November hike

 One of the wonderful things about living in Montreal is it's surrounded by a lot of nature. To the east, you have the picturesque of little villages and a wine route in the Eastern Townships, to the north, you have the Laurentians, a stretch of mountains that rise from the shores of the St Laurence River, and towards the south, less than an hour's drive, you have the very green states of Vermont and New York just across the border with the United States.

It's been a long while since I last did anything really outdoors, and I have been longing for it. Living in the city, surrounded by people and noise can sometimes get too much. So with a small group of people from the McGill Outdoors Club, I left in the early hours of the morning while the rest of the city still slept. There was no big plan, but we had with us a group leader who knew many of the trails that criss-cross the Adirondacks. Situated north of the Empire State, this mountainous area is the largest forested  region of the continental US. It is dense with trees, littered with lakes, and occupied by mountains that stand at around 1500m or so-- which makes a hike to the top not so much of a daunting challenge.

Starting from around 10 in the morning, we hiked on a trail that covered both Snow Mountain and Roostercomb Mountain. These two little peaks are conquer-able within a few hours, but offer awarding panoramic views of the majestic valley and higher mountains in the surroundings. The trail zig-zags through the dense coniferous and pine forest. Sometimes, when stopping to catch your breath, wafting through the air is the refreshing scent of fresh evergreens. Little creeks meander through boulders and the brown carpet of fallen leaves, the sound of the running water cheerful and crisp. The middle of November has already brought light snow showers the higher up the mountain you go, which made the hike dangerously slippery at times, yet also all the more adventurous. There are places where the rocky surface is covered with ice, and you had to grab on to the dry bark of trees along the trail to make sure you don't slip and stumble. At times, steep ledges along the way make the journey feel more like a climb than a hike. Once on the summit, the warmth of the sun made it almost feel like it was a lazy afternoon in Summer. There we sat, and hungrily devoured our lunches while we gazed down at the world beneath our tired feet.

We left nothing but imprints of our boots, and perhaps echoes of our lighthearted chatter and laughter. We took nothing but photographs and memories of hiking through the woods together. There is something special about  being out in nature, about being with a group of like-minded and easy-going nature-enthusiasts that makes you feel incredibly alive and energised.

Remember...

I remember once riding through Vlaanderen (Flanders, Belgium) as a boy, and the sense of awe I felt seeing the green hills roll by. I closed my eyes and tried to picture how, merely decades ago,  the very pretty scenery outside the window could be the setting of many brutal battles. I was reminded of what I once read in History class. Even today when the fields are plowed, remnants of bombshells and human remains are still being unearthed.

Quietly, I tread on the path and gazed into the distance. Before me, rows and rows and rows of white  crosses and the occasional Star of David stood in honour of the countless  men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice. Names are all that remain, even though some plaques bear no name. Names, and dates that at times are too close together. Flags fluttered at half-mast, while a flame blew in the strong North Sea wind but never dimmed.

After the bloodshed, the falling bombs,  after the cries from damp trenches filled with rats,  corpses and agony, poppies were the first flowers to bloom. Small and red, they would blossom wildly every Spring by themselves, and cover entire fields like a carpet. Red, almost blood-like,  poppies today are closely associated to the annual Remembrance Day, which officially falls "at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month".

On the field of the lower campus today, a crowd slowly gathered. Soldiers, in pressed uniforms and in kilts, armed with rifles or musical instruments, proudly marched on black, polished boots down Montreal's busy streets. They flowed into neat columns on the field, lined up and stood tall to inspire and awe the people that had gathered all around them. It was a glorious day, and the sun flooded the ceremony with bright light. But it was a sombre event, with poetry recitals and prayers for the  hero(in)es who, despite their invisibility and silence, have shaped, and continue to shape, the fates of nations and peoples. From the "Great" War to the Second World War, from Korea to Vietnam, from the Gulf to Afghanistan, the bravery and commitment of countless military personnel and peace-keepers, past and present, should be remembered and celebrated. 

The firing of the cannon as part of a 21 gun salute made many in the crowd jump. Thick smoke trickled down the hill and blanketed the skyscrapers temporarily. The roar from the low flyby of two military helicopters filled the surroundings with the sound of rotor blades slicing through the air. Faces grimaced in discomfort at the unexpected explosion and resounding din. Luckily, all this is part of the ceremony, but to most who are not used to the deafening sounds and nerve-jittering shocks of war, it was too much to bear.  

I have been fortunate to come from and live in societies that are free from war and conflict. So I can only imagine the destruction and  atrocity of it all from scenes depicted on the printed page and by shaking recordings of "embedded" journalists. Without a doubt, the reality of war is many, many times worse than what you and I can possibly imagine or see. Despite lofty promises to "save succeeding generations from the scourge of war", despite complex laws and customs that actually regulate the conduct of warfare and degree of suffering that can be inflicted, war continues to rage and breakout across the world.

I, like many university students, can loudly protest the insanity and question the (f)utility of war, but throughout history and till this very day war has been a part of history. And as long as there is war or conflict, there will be those who are sent to fight, and who sacrifice themselves in the defence of the very freedoms and rights we hold dear. Sadly, this is a society that worships movie stars in epic war movies more than veterans who have passed away, or returned crippled or scarred by real wars.

 In a corner of the field, stood a group of veterans wearing long black trenchcoats. Poppies adorning their left lapel, close to their hearts, seemed to shine bright red against their dark coats. The wrinkles on their faces, the trickle of their thin white hair, the trickle of tears down some of their eyes bear memories of distant places, of comrades lost long, long ago. With the passing of time, fewer and fewer veterans from wars long ago will be standing there. 

"Thank you," I said, deep down, as the wail of the bagpipe broke the two minute silence. For your courage, for your wounds, for your sacrifices. Lest we one day forget, may we always remember.

Breaking out

For a few days now I've been avoiding people. I go to school and avoid being seen, and then I head home again, and rarely step out the door. Friends invite me to events, but I say I'm too tired or not interested... And that's what I really am... Tired and disinterested...

Sleep has been my refuge... sleep, and eating lots of chocolate and suddenly craving fried bacon with lots of grease. So I stay home, in bed, lie next to my cat, close my eyes and let sleep take over. And it's not difficult to just drift away. Drift away, and let sleep overcome me and my consciousness. Sleep seems to have such a powerful effect on me now, even if I'm not tired. Somehow, it seems to be more interesting than being awake...

And today I woke up, and went out for a long bike ride. It was cold, but the sun was bright. I rode my bike, rode and rode along the river. Just riding I think helped me clear my mind and thoughts, and get rid of the drowsiness and torpor... I felt active, and alive.

 I could spend my days in sleep... or I could spend my days awake and living.

Cycling in the cold

The setting sun shone through the window and brightened the darkness. In a spur, I grabbed my bike and cycled toward the river.

 The temperature was close to freezing, but with each breath I felt refreshed. The icy coldness entered my lungs, cleared my insides and mind, while the  rays of orange that spread around the silhouette of naked trees along the canal was the colour of warmth and, strangely, of hope.

I sat on the river bank, listening the the water flow past me. The river was quick in its motion, whereas I stood still. The sun sunk on the water's edge, in a disappearing act that seemed to hasten the more the sun's face vanished into the river. I looked up at the trees around me, at the trees that in a matter of days had shed all their leaves. The autumn storm stripped them all bare, and now, looking almost dead and lifeless they are ironically prepared for the winter to come. In the distance, the metallic clinking echoed on a  bridge as the commuter train rushed to bring people to the safety and warmth of their homes.

The sun set, and almost suddenly the day descended into darkness. The cold grew colder, and I picked up my bike, zipped up my coat, put on my hood, and rode to the safety and warmth of my own home.

Fears

Maybe unfounded, maybe not, but the sense of dread and uncertainty that has overshadowed my feelings ever since I received news of mum's latest health conditions has left me somewhat paralysed and lost as what to do. Most of it is due to fears, fears that manifest themselves in various ways and in many forms. Fears I know I should not get too deeply drawn into, because in the end they are destructive and in no way help me in my practice and search for a worry-free life.

Sometimes, I must admit, the child within me feels it's so "unjust" and "unfair" what is happening to me again, and again. Just as I am settling down and beginning to progress on my work, I am exposed to another "upheaval" in my life. Just as I am hoping to stay rooted and start making plans to take up language lessons, to become engaged in volunteering work, to start meeting and seeing new people, I am again juggling dates of when I should pack my suitcase and leave here, uncertain of when I will return again... Just as I thought I could be with my cat for more than a few months at a time, just as we are bonding nightly in bed in our slumber, I have to abandon her and leave her all alone... It's cruel.

I look at my friends, and I envy their stable relationships, their seemingly less troubled family lives... And I admire how they can live in such relative certainty and pursue their plans and careers without having to fret  about things like whether one of their parent is going to be around this time next year... Why, I cannot even commit to tasks or projects people at school would like me to be involved in because I don't know if I can be fully myself or if I can be there when the time comes...

Of course, everyone has their own pains and sufferings, and my worries and fears cannot compare to that of others. Of course life and everything else in the world is changing and my turbulent life could easily be that of another person... But so often I just crave certainty... I just crave security... I just crave safety... So often I just want to know and feel that the moment I open my eyes in the morning I can feel good because there is something or someone I can look forward to.

But, as the teachings go, it is that craving for something and that aversion towards something I cannot change that creates so much suffering and pain, so much remorse and such a disturbed mind. Whatever I feel, however I feel and react to how I feel is a construct of the mind. The world is what we make of it. Events are what we perceive it to be. People, their pains and sorrows, are just the way they are.
Whatever will happen will happen... it may not happen in the way I want it to happen, it may not all be made of big happy smiles and laughs, but it will soon come to pass.

And in the end, I will go through it all, I will have to wear the turbulence, weather the storm.

And if I do not capsize, if I do not go insane with frustration or rage at all that life and death has to throw at me, then I will live. And no doubt I will become stronger and more tested.

Seizing control

I really need to seize control of my mind, my life before I spiral deeper into worry, doubt and fear. It cannot be healthy being so plagued by tiredness and sleepiness all the time. It cannot be good when the moment I lie down and pull the covers over my head is the happiest moment of my day.

I really can no longer let sadness and worry ru(i)n my days and set my life adrift from one day to the next.
In the coming weeks, I'm going to have to make a number of fundamental changes.

Weather

Moods, like the weather, are unpredictable and ever-changing. Sometimes it's bright as a sunny day, other times it's gloomy and dull. Sometimes, it's violent as a sudden storm, other times, it's tranquil and gentle like the first snow of winter falling slowly and softly.

And are you going to get upset about the weather? Are you going to go out into the world and demand that the rain, sunshine, wind or blizzard stop at once? No. Of course not. You let the rain fall, let the sun rays beat down on the earth, let the snow cover the roads and trees, let the wind sweep away the leaves. You can enjoy the agony of the storm, bask in the warmth of a hot day, soothe in the caress of drizzle falling like moths on your face, or you can seek refuge at home until the weather front has passed. But you let the weather be. There is no point to get worked up about the weather. There is no point to get upset when it is not the weather of your liking (or disliking). The weather is just the weather, just as the rain, the snowfall, the sunshine are just the way they are, and nothing more or less.

And it is the same with your mood... agony, anger, frustration, depression, coldness, joy, rapture, elation... they are just the way they are, nothing more and nothing less. You can hide from them, wear the strongest willpower and forbearance to weather them... or you can be with them, enjoy them, ride with them. Only as long as they last...

Moods are like the weather, ever changing, out of your control, and pointless to cling onto. Just let them be, just let them come and go. After the sunshine there is bound to be rain. After the freeze, there is bound to be warmer temperatures. After the fog, the air will eventually clear. It may take time, but with time you will realise the continuously appearing and disappearing of it all. Nothing is permanent, nothing is the same or stays the same. Not the weather, not your moods, and certainly not this notion of 'self' that we cling onto as if it is the surest thing we have in life.

Saturday night in

Maybe he could hear the strangeness or sadness in my voice. But as soon as my friend called, he noticed something was wrong.

Something was wrong. I feel down, deflated and depressed. I try to work, but I long to lie down and fall asleep... to dream away, even if they are terrible and disturbing dreams, they seem less frightening than the prospect of facing reality. I guess I am an escapist. A Pisces who likes to (day)dream, who likes to swim in a river of fantasy towards a place of eternal security...

But life is rarely like daydreams and flights of fantasies. And it is in shows of friendship and companionship that makes life bear living. We don't have to be doing or saying anything... in fact, we watched movies we've both seen already, shared food and drinks, listened and sang some songs we remember from our childhoods. And those little things are enough to distract from sombre and dark thoughts eating away the peace and sanity of my mind these days...

Surge

Another surge... When I last saw her in June it was around 5, approximately the level of a smoker. Recently the cancer index (Carcinoembryonic antigen, CEA) soared to 18. Abnormally high. Meaning the tumour is spreading. How much she does not tell me. Where to, I ask, and she is remains silent.

Yet mum remains so hopeful. How does she do it? How does anything who is told for the n-th time that malignant cells are multiplying rapidly cope with the news? "Don't worry," mum said, "The doctor said we can still do chemo, so there is still hope. When the doctor says there is nothing that can be done, then that's really the end. But it's not come to that".

How did she sound so calm, so hopeful? Is she hopeful and calm for my sake, so as not to make me worry? Deep down inside, is she perhaps frightened and feeling incredibly lonely in this entire struggle?

We spoke for almost half an hour about her condition. She mostly talked, while I closed my eyes and listened. At some points almost tearing. Listened while my hands started to shake from the disbelief.... from the unwillingness to accept reality. Though I know, deep down, I do know that this is the reality. A reality I cannot change, and that I must accept. This fear, this anxiety, this worry, these tears. There are just feelings that will subside...

Mum spoke of how she has maintaining a balanced lifestyle of good nutrition and exercise and meditation. Occasionally she takes the oral chemo tablets that the (western) doctor give her, and on the side she's also consulting (traditional) herbal remedies. "It's not the end yet. And in the end, we just have to accept it.... I've been making preparations. I'll tell you more when you are here."

She spoke of how she intends to undergo chemo after she retires in a month. A six, perhaps eight sessions of treatments, and that will be all. And she said she'll need to maintain her health and her vitality so that she can come visit me here in Canada in Spring next year.

Spring seems so far away from now. So very far away...

Falling leaves

Leaves shook on the branches, causing hushed whispers to suddenly sound all at once overhead. A leaf, slightly curled up and crisp from age and the pendulum swings between an Indian Summer and the frigid chill of deep Winter, fell slowly.  It wandered in mid-air, as if almost hesitant and cautiously eyeing the ground. For a few moments, the breeze carried it. On invisible wings, the leaf blew sideways and almost brushed against me. Then it spiralled, turning and twirling like a ballerina, before it softly landed and became lost among its other fallen brothers and sisters. Falling leaves seem to return to their roots.

I hiked up Mont Royal, which is just behind the law faculty, and a place I frequent when I need inspiration or a quick breather after lunch. Walking on the maze of paths and trails of the mountain is something I thoroughly enjoy doing at any time of the year. Winter strips everything bare, and then blankets everything with a soft coat of white or heavy layer of ice. Spring creeps in with the return of chirping birds, and as the mercury inches higher, the leaves and flowers begin to bud. In Summer, with the intense heat, Montreal swelters under horde of tourists and cultural activities, but under the umbrella of lush green leaves on the mountain it always seems to feel refreshingly cool.

And then there is Autumn. That schizophrenic in-between season when it's not too cold, not too warm, when the weather is as indecisive I am when it comes to what I should wear every time I go out. It is the season when nature unleashes its true colours, splashes them on the trees for a few weeks in an elaborate display before sudden storms sweep all the leaves away.

Under a clear, clear blue sky, through the laziness of the Autumn sun that penetrated foliage, colours of various shades, hues and tones came to light. Some trees were topped with bronze, others crowned with red, gold or yellow. Some trees captured that gradual change of colours, as from the bottom to the top of the tree the leaves were dyed in variations of green, yellow and orange. Other trees were already stark naked, standing there looking embarrassed in comparison with their more elaborately dressed neighbours. Gentle rustling sounds on the bed of fallen leaves alerted me of cute little squirrels. With their bushy tails and little front paws, they scurried around in search of food and in preparation for the harsher weather to come.

Most leaves still clung on tightly, while others easily let go, taking the natural course of falling with the aid of the wind and gravity. It will only be a matter of time, perhaps days, perhaps another week or two, before the inevitable fate of falling catches up with all the leaves.

By then, the mountain from afar will have put on another coat of another texture and colour in preparation for another season.

Tears

I don't think mum noticed. How could she see me take off my glasses and rub the tears from my eyes as I heard her recount her dream? I acknowledged what she was saying, but had to try had so as not to betray the waver in my voice or the sorrow I felt  deep inside.

She was telling me about two dreams she had with dad in it... in one, she was sleeping (in the dream), and suddenly the phone rang. At first, mum could not make out who it was, as the voice on the phone sounded faint and distant. Then she realised it was dad. He spoke in the same way when he was alive. That same voice... Dad said he called to say that he is going somewhere... Where, mum does not know, or has forgotten immediately after waking up.

The same voice... I tried to recall that voice... but maybe I'm recalling it all wrong? What did he sound like?

Oh, how I wish I could hear him speak again...!
How I wish I could hear dad's voice and that his voice could soothe my longing and loss...!

Tears welled in my eyes and threatened to trickle down as mum spoke, as they do now. Salted tears... I could taste them in the corners of my lips...

The next dream, mum said dad appeared before her, and he was crying. He looked so sad and was crying. He had tears on his cheeks...

Hearing that only made me cry more. But I don't think mum heard me cry. A soft, silent cry... A suppressed cry, because I did not want to make her upset or sad to hear me cry, to know that even after almost three years, sometimes when I think of dad, I miss him dearly. Miss him dearly enough to cry.

Mum said she woke up and cried that night. Hearing that, I wanted to tell her that two weeks ago I had a dream about dad, a very intense dream when I was staying at the monastery.

 But I didn't tell her... as the Buddhist teachings go, if it does not help anyone, there is no need to say it or repeat it. Will it bring joy and happiness, or pile more pain and hurt onto an already painful and sad situation? What good will it bring anyone? I did not tell her that I saw dad suffering, that I saw him die slowly and painfully. I did not tell her that I too woke up crying that night. Crying under the moonlight.

I hope dad is alright...
 I hope wherever he is now, whatever he is doing, whether he is with me or with us, he is well, happy and peaceful...

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.