Transition Tuesday

Survived another sleepless night solo in  my sweet little Kits apartment. Practiced in the juice box on the Drive today, in a successful attempt to shake off the night's narcolepsy. Read online this morning of sudden muscular weakness triggered by strong emotions narcoleptic sufferers experience -- this sounds exactly like what happens to my mind and body night after night of late; I suddenly transition from an unstoppable force of positive, pulsing energy to an empty tank collapsed in bed.  My emotional catalyst, precursor of my shut-down, is likely reflecting on either the lack of adult company chez moi -- my boyfriend lives in Edmonton and spends every other weekend with me -- or the absence of my daughter, who, on nights I feel cold and emptied, is at her aba's house. If I am ever unable to maintain my emotional strength, I fear the morning's remains will resemble a skeleton of the vibrant heart who once beat stronger than any threat or challenge could attempt to dampen. Sounds worse than death to me, the possibility of a constricted heart, beating merely to provide life and little else.

As I sit over this afternoon's caramel cappuccino, taking in the colorfully eclectic collection of cafe campers and passerby on the patio at Turk's, happily soaking up the European ambiance of enjoy life now -- ask questions later, I am freshly determined to transition this Tuesday. Tonight I will try for sleep, fully aware of the potential reasons it has been escaping me. Perhaps I need a roommate...who likes to snuggle.

Turning Pages

Remembering...
Drunk with laughter last night, Mom and I sat on my bed and shared a rare moment -- a space in time without the responsibilities of the week, concerns of the day or doubts of what may or may not lie ahead for either one of us pressing their heaviness upon our shoulders -- we looked through old photos and got silly. Fits of giggling filled us up with the warmth of the life we have lived and the people with whom we have experienced the only reason for our existence -- love.

Busy helping put together a memorial slideshow for my Grandpa, I let some memories slip through, beneath my skin -- just enough to allow emotion its timely transition into thought, the judging and reasoning kind.

How did I get to this place September 25, 2012? More importantly, what can I do to change it?

Certainly the hearty dose of perspective I was inhaling so rapidly I came up short of breath more than once and fell completely into tears more than I care to admit was brought about by more than Grandpa quietly ending his struggle; there have been of late, a series of serendipitous events, instrumental in my tears slowly stalling, dried with intermittent smiles, helping me to see that time does not stand still, regardless of how much we may feel broken into pieces -- our children always need us and we have to clean up the mess we've made and wholly turn the page.

Reading Anna Karenina, for the simple knowledge that Tolstoy's lead allows the circumstances she's created to overwhelm her enough that ceasing her life abruptly by way of becoming train track mincemeat appeals more than enduring the trials of adultery -- has indeed brought me some emotional composure. Sweetheart, nothing need ever be that dramatic.

And drama, or lack thereof, is to what I paid particular attention last night in my practice -- 90-minutes more like therapy than any other class I've experienced. For the first time -- ever -- I sat out second set of almost every posture after triangle. And you know, it was absolutely fine...dirt off my shoulder. I'm not sure exactly why I had to take it easy, but as it turns out, not so bad once in a while.
Two breaths into pranayama, I was dizzy with electrolyte imbalance -- as of last night, it has been 18 nights of little if any sleep, which seriously throws off any semblance of normal eating habits; humidity was tropically thick; the instructor and I share a particular kinship -- the latter merited particular contemplation...

We went to Teacher Training together, our partners were in medical school together, that coupling continued happily ever after, mine did not.
She is a full-time Bikram Yoga Instructor -- respected as such by her family and now husband, a Plastic Surgeon. She is happy, contributing to the health and well being of others through yoga...period.
Somewhere out there, that will be enough for whomever I share with these 60-some years I hope to have left; if it's not enough for me -- fine -- but it will be enough for him...that's how I'll know. What makes me complete, nourished inside and out will always be enough for him.
It will be no surprise to him something in which I'm the boss will be a big part of such wholeness, because let's get real here -- a studio of my own for sure, days full of teaching, managing, learning, sharing, loving and, of course, hotness will be necessary. And little parts of us that grow up to be big parts of us -- the real sweetness of life.

Even if our visions seem lofty, they are important to have -- in all their blaring honesty -- otherwise, how are we to realize them?

I tried not to think so much in class today, ready to let it be just as it would; it was a smooth, strong, resolved practice, without any wavering whatsoever. Still no rest for the body, but I imagine I've given some to the space between my ears.

Beside You

No longer. The winged heart etched into my back has, ready or not, taken its most bittersweet flight. Its weight of late has become burdensome; once it has a strong enough wind to carry it somewhere unconditionally warm and wanting, it won't land on anything less than such a heaven -- until then -- let it rest, replenish and reorganize -- for its thoughts, words and actions have been chaotic far too long.

Perhaps some coconut water will do the trick, or a swift kick in the head -- just to remind me of its importance in making major decisions; as much as we lovers are naturally governed by often impractical but inescapably delicious fluttering from deep inside our hearts, this disconnect with logic can lead us into hopeless places -- tethered to those who sleep with one eye open and scissors under the pillow.

Don't most relationships need a thinker -- plentiful in methodologies and rationalizations about the pairing he's chosen -- insistent upon some sort of plan? If mine didn't have one, I'd take my partner's hand in mind, pull him close, and throw us both off a cliff into an ocean deep with desire and shallow with concern for societal norms and the expectations of others.

Somewhat perplexed as to whether or not my affinity for leaping before looking is as negative as some consider it, I might as well head into the hot room for an ass-kick and cap the evening with a sweetly addictive rye and coke -- because what other immediate course of action is there that lifts my heavy heart and leaves me believing tomorrow is ripe with possibilities?

Wide Awake

Now having spent a couple of weeks surrounded by the smells, sounds and tastes of Italian eats, I've been keen to expand my culinary horizons and further immerse myself in all things edible. Starting most days off with chocolate coffee is always a solid start, but I'm pretty sweet already and could use a little salt -- apart from the shake I lick before my tequila shot goes down.

Spending most of my time in Kits, home to one of my longtime foodie friends -- who just so happens to be an internationally-renown chef -- I decided to let him work some of his infamous magic on me.

In one meal, I was taken to Spain, France, Italy -- and that was with the olive oil tastings alone. As I've oft seen with anyone who can cook decently well, no matter how perfectly-chosen the oil, almost everything still needs butter.

We feasted on grainy mustard-salt-rubbed flank steak, filleted with artistic flair only someone who truly loves what he does would bother with at home. A shallot-egg-balsamic confection and garnish of home-grown watercress were the final accouterments.

I learned -- among many lessons -- my taste in wine is more finely-tuned than I thought; he paired our meal with two bottles of wine -- both of which I buy on a regular basis, one I brought to complement cheeseburgers at a recent barbecue...my fantastical career in wine sales might be more of an imminent reality than I thought.

The greatest lesson of the evening came to fruition during my noon practice the following day. Taking one of Christian's hotter-than-hell, deeper-than-I-ever-want-until-it's-over classes with a full bottle of wine coursing through my veins -- not awesome; feeling like a human again after final savasana, a cold shower and a smoothie -- divine; reminding my body and mind about the element of balance in all aspects of life -- absolutely necessary.

As I dragged my bittersweet hangover through 26 and 2, it dawned on me I'd been consuming an awful lot of the vine's sweet juice lately and might benefit from a hiatus -- perhaps a day or two, because it's important to be realistic when setting goals.

Realistic: pretending to give up or decrease my consumption of mochas is never anything but pretending -- this is the sweetness in front of me right now.

Realistic: men seem to find it incredibly difficult to be "just friends" with women -- just because I bring dessert, doesn't mean I want to be dessert.

Painfully realistic: actions without words often merit a swift slap and a timely escape; words without actions cease to have meaning, no matter how much we want them to hold -- but those of us who fall hard with open hearts would still dive right in all over again.

Morals of the story: cook alone unless you're looking for heat beyond the kitchen; if you can help it, don't go into the hot room a hot mess; it takes more than one person to keep two people on cloud 9.

Healthy Hindsight

Eventually, at some unforeseeable -- but real -- point in the future, I'll look back on the past year and smile.
June in Vancouver -- even on the grayest days, it's still a dangerously alluring place. Surrounded by the deepest, darkest blue, the lushest green and the sweet pink of cherry blossoms sprinkling the streets -- I can't help but dismiss the out-of-reach real estate and imagined air of superiority.
Taking class this morning on Commercial -- always thick with sweat and struggle -- a gleaming group of satisfied minds and bodies carrying each other through the dimmest places under the light...it was, as it most often is, completely magical. Another practice = another day I have freed myself from the limits, either self-imposed or otherwise, with which so many exist.

It's strange for me, meeting such a plethora of people everyday, observing those who choose to live shackled by the limits they have either created or accepted. As always -- open to every possibility I can or have yet to imagine -- I am feeling my way through the professional options that seem to exist for someone with my particular skill set and interests in Vancouver; I'm still teaching of course (because that is what keeps me emotionally satiated) and have recently ventured into the restaurant scene...an excellent place to quickly gain back lost heartache pounds.
5 nights a week, I play hostess with the mostess to a unsurprisingly rather affluent room of diners. Greeting hungry guests at the door, I can't help but take a quick peek right through them to catch a glimpse of what lies beneath. Those who truly sparkle are governed by the hidden gem tucked away beneath the Prada -- the truest ruby -- often forgotten by the bachelors and bachelorettes dining solo at the bar night after night. I notice the limited souls shelling out hundreds like they're never going to run dry in part because I am deeply fascinated by the human condition -- and in particular, because of the year I've had.

June in Edmonton -- spent pretending I was not about to jump off a cliff into the treacherous waters of marital separation...followed by dragging my breathless body ashore to find the sweetest sunshine bathe me in its warmth.
By August, I found reincarnation as a single mother (still a bizarre term to me, which really fails to do the reality justice). September, October and November split my heart, mind and body between two very different places. The months that followed gave me love in hopeless places, took it away and brought it back. I gained friends and lost others I probably should have denied entry in the first place. I laughed -- a lot...I cried...less. I danced in happiness -- the kind that makes you fly while your feet touch the ground.
I lived without limits.
This summer and beyond, I'll have another healthy dose of the good stuff, just a dash of the bad -- got to have some of the latter to appreciate the former -- and keep allowing the most important muscle I've got to do it's worst.

It's Getting Hot In Here

11:30 am. Strong, steady, 90-minute sweat session led by a favourite of yours and mine, Dave, the subtle powerhouse.

As I position my toes and heels together in the center of my mat and interlace my fingers for pranayama, I smile. Wobbling a little out of first-set awkward pose, I smile. Dave leads us through the always intense, focused second set of standing head to knee, encouraging normal breathing and a "smiling, happy face" -- I feel the tickle of my lips turning upward as I relax into the tremendous effort and hold solid the posture.

Class becomes dreamlike, as I float calmly through every breath, movement and muscle contraction. I want to be nowhere but in the moment, marveling at how dewy I am -- both in physical appearance and bliss between the ears. I allow a thought into the cloud of content fighting gravity to enable such a lightness in me it may threaten levitation. The question that forms in the air upstairs asks, "Have I done it? Have I gotten to the elusive place in my practice of effortless effort?" Either way, it seems all-too familiar, feeling vaguely reminiscent of another activity I enjoy that makes me sweaty and incredibly relaxed. Ah. So this is why I waltzed into class today, hydrated not by water -- like a good yogi -- but a double mocha with whipped cream -- like Allison.

Come to think of it, I arrive to class "unprepared" often and without apology. Of particular intrigue to me is how my practice seems completely unaffected. I get it now. Inside out, bones to the skin, fingertips to the toes (for those not part of the cult-like brand of yoga I teach and take, this is Bikram-speak), when I hit the mat, at least a piece of my gray matter big enough to exert visible influence is in my sex space. If my heart ends up there too, I'll start to get worried -- but the honing of pleasure, relaxation and the abandonment of expectations I've brought into my yoga have served me very well.  I practice as often as possible, with everything that I am and all that I have -- an approach most of us would do well to adopt both in the hot room and in the heated one.

Beer-Flavoured Nipples

Maybe my cherry savours sweetly of rye -- or a fine Argentinean malbec -- that must be it. There can be no other sensible explanation for why who I deem to be in the upper echelon of lovely lovers would allow themselves anywhere near my tangled web of familial misfortune. Through 29 years of societal influence and actually paying enough attention to my partners to value what matters most to them, I have come to find just how much importance most men place on the establishment and maintenance of a warm and fuzzy family unit -- in other words, the extreme opposite of the mess from which I hail.

I do tend to lust, love and nurture with an openness most people would fear allowing themselves. For the most part, such an unreserved approach has brought me what I imagine to be unparalleled passion and happiness; while that may be enough for me, is it enough for him?

I have been in several long-term relationships, one of which was a cataclysmic, yet exquisitely pure marriage, which enables me to focus on the inclusive nature in which I was welcomed into those families. There have always been hugs, kisses, "I love you's" and acceptance as a member of the pack as if I'd forever been a welcome fixture at the dinner table.

And, of course, there has been strife over questions with answers that confound those from families whose parents actually wanted and continue to want them. These queries of why, when and how so much love and acknowledgement has been lost are met with little more from me than a sweetly sad, resolute response -- for me those things never existed in the first place.

Yet for reasons unbeknownst to me, apart from my proclivity to give and get exactly what I want and need from the objects of my affection and provide what I'm fairly certain they desire in return, I seem to find myself welcomed into the arms of lovers who appear to want more than a few stolen moments between the sheets.

Bizarre. Can one person emanate enough warmth to compensate for the frigid air of abandonment of which she is so painfully aware that lingers around her, despite her insistence of its insignificance? I know I can, as most of my inner and outer circle find me reliable in my overall content nature. Generally, I strive to save the drama and focus on savouring the delights. But will that be enough as time passes and I choose another person with whom to have a long-term union, maybe another child and every element of a shared life that comes with such commitment? The cool absence of in-laws, grandparents, welcoming holiday households and a built-in support system will surely surface as a tragic part of life with Allison.

Hopefully, my je ne sais quoi will carry me through more than a few short-lived intrigues and enable the development and sustainability of something a little more serious. Time, as it always does even in its most bittersweet ways, will tell. In the interim, I'd better keep close my signature lures and divulge only what is absolutely necessary to a carefully chosen few. Who knows what accouterments I may need to  wield in the not-so-distant future? There are a lot of good boys out there; the men who ignite the fire and keep it burning are, however, few and far between.