This past Father’s Day was my first without the man who has truly been present as a father throughout most of my life. My dear stepdad – Dr.Cosmas Leung – passed away while we were on a family vacation to Los Cabos, Mexico.

Each of us experiences and expresses our grief differently, but one beautiful blessing I have discovered throughout this ordeal is that grief unifies. So many old friends of his and my own, work colleagues, relatives, even relative strangers have taken the time to reach out to me and my mama to share their memories of this wonderful man. For a man who sometimes doubted his impact on the world around him, he would have been astonished to know how much he mattered.

My deepest hope is that we may be blessed to know how much each one of us matters during our lifetime.

Five+ years after the pandemic waned, I continue to teachonline classes - for those who don’t live within an easy commute to MA Wellness & Yoga, or for those who prefer not to drive in the evening, or for those who live far afield in different time zones or postal codes, or for those who simply want to be able to remain in the sancutary of your home and still maintain your practice with me. A barrier that remains for a comfortable home practice is not having the right props. As such, here are my suggestions for common household items that you can substitute for “official” yoga props. If you want to invest in your own props, scroll down to the end of this post for my recommendations for Canadian companies that I support. For the record, the props I feel are most useful to splurge on are: (1) a good mat that will last you years, (2) a bolster, and (3) cork yoga blocks. Everything else can be easily improvised.

Even at kindergarten age, I was made keenly aware of my Other-ness. I was one of a few non-white kids in my class in North Vancouver. My “weird lunches” (leftovers of last night’s supper over rice) were a source of either fascination or disgust. I was taunted with non-sensical racial slurs like “Ching Chong China Girl” as the bully tugged at the corners of their eyes.

I resisted learning my father’s native tongue because I wanted to avoid being seen as even more “Other” than I already was. As was revealed to Brené Brown by a wise 12-year old: “If I get to be me, I belong. If I have to be like you, it's fitting in."

And so I spent the first decade of my life trying to fit into spaces I didn’t always belong. I clung hungrily to the privilege I could access. I didn’t simply isolate my use of language to English, I excelled in my grasp, earning the “Language Arts” award many years in a row in elementary school. I took pride in my own efforts to disappear my differences. See. I’m just like you.

Do you remember?

Do you remember who you were

before the world got its filthy, calloused hands on you?

Before those corrupted fingertips began to mold you

into a confined artifice of its own flawed self?

Before the impaired stewards of your formation imposed

their unmet longings

their shame-ridden regrets

their misplaced intentions

as warped compass to your path?

When Fernanda rescued little Bruno, an 11-lb Chihuahua mix, from the streets of Cabo San Lucas, he was a scrawny, sickly little scrapper - flea-ridden, eating garbage, sufferering from numerous infections, and terrified of people. She nursed him back to health, neutered him, and loved him back to life. Over and over, Fernanda has made this her mission, the thing she does to make change in her part of the world. She has decided that she can live with less, so that these animals can have more. Every spare peso she has goes to food, veterinary care, rehabilitating, and travel supplies and expenses to re-home these doggoes and kitties with families in Canada. And of course, adjusting to the cold climate requires purchasing sweet little sweaters like Bruno’s Rasta serape!

To those who claim your Divine Masculinity,

This is your time.

This is your year.

This is your moment to meet those who ride under the banner of the Divine Feminine,

Not as adversaries, not as challengers

Not even as champions.

As equals.

A pivotal scene in the much-hyped Canadian TV series Heated Rivalry, features a breathtaking kiss between two male characters. In the moments following a championship hockey game, the team’s captain signals to his love to join the rest of the players families as they swarm centre ice to celebrate their victory. This very public display of affection marks an historic moment in the fictitious professional hockey league, in which the player sends an unequivocal message: This man I love is my family.

On April 11th, I met Glennon and Abby at the In Bloom summit in Vancouver, hosted by Real Love Ready. I got to tell Glennon in person how her book influenced the most consummate shifts in my adult life, how grateful I was that she opened the gate and set all the “goddamn cheetahs” - including me - free, how the wisdom I gained from listening devotedly to their podcast galvanized my commitment to completing my Masters program. I got to tell Glennon that I quoted her words, “Now that I know this kind of love exists, I can’t pretend it doesn’t anymore”, in my wedding vows to my beloved, whose unwavering championship has enabled me to rise into my own potential, whose seeing me illuminated the path to see myself.

I am envious of my own dogs.

Libby, on the left, is 16. She has always been, let’s say, a conserver of energy. But these days, as she savours her elder years, Libby spends at least 22 hours a day in a deep sleep. When her little legs kick and tremble as she dozes, and her canine subconscious expresses sweet little whimpers or the occasional growl, I wonder if she still dreams of chasing swallows and squirrels as she did as a pup.

Hugo, at 14, is by far more energetic and continues to tear around the house every morning in search of his favourite toy and joyfully greets us at the door, plush toy offering at the ready, each time we arrive. But he too spends the majority of his day in a deep slumber.

As mentioned, I am deeply envious of these two.

For me, in the throes of my perimenopausal transition, still adjusting to denouement of three years embedded in the demands of a master’s program, and continually attending to the unrelenting thrum of daily responsibilities (when is that Star Trek replicator coming??), sleep has been inconsistent at best, elusive at worst. Every night feels like a roll of the dice - what fortune will Lady Luck grant me tonight?