Like the Tree

Seeing my parents and sister in Calgary is weird, but wonderful. We take off to tour such beautiful places as  Banff and Lake Louise. It is almost like the good old days, sitting in the car for days to go and see Spain, Croatia, Denmark, just the four of us... But of course, things are different now. I did not used to live in an ashram in Canada, my father did not used to have Parkinson’s disease. We weren’t four adults in one obscenely large RV.

 Though the start is rough and wobbly, we find a rythm that suits us all, with short drives, pleasant hikes to beautiful sights, plenty of nap time and the odd game of rummikub. It is nice to be able to cook a whole meal again, instead of peeling carrots for 60 mouths. It is nice to rediscover reading, play clarinet outside and do some hatha with Margie. It is nice to talk and laugh and share without Skype telling me the connection is bad.

Back at the ashram I show off my home like a proud mother and we do some karma yoga in the garden. Satsang feels heavy with all the swami’s leading. Despite all our time in the RV together, I have steered away from explaining the spiritual side of the ashram. What it is I find here, besides the deer, the lake and a space to play music. When it is time for my family to leave, we all cry in a large bout of awkwardness. I feel the bad daughter all over again: I should have explained things better, I should have played a different song on my autoharp, I should not live in Canada, I should have a mortgage.

Then I start to remember again. I connect to that part of me that knows: “I am okay the way I am”. The part of me that helps me give meaning. The part of me I bow for at the altar every night so I won’t forget. And it helps to talk to other ashramites, as they tell me: “I cried for a week after my parents came for a visit!”.

I am on my own journey. But it's nice to remember my roots. Like the Tree.