I guess that’s the trick, isn’t it? Practicing daily. Like anything. The more we practice, the easier it gets.

I think that’s the part I’ve forgotten in my quest for authenticity. That it’s not some holiday destination that we can push a pin into on a map, like Marseille in the south of France. It’s not about having been there, so we never need go back again. Practicing authenticity is a lifelong vigil. It’s about staying awake to make sure that the runt of the litter makes it through the night. It’s about being aware of the connection we have to our own life, and to the rest of the planet. And checking in with this connection, over and over. And over again.

Brene Brown has a lot to say on the subject of living an authentic life. She speaks to me, and perhaps she might speak to you, too.

www.brenebrown.com

Filed under: Connections by Abby Palmer
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Paul and I are looking for a house.  It will be our first.  We’re hoping to find something with a little character. Sounds exciting, right? But here’s what we’ve discovered:

In the Fraser Valley, an hour’s drive east of Vancouver, B.C., all we can find are monster homes in new subdivisions or awkward 1970’s split-levels.

In a world where bigger is better, it’s getting increasingly difficult to find, as Sarah Susanka coins it, the “not so big” house. These days, character gets torn down to make room for more cookie-cutter construction. Enormous houses on small lots with no room for sweet peas, carrots or white garden benches.

What happened to building character?

Despite the sweeping epidemic of these soul-destroying subdivisions, I’m not convinced that’s what most homeowners really want. As Susanka explains, we mistakenly think that more square footage means “home,” but in the end, the extra space is still not giving us the feeling we’re yearning for.

Why hasn’t the modern-day developer figured this out?

This isn’t just a matter of not being able to afford our “dream.” After some discouraging house-hunting, I decided to experiment with our price range. I wanted to see if character homes were indeed for sale, but were priced above our budget. I set the top price range into the multi-millions. That ought to do it.

But as I scrolled through the new online listings, my excitement dried up.

To my surprise, despite the price tag, there wasn’t a single property that I could even remotely classify as “character”, let alone envision myself sitting on the front porch sipping lemonade, tapping away on the final chapters of my great Canadian novel.

Evidently, those of you lucky enough to live in a house with good bones – on a quiet street, away from power-lines, shopping malls and commercial jet airways – have the good sense to hang onto it.

It appears that if Paul and I want character, we’re going to have to build it ourselves.

To read more about Sarah Susanka’s “not so big” concept, click the link below, or scroll to her book on the “what’s on my bookshelf” sidebar.

The Not So Big House

Filed under: Garden & Home by Abby Palmer
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On Sunday, January 30th at  6:55am, I stood gazing down on the lungs of the world.

For seven days I would breathe the rich air, feel the weight of humidity on my skin and practice yoga twice a day for 4 hours on a wooden platform above the rainforest canopy.

Luna Lodge, Osa Peninsula, Costa Rica: Ten degrees north of the equator and 5,661 kilometres from Vancouver, British Columbia. Closer to home than I’ve ever felt.

Above: Osa Peninsula’s coast, 1 hour south by plane from San Jose, Costa Rica

Below: Lush, tropical rainforest borders the beaches of Osa Peninsula’s coastline

Above:  Landing on the airstrip at Carate.

Below:  Black volcanic sand stretches for miles down the Osa Peninsula

Above:  Luna Lodge, Osa Peninsula

Below:  On the yoga platform, Luna Lodge

It is physically impossible not to be touched by this place. Or to realize where you come from.

The forest has an undulating energy to it – rising and falling. Sounds swell in intensity, then soften and recede, only to rise again, like the breath in your own body. It’s moist and organic and frightening and full and alive.

Everywhere, vibration. All without effort.

The Osa Peninsula just is.

www.lunalodge.com

Filed under: Connections by Abby Palmer
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Sleet grazes my window.  I adjust my gaze beyond the pane just in time to see a rogue snowflake amidst the freezing rain.  Like the first star in a night sky, it’s illuminated white before all the rest – a trailblazer, streaking to earth in all its unique and complicated mystery.

Soon, more snowflakes appear, as if emboldened by the one that came before, daring to congregate, silent, on the brown bare earth. Temporary home.

Magnificent cathedral-like structures drift downwards.  Cones and tubes and feathery ferns of ice-crystals collect in union, becoming one.  Mind-numbing intricacy falling onto the sleeves of children’s wool coats.  Delicate, and then gone.

Like a snowflake, I find my own way to earth.  My falling to it, on my hands and knees as a ten year old, is as inevitable and irreversible as a snowflake’s trajectory to earth.  I do not wonder if it is the right thing to do.  My hands, my fingers lift clods of soil, firm and alive, without thinking.  Crumbling soil between fingers, letting the broken earth sift between my hands like feta cheese crumbling onto a greek salad; it is natural.  A gardener gardens.  A cook cooks.  A writer writes.

There is no question about doing it right.  I just do.  Somehow my body senses what is helpful; lifting soil and inviting air and lightness and space into the ground.  Unbinding the earth.

And then, squatting in the garden, resting back on my heels, I watch.  I watch the earth responding to my contribution.  Seeing earthworms discover the free and easy ground of freshly-turned soil sends spikes of joy through my body, as if watching a pod of whales swimming toward freedom, released from their cramped captivity in aquarium swimming pools.

And watching, release sweeps through my own body, as if I too have sprouted fin and tail and can glide, supported and free through water, through soil.

As a ten year old I yearned to belong to the earth.

Now a woman waking up, I realize that I always have.

Filed under: Connections by Abby Palmer
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