samedi 6 décembre 2014

Why November?

Yesterday, a woman who was writing a cheque said aloud with a satisfied smile: “Ah! December.” I echoed: “Yes, it's a rounded name, isn’t it? Like October…” and we laughed, because as silly and subtle as it was, this idea made perfect sense at that moment.

But we were also thinking (by contrast) of November: the cold, damp, drab-transitioning month that feels so dreary when you live in the Northern Hemisphere, at least around the 45th parallel. (Hello, lucky California/Southern Hemisphere readers :o)


Nine in the morning. No biking for me that day.

Between the generous, golden glory of October, and the fresh, invigorating Winter feel of December, November has few positive aspects to claim, at least from our human point of view.

So: why November?


The great circle of Cottonwoods in the Parc Lafontaine.

This is an actual question that we tend to ask around repeatedly, when sudden frost alternates with bursts of rain, hail, or ice storms – while colds and various bugs are merrily roller-coasting (at our expense) these weather waves.

And yet… And yet.


Coming alive in the descending light.

There is a progressive slowing down in November, a soberness in the natural world that moves me secretly.


Small, whispering flocks of leaves gathering up in the Red Oak crown.



The earth becomes darker and more apparent. Leaves turn to muted shades of amber, and they keep falling to the ground – melting into compost as the days go by – without being replaced.




As our eyes adjust to the new spectrum of browns, we begin to appreciate their subtle variations. Green is not taken for granted anymore; it is a chance guest, like the migrating birds.


They are so silky that you can't help caressing your cheek with them.

Gingko trees are shedding at last their golden fans, sending them a-fluttering to the soft ground.


I could stare at this for hours (were it not so brief) and loose myself in it, gladly.

Sunset is early and cold - but it lights up a revealing théâtre d'ombres right in front of you, a silent play brimming with stories, waiting for you to embark.

Andrew Wyeth states: “I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape – the loneliness of it – the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it – the whole story doesn’t show.”


Watercolour (and quote) from The Helga Pictures: Cape Coat, p. 182.


This perpetual entertainment from mother Nature, that we somehow expect to go on indefinitely, is off for a month (or more). That’s right, folks, we’re taking a vacation.

You can come back next year, or you can wait and see.

For every bird and animal, this shifting of gears has a crucial meaning that they each have to interpret in their own way, if they wish to be alive still when Spring comes.




To me, November is a Yin month. 

My own interpretation is to take things slowly, one at a time, and to sleep long nights

November means: You can let these golden leaves fall down, we are preparing you for new buds, new flowers, new leaves. And new sprigs, because you’ll be slightly bigger. With a slightly different shape (who knows what it will be?)


Can you see, along this majestic branch, the tiny pearls in waiting?


Unfortunately, when you are a parent, or working in a restaurant, or in a store, November is rarely, if ever, a time for winding down – December is already rising in the background like a full moon, looming with contradictory pulls.

But if we can, and whenever we can, ‘taking it slowly in November’ is unexpectedly rewarding. And eye-opening.


Does this look like November? I'm not sure.


Staying warm in colourful layers, sketching dreamily, cooking squash in the oven, being gentle on myself, venturing outside with a thermos of fresh ginger tea in my packsack, and looking around at the bare shapes of my wooden friends (in the company of determined woodpeckers and busy chickadees): this is my favourite November mood.






So when December comes, with snow storms, deep frost, and crafting in sight, I can welcome it all with genuine pleasure.




Happy December, my friends  :o)



What, no sleeping cat? Coming soon in the French version.

mardi 2 décembre 2014

Nuage sonore et méditations musicales

This post in French features a different set of pictures from the English version (The Soundcloud of My Loving Meditations). Enjoy!

Chaque mois (ou presque), je participe à une soirée de « Kirtans et chants sacrés du monde » qui est merveilleusement bénéfique. Vous devriez essayer :o)




Je suis assise sur un coussin, en compagnie d’une trentaine de personnes. Plusieurs musiciens forment un demi-cercle en face de nous; la jeune femme qui mène la plupart des chants joue de l’harmonium indien.

Pendant deux heures qui passent comme un rêve, nous nous immergeons dans les mantras mélodieux des Kirtans et autres mélopées dansantes ou apaisantes, issues de diverses cultures.


Montague Park, Galiano Island

Le couple qui organise ces événements mensuels est très inspirant, et l’atmosphère détendue m’encourage à laisser ma voix se déployer pleinement, ou à chuchoter avec émotion les mots étrangers, en résonance avec les lieux inattendus où le chant m’emmène.

Pour moi, c’est une forme complète de méditation : les battements du cœur et le souffle, l’esprit et le cœur s’harmonisent naturellement.




À mesure que je répète ces phrases musicales, le cours sinueux de ma respiration redevient large et profond… 




Les pensées perdent leur dimension réflexive : elles deviennent un état d’esprit, qui (à son tour) se convertit en harmoniques, apaisé et ré-énergisé par toutes ces voix qui s’unissent.

Des solutions émergent, des doutes me quittent et des révélations ont lieu, mais cela se fait tout seul, de manière aléatoire et diffuse. Même quand je place consciemment ma voix sur la bonne note, je me place en fait, toute entière, dans les vibrations de la chanson. 

Elles me portent, et je les porte en moi.




Je peux bien sûr fredonner ces paroles durant mes activités quotidiennes – je le fais souvent car les mélodies me sont désormais familières – mais ici, dans ce nuage d’énergie sonore et tendre que je participe à créer, la mélopée m’amène à un autre niveau.





C’est un peu une métaphore de la vie elle-même, puisque nous sommes tous donneurs et receveurs de cette douce magie :o)





J’aime beaucoup le fait que le rythme et l’atmosphère changent d’une séquence à l’autre : cela me permet de percevoir, physiquement, l’esprit de chaque mantra.

Des ondes de joie, de gratitude et d’étonnement me parcourent les vertèbres et les muscles. Je les sens frémir jusqu'au bout de mes doigts.





Simultanément, mon champ de conscience s’élargit à la salle entière, au monde dans son ensemble.

Il englobe le passé, le présent. Et ceux que j'aime. 



Coucou ! Vous me manquez.


Souvent, je pense inopinément à des personnes qui sont importantes pour moi, ou qui ont joué un rôle important dans ma vie. Je les accueille dans mon cœur, dans le mantra que je chante, dans le fleuve bienveillant des choses vivantes, qui nous relie en continu, et où le chant me replonge.


Vancouver Island depuis Sunset Beach, Vancouver.


Cette fois-là, j’ai réellement senti la présence aimante et encourageante de deux femmes, l’unique arrière grand-mère que j’ai connue et ma grand-mère paternelle. Leurs bonnes vibrations me parvenaient en petites vagues, un peu au-dessus de ma tête.


Mon arrière-grand-mère Yvonne, du côté maternel.
Elle a ici un air timide, mais j'ai le souvenir d'une femme rayonnante, que tout le monde, même à l'époque de cette photo,

décrivait comme une personne formidable.


C’était comme si elles me disaient : « Tu te débrouilles bien, ma chérie ».


Ma grand-mère Louise, du côté paternel.
Toujours élégante, merveilleuse cuisinière, douée pour le design et le commerce, elle était très affectueuse avec tous ses petits-enfants,

 et nous serrait fort dans ses bras avant de nous embrasser fougueusement.


Mon amie Solenne était assise près de moi (nous y allons souvent ensemble), et c’était un bonheur, comme toujours, d’entendre sa voix douce se tisser aux autres, et à la mienne.





Je ne sais plus à quel moment j’ai pris particulièrement conscience de l’équilibre subtil qu’il nous faut d’abord trouver, puis conserver, lorsqu’on improvise au sein d’un groupe – entre la réceptivité et la confiance, entre l’écoute et le besoin de trouver sa voix, entre l’harmonie et l’inspiration – et j’ai été frappée par le fait que ce processus est valable à tous les niveaux de nos amitiés. Ou de toute interaction sincère.





J'ai appris aussi que si j'écoute attentivement, l'esprit ouvert, des notes inattendues émergent, créant chaque fois de nouvelles harmonies.






C’est peut-être une évidence, et j’aurais sans doute dû le comprendre plus tôt, car le sujet m’a préoccupée bien des fois. Mais c’est au cours de cette soirée, en modulant ma voix sur chaque chant pour mieux entendre celle de Solenne, que j’ai vraiment saisi la portée de cette leçon d’équilibre.





Et des larmes de reconnaissance traçaient sur mes joues deux petits ruisseaux joyeux.




Avez-vous connu des expériences similaires en chantant des mantras, ou en méditant ?

Ou peut-être en improvisant dans un groupe de musique ?

:o)


ps - la version anglaise ci-dessous présente un autre choix d'images. Ta-da!

jeudi 6 novembre 2014

The Soundcloud of My Loving Meditations

Every month or so, I participate in a chanting session that makes me deeply happy.

I am sitting on a cushion, with thirty or forty people, accompanied by a few musicians (among whom is the lead singer): for two wonderful hours, we chant Kirtans and other sacred songs from various cultures.



The couple who organize these monthly events is very inspiring, and the whole atmosphere makes me completely at ease to sing my heart out, or to whisper my feelings through the foreign words, in resonance with the unexpected places where the chanting takes me.






To me, this is a complete form of meditation – in which heartbeat and breathing, mind and heart are aligned.




When I sing these simple lines over and over, the meandering river of my breathing becomes deep and wide...




Thoughts loose their reasoning power - they become a state of mind, which in turn is transformed into harmonies, soothed and re-energized by the fact that everyone is joining their voices.

Solutions arise, doubts are dissolved, understandings take place, but all of this happens in a random way – even as you focus on placing your voice correctly, you are really into the vibrations of the song, carried by them, carrying them on.




Of course, I can hum these mantras by myself – and I often do because the melodies have become a part of me – but here, within the loving cloud of sound that you are co-creating, the chanting brings you to another level, on many aspects.

In a way, it is a metaphor of life, since we are all givers and receivers of this sweet magic :o)


At Millesgarden (Stockholm), which I visited with Pierre a few years ago. A quietly blissful place.

My favourite aspect of these chanting sessions is the shifts in rhythms and moods from one song to another: this allows you to really feel the spirit of every mantra, in your whole body. Joy, gratitude and awareness are literally flowing through your bones and muscles.





Simultaneously, your consciousness expands to the whole room, to the world at large; to your past, to your loved ones. 

Often, I get clear, unexpected visions from people who are (or have been) meaningful for me. I greet them into my heart, into the song, into the loving river of living things, where we both belong.





This time, I actually felt the benevolent, knowing presence of a grandmother and great-grandmother of mine, sending peaceful vibrations that reached me in gentle ripples slightly above my head. (Where the crown chakra is located, apparently.)


My great-grandmother Yvonne, on my mother's side.
As shy as she might appear on this picture, she was a truly happy kind of person, whom everyone would refer to as a special lady.

They seemed to be telling me: “You are doing good, Emmanuelle.”


My grandmother Louise, on my father's side.
Always elegant, a wonderful cook and a woman with a flair for design and commerce, she was very affectionate with all of her grandchildren, wrapping us in her arms before devouring us with kisses.


My friend Solenne was sitting close by (we often attend these sessions together), and it was a joy, as always, to hear her soft voice intertwined with the others', and with mine.





At some point, I became particularly aware of the subtle balance you must find and constantly readjust - when you improvise with a group of people – between receptivity and confidence, listening and finding your voice, harmony and inspiration – and I was flooded with the revelation that this process is central in every aspect of our friendships. Or any sincere interaction. 




I learned that if your attention is truly open, if you listen carefully, without any expectations about the voices around you, unexpected notes can rise, and create new harmonies every time. 




It might sound obvious, and you would think I had figured this out before… Finding this balance has indeed been a very real preoccupation of mine – but during that chanting session, its actual meaning was softly imprinted in me.




And tears of gratitude were running down my cheeks.




Have you had similar experiences while chanting, or meditating? 

:o)