Maybe it’s because Halloween is in the air at work that I’ve noticed a little something I’ve been calling “The Veil of Fear.” I’m not sure exactly where it came from — just that one morning at the cottage, I lay down in savasana (corpse pose) at the end of my yoga practice, and I heard the words loud and clear in my head. Veil of fear, I heard. You have to lift the veil of fear. Hmmm…. So Yoda.

Even though I was supposed to be thinking about nothing (and, for sure, because I was supposed to be thinking about nothing), I relaxed into the yoga pose and started thinking about this veil of fear and how, epiphany, I live under one pretty much all the time. It’s very subtle, so I don’t always notice it; but it’s definitely there. And I suppose with the right dose of psychiatric drugs it would just fall away. But then that would be no fun, would it? And it would be bad news for the lakes, rivers, oceans — to which, bizarre as I sound today, I connect on, like, a visceral, pelvic level. I noticed that, too, the other day, as we drove home from the cottage for the last, *sniff,* time this summer.

So is it just me, or do you live under a veil of fear too? If you do, what happens when you imagine — even just for a moment — lifting it up? It’s like, ahhh…. Everything becomes clearer, no? Is it me? Or do most of us live with this? It is the age of anxiety, no? And with the kids going back to school, a huge transition, the veil’s thicker than ever….

I guess that’s one of the reasons I still can’t shake my chai latte addiction, why I can’t lose this thick veil of weight I’ve been carrying since the brutally anxious days of my pregnancies…. And it’s why I need to go to yoga every day — to wake up at a crazy hour (given how late I stay up working) and enter a room full of others, their journeys, veils. Because there it’s just breath, and being, and learning and floating, and lifting the veil as I bend my knees and fall backwards into a deep backbend, an upside-down rainbow.

Here’s the inspiring teacher who makes me do it — it’s time you guys officially met. In my 28 years of studying yoga, he’s the only teacher who’s gotten me to really practice daily and begin to transform. He is awesome, so check out his new DVD, okay?

I’ll let you know when the DVD becomes available….

I heart yoga.

I’ll be buzzing around downtown Toronto for the next week or so for the Toronto Film Festival. I’m going to the Hello! Canada Magazine red carpet Saturday night (my birthday!); the Monkey and I will be meeting Heather Graham Sunday; and we have some other interviews and fun stuff going on (like an early morning event with the Rascal that will keep me from yoga tomorrow, alas, but it’ll be fun).

In the meantime, the Monkey’s in Grade One, and the Rascal’s entering Kindergarten tomorrow. I guess that’s for another post — except to say that I shed tears, Gorgeouses, a veil of them.

xo Haley-O


I could totally write a sappy post right now — since I’ve been known to hazard them a little lately, AS I struggle over and over again to find my identity both on- and offline. Who the hell am I supposed to be? What do the PEOPLE want? And is that what I want? Who, me? Who?

And this was NOT what I meant to write about today….

So, I’ll just write from the heart, and give you whatever comes from this way-overtired brain tonight. And when I say way overtired, I mean WAY overtired. Overtired enough this week to…

a) buy the same book for myself twice in FOUR DAYS.

b) walk out of TOYS R US with unpaid MERCH under my armpit (of course, I ran back and paid for it).


Rascal. The Rascal stole my bagel. He’s TWO going on BAGEL THIEF.

He’s 2 as of tomorrow, that is, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — on the CUSP of Virgo. Yes, he escaped Total Virgo by a thread (a special, lovely, golden thread, with magical powerses). Two years old. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LITTLE MAN, and your tenth percentile, and your BIG OLE ZIT on your cheek that I’m hoping to GOD isn’t chicken pox because I’m way overtired. Overtired enough to…

a) let my overtired daughter stay up AGAIN to watch So You Think You Can Dance Canada, which, by the way, is AWESOME.

b) attempt to put a shoe on Rascal’s HAND instead of his foot.

c) ask a mother at Monkey’s new school first-and-foremost if there was good PARKING at her daughter’s dance school.

d) mouth “HELP ME” to the cat. This cat:


Wait. That’s a pygmy goat. Bygones. And he’s eating my stroller. No wonder my stroller SUCKS lately….

Yes, Rascal is 2 years old. Amazing. And, lucky for you, I’m too tired to get sappy. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you how precious he is with his toothy, ear-to-ear smile with scrunched-up nose, his fluorescent blond hair, his massive blue eyes, and that belly button — “BUTCH, Mama, BUTCH” — that he loves to fondle, and the “CH” sound with which he finishes ALMOST every word he utters, and his still-doughy legs and bubble butt. Just? Love….

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you about Monkey’s first days of kindergarten and how she clings to me some days wanting no school but “MAMA,” but then comes home elated and proud of herself and HYPER and horribly, terribly naughty…, and how almost every other girl in her class is BLOND-HAIRED and BLUE-EYED, and how I’m not sure how I feel about that….

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you how short Monkey’s hair is thanks to a certain children’s hair salon that specializes in THE IGOR….


And, how Josh-O was furious that I did that to OUR DAUGHTER, and how SHE LOVES IT. HOW I (me) LOVE IT….


…and kitties.

They’re growing up so fast….

Love! I’m too overtired to go to bed. Maybe will tweet for a bit….

xo Haley-O