Years ago, in Montreal, I went to an astrologer who told me I was an old soul, that this wasn’t my first life. 
Although I’m certainly no expert — not even close — and can’t even say I’ve done a lot of reading, or thinking, about reincarnation, it does interest me.
As a subject it came up many times when I was in India — especially in Varanasi — the spiritual capital of India.
It was there I learned that in Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism, Continue reading
Do you ever watch Super Soul Sunday? It’s one of Oprah’s and can be found on the OWN Network. On Sunday’s obviously. Here, in Toronto, where I live, it 
airs at 11 a.m. I have no idea what time it’s on anywhere else.
All I can say is, one of my favourite things to do on Sunday mornings used to be reading The New York Times and meeting friends for brunch. Since I ‘discovered’ this show about a year ago (although it’s been on for about 3 years, I believe), everything waits until after it’s over at noon.
Each week Oprah sits down with another “top thinker, author, visionary or spiritual leader and they talk
I’m always providing links to blogs I’ve read and really enjoyed. Or where I’ve found the inspiration for a post of my own. But I’ve never actually written out the 
content of another blog.
So today is a first for me. I was so moved, so touched and so inspired by what I read the other day, I knew a link just wouldn’t do it justice. The words themselves, the spirit behind them and the lesson to be learned, is just too powerful.
Particularly when you consider the poem I’m going to share with you was written by a young girl. Only fourteen or fifteen years old, in fact. But first, some background.
Elizabeth Blue, who wrote the poem, passed away on September 23, 2012, from lymphoma. Wise and talented far beyond her years, she was a gifted and prolific writer. She and her mother started a blog, Luminous Blue, when she first became ill. It’s purpose — to tell she story of their journey “with transformation, cancer, death and LOVE”. I’ve been following it for about a year.
Even though Elizabeth is gone, the blog goes on. What you’re about to read is the poem Elizabeth wrote when she was in her freshman year of high school 2004 – 2005. Long before she got sick. Long before there was even a hint her life would be cut short. Long before she’d experienced enough of life to be this wise. This ‘connected’ to her soul. I read it
In a previous post I wrote about how much I loved India. That trip has left an indelible impression on me for many, many reasons. First, the extremes:
The vastness of the country and the staggering number of people who live there. The over-the-top opulence and the abject poverty. The sight of some people driving BMWs, while others are riding camels, on the same street. Sophisticated cities like Mumbai, with its glass and steel towers, compared to the backward villages in Rajasthan, where the tools and implements residents use every day look like they’ve come from an archaeological dig.
The overwhelming noise — an absolute cacophony of different sounds. Horns, voices, vendors hawking their wares, music, traffic, screaming, laughing, dogs barking. The mind blowing colour, everywhere you turn. Prints, stripes, checks, plaids in combinations you cannot believe. Bolts of fabric, saris, flowers, painted buildings, displays of every kind, stacked floor to ceiling. The smell of curry, mingling with the scent of flowers, mingling with the odour of cooking food, mingling with the stench of dung.
What most impressed me, though, what I will never forget, are the people. Whether they are wealthy or live in tents on the street, they are kind, generous, compassionate, sincere, warm, grateful, welcoming, inquisitive, understanding, wise, calm, well intentioned and very, very spiritual.
I was there for a month. We spent part of an afternoon (completely by chance) and then had drinks with two brothers, princes, whose family not only owned the heritage palace hotel where we were staying, but most of the town. They made us feel as if we were old family friends, they were so pleased to see. The wealthy owners of a company that manufactures carpets and pashminas and clothing for export all over the world, and who also have a store where we shopped, invited us to their family home for dinner. There must have been twenty-five or thirty members of their family there — the Continue reading
365 And Counting 