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.

Teaching -- The Single Mother Version

If only teaching yoga paid the bills as well as it pays the heart.

Pretty much every time I instruct or practice a class, someone makes me feel appreciated -- whether it's through gratitude, a hug, a smile or even just a look that indulges my desire to affect positive transformation. Maybe it's because I push a regular just that little bit extra -- a drive that person always has that occasionally needs igniting; perhaps a story or joke I share allows an unnecessarily-furrowed brow to soften; a practitioner may find acceptance upon facing whatever he has in the mirror and choose to work with, rather than against it.

Surely, rewards are bountiful in the hot room and tend to foster relatively relaxed, positive souls outside of the Bikram bubble. As an instructor, however, it can be painfully difficult finding a monetary balance because we truly do what we love and, of course, more often than not, what a person loves doing often fails to keep them financially afloat. The industry standard income for hot yoga instructors is oddly dissonant with the substantial role we play in the lives of our students and communities.

So as reality is often somewhat harsh, I shall soon be pairing down my teaching to seek a more stable livelihood down another avenue, one which will hopefully at least have ties to teaching, health and wellness.

Molding impressionable young minds in a high school classroom has often beckoned me. Well, if I'm being honest -- and that is the point here -- to be honest in sharing one's challenges, triumphs and wisdom accrued from such experiences -- teaching in its traditional form (the kind that provides a decent income, great vacation time, health benefits and a solid pension) has been shoved down my throat from infancy.

My Grandpa taught elementary school and, early in his career, celebrated the firm hand of authority he naturally delighted in exercising on anyone willing to submit by becoming a principal. Never fulfilled ruling one when he could have several under his firm, but loving grasp, for 14 years, he simultaneously served as a principal for six schools in the BC interior. Up north, communities are still and always were small because of course, it's up north. So for over a decade, my dear Grandpa rented out his waterfront home on Vancouver Island (the property he was able to purchase socking away most of his teaching salary) and happily squired the hearts and minds of his most captive audience.

My Mother, growing up with a stellar example of success through dedication and stability, followed suit and, by 22, was running her own classroom. Not having a natural affinity for small children, those who know her are still puzzled by my Mother's choice to teach elementary school; as she is, however, easily intimidated by independent, mature minds, those who truly know her understand completely.

I'm fairly certain she finds most of every day in the company of seven-year-old hooligans (these are privileged kids from a fairly affluent community, most of whom have grown up running amok whenever they please) grueling, but -- here it is again -- she has afforded herself a lovely life. She works 8 am to 3 pm, during which time, she has of course a fifteen-minute recess and a forty-five minute lunch, as well as occasional prep time. She has every long weekend to do with as she pleases, 2 weeks off at Christmas, spring break and 2 months off for the summer. Sure, some teachers choose to coach track and field or have to supervise recess once a week -- either way, not a bad gig at all.

The past few days in particular, having taken their toll on me physically to the point that I open my mouth to make a verbal adjustment in class and nothing but the squeaks of what is left of my virus-ridden voice are audible, I have made what I feel is the responsible decision to revisit the pursuit of teaching high school. I would, of course, teach English -- this being the subject in which I earned my Bachelor's Degree because it was the only choice I knew would keep me engrossed in and writing fanciful analyses of great books over muffins and coffees at my favourite neighbourhood haunts. I can't even tell you the extent to which I deplore libraries -- I try to avoid them whenever possible -- and studying -- of any kind. Isn't life best lived? Pleasure please; I'll take as much as I can get.

And as anyone who works hard for their money knows, pleasure comes in many forms, most of which can be costly. So as Maya's Mommy -- a girl who insists on indulging in at least some of the finer things whenever possible -- trying to make it on my own in a city of unforgiving cold, even more unforgiving men and a barely-there transit system that pretty much necessitates having a car, I've accepted the time to shift gears from a Hot Yoga Teacher to a hot English Teacher as now. Applications are due in early spring, volunteer hours required and, hopefully, by next September, my stilettos will be pounding the pavement back in Van at UBC for a year of High School Teacher certification. I look forward to a new forum in which to boss people around.

No Life Jacket Required

Last week, I was in the yoga room 15 times -- for someone with a hyper metabolism and an effortless ability to ignore the all-important inner monologue of what a girl wants; what a girl needs -- this is a substantial amount of time spent sweating out some of which I may have been better off keeping in.

I haven't spent over 22 hours in the hot box since before I got pregnant over two years ago, at which time I was a sprightly 27-year-old; at 29, back on a full-time teaching schedule and fitting in a solid practice, I may have to start pumping electrolytes intravenously to keep from passing out at the end of the day. Either that, or I could just eat and pound coconut water constantly.

Whatever symbiotic solution I find to keep me ticking and ward off the several midnight incidents to which I've unhappily awoken, completely cramped -- paralyzed from the knee down, calf muscles calling out for me to treat them more kindly (salt and potassium please Miss Allison), for now I'll simply have to take my body's transitional state one step, breath, posture, class and day at a time. This weekend, for instance, I made the easy decision to (apart from teaching doubles both days) strive for allowing only the contraction that comes from strutting around in sky-high stilettos for a Friday night downtown worthy of stunningly uncomfortable shoes and a tastefully provocative cocktail-bandage dress. So far so good. As yet, an intake of wine and tequila seems to have adequately replaced my desire for 3 am bags of salted rice chips, so I must be striking a decent balance there somewhere.

Maybe it was the incredible dinners at Vij's and Sanafir, places I would not normally have the opportunity to enjoy back to back, that replenished my depleted resources, or the surprisingly irresistible charms of the tattoo artist with whom I spent an alluring hour last night at Adrenaline.

There are so many sweet sources from which to nourish one's body, mind and heart. This afternoon, I satisfied (as much as possible from a province away) the constant craving I have to see, hear and laugh with my daughter. Over Skype, she proudly displayed her newly acquired talent for holding a pen and instead of just putting it in her mouth, with the utmost concentration, pulling the lid off and replacing it repeatedly until I distracted her with greetings from some of my curious students. A cluster of buff, bared yoga bods eagerly surrounded my laptop and giggled along with Maya at her pen-handling genius. My heart full, I blew her a kiss and headed into my home away from home to teach a double dose of the ultimate effortless effort.

Now sitting alone (which I always hate -- particularly late at night), having downed a mega-sized coconut water, working towards even just pretending to feel comfortable tucked in by myself, I lie awake, trying to lull my busy mind to sleep with Jason Mraz -- not such a hot idea as listening to "Lucky" is serving no greater purpose than creating a hollowness in my chest as if the manic monkey from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs is ripping my heart out like he does to the unsuspecting evil gummy bear who, as a result, perishes heartless (if you've not seen the movie, stop lying to yourself and admit you loved it).

Tonight, on the floor of my sister's bedroom (my residence for only a few days more), the waters are inclement, there is a small craft warning; I could go down, flounder helplessly. But life is best managed calmly. With balance comes buoyancy. At least the clock has passed midnight and (apart from a tightness in the leg I had to keep still for an hour last night while my foot was being branded with words of limitless wisdom) my limbs are relatively relaxed. No signs of debilitating cramps this evening. Staring at my right foot, I find calm in the honest script so beautifully curved just above the instep. I will take my own advice and follow what is written there: trust, breathe, smile.

Life Lessons from the Indelible Britney Spears

Last week. I already pine for you and your final days of summer sun. The grueling schedule I kept of yoga and soaking up the sun at Kits Beach, left me little time for writing, but now the skies are ominous, offering nothing but drear and damp, so I'm back at the keyboard.

Heading home (as in the floor of my sister's bedroom, where I currently occupy a space the size of my couture IKEA mattress) in a haze of yoga high from a thick class on Commercial yesterday, I opted for the always ingenious soundtrack of Miss Britney Spears to accompany me home. Sometimes a girl just needs a little old school to remind her, no matter the current weight of life's circumstances and how unnervingly unforeseeable the future, everything will turn out alright in the end. Take our darling Brit: in the not-so-distant past, she was a completely disheveled (on the inside and out), unhinged, downward-spiraling, fury of destruction. Today, buffed and polished to a finish smooth enough to appear a once again competent mother, partner and artist (that's right, I referred to the princess of pop as an "artist" -- deal with it), she has re-emerged, relatively unscathed and back on top, continuing to dazzle and captivate legions of fans. And because so many worthwhile life lessons come from standout role models like Britney, when the going gets tough, but merits a tone none too somber and just scratching the surface of delicate introspection, her lyrics are full of diamonds in the rough.

Borrowing a gem from one of my faves, from the days of Britney's stellar acting debut in Crossroads I too have re-emerged -- a brighter, unobstructed by the expectations of others, independent version of myself.

"Say hello to the girl that I am! You're gonna have to see through my perspective."

"Overprotected" -- the theme song of life in the Sinclair (my maiden moniker -- we even have a darling tartan) clan. Released about 10 years ago -- about the same time, at 19, most of my girlfriends and I felt similarly hampered by our parents' view of the course our lives should take. Good work Mom and Dad -- I really used the four years I spent at UBC effectively. Because you said something along the lines of, "If you don't go to university right away, you will be an epic failure and no longer a member of the family we will choose to acknowledge. Well, we might acquiesce to identifying your body when the police find it under the Granville St. bridge frozen solid, because you won't survive the winters here sleeping in a box outside, which is the only accommodation you'll be able to afford if you elect to forgo higher education." Yep. I'm pretty sure the open-minded, warm and fuzzy advice of only the best intentions with which my parents provided me went something exactly like that.

At one time, I was a relatively obedient daughter, hoping to glean some affection from the confounding creatures who brought me into being by following a path I thought would appeal to their ideologies of what good girls should do. But never being one to blindly follow the pack and conform to a life that doesn't make me happy, I decided within the first semester of my English Literature Degree to do pretty much whatever I wanted. Sure, I read all the books, but only because I enjoyed them; I handed in all of my papers early and always seemed to do well, never being handed back work with less than an "A" of some description scrawled across the top. But I allowed my science requirements and electives that failed to interest me fall by the wayside, giving me a decent amount of recreational time -- which of course I filled with partying.

I managed to work my way through a solid roster of lovers, friends and everything in-between. I thought at least the life experience I gained from experimenting with what I wanted and didn't want in the people I kept close to me would prove useful, but thus far, I am still somewhat clouded with those silly lures that so often accompany short-lived unions -- you know -- a look, a touch, a smell, a certain mystery; something extraordinary that is magnetic but sadly doesn't turn out to have staying power or realness. I did, after all, manage to marry a man I hardly knew at all, but did he ever have a je ne sais quoi -- like none other.

Anyone who has played the game of love, lust and all necessary and unnecessary associated evils knows the couples that last are (much more complex than it sounds, trust me) the ones in which two people genuinely like each other; they have to laugh with each other, listen to and actually appreciate most of what escapes one another's mouths, so much so that just words can turn the wheels in the brain that ignite the fire in the heart -- and other, much lower regions in the body equally important in maintaining a certain level of interest and intensity between successful lovers. However rare, such connections do of course exist. One can choose to need them, want them, or simply settle for whatever comes -- or nothing at all.

I"ll take one of everything please. I'll see whatever comes; if it's not what I need and want, they'll be something just around the corner that is. "I need time, love, joy; I need space; I need me." If I ignore the expectations of others in the process, the only disappointment they truly experience will be their own -- in themselves.