(no title)

Lessons from the Sea

Just before I left for a much needed vacation in the sun, I found out that my second manuscript of poems had been accepted to be published. I hardly had time to process the news before leaving, but the time away from the frigid winter gave me an opportunity to think and plan carefully for the next couple of months.

I reflected upon where I was 4 years ago, when my first book was published- and how little I knew then. I’m more comfortable in myself now, less tortured and broken. The stereotype of being the “tortured, heartbroken writer” was one I bought into. I believed I would have more profound material if I sought out ‘brokenness’. But I don’t care for that now. Now it’s about mending what has been broken.

Between writing notes and scheming plans for my book, I was also reading a wonderful illustrated book entitled “Keeping A Nature Journal” by Clare Walker Leslie and Charles E. Roth. The book is a colourful, inspiring guide to creating your own nature journal- and that’s exactly what I did. I paid attention to the little things around me- the whorls of a shell, the chirping bananaquit, the prisms of sunlight in the water. Each object was a poem in itself.

The activity of nature journaling allowed me to visually document my observations without having to come up with the perfect words to describe them. I was just drawing what I was seeing, and there was no pressure to be profound. The profundity was in the experience.

Before leaving the sand swept shore, I wanted to do a simple offering to the ocean. Throughout my trip, I noticed the level of noise created and amplified by fellow travellers. I couldn’t help but wonder how the incredibly loud music on the pier affected the creatures living in the water. Every day, all day- boom, boom, boom. Even on vacation, we need distractions. The sea’s hum is not enough, we need portable stereos we can stand with in the water (I kid you not) and 3 different soundtracks playing in the space of a few meters.

The sea keeps us still and reminds us to take deep breaths, but we can’t hear it over our own madness.

As a result, I decided to offer the most fragile, gentle objects I could find: fallen flowers.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

When I returned to Canada, I came home to a pile of boxes on my desk. My new branding materials have arrived, and it is time again for me to make an offering.

For information on creative writing workshops and performances, contact me.

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨

The Mountains

A few weeks ago, at 6 am in the morning, I received a startling message from a family friend. My dad had been in an accident in Vancouver, and he was in the ICU. Before I could process the news, my body had already begun to react. I started shaking uncontrollably. The only comfort was my constant recitation of the Medicine Buddha Mantra.

My sister came into my room and found me in a state of shock. When I finally communicated what I had found out, she immediately sprung into action, calling the hospital where he was at and finding out the details from the nurse. We were able to speak to him, and although he sounded tired and in pain, he was still coherent and strong. In that moment, I was reminded of how powerful a voice can be. Just hearing his voice made me feel better. I always talk about the power of one voice with my students, and how we have the ability to speak and be heard. But this was different. This was the affirmation of life. Of breath.

My sister and I both teach, and somehow managed to get through our day despite the image of our father lying in a hospital bed playing over and over again in our minds. We booked our flight and packed, in a daze. My sister was already sick and on antibiotics, and I had just left my job at the Markham Arts Council, where I worked for almost 3 years. We were drained before we even stepped on the plane.

After arriving in Vancouver, we went straight from the airport to the hospital. My dad looked better than we expected him to look- perhaps because most of his injuries were internal. He told us stories and addressed the nurses in a polite and courteous manner, despite the immense pain he was in. His strength gave us strength.

In between the long hours we spent with my dad, I took to taking walks down the hallways of the hospital, peering into rooms of other patients. It woke me up to the fact that so many people are sick and suffering every day, and how much they need us to know that they are there, that they need healing and support.

Sometimes I stood in front of the giant windows, staring out into the mountains- the snow and mist swirling at their peaks, the verdant green of the trees dotting their slopes. Being able to look outside and see the mountains- to know they were there- witnesses, grounded between earth and sky. When I felt overwhelmed, I walked back and forth, like the waves of the sea. When I felt exhausted, I sat, like the mountains. Being back in Toronto, without the presence of the mountains, or the heaving waves of the sea, I feel as though something is missing. I have to imagine that the mountains and the sea are within me.

Between spending time with family, visiting my grandmother in her nursing home, spending hours on end at the hospital and running errands for my dad, my sister and I hardly had a moment to sit and reflect. We spoke about this, and I told her that I’d like to take a break in nature- even if it’s only 10 minutes. Just to sit and breathe into a scene, without having to think about who we have to call next, or who we have to see next. She agreed. After getting lost twice, we managed to make it to the sea, where we spent about 15 minutes sitting on driftwood logs and looking out into the ocean as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky. I knew I had to do something with my hands. Speaking or writing were too abstract. I needed a concrete way to let go. And so, I started to create land art from small objects like driftwood pieces and shells to large logs and stones that were left behind by the water.

I tried to create a stone mandala but the moment I created a circle or stacked a stone, the tide would come in and shift the circle or take a stone with it. Every time this happened, I would try again. The water was frigid and my hands and boots were wet, but I kept going. I wasn’t trying to control the outcome, I was just playing with the possibilities. If I had tried to predict what the piece would look like, I would be disappointed with the result. If I had raged against the ocean, I would’ve ended up angry and unsatisfied. I just had to let the water do its work, and continue to be flexible.

My sister indicated that we had to go and visit my grandmother before it got too late, and she started to walk away from the water and towards the parking lot. I followed, at a much slower pace. My eyes were peeled for objects on the beach, looking for something else to touch and move. I came across a stack of perfectly worn driftwood, as if it were waiting for me to do something with it. I couldn’t ignore it, even though my sister was already in the parking lot and getting into the car. I quickly created an imperfect circle of driftwood logs, and waited just a moment for the sun to spill light onto the scene before taking a photo.

My sister and I had to leave Vancouver a week later, and as we sat in the airport cafe, we looked out onto the tarmac and saw the mountains in the distance. The ever present, silent domes of rock. I knew that despite the fact that I cannot control the circumstances or change the outcome, I can tap into those mountains. I can be be still in the face of swirling chaos and stay grounded in the midst of uncertainty.

The Year of the Toothache

2013 began with a toothache.

A terrible, pounding toothache. A toothache that kept me awake all night. I was travelling to India in a few weeks and had to find a quick solution to the pain. I gargled with whisky and ate cloves. But the pain wouldn’t go away. My wisdom tooth wanted out. Thankfully, my tooth was pulled out without surgery, so my recovery was quick and relatively painless. I found my facebook status from the first week of 2013 and it might as well have been a premonition for the year:

Being uncomfortable is part of the human condition. But staying miserable about being uncomfortable is a choice.

A few weeks after writing that facebook status, I was off to India for the Jaipur Literature Festival ( a dream of mine for a long time). We visited Delhi, Ajmer, Pushkar and Jaipur all within a couple of weeks. It was a journey of career highlights (reading in front of 1500+ people, sharing the stage with some of the finest poets in the world) and personal milestones (holding up my khata for H.H Dalai Lama, bowing to Ani Choying, visiting the Ajmer Sharif).

I spoke to students at JECRC University about the Idle No More movement in Canada and how they too can become catalysts for change in the home of my ancestors. I also learned, firsthand, about the consequences of words. The physical consequences. Before taking the stage for a panel/reading, we were warned that protestors might heckle us or throw shoes at us. I was escorted by bodyguards after signing books. At another reading tent, a prominent speaker was taken into police custody and interrogated.

Be prepared for unpredictability. Nothing is certain, nothing is guaranteed. Be vigilant, be skillful.

Reconnecting with nature.

If you look at some of my previous posts, you’ll see that this year has been a year of land art for me. Exploring, walking, hiking, canoeing…finding my place back in nature and not being afraid of what it has to offer, even if it’s unpleasant. Nature became more than scenery for me. It is a teacher.

And sometimes the lessons aren’t glaringly obvious or profound. Sometimes they’re as simple as a wing nut, a branch covered in slick ice, or a yellow leaf. Nature allowed me to create from it, and give my creations back to it. As a writer who is obsessed with finding the perfect words and crafting perfect sentences, I had to let go of perfection.

Learn to let go of what you create. You can’t control how it’s received. Let the wind take it.

Coming back home.

Returning to Kenya after many years apart- how do I even put the feeling in words? With my newfound respect and love for nature, I was able to fully immerse myself in Kenya’s natural beauty, and to honour the land through mandala offerings.

Eldoret Mandala — Mandala offering in Eldoret, Kenya

Lying in the grass in my grandmother’s garden, collecting shells during low tide, hearing the huff of buffaloes in the middle of the night, hugging nieces and nephews who have grown past my memory of them, recalling childhood stories with my cousins, sipping real Kenyan coffee & tea, having fascinating conversations with my uncles & aunts, spotting the Sleeping Warrior mountain for the first time, spending all day chatting with poets and writers…and the list goes on.

As the trip came to a close and we were packing to leave, we heard that the airport had caught on fire and no planes would be leaving for at least a few days. After standing in a long lineup at the airline office to find out that we’d have to take a bus to Arusha to board a flight that might’ve left without us, we decided to stay. More cups of coffee to be had, more hugs to share, more time with friends and family. But then, a day turned into a week. Work was pending, deadlines were looming. After countless calls to the airline contact, my aunt was able to secure us a flight to Toronto. But our flight to our stopover was late, and we nearly missed the connecting flight. We made it just in time.

The Westgate mall attack happened a month after we returned to Toronto.

The only reality is impermanence. The sooner you accept it, the less you will try to resist it.

To the family who has supported my craziness, the new friends, the old friends, the silent readers, the supporters, the audience members, the event organizers, the fellow artists, the collaborators, the facilitators and the teachers:

Thank you for including me in your year.

And here’s my motto for 2014:

“Ships in harbour are safe, but that’s not what ships are built for.”- John Shedd.

For the love of trees

Yesterday I went for a drive with my sister to survey the damage from the ice storm on our street & neighbouring streets. Not much damage to homes or cars, but the trees had been split into pieces, their branches hanging over the street and blocking the sidewalks.

As we turned the corner, I was horrified to see one of my favourite trees sprawled out on the ground. The trunk had snapped in half.

On our second unofficial date, Shiv and I went for our first walk together in my neighbourhood. It was a cool October evening. As we turned the corner, we stopped to admire a tree- not just any tree, but a tree with bright yellow leaves, glowing in the streetlight. Shiv went up to the tree and put his hand up on the bark. In that moment, I recognized what was right in front of me. The beauty of a tree brought out the beauty in a person I was just beginning to know.

It is that tree, in its silence and reverence, that now lies shattered on the ground.

Today I stood outside in the cold and listened to the trees swaying in the wind, their branches clinking together like glass.

And so, here’s to another year- and to planting more trees.

Capturing Stillness

All that is personal soon rots; it must be packed in ice or salt.

-Yeats

The trees are bending over with the weight of ice, cracking and tumbling into fences. Colour is preserved and encased in crystal that will melt in the light of the sun. But for now, capture this brief moment in time- and stand still in the stillness.

Meditation on Winter

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

What happens when the last leaf falls from a tree? Branches are crusted in ice and the fine dust of snow. Winter is upon us, and while I loathe the biting wind, the layers of clothes and wet boots, I’m also excited by the challenge winter brings.

What challenge?

How do we create in an environment where everything is dying?

Frozen rivers, barren trees, dead flowers. But in that death, there is reflection. Retreat. Contemplation. When the last leaf falls from the tree, what dies within us? And what remains alive? The tree is still sturdy and strong. The roots run deep beneath the frostbitten soil. Branches are bare. The tree is exposed to the elements. There is nowhere to hide. Each branch pricks the overcast sky, stunned into silence. And yet the tree survives.

Come spring, the ice thaws and new buds pop into colour.

As I walked through the ‘garden’ today, I came across tiny gems of ice, glinting in the sun. If the temperature dropped, they’d remain intact. But if the sun was strong enough, each gem would melt. Something had to be done with them. A tree bent over a frozen stream- a perfect specimen for an ‘artistic’ experiment. I attempted to balance each ice chip on the bough of the tree. One gem fell. Then another, and another. Soon they all fell. I had to start again. One accidental sweep of my jacket and again. One fell, two fell, three fell. Third time’s a charm? I don’t know. I don’t remember how many times I started again. I don’t remember how many times I dug through the frozen foliage on the ground to find these tiny ice pellets. My hands were becoming numb with each, gentle placement. And finally, they all stayed. Perfectly crooked. And somehow, they needed to be supported. The flow of their crookedness needed something to ground it. Stones. Tiny pebbles. One fell. Two fell. Three fell. And I started again. The process repeated itself until each stone remained intact, following the jagged edges of each miniature icicle.

So why on earth did I do this? What possessed me to stand outside in the cold, gloveless, to create a piece that may melt in the light of the morning sun?

Because it might melt in the morning sun.

The Green Man

“Our remote ancestors said to their Mother Earth, ‘We are yours.’ Modern humanity has said to Nature, ‘You are mine.’ The Green Man has returned to the living face of the whole earth so that through his mouth we may say to the Universe, ‘We are one.’” – Terri Windling, The Green Man: Tales of the Mythic Forest

I walked home yesterday & picked up leaves, twigs and branches along the way. The Green Man had to be brought to life in the garden. I was determined, even though it was getting dark and colder by the minute. I collected damp leaves, picked jagged stones for his eyes, found rippled leaves for his eyebrows. Most of my search was done at twilight- not quite day, not quite night. I could hardly see what I was doing. But I trusted my hands to pick up what was needed and discard what was not useful.

At one point, I had to get my flashlight from my room, just so that I could take a photo of him & commit his face to memory. At first his mouth was hollow and unsmiling, but it didn’t feel right. He wanted to smile. He was waiting to smile. And so, I curved the leaves of his mouth up, and found myself smiling.

The Green Man could be seen from my bedroom window this morning- and when I went down into the garden to see if the wind had blown the leaves of his face away, I was pleasantly surprised- only one eyebrow out of place and a few leaves in his mouth. I put them back in their places in the hopes that he’d stay intact, if not for the day, for a few more minutes- so that the sunlight could capture his glowing green countenance.

The old man in the garden…protector & guardian. Ancient and present.

Colour and Light: Leaves as Inspiration

The wind picked up and I could feel the chill in the air. I knew the rain would be coming down any minute, but this leaf of leaves had to be completed.

Nothing else existed in that moment except my search for colour & light.

A circle doesn’t have to be perfect to be complete. My hands were freezing, the rain was pouring, the leaves were wet & slimy, but everything was just as it was supposed to be- in all its discomfort and beauty.

Happy Diwali…

What Nature Unravels…

Over the last couple of months, I have been creating pieces in nature quite intuitively- without much thought to aesthetic or concept. It’s just been a process of seeing ‘gems’ as I walk to the office or stroll in the garden.

Perhaps it’s a way of reconnecting with my muse- a way that doesn’t involve paper, pens, computers, documents, editors or publishers. It’s like composing poetry with words strewn all around me.

This is the poetry that speaks to me, and this is the poetry I speak.

The two pieces above were created yesterday, in my garden. A nod to fall, and a nod to the brilliant land artists, Richard Shilling and Andy Goldsworthy. This was not an attempt to replicate their styles, but to find my own.

I don’t consider myself to be an artist, but rather a participant in what nature unravels and reveals to me.

Westgate

It has taken me this long to respond to something so close to me.

It has taken me this long because I don’t know how to respond.

I don’t know how to respond to the fact that a place I once drank coffee in, discussing politics, poetry and funding with friends has caved into a heap of rubble.

A heap of rubble.

I don’t know how to respond to the fact that the people whose stalls I visited may no longer be alive. I have a silk scarf bought as a present for me from one of these stalls. To think, this scarf is now a reminder of the impermanence of life.

The impermanence of life.

I don’t know how to respond to the fact that people have been killed, wounded, maimed and shot in a place that felt safe.

Felt safe.

And where is safe?

I was up North when I found out about Westgate. I had no internet access, only a text message from my mom that read, “Did you hear about Westgate?” No, I hadn’t. And when I heard, there was no way of unhearing it.

I was up North because I went to witness the creation and destruction of the Medicine Buddha Mandala, which was being carried out by an elderly lama from Bhutan. He had come with Lama Karma Namgyel, who runs Drukpa Mila Buddhist Center in Longmont, Colorado and was leading a Medicine Buddha Retreat and numerous teachings/ceremonies throughout the week. The sand mandala is created and destroyed to symbolize impermanence (a very simplified reason, the mandala is a complex palace of visualizations and symbols- it would take much time and research to explain it completely and fully), but also so that the coloured sand could be released into a nearby spring/body of water to protect and purify the land/water and all the people who live near it/by it. It is a means of circulating healing.

The elderly lama, who created this beautiful mandala, hopes to create and destroy 108 mandalas in his lifetime.

I couldn’t help but hope that Kenya would be one of the receivers of this blessing of healing.

Wishing peace for those who passed away from the Westgate attack and those still suffering from its effects.

The Four Immeasurables

May all sentient beings have happiness and its causes,
May all sentient beings be free of suffering and its causes,
May all sentient beings never be separated from bliss without suffering,
May all sentient beings be in equanimity, free of bias, attachment and anger.