Sharing CAWST

Dearest family and friends,

With the year almost over I wanted to thank you for your support and for following my work and travels on this blog, keeping in touch with me and welcoming me home when I have been so absent. It has meant so much to me to know I have the support of such a fantastic group of people. I am truly blessed.



As you know I work for a formidable little organization called CAWST - the Centre for Affordable Water and Sanitation Technology. The small staff of 23 - see photo above (and over 150 volunteers) that so far have helped 3.6 million of the most vulnerable people get access to better water and sanitation.



With CAWST I have personally and professionally garnered a wealth of experience, opportunity, growth, and innovation that I didn't think was possible. And even after the adventures that I have been priviledged to live, prior to joining CAWST, I see the world in a completely different light as my experiences are now directly working with local champions in places like Haiti, Zambia and Uganda.



Along side my time in the field is the experience of being surrounded by an incredible force of talent. There have been countless occasions where I have been at the office or working in the field and been awestruck by the passionate, determined, innovative, adaptable, overachieving, excessively intelligent people I work with. It is all at once stimulating, encouraging and intimidating.

Since CAWST is a non-profit organization, often I am asked where we get our funding from. It is through a combination of generous donations (personal and corporate), government grants, project consulting, and training courses.



Interestingly we are the only organization world wide that does what we do - provide technical and educational training and consulting and act as a centre of expertise in water and sanitation for the poor in developing countries. This being so, at times it is difficult to sell ourselves when historically many donors look for indicators such as number of wells drilled or hand pumps installed.



Greta Raymond, CAWST's Board of Directors Chair wrote in our 2010 annual report:

"CAWST has reaffirmed its key strategies and focused its limited human and financial resources on those strategies which we believe will have the biggest impact. As always our Board is committed to prudent financial management. While we have many generous donors, funding is always a challenge when there is so much work to do. We actively balance our commitments, activities and resultant expenditures with the level of funding available."

So, with the holidays approaching I wanted to offer you (and all who you know) the option of CAWST as a worthy recipient of your hard earned dollars, to help us continue to serve the poor in meeting their basic water and sanitation needs.

If you choose to do so, go to the DONATE tab at http://www.cawst.org/ to determine a method to suits your needs.

Wishing you a safe, healthy, happy and soulful holiday season.



All my love and thanks,

Heidi

Local Reality Challenges Local Perception

Doing something for the first time creates an interesting mix of challenge, creativity and chance.

Add to that mix, an overachieving, highly motivated academic from Boston, a world crusted technical expert with international celebrity status and an educator riding the wave of inexperience with unbridled determination. Then, put 23 people representing 18 different organizations in the room with these three. The result: jaws dropping, questioning arms thrusting and a momentum for change.

The topic has the capacity to create hope, preserve dignity and save lives and seems insanely common sense, but there was not one organization in that room that was directly addressing this issue in their existing programs.

The topic: Safe Water for People Living with HIV/AIDS.

In preparation for the session, we decided to visit a few peri-urban communities on the edge of Lusaka, the capital city of Zambia.

What we found in Mazyopa and Chigala was what we expected, which is why we went there to collect the evidence.

According to the World Health Organization, one way to categorize safe water is by the level of fecal contamination (CFU/100mL) or how much bacteria from poo is in 100mL.

Water that has a level of 0-10 is reasonable quality and may be consumed as is;

10-100 polluted - treat if possible;

100-1000 dangerous - must be treated;

over 1000 very dangerous - reject or must be treated.

Our findings (which as I said we were expecting, but wanted to collect for message impact):

Hand dug well at the school: 1500

Hand dug well 200m down from the school: 4000

Stream (picture below): Too Numerous To Count

From the Biosand Filter: zero

The source of the water that was put through the Biosand filter was from the hand dug well that had the 4000 count.

So, let me repeat, from the Biosand Filter: zero

Put that data together with the countless kids (and adults) that are drinking, bathing, living with this water. These kids, that for the most part, are orphans or from single parent families because of HIV/AIDS.

When this evidence was presented to the 23 individuals in the room along with the research that overwhelmingly concludes that people living with HIV/AIDS die most often from diarrheal diseases, which are most often caused by contaminated water, people sat up a lot straighter.

Although it seemed impossible for them to be more blown away, when the next key point was made that if people are suffering from diarrhea their ability to absorb the expensive Anti-retro viral drugs is significantly decreased, they almost slouched in their seats from the immensity of these evidence based proclamations.

After the initial defensive remarks that filled the room this comment spoke volumes:

"In our programs supporting people living with HIV/AIDS we focus on providing drugs and food, but never even consider the impact of water."

For the first time, representatives from both the water sector and the HIV/AIDS sector put their heads together about what they were going to do about this. And the three of us, after taking a chance watched them collectively and creatively put their heads together to begin to address this challenge.

And I fiercely hope that they follow through so that little ones like this precious giggling little girl from Mazyopa will have a chance at life.

Ernest, Darth, Superman and now you

It IS amazing what you can capture in six words.

"Big hairy chest - lots of kids."

Father, Wind Surfer, All things outdoors in his Cowichan Dinner jacket. Teacher. Maple Bay, BC. My dear friend, who does have a hairy chest and his third son was just born.

"Live life to the max, enjoy!"

Skier, Traveller, Head of Communications agency in the Netherlands

"Insanely spontaneous. Never without a smile."

SnowBoarder, Fisherman, Helicopter engineer from Kelowna, BC

"Had a baby. Wish you could come see him :)"
World traveller. On line shopping fiend. Teaching partner in China. Teacher of all things difficult: Chemistry, Biology, Math...all grade 12...all at once. And yes, now a mom. Must be the hormones messing with the adding skills :). Surrey, BC

"Rise and shine. Explore. Then Breathe."

Climber, runner, hiker. Lover of books and sewing cool chalk bags. Mother of one very new little guy. Soaking up the days in Victoria, BC.

"Up and down. Round and round."

Rescue, skiing and live wire heli pilot out of Canmore, AB

Yep that makes sense.

"Passionate humanitarian. Travels world, intending change."

Super smart, super steady, super girl. Colleague, friend. Far from home, but settling in to Calgary.

"Grass always greener. Need magnetic shoes."

Vagabond heart and soul, mom of two, etching life in Geneva.

Curious about the shoes...

"It's one day at a time."

Volleyball addict, movie lover, problem solving genius in Calgary.

I take many lessons on life from this guy. Lucky for me he is my brother....so it's free.

"Trust always. Love forever. Move forward."

Loves all things communication and being surrounded by those she loves. Settling in in Montreal.

All three I struggle with at different times and for different reasons. Good one to keep to remind me.

"In motion perpetually. Making a difference."

Skier, passionate mover and shaker, geared in overdrive, captain of four companies manned by a diverse and colorful group of people. Sails his ship from Boulder, CO.

And this is truly a just picture of this man.

"Trying simplicity. Failing. Making moves joyfully."

Dare devil. Jokester. Risk taker. Adventurist.

Bike selling non-cyclist, pig cultivator. Zambia.

"Read, eat, sleep, travel dot dot dot "

Gentle, strong. Creative, herself. A young woman grown up so fast. Ottawa.

This one definitely speaks to me...the last part I am told was inspired by Mama Mia. Although one word extra, I think it is too perfect to take one dot away.

"Ever restless. Ever in awe. Ever..."

Speaks to my soul this one.

Lover of all things delicious, BBQed or liquid and red and has great legs. Passionate about retirement.

I see myself in him.

Thankfully he is my dad so I can accept myself for it. :)

And this is the last that came in and really I couldn't choose just one of them so I included the whole thing:

This is too hard! First thing that comes to mind

"Happiest when running with her dog".

How about

"Exploring, running, tea drinking, animal lover"?

Ha! or how about

"Too indecisive for this difficult task!" :)

Runner (yeah she mentioned that). But really a real runner. Marathons, over and over again and fast (3:12 was her last one). Her training grounds - Victoria, BC.

The list goes on.

Thanks for sharing.

Connect Africa - Uganda

http://www.armadillothor.com/armadillothor.com/Blog/Entries/2010/8/15_Connect_Africa_pt.1.html

Above is a link to a site that has an amazing picture introduction to where I am and what the organisation Connect Africa does here in Uganda.

Quotes I love so far:
"But what sauce will you have with your fish and rice? You need lubricant for your food."


"Men have super powers." (That is why men are not to be cooking food or looking after children. That is a woman's job.)

....I will expand on that story next :)

Love and hugs.
Heidi

Dirty Water Vending Machine - New York

4,200 children die of water-related diseases everyday.

UNICEF attempts to change that by shocking the public to create awareness with their Dirty Watercampaign.

There are 8 “flavors” of water that represent common diseases that affect the global poor: malaria, cholera, typhoid, dengue, hepatitis, dysentery, salmonella, and yellow fever.

Thirsty people can choose their favorite infected water to support the charity – each dollar goes to UNICEF’s efforts to provide clean water to those that need it.

A purchase of one bottle provides 40 days worth of potable water for a child.

Watch the video at:

http://www.psfk.com/2010/07/unicef-installs-dirty-water-vending-machine-in-manhattan.html

Simply Life

“Blanco. Blanco.” I hear far below the street that hugs the cliffs.

“Bon soir. Comment y est?” I say to the women that have called out.

And with voices of laughter the reply reaches me. “Pas plus mal. Et vous?”

A little beyond, a face stares darkly at me. “Bon soir” I say. And what unfolds is a brilliant sparkling smile, lighted eyes and “Ah, bon soir cherie (with alacrity). Ca va?”

Cap Haitien is on the North coast of Haiti. To the west, the city is tucked into a mountain side. To the east a river delta levels the wide valley and another range of mountains rests in the distance. We were staying at a guesthouse, run by nuns, that was perched on a steep bank right over the ocean.

Growing up in land locked Calgary, I now never tire of looking out over the ocean. Or of watching the wooden fishing boats (that reminded the romantic in me of 18^th century pirate boats) row out in the wee morning hours and sail back in on the evening breeze.

It is early, 5 am, and the road below is full of younger and older out running before the heat of the day. There is a group just outside the gate of The Sisters grunting through their routine of push ups and sit ups on the cobbled driveway. The dogs that have been up all night are finally quiet, just in time for the cocks to start crowing.

The garbage, the pollution, the rotting garbage filling the waterways that lead directly into the ocean could fill my attention, but that is where too much Blanco focus already lies. My gaze glazes over those scenes and refocuses on the little treasures of assurance that life’s simple pleasures are abundant even with the challenges that face this nation.

Instead it is the flowers that catch my eye as their radiance stands out against the dusty roads.

The chicks that tweek, tweek around the feet of their mother hen, the young goats at play make me stop in my tracks.

Joie de vivre emanates from them. They are fiercely independent and are emotionally engaging. They love sport, laughing, teasing and telling joke after joke.

Their genuine nature is refreshing.

It's the essence of the place that infuses itself in me. The simplicity contrasting the chaos. The beauty contrasting the filth. Their open welcome that contrasts the fight in them.

Life is more apparent with the contrasts. It is raw, simple and right in your face.

It is simply life.

Kassav and Momba

Kassav is a labour intensive, delicious, crusty, mandible exhaustive flat bread made of cassava root.

Cassava is a woody shrub vegetable originating in South America and now found world wide. It looks like a sweet potato but very hard and fibrous. They first hand peel the root, mash it through a stone grinder and then put it into bags. The bags of the ground root are pressed (see below) to remove all the water.

Cassava flour is sieved to capture the finer pieces of flour (see below).

Huge round platforms are heated with burning coal where the cassava flour is grilled like a gigantic pancake.

Freshly shucked and hand grated coconut is spread on top of the grilled cassava and a sprinkling of raw sugar. Another layer of the flour is laid on top so as to appear like a coconut sandwich.

When heated it has a soft, chewy consistency so they can use flattened sticks to make the divots in them.

With 6 fires and kassav rounds being fired at once all day long the crew were working hard.

Once grilled to a crispy perfection the pancake is left to cool and then it is broken into squares made easy by the divots.

So that is kassav.

Now momba is another local delicacy.

You might recognize it by the name we give it - peanut butter.

BUT, not just any kind of PB.

Spicy PB.

At first disconcerting but very addictive.

Yep.

Two meals a day.

Three weeks straight.

Heavenly Goat

Heaven is a lot of different things for different people. And right now I am in heaven. The crunch of green leaves, with chlorophyll, antioxidants and vitamins bursting in my mouth. I feel like a goat. A heavenly goat.

When I am a visitor to a country I try to eat as close to local custom as possible, it is easiest and a part of learning about the country and the people. But with an addiction to vegetables and an allergy to wheat meal time in Haiti gets a little complicated.

Breakfast always included Kaiser size, Safeway bagel dense white flour buns. Included in the fare served would be alternately stew with meat and home made pasta balls, spaghetti in tomato sauce, deep fried egg omelette, boiled plantain bananas with a meat soup to pour over them, corn maize porridge with meat or sardine soup, and some fruit (usually a banana each or on rare occasion sliced pineapple).

The main meal in Haiti is lunch. Every day I would look at the table of food prepared for us in wonderment at how many forms of starch can be prepared for one meal; boiled plantain bananas, lam (a white starch that grows on trees), sweet potato and rice.

This assortment of starches were served with some kind of meat stew or broth to douse them in, as well maybe sliced tomato, boiled carrots, avocado and iceberg lettuce.There was always a huge mountain of rice at lunch. Plain white rice or rice cooked with some form of bean (black, kidney, navy…).

Ritualistically they eat the other starches with the meat sauce and vegetables first. Then their ‘bisse’ or round two was a mountain of rice as large as could be contained on their plates.

(This would explain why every day after lunch I had scheduled in a siesta before continuing to work.)

Evenings we would find a platter of buns with processed cheese triangles or butter (that they would slather on to the same thickness of cheese) and a drink, either hot chocolate, tea or Tampico (fake fruit juice). Sometimes it would vary and there would be pasta again or potatoes.

This time, I will concede that I ate a form of green vegetable five times on this trip (boiled spinach twice and green beans twice and one day we even had a few leaves of fresh ‘herb’). Iceberg lettuce (with a faint taste of chlorine) was served a few times, but my proficient addiction to vegetables cannot consider iceberg lettuce green – it is merely cellulose encapsulating water. So if we calculate that in 21 days, that’s 63 meals. (That’s 7.9% of my meals that included something green.)

With such a lack of vegetables and a culture with a penchant for all things wheat, I became known for my capacity to eat kassav, momba and bananas in unparalleled proportions; at least two times a day and sometimes as a snack in between. There really wasn’t anything else.

As I tuck into my first salad in three weeks, I can feel the nutrients barreling through my veins. And yet, as I sit here I can’t deny that regardless of how good the greens are, the people and the laughter that I shared for every one of those 63 meals more than made up for it.

Pictures of Sacrificial Bathing

Sensuality and Sacrificial Bathing

Maybe it’s the extreme contradictions that make me ask questions and search for understanding that I am addicted to in this world. I have navigated from the sexiest dance I have experienced to the most disgusting thing I have yet to see, in the space of 24 hours.

The music was reminiscent of Havana nights with a latino flair; playing the beat of a drum so strong that it felt like my heart had a different drummer. The Compas (silent s) is a style of music and, at the same time, a style of dance. Instruments and people abound on stage: guitars, trumpets, electric piano, drums, and singers to create an atmosphere electric energy, Cuban cigar smoke and sweat.

With music that is alive and so loud there is no chance of conversation, you can just lose yourself in the music and the dance.

When I first saw this dance I was mesmerized with the contrasting movements of “chaud” (fast paced and energetic) to sensuality so poignant it can take your breath away. The dance floor is a mass of bodies, paired men and women in a trance of each other. What struck me was that it is the rhythm of the lead (the man usually) that chooses the rhythm of the dance, not necessarily the music.

The dance itself is simple, a one-two shifting and gliding of weight from one foot to the other while twirling one way and then the other and within that flow throw in a few slow jive type moves. Then, within moments (in the same song), you can slow down to the point of almost imperceptible movement of shifting feet and rolling hips, either touching or barely. This shifting of tempo repeats itself at the will of the man leading the dance.

Now add to the fact that the ambient air temperature standing on your own was probably 33 degrees with humidity so feels like 45. Then add a dance floor with at least 200 bodies in exercise. Sweat, lots of it.

After each song the dance floor would clear. The band would take a few moments and start up again. Couples would arrive back on the floor en mass to do it again. Not being able to understand what the songs were saying, I was under the influence of just the music in and of itself and either up with the masses or content to just sit or to be an observer.

From sensual to dégueulasse (discusting).

Plein du Nord is a festival that happens every year, same dates, same place. As with most things here I am unsure of what to expect. A 30 minute drive outside of Cap Haitien, where the air is clear, and mountains bordering the plains of the low land rice and sugar cane fields. Tiny houses line the road with their mud walls and rusty tin roofs. In a haze of dust from the road there is almost a rush of anticipation to get there. Motorbikes carrying three to five people, lorries packed with people. Getting out of the car we were assaulted with the sound of thousands of people, music, and car horns as people continued to arrive en mass. I was expecting more of a fair ground, but it was like a massive market place. Small muddy alley ways of makeshift stalls selling everything from candy, to meat to bibles and rosaries.

When I asked the day before what the festival was about I was explained that there were bands, food and beigner dans le bu (bathing in mud). I am thinking: mud wrestling or like spa style mud bathing? Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

First off after elbowing my way into the edge of the pool of mud, I first noticed the mud was more a pool of muddy water. The edge of the pool was a mass of observers, colorfully dressed festival participants, or just observers. They were mostly young men in the muddy water, covered head to toe in a thin layer of it. The muddy water smelled putrid. One man swam past head full face in the water, mouth open. Another man then walked slowly through the muddy water with what looked like the full leg of a sheep or goat. That’s when I really started to wonder what this was all about.

We moved further down the length of the pool. Once I made my elbowing way up to the edge of the pool again I looked down to find myself staring into the eyes of a goat. Or I should say the head of a goat nestled in the bloated putrid entrails of what I found out to be a bull; both the sorry victims of sacrifice.

There wasn’t just one of these displays, there were at least 5 such masses of bloated entrails with goat heads and other organs. On the side there were the entrails of yet another bull being eviscerated and cut open to expose all the partially digested food exposed and then it all shoved into the water; the same water that these men (and one old gyrating woman) were bathing in. Not quite what the spa scene I had in mind.

Why? What the hell for? For those in the pool it is their belief to do so to purify their souls and a lucrative way to make money, for some of the people surrounding the pool offered money to these men for their own luck; an alms of sorts.

Some of these people seemed quite sane, while others did have the looked of the possessed. You would have to be – possessed I mean.

Even once I had walked away, I was unsettled. I couldn’t shake the scene, the smell and the atmosphere. And as Marthe put it “Ce n’est pas quelque chose que tu peut décrire a quelqu’un, tu doit avoir l’expérience complète.” It’s not something you can really describe; you just have to experience it.

As I continue to gain exposure to this incredible culture I feel like a turned table; exposed, unsettled and yet curious and, strangely, very comfortable.

Awareness in to Action

This is Erick’s fifth Saturday meeting and he has them right where he wants them; on the edge of their seats, full of information and ready for the next step. With little encouragement they spoke confidently about how water is contaminated, how to treat water, and why hygiene is important. As they were obviously brimming with this new knowledge, we were curious and determined to better understand why 12-14 year olds were sitting at their school desks at 8 am on a Saturday morning.

A young boy, Zoyon, confidently shares the motivations of his group,
“So we can share what we have learned and to protect our families from sickness.”

After meeting two separate JEPA groups (Jeunesse pour la promotion de l’Eau Potable et l’Assainissement or Youth for the promotion of safe water and sanitation), Olivier and I were charged.

Despite the overwhelming challenges that confront Haitians today, Erick has kept these students engaged. The groups have an obvious potential for greater and broader Action. This WASH awareness project, that focuses on water treatment, hygiene and sanitation, is one initiative of CAWST’s WET Center program in Haiti.

Having a dynamic, engaging, motivated and committed individual like Erick working with the people of the Artibonite valley explains why PAIDEH (CAWST’s WET Center Partner) has been able to reach 7068 adults and children here in the last 1.5 years and consequently stimulated demand from local organizations for training in implementing Household Water Treatment.

Erick has already witnessed the impact of these JEPA groups on the families of the kids involved. “Monsieur Erick, what do I have to do to get a filter, because my son is bothering me?” one parent asks him. And that was the basis for forming JEPA groups, to have an impact in the kids’ schools and hopefully beyond. And that is exactly where Erick’s capacity to empower them comes in. They are now ready to be equipped to take their WASH awareness into Action.

The emphasis and agreement today was that to share a message successfully, one has to represent the message by example.

And they are right where they need to be, ready for Action.

Haiti

Haiti. A place that I can't say I knew much about until a couple months ago.

Once I knew I was going to be there in May working for CAWST delivering training and helping in the development of a water treatment, hygiene and sanitation program for youth, it became clear that I needed to learn more about the country and more importantly the people and their culture.

What is their history? What has shaped them? What kind of perspectives might they have? But really there is only so much reading you can do about a place that cannot in any way bring you to a full reality of the place.

Strangly, as soon as we deplaned, I was reminded of India.

The chaos at the airport was a good start. The earthquake of Jan 12 destroyed the original terminal. In it's place, they converted a still standing small airplane hanger that included immigration, a baggage claim area and even toilets. The recent addition was the baggage carousel that Olivier noticed was an addition since his trip here in March. Although the 30m loop of the carousel was quickly overwhelmed and luggage was piled high off to the side making the search for your bags that much more of an adventure.

Upon leaving the building, the throng of shiny, dark faces were all jostling for a small job of either giving you a ride somewhere or helping with your luggage. Habituated from past travels, I was aware of their anchored persistance; just making eye contact equates tacit agreement to hiring their efforts. As we made our way through the crowd I was convinced I smelled incence. India? my mind asks.

Once we found him, we made our way with Thomas, the director of PAIDEH and our host, to our vehicle and beetle out of Port-au-Prince immediately. Plans have changed. We were supposed to gather up the materials we would need for the trainings we were doing, but didn't know that it was a holiday so all the shops were closed. Not only that, Thomas and his family were still living in a tent in one of the camps (like 3.5 million others) so we didn't have a place to stay. Luckily, the family house survived the erathquake even though many of their neighbours' houses didn't. Still, even though their house survived , they are still afraid to sleep in it.

As we drove out of the city (past numerous spontaneous settlements of internally displaced Haitians) I was again struck by the parallels with India. The garbage, filth, disrepair, masses of motorcycles, horns blaring, hot and humid. The smell coming through the window was the familiar combination of diesel, dust, fried fat, diaper (from open sewage), sweat and sweet fragrance from the tropical foliage, all of which are forced through a furnace vent and up your nose. Not something that can be truly understood by words alone.

The decibel level is just as loud as any overpopulated area. (I remember returning to Shanghai after being in Delhi and was in awe of how clean and quiet the city of 15 million seemed.) Voices, moto engines, horns, diesel trucks, music and in general a chaotic cacaphony that boggles the senses into a heightened state then falling into a state of submission.

To be sure thought this is a classic case of not judging a book by its cover.

It has taken most of this week to really feel the beginnings of a connection to the essence of the people, their spirit, the complicated, dark and twisted path of their past and their tenuous and challenging path into the future.

But what little I do know is those that I have had the pleasure to share time with are quick to smile, to laugh, to joke, to live, to survive, which is not a reflection of the environmental disrepair they are surrounded by.

Joie de vivre

It was Friday night. The sun was sliding towards the horizon, casting its warm glow through the trees lining the narrow streets and gently caressing the age old buildings. Winding stairs reaching to the upper stories of colonial era apartments, to ghosts that must have a few stories to tell.

The atmosphere was electric and energetic, but far from frenetic. "Apportez votre vin" displayed in restaurant windows invited bottles into the hands of restaurant goers clutching them with a sense of glee as they moved towards their destinations.

The restaurants lining the streets could compete with UN representation: Italian, Greek, French, Korean, Japanese, de l'Ile de Reunion, Moroccan, Vietnammese, Afghan. All of them chock full and brimming with musical chatter, clinking glasses and laughter. I felt as if I had been transported to Europe, Paris perhaps. And yet it had only been a four hour flight.

Same country, different world.

Can it really be the first time in 30 years that I have set foot East of Calgary in my own country? Why have I waited so long? (I asked myself that question quite often particularly after noticing very quickly the high concentration of incredibly attractive men :).

From the moment we landed the differences started, not just the atmosphere, the language as well. French first, then English over the announcements. Signage the same. Music to my ears and poetry for my mind. I have always felt lucky (well in my adult life for sure) that my parents put me in French immersion, but it was here that I felt proud that as a Canadian I am able to speak both national languages. I appreciated that here, when I spoke French, they responded in French. Unlike in France where they will jump to English, if they can, at the slightest indication that you are not French; both parties vying for the opportunity to practice our respective second languages.

For three days in Montreal I feel as though I languished and soaked in as much as I could of this city and it's enraptured joie de vivre. And now, time is too short for I am sad to leave. When people all around me are enjoying the outdoors, running, biking, playing, it's hard for me not to just grin in happiness for them and myself as their witness.

I was captivated by the parks that were everywhere and full of small to large groups participating in impromptu baseball games, throwing a football or tossing a frisbee, practicing their balance on slacklines, playing music (a lone violin, a group of guitars or the full on Tam Tam drumming experience) or just enjoying a bottle of wine and a picnic on a blanket. The language, the parks, the streets, the shops, the motorbikes (Ducati heaven), the people watching, the whole package. And now the desire for more. I will be back. That I know.

Joie de vivre is a hot commodity in my bank these days.

Taming Spirits, Wrestling Monkeys

It came back just as it always does, eventually. Dragging itself in the door, eyes barely able to meet mine, matted with dried saliva, leaves and twigs poking out at random. Curling up in a fetal ball at my feet. The difference this time is that I was Home. Home, because finally I could no longer keep going.

I curled my Self around the ball at my feet and held on. You see, the form that I, my Body, wrapped my arms around was my Spirit.

Up until now it has been running wild, doling out its Energy at the slightest request and allowing itSelf to be taken wherever the wind would blow that was new, wherever someone was in need or to wherever It thought a challenge or adventure had presented itself; paying no heed whatsoever to It's own conservation or balance. Until finally, It's well had run dry.

This time I had actually stopped, exhausted, no longer able to chase, with no energy left to even care about catching up.

The days that followed were difficult. I had never been good at taming my Spirit. Every so often, It would start to rally, lift It's head and try to claw out of my grasp like a Stray Alley cat, ready to bolt off at the slightest scent of adventure. I held on with my last reserves of strength. Withdrawal set in and the addiction pains ran deep, but I held on and finally We started to breathe the same rhythm again.

Both of us started building a resistance to the temptation of Scheming, Planning, Committing to everything but today, and anything but exactly what Body and Spirit needed to do, which was rest and be right here, right now. The only problem was there was one last Piece that was missing.

The final and most difficult to lasso (Ok, I'm an Alberta girl, but did you know that the ancient Egyptians used them too??) and wrestle to the ground. At full speed.

The Mind.

No matter how much conscious presence I focused on, how much yoga I did, or how much stimulation I revoked my Mind always found a place to swing off to in a highly developed, efficient and sophisticated manner. All day, and night too.

I would wake up in the morning exhausted, looking haggard, hair askew (and I have enough of it to make quite a display), eyes puffy as though I had been wrestling a Monkey. And that blasted Monkey was still raring to go, teeth bared, hopping up and down, cackling. There wasn't a lasso long enough or strong enough to counter those wrangy arms and legs.

Practicing meditation had no greater result. Sitting in stillness, staying present, breathing and still that relentless Monkey would take me on a journey through my past, my present and then into my future and back again in a matter of seconds. It would get me all tied up and unable to extract or find Myself. Questioning, Toiling, Tumbling.

Where am I going? What am I doing? Why did I do that? Why didn't I say that? What does this all MEAN? I can do this next year. I could do that next month. And then maybe next week I can... Next, next, next.

Finally, an intervention. As a collective, we figured that if We don't sort this out and get on the same page We are going to end up in the deepest, darkest depths of a loony bin --maybe I am there already...feels like it some days.

After long, arduous negotiations (since each party figured they were the most qualified to make the decisions) there is now a Democracy of Three. Three equal votes. Me, Myself and I (one step further than Jim Carrey). Body, Mind and Spirit.

A quote I was introduced to this week says it so well. "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing every day and expecting a different outcome." Thanks Einstein. (Ok, so I am Not a genius.)

I have been on so many paths. They have all overflowed with adventure and challenge at a high pace. I never knew until now that just sitting in the middle of the path, closing my eyes, looking inward and enjoying the simplicity of the act and the moment is as much a challenge as any I have undertaken. And with Monkey wrestling it's an adventure as well.

(Now don't kid yourself (because I don't myself) into thinking that I have given up my passion for new places, adventure and challenge with my eyes wide open. I can tame, lasso and wrestle with the best if them, but I am who I am. I just have a new appreciation for the balance and peace that this new form of adventure has brought and taught me.)