Sundog Stories

Wild Geese- A Short Yoga Nidra I heard the geese flying over our cottage this early morning and thought I'd send out a short Yoga Nidra, including Mary Oliver's lovely poem Wild Geese. To set the mood, you'll hear chickadees, a squirrel or two, blue jays and the rustling of wind in the high trees.

Shoji screens  are made of translucent Japanese paper panels that lightly separate spaces. The screens form a thin divide between the outside and the inside world, yet intimately connect the spaces by transmitting light and shadow, sound and air. And, just as the glow of a candle, , and the smell of the rain is felt through the translucent Shoji screen,  so death flickers its shadowed light onto life.  This story is about how magicians loosen our grip on how we perceive the world, and about endings.

One afternoon my husband and I were greeted by a robed, toothless, wild haired monk under the tall arches of a crumbling monastery. He hugged us, again and again, would not let go, pointed at my eyes, then his, then the sky: azul, azul. Blue, blue. Buen Camino is about walking the long road to Santiago.

"Trees warp time, or rather create a variety of times: here dense and abrupt, there calm and sinuous ." John Fowles Temagami Time is about our relationship with time.

This Yoga Nidra has you observe the rising and falling of awareness.

Cold Cellar is about flat coke, woolen socks and our habits and hankerings for more.

This Yoga Nidra practice takes you down a steep path to the edge of an ocean (accompaniment by loud spring birds).

The Musquiem people have a word that means “things that are hidden”. The word is used to describe sacred objects, often ceremonial, that are thought to possess supernatural powers. These objects are not simply art or functional things, they embody stories and histories, the threads that tie the past to the present, the future. Because they are sacred, they are not displayed in the open, reminding us that not everything is meant to be seen, or heard. "Unheard" is about survivors' stories - of suicide, dispossession, fire, residential schools - that are often not told.

This Yoga Nidra practice will take you on a slow walk through the forest, on a winter night.

On my way back down I heard the ringing of copper bells that led the way, brought to life by long ropes pulled by passers by. And beside the entrance I now saw, what in the early darkness I had missed: the brightly painted Lord Ganesh, god of all beginnings, wisdom and understanding. Still Waiting is a story about searching for understanding.

Sleep of Reason is about rules, and sometimes breaking them.

Years ago I broke a pale yellow water pitcher that I'd received from a close childhood friend. We'd lost our connection but I kept the shards in a drawer, feeling pangs of regret and guilt for my carelessness. I asked my mom how I might fix the pitcher. She suggested I repair my friendship instead. A story about regret, my great grandmother and her broken hip, and precious moments.

Knowing can't be blasted into being: blasts of light might shock the system and dredge up secrets but the effect is manufactured and often temporary; knots don't magically untie at their revelation; and in response, and to protect exposed tender roots we will often hide what moves us, to a deeper, murkier place.

In October 1979 my family emigrated from our small town in Switzerland. The story is about that time, Canadian lunch boxes, and crossing disorienting gaps.

When we rounded the corner of a large island the wind struck us. The lake changed to emerald green, then black, darkening clouds were encircled by light, and within minutes the lake was boiling. Lake Cabonga is about a bumpy canoe trip, fear, faith, hope and trust.

She sat down and told us that when she was a small girl, growing up in Eastern Europe, she too had warts on her feet. Her mother took her to see a wise woman in the village, who told her to take a bite out of an apple and bury it under the next full moon. According to our doctor, this cured her of her warts. Warts is about searching for a cure for warts and other questions and quests.

According to legend, some years ago, a powerful gust of wind ripped the net out of the clutches of the farm hands, lifted the long filmy white tail high into the stormy sky, across and beyond the hedgerows, and over the coolness of the darkly waiting forest. Potato Bugs is about our attempts to control our world.

I had heard that cats bring dead, or half dead mice, to their human owners to teach them how to hunt. Given our lack of responsive learning, I have always been impressed by Lola's patience, her unwillingness to give up on us. But recently I came across a different theory: animals might leave us presents to show their gratitude. A story about our cat Lola, harvesting brussels sprouts and gratitude.

300 hundred years ago, one of my ancestors sat at his desk at night, in the house in which we both grew up, and copied out strange words and spells and symbols. The many pages show how threatened and insecure people were in their life on earth, though they yearned, as do we, for assurance and protection. Confidence, optimism and happiness were not part of the conversation; people put their faith into religion and magic spells instead.

Here is a full length Yoga Nidra about midsummer walk along an early evening shoreline, recorded in a canoe on a lake. Listen for the loon.

Last winter a man I met in a small northern community told me that when he was young he would hunt for Caribou with his uncle. One evening, at dusk, he watched as thousands of the large lumbering animals moved not as one, but swirled in all directions. He said that the ground moved and shook with noise and motion. But the caribou don't migrate that far south anymore. This Story is about impermanence, toads, caribou and the forest.

In the middle of the night, I will sometimes wake up in our small orange tent to listen to my growing seeds of doubt, will trace their shaping forms in my mind, will question the what ifs that lurk nearby.

Of course there is no guarantee that change, and the stirrings of a thousand earthworms will restore life, there is always the chance that it won't. Life is not predictable and it might not end as happily as you once hoped. Nonetheless, even if choice seems faint, do remind yourself that you don't have to wait for the frail promises of your unraveling life. Silkworms spin together no-till farming, silkworms and life transitions.

I have been frightened by a lot of things in life, and given my rather wild imagination, fear of the unknown is one of my favorite ones, keeps me up at night; although of course, there are plenty of other shapely warnings all around, hinted at and sometimes made explicit. 'Shadows on the wall' is part 1 of the Fear series, which also includes: 'Seeds of Doubt', 'Magic Spells' and 'Potato Bugs'.

I thought about a message an old high school friend recently sent to me. He'd been trail running through the woods, and found himself on a bed of feathers. In my imagination I saw hundreds of molting birds, shaking their soft wings. But no, he said, these weren't feathers, it was cotton weed, which doesn't, in my mind, make the scene any less beautiful.

We navigated some rough waters, misjudged a jagged edge that left a scar on the bottom of our canoe, adding paint to the rainbow of others who had come before. And all the while we knew full well that we'd have to lead the canoe up these rapids again, at the end of day. Visit www.sundogs.blog for more.

A symbol's meaning lives largely inside our heads, and yet, despite lifelong dedication to its study, it only contains a dimly understood capacity to explain experiences, worries, hopes and dreams. And here lies its danger: if we are too caught up in meaning making, when we insist and stake our lives on a symbol's inherent truth, despite little proof, when we stare unblinkingly at a symbol, allow ourselves to be locked in by its dogma, tradition, lack of imagination, are reassured or frightened by its promises, we might not notice other, more salient ways to navigate the world. Day 2 of Field guide is about symbols.

On a moonless, starless night, one of the only signs of an nearing dawn is whether I can see a hand in front of my face. The other indicator that day is within reach is the beginning of a reel of sounds unrolling. Some clever trick of unseen light, a simple click, releases today's spool of sound: the mechanism springs to life, and sends its signal to the player piano. Day 1 of Field guide is about signs and signals.

Stinging Nettles is a story about living in England, playing hide and seek in the graveyard, and about the good women who circled the wagon.

Birds songs recorded early one spring morning at the cottage, including a yellow bellied sapsucker, hermit thrush, a lot of chickadees and a few others.

Picture for a moment a group of people high up on a narrow ledge, halfway up a cliff. Let's call it a pedestal, the place we put virtuous, nice girls and women. Now imagine our little party teetering about on that ledge in 5 inch high heels, long towering necks, wasp like, breathless waists and tiny lotus shoes. They wouldn't get very far now would they, which is, I think, the point. This story is about the Pitt River museum, corsets and other shrinking things.

Two days after we moved in Mrs Sprout came through our always unlocked back door, strode up the 3 narrow steps into her old kitchen, searched the top of my new fridge for tickets to a concert at the NAC that night. Her friend waited in the car. She asked if I'd taken them, and questioned what I'd done.

Maple is a short yoga nidra practice that takes you across a white iron bridge to a large maple tree on an island.

My husband hitched rides all over the world when he was young. I've only dared it a few times, including a ride, on a heavy rainy day, up the sunshine coast, and once when we hitchhiked to our honeymoon. Bend in the road is a story about a canoe trip down the Rideau river, hitchhiking and regrets.

What is it about free wine, food, free anything, that sends so many of us into a tizzy? Interestingly, we sometimes question the virtue of free items because we judge them to have no, or low, quality. In our minds we unfairly de-value the thing, decide that there must be something wrong, if it's free.

“We are all compost for worlds we cannot yet imagine.” (David Whyte) Composting has always been a bit of a surprise, an experiment: I never quite know what will slowly, and sometimes suddenly grow out of the bins’ corners. And I am a composition of all the good wishes and warnings, insightful and thoughtless, helpful and spiteful comments, all the conversations I have ever had, and not just the ones I remember and took to heart, but all the ones I have forgotten, dismissed, ignored, rejected, ridiculed.

I fell off a ladder yesterday. The whole thing collapsed and I found myself lying on the ground, testing body parts, wondering about what I might have broken. It turns out I got away with a sprained ankle - it could have been so much worse, I tell myself. Sure, this will keep me not busy for a few days or more; and perhaps it is a good time to practice my headstands, to see the world from a different angle. Headstands is a story about perspective and about framing experiences.

The strange sound, snaps, cracks, gurgles and whips of a thawing lake.

Some meeting spots create the conditions to support a rich, diverse marine life, including Krill: tiny, shrimp-like sea creatures. To escape hungry predators Krill migrate daily, vertically, in huge swarms that can be seen from outer space; but despite their brave efforts they end as fodder: far down in deep waters when the sun is high, and near the surface of the rivers in the night. Krill is a story about meeting places and parallel worlds.

For some, awe is proof of God; for others, science not only adds an explanation but increases their sense of awe, lifts them across the gap left by not knowing, sets them down on the others side, leaving them to wonder, wanting to know more.

Warning: not much happens in this story, unless you count my description of a breathing lake; or count the unfortunate rent in my winter coat, torn by the thorns of tall blackberry canes. In this story, no coyote will suddenly trot across a frozen lake; and your tolerance, your threshold for boredom, might not be as high as mine.

Come February, when the sun shows increasing signs of strength, when roots emerge from hibernating bulbs and their fleshy green spears have pried their way out, only then will I bring them out of their patient darkness.

Some endings are explicit: clearly we are told what happens next: threads are gathered into tidy bundles, there is no room to question the explanation because the teller has decided on this version, as the truth. Other endings are implicit, and have you wondering what it means to live happily ever after.

Explore an icy world in this Yoga Nidra practice.

For years, I have been palming off a particularly adorable baby picture of my brother as my own. We mostly share the same features: blue eyes, nose, cheekbones. But that is where the similarity ends.

This Walking Meditation has you attending to the colours that surround you.

Are the paths we walk our own? What I mean is this: does everything unfold with intention, according to my own plans and free will? Is there inside me a tiny wizard of Oz, hiding behind the curtains of my mind, peering out through bony sockets, pulling levers, turning dials, shouting hoarse commands, keeping me on time, and on the straight and narrow path?

Sounds of a water, a canoe, crows and a loon (at the very end).

A few minutes of rain and thunder recorded last August.

This Yoga Nidra practice involves rapid visualizations of objects and images.

Apparently he always had a book on his lap, marked his notes in its margins; filled notebooks with observations on migration, nature and spring. Later they all went missing: someone who was more practical likely used them to started a fire on a cold winter night. Refrain is about Atti, my great grandfather, and the tracks we follow.