Materiality and Exile

On BBC radio today there was a short documentary remembering the political violence and unrest that protesters met in Argentina a decade ago, and a man was being interviewed about his experiences. He had fled Argentina because of the danger, and when asked how that affected him, he mentioned the family that was left behind. "My parents are old, and I hardly ever get to see them," he said. "How many more hugs will I be able to give my father before he dies? Twenty? Forty? It's not enough."

The statement stood out from everything else in the documentary, and it made me cry. The image was certainly moving -- of a man embracing a frail, elderly father -- and what struck me most was the connection between longing and the body. There are so many ways to describe the loss of a life, the loss of loved ones, but he chose to focus on his inability to make physical contact. He wasn't being particularly poetic in this moment - it seemed to be the example that best fit the interviewer's question.

A couple of weeks ago, in one of the many outpourings of grief, love, and remembrance continuing to be generated after the tragic death of Jenna Morrison in Toronto last month, Jenna's friend Matthew talked about the impact of bodily loss. He was speaking at a yoga class held to raise funds for Jenna's son:

"There are lots of asana classes to raise money. At times they may feel like nice gestures only. But I want to tell you that sometimes asana is the most real thing you can do. You may have heard in new-agey spiritual circles, or even from classical yoga, that “you are not your body”. But when someone dies like this, you realize that this is cold comfort at best, and complete nonsense at worst. You are most definitely your body, and moving it and loving it and dancing with it and touching others with it is exactly how you experience being alive. Where else is experience, but in and through this flesh? Jenna’s embodiment is what has been amputated from those of us left here. She is now our ghost limb, and whenever we remember her, we move it, and it will hurt, until we find her movements in our very limbs, and the ache begins to soften with fresh circulation"

You can read the whole posting on Matthew's blog.

Losing someone close to you is a painful ordeal on so many levels, but Matthew's point about the loss of their body rings loud and true to me. So much of another person lives in our memory - whether they are alive or dead - but their physical presence, in the body that we know and love so well, is irreplaceable. The material can feel like everything in the face of this loss.

Whether through death or exile, the impact of this loss can be profound. The Argentinian man on the radio had to face this loss when he fled his country. And how many countless others are affected by this loss through exile of one sort or another? I think also of my partner, who left her own country because the prospects for hardworking, honest young people were so dire; for her, regardless of how much she was ready to leave, there is still a kind of exile.

Jenna Morrison

Sometime circa 2007, I was at an intimate fundraiser for an artist at the Pure Intent yoga studio in Kensington Market, Toronto. My partner at the time, Michelle, was volunteering at the studio, building her knowledge of the yoga world before becoming a teacher, and also building her community, which is sometimes difficult in Toronto. I was a little out of my element at the fundraiser - at the time I was teaching full time while trying to finished a never-ending PhD, desperately in need of yoga, but too stressed out to actually do it. The whole atmosphere seemed foreign - everyone calming walking around in loose fitting pants and tank-tops, gazing at the heartfelt but not-so-pro art on the walls. 

Given my slight discomfort, it's no wonder that I gravitated to the beautiful woman with the bright-eyed, blond baby in her arms. I'm always drawn to the babes-in-arms, but this little guy was particularly irresistible, with his big smiles and perfectly cherubic face. I learned that his name was Lucas, and his mom, Jenna Morrison, was the co-owner of the studio. It was a fairly young venture, and they were building their place in the Market. Lucas was a relatively new addition to her life - I'm guessing somewhere around 8-months old, based on what he was eating. And it's what he was eating - or rather how he was eating it, that has stuck with me. Jenna was holding an apple, peel removed from a large section, and Lucas was gnawing away at it with his gummy little mouth. Lucas had, I am guessing, two front teeth, but he was enthusiastically scraping off bits of the apple, chewing, and bobbing his head back for more. I was fascinated by this, and a discussion of the pros and cons of feeding an 8-month old this way made up the five minutes of conversation I had with Jenna.

Today, I woke up and read in the Toronto papers that Jenna Morrison was killed Monday morning while cycling to pick up Lucas, now 5 years old, from school. She was wearing her helmet, and carrying his tiny Spiderman version on her handlebars. As she turned the corner, a truck moving in the same direction swept her under its wheels, and crushed her.

I only encountered Jenna Morrison once, for five minutes, and marveled at how progressive -- yet simple and  natural -- it was to feed a baby from an actual apple, instead of mushing it up in a blender, or spooning it out of a jar. I've never forgotten that moment, and I think I've shared the story a dozen times, because I was so struck by how relaxed and confident she was with Lucas. I filed away the whole encounter in my mind, under "things to do if I ever become a Mom." And as if the loss of this vibrant woman isn't terrible enough, the reports revealed that she was pregnant when she died - due to give birth in the Spring to another baby. 

I didn't know Jenna, but I wanted to write about how such a short, fleeting moment can make such a powerful imprint; how she made a lasting imprint on me. My heart goes out to her family and friends.

If you want to send your condolences or read more about Jenna, her family have set up a memorial page on Facebook.

What I learned about life from cleaning out the compost bin

Life is beautiful, and the line between life and death is barely identifiable.

Life perseveres: even in the darkest, densest parts, new life appears in sprouts.

Only a spade can be called a spade. A half-moon edge-trimmer, for example, is no real substitute for a spade.

When home composting, one doesn’t have to be super vigilant about alternating carbons and nitrogens – nature has a way of making a variety of mixes work.

This being said, nature favours a bit of variety and miscegenation: sameness clumps together in a sticky and smelly kind of way.

There really is no excuse for using plastic to make those little fruit identification stickers. And if you think they are so small that no one will notice that you put them in the compost, think again: they are like little bright sirens of fakeness, demanding to be removed and properly disposed of. Same goes for twist-ties.

Plastic really is humankind’s worst invention. But it works well for containing compost...

The impulse in nature to protect the possibility of new life is strong: the shells of eggs, and the stones of fruits take the longest to let go.

Living things that appear strong, in the end, are deeply fragile. No evidence of all those thick broccoli stems I thought would never decompose.

I thought I was powerful and noble for growing my own vegetables; making my own soil is even better.

Brown is the truest organic colour. The ‘Green Movement’ should be the ‘Brown Movement’.

Sometimes, life is the pits. And if you’re an avocado pit, I recommend going to rest at a commercial compost site, instead of a domestic one. Or maybe you should have just stayed in the tropics.

The closer a dead thing is to life, the harder it is to witness. The stuff near the top of the bin was hard to deal with; the older stuff, at the bottom, for which life had passed longer ago, was at peace. It smelled beautiful and healthy, and it was rich and black.

Some things just need more time: put them back into the compost bin, toss it around, and give it up to the Goddess of All Things Pass for further contemplation.

Sometimes, plumbing the depths is necessary, and in the end, not as scary as you might think.

In the end, we are all one.

Welcome to my new blog

Welcome to my new blog! I've called it yogablab, because my original inspiration was to write about all things yoga - about asanas, and breathing, and laughing a bit more at life. But really, I want to write about all things that strike my fancy, and that usually means writing about the connections between things. Yoga comes from the Sanskrit for "union", or "to join", so it's perfect.