Light

I have spent a lifetime searching for an alternative to patriarchally certainties, that God above judged me for my very existence, as I sought for softer, more loving, more creative ways. 

I thought the answer somewhere hidden in the yoga texts, the words from yoga gurus. Something outside myself to validate who I am.

In the stillness I felt a faint fluttering in my heart, a tugging of my memory, a remembrance that I am light.

Way back in the seventies when I lived in India I bought a ring, a star ruby. When I held it in the in the sun a sparkling 6 pointed star appeared. It's brilliance, it's beauty revealed when I consciously held it to the light of the sun.

This is my story to remember - that the light in my heart is my truth and shining my light reveals, connects to the light in others.

Seasonal Insights - “The mountains shall bring peace to the people.”

This morning white snowflakes silently float as I stretch into downward dog. Winter continues as I bike down Cougar Creek, my face, hands and feet freezing. The bike track covered in mud.   Large slabs of ice float down the river show me spring is on the way.

Saturday, twenty of us masked, with only our puckered foreheads showing, stood at the edge of the undeveloped forest to protest TSMV development. A couple of First Nation’s people arrived to offer prayers on their ancestral lands stolen from them so long ago. My friend said she cried, while my trembling heart tingled.

 Later that day in a frosty funk, my arms crossed, biting my lips I walked around Silvertip golf course where the forest is being cut down to make way for huge properties for part-time owners.

I owe my life to Mother Earth. Today on my first bike ride of spring, I spontaneously burst into the Om Tara chant - Tara the Tibetan Goddess who dispels fear and grants bounty. The ancient Goddess understands destruction and regeneration. I look over the sun sparkled river to the grey tree trunks lying in a tangled pile. I am aware that She, I and all beings are intertwined. She provides me food, water, land to bike, hike and ski on.

 This pandemic year city dwellers have flocked to the mountains intuitively knowing nature is the source of health and vitality.

 At this time of Climate emergency, ecosystems are being destroyed faster than any other time on the planet. I must to speak out on her behalf;

·        - to protect the animals, forests and mountains that brought me to Canmore,

·        - to pass on this beautiful environment to my unborn grandchild,

·         -and to remind us all to collectively work toward a sustainable lifestyle that honours and protects the land, animals, soil and water.

This spring solstice day, the balance dark and of daylight reminds me dark times don’t last. The sun bursts out from the snow cloud to encourage the spring melt, and our community responsibility as stewards of the land and wildlife.  It will be a while before the summer breezes and wild roses bloom in the valley. Let’s predict it brings a rejection of the TSMV proposals. The recently renamed mountain Bald Eagle implores us to have a bold farsighted vision, the courage to take action and to leave a legacy for future generations.

 

2020 The Year of Covid

"How others will react to this quarantine is none of your business. Make a commitment to change and not forget. Make sure this storm shakes you up so much that it completely revolutionizes your life." ―Elena Bernabé, Indigenous Peoples Cultures. April, 2020

My life was ticking along with great workshops scheduled in March, April and May. Enter the wee virus that came with a destructive intention. Just like that we were all introduced to staying home and social distancing. All my workshops cancelled and businesses except essential services shut down.

In my seventy one years I worked hard to create my own reality. And pouf, covid dared to classify me as elderly. Although I did recognize I had much to be grateful for - living in a beautiful home in the Rocky Mountains.

Then on the 9^th of April an email labelled ‘manuscript submission’ arrived in my inbox. “Dear Wilma, Unfortunately it has been decided not to proceed with your manuscript……..” - my seventh rejection letter in two years. I told myself, I am strong I can handle this. When pains in my right hip and thigh announced sciatica, I consulted my long time guru Louise Hay. In her book ‘You Can Heal Your Life’ I read the negative belief under sciatica was, “Being hypo-critical. Fear of money and of the future.” This rang a bell. Rejection, self-criticism, not good enough, comparing myself with others have been my floating subconscious for many years. For a few days I repeated her positive affirmation “I move into my greater good. My good is everywhere and I am secure and safe.” Along with stretching, and ibuprofen the pain left.

Next I consulted Dr Google a brilliant psychiatrist, on how to deal with disappointment.  His first piece of advice, “Do what makes you feel better” was a challenge given our endless winter of cold and snow and skiing banned due to our friend the virus.  The second suggestion, “Time by myself” was a no brainer in covid isolation. The third piece said, “attach yourself to your desire not your goal.” Now I had been writing my memoir for so long I had almost forgotten my original purpose - to share my travel experiences of exotic people and places. However as I delved deeper into the writing process I learned a good narrative is not about ‘we went there and took a photograph,’ but about tension, suspense and yes conflict.

When both my editor and a friend asked me if my manuscript was about my mother I rebelled. It had never been my plan to write about mother. Nevertheless I am sure that somewhere in my subconscious I was indeed trying to show her I was right in pursuing my truth not hers. What is/was my true desire?? Approval from others? Money? A career? Telling the world how it should be? Or hard it was/is for mothers?

This led me to days of introspection. I remembered how in the fall at our women’s writing retreat, deeply buried under my nice girl persona, tears in my eyes, I uncovered my profound shame of my words. To grow up in Presbyterian Scotland without being shamed was impossible – smacked over the knuckles in grade one, humiliated by my French teacher, mother burning my book The Naked Ape and feeling abandoned by father’s death at age 10.

Some years ago hiking in the Rockies, it came to me that I was in a cocoon and my writing self barely a teenager. Recently as I meditated on a Medicine wheel I recalled projects and life itself were seasonal. My writing needed the fall to let go, winter to hibernate, spring to sprout new life and fruit would arrive in the summer.

Back to the internet, “Disappointment is helping you become a stronger individual, with new awareness and growth.”

From experience I have learned to watch my thoughts like a cat catching a mouse, that ‘love is letting go of fear,’ and the comfort of a hot bath. To me freedom is rooting myself hiking by rivers, in forests and mountains.

As I contemplated the benefits of writing I appreciate the passionate people I have met who encouraged me to know myself. The classes that I taught that make me feel as if ‘I was born to do this.’ I have slowly learned be compassionate to my erroneous thoughts and my immature writer on her growing edge.

Don’t call me a girl I am a woman.

I was a girl who grew up in Scotland and hung out with my two sisters. A skilled seamstress my mother dressed us in identical dresses. I was expected to be a nice girl that meant sweet, do as I was told, be a virgin until a married a good Christian boy. My sisters and I took delight in judging others, who could never come up to our high expectations of skinny bodies in matching outfits and shoes.

As a girl I rebelled and took off to India.  In Kashmir I left my girlhood behind. There the males touched me as a western woman in objectionable ways.  When I walked down the street if I was touched I thumped him or another male.

When my Mother came to visit she was upset by my displays of anger. I never discussed my woman hood with her nor, what being a woman meant to her.

Now I am a wise woman –opps that almost slid off the page. I am passionate about being called a woman not a girl. I have two grown children, a long term husband and a career. I have earned my womanhood - definitely a wise woman.

My Mother’s Story  by Wilma G. Rubens

Dedicated to my female forebears who were nurses – my Scottish grandmother Russell was the matron of a hospital, her daughter, my aunty Ella was a nurse and married a surgeon, her daughter Anne trained as a nurse and midwife, my mother Gladys, her sister Amy and my own sister Dorothy were nurses.

At my mother’s funeral her sister Agnes told me “As a young woman she was a snob and a great one for the boys. She lived more in heaven than earth.” 

Born in Belfast 1911 my mother Gladys was the oldest of three sisters and one brother. Growing up she experienced ‘the troubles’ and drunken men fighting in the streets. Her mother, my grandmother Agnes Cargo said that she would never have had all those kids if she had heard of Marie Stopes. Stopes was a campaigner for women's rights and a pioneer in the field of family planning. 

In the past humanity has been devastated by infectious diseases.  My mother’s beloved Grandmother Marie Cairns had five children. Amelia 18 and Margaret 23 died of tuberculosis. Hodgkin’s disease killed Tommy at 24 and a duodenal ulcer killed William at 37.

Mother left school at 14 and became a skilled tailoress. Her ambition led her to talk to an influential man and she was accepted into nurses training. As a child she taught me to make my bed with tight envelope corners and no creases in the sheets. “When I trained we worked 70 hours a week,” she told me. “The sisters were very strict. We had to make the beds perfectly.”

After her training in Ireland she left to work at a sanatorium in England. Her young patients had tuberculosis. The treatment was based on fresh air and rest.

She contracted Tuberculosis at the hospital. I don’t know how long or how ill she was. I do know that she recovered with close attention to her diet. I am certain we were the only family in central Scotland that ate brown bread, salads and made visits to the Health food store to buy coconut treats. For sure none of our neighbors made treacle scones with soya flour. One day as a child I accompanied my mother to the Doctor to have her lungs x-rayed. She was very quiet and I sensed she was embarrassed as if she had something to hide.

After her recovery she trained at Glasgow Royal Infirmary to become a midwife. She worked in the borders of Scotland during the Second World War as a public health nurse and midwife. She told stories of courageously driving at night through the snow to deliver babies.

She became a fervent evangelical Christian. I imagine she met my handsome father, a minister, at some church event. When she married him I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for her to give up the career she had worked so hard for. I remember taking Mother to visit her younger brother my uncle Harry and how he challenged her, “Why can’t a man have a drink in the pub with his son or daughter?”

And now we face the corona virus. A new experience for our generation. I have a profound respect for my mother’s recovery and her incredible dedication to care for the sick.

Christmas Letter 2018     

It was the night before Christmas…..

Last year as refugees from twenty-seven Canadian winters, Clive and I biked along the Carretera Austral through Patagonia. The Carretera is a 1,200km mainly gravel road.  Had I known I was going to spend Christmas Eve miserably wet I would have planned better. The 23^rd Dec our friend Pedro, from Rio, Clive and I pitched our tents in a wooden shelter by a lake. Just like British Columbia, rain hovered over the tree clad hills, water lapped on the shore, as we warmed ourselves by a fire. In the morning it rained. Not much was said as we packed our saddle bags and set off. After a couple of hours, the road steepened, dripping wet and weary we biked past a road workers shelter. Pablo and Annibal, student Chilean bikers popped their heads out. “Hi, it’s dry in here.” Full of smiles they looked as if they were having the best adventure ever. Fuelled up with milo powder mixed with yoghurt and their youthful exuberance, we biked on the wet ripio - gravel road - to the pass.

Tongues of snow descended from the gloom that obscured the summits. Waterfalls spilled over cliffs and snaked through the forest. We zipped our rain jackets up to our chins then hurtled down. Trembling, cold to the bone, I hugged my instant coffee and hot dogs purchased from a roadside food van. The rain trickled down my face as we biked the next 30 km of tarmac past more waterfalls and rushing rivers, breathing hard up the final uphill to the small village of Villa Amengual. I passed a hand painted sign for the Refugio Para Cicilista but we hoped to find better lodging for the night. We dripped around a small supermarcado with well stocked shelves. After knocking on several the bed and breakfasts we were disheartened to find there was no room at any inn.

Wet and close to hypothermic we headed to the Refugio. Once again Pablo and Annibal welcomed us with their big grins.

“Come in. There is a wood stove.” We entered a basic room, their bikes on one wall and mattresses on the floor. I held my wet back to warm stove.

“Come and meet the owner Inis. She lives across the hallway.”

            “Hola! Make your selves at home,” she said beaming. “Yes I have hot shower. You can dry your stuff by the stove. I thought I was going to be on my own tonight. I will make a meal for you all.” Her place was so minimal I was touched by her kindness.

Clive headed back to the supermarket and returned with champagne, Chilean Merlot and snacks.  Meanwhile, Lean and Manuel, Argentinian cyclists who we had met a week ago as they emerged from under their night under a bridge, joined us.  We were with five cyclists, from Chile, Buenos Aires, Rio, Inis and her teenage son. Warm and dry we shared wine, laughter, chatting in Spanish and English. Wonderful aromas came from Inis’s kitchen as she and her son cooked. We sunk our teeth into juicy ribs, chicken, salads and the finest lemon meringue pie. To round off the night, Pablo played the guitar and sang Chilean folk songs.   

Christmas Day after a delicious breakfast, we hugged Inis goodbye. Basking in her Chilean  generosity we rode through the stunning Lago Torres Reserve with wild tall trees and snow covered peaks, our hearts full of gratitude for the true spirit of Christmas.

***************

On our return we celebrated Clive’s 70 birthday with a family back country ski in perfect weather. Then a party.  It was great that we all got together for this milestone.

The year continued with trips, canoeing down the Red Deer with Andrew and Shona in the May long weekend, hikes and backpacking here. 

Clive went to Greenland with his friend Douglas, Andrea, and their son Leif. The trip was cut short when Leif had a serious problem with his one eye and had to rush back to medical care in Edinburgh via Reykjavik.

I met Clive in Scotland. I had a wonderful day with my niece and her three kids 9, 7 and 5  hiking their very first Munro – as Scottish mountains over 3000 feet are called. It was an international day with my nephew in law’s mom, Glynis and his brother, Kevin from South Africa. The kids were amazing – and romped up and down the mountain with hardly any complaints - impressive.

Then we were off to North Berwick for a beach day with my other two nieces and their 4 boys.

“I am loving this 110%” said 7 year old Lewis searching for crabs under the seaweed.

“I am 100% bored” said 5 year old Lucas.  They had a great time climbing on the ancient walls of Tantallon Castle – a place of intense fighting 600 years or so ago – now surrounded with peaceful fields and looks over to the Bass Rock surrounded by swooping gannets.

After a five day sail around Mull with Douglas Anderson and time with friends, Clive and I took off to the French Pyrenees for a wee 15 day hiked. It was fantastic.

In spring Chris spent a month in Tibet on a ski trip – you can watch his adventure “Higher Truths” by Salomon TV. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hh_5xgyEtpc&feature=player_embedded&fbclid=IwAR0zv-tfjknsmlxBWfBbIstscNm7ewB7ZsbEpCyRGDfXI0oa3m65DZf3few

He followed this with 10 days trekking in Nepal then headed to Sri Lanka surf vacation. He and his girlfriend Jesse visited us in Oct on their way to the Baha. There was a big snow storm here. The roads were horrendous but they were on a mission and left with 6 inches of snow on their surf boards. Fortunately they made it to Calgary and then south where the roads improved. They looked very relaxed on their return 5 weeks later.

Shona and Andrew are enjoying living in Kimberly. She is an Environmental Officer monitoring water contaminated by the disused mine.  We had some good times with them walking around their beautiful mountain town that is much quieter than this part of the world.

We plan to stay home this winter apart from a short trip in January to stay with a friend in Arizona and visit a Mexican Dentist!!

As the days shorten, the temperature drops we are enjoying the eating, skiing, skating and friendship season.  

Strong Women

I surround myself with strong women, women who have broken the chains of their oppressive pasts, their insecurity and their toxic culture. 

Women who embrace their remarkable bodies that come in all shapes and sizes; who reject the demand that only bodies shaped like barbie dolls are valued; who stretch, breathe deeply, and lovingly respect the temples their bodies are. 

Women who delve into the darkness of their shadows, the emotional pustules that suppurate in their minds stealing their power, their strength and their dreams; who confront the painful wounds that keep them stuck as if a steel umbilical cord is tied to their pasts.

As we women cry, rage the dragons and monsters within transform into friendly helpers, each with rich gifts, ready to support us at every turn on the bumpy road ahead.

Women around the globe seek to connect to their inner light and out of the ashes of patriarchy delicate shoots emerge with strong roots that delve deep into the recesses of mother earth. This new growth withstands the storms and the heavy brutish footsteps trying to eliminate the light. These resilient women serve as beacons for other souls lost in the toxicity of victimhood.