My Nomadic Heart

The first significant journey I can remember was when my mother decided to take my brother and I across Canada by train. It was 1978, I was 4 years old, my brother was 8, and my mother was 26. We were quite the troupe. We travelled from Ottawa to Vancouver, with a stop-over in Winnipeg to visit my aunt Kathy, my mother's older sister. I can only remember snapshots of that trip, helped by photos I'm sure, and the stories that were recounted over the years. But there was one story that was mine alone, my brother was there but we've never talked about it so the memory is unadulterated. It was the first time I met my father. I wonder sometimes if that was the whole purpose of the journey. My mom

Routine Rebel From Birth!

Seriously. I revolt against routine all the time and have for as long as I can remember, ask my mom. As an infant it drove her nuts but she definitely perpetuated it by leading a heroically erratic life and dragging me along with her. I didn't have a chance. Let's get a few things straight first though. What do I mean by routine exactly? Well, according to Websters, it's "a sequence of actions regularly followed, a fixed program". And therein lies the revolt. Sure, there are some actions I do regularly; I meditate everyday, I do yoga almost everyday, I make my bed every day, I certainly eat everyday, and use the toilet but none of those things are done at the same time or in the same order.

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© 2020 Nina Taylor - In honor of your magnificence