Standing on the very edge of something safe and solid while contemplating the next step can stir up many things… excitement, adrenaline, fear, anticipation. 


Today as I stood on the edge of the peer, the metaphor it represented of my life right now was not lost on me.  The butterflies in my stomach were quietly considering ‘what if?’  Not what if I step off the edge, but what if I step into this life?  Fully. 

The move to this wonderland was prompted by many things. Things that cautioned me to take my time, see what comes, be patient, have no expectations, make no commitments…today though, it felt like I was ready to take that next step.  Not to jump, but to drop anchor.  Sometimes just as scary.

I am on the verge. Definition of on the verge of : at the point when (something) is about to happen or is very likely to happen

My butterflies are fluttering a soft encouragement.  ‘We like it here.’ They say.

Life is full of intentional irony… it also wasn’t lost on me that the stick I had been watching for (it’s different than looking) was waiting for me on my way back from the edge of the peer.  I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t walked to the edge. Nor if I hadn’t turned back.  

The butterflies settled then, knowing the wonders that brought me to this wonderland wouldn’t be forgotten or made less by choosing to drop anchor here.  Even in the settling, great change comes.

Naming Day

I wrote about this phenomenon when I experienced it in Fernie.  How significant it was when I recognized it: The saying of my name by a new person that has no agenda other than a willingness to spend some time with me.

Maria reached out and offered to take me on a ‘local’s’ hike.  At some point near the top she said my name.  ‘Sam’  Perhaps if you’ve never moved to a place that has  little social connection, or anchors of an instant community (work, kids in school, family, etc), or come to a profound life experience that changes your close personal dynamics (divorce perhaps) this may seem insignificant.


It’s not.

I’ve often called Fernie a place of orphans.  I think Squamish is a bit like that.  Transience has its own pitfalls to be sure, but the desire to reach out and build community creates an environment that offers the experience of hearing your own name in a new and exciting way.

Today was my Naming Day.  I didn’t know I was quietly waiting for it – but my heart certainly smiled in recognition of the name that carries it’s home.

There is a practice I do (Fr Joe calls it a ‘dis-possession’ prayer)

“You (insert job, partner, kids, illness, and finally……… name) are precious to me but not my life
I have a life to live and a destiny to meet that is separate from you
Thank you for coming into my life and

It’s not my name that I say goodby to, rather the ties that my ego binds to it. And that’s what makes hearing my name in this way so significant.  It was untethered and recognized me without labels.

It is a precious gift.
I am grateful.

What Yoga Means to Me. Today ;)

I just finished watching a clip the Genovese boys put out on (Google it, I have the free WordPress and can’t link) I see posts on Instagram every day from my son, Dylan, Andrea, FAR and friends that blow me away.  I feel the Kootenay mountains that nurture such passion pull at me when I witness the incredible feats these people accomplish.  I just passed my Senior Intermedaite 1 Iyengar assessment.  It is a big deal, to be sure – one that I am proud of because of all of the years of work I’ve put in to get this far, yet it pales in comparison to what I feel when I witness what I consider to be these young people’s yoga.

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ has a great essay about vocations (google ‘Elizabeth Gilbert vocation’ it comes up 1 St thing).  In it she compares the difference between hobby, job, career and vocation.  What is a hobby for many people becomes a vocation for a few.  Skiing, biking…yoga.  A type of calling that cannot be denied.  The kind of calling that spurs part time jobs, relocations, budgets and sometimes a lack of understanding at the sacrifice people are willing to make when their heart is being drawn.

When we see the Instagram photo or the video clip, we see the result of passion that can turn into vocation.  It’s that simple.  What we don’t see are the 10,000+ hours that were willingly put in because of the passion that make the shot what it is.  These kids aren’t ‘lucky’. They practice and have ‘tapas’ (burning discipline) like I’ve never had.  They hurt. They fail. They lose. They get frustrated. Yet, I imagine that they can’t imagine a life not doing what they love.  Each in their own way.

And, I am speculating – but like recognizes like – I would say that what keeps them doing what they do, is the same thing that gets me on my mat. That connection to the moment that feels like magic.  Where you are so consumed in what is happening that there is no place in your mind for the to-do list, the grevance, the pain, the wants, memories or plans.  Josh has said the perfect run is the one when he’s not thinking. When I ski, it’s all I do…not my vocation! But when I’m on my mat and in my groove – I can say the same thing.  I’m experiencing.  I’m fully and completely aware of what’s happening in my body.  I’m unaware of time passing and yet I am absolutely present.  It’s what yoga means to me.  It doesn’t require a mat, or skis, a bike or the Kootenay mountians (although they help!!!), it requires passion. And for each of us it’s different.  Sometimes it pays the bills.  Sometimes it is a bill.  Sometimes it’s academics or a trade.  A canvas, or an instrument.  A Harley or a horse. Whatever it is, it’s the calling to a heart that stops time and thought.  Challenges growth and demands competency.  And, especially, creates connections that foster support when you’re willing to step into what is drawing you.

i didn’t ask permission. And I can’t imagine they’ll ever read this, but I hope they are ok with me posting some pics of what inspires my yoga. From right, clockwise: Josh, Paul, Dylan, Andrea


imageI’m sitting in the Schipol airport in Amsterdam as I write this blog. It is significant, as this is the final stop before going ‘home’.   Edmonton isn’t home for me yet.  I know now that Medicine Hat never was and that Fernie always will be.  For now…

Home. Some people never leave it.  For some people they feel at home wherever they are.  For my son, home is where his friends are.  For others, it’s where their family is, or where they grew up.

My heart is aching for the 3 hour drive from YYC down hwy 22.  That drive that I’ve done solo, so many times now, that takes me home.  To my small group of friends that hold my heart and make my home.  Because, for me, comfort is in that place.  Comfort that provides a safe place for me to be uncomfortable.  And I am right now.  Uncomfortable.

Pune becomes a bit of a home while we are there.  The rickshaw drivers, maids, landlords and shopkeepers, little communities that we begin to care about. The students at the institute, the friends you make or reconnect with while you’re there all become family. The Insitute itself especially feels like home.  It is familiar to the point we notice if something’s been moved, added or changed since the last trip.  I wonder what happened to the coconut walla when he’s not on the street after class.  I tip our rickshaw drivers a little extra, because I am  worried, as they are that, that the foreign students may not be enough to support them too much longer.  The building and community around it, the students and the teachers all feel like home to me.  I was surprised how sad I was to leave this time.  I’ve never been sad before, but that’s because I always knew I would be coming back.  I don’t know that this time.

So, I relished the crazy rickshaw ride with Amin to the airport last night.  Soaked in the craziness of India as I’ve come to know it, because there’s no better way to be ‘in it’ than an open air rickshaw navigating the masses on a Saturday night in Pune.  I’ll take that with me in my heart as I make my new home in Edmonton.  I’ll take it with me whenever I go back home to Fernie or Valemount.

I’m  coming home 🙂

love, Sam


imageYou know when the last tumbler falls into place and you feel/hear the little ‘click’ of the lock that’s about to open? Or the proper arrangement of the puzzle piece as you place it in its right spot?  There is this sense of ‘aha’ to the mystery of what’s been before you the whole time…

Prashant has been gathering us at the far corner of the practice hall to look at a magnificent tree in the courtyard just outside the window all week.  He’s been using it as a metaphor, analogy, teaching tool. He’s been talking about rendering and seasoning in conjunction with it as well and I’ve been standing back letting it wash over me.  Because I just cannot try to understand that man.  Either he makes sense to you, or he doesn’t.  For me, whether I understand or not changes with the day and the topic and how he ties the philosophy to the asana work.  So my mode of operation in his class is to just let the commentary roll over and through me until the tumblers fall into place.

Which happened today… Click!  i wasn’t getting the ‘seeaasson, seeaassonning, seeassonned (season – but say it like that and you’ll get the rhythm 🙂 that’s been a big theme for him the last few classes.  It’s not far from the rendering idea, but deepens the lesson of it.

What finally made it click for me was his use of the imagery of seasoned wood used to make a door compared to unseasoned wood.  In monsoon season, the unseasoned wood expands with the moisture and is difficult to close, in the dry season, there’s gaps that let bugs in because it shrinks.  When seasoned wood is used, however, it always works properly because it is unaffected by the external forces.  It is in a non-dual state!  Ha!  Tumble, tumble, Click!

And this we take back to the asana.  The rendering  effect the physical practice has on our consciousness, will over time, season us to a non-dual state if we do the work.  Not to become disengaged or separated, but so that we work properly no matter what external forces, people, attitudes, climate we are exposed to.

India is filled with external forces that test how seasoned I am!  The assault on the senses, the effort it takes to go anywhere or get anything done, the yoga we are expected to do… And then throw in the extra glitch, because there’s always an extra glitch in India!  Illness, accidents, riots, floods, this year it’s a currency debacle that has everyone scrambling to try to get money – I’m going on my first scooter ride today to try to get some money today.  Everyone that has been here before just went ‘Holy shit!’ Everyone else – you have no idea!! All these things prove that I’m still in the seeaassonniinnnnggg  phase, because I am affected.  Relatively I’ve got it easy here but I still don’t want to go to the bank to stand in the throng of people just to find out there’s ‘no money left, come back tomorrow’.  I get tired waiting for my bill.  I sneered at the lady who sat on my mat yesterday.  Have i lost it? No.   I’ve come a long ways since the first year when I stopped going to classes because I knew if I kept going I might never come back.  I’ve matured since my second trip when the classes kicked my ass physically and I felt like a failure for most of the month.  I’ve transformed since my 3rd trip which was the first after my separation and I was emotionally raw.

Each trip here, just like each time I step onto my mat, is a rendering.  Sometimes the effect is a relatively swift awareness of acheivement – like doing an assisted drop back to Urdhva Dhanurasana today, sometimes it’s the slow steep that can only click the lock into place by trusting the process.  Letting the effects of the work wash over and through me, render and season me, until…

Tumble, tumble, click.

love, sam





imageWe are into backbend week at RIMYI (Ramamani Iyengar Memorial Yoga Institute) and it is a different experience (as always) this time – partly because I’ve come at a different time of the year.

In the past I’ve come in June or July when the weather is hot and heavy with rain.  The practice then, although challenging, is more from the Intro 1/2 and IJ I/2 syllabii.  Now as the weather becomes cooler, we are doing more jumpings, arm balances and yesterday with Geeta got right to Dwi Pada Viparita Dandasana (a difficult backbend) legs straight and together as our first foray into backbends just so she could evaluate where we are at.

Unlike other systems that put the body into false conditions (hot yoga with a consistant temp and humidity) we are expected to keep our body in tune with its natural surroundings and adjust our practice accordingly.

That is the 1st layer according to Prashant, the son of BKS, and philosopher of the family.  Practice according to the weather, our personal needs, our age and ability, the maturity of our practice.  He teaches the same asana again and again, even with the same instructions, but expects different outcomes each time depending on the subject he wants you to study with each attempt.  Asana for the body, asana for the breath, asana for the brain.

He started the month by asking us to find the usefulness of what we are doing.  For the beginner it is enough just to do, but if we want to progress, we must find the usefulness of the what, how, why we are doing.  And in order to do that, we must study the subject.  To which Prashant says; if we want it to be easy, we are not students.  Because the subject matter, if worthy, will challenge us with unknowns.  Demand absolute attention.  Require multiple attempts from different approaches. And the subject is important otherwise the Iyengars wouldn’t put so much incredible effort into trying to get their point across.  Attempting to get our brains to be like butter, as Geeta says, rather than stone, so that we can absorb and learn the teachings.   The subject is important because it is not just asana, it is not even yoga, the subject is our own consciousness.

Today in class Prashant made a point of referring to all of the asana pictures of Guruji that are displayed in the practice hall.  We (Hatha, or asana-based practitioners) are often thought of as superficial because of the physicality of our practice.  As opposed to the deep thinkers of a Jnana or Raja yoga, the contributions of Karma yoga, or the outward beauty of mantra.  With each asana we do however, we are expected to – as Guruji did – ‘render our consciousness’.   Just as a razor blade is rendered sharp and useful through exposure to extreme hot/cold temperatures, we render our consciousness through the challenging conditions of constantly exposing ourselves to the asana and studying ourselves through its lens so that we too may become razor sharp.

Geeta worked with a small group yesterday to get them to lift their heads off the floor in a backbend.  When they did it she pointed out that the result was not their acheivement, it was hers.  They were only able to do what they did because of her observations, her use of props, her instructions.  Now, if they are students, they will take all of that into their own practice and work on it until it becomes their acheivement.   This is how we render our consciousness.  By being the student, studying the subject matter, doing the hard work, taking what they are giving us and making it our own.

Those of us here this month are incredibly fortunate.  Geetaji has had health challenges her whole life and is having them now, however right now she is teaching beautifully and we and can tell she wants to take us somewhere.  (I’m not sure how much longer she will be able to teach…)  Prashant is as Prashant has always been, but I am different this time and am getting more out of his classes than ever before.  They have both been and continue to be, as their father did, students of the ultimate subject.  They have rendered themselves to finely honed instruments of knowledge.  They are trying their best to pass it on so that we may take their acheivements and through our own practice and study be able to render our own consciousness.  Hone it to become useful.  To our body, breath, mind.  Our family, community, students.

These trips are not frivolous, they are not holidays, they take us to places within ourselves that can be just as dark and scary as they are beautiful and glorious.  We all make sacrifices to be here – financially, time away from home, health risks – nothing about being a householder in India is easy! But even if we don’t realize it to begin with, none of us would come back if we didn’t feel the effects of the rendering taking place.

May my brain be like butter 🙂

love, Sam


The Story is in the Bread

Yesterday I went for a 4 hour food tour. Do it! Wherever you go, make this a part of your trip. Anthony Bourdain is right…the culture is in the food.

This is a sharing culture. One built on families and neighbourhoods. This land is also very much meat-based…sorry all my veggie friends – you may want to stop here 🙂

There were 7 of us on the tour…from Canada, Australia, Ireland and Switzerland that joined local Marrakecher, Atman for a tour of 4 eateries with some extra stops along the way.


We started in a narrow alley way in the heart of the Medina that no tourist would get to unless by mistake. In this laneway hardly more than a body-width wide, there were 5 small booth restaurants side by side that roast & sell meat. Sheep predominantly. In all its various forms. Behind the counter is a hole in the floor and in the hole is a cavern that is constantly fuelled with wood and filled with sheep. It doesn’t sound that great when I write it…but stick with me! These family-run roasteries serve tanjir (clay pots stuffed with meat and spices that are slow cooked to yummy, juicy, tender perfection) and roasts of sheep. Including the head. But not the brain… I don’t know why or what happens to it, but it seems Iike everything else gets used. It is brought on trays lined with craft paper and served with the local bread and sweet mint tea (Morrocan whiskey). We eat with our fingers and sop the juices up with the bread. Someone other than me eats the eye… But not really, it’s just the meat of the socket. The eye is not eaten, just left behind beside the rows of teeth in the jaw bone. Don’t forget – yesterday was Halloween.

Our next stop was a favourite local fish spot. We had a choice between sardine sandwiches or patties with veggies in the side. Ground sardines mixed with olives, tomatoes and spices stuffed inside a pita-like bread. It was good, but I wouldn’t stand in the cue that sometimes goes around the corner for it.

On our way to the next restaurant, we stopped at the neighbourhood bakery. Not the place that makes its own bread to sell, but the place you take your bread to be baked. Or cookies, turkeys, fish… The small room is lined by shelves and kept by a man that has stood by the opening to the massive oven for the last 40 years. He knows all there is to know about the neighbourhood, because the story is in the bread. The texture of the bread ingredients, the size of the loaves, the clothe it comes wrapped in, the tray it comes on, the number of loaves, if someone doesn’t show up when they are supposed to. Everything about the bread that comes into be baked tells the story. And this man knows…when someone needs help, when company is coming, who is a good match for who, when there’s extra money, when there’s not… It is not a nosy way of life. It is a life built on community. On connection. On knowing what it means to be part of the neighbourhood. And on trust. You don’t mess with people’s bread!

Every neighbourhood in Marrekech has 5 things that keep it together: a bakery, a mosque, a school for children to learn the Koran, a vegetable market and a hammam. Ah… The Hammam :)! It is the community bath house. Women go from 8am-8pm. Men, when the women aren’t there. Like the bakery, there is a man in the bowels of the hammam stoking the fires that keep the water warm, hot, hotter!. The one we visit is a fuelled by a happy, content man, because he knows he is providing an essential service valued by everyone in his community.

I had a hammam today in the small one provided at my Riad. It is decadent to be bathed and pampered by someone else. It is also something I would never, ever do in Canada. But here, because it is so much a part of the culture, for some reason it is ok. And essential. Go to Marrakech, have a hammam. Stay at Le Bel Oranger, have it on site. Please. Do yourself a favour!

Back to the food… From the bowels of the smokey oven that fuels the baths we went to a women’s-only trade square that had the most amazing couscous! It is the only area in the souks that is run by women – including this restaurant that is a second-generation eatery serving the some of the only vegetarian fair to be found… Couscous, along with tanjin is the traditional local fair. And if you can find your way to the Nomad restaurant and ask for the women’s market – order the couscous for the next day and make sure you remember how to get back. It’s worth the wait and effort!

Olives… They are the other traditional fair here. I thought I didn’t like them – but since they are served with every meal, like re-fried beans in Mexico – one develops not only a taste for them, but an appreciation! All olives come from the same tree (who knew!?) – the color depends in the time of harvest and the texture on the type of preservation. If the pit isn’t the same color as the skin, you’ve been duped!

The last stop was for fruit smoothies and cookies. They don’t really believe you here if you say you don’t want dessert. Commonly, it’s orange slices with cinnamon, but the little cookies we had are also a sure way to end a meal.

I was the only one in the group who had never been on a food tour before. I see why it is a necessary part of some peoples’ holiday… It’s not just about the food, it’s about the stories, the people and the culture fuelled by the food.

Bon appetite!


I have not travelled much compared to many. But I still feel very honoured to have seen some of this world. To know that it is so much more than what we are familiar and comfortable with. I have travelled all-inclusive style when it made sense for multi-generational ease, airbnb, b&b, with tours, solo, and have become a local householder when the time allowed. All of these ways of travelling offer different experiences. And, most importantly, levels of exposure if you are willing to stretch your boundaries. McResorts could be anywhere. Same pool, buffet, tours, trinkets, different beach, different airport.

When I first arrived in Morocco, i expected it to feel like India. Architecturally, I find it closer to Puerto Vallarta except clay-colored, not white. Dress is definitely Muslim – not familiar at all. Few full burkas, but not the shalwar kameez or saris I’m used to. Mostly, though, the difference is in the air. The weight and texture of it – and the smell. It is unlike anywhere I’ve been. There is history here, in the horizon that is made up of rooftops until there aren’t any and then it is like being on a waveless ocean of dirt. Not sand. Not by Marrakech. Sand is in the desert. Here it’s a fine powder that covers and dulls everything. It is what makes the tangines, the buildings, the roads, the city walls…the earth becomes the world here when mixed with some water, molded and left to dry in the scorching sun. Any bright color that shines through catches the eye and seems out of place, and it’s like that powder in the air absorbs odor. In India the first assault on the senses for me is smell. Good, bad, permeating all pores until i think whatever that smell is must be me!  Until it’s a really bed smell. And you know it’s really bad because it breaks through that which you’ve gotten used to and you know you must walk in the opposite direction. It is like a survival mechanism in India. Here, while there are smells, they are localized and surprising. They don’t waft after you and although I can’t say it smells fresh here, it is something I’m surprised to find lacking – happily so.

The second assault on my senses in India is noise. You are immersed in it until it becomes the background environment and you wake up if it becomes quiet. Here, it is noisy to be sure, but because of the high walls and maze of alley ways, like the smells, sounds become localized. My room in the Riad is the only one with a window to the street. All other rooms have their windows facing into the courtyard of the 3+ story building. For safety I assume, but also because the thickness of the walls and the height of the buildings dull the magnification factor the narrow alley ways have on loud noises. And they LIKE loud noises here! Drums, clapping, wind instruments, symbols, voices… all coming together in the speaker system of the alleys. Fading and amplifying with each new corner turned. Last night at 11:30 I was woken abruptly by the celebratory parade of joy when a young couple became engaged and they were joined by many in announcing the news! This morning just after the 5am call to prayer I was lulled by the rhythm of an elderly blind man walking around and around and around the small cul de sac outside my window. His hand softly scraping the sides of the building to guide him safely home and me back to sleep.

With each new experience travel brings me – no matter what my initial reaction to the sights and sounds – I am opened, and my tolerance and humility expand with that opening. My way is not the only way. Canada, as I know it – as wonderful, colourful, fresh, safe and real as it is can lull me into a kind of white wonderbread way of being. Familiarity breeds habit and, as Mr. Iyenger says, habit breeds disease. I can feel that disease creeping in at home with the hateful messages and ditch/ditch rhetoric of politicians tricking down to the people who actually have to work in those ditches. Making intolerance an acceptable tone. Making us/them a way of life.

Because of that, more than anything, I am so incredibly grateful for this opportunity to step away from the narrow way of thinking that becomes a way of being into a space that challenges and expands me. To be reminded that difference is not only ok, it is essential. Here I am welcomed by people who know a different way of life than mine and they remind me that this world is magnificent because of that difference. I am reminded that no matter how loud or stinky, bright or flat, no matter how different, we are all walking this Earth together.



After the intensity of teaching and being at the AGM, the mind over-load of studying/observing for 9 classes over 4 days at YTC with the incredible knowledge base and compassion of Marlene Mawhinney, 3 plane rides and 2 hours to get through customs in Marrakech, I slept! Until 9:40! I set my alarm for 8, but didn’t even hear it. I woke up to kids playing in the street outside my window.

Aziz, a native Berber and manager of the Riad la Bel Oranger (;sid=f715143b32d28e2de600b25b90c93dfd) gave me a quick orientation after breakfast which consisted if really good coffee :)!, and bread or pancakes. He is a lovely, smiley, man that waited up so late for me to arrive the night before. Elyas was the driver that picked me up at the airport – I told him I’d tip him when I saw him again

– I hope I do…he was fantastic! He was very tired after having to wait for me to clear customs. There’s nothing like seeing your name on a piece of paper held by a person with a huge smile after a long journey to a new place!

With Aziz’s basic instructions and a whole lot of trust and repetitive mental directional mantras (right at the spray-painted wall, with the purses on the left and the veggies on the right under the bamboo and I’ll be ok…, small arch to the right to get to the souks – make sure the large arch is on the right when I come back…), the directive to not make eye contact and say “la shukran” (no thank you in Arabic, thank you is Shukrya in Hindi so that one sticks for me), I set out to find the grand bazaar and main post office. It is truly a maze in the old city and the alley ways are so small and tight gps is of no use, so you better know how to landmark. I’m going to take a culinary tour while I’m here and the meeting spot is the post office, so I wanted to be sure I could get there on my own. I was warned repeatedly about the touts and aggressive behaviour of the Morroccan men, but so far I can’t find anything to be concerned about. I’m going with it was because of my hat, sunglasses, and confident walk – not my age ;). As well, I am not shopping, which makes things easy. If you are a shopper, this is the place to be! And if you are, you then need to be in command of your bargaining skills, wits and sense of humour – or you will be overwhelmed and taken advantage of. Which is as it should be. Their land, their rules. Your problem when you don’t play by them.

The central square is the largest bazaar on Earth. They were just starting to set the tents up for the madness of the night while I was there. It’s a daily event and something to be seen. Even in the quieter hours of the day, the snake charmers and performers were out. Men with diapered monkeys on chains – some not happy about that and very aggressive. Ladies doing henna. Musicians. Vendors. Rows and rows and rows of absolutely anything you want to buy. All of them want your money – even if you take a picture of any of them – you’ll be harassed. Thus the lack of close ups ;).

Because I’m on my own, I’m glad I’ve been to India before and know the drill. That I’ve bought my share of souvenirs and am travelling with carry on so I have no room for one thing more. That I know how far a smile goes. That I know learning ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ in the native language goes even further. Barney was right – they are the magic words 🙂 (let me hear from you if you know what that means 🙂

I’m also glad that I know Morrocco is a ‘dry’ country – unless you want to spend 16 Euros on a glass of wine! As I write this I am sipping my contraband vino bought at the duty free in Madrid just before I boarded the plane. Glad too, that I purchased the only bottles (yes, plural…they are individual-ish servings 😉 because everything else had a cork and there are explicit instructions at the Riad that NO OUTSIDE food or beverages are allowed. My gig would have been up if I had asked for a corkscrew!

So…it’s time for a nap. Tangine avec poulet et citron (Angelique??? Boy I could use you here!) for supper and then, if I’m really brave, I’ll head out into the craziness of the bazaar tonight.

Stay tuned…I’m booking a tour for tomorrow – not sure which one yet???