It's a Hot Bouncin', Skippin' Mornin'

We were sitting on a bench waiting for the frozen yogurt store to open when I noticed a big, green grasshopper jump next to us. I gently scooped it up in my palms, cupping my fingers around it as it tickled its way out through my fingers and gave me that special half thrilling half disgusted feeling I only get when I hold on to insects. Finding freedom again, I was surprised that the grasshopper didn't jump away, it just sat there gripping my finger, looking around smelling the air with its antennae. My boy and I had just enough time to look at it up close, noticing the yellow and green patterns on his long bendy chopstick legs, and it's big, black, bulbous eyes before it bounced off, disappearing into thin air.

The boy offered to wipe the beads on sweat rolling down the side of my face with his wet, sweaty hands and I noticed on his neck little cut hairs leftover from his haircut. I was stunned for a milli-moment that even after a week of baths, dips in the ocean, and laps in the pool, they were still there, stuck to his neck. The doors to the frozen yogurt store opened and we rushed up, the boy skipping alongside me and as I watched him, it occurred to me that only kids skip and that as we grow older it becomes weird to skip. I had a sudden image in my mind of a bold lettered announcement made in the Vancouver Sun newspaper declaring that this year, instead of the usual springtime 10km run, the paper would be sponsoring a 5km skip. I chuckled as I pictured teams of skippers-in-training, skipping around the city as the yogurt man looked at me inquisitively. 

After savoring our yogurt, we rode home along the canal  in the noon day sun, zig-zagging to stay in the shade of the twisted, jungle-like trees with roots growing out of their branches, and berries out of their trunks, over the bridge with one last effort, trailing behind us a spray of sweat, and finally home. We dodged the gangs of blood-thirsty mosquitoes wandering aimlessly in the darkness of the underground parking and took the elevator upstairs. We struggled to put on our bathing suits over our sweaty bodies, grabbed our green foam noodle and headed back down to the pool. I suspect that perhaps our bodies were so hot when we jumped in that we instantly turned the water into bath water, but even thought it wasn't as refreshing as I thought it would be, it was still the best place to be!

Walking Into a Thousand Hugs

Coming home to Vancouver after almost a year away is like walking into a thousand hugs. Even after several weeks back, I still feel like I'm in a receiving line at a wedding and the hugs keep coming, but not just from loved ones, also hugs from tasty meals, cold dark mornings, new restaurants and businesses, forgotten scenery, mugs of coffee, chit-chats with strangers, running into people from the past, window shopping, new bras that fit and flatter, my friend's kids, nights out with girlfriends, my pots and pans, and invitations to play. Everything around me is hugging me. It's fantastic; like a big, warm blanket of gratitude which makes me forget that I haven't seen the blue sky since I've been here, let alone, a ray of sunshine.

I've been corresponding with Flip, my upstairs neighbor in Rio who is now in Melbourne, Australia, and we've been sharing our "daily lovings"; things that we were dying to do again or forgot all about while living in Rio. It's funny how many of her "lovings" are the same as mine;  coffee, favorite walks in nature, certain foods, spending time with people we love, and how weather influences our days. It's like going on a month long date with your own town, with everything and everyone in it.

Over time though, I suspect everything would become ordinary again, the inevitable  "been there done that" lackluster of daily routine would settle in. I won't think that almond butter is SO delicious forever, or that it's SO great that everyone speaks English. So how do I keep this gratitude in the forefront of my mind as time passes, as I board the plane to go back to Rio and while I'm there?

In his Tedtalk about happiness and gratitude, monk and scholar Brother David Steindl-Rast recalls his return home after living in Africa. Every time he turned the tap on for a glass of water or flicked the light on, he was filled with gratitude. Wow! Water, light, how wonderful! Knowing that he might forget to be grateful for these quite forgettable conveniences, Brother David put notes on the taps and light switches in his home, to act as a kind of stop sign, to pause, to be grateful again and again.  Wow, water, light, how wonderful!

I can't possibly post notes on all the things I've been grateful for since my return home, it just would be so cumbersome, and surely someone would complain to city hall,  but I can and have created "stop signs" for myself. Throughout my day, I catch myself listening to my breath, I count them for a while and while I do this, I softly focus on something around me that I am grateful for. Along with these private, quiet moments, I also find that saying what you're grateful for out loud is a great way to get in the habit of being grateful. (Of course it appears a little less weird if you have a kid in the shopping cart or a dog at the end of a leash because people assume you're talking to them, but none the less, it's worth a try.) Oh, cool, the kale's on sale! Look! A parking spot!

But what about life in Rio? Will I remember to put up my "stop signs?" when I'm there? Or will I be moaning about the traffic, the heat, the loud neighbors, the crazed drivers, the bureaucracy, the sugar, the salt, the pollution, the corruption etc? It will be more difficult, I'm sure, differences and unfamiliarity wears me down and why can't I find almond butter? If only I could spread some almond butter on my toast, everything would be okay.

Seriously, though, I hope that I can practice this habit enough while I'm here so that when I arrive back in Rio, it will be like walking into a thousand hugs all over again.

Grateful for my friend who took me on this beautiful hike along Okanagan Lake.