own nature, things flow and balance naturally. Every fragment does not have to be relocated, reordered; things cohere and fit according to their deeper impulse and instinct.” 

My mind overcame my body’s sense of presence, I guess. I felt longing, but it didn’t bring me to a place of belonging, because I could not go where I wanted to - back into the past, or into some distant future, where I didn’t miss him.

“The arduous task of being a human is to balance longing and belonging so that they work with and against each other to ensure that all the potential and gifts that sleep in the clay of the heart may be awakened and realized in this one life.” 

I thought it quite synchronistic to be reading right now about this tension we feel as human beings - between longing and belonging, between having and yearning for; this felt presence of being with something very much there while simultaneously feeling distant from it, longing to get closer to it. When Jason was here, I felt acutely aware of the distance between us; when he left, leaving behind clear and recent visions of us together, I felt him somehow even closer to me. 

“There is some strange sense in which distance and closeness are sisters, the two sides of the one experience. Distance awakens longing; closeness is belonging. Yet they are always in a dynamic interflow with each other. When we fix or locate them definitively, we injure our growth. It is an interesting imaginative exercise to interchange them: to consider what is near as distant and to consider the distant as intimate.”

All this really speaks to me right now, on other levels, too, where the distant becomes near and the near is always unreachable. A year into being here in London, I’ve reflected on being far from ‘home’, while also reflecting on the fact that even in Vancouver, I didn’t always feel like I was ‘home’. Somehow, home, for me, has always felt someplace where I am not.

And then I realize, maybe, that’s the beauty of it. 

“The hunger to belong is at the heart of our nature. The sense of belonging is the natural balance of our lives…When we belong, we take it for granted. 

Longing will always be there. It’s innate. The most we can do is be present with it and find belonging in that. Allow longing to guide us, from the heart, to spaces that bring us presence, that bring us home.

Today, that space of belonging for me wasn’t to be found in his arms. It was in my own self, in my heart, where I long. Where he is just a thought and a feeling away.

“The art of belonging is the recovery of the wisdom of rhythm.” 

[life---actually]

under construction

I snapped this one, with the London Eye peeking through construction by Waterloo, on my way out from Southbank Centre tonight, where I went to see the 2016 World Press Photo exhibit, showcasing the world’s best photojournalism. 

After a number of emotions stirred inside me as I looked at, to say the least, graphic war footage and a series on the refugee crisis (which brought about some detached associations of the war my own family fled back in 92), I also thought of the many things I am grateful for today.

The picture above, I can’t say stands for much in context. I was moved toward this frame for no apparent reason, except that I was reminded that I was in London. And maybe that was just it.

Looking at it now, it has some metaphoric quality, this all-seeing Eye squinting through the hard lines of scaffolding and cranes. Perhaps, many of us feel as though we, too, are peering through a harsh haze of what seems a bad dream following the November 8th election, and the new reality it constructed for the world. 

That day, a year ago, also marked my first day in London, when, I too - albeit less momentously for the world - had my own reality reconstructed. 

There were my words on my first blog entry here:

"Kind of melancholy waiting for my new city to wake up. It’s like it’s not ready for me yet. I don’t quite feel ready for it either." 

In light of this, and this photo, I am reminded of all that blocks our vision, and that sometimes we don’t have all the pieces yet. Or that sometimes, the construction site looks like wreckage before it turns into something new - and maybe better. 

the global is the personal. and the personal is the global 

It’s a constant push and pull as we zoom into our own backyard project and out into the world that’s in the making. But as I watch many of my friends, especially my American ones, in a period of grief and shock, trying to accept the results of the election, I also urge them to be compassionate to themselves and leave some room, when they’re ready, to remind themselves of the good that’s still left - which is crucial to progress. Such as the rights and freedoms they still hold and can uphold - including the right to vote, have a fair election, and voice their concerns when they disagree - ones the subjects of the photos I saw today in the exhibit still lack, and of whom there are millions.

I don’t know what the future brings, here, there or anywhere. But, I do hope that if we stay curious and wide-eyed, open to the world around us and open to letting it teach us something new about it - something that may not necessarily fit our frame of understanding - perhaps the vision of the world we have will continue to change and shift into something more clear, more true - until we have gathered - and accepted - so much new about it that we’ll hold a wiser perspective; then, perhaps we’ll also see something better taking shape. 

What have you learned today? What was new? What did the world offer you in today's dreamscape that shattered your reality? Is there anything to salvage amongst the rubble? What can we do with what we learned today to build a better tomorrow?

For all it’s worth (and not to deflect), when I look upon my little backyward project here, after a week of stomach flu and being mostly bed-ridden eating crackers, tomorrow brings me hope of a delicious meal. And someone very special who is currently on a plane coming to visit me. In London, where despite its early challenges, has shown to be a place of great growth and discovery for me. 

[life---actually]

Keepsakes from Newcastle

As I was walking back from a lovely day of sightseeing in Newcastle with two friends today, I stopped on the bridge over the Tyne and thought for a moment. And then took a photo (it wasn’t either of the two above). It was this one:

And then I realized that the act of capturing the picture made me recognize it as a distinct moment.

moment (n.) mid-14c., "very brief portion of time, instant," from Old French moment (12c.) "moment, minute; importance, weight, value" or directly from Latin momentum "movement, motion; moving power; alteration, change."

Perhaps the sunset moved me to pause. Or was the act of taking the photo that made the moment stand out even more? Was I fabricating its importance just by taking a photo? Or was it already so?

I was soon also thinking about our obsession to ‘capture’ moments at all. And especially so, with the advent of the pocket camera - our smartphone - that so easily takes the natural world outside us, this living breathing thing...and captures it for our keeping.

capture (n.) 1540s, from Latin captura "a taking" (esp. of animals) meaning “captive” from late 14c., "imprisoned, enslaved," from Latin captivus.

This obsession to capture, also, has a certain link to another modern obsession: Sharing what we’ve captured - in other words, ‘releasing’ that moment into the wild. (Soon after, I posted the photo above to my Instagram).

As I took in the moment on the bridge, what lay outside the frame itself, I recalled being on my most recent trip a few weeks ago, in Barcelona, where my on-demand moment-trap was stolen at a nightclub. And how I proceeded to experience - recognize - plenty of moments that weekend without the ability to capture any of them for my keeping - that is, outside my memory. In some ways, the lack of a camera stopped me in my tracks and made me feel debilitated to a degree.

I remember distinctly this feeling and telling myself as I took in the Sagrada Familia, “You’re still experiencing this. It’s not like it didn’t happen.”

instant (adj.) mid-15c., "now, present, of the moment, current."

Yet, I realize, unlike the photo above, which I’ve ‘set free’, my memories of Barcelona are confined to my mind and the stories I’ve told since.

Yet, with photos, when we release them, we don’t set them free. We take the ‘now’ and make it infinitely imprisoned in the future, duplicated into a multitude of interpretations, very far removed from the actual instant we experienced or the story we carefully attached to it. (Just yesterday, my friend Rick instagrammed what looked like a delicious veggie burger; unlike most people I presume, he captioned it honestly and dismantled our presumptions; but what of those moments that are stripped of their story or author, or are contextualized by invisible lies?

Those sacred moments of our lives, however important or not - they are lived but once.. an are momentous by virtue of their essential singularity...

momentous (adj.) 1650s, from moment, to carry the sense of "important" while momentary kept the meaning "of an instant of time."

I wonder, when we capture those moments that stop us in our tracks (whether with camera in hand or not), how sincere are we in taking care of what we capture, in keeping it the sacred experience that it is - or was - or will be?

[life---actually]

Been a bit out of sorts today. Funny stomach. Nausea. Left work early, just after 1pm, having suddenly felt quite dizzy. I came home and slept for almost 3 hours. Woke up refreshed, the day already darker; and famished - but I didn't eat anything. (Just in case.) Headed out - not quite in the mood to do so - to Royal Festival Hall for a Slavoj Zizek lecture I got myself a ticket to a while back. I won't get into the content of his talk - it was a captivating whirlwind not for the faint of heart, and much of it went over my head (I'm not that well versed in all his philosophy and cultural theory references). It was enjoyable, though, funny, thought-provoking and a number of points on feminism, religion, and bureaucracy were compelling. But, needless to say, I walked out in a strange mood. No longer nauseous - at least, in my stomach. This was more a head-y nausea, as my brain fired up with all sorts of ideas I had nowhere to place or do anything with. 

Felt a bit melancholy today. A mood that makes me like walking alone in Chinatown. It’s a mood I often enjoy actually, and it’s been a while since I felt it. 

I walked out from Southbank, drawn toward Soho. Something about it, on nights like this, is really soothing. Makes me feel very okay with walking my own line in the cobblestoned streets, alone amidst the crowds. Chinatown makes any mood a comfortable one to endure, and this particular strange mood of mine gets somehow enhanced - made extra enjoyable in this setting. 

I caved and got myself an egg bubble waffle thing, avoiding temptation for my favourite Chinese pancake or red bean buns that I usually get. Seemed gentle and light enough. (So far so good.) I recalled the first time I walked here like this, leaving Chinatown and finding refuge at Hamleys toy store on Regent Street. And the most recent: Listening to a band play in front of the Dumpling Legend restaurant, with a dead phone battery, dead to the world and loving it.

I walked and walked and eventually gave in and hopped onto a Northern line train at Tottenham Court Rd, where I sit now. Again, amidst crowds of people, and even now when we share the same line of movement, we are apart. But as I near home, even the strangers who join me in getting off at Tufnell Park become more familiar. The Chinatown spell is broken now, has been, ever since we moved north of Goodge Street...but with it the melancholia has left, replaced by a sense of resolve, to crawl back into bed, hit publish, and sleep... mm

[life---actually]

a leap outward

I’ve taken many a leap in coming here - to London, and to every unfamiliar experience and mysterious space that I’ve explored over the last year. But tonight was the first time that I consciously realized what it is to have leapt not in a singular direction, but simply, outward. It’s what I’ve done here gradually, and it really hit me today.

I just came back from my second 5Rhythms class, what I foresee becoming a Thursday night ritual that begins and ends with a thirty minute walk to and from a lovely church in Holloway. What occurs in between, I’ll venture to describe as a kind of reverie of movement.

I won’t get into specifics (you can google it), but I will share some reflections, having just come out of a class, glowing with sweat, tired and empty yet quite full and very much alive.

We hold emotions in our body; that’s something I’ve slowly come to realize in my mindfulness practice. When we’re still, we become aware of this and vipassana has taught me the benefit of observing the physical manifestations of emotion to help us detach from it. When we move - consciously - through yoga, any meditative exercise, dance - I think we allow this energy to be released, harnessed, expressed and given form; shaped into something that is more than just ourselves - and that too, helps us detach a bit.

The 5Rhythms class isn’t really all that structured, yet there is a method to the madness as about forty people of all ages and sizes flail around freely in the open space in all sorts of contortions and shapes. The movements - whatever the movement - fall into one of the 5 bodily rhythms (what I think are intrinsic and quite natural for us to dance to when we let go): flowing, staccato, chaos, lyrical and stillness - and these give the mess of bodies a form. We move as separate beings, often with eyes closed, usually not touching, yet we manage to fill the spaces in between each other - with our energy.

I recall my first class last week, when I first walked in to the dim lit church, the high ceilings punctuated with strings of small lights hanging across from each wall. I admired the space. And it took some time, as people started moving to the undulating music playing, to admire not each dancer, but the group as a whole. As the music picked up, and the movements became more pronounced, it was a welcome challenge for me to drop judgment, of others and myself. To stop caring what it all looked like but instead dance with the passive intention to fall into the wave, be carried by it, until all I could is just feel it. 

The music plays and we move along to the crescendo, uplifted and lifted and further lifting until we give way to the gradation of rhythms that brings us back to stillness as the music slows down. 

One thought I had, as I sweatily rocked from side to side, my arms limp until I had stopped moving altogether: Even stillness is movement, it is the essential pause between one action to the next; except we are more conscious of it. Dancing, I think - when we shed the vanity and the tempting performative aspect of it - is really a tuning into the stillness that creates a rhythm. Sometimes the rhythm is too quick for us to meditate on it, but it’s there. And when we dance, we are aware of it, just not as actively. Perhaps that’s what eventually leads us to fall into trance (from Latin transire "cross over", associated with the word transient) - when we can follow along deeply enough that we not only dance to the sound but to the silences in between, bridging them with our body.

I found it somewhat odd that the word dance itself - from Old French dancier - is of unknown origin, posited to have come from Low Frankish dintjan, “to tremble, quiver." Somewhat melancholic an etymology, but perhaps not surprising given (says google result from Live Science): “dancing was a way for our prehistoric ancestors to bond and communicate, particularly during tough times.” 

Previous to “dance”, the word sealtian (Old English) was used, from the Latin salire, “to leap”. Interestingly, this is associated with the word salient, whose denotation of describing something "prominent, striking" was first recorded in 1840, from “salient point” (1670s), which refers to the heart of an embryo, as it seems to leap.

And there it is, what I felt all along. A leaping out of myself, a cognition of my centre, my heart, which with each movement found its way to beat more outward, seemingly synchronised with the music. Sometimes as the music played and I moved with it, it was hard to tell whether it was me dancing along or the music responding to my movements. A sort of mirroring to the point that it’s hard to separate the two. I searched further on google on the origins of dance and quickly learned that our ability to dance to a beat comes from our unique ability (that we only share with some birds, not even apes) - to mimic sound.

And last but not least as I go further down my wormhole.... a beat in music is defined as “a transient grace note, struck immediately before the note it is intended to ornament. The beat always lies half a note beneath its principal, and should be heard so closely upon it, that they may almost seem to be struck together.” [The British Encyclopedia, London, 1809]

And there you have it. A bunch of chaotic ideas that thanks to a burst of momentum, I’ve wrought into flowing form through the interconnectedness of words, a lyrical dance of sorts, slowly coming 

to stillness.

[life---actually]

It’s funny. I’ve had a very adventurous, exciting time since I moved to the UK - filled up and fulfilling, busy and various, colourful and deep and all sorts of everything - from one end of the spectrum to the other, and on a spectrum that became even more expansive since I got here. Yet, every once in a while, a memory creeps back in and reminds me of the flavourful moments I’ve had before all of this. And the moments that pop up are telling. Like this one.

The image pictured above (a screengrab of a video I just finished watching) came from June 14, 2015. Facebook somehow missed that day completely this year around and I forgot about it for a while, but luckily it came to mind today - and boy am I happy it did. After speaking to one of my best friends Jackie, it occurred to me, that this day was one of the fondest ones I have in memory. After all the wonderful things I’ve lived in my life, sunsets and landscapes, and activities, and milestones, and exotic food tastings, and cuddles, and major laughs into the wee hours of the night - this day is one I wanted to share with you. Sure, it was eventful, a new experience; I was adrenaline-filled and ecstatic. But it’s not the first time I had felt those things.

This one stands out, though.  Because of its feeling.

It was a day of a lot of energy. I put on fake eyelashes for the first time in my life, donned a sparkly outfit and spent an hour anxiously blabbing with my purple sequin-clad dance troupe on the balcony in the Richshaw Theatre. It was soon our turn and I joined the girls and stepped up onto the stage to perform a dance routine I had been practicing for a couple of months (though, frankly, not enough, as I got sent away for a course in Toronto for the last 2 weeks before the performance). Plus, I hadn’t been on a stage since the age of, what, 11? (if we don’t count convocations). Yet, there I was, under the hot hot lights, getting ready to shake my hips to the beat (though I was already shaking with my own nervous heartbeat). And bare-bellied, to boot, in front of 400 strangers...and some of my closest friends (I don’t know which was more petrifying).

After 3 or 4 minutes, our number was over, and we rushed off stage in a giddy shuffle. I was exhilarated. It was over. After we watched our teacher perform the next number, we had an intermission. I ran out to find my fan clan standing there ready to hug me with open arms, congratulating me. Especially surprising was that among them were two friends I couldn’t believe had come there together, (due to some then-recent boy tangles that have since become far less awkward - don’t worry, everyone’s happy now!) There was also a boy I liked (I didn’t realize how much more I’d come to like him over time), who had secretly come to see me, with a story of epic proportions to boot (it included landing in a helicopter to make it to my show). I stood there in total awe, watching this group of 5 staring back at me, all smiles, talking to each other, laughing, there for me. For me. 

I know I’ve felt loved many many times in my life. This is one of those days that I not only know I was, but I still feel that love when I think about it.

And despite the many things that are going on over here - some of which make it into this blog and many more of which don’t...despite my diligent effort to be mindful of the moment and absorb the present fully...I am very happy to have come across this memory and had a chance to relive it over again.

Thanks for the love, then and now, all of you - J,A,J,B,S.

<3

[life---actually]

Dream spotting

I’ve been practicing - or rather, reminding myself - to do more reality checking as part of my lucid dreaming practice. Meaning, when you notice something out of the ordinary, you contemplate whether you are dreaming. While you know you aren’t, it increases the chances that the next time you do notice an oddity, you will in fact be dreaming, and in asking yourself the same, you’ll become lucid.

Yesterday, after a lovely walk through Soho with my friend Jen who was visiting from NY, we spotted an umbrella in a tree. Reality check.

tree (n.) Old English treo, treow, from Sanskrit dru, Greek drys, Serbian drvo. From PIE *drew-o, a suffixed form of root deru, “to be firm, solid, steadfast”

This practice, while helping me to achieve lucidity while dreaming, has also made me achieve a certain kind of lucidity when in the waking state. Every time I reality check, my heart also flutters a bit, excited by the whimsy of this incredible world. Even when awake, dream-like things can happen. If we awaken to them.

Take today for instance: A regular lunch-hour. I decided to walk myself with a cup of tea and a book to a very special spot by Hampstead Heath station, a few minutes from my work: The World Peace Garden. It’s a community-built space where people can come and sit and be in nature, amidst dreamy decorations of colourful notes pinned and fluttering in the trees, painted plant pots and laid out tree stumps for sitting, and wind chimes that somehow sound louder than the nearby trains that come into the station adjacent to the garden.

I made my way down the narrow little path, under the carved wooden sign reading ‘World Peace Garden’ and down a few steps and toward the ‘tree’ (though it’s all mostly trees). It’s sort of like a hut, demarcated by logs and stumps; the chimes and notes that I mentioned hang from various branches that have been strewn across the top to form a kind of thatched teepee roof. Almost a fake tree made of trees, if you will. And in the middle, if you’re creative, you can manage to find a way to plop yourself down in such a manner that it feels like a throne. I sat and took out my book and began reading.

Some time passed and a man approached me. Grey-haired, well-dressed, white collared shirt with sleeves rolled up, approaching me with clear eyes and a confident voice. I can’t quite recall what his opening line was, but it was enough to lift my eyes from the page and inspire in me an openness to the sudden interruption. I greeted him and agreed to listen to a story he wanted to share with me “about the Peace Garden.” Or rather, “a legend” as it were - The Legend of the Woman in the Tree.

The legend wasn’t much, but a simple description of the garden’s cardinal rule, that should one see ‘The Woman in the Tree’, one must approach her and ask her a single question. 

“And since you are just that, the first I’ve seen, The Woman in the Tree, can I ask you a question? You must give a single reply.”

Of course, I said. And then he began.

“Why do I wake up and can’t sleep through the night?“

I pondered it a while, but an answer quickly rose to my lips and with a smile I said, “Because you’re dreaming.”

Having been experiencing much of the same thanks to my lucid dreaming practice (whereby I’d often awake after a dream, in the middle of the night, sometimes many times over, after each REM cycle). It’s as if your mind is telling you, ‘Wake up so that you remember.’ And so I’d awake, and remember what I had dreamt. And then go back to sleep, affirming in my thoughts a desire to become lucid.

The man smiled and seemed a bit perplexed. He promised he’d give it some thought. Think it over. “Thank you.” And before he walked off he reminded me, “ Remember now, if someone comes up to you with a question, you’ll know why. You’re the Woman in the Tree.”

And I guess I was. Soon, with a flutter in my heart, I returned to my book, asking myself if I was dreaming. 

whimsy (n.) From whim (n.) “a sudden turn or inclination of the mind”, shortened form of whimwham, circa 1520s, unknown origin - perhaps from Old Norse hvima “to let the eyes wander,” or Norwegian kvima “to flutter”. 

I wasn’t dreaming. But the whimsical quality of the moment stayed with me. And enough so that on my walk back to the office a little bit later, I noticed another anomaly: 

A bunch of papers stuck into the side of a plant pot, outside the White Horse pub. I read the first page visible.

Oh, and the book I’m reading?  The People in the Trees by Hanya Yanagihara. 

[life---actually]

Day dreaming and Night swimming

There’s something uniquely special about travelling by train. Something about those rolling green pastures silently making their way past your window, the early morning sun casting a pearly haze over everything – the horses graze, the empty train stations wait for the start of day, the hills and woodlands are lost in the dewy mist, faded into a dreamy obscurity.

I can sum up my last week with a few lyrics from the song I'm listening to right now - by REM (also, ironic as you will come to see):

"Nightswimming deserves a quiet night"

And day dreaming (and blogging), perhaps a quiet train journey, such as this.

I’m on my way to EAIE, Europe’s leading higher education conference, happening this year in Liverpool. As I prepare to join thousands of professionals coming from all over the world to discuss the benefits of internationalization and mobility, I reflect on my own move across ‘the big pond’ and what impact this has had on me. What learnings have come from my exposure to operating in a new environment?

I realize that in coming to a new place, in shedding that layer of familiarity you’re used to, you also drop assumptions about yourself. In learning about new things, you begin to see new aspects within yourself emerge, too. It’s as though moving to London gave me some kind of permission to more actively entertain new interests, or unearth once-dormant curiosities and do something about them.

Some aspect of this has come by way of professional development as is synchronic with this work trip I am on. I am expanding my skills in a new role, working more cross-culturally than ever before, stepping out of my comfort zone. But my last almost-year in London has also offered development on a more personal level. I’ve become more mindful of my spiritual identity and have been more actively seeking out and awakening to deeper truth.

In this context, I also reflect on my most recent trip, to Scotland (one that also involved a picturesque train journey) to attend a mindfulness retreat. In many ways, this was a trip within a trip, within a trip: A trip from London (sometimes the journey of leaving is a trip of its own), to the Scottish Highlands, and finally, into my mind. I’ll explain.

4 days waking up in Scotland

Before I left for Liverpool this morning, I had just returned home from a four-day retreat where I was immersed in the ancient Tibetan Buddhist practice of dream yoga, and by extension, learning conscious sleeping and lucid dreaming. Much like vipassana mindfulness meditation, it is difficult to appreciate the power of such practices without experiencing them for yourself. I won’t spend time evangelizing, but do hope my sharing of this post will, at the very least, pique your interest and urge you to read more on the subject.

The beauty of such practices is that they come naturally to us. We were born more awake. It is just up to us to re-learn it, to remind ourselves how to become lucid.

In short, lucid dreaming is the practice of becoming consciously aware that you are dreaming while you are dreaming (i.e. in REM sleep). It’s becoming objectively aware that there are two parts of your mind participating in the dream – not just the one experiencing the dream. The moment you become aware of the “watching self” - the subject of the dream - you also more clearly understand that the dream itself is a creation of your mind, too. And in doing so, you become awakened to the sheer power of your psyche: something that creatively integrates your waking life experiences through subconscious activity – and when lucid - through co-creation – to help you establish your sense of self and what constitutes reality. Of course, the spiritual Buddhist practice, goes beyond this, and so I urge you to read up on this on your own, from one source (the teacher, Charlie Morley, who led the retreat) far better positioned than I am to explain any of this.

Most of us will not spend our lives following a path to enlightenment, and even those who do, may never become awakened in this lifetime. Lucid dreaming, however, is at the very least, a small step toward becoming more - ego-lessly aware of the effect of subjective reality and all (i.e. our psychology, integration of experiences, self identity) that feeds into creating this world for us. Once we train our minds to become lucid in our dreams (and yes, it’s just a matter of conviction and training) – to realize, that yes! I am dreaming – we fundamentally see how powerful our mind is at projecting reality in waking life, too.

So, in short, over the last four days I spent a lot of time night swimming. Swimming around in my own mind and exploring what’s there. I also went night swimming at Loch Ness on my final morning before departing back for London (finally) after a flight disruption had me stay an extra night. Funnily enough, I had joked to my new friends Ellie and Hadden that “maybe Scotland won’t let me leave until I go for a swim”. Perhaps synchronicity is proof that the same co-creation available to us when we lucid dream is also possible in waking life.

[life---actually]

(Pro)Found

It’s not surprising that as I head to Scotland tonight for a short solo getaway, that I am reflecting on the friends I have come to know while in London. I guess when we face the idea of being alone for an extended period of time, we become that much more aware of the people in our lives. 

Those who have been reading this blog for a while will have been introduced to some of my London friends already, albeit in passing, as I’ve shared with you the happenings of my life here. But I haven’t truly ventured to comment on this very special sensation I’ve felt on the whole - one I feel is rare: This experience of having found - or did they find me? -some very profound connections while living here in London. Really good people. When we spend time together, when they’re there for me, I notice it. But I come to really feel it when I think about it - when I am not experiencing the wonders with my closest friends here, but instead, waking up to the awareness of how wonderful it is to have them.

Last night, ‘the clan’ congregated at my neighbourhood pub after work, as I was leaving for the weekend and Anuj had just returned from a visit home to California. This wasn’t the first time it happened, but I was so much more aware of it this time - this special capacity for us to always be open and show we care; always eager to share experiences together - be it enormous hikes in Wales, nights out to shows (even if only one of us is really keen to go), Sunday attempts to prolong the weekend with late-night drinks… or simple ways of being there for each other as we all navigate life in the city. Maybe it’s an expat-community thing, but even if it’s less rare than I think, it makes it no less special. That’s clear to me.

Another instance of this hit me on Saturday, after a really lovely me-morning in Hampstead that included a run, a barre class, and a visit to the Parliament Hill Farmer’s Market, finished off with a moment on a bench, enjoying one of my favourite tarts while watching tennis across the street from my house. On my way home, though, I walked into a pole. 

Yup. Funny, kinda, but mostly really really not funny at all.

Instead: really painful. I was looking to my right, walking with some speed, and before I knew it I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Massive blow to my head; I felt like it was expanding by the second, turning a painful eggplant purple. I walked the remaining 100m to my house, head in my hands blubbering curse words under my breath trying to keep breathing. I booked it straight to the kitchen and grabbed an ice pack as I explained to my flatmates what had happened. Within minutes, they assessed me, gave me the much-needed hugs (so I could cry my face off in their arms - largely out of shock, I think), and sent me to my room to rest.

While I spent the next 10 hours in bed feeling the pain slowly subside, I learned two things: As I envisioned a hospital visit, going at it without my mom, I felt incredibly lonely and far from home. But I soon discovered, that I wasn’t. Marc and Iva were on standby, helping to take away the psychological pain of fearing being incapacitated in a city that’s not my home. The second thing I learned? Be with it.

The pain was at moments excrutiating, but I soon discovered that much of the magnitude came from my trying to escape it, to cry it away, in fear of what it really was. “A concussion. A massive bruise. Swelling.” The moment I took some time to be with it, to really isolate it and feel where it was and how it felt, it became more tolerable. Less scary. Less painful even.

Loneliness is the same. The moment I took it upon myself to calm down and be more objective about my pain, the moment I could think clearly enough and pull myself out of my ‘weeping’ frenzy - I was able to reach out to my friends.. to those who care about me. It’s like pulling yourself out of a nightmare - that unrealistic notion that we create in our minds that makes us feel that much more out of control and at the mercy of our circumstances.

Like the pain in my head - fortunately - the pain of homesickness and aloneness subsided, too - when I became present. Lucid.

It’s a bit ironic to be writing this from the Caledonian Sleeper train, as I make my way to Edinburgh tonight to participate in a retreat further north in Inverness. Ironic because the retreat is about learning to practice the ancient art of lucid dreaming. Becoming awake in our dreams; becoming conscious of what is illusory. Learning to be present regardless of the circumstances (even amidst the farce created by our minds), so that we can be less afraid of what’s real. If any of this even is….

[life---actually]

Balancing Act

I haven’t written in a while. I won’t apologize though as I have been busied with living. Slowly, quickly, at all speeds, living, yes, but not writing. As one writer said - you can’t live and write at the same time. You bet your bottom dollar. There have been many opportunities to write admittedly, yet I wasn’t compelled, and kept saying ‘tomorrow’. Until now. On a train north up to Chester, for a trip to Wales with Iva and Marc, something about the passing farmlands makes me feel like there’s no better time than today. I boarded the train twenty minutes ago, two backpacks in tow, one at my front, one at my back, headed from work early to Euston. Reflecting now, I realize sometimes two weights are better than one. If you can balance them, that is. I got back from my Vancouver trip, (visit, return home,) whatever you call it, almost three weeks ago. Went to Belgium soon after for a weekend and have now settled in London again, into the summer groove of things. When I left, back at the end of July, I felt like I belonged to two places. When I returned, I felt like I didn’t belong in either. I had fallen out of my Vancouver life a bit since I left. Though “little” relatively changed since I was there last, in November, moments reliving old habits and home pleasures left me with an uncanny feeling - as though I had missed out on a lot in my absence yet saw little proof of it. A sneaking suspicion, perhaps a fear, that I’d soon find out I wouldn’t be able to catch up. While in London, I sometimes feel Vancouver is like a heavy weight, pulling me down - or rather, back in time, reviving memories in hopes of a “once again”. Or perhaps forward, anticipating my return. Whichever the case, though, there is a kind of permanent anchor in Vancouver, a connection sometimes tight sometimes loose, but always present. Other times, I feel London is the weight, this immense experience that keeps giving and that’s hard to let go. The most I can do is read the signs and make decisions as they come my way. And trek forward, as I will tomorrow, uphill, downhill through the hills of Snowdonia and Wales taking it all in. Living, not between a rock and a hard place, but between two sides of abundance, balanced. One in front of me, one behind, like the baggage (or is it equipment?) I carry today, ready for the next peak.

[life---actually]

Visiting home

Kind of an oxymoron.

I’ve never visited home before. Even with all those summers “going back” to Bosnia or Serbia, it didn’t quite feel like this. I had a past there, but not a life. Not this living thing.

The more time I spend away from Vancouver, however, the more that it seems like a place and time I left in hopes that when I return, for a visit or for good, that nothing will have changed. And while it’s always and still 7500km away, the longer I spend away from it, the more distant it becomes.

I’m en route to YVR from Heathrow right now. I feel like I’m getting prepared to travel back in time. And not because of the time zones.

I recall moments in Vancouver that still feel very near to me. Playing King’s Cup at Aaron’s in undergrad. Nights with the girls in Rachel’s basement, eating frozen desserts. Downhill riding drunk on Bixie bikes when I lived in Montreal. Getting interviewed by Ally, who would be my new “boss” at Global Mechanic. Running to “Shine” by David Gray on the seawall, mentally preparing for my “big move” to Mount Pleasant three years ago. Chowing down on cornbread at Heartwood with Jason. Squeezing my car into a parking spot in Kits in front of Jackie’s.

Now, I can safely say that ‘big move’ wasn’t so big relatively speaking. I also hear that Heartwood is closing down next month. And that Vancouver now has its own bike sharing system. And this coming Monday, I’m going over to Jackie’s for a BBQ - except “Jackie’s” is now Jackie and Jorge’s in Fairview. And the next time I down drinks with Aaron will be at his wedding. And Ally has a baby. And...

Man, even if the city and all that comes with it hasn’t changed even a bit, even if everything were still to be the same 9 hours from when I land at YVR…Even if it were made of the same quilt as the snapshots in my memory bank, the me in those memories is no longer the same person as the one who was livingthose memories.

Bon voyage. Time’s a'passing, friends. See you in the future!

Heathrow, terminal 2, 9:32am GMT

[life---actually]

The gifts that keep on giving 

We love to go on about “stopping and smelling the flowers”. But we can’t stop to smell them if our minds are closed to them, if we don’t notice them.I went on an incredible day trip with my friend Marc yesterday, to a small town outside of London to go lavender picking. 

But I had to seek them out. 

And it took a map to get us there.

Being present enough to open up to beauty takes effort. Lavender fields don’t just land in your lap. So, how open are your eyes? 

Today, I was walking home from work down the same street I always take when I come home up from Kentish Town or Gospel Oak. I’ve walked the route at least half a dozen times since I moved here a few weeks ago. 

As I walked by the rows of houses, I noticed something familiar - yet new. 

To my left: A lavender bush spanning the length of half a house’s front yard. I inhaled deeply the whole way, grazing the flowers with my fingertips as I walked by. 

And then it occurred to me just how funny it is that had I not ridden around 100+ kilometres on Sunday I may have never arrived in this one spot, this moment that had been tucked away, hidden, just down the street...!