Regional Assembly of Text

If you stumbled across a stationary shop named “The Regional Assembly of Text“, you better be armed with an instrument, preferably one that wields the written word with a hefty salute before you march in.  Lucky for those devoted pen pals, this aptly named stationary store supplies just the apparatus to tackle the task.

The first Thursday of every month, The Regional Assembly of Text hosts a Letter Writing Club.  Ardent letter writers diligently queue up at this neighbourhood stationary store, eagerly awaiting the doors to unlock, ready to stake a seat at one of over a dozen vintage typewriters neatly assembled on a long table.  Tea and biscuits sit next to a generous supply of complimentary paper and envelopes.

A concentrated hush hoovers over the room.  With heads hunkered down, the only movement are fingers furiously tapping away.  Those that didn’t arrive early enough to snag a typewriter are stuck with good old fashion pen and paper.  They can’t help but steal furtive glances in the direction of the cacophonous symphony of sound, hoping they may entreat someone to relinquish their seat, so that they may finally trade in their pen for a mightier tool.

I spent one fine evening tapping out letters to friends around the globe.  Nothing really beats a handwritten, or in this case hand-typed letter.  There is no backspace or delete.  If you make a mistake, it sticks (although I cheat, and try to remedy my errors by unsuccessfully typing over them…).  There is something sacred about the art of letter writing, which is swiftly being diminished in an era of instant gratification.  Lost is the sense of anticipation that comes with delivering a postcard, a note, or a letter, and with it the anticipation of awaiting a response.

While I’m no less dependent on email, letter writing is one of my finer vices that I hope to defend. If you’re ever seeking inspiration for a letter to pen, visit Letters of Note. It’s a fanciful collection of letters, telegrams, memos, and postcards of fascinating correspondence between known and unknown individuals.

The Regional Assembly of Text, 3934 Main Street, Vancouver, BC.

Letter Writing Club – First Thursday of every month. All supplies provided.

Wahe Guru

“It is not how good, how spiritual you look, or how wonderful you appear. It is what is inside that matters.” ~ Yogi Bhajan

Wahe Guru literally translates as the “wonderful enlightener”.

This past month marks the 3 year anniversary of my yoga journey. My first venture into yoga began while I was living in London. My best friend introduced me to Bikram yoga, and before I knew it I found myself in a 38C plus room, inches away from half naked strangers, sweating from places I never knew sweat could pour from. It wasn’t attractive, and didn’t smell good. Yet, I kept going back, repeating the same 26 poses every time, because it felt so darn euphoric.

The irony of all of this is Bikram yoga isn’t cheap, nor is living in London, and should I have wanted to go 3 times a week, which I roughly did, I would have been paying £145, which in Canadian $ would have translated to $319 for a monthly unlimited yoga pass. That is 3 times the amount of what a monthly yoga pass is in North America. So, i did the most un-Zen thing you could do. I scammed them. You see, they offered a monthly “deal” for “new” students, in which you could pay £30 (equivalent to $66 Cdn) for 1 month of unlimited yoga. Now that’s more like a deal! I would sign up under various aliases, and made sure to do so by rotation at all 3 studio locations. After awhile, I surely lost track of who I was when I signed up for the “first time” for the fifth time.  I am not proud of this, rather quite ashamed that I went to all this trouble to go to yoga, only to defeat all my moral standing with lies.

Shakey ground to begin what is suppose to be a grounding practice. I eventually left London for good, and with it Bikram yoga. I re-encountered a different yoga practice when I was visiting family in Hong Kong. My cousin introduced me to who I would like to call my first yoga teacher, Tiana Hariela who taught at the Mandarin Oriental Landmark. There, I went to my first Ashtanga yoga class, and discovered that real heat in yoga isn’t generated from being in an unnaturally hot sauna. It comes from the breath and  pranayama, a term that refers to deep breathing. From there, I learned that true strength is built slowly over time, and flexibility isn’t overly twisting relaxed muscles into a pretzel. Conversely, the results isn’t just relinquished water weight, what’s left is a more profound and enduring strength.

Tiana’s class was the first of many yoga classes in the last 3 years, including power, hatha, kundalini and yin to name a few. Since then, I have moved back to the city I was born in, and have transitioned through many changes. The one constant in my life has been yoga. It has kept me sane when everything else around me seemed to crumble.

I started yoga because I wanted a workout, but continue with it as a lifestyle because the balance I learn from the mat translates directly into my life. Whether I am having a good or bad week, when I bring myself back to the mat, it’s as if I have pressed the re-set button back to center. I always leave yoga with what I describe as a “shiny happy” feeling. It’s true, next time you’re at your local yoga studio, take a look around, everyone seems to be bathed in a little bit of radiance.

Namaste.

Some two wheels are better than others

“Get a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live.” ~ Mark Twain

Mark Twain was right. However, there was a time when I envisioned zipping around town in a Vespa, a sea foam green one at that. And, perhaps, I had inaccurately romanticized the sight of myself wrapped in a headscarf, scooting on an unmarked road along the Amalfi Coast.  Too many afternoons sipping Italian cappuccinos at the Scooter Caffe didn’t discourage the cause.

My first opportunity to ride a Vespa was at work. While the scooter wasn’t the perk that sealed the deal, it sure sweetened the offer. I waited two weeks into my new job before venturing to ask for a scooter tutorial. I could no longer resist the wanton winks of the chili red two wheeler.

A co-worker offered to get me going, revving up the little motor as it let out a throaty roar. I hopped on with trepidation. Sheepishly it seemed too late to back out. Readying myself to go, I instantaneously forgot which hand was the brake, and revved the throttle, lurching backwards to my co-worker’s horror, as he leaped forward to grab hold of the scooter, to prevent an imminent crash into the cement wall. Visibly pale, he reluctantly eased his grip from the Vespa as the gates of the garage door pulled up. I barreled out onto the uneven alley way. With cars inches behind and in front of me, I longed for the security of doors and a rear view mirror I could see behind.

The reality of my brief Vespa ride was anything but glamorous. But, I was already at an intersection, with no choice but to go forward in order to go back. At the first sign of the green light, I rolled the throttle with force and teetered into traffic. Barely across the intersection, I panicked at the sudden momentum and pulled the brakes. The scooter jolted to a sudden stop. In slow motion, I tipped over to the right, while my body rolled to the left, as my flip flop dove into oncoming traffic. A string of cars halted behind me. Shaken, I managed to regain both the rogue sandal and the Vespa’s balance to putter over to the nearest side street for refuge, before rounding my way back.

That was both the beginning and end to my only Vespa escapade. I recently inherited a bicycle, and have no regrets to the alternative two wheel choice.

Not a book, but a blog

Not too long ago, I recall people musing about penning their first book. I never had wild visions of authoring one myself, but of late, I am intrigued by blogging. It somehow seems a little less intimidating than having to muster the courage to scrape together a manuscript. I see it as a form of citizen journalism, and a personal social experiment. Let’s see how it goes.

“Love your experiments (as you would an ugly child).” ~ Bruce Mau