The Awakening Series

I didn't sleep that night, not because the kids woke or the husband snored. I didn't sleep because I worried the kids might wake or the husband might snore and I needed to be up by five o’clock and out of the house by six.

I swung my legs over the edge of my warm bed and pushed off the duvet. My spine cried out. I eased from the bed in an attempt to mitigate both the pain radiating across my back and the squeaking of the mattress frame.

The alarm clock threatened only minutes until five. Nervousness combined with anticipation of the day's events prevented me from crawling back under the covers and passing out. I kept it together long enough to slip quietly around the foot of the bed and alongside my sleeping husband to disarm the alarm clock. I couldn’t risk disturbing slumbering bodies that might result in a cranky day for them and interfere with my quick escape from the house.

My eyes stung. I shuffled down the stairs and into the bathroom where my clothes and makeup waited, carefully laid out the night before. Leaning on the cool porcelain of the pedestal sink, I brushed my teeth and applied the standard blush, liner, shadow and gloss. I pulled my dark hair into a stylish ponytail, bangs swept across my brow.

I stared into the mirror. It didn’t reflect my depleted mood and body. I felt frail but with my mask in place, appeared beautiful and strong. I tried to hurry, but my body had one gear: tired. I had packed most items the previous night: yoga mat, books, notepad, pen, a second pair of pants, extra socks, hiking boots and a picture of my family for the altar, as per the group email instructions.

I popped two slices of bread in the toaster while I laid out a few last minute items. I slapped peanut butter and jam on the toast, placed one piece atop the other, sandwich style, wrapped it up in paper towel and set it on the back step while I loaded my gear into the trunk of the car. I drove west through the dark, down the highway, eating my breakfast.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the small hamlet and parked my car in the empty lot of the main shopping plaza. I stepped out of my vehicle and stretched my arms over head to wake my body. Blood rushed my spine in comfort. I took a deep breath of country air, relieved to be out of the city and in the quiet hours of the hamlet.

Two vehicles crept onto the lot and parked a couple aisles away, no movement from the occupants. The air stood still, heavy with darkness. I waited for someone to step out and join me. I took a deep breath and decided to layer up while I had the time.

I balanced on one foot, leaning against the car to mitigate the pain while I removed each rubber boot, pulled on my second pair of pants and stepped into my hiking shoes. Still no movement from the other cars. What next? I wanted a familiar face or at least better instructions.

I pulled on my jacket and gloves as a large, dark truck cozied up alongside me. A door opened and a couple women in the backseat leaned over and invited me to join them. It was like a strange scene from a spy novel.

I complied with the orders I’d received in the email. I grabbed my gear, locked my car and jumped into the truck. I introduced myself to the other passengers, unable to make out faces in the dark. The warm cab smelled of new vehicle and men's cologne — an inviting combination of wood and spice. The soft orange glow of the dash lights, and the scent and warmth in the truck's cabin, provided strange reassurance as my thoughts pointed out that I was in the backseat of an unfamiliar truck driven by a man I didn't know, in the dark early morning hours, heading to who knows where.

I didn't feel scared. My body felt cozy and comfortable, only my mind pointed out the myriad of reasons I should feel scared. I stared out the window into the dark. Where was Anna? She got me into this.

Nearly fifteen years earlier, before husbands and kids, Anna had become a friend when I'd forgotten what it was like to have one. Several years of my life had been marred by destructive relationships and resultant low self-esteem. At twenty-three years old, I had landed a job in an art gallery in the small tourist town of Banff, Alberta. The upscale shop offered original art, sculpture and artisan jewelry. The owner reminded me of Katherine Hepburn in her later years: gracious and graceful, despite her trembling hands. It was a comfortable place for me to land — an inviting environment filled with elegant art and civilized people, the most civilized of whom was my dear friend, Anna.

We opened shop each morning, selecting from the stunning array of bijoux and bobbles to accessorize our well-assembled ensembles. We chose the day's music: What a difference a day makes... Dinah Washington’s sultry voice crooned through the gallery as we sipped apple-spiced tea and gazed upon the Rocky Mountains through the large gallery windows, awaiting the arrival of the diverse, well-heeled tourist clientele.

I loved the atmosphere of the shop, the slower pace, the pleasantries and the company of the ladies who worked there. I particularly enjoyed the artist receptions where Anna and I dressed up, put on the dog as well as our jewels. We’d make silly faces at each other, sticking out our tongues when neither clients nor bosses were looking. We behaved like two young girls in church expected to act like ladies yet taking great delight in covert rebellion.

“You know he was on acid when he painted that,” Anna whispered.

“What?” I burst, caught off guard by her comment.

She chuckled. “He just told me that himself.”

“Well,” I cocked my head sideways to consider the large painting. “I guess you’d have to be to work with those colours.”

I needed to feel like a child again, innocent and playful. I'd given up much of it while I'd given up my self-worth in the preceding years that led me to Banff and to Anna: years of leaving home for school, life as a starving student, post-secondary burnout and diving into a destructive relationship in search of reprieve. Looking back, those impressionable young adult years were fleeting and foreign, yet felt definitive at the time. We are not condemned to be who we once were: poor judges of men, starving students and college drop-outs.

Our paths took us in different directions over the years; mine led back to the city and Anna's to the small hamlet. After nearly fifteen years of roving friendship, we always reunited in delight of one another's company while we caught up on adventures and plans. Sister cats, we called ourselves, the name borrowed from a humorous birthday card Anna gave me one year.

When Anna emailed me about the year in yoga with a group of strangers in her hamlet of Bragg Creek, I had been apprehensive about joining, but her participation reassured me that I had not embarked on the journey alone. Nothing to worry about; sister cat would be right there with me … but where was she?

I looked for her as the truck slowed and pulled off the road, then parked behind several other vehicles. As I stepped out of the cocoon of the truck’s cabin and back into the cold darkness, I made out the images of others gathered at an opening in the trees near the road. I approached the group and recognized the voice of my dear friend visiting with others at the trailhead. Anna and I hugged briefly before a woman began to address the group. She spoke in a gentle voice, yet a tone that attempted to gain control over the small cluster of people that chatted like chickadees on a cold morning.

“Please walk in silence from here on,” the woman said.

It was difficult to determine how many of us assembled in the dark and unfamiliar territory. We began our hike to the first clearing on the hillside. The air hung still and the snow crunched loudly under our feet in the early morning hours. The endless dark sky gave a sense that I was wandering into vast new territory.

We approached the clearing. The woman introduced Stephen, a Qigong Master, though it occurred to me she’d never formally introduced herself. Stephen gathered us in a circle.

“Place your feet in a wide stance and gently bend your knees. Relax your upper body.”

It was a March Alberta morning. Chilly. I tried to focus on the exercises and not my cold hands. What happened to yoga?

I followed the breathing and visualizations, drawing energy from the earth up the inside of my legs and back down, my eyes fixed shut. Unsure I felt any energy other than trembling from the cold, I followed Stephen’s guidance, imagining energy moving up, feet apart, knees slightly bent to accommodate the culmination of the energy in an invisible seat nestled just under my pelvis. I couldn't feel the seat or the culmination of energy but I held the idea in my head, wondering if the others enjoyed perching on an invisible stool of qi.

As we finished, I opened my eyes, surprised to see my surroundings glowing in the early light of morning. The snow-covered foothills shone a luminescent blue as night yielded to day. We lingered in silence until the familiar voice of Alora broke through. She was to be our guide for our early morning hike and yoga for the forthcoming year.

“Come closer,” Alora instructed the group.

I turned to see her in the dim light for the first time. A petite blonde with tiny features and long, straight hair stood in the snow, under layers of winter wear. Removing her mittens, she pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. Hands shaking, she read aloud a First Nation’s prophecy. A poem of sorts. Instructions for living. A survival guide, perhaps.

“You have been telling people that this is the Eleventh Hour, now you must go back and tell the people that this is the Hour. And there are things to be considered…

Where are you living?

What are you doing?

What are your relationships?

Are you in right relation?

Where is your water?

Know your garden.

It is time to speak your truth.

Create your community.

Be good to each other.

And do not look outside yourself for your leader…”

The prophecy felt important, not necessarily to our first gathering, but encompassing the nature of the year's journey ahead. A couple lines sounded foreboding, something about clinging to the shore and suffering. Although I didn't understand it all, the poem resonated with me.

After the invocation, we continued our hike up the trail in silent walking meditation, crunching snow under our feet, the only sound. Dawn’s light revealed our path through the gently treed winter landscape. I watched the boots of the person in front of me.

A distance naturally formed between the group members as each made their way in their own cadence up the hill. I wandered along, led by my thoughts. The sky appeared between the leafless trees. Previously trodden snow formed a packed and often slippery layer under the fresh white powder. I tried to keep my footing steady, in line with the existing tread marks of hikers before us. I tried to meditate, and although meditation itself was not new to me, moving meditation proved foreign. I simply enjoyed the walk, the view, the sounds, the fresh air and the opportunity to create warmth through movement. Maybe that was moving meditation.

The view from the top justified each and every teeth-chattering step. The west and south revealed the silhouette of the Canadian Rocky Mountains in the near distance. Silent giants, still asleep in the early morning light. Communities of near-leafless birch trees on the top of Two Pine Hill camouflaged the east and north like sentinels. A gently sloping crest, maybe fifteen feet wide, offered our group a place to gather and rest. We all gravitated toward the west, claimed spots to sit and continue our silent contemplation. Happy I wore my snow pants, I gently lowered myself to the ground, crossed my legs and arms for extra warmth, and tucked my gloved hands into my armpits.

“Contemplate what you want as your focus.” Alora’s voice sailed over the hill top. “Something to draw into your life or let go of … to hold in your consciousness for our inquiries together over our year in yoga.”

Family.

Where did that come from? It felt like someone else spoke inside my head. My motivation to join the year in yoga stemmed from my back injury. Healing the injury seemed the most logical intention for my year, or at least my own self care, yet the first word to surface was family. I didn’t even know where it came from. It tethered itself in my mind. I had come for my spine.

Family.

Why Family? It must be important because it was all I could hear. I began to excavate its origin. What was this tug-of-war between me and family?

My kids had changed my life dramatically. Most days, I felt as though I was stumbling through fog. Balance ceased to exist. I had imagined a gentle transition from proud, beaming pregnant lady to peaceful, wise and nurtured new mother. Instead, the earthquake of motherhood left me feeling sleep-deprived, defensive, unsupported, unsure, overly protective and fumbling around in unfamiliar territory while trying to project the persona of a perfect parent. Raising kids, thriving in a marriage, personally fulfilled and finding happiness in it all, seemed elusive, if not impossible — fleeting and surreal at best.

Utter exhaustion overshadowed happiness. Both kids suffered discomfort and sleep issues due to food intolerances. I received little help in identifying and rectifying their issues. In fact, I often battled against the common opinion of doctors and specialists, fighting a righteous uphill battle to find the root of my children's pain. One thing propelled me: the burning inner knowing that there indeed was a root and that once I found it, I could rip it from the ground and we could all rest easier.

With Michael five-years-old and Khali nearly two, I had found the answers I sought but had no ability to maintain my well-being while working to restore theirs, no idea of my sacrifice. Or, perhaps, as a mother, I believed that's what moms did, sacrifice. With the root of the issue known, dietary adjustments made and both kids sleeping well, my adrenaline subsided, as did the crusade that had compelled me, and I realized how depleted I'd become.

My relationship with Steve was also not as I imagined. We struggled to find energy to simply manage the kids and work. A game of who put in the most hours played out in our marriage. Bitter tones and annoyed glances replaced lively conversation as our form of communication. The most daunting aspect was that I couldn't tell where I fit into the picture: what I wanted out of life: what inspired me: what brought me joy. No longer an active participant, I went through the motions of my life mostly tired, resentful and passionless.

“Write down your focus.” Alora’s whisper halted my train of thought. She handed me a slip of paper and a pencil. I quietly thanked her, removed my gloves and jotted down FAMILY, solidifying my focus before I changed my mind. I watched as she approached each member of our group, reverently, trying not to disturb their reflective states. I returned my gaze to the mountains. Cradling the Rockies’ chiseled chin in its hand, the rising sun slowly turned the mountain’s face to meet mine.

After what seemed like hours that morning, and years of my life before, stumbling around in the dark, the emerging light of the sun brought clarity to the previously colourless forms around me. The shades of blue morphed into yellows like a time-lapsed video of a sunflower blossoming. The bright, open sky starkly contrasted the enshrouding darkness; a sobering sight.

The warmth of the sun's rays reached me. I turned my face away from the mountain range and toward the glow. The texture of the partly peeled and weathered white bark on the birch trees caught my eye. A few lifeless yet tenacious leaves grasped their branches, having refused to drop with the others in the fall; instead they had survived the long winter months to cheer the sun's return. How did some hold fast while others surrendered to the changing weather?

I turned back to stare at the sunlit giants, the mountains' features fully accentuated by the light. Snow cradled heavy in their valley. Sharp peaks exposed blue-grey rock dotted with white where the snow found ledges to rest. I deeply inhaled the cold, fresh air.

“Could you all gather in a circle, please?” Alora's voice once again broke the silence and pulled me from my sensory trance. I took my time getting back on my feet. We gathered around, able to see each other and introduce ourselves for the first time. A celebratory feeling emerged among group members. People smiled, said hello, shared a laugh or excited raised eyebrows. The morning's experience strangely unified us, even in silence. Perhaps because of it.