The Ride Between Selves

A bike, a mantra, and the quiet pull of the sacred.

May 17, 2025

It’s April 24th 2016, and I’m sitting in Keswick, Ontario.
I’m back in my dad’s house, in my childhood bedroom.

Although nothing resembles what it once was—this isn’t a shrine to childhood. I left at 18 or 19, and like many of us, I’ve had to return here more than once.
Each time—mishaps, transitions, restarts.

This time, it was Montreal that brought me back.

I sat in that room thinking: what’s next?

Edmonton was on the horizon again.
I didn’t want to abandon the path of Bhakti(Yoga of Devotion).
The guru I hoped to follow was returning to Toronto, and it had been suggested I spend time at the Toronto temple. I’d been there before the Montreal chapter and remembered it having a different energy.
Less orthodox.
More open.

Toronto’s swami was known as a modern voice within the movement—respected for walking across Canada and embodying the path in a grounded, personal way.

I wrote off my experience in Montreal as an outlier.
And began wondering if maybe, just maybe, my place on this path was as a householder—someone spiritual, but in the world.
Still, shame and insecurity lingered, especially around my sexuality. I didn’t know yet how to hold that part of myself with dignity and devotion.

Then I remembered—I had my bike.

I could ride down to the Toronto temple for a week, then bike back and visit my grandmother.
I hadn’t seen her in a while.

I had visited my grandfather before he passed the year before—just barely. I was out biking in the Rockies when he was hospitalized. When the tour ended, I was given the choice: see him before he passed, or attend the funeral.

I chose to see him.

(That’s how life works for people like me—wandering, neurodivergent, often improvising what others plan months in advance.)

So I packed some clothes and set out.

The ride from Keswick to Toronto was about 75 km. It took just under five hours.
The route was far more urban than what I was used to near Edmonton. So much growth I didn’t recognize. Concrete where memory once lived.

But I made it just in time for lunch at the temple.

The Swami greeted me and asked, “Want to go for a walk?”

Of course.
In typical monk fashion, the walk was closer to 10 km—through the ravines near Rosedale.
Even now, you might spot him out there, walking. This man had walked across Canada twice.

We talked. Chanted. Wandered.
And something in me knew: this would be my guru.

His road experience. His practical spirit. His modernity.
It felt aligned.

This began a friendship and mentorship that would unfold in unexpected ways.
Like most things—it held both light and shadow. For a period of my life he played a special role, but like all things that came to a end a few years later.

That week in Toronto was magical.
Kirtans. Chanting. Dancing.
Lively street outings.
Walks every day with my teacher.
We even visited a farm and spent time with cows.

members of the community had a farm north of the city.

But even in that joy, I was suppressing parts of myself.
I could still lose myself in identity.

I was talking to my ex again, and I felt ashamed.
Like I was weak. Like I was failing.
That voice would only grow louder in the years ahead.

But at that moment, I was alive.
Dopamine was firing.
Mantras were working.
I felt useful. Important.

I didn’t grow up religious. My parents raised me agnostic, with land and community-based values.
I didn’t recognize love bombing or institutional pressure.
All I knew was I’d been drifting across Canada for years, unmedicated, undiagnosed, and full of wonder. This created structure and my mind started to ground in some ways.

That week in Toronto felt like a blissing.

And then, I set out again—this time to see my grandmother.

She still lived in her home in Lindsay. I wasn’t even sure if she knew I was in Ontario. Last she heard, I might’ve still been in Montreal.

I met with my mom, her partner, and my brother at my dad’s house. We made a plan.
I would ride out the next morning.

This ride was different.

It was another 75 km, but this time took just under 4.5 hours.
No traffic noise. No urban growth.
Just trees. Fields. Sky.

I felt closest to the divine in those places—in nature, on a bike, in motion.

Our timing was perfect.
My mom and the others arrived just before me.

I rolled in and saw my Grandmother’s face light up.
Surprised. Delighted.

I told her I was staying for a week.
Still in monk mode, I slept on the floor.
I’m sure my family thought I was weird.
Honestly, they always have.

But that week was beautiful.
We played Scrabble into the night.
She shared stories.
It was just her and I.
My Grandfather was gone, and the family had gone home after the weekend.

I spent the rest of the week exploring.
Biked around Sturgeon Lake.
Visited Fenelon Falls—a place that felt like magic as a kid.
Back then, it was probably just ice cream and MJ tunes in my dad’s car.
But now, it held a different kind of memory.

I visited family.
I let myself breathe.

It was healing.
It was quiet.

It was mine.

Looking back now, the contrast is clear:

The land held me.
The institution tried to mold me.

That week in Lindsay was the last time I would see my grandmother in mortal form.

The next time would be something I still don’t understand—what felt like her energy, the day before she died.
Maybe it was spiritual.
Maybe I was unraveling under the pressure of dogma.

But something in me knew.
And I’m grateful my final visit was by bike—
the way it all began back in Scarborough.

Chanting on Java beads in the Toronto neighbourhood of Rosedale 2016

After the visit, I returned to Toronto for another week at the temple.
I went deeper into the practices.
The food, the sound, the identity.

It felt like it was filling a void.
But what void, really?

That same week, I also went to two hardcore shows—
Sick of It All and Marauder.
Saw old friends from my Toronto punk scene.
Felt ghosts pass through the mosh pit.

All these versions of me, present at once.
All valid.
All true.

I just didn’t know yet that all of them belonged.
That nothing needed to be left behind.

That month ended in Toronto.
It was a full-spectrum experience.
Yin and yang.

And it set the foundation for the fire I was about to light back in Edmonton.

A fire of growth.
Of grief.
Of becoming.

Next Saturday, we continue west.
The road opens again.
And another layer of the spiral unfolds.

Until then—

🌿 redshanti.com
☕ ko-fi.com/redshanti

Some of these scrolls still sting.
But they’re how I remember.
How I let go.
And how I carry the ones I love.

— Red Shanti
Tkaronto, 2025

Last Saturday