Peggy's Cove

Legend has it that a young girl was on her way to meet her fiancé when her boat ran aground on  rocks near the cove. Local fishing folk rescued the girl, who (according to one version of the legend) was too young to remember her name, so people called her Peggy. She later married a local, and became known as Peggy of the Cove. The little fishing village, which originally began with in 1811 with six families of German origin, eventually adopted the name of its most famous resident as its own.

Today, Peggy's Cove is one of the most photographed and visited sights of Canada. Situated on an outcrop of rock braving the roaring Atlantic, the contrast between the ferocious energy and brute might of the ocean and the tranquil village could not be starker. The village is also home to a Peggy's Point Lighthouse, which is an iconic red and white structure with a beacon that warns ships of the treacherous rocks lurking beneath closer to shore. A dozen or so wooden house dot the harbour area, the paint worn and peeling from constant exposure to the bare  elements. Despite being exposed the hostile weather conditions, and hordes of tourists that crowd the area during peak season, the sixty or so villagers who live in Peggy's Cove are known for their down-to-earth friendliness and good nature.

The wind, the brute force of the wind, was almost unbearable, yet standing there on the hard granite rock, I felt invigorated by the wind. Waves crashed against the coast, sending white foam flying like confetti in all directions onto the rocky surface. Islands in the sea looked like lost whales surfacing. In the momentary stillness between onslaught and retreat of the waves, the water was blue. A dark, dark kind of blue dyed with a hint of aquamarine that coated the depths below in a shroud of mystery. It was this very ocean that brought people from the Old World to the  discovery and riches of the New World. It was this very ocean that ruthlessly devoured ships and planes whole, including the supposed unsinkable Titanic, and more recent Swissair Flight111. In the murky depths hide the souls and hidden treasures of the past.  Centuries later, nestled next to lush forests, are villages populated by descendants of those brave sailors, explorers
and settlers who risked their lives in search of a more fertile land.

I breathed in deeply, sucking in the salted air and letting it fill up my lungs. I breathed out slowly, allowing the warm air to gradually escape and mix with the confused and whirling currents of cold wind blowing all around me. The landscape laid out before me, greyish and cratered, in formations of rock that resembled discarded old mattresses piled on top of one another. Here and there were still pools of water, perhaps collected from the frequent downpour of rain, or perhaps formed by sea water that had before been violently thrust into the crevices in the rocks to be temporarily trapped and tamed. In the still pools of water, at moments when the wind suddenly died or refused to blow, I could see my own wavering face and figure.

This is a wild landscape, raw and untamed, yet natural and filled with beauty. The voice of the wind, the echoes of the splashing waves,  the postures of giant boulders resting on the rocky shores, the flight of seagulls against the strong currents. Everything  seems to come together and paint a picture of a landscape that is barren and isolated. Yet in the barrenness and isolation, a few brave souls have for generations lived off of the land and the sea, even if the land and the sea at times take away their lives.

MORE PICTURES of Nova Scotia click HERE!!

Stillness of the mind

In the stillness of the mind, there is nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

No pain in the neck, no pain in the legs, no itching sensation on the face, no burning feeling on the skin. There is no feeling, no craving, no wanting. There is no thought, no wandering of the mind, no fear of rejection, no worry about tomorrow, no regret about yesterday or some day ten years ago.

There is nothing. Just the pitch darkness of your closed eyes, just the emptiness of that space in your mind, just the breath and its minute movements. In and out, in and out... That is the stillness of being, the stillness of the mind that exists, that can exist even when the outside world is storming and thundering.

Re-living

Back in the world for over a week now, and at times I find myself challenged by the noises and disturbances of daily life. At times, I wonder whether I have really taken the peace and practice with me from the monastery, as I told myself to when I left the forest...

Dark night

The night is so dark, the sky pitch black, yet polluted by light.  There is but a lonely star striving hard to shine and be noticed, but all this light around it is blinding and dominating the senses.

Thinking back, just last week, I lay on the ground and stared up at the night sky. I could feel the slight warmth of the ground, like breathing against my neck. I could hear the creatures of the night that were hidden from sight but audible, and that appeared in the conjurations of my imagination.  The world was so still, and the sky above it so immense, fulfilled with specks and dots of light from distant stars. I felt so very small, so very, very insignificant, overwhelmed and awed by the universe and its infinite possibilities. Once or twice shooting stars would dash across the sky, and quickly I would send out well-wishes and loving-kindness to the world and all its creatures before the tail of the shooting star vanishes into the darkness…

 In that mesmerising scene, in those moments instilled with subtle stillness and calm, I felt such peace and ease that I have rarely felt in my life. Life seemed to have taken a change, for the better…

Fast forward a week, and I am back in my apartment in the suburbs of Montreal. The week has been filled with flights, family visits, attempts to recount my experience at the monastery, and trying to find my own pace of footsteps in the urban setting where everyone seems always in a hurry. I have not really had the time, or perhaps the inspiration, to sit down and write about my 10 days away at the monastery. Maybe parts of the experience were so profound that I feel that words would scarcely do the experience justice… maybe the stillness and calm I felt overwhelm me are too precious and delicate to capture in words… or maybe I’m still in a daze, still trying to recover from being too silent too long.

Whatever it is, I do feel slower, more reserved in my actions and thoughts. And more and more I am seeing ‘through’ routine, words, actions and responses of people as just the way they are… not good, not bad. People just say what they say. People just act how act. People respond just how they respond. I realise if I could see just that, I can remain more distant and be less caught up in the emotional roller coaster ride that most people involuntarily get on. An angry word… a criticism… a praise… a stroke of one’s self-ego. Just words coming out of someone’s mouth at one point in time. Hear them, acknowledge them, and let them pass the same way that everything else that exists will pass.

Of course, that is not to say I’ve become a piece of log with no emotions or no frustrations.  No one can completely shut down their emotions and feelings, likes and dislikes as if it were a computer programme that you can close down with a click. But the more I read up on meditation, the more I practice, even if just for a little while during the morning and evening, the more I realise that things are only so much, that things are all so relative, so really there is little point to get worked up or too involved in something.

Longings

We met two weeks ago, went out twice. Each time a good time, laughing, chatting, sharing and bonding. He  made an impression on me, made me think perhaps that there is a possibility here, and I thought perhaps those feelings were mutual.  

I left for 12 days for my retreat and to visit family. We said we'd keep in touch. In those days in the forest, without access to phone or internet, I thought of him at times. Sometimes wanting to write to him, at some points during my retreat even starting to compose emails in my mind. During some sitting sessions, my mind would wander and daydream in the future, would conjure up images of us meeting again and what we could do together.... even as mundane as what I could cook for us if he were to come to my place for dinner one night.

The mind is such a treacherous being that makes everyone of us a fool by filling our heads with imaginations and wishes that are so abstract and so wonderful. The mind is such a mastermind at trickery and deceit, conjuring up all sorts of powerful cravings and longings that mislead us into believing they are real. But it's all in the mind, and I guess I've been had. All those moments I was sitting in that monastery, in that tranquil setting of an isolated forest in the middle of nowhere, my mind was wandering around, grasping onto pleasant past experiences and projecting them into future fantasies. Fantasies that do not exist, and never will materialise.

We said we'd be in touch when I come back. It's been already a number of days since I got back. I wrote to him almost a week ago. No reply. No news at all. 

I'm not particularly sad or let down (or perhaps I'm in denial...? Another trick the mind is playing on me...) I just feel fooled by my own foolishness in letting my mind get the better of me by taking me on rich fantastical journeys filled with improbable events and unlikely scenarios. Events and scenarios that seem so real, but are in fact fictions of the mind. 

And from this I realise once again how foolish we are, and how we too often add to own suffering. Just as the Buddha taught... we live in a world where we are constantly driven and bombarded by craving (greed), delusion and dislike (hatred/aversion). Whether it's a thing, a moment in the past or future, or whether it's a person I have met only twice, the memories and experiences of the past beguile us to believe a reality that is fictitious and fake, and distract us from living in the here and now. Oh, how we really suffer because of the mean tricks the mind plays with us.... and we seem to relish and enjoy it every day with every thing we do and think about!

Restless mind

Sometimes when you have a thought or an idea ingrained in your mind, it becomes like a stain, an eyesore, an annoying itch that's difficult to get rid of. It boils and proliferates in your mind, stains all your thoughts and colours your vision in ways that are negative and infectious... And I see it happening now!

For a month or so, I opened my house to  a friend who needed a place to stay. She had just graduated, had no job and was (apparently) running short on money, and needed to move out of her old apartment as soon as possible, but had no place to go to. So I offered my spare room, and she took it. A friend in need is a friend indeed.

In the beginning it was fine, and we seemed to get along fine. We chat and hug each other every morning and just before going to bed, and occasionally even share a meal or two. Then the complaints began... first about my cat, how she sheds a lot of hair (it's a cat... cats have a lot of hair!) and makes a lot of noise. It's true that she does shed a lot of hair, but it's never bothered me (and I certainly am not going to shave my cat, as has been suggested). As for the noise... it's really bizarre that before my friend moved in, the cat rarely cried like she does now.

Then began the allegations (still unconfirmed) that my house is infested with bedbugs. Then, behind my back and through veiled references on facebook status updates, are accusations that my cat is depressed and feels abandoned because I am away during the day, or go on trips for a days at a time. I'm getting all this information (except the facebook status updates) all from secondary sources. And until I personally hear complaints and criticisms against my behaviour, my way of every day life and my treatment of my cat, I really shouldn't jump to conclusions... And this friend is known to have a schizophrenic and paranoid personality. Perhaps I should dismiss it all with: "She doesn't know any better..."

But really... you try to help someone with good intentions, and they bite back with complaints and criticisms. I don't ask for anything in return, I don't even charge any rent, but then even the amount of time I spent at home per day or behaviour of my cat is subject of gossip and scrutiny.

I'm not saying I'm all so great and kind. But I could have so easily turned my back when my friend needed help. After all, why does it concern me if she did not have a place to stay? Other people didn't seem to care too much, so why should I?

But extend a hand I did, because it's what I do, and I don't regret doing it if it gives someone the time and space to get on her feet. But instead, in return, I get a load of extra shit burden added to my life, and have to adapt my life because the way I live it is constantly being seen and judged with disapproval. Sometimes I don't even feel like I want to go home anymore... a situation that's remotely reminiscence of living together with my brother. Even the cat (I can only suspect) is more and more unhappy because she has lost the one room where she likes to go into to gaze out the window and sunbathe...

Life was so much simpler living out there in the woods, secluded from all the noise and idle gossip of everyday life and people. But I guess having come back, I should face it all and not allow these frustrations and frictions with people get to me.

With family

After the week long retreat and silence, I arrived at my relative's place. It's nice to see my cousin after almost three months, to see how they have settled and adjusted to life in Canada.

Just spent the last two hours or so helping my cousin with homework. A compulsory course he has in social studies, the text book is thick with texts and difficult terms and words that even can be challenging for a native speaker of English... and he's only been in Canada a little over a year... I could see he feels deflated and discouraged. He's the silent type, shy and not so confident in his own abilities to speak and say things... he reminds me a lot like me when I was his age, so I can imagine what is going through his mind, especially when he encounters setbacks and is thrown into a new environment where he does not know anyone and has difficult making friends, let alone understanding what the teacher is saying.

I'm here one more day... but when I'm gone, I'm gone, and he's on his own.

Time for a retreat

 It's been a long time since I last went away and retreated from the world... from all its troubles, all its peoples, from all its noises, from all its seductions. Finally, after a long wait and renewed hope, I was informed three weeks ago that I could attend a 10 day meditation retreat at Birken Forest Monastery.

It's about time, as I feel myself becoming more and more agitated and confused as the days wear on. Some days, I feel the motivation and drive that was within me has slowly been sapped away, leaving me drained and lethargic... Some days, I feel such sadness and loss as memories of those who have departed come back to greet me... Some days, I wish I could find shelter and comfort in being alone, even though deep down inside I long for belonging and company.

People react with shock when I say I'm going away for 10 days, and that silence and abstinence will be maintained throughout that time. No talking, no (solid) food after noon, no sexual activity... pure concentration on the mind and body, pure meditation on the here and now. What kind of life is that? A reflective life, a life that brings you back to the very essence of being, the very core of living, and the very fundamental of life.

Meditating for 10 days and slowly down may or may not drastically change the way I live or think... but it will rejuvenate me, I hope, and help me find my way on the path of Dharma. Perhaps I can meet and connect with people who share this bond of Dharma, and they will inspire me to distance myself from all some of tensions and conflicts with regular friends in every day life.

What is so important in the world that we trouble our lives with? What web of entanglements and attachments do we trap ourselves in daily and moment after moment? When you calm down, when you come to the root of it all, life is only so much. There is action, there is reaction, and there is suffering. And it is in suffering that we (and I) live and dwell. How to break through that suffering, how to transcend the worldly affairs and attachments... that is an art. An art of living that only the highest meditators can aspire to achieve.

By no means am I no where near enlightenment or becoming "the one who knows". But this little retreat is a step in that process. And even if I benefit from one moment of calm and inner peace, that is one moment more in this lifetime.

Disconnected

Not sure why, but for the past few weeks every time I talk to mum, there appears to be a disconnect on the line. Partly the reason is technical, partly it seems and sounds like whenever I call she's either not home or in a hurry to hang up quickly, even though we've only chatted for a little while. It's frustrating, and if there is anything more annoying, then it's a broken skype connection through which you can barely hear one another.

I hang up (or she hangs up), and I feel so dissatisfied, especially as I'm not sure how she's going or what she's doing these days. Even just now, I called her to say goodbye before I go away for the 10day retreat, the conversation lasted less than a minute. I just hope nothing is wrong with her.... and that nothing serious happens while I am away...

Disappearance

Nobody knows where she went, when she came back, or whether she came back only to go out and come back again. I suspect she was lured home by her hunger, for by morning I could see the bottom of her bowl of food. Canned food, which I had put out earlier during the day in the hope that she would jump right back into the house upon hearing the screeching sound of the can being opened. But she did not come back immediately. She was "missing in action" (MIA) for almost twenty four hours.

Nobody knows who she was with, or perhaps what she was with, if she was at all with anyone or anything. Perhaps she just lounged in the grass or shrubs of my neighbour's garden, perhaps she just lay there to absorb some sun, because her room, the one with a lot of sunshine during the day, is now off-limits after my flatmate moved in. The same flatmate who claims that my cat is "depressed", and later said that she is just bored.

Nobody knows what she did, what made her loose her collar. The collar with her cat-tag and my phone number on the back that a friend had given to my cat as a gift. Nobody knows, except for the cat, what suddenly made her so pensive, what made her quieter, to the extent that her usual highpitched screech is now nothing more than a soft murmur. Perhaps she has seen things while MIA a cat should have never seen. Perhaps, in the big bad world out there, with stinking skunks, the ginger bully next door, and player tomcats, she had experienced a terrible fright, and that made her go quiet.

But I woke up this morning, I found her lying on her usual spot on the sofa, her neck naked and her blue collar missing. The whole day she yawned, curled up and slept, the fabric under her belly warm from her little soft, furry body.

She is a mystery, my cat. In the way she tiptoes to stare out the window for ages. In the way she comes to my bed and walks around on my bed at night, just before I fall asleep. In the way she likes to peek into the bathroom whenever I am showering, peeing or pooing. She is a special little creature with a mind and character of her own, who likes to jump and hide in boxes, who likes to navigate the maze of feet at the bottom of the kitchen table and chairs, who like to butt her head against my fingers when I hold them out.

She is a special little creature who makes me feel so happy and loved.

Ça Marche!

The normally wild and boisterous main thoroughfare of St. Catherine suddenly descended into silence. Save for the murmur of traffic in the background, the crowd that had gathered stood still. Faces turned stern, others closed their eyes and lowered their heads. There was coughing, and the occasional sniffing, triggered by a runny nose or perhaps moist eyes. Yellowing leaves rustled overhead, almost careful not to make too much noise.

Two minutes of silence for the victims who have left this world. Two minutes of silence for victims suffering from stigma and ostracism. Two minutes appear to be so short and insignificant in the bustle of daily life. But even in this relatively affluent society, for those dying a slow, painful death because they do not have the financial or medical means to battle an illness that slowly eats away the body’s immune system, two minutes can seem like an eternity .

Then the silence was broken. A frail looking lady walked slowly onto the makeshift podium. As she addressed the crowd, her voice was gentle, yet crisp, determined yet filled with gratitude and emotion. She is the mother of Ron Farha, a Montreal businessman who founded the Farha Foundation in 1992 after he was diagnosed with AIDS. Despite Farha's passing, the Foundation he established continues to bear his name and legacy, and has annually organised events to raise awareness and funds for people in Quebec living with HIV/AIDS. ÇA MARCHE, the biggest fundraising event of its kind in the province, takes place annually in mid September, and is a AIDS walk that goes through downtown Montreal.

Prominent politicians were present, and in view of countless eyes and lenses a ribbon was cut to mark the start of the march. A red ribbon, the colour of blood, the colour of warmth, love as well as feeling of solidarity which victims of this devastating epidemic need in addition to the dozens of pills that need to be ingested daily.

Cars stopped and patiently waited as the main arteries of the city swarmed with teeming bodies and voices of thousands marching in sync. I was one of those people, on this beautiful, crisp Autumn morning, marching slowly with a little red ribbon pinned to my chest. For a brief moment I connected. For a brief few moments, I and many others marching through Montreal that very morning, connected with countless many across the world we have never seen or met, but whose plight and cause we shared. In sharing, we care. In caring, we remember and remind ourselves of the suffering of others, and how to prevent further suffering.

Somewhere along the route, my little red ribbon fell. When I noticed, it was too late, for the ribbon was gone and can no longer be found. Even if the sound of its falling did not resonate for the rest of the world, fall it did, to be swept under the dirty soles of countless people trampling over it. Trampled over like the millions of AIDS victims who are neglected and shunned because of sheer fear and ignorance.

AIDS is an illness that transcends colour, class and race. It is a blind and lethal disease that can infect any one, hetero or homo, old or young. On a mural in the heart of the Gay Village, Ron Farha's hopeful words lives on:

AIDS will disappear one day.
While we wait, we have the opportunity to learn and grow.
And we should do that.

Church choirs sung as the marchers walked on by. People stood along the pavement and gave out balloons, brochures, condoms, and free hugs. Bystanders stopped and watched, their attention caught by the music, dance and laughter of the crowd that flowed like a river through the centre of shopping district. The occasional shopper, with big, laden bags, paused and stared at the ever-moving circus act of drags in wig and fishnets, of dogs that wore matching black T-shirts and red collars, of the toddlers with little red ribbons painted on their smooth little cheeks. Perhaps for a fleeting moment, while clutching to their big, laden bags, they wondered to themselves what difference the money spent on the new dress could have made if it went to a greater cause...

I looked up at the blue, blue sky, and saw red and white balloons float away. Were they released, or did someone inadvertently loose their grip on the thin pieces of thread that tied them down? Higher and higher and higher the balloons floated, to a destination unknown, yet their bodies bearing an important message for all to heed. As they floated higher and farther, it was as if I could see them nodding, like happy heads high on helium... nodding approvingly at the people marching in solidarity below.

Entertainment

The train rocked under the motion of the rubber tires, and my eyes tried to follow the lines in my book that narrated the novel I was reading. Suddenly in the corner of my eye I saw motion, and I looked up.

A woman, middle aged, with wild black hair and a face refined with wrinkles, leapt from her seat and darted toward the centre of the carriage. On a pole, one that commuters normally hang onto to brace themselves from stumbling and falling onto fellow passengers, she swung. With her legs like a vine intertwining the pole, she worked it smoothly like a pole dancer. Once, twice she swung, in swift and soundless motion that captured the attention of everyone sitting in the carriage.

As quickly as she got up and swung, she sat down again. She threw her head back and burst out in laughter, laughter that was muffled out by the screeching of the metro. Her cleavage was showing in her lowcut tee, and the heels of her boots must have been at least 10cm high.

"Just entertainment", she said to a lady sitting next to her, "I'm not hurting anyone, it's just for fun!" The lady next to her nodded and smiled politely, and tried to get back to her reading. The pole-dancing woman grabbed a can and started to gulp it down. "It's Saturday night. You have to make some fun!"

And she sure did. She got off at my stop, and after a glimpse at her can did I realise that even ginger ale can give you such a rush and high.

Night out

The strobe lights, flashes of lightning and coloured spotlights were dazzling, were blinding. I could feel the dancefloor vibrate, tremble like the earth was shaking beneath our feet. Boys, men and the sporadic girls danced, their bodies moving to the beat and rhythm of the ear-popping techno mixes of the latest and of classic pop songs. Friday night out in a dance club.

The alcohol was oozing in my veins, and I was sweaty from dancing. My friends danced around me, and around us there were scores more of people. Some holding their (dance) partner close, others tonguing and licking the sweat and lust from one another's cheeks and lips. On the gigantic screen was a black and white behind-the-scenes documentary on male porn stars posing in front of the camera. There was sex in the air, in the drinks, in the minds of everyone who crowded the dancefloor, and who sat idly and watched from the barstools.

I had fun, that I cannot deny. But there was something missing. My mind, a wanderer as it is, wandered even more on that dancefloor as I moved and shook my body and arms. Wandering off to a quiet moment alone with someone close, wandering off to a week from now, when I'll be in the peace and quiet of the monastery as I begin my 10day meditation retreat. My mind wandered also into the realm of fantasy... to daydream about what-might-be of imaginary scenarios with someone I've recently met, and with whom I felt a great connection.

Back on the dancefloor, every one seemed lost. Lost in the ecstasy of the free flowing body movements, lost in the trance of musical beats and lyrics that teased. Lost in lust, lost in love, lost in longing. Lost, and all seemingly wanting to find something, to hold on to it, to treasure it, even if it is only for a fleeting moment.

For that is how it is with going out. To loose oneself, so that one can find oneself or another. Only to loose oneself again, perhaps not too soon after.

"Don't let the .... bite"

I'm not sure if I have them. So I cannot confirm or deny their existence. But my flatmate claims that I have them, and that she wakes up every morning with bites and red patches on her back(side).

So I've been googling bedbugs to see if there are signs of their presence I can spot. And surprisingly, they are more common than we think. In fact, most people probably have it, but live with them without realising that they are under the mattress seams, hiding in crevices in the wall, or living in the wood of the bedframe. Some people are especially allergic to them, and show symptoms whenever they are bitten.

And one of these people happen to be a friend who moved into the spare room of my apartment less than two weeks ago. It's a temporary arrangement, or so I'd like to think; temporary until she finds a place of her own. Almost immediately she started to complain about bedbugs, and now and then she would tell me how serious the problem is. When I came back from a weekend trip to the US, within five minutes of stepping through the door, she complained again about them.

I'm lost as what I should do. I've lived in this place for over a year, and I've had the bed she's now sleeping on for (just) over two. And I've never had a problem with bedbugs. She started to show me bits and pieces of what look like pebbles (or maybe even little box filling) to me, and she claims they are faeces of the bugs. Which happen to be in a leading toward the edge of the bed.
I said I'll get sprays, which I did today.

So at the big hardware store, I asked a middle aged man who works at the store what I could do about bedbugs. He showed me a spray product, which he said is effective if I just spray it all over the bedroom and around the bed. "Do you see them?" he asked. No, I've never seen them. It's my flatmate who claims they exist, but I'm not even sure if she's seen them actually crawling around.

"You can see them. They're small and red," he said, and with that he shuddered. "Do you have a cat?" I wondered how he knew I had a cat, and what that has to do with bedbugs. I do know that my roommate is somewhat allergic to cats and cat hair, and she takes antihistamine to control her allergies. "Well, maybe that's got something to do with it." He was called away before I could ask any more questions.

I'm not sure what to believe and not one step closer to finding out whether I do have bedbugs. But I just spent some $20 dollars and listening to complaints about an infestation which does not actually affect me at all. This morning my roommate actually suggested fumigating the whole house to kill the bedbugs. How much would that be, I wonder. And how effective would that be, I ask. Maybe they'll go away for a while. But with time, perhaps weeks, perhaps days, they will be back. Because they are everywhere.

Easiest, really, is she moved out and found a place that's bedbug free. "Good luck", the man at the store said to me before he rushed away. Indeed, given the extent of the problem throughout North American, good luck.

At EWR

Elmo grinned cheekily, his cheerful red face plastered permanently on the front of the little suitcase. You’d half expect him to spring to life and start to liven up the glum, depressing corridors at the security checkpoint.

The boy whose hand loosely held onto the suitcase was not so cheerful. He heaved, gasping with great effort for breath as a stream of tears trickled down his cheeks. His arm strangled the neck of a worn, brown teddy bear, who too had a permanent smile on its face which seemed to mock the downturned lips of the little boy. Right beside him, his mother’s eyes were red and moist, and she inadvertently looked away to wipe tears that threatened to trickle down. Through the glass window was (what is most likely) the father, standing there in the empty concourse with shoulders hanging and heavy with sadness.

“All objects on the belt!” the TSA woman bellowed. She sounded like a vendor hawking her wares at a market, except her voice was monotonous and penetrating. “Take out everything in your pockets. Paper, pens, coins, mobile phones. NO EXCEPTIONS!” Passengers in front of me scrambled to clear their pockets and strip. Footwear were also removed, even sandals and flip-flops had x-rayed through the belly of Rapiscan. At the command of the security officer, a confused elderly man walked back and forth, back and forth through the metal detectors, looking frail and frightened. “KEEP MOVING DOWN! Place your gels and liquids in the see-through pouch. NO EXCEPTIONS!” The boy, still grief stricken, sighed and heaved some more. Elmo and the teddy bear kept on smiling.

Overhead, the bursting roar of jet engines temporarily silenced everything else. To some, it is the sound of freedom; to others the sound of awe and terror. One day after the ninth anniversary of September 11, the airspace around New York is on heightened alert, and every so often fighter jets seemed to be doing fly-bys around Newark Liberty. In the distance, sunk against the dull, overcast sky was the blurry grey skyline of Manhattan. The Empire State Building looked strikingly lonely without the two iconic towers.

Little planes crawled on the tarmac, as others all too happily hurtled down the runway and skywards. Almost a decade on, the airport continues to be centre stage for all the drama, tears and fears. Flying has turned from every boy (and girl)’s dream to a nightmarish nuisance, and everyone is subject to suspicion, if not to the all-seeing and privacy-invading menace of the full body scanner. Perhaps we could do with Elmo springing to life and lightening up the mood with his big grin and infectious chuckle.

But, no doubt, in no time he would be tackled to the ground, frisked and hauled away in handcuffs

9/11

Right next to a big corn field, I watched my cousin play football (sorry, soccer) with his schoolmates. A group of hawks with wide-spread wings rode the warming air currents and circled above us. Dark, dark silhouettes against the blue, blue clear sky, with movements as agile as kites, yet radiating an aura of awe almost as majestic as America’s proud and bold national bird. Dry corn stalks shivered shyly, their shabby heads hung low, their bodies swayed in sync with the wind like a silent crowd in mourning. Saturday, nine twelve in the morning on September eleven.

It’s the start of the school term, and the first week of friendly games. Bright faced boys and girls in colourful football jerseys ran after the ball as parents cheered on and coaches directed and encouraged the little players. I watched them run and kick around, and smiled at those moments of frustration when some kid misses the goal. Frustration that quickly evaporates and is replaced by laughter and big grins. To them, at this stage in the game, at this stage in life, it’s all just (literally) good sports and a game. No swearing, no pushing, no foul play or playacting. At least not yet.

Moments earlier, I watched part of the solemn commemoration ceremony in New York. The mayor spoke of the disbelief and hurt as those two towers tumbled to the ground, killing thousands of innocent people and traumatising to the core the psyche and security of a great nation. Disbelief and hurt that till this day lingers on in the hearts and minds of the victims and their families, and lingers on in the long military campaigns far, far away from Ground Zero. Though maybe nobody will be burning any Qur’ans today, the controversy surrounding the building of a mosque has brewed and veiled the run-up to the ninth anniversary of September 11. Perhaps it is a sign after all these years, distrust and animosity towards Muslims in general is still resonating with parts of the American population.

Back to smalltown New Jersey, back to the soccer field that is parched and almost yellow from the recent drought. The final whistle blows, and the score is 5-3. Red-faced and panting, with sweat dripping down their cheeks and the backs of their T-shirts patched with moisture, the little boys and girls high-five and pat one another on the shoulders. Exactly nine years ago, in the time that the game began and finished, three more planes crashed, thousands more perished, the Twin Towers burned and collapsed. And a president finished reading a book about a goat that consumed everything in its way.

"That's good eatin'"

“That’s good eatin’,” he said. Not for the first time, and no doubt not for the last. It’s soon hunting season, and the gentle-looking middle aged man spoke proudly of his adventures hunting animals in the wild. Geese, turkey, boars, pheasants. “Them rabbits. They’re small and bony, but they’re good eatin’ too.” I stared out at the dense forest all around us, and imagined those furry little creatures roaming wild and free.

The man began to lament increasing sightings of black bears in the neighbourhood, and his voice lightened as he mentioned how the state had recently lifted the ban on bear hunting. Black bear hunting. The killing of ferocious creatures that can weigh up to a couple of hundred pounds, and that can maul you with their baseball glove sized paws and rip you to bits, because they love to shift through garbage. Local bins have locks to prevent bears from snooping and feeding off leftovers.

“And just a few weeks ago further north, a policeman came home after his night shift. He heard some noise at the back of his house, and he walked to take a look. He was startled by a black bear, and the bear was startled by him. Good thing he had his rifle, and he shot the bear a couple of times. Otherwise, he would have been good as gone.” There was a snide comment about how soft animal rights groups are, which I didn’t fully catch. All I wondered was what they did with the remains of the unfortunate bear, which on that fateful night unknowingly had (or was about to have) its last supper. Perhaps its head is now glued on a wooden plaque and nailed on the wall of someone’s living room. Fittingly ironic, on the radio was a talk show host, whose high-pitched rhetoric feverishly attacked the environmental agenda spearheaded by menacing leftists and soft-headed liberals.

On a small lake, a couple of Canadians floated leisurely with their long black necks outstretched. Through the closed car window I could hear their muffled but somewhat familiar call. Familiar because, like me, they too have come down here from the True North. Though, I’m only here for a temporary visit, whereas many of them have flown here, and decided to become permanent residents. I watched them, their graceful movements resembled little boats bobbing on the gentle surface of the lake, and admired their brown down.

“Them geese are pests. Make so much noise and nuisance, and they’re overpopulated.” Canadians geese are considered a threat to flight safety. In fact, US Airways flight1549 crashed in the Hudson because both its engines sucked in them pesky Canadians shortly after take off. The loud-beaked babble are also considered a public health hazard because of the fasces they shed on roofs, park lawns and people’s heads. To tackle the ‘plague’, New York City mayor Bloomberg has recently resorted to somewhat extreme measures to cut down the number of Canadian Geese to a more manageable proportions. Geese are being rounded up, taken into vans with cages in the back. And gassed. No doubt, they’ll be good eatin’ too.

Maybe I am one of them soft-headed liberals and pansy environmentalists who cares much too much about the birds and the bees, and the geese and bears. I don’t live in the countryside, and I don’t come from a background where almost every moving creature can be crudely summed up as “good eatin’”. I certainly don’t have to think about bears breaking down my kitchen door as I’m making apple pie (though living in the suburbs, leaving my door open can often invite the unwelcome smell of skunk perfume in). And I don’t have a family or dependants who I must guard against ferocious creatures of the wild.

But weren’t these creatures, however wild and savage, here first before we started building houses and communities right in their traditional habitats, before we chased them away and/or (for some) hunted them to (near) extinction? Aren’t there more anim-ane ways to control the population of a particular species? Once again, I am amazed by the ability of human beings to play ‘god’ and the controller of nature and populations just to accommodate our own needs and desires.

Dad...

I woke up with a terrible headache, sat on the bed momentarily and stared into blank space.
The dream was too intense, too real, or so it seemed. More real than real life, more real than what I had experienced.

Dad was in bed, obviously in pain, obviously suffering, obviously dying. His face was contorted in agony, with tears running down his cheeks. I held onto his hands, embraced his whole body and tried very, very hard not to cry, not to make things even more difficult for him. But it was hard not to cry, and I could see my own tears drip down and soak his clothes.

I don't remember what was said, if anything. All I can recall is the sadness, the utter and oppressive sadness that hung in the air. A dense, thick feeling of unwillingness to let go, unpreparedness to leave as if there were unfinished business that needed tending to. I felt the warmth of his body, his bony fingers, and looked into his deep, dark eyes...

Long, long journey

The tires hummed lowly together with the mechanical sounds of the bike chain that spun at my feet's command. The wind blew on my face, and the fabric of my shorts and T-shirt waved like a flying flag. Overhead, colossus, white cloud formations floated softly across a blue sky, at times greying suddenly as if with old age and spelling signs of the inevitable fall of rain. There was a change in the wind, I could feel it, I could smell it. A change in the wind that was blowing away the intense heat and humidity of summer, a change in the wind that brought with it the gentle cool and colours of autumn.

Together with five others, I cycled some 80 kilometres northward along the route of the old railway track that led into the heart of the Laurentians. Dozens of others biked too, but on a shorter route through the many parks and green spaces of Montreal. A ride for charity, to raise money and awareness about legal aid for vulnerable and disadvantaged refugees and immigrants new to the country. The Dean of McGill’s Law Faculty was present, as was a former Minister of Justice, to kick start the event with speeches and applauses. We were reminded of the great cause we were about to embark on, and how as proud members of the student body and future lawyers, we are continuing the legacy of the activist of Dugald Christie to emphasise the importance of access to justice for all. Later I would learn from the organisers of the charity ride that despite the lofty speeching and involvement of a number of professors, financial support for the event from the faculty was sadly minimal.

The long, long journey took us through picturesque towns, fields and forests. With the occasional breaks and energy boosts from granola bars, it was relatively easy to bike the route, as most of the journey was along paved and marked cyclepaths of la Route Verte, which criss-crosses this region of Quebec. Even so, at times the weather was not so cooperative, and its rapid mood swings reminded me of the indecisive and at times treacherous weather back in Europe.

Speed, direction and destination were all mine to control, and once again like so often when I am on my bike I felt that sense of freedom that can be so liberating for the body and mind. As I pedalled, a leaf fell and clung momentarily onto my arm. Its fringes were yellowing and crisp, and suddenly a gust of wind sent it flying off again. On the trail behind me, among its fallen brothers and sisters that were sent moving by the breeze of a bike speeding past, I tried to find which leaf I just that brief moment with. More and more leaves are bound to drift and fall as the winds blow stronger and nights become colder, and colder.

When I look back, I realise how with determination and a destination, you can really strive to accomplish what originally may seem like an impossible feat. In the back of my mind, the motivational speeches that reminded us all of the great cause of cycling for justice, cycling for the underprivileged, echoed and hurried me on. With their branches like upturned arms, the trees that lined the path seemed to cheer like a crowd of bystanders. The rustling sound of silvery green leaves was like muffled applauses, waving me forward. If only writing my thesis were so easy.

Later at night, a group of us stayed at a cabin owned and run by the McGill Outdoor Club. The cabin is fully equipped, with enough bunk space for eighty people. The walls are decorated with signs and rusty saws used by lumberjacks to fall trees. With dusty novels and boardgames, old copies of the National Geographic dating from the eighties, and even the remains of a puffer fish, a very ‘studenty’ feel hung in the air. Nearby is a river and lakes nestled between unspoiled forests in the mountains, and in the winter it is a great starting point for cross-country skiing and the quintessentially Canadian activity of snowshoeing.

Some volunteered to cook, others did the eating and merrymaking. After a feast of lentil soup and rice with vegetable stir-fry, we sat down together outside around an open fire and shared the battles with the elements and distance we had endured earlier during the day.

The talented ones played lonesome sounds with their guitars and sang melancholic country songs about love and longing. I quietly watched the fire, mesmerised by its sounds and movements. Sounds and movements that seemed to soothe and distract from the muscle aches and agonising moments during the long bike ride when I felt like giving up. Occasionally, I held out my hands to feel its warmth and affection, and once and twice I exploited it to grill marshmallows that seemed to softly melt away in my mouth. Through quiet conversation, and at times moments of quiet silence, we bonded over the smell of wood burning and the sweet scent and taste of oven baked brownies.

The flames tossed their long heads in a wild, unpredictable dance above the burning wood. At times little sparks would fly off, fly and drift freely like fireflies. Fireflies that eventually faded and died. The fire cracked, its voice a mixture between the sound of twigs breaking beneath your feet as you gently tread on the forest floor and the sound of dripping rain.

Against the chill of the night and a faint drizzle, a flickering glow of orange and warmth was cast on our faces. Together we huddled around the fire, attracted by the vigour of life and gentle smell that sprang up from the burning wood. Together we made a vow to raise money for people we have never met but whose lives and wellbeing was what brought us all from different levels of study and from different origins and countries together. And there is a sense of warmth and joy in that, which lingers on and on like the scented smell of burning wood around a campfire.