Mamquam gratitude

This week I had the privilege of practicing my civil liberties with my 2 year old tutu -clad daughter helping me mark my big X  in the ballot box.

What a gift and what a country to be a part of.

It was a big federal election this time around with no one expecting the sweeping Liberal win that took place last night on October 19th, 2015. They say it wasn’t due to strategic campaigning but instead to a massive turn out at the polls. Big changes to come for Canada with the pendulum swinging back to the left after a long conservative bout. Not to mention, big shoes to fill for a 43 year old Prime Minister stepping into his father’s political legacy from near shadows. Exciting times indeed and a moment to reflect on what it means to live in a democratic nation.

I stood at the Mamquam head waters this morning and watched the last of the salmon swimming up river fluttering their mottled tails with exhaustion. A heron took off and the water sparkled with glacial diamonds all the way up to the next bend around the bleachers of grand BC firs. Behind was Atwell summitting above Garibaldi National Park. To have such beauty at my doorstop gives me emotional knots of nameless nebulas. I listened to the rushing currents of water in stratified sound panels from different directions as though they were layered streams of consciousness. The sun on my solar plexus and face was charging the sound pulse making it ebb like a meditative orchestra.

Appropriately, my thoughts were briefly shelved. Then when I did start to think about what I had to do today, I thought why would I want to go get on a computer instead of bask in the warmth of this glorious October scene? Why would anyone? In fact, why does so much we do and value revolve around computers now? This disconnect is debilitating an entire generation socially, and future ones,  to the point that we are now creating money making schemes to get back into nature such as outdoor school, or nature retreats when these very actions are already in our DNA for daily harnessing. We do ourselves a massive disservice by eliminating , or even limiting them from our schedules.  Why would I spend all this money to send my kids to ‘outdoor school’ when the river down the street flows meters from my doorstep in a temperate rainforest? This is my Canada and this is why I live here. This is what I consider when I vote. The river strati reverberated in my ears and I made a note to self, to live in a manner that does not oblige a forced disconnect to reconnect, but instead nurtures a quotidian mossy existence.

If only I had worn a tutu to vote as well.

Appropriation of Culture

This subject has crept into my blog and daily existence before as it and it seems to continue to resurface and somehow perplex me on an vacillating continuum.

Appropriation of culture.

The taking of iconic symbols, meanings, traditions or beliefs from other cultures , as your own, regardless of whether or not you grew up in that culture, spent time there, or have an in-depth understanding of the people and the culture itself. So why do so many people in the West do this?

It is common place to see this in the developing world with mainstream appropriation of  iconic symbols such as Nike shoes, Chanel bags, Andy Warhol t-shirts and other symbols of Western affluence. Copycat branding promises wealth by glitter and is deliberate cultural brainwashing perpetuated by the West to the rest of the world citing money as an equivalent to happiness. While I understand the capitalistic use of soft power as a means to assert influence globally and establish a hierarchy between the hemispheric haves and the have-nots, for some reason I have more difficulty with the West’s obsessive and flagrant hypocrisy in its adoption of Eastern (or other) symbols.  Common trending symbols such as Nepalese prayer flags, buddha statues, prayer beads, and the constant chit chatter I hear in this corridor about Incan spirituality. How many of these people sprouting these mantras have actually spent time within the Incan empire? Oh that’s right, it dissolved in 1572 by the Spaniards, and yet we seem to have the urge to hang on to ancient beliefs that were never our own to believe in in the first place.  Pachamama reigned over the Andes and her people who bestowed their faith in her through the land, harvests, seas and skies which as a basic rule, are all fundamentally and intrinsically intertwined in any given corner of the planet. The strength of this spiritual creed lies within the daily bonds of the interconnection between people, their land, and their beliefs which ultimately act as pillars to societies such as the Mayan Empire.

While clearly there may be parallels, I am not so sure the folklore of the Pachamama talks of the Howe Sound.  What our distant neighbours claim as their 4 pillars to existence does not necessarily have to be more significant than our own history, or the history of the local Salish people in whose valley we currently reside.  While there is nothing wrong with appreciating these talismen for their significance, it seems they are being taken on as identity markers, and again, extolled for economic gain veiled in spiritual promise. Appropriation of culture is both lauded with duplicity and farce when large demographics are beguiled into believing that any given phylactery is uniquely theirs in their quest to self- enlightenment.

It seems that in one generation the West has plunged so far into the scientific world of hard, fact filled data that the stilts of spirituality on which we were built at one time, (be it called paganism, or Christianity, Judaism, etc.) have been all but kicked out from under us. Most of us would agree that  moving in the direction of science is a positive step for human kind because the outcome remains the same- entirely independent of whether or not you believe in it. The problem that seems to be emerging is that in our drive to create a world based on provable, hard fact, we have in one single generation (most of our parents went to a church of some sort), allowed ourselves to submit to complete spiritual dissolution.  In failing to manage our own metaphysical equilibrium , we have become frenetic nut cases willing to hand over exorbitant amounts of money to self-proclaimed spiritual advisers, shamans, and yoginis (read Bikram) to restore our ‘spirituality’. Somewhere the memo about the singular most central tenet to this whole concept was missed– that spirituality should not require financial or material exchange. Is spirituality not universally proclaimed as the less travelled path forged by  the individual in a self-propelled journey to enlightenment?  Sure, we all need guidance, but perhaps it is worth examining how we seek that assistance and our blind faith in the other over ourselves. 

Taking time to sit with ourselves and just be is tantamount to personal transformation.  Yes, yoga helps us do this, and a Buddha statue may help if you need a focus but ultimately, the tools required are within.  A simple walk in the forest can be equally potent, or time away from the chatter of the fast lane can uncover little mushrooms of wisdom and self-knowledge that you wouldn’t have otherwise noticed.

Ripping FODL Mommas



I was privileged to have a great bike ride yesterday up in Garibaldi National Park with 2 lovely ladies who have become my friends here in the Sea -to-Sky corridor since 2012. Notwithstanding the fact that we all have Australian husbands, we seem to lead parallel lives between tropical waves,  the coasts of Australia, and the British Columbian mountains. We love chasing the same athletic pursuits and don’t just want to keep up with our husbands, we want to beat them down the trails .  A revelation came to me whipping down Half Nelson yesterday that its actually not just FOMO,  its FODL for a lot of us post-baby mommas. Fear of Doing Less propels up forward frantically finding babysitters, motoring up the highway to squeeze in 2 hours of spring skiing, run a lap of Alice Lake, or tear down Pseudo-Tsuga. We will pound pedals for hours uphill and suffer engorged body parts just to get a run or a single wave, no matter how cold that Pacific is.

And this is why I am grateful to live here with women who charge so fervently.  Squeezing that ride in, or abandoning the family for a soccer game is worth those few hours of sweaty bliss that helps us endure the rest of the nappy-changing, spew-corralling week. We all work, we all nurture our families, and we all charge.  We love our kids and we love our time with them. We just want balance… and the best way to maintain this seems to be by inserting large doses of speed and small doses of fear injected in between. All of this amongst a natural setting is the only way to instantly induce our  fires and subdue our souls as equilibri-Mums.

Yesterday we managed to squeeze this bike ride in between puffed breaths of a conversation catch up after 6 months away. Each of us returning from a winter in different countries with tales to tell of   waves down under, Japow, and a new bun in the oven.  Admittedly, I was dragging up the rear and missed most of the gossip but the sweat and switchbacks were my drishti.  A proper catch up will happen eventually as we try to uphold a FODL mantra somewhere amongst the green folds of this valley.

Word of the Day FODL: Fear of Doing Less ( condition associated with mountain mommas in the Sea-to-Sky corridor)


Unscathed. Nippon Exit

IMG_3550  2015-02-15 09.36.07

So we survived the 12 weeks in Japan as a family, as parents, and as a couple.

Was it worth it?

It was, after the first 5 weeks of illness, yes it was. The Japanese Influenza took  all of us out in January followed by his close mate, gastro who didn’t want to miss out on any of the action in our 1 bedroom unit.  For some reason, the rice paper wall failed to stop the transmission of microbes across from the kids room to ours, and a bacterial and viral game of ping-pong ensued for the first month. After this, and after Bali I might add (if you follow my blog) , things went swimmingly, or skiingly I should say…

Japow delivered, and it never seemed to stop snowing in February and March. If they didn’t have their mini excavators going, the locals spent a large percentage of their free time shoveling roofs, driveways, vehicles, and digging out their doorways and pathways to their houses. Our 4 year old was skiing 11s all over and complaining on a 20 cm day that the pow had already being taken… While the baby wasn’t getting the same face shots, she did manage to get lots of turns and windburn on her mom or dad’s back ripping down Happo-One atleast once a week.

Time together skiing as a family–priceless. Time together in the evenings not doing ‘life-admin’ – wonderful. And time shared with  visiting family, and new friends in a ski town- pretty darn good.


Needless to say, Japan has changed immensely in the 15 years that I was there, and being in a non-urban setting for me, somewhat dispelled the fears I had in returning, While I still can’t say that it’s my favourite country, I can say that because I was in the Alps this time,  my experience was much more positive…and of course having my family there, gave me a purpose beyond teaching ESL. This time, I was working on JSL… though we didn’t get much further than my first visit there in ’99 with a basic katakana and hiragana alphabet. Amazing though how much is actually embedded in our memories when drawn upon. My son got his basic greetings down , while my daughter garbled through her first words in a méli-mélo of English, French, Spanish and Japanese. While nothing got by her, my husband mastered ‘biru‘ with perfection.

Of course the question remains- what to do for next season?

While in retrospect, this season turned out  quite well thanks to over 12 metres of the lightest, most consistent powder I have ever skied, I am still on the fence about whether to return. Japowder seems to be enough to yoke my husband back there but a level of ambivalence still simmers with me. Life is so short, I figure why waste a minute in a place or situation you are not captivated by, or inspired to be in. And this is what lacks for me in Japan- while I have immense respect for the culture, the geography and the people, I don’t wake up there with all pistons firing. This winter was a means to an end there for me, and support for my partner who wanted to go to start a business that ultimately didn’t pan out.

Do we need to return because we don’t have a better option to live seasonally as we hope to, or can we start channelling our energy into a place outside Canada that we do feel inspired to live in part of the year? My concern in that this is a default decision being made because we feel our options are limited. Which isn’t really a problem except that ‘going with the flow’ isn’t as exhilarating as it used to be for me. Do I want my child to go to school in Japan and take on both their cultural and scholastic values there? Do I want to pull us out of our nest on a whim, without a larger plan in place? Its no secret that the rewards of travel far outweigh any of the negatives, particularly for children, but the big picture here needs to appease us as a family unit.

Japan for me is like an ex-boyfriend that I tried to go back to but the relationship just didn’t work.  Something lacks there for me; be it a culture based heavily in conformity, or a model of socialization that operates around self- consciousness, I don’t feel I thrive as an individual there. If time is our most precious resource as new mothers, and our daily existence is a struggle for balance between sleep deprivation, exercise, work, partners, and the Equilibri-Mum race, then is seems clear that wasting another minute in one corner of the planet is futile when there are so many more well -rounded spots to explore. N’est-ce pas?

Decision MADE…. Faite Accomplie!

Bali bound


It’s only passing through the countryside that you see how the ordinary people live. Children walking home from school, a woman waving her niece off on a bus, a gaggle of schoolgirls giggling by a vending machine. Small shrines with rope ties and mandarins in front of perfectly sculpted trees. The sun is setting over the Japanese Alps. I ‘m on my way to Bali. I’m not sure for what but aiming for something restorative, to stop me getting to a breaking point, to pick a piste and helm my compass in that direction.

No more deserving that any other overtired mum, but taking the ticket.

McDonalds in a bunch of hiragana. I never understood that place in my own language let alone in Japanese.

The Alps are tall, magnificent sentinels. Dense, crumpled up at the head of the washboard, lathered over rice paddies with sudsy peaks backing them into the Japanese Sea.

Bali. Sea. Surf. Coconuts. Salt,

From Alps to Ocean.

Not sure I’m ready for it. Not sure I remember how to surf. Not sure leaving my children is smart.

But sometimes I feel if I don’t surge ahead and take advantage of opportunities to re-calibrate, then my partner will keep pouncing on them first. Which leaves me not only at a loss to have us all together, which is ultimately what I think most mothers subliminally push for with young families, but at a loss to carve out my own equilibrium checkpoint.

So here I go to Bali. On a budget I don’t think we can afford but on a mental shoestring to sanity.

Separating from your kids when they are that young is truly bittersweet. Like sticky tack, at first, separation takes every thing with it until all the hairs, scabs, and loose ends rip off. Only then, does the sting subside and you are free to see what’s around you without fear, to look forwards without adhesion. Five years, I haven’t had a whole weekend to myself. Perhaps not unusual for many matriarchs, but for me, some time alone makes me a better mom. I’m hoping that atleast with my mother-in-law there, my darlings will be doted on and looked after. My husband does not know she is coming yet and is expecting hard yards of his first lengthy time, albeit only seven days, solo with our grommets.

From the Nippon  Hakuba salt trail to the Balinese salty sea… saline and savoury, aqui vengo.

Aio and Bee-elle, as she says it. My two stars. My rising sun each morning and my headmasters keeping me in line every minute of every day. A big nest they carve, stock and build in our hearts. To occupy forever really. What a gift every day has been with them- sometimes mums can forget the at amidst the chaos of parenting. I will take that savoury thought with me into the waves.

Os quereis.

2015-02-09 11.21.21

Origines de PolyglotPiste

Polyglot Piste hits the Eastern Townships of rural Quebec, otherwise known as l’Estrie, and explores the seedlings to the inception of PolyglotPiste.

On a recent trip home to Quebec, I had the luxury of spending a afternoon biking though a raging torrential downpour over rolling green hills of the area in which I spent my weekends growing up.  Perhaps it was the electricity in the air, but charged moments like these seem to send currents of clarity into our consciousness that doesn’t otherwise pulse in the regular daily routine. On my bike ride, I was gifted one view after another of Appalachian lakes, animals, and thick forests unfolding before my wheels in sodden wet beauty.  Between burly gusts of wind, random lightening  set a series of exhilarating electrical synapses into motion.  That or, being away from my small children for 3 hours can also allow the mind to flourish. Either way, I felt more euphoric than I had in a long time which led me to question the significance coming home has on our inner psyche.

I spent my childhood summers picking berries at my great Aunty Bashaw’s cottage on Sugarhill in the Eastern Townships, one and  a half hours southeast to Montreal. In the winter, we spent our weekends cross country skiing across my uncle’s property up the road, and alpine skiing at Owl’s Head, Mont Glen, our favourite night-skiing spot, and eventually at Jay Peak just across the Vermont border.

Historically, the Townships goes way back as a British loyalist holding prior to the war of 1812. It somehow managed to escape the wraths of the war and always remained a stalwart, old English territory. Aside from the natural beauty of this area, my brother and I were privileged to grow up in a place that was very freehold, and still undeveloped compared to its northern counterpart ski hills in the Laurentians of Montreal. Like the briar bushes at my great auntie’s, our time there felt untamed and lush.  I remember looking up one evening out front of the tiny shoebox cabin we stayed in, and my father pointing out my first aurora borealis in the night sky. I looked up to see a massive swirl of stars whirled into a bowl of milky way batter. Esconsced in the thrumming night sky, it shimmered back at us pulsing permanently into my memory.

Not only were we privy to an amplitude of outdoor activity, but to a budding community of friends and family that my parents put significant energy and time into building.   Aside from -18 degree days on the slopes, this is perhaps what I remember the most–spaghetti dinners for the kids, martini hour for the parents, and late night tobogganing in the dark for everyone willing to brave -20  degrees celsius under an incandescent township moon. We were together every weekend on the slopes, feasting in the evenings,  and sharing good times with 7 or 8 different families.

The townships introduced us to skiing and planted the seed in both my brother and I for higher vertical challenges. We both went on to seek even wispier altitude air , with both our work and our lives in mountain ranges.  On this particular trip home however, I realized it did more than that for me. The foundation of growing up between Montreal and the Townships set the stage for me to seek out a parallel platform for my own family; one whose credo prioritized outdoor recreation, family and friends, and a multi-cultural environment that nurtured doing what we loved.

What makes the Townships special is  that whether through simple geography, or the will of its hard-working rural population, it covertly managed to avert much of the political caucophony that a city existence otherwise left its occupants submerged in throughout history.  L’Estrie often stood out for its lagging  loyalist population and resistance to the commercialism that plagues the Laurentians north Montreal.  Throughout the century, somehow the community managed to  keep the land as a central tenet to the people. Though arguably politically exclusive by some, many argue that it maintained a rustic lifestyle whose values held up a basic, but noble existence. Apparently at one time, the Easter Townships included extended areas into the states 20 km across the border, and were considered to be frontier communities with most of their energy dedicated to farming, family and basic survival. It is said that much of this lower Canada zone was disinterested in the war and the greater conflict being pushed from the capitals. What was considered a ‘neutral bloc’ existed along much of the Canada US border. In fact , as recently as 50 years ago, many mothers would drive across the border to have their children at the closest hospital in the town of Newport, instead of at home in Canada.

For my family, we would come out on the weekends to play in the slow lane that was the Townships.  There was, and still is an amazing recreation for all levels, including families and professional athletes such as Clara Hughes, three time Olympian who calls Sutton home today.  The townships caters to families who want to be outside in the long Quebec winters; it does not have mega-infrastructure, shopping, or the bling of the Laurentians, but it does have a simplicity, and self-propelled integrity that draws us to venture outside. In its sleepy border lined communities, l’Estrie was always a place where people got together and stuck together in their diversity. You could have the best of both cultural worlds where French and English are now spoken by most people there.. without forgetting  other immigrant hamlets such as the Ukraininan Bokopta village off Lakeview Road, or the strong Polish community in and round Mansonville. Politics was certainly discussed, but it never monopolized the party or took precedence over eat, drink, and be merry.  The sense of community that was engendered for those of us growing up there, was one of outdoor recreation, good times, exquisite food, and barrels of both wine and laughter.

The role that language played was somewhat secondary, but no less important. It offered and alternative path and a means to see things in a binary world; we were exposed to duality from the start and came to understand that it not only existed in everything, but it could be positive. Many people today in the communications world and the current political landscape of Quebec hope that the benefits of this binary mentality will  move the province into a more progressive stance on language rights. Those of us that grew up with the ever simmering French English dispute, already know that speaking two language has done nothing but benefit us.  When I left Quebec to see the world, I understood very quickly that one of the best things my parents did for me was send me to French Immersion school, and force me to study only in French until I was 14.  Living out west now, I realize I will have to work  twice as hard  to attain a similar, multi-cultural existence for my own children.

As I pedalled past Lake Memphremagog wrapping up my ride, I whispered a few words of gratitude for the chance to reconnect to the surrounding Appalachian beauty.  It became evident to me that the splendour of the natural environments we grow up in ultimately forms the bedrock of our subconscious minds. No matter where we find ourselves, if we chose to dig deep for those green pastures we can find them lining even the smallest moments of our day.

Grizzly momma

Are they sure it was a Grizzly ad not just a Black Bear? Was there a cub with her? Was she on this side of the river, or the far side? Welcome to the current flow of questions gurgling forth in local momma’s heads here in our little valley corridor.  There was a radio warning this week on a Grizzly in the area. For EquilibriMums, this is something that could potentially knock the scales way off when keeping a tuned momma-bear eye out for trouble near the babes. While I certainly paid attention to the warning, I am beginning to wonder if it wasn’t a bit alarmist…Since moving to Squamish exactly 2 years ago, I have watched a bear punctually come into our backyard at 5pm daily  to feed apples to her cubs, I have nearly jogged into a mammoth black beauty, I have even photographed a flower munching, peace loving bear , not 2 meters away on the side of the trail (ok, I had my husband do it), which points to the obvious- these furry creatures are ubiquitous in these parts.

So, is the concern over a Grizzly warranted? As part of the EquilibriMum clan, I would have to say yes, however, like all things, perhaps the warning should be taken with a grain of salt. After all, we don’t just live alongside bears who pick fruit at high tea , we also live amongst cougars, coyotes, bald eagles and man-eating salmon. Yes, its true (children under 12 are not encouraged to fish alone).

While I would say I have somewhat adjusted to life in the Sea to Sky corridor from Sydney Australia, I would have to say that the trade-off between sharks and bears really doesn’t offer much of a sweet deal. Though one could be much more easily misconstrued as a friendly foe with teddy characteristics, at the end of the day, I suspect neither of them would think twice about devouring any potential threat. So advice to all EquilibriMums out there, keep a leash on your animals, maybe even your kids, stay away from the compost after 11pm, and if you do go for a ride in the woods- ride fast!

Enjoy the rest of this sunny, blissful July.

Mindfully Missing the Music


We recently moved to the West Coast of Canada in 2012 to embark on a new life back in the homeland. We left Australia for a bulging dollar that squeezed us out of South Pacific Asia, and came to what we felt would be more sustainable community with an equally fulfilling quality of life. While some of our initial criteria has been met, and others superseded, there is still a chasm in the area of inspired, uncontained social connectedness.  While social rigidity was equally quotidian in the Northern Beaches of NSW,  it is not something I grew up with in Eastern Canada. It is also not something I envisioned in the long term metronomics of life, nor in my children’s.

Before moving back to  the wonderful WASP worlds of Canada and Australia, I spent 5 years between South America the Caribbean, and Aspen Colorado. Each of those places presented in their own unique parcels a lust for daily life that incorporated brilliant people,  inspiring scenery, exhilarating physical connection with the surrounding environment, and the possibility, always the possibility for more.  Vino tinto was suffix to many a day but it was the minds of great company and conversation in motion that were the root of our mirth.  The simple addiction to high doses of oxygen (or high doses of small amounts above 9 000 feet), induced sweat, conversation and cross-cultural laughs, tunes after midnight (mental beats all day), and notes from the field to share and compare moments of existing in such a beautiful place.  Enchanting places set the stage for expanding the breadth of the mind, but its people and gusto that tie an emotional knot of permanence to our experiences abroad.

The marriage of these aspects kept me addicted to surrounding myself with 10 000 foot mountains, expansive seas,and transient open-minded people unstuck in ritualistic ruts. The right combination of  ingredients can nurture a creative fungus further mushrooming our mental parameters and elasticity. Firing synapses can only prompt sparks to other plugs in the composition. For us,  the path of frothing athletes was not unlike the searching soul, who seeks to keep the pupils and minds  in constant semi- dilation. Stimulation comes in myriad form and maintaining a delicate eco-balance of inspiration can be pervasive with age when so much other clutter enters of lives.

So , where is the music in beautiful  BC? C’est où le joie de vivre?

Where I grew up, we flirt with life and we flirt with possibility- the feeling of anything about to happen always hankering on the periphery.  This uncontained mental sphere staves off the mundane by injecting small sparks of the unknown.  After 2 years here (albeit, much of it in groundhog mummy circles), my spirit is starting to wither like wilted dandelion in a pot of lukewarm tea. While I have met incredibly engaging and more spiritually connected people than most places I have lived, I crave tossing my tuque into the air in complete abandon at the end of the day.  I pine for implicit trust in the good company and nature of people around me, simply because we  share common ground, common passions, and because we’ve both had a F**&*KN awesome day.

Yes, I am mindfully missing the music.



Grafts: body mind and soul

Recovering from a gum surgery graft on Monday, I have strange visions of my brain patch-worked in and unto itself, much like my new gums. While the surgery itself was nothing short of extremely unpleasant (they really shouldn’t allow you to see pieces of your own flesh travelling between surgical tweezers), it is a nice reminder that now matter how shit you felt before, you are going to feel even more shit after.

Add to the chipmunk face and the open mine pit that is now my mouth, I return home to my beloved round the clock coughing toddler, the  baby who decides to samba from 1-3 am during the midnight brownie factory shift, and a husband whose eyes are now set so far deep into his skull from sleep deprivation that he has been inducted into the panda brigade. And so, my week culminates with EquilibriMum, not only somewhat counter weighted in Libra terms, but completely crushed under the scale itself, incidentally made of solid concrete, much like an anvil. What can we learn from weeks such as these?

Much, I suppose, like every week of parenthood churning out another tender,coded morsel of why you have voluntarily joined the breeder’s club . First and foremost, that like the changing colours in the leaves of a Canadian autumn, these times are in fact, fleeting and temporary. These low points should serve to further bolster the high points we have in our lives.

Second, to remember to laugh as you can’t open the childproof aspirin bottle at 3am when one child is caterwauling his lungs out between a mysterious head pain handcuffed to a violent cough, and the other is hurtling her little heart out in some obscure infant tyranny. The madness is after all, what keeps it real. The most intense moments of emotion, are those that carry the most visceral clarity. And if it doesn’t make you lose your mind EquilibriMum, then the madness is what reminds us that every other perceived stressful moment, likely pales in comparison to your daily routine.  What else aside from motherhood could possibly drive you to the repeated brink of insanity, and yet re-calibrate , but a few hours later, with purring words of love and tenderness from your very own lips?

Higher cause; we do it for a higher cause. Though I am not sure whether this could be classified as procreation of humanity, or merely the betterment of ourselves- character building as my father used to eloquently label all my bad experiences. There is a higher cause, and it likely has something to do with the fact that mums do everything we do for the higher cause of our families in some bizarre biological drive that occurs once we birth our pups.

Lastly, test your mettle and human compassion meter. How much can you give of yourself, how much insanity can you withstand without sleeping for 4 years, and why for god’s sake, do we somehow all feel its worth it at the end of the day? The answer likely lies beneath a fold in one of those grafts on the right lobe of your frontal cortex. Good luck finding it.

So with the familiar metallic taste blood in my mouth, I can try and think of all the easy moments I have had handed to me in my life, and all the difficult moments those around me continue to face in their own personal circumstances. There are many to be considered, and many not to be taken so lightly. Suffering in its many forms, be they the simple disequilibriMum stripped of her most basic needs, or those graver in nature, breeds compassion in all of us. It widens the dimensions of our humanity and broadens the scale of what we ascertain to understand of our fellow humans.

My brain may be grafted patchwork at the moment, but if I rearrange those pretty, shredded pieces, perhaps I can make them into a vibrant collage connecting me to all that is around me in a deeper, more colourful hue.

my mental mariposa

Eric Carle's Butterfly