It was a long time ago.  I was 22, and a student at the Carleton University School of Social Work in Ottawa, Canada. 

I remember being overwhelmed during the practicum I had in the Social Work Department of Kingston General Hospital.  I was armed with various communication skills and therapeutic theories … but not at all prepared for doing family therapy with dysfunctional parents and children.  Too young.  Not enough life experience.

Among many resources, we students were introduced to Transactional Analysis (TA) – a mapping of communication developed by Eric Berne, a Canadian psychiatrist.

TA has recently returned to my mind

Eric said that your approach when communicating can be described as Parent, Adult or Child.

Parent – dictates values, customs, rules and boundaries.  It is usually split into the Critical/Controlling Parent (judging, scolding) and the Nurturing Parent (comforting, guiding).

Adult – evaluates situations rationally based on objective, present-moment facts.

Child – replays thoughts, feelings and behaviors experienced during childhood.  It can manifest as the Natural/Free Child (creative, spontaneous, emotional) or the Adapted Child (subservient, rebellious or conforming to appease others).

***

I’m thinking of many interactions I’ve had with people recently.  Here’s the short version of what I’m seeing:

In the diagram, the person on the left says something and the person on the right replies.  The ideal pattern is Adult to Adult:

A – What time does the play start tonight?

B – At 20:00.  We’ll need to leave home around 19:15

Sometimes though, the lines of communication aren’t parallel.  They’re crossed:

A – What time does the play start tonight?

(Adult to Adult)

B – You should have written it in your agenda.  Why are you so disorganized?

(Parent to Child)

Or …

A – What time does the play start tonight?

(Adult to Adult)

B – How should I know?  Why are you always bugging me?

(Child to Parent)

***

I imagine you get the idea.  Probably many other examples bubble up in your mind.

But enough said

Please … more Adult to Adult conversations in my life

And in yours

I was in Bruges yesterday, dipsydoodling among the cobbled streets and the green grass of parks.

Koningen Astridpark sat there on my Google Map, near the centrum.  Switching to “Photos”, one image stayed put in my mind.  It appeared to be a sculpture of a man lying on a park bench, hidden under a blanket.  But his feet!  There were nail holes.  It was Jesus.

Although I’m not a Christian, I see Jesus as a sublime spiritual teacher.  I wanted to find him.

Astridpark was small and lovely: big trees, lots of lawn, a pond with a sculpture in the middle, a gazebo and an awesome playground for the kids.  But no Jesus.

I asked a fellow who was walking his dog if he knew where Jesus was lying.  He didn’t.  “I’m not Catholic.”

I tried my friend AI to see what she had to say.  Et voilà:  There is a church called Heilige Magdalenakerk at the south end of the park.  And that’s where I’d find the bench, plus the sculpture titled “Homeless Jesus”.

AI told the truth:

I stood and stared.  I leaned forward and touched the hidden one’s head … and lingered for awhile.  I sat down in the empty space at Jesus’ feet and touched the nail holes.  I remained in place for half-an-hour or so.

The bench faced a busy intersection.  The flow of vehicles, cyclists and walkers.  A man and his son came by on their bicycles.  He had his hand on the boy’s shoulder the whole time as his joyous words disappeared into the air.

Minutes later, a woman was walking her large white and brown dog.  The dog had three legs … and so what?  She or he scampered over the cobblestones, not a care in their doggie world.

***

Jesus was pleased

(Photo by Life Time Values)

I sat and watched leaves fall today … letting go.  There weren’t a lot of them yet.

I sat and watched the sun say “Hi” and “Bye”.

I sat and watched the bark on immense trees brighten and darken in accord with the sun.

I sat and watched birds flitting over the surface of the river, chasing each other, fluffing up their feathers. 

I sat and watched walkers walk by.  I said hello to many of them.

I sat and watched joggers jog by.  They were too fast for a greeting.

I sat and revelled in the warmth on my skin.

I sat and shivered.

***

I sat

(Photo by Getty Images)

My friend “Beatrice” wants to be a model.  I’m guessing she’s 50.  She has a large body but not what society would call “fat”.  And she’s a great distance from the anorexic-looking young women whose upper arms are a straight line, with no visible bicep.

There’s the eternal question that adorns one of my t-shirts: “Why not?”

Where do limits come from?  Do we really need fences?  Or high walls topped by razor wire?

I think we’re made to run free in the meadows of life.  And yes, we need to pay the rent and put food on the table.

But I’m pretty sure the wind was created so that it could flow through our hair.  And our eyes seek the mountaintop vista.

Let’s go there

(Photo by Sue Winston)

Two nights ago, I went to the Sphinx movie theatre to watch “Pressure”.  Last night I did the same thing.

It’s World War Two.  The Allies are planning for D-Day … the invasion of Normandy.  They need an accurate weather forecast for their soldiers crossing the English Channel – infantry, paratroopers, pilots.

The man in the blue shirt is James Stagg, a brilliant Scottish meteorologist recommended by British Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

The man at the upper left is Dwight Eisenhower, the commander of the Allied forces.  The buck stops with him.

I will watch “Pressure” a third time, because I need to learn how to be brave. 

I’ll watch Jim Stagg.  He forecasts bad weather for June 5, 1944 – the scheduled invasion day.  His American colleague says that it will be clear skies, an opinion that Eisenhower and all the generals want to be true.  Stagg stands alone … quietly, assertively.

Eisenhower yells …

My recent problems with my landlord are nothing compared with the lives of thousands of soldiers.  Still, it took courage to stand up to him.

I keep watching Jim Stagg.  At one point, when Eisenhower is glaring at him, determined that D-Day sticks to schedule, a call comes in for Stagg.  His pregnant wife has been taken to hospital, and that hospital has been bombed by the Germans.  He doesn’t know if his wife is alive or dead. 

He walks out of the command centre onto lawns where a tent village has been set up for soldiers.  Four of them are drunk – dancing wildly, singing loudly.  And Stagg’s brain is exploding. 

His wife, the future of the world (Nazi controlled or not), and he’s the chief meteorologist, about to tell Eisenhower his decision, his best guess about the weather … which is bad.

***

And so I learn more about standing

Not crumbling

Standing

I walked into a church today that I had never before entered.  It was a lovely space.  What I hadn’t realized was that it would be closing between 13:00 and 14:00.

Just before the time, a male voice came from above.  A short message, delivered in Dutch, French, German, English, Spanish and two other languages that I didn’t recognize.

I smiled at the symphony of words.  It felt like the whole world was sitting with me in the sanctuary.  We all were included.  We all were seen.

***

I read an article today in Tricycle magazine, a Buddhist publication.  It was written by Vanessa Zuisei Goddard.

One of my favorite stories is by Ursula K. Le Guin, called “Things”.  Set in a nameless country, the inhabitants are facing the end of the world, divided between those bent on destroying the last of what’s left and those celebrating the End of Days.  Belonging to neither camp is a bricklayer named Lif, who dreams one night that beyond the horizon lies a set of islands.  It’s a place he’s never been to, has never even seen, yet he knows, with a certainty that surprises him, that if he wants to live, that’s where he must go.  If the old world is dying, his only hope is to go to a new world – a world he somehow knows is possible, is real.  And so, the next morning, he gets down to work. 

…

Standing at the end of the path, water up to his nose, and wind whipping his hair, Lif paused for a moment at the threshold of the known, trusting this was the way to the unimagined.  Then he leapt.

***

I feel myself teetering on an edge

The comfort of the known

The vastness of the unknown

May I take to the air …

To a home that I’ve never been to

That I’ve never even seen

Jackie Evancho

Sarah McLachlan

My dear wife Jody died in November, 2014.  At her Celebration of Life in January, 2015, I chose a few of my favourite music videos to honour her.  One of these was Jackie Evancho performing “Angel”.  In two weeks and a bit, I will do the same at an open mic session.

It’s a song of love … and of the sadnesses that life contains.  Here are my favourite lines:

There’s always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it’s hard at the end of the day

…

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear

You’ll find Jackie’s concert video at the end of this post.  It still speaks of Jody.

“Angel” was written by Sarah McLachlan.  Jackie’s rendition left out a verse that contains more glimpses of the heart:

It’s easier to believe
In this sweet madness
Oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees

Sarah’s video follows Jackie’s, and has the complete lyrics.

…

A young soul and an older soul

Breathing the words out into the world

A privilege to behold

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=S8pES-daRV4&si=x8pM1zWYB5NgDgST

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=NIryRIXye24&si=mkbS0Vpvk1y4W1tG

I told you yesterday about yelling at someone for the first time in my adult life.  Then a friend said “You were a teacher.  You never yelled at a kid?”  And a 40-year-old memory came.  So … yesterday I yelled at someone for the second time in my adult life.

This weekend I’m in an online retreat with the Core group of the Evolutionary Collective.  I told my yelling story to the group – about 60 folks.

The teacher asked me to let go of all the identity stuff …

I’m a good person

Maybe now I’m a less good person because I yelled at someone yesterday

I’m a bad person

My first thought was “If I drop all these identities, will there be anything left?”  The second was “Will I just be part of some bland spiritual soup, my molecules no different than the ones next to me?”

I didn’t voice these concerns in the meeting.  I just reflected on what the teacher said.

Something about paper, about lists, about figuring things out.  Words came back …

Let the piece of paper float away, Bruce

Today “identity” feels solid:

I am A

I am not B

I don’t want to be solid.

There’s a particularity that flows out of me, unique in the world.  I can’t stop that flow – nor would I want to.  Today it seems that settling on an identity gums up the flow.  A dam.  Stagnant water.

Hmm.  What a waste of energy – deciding on, constructing and defending an identity

…

On to the new

I did?  Me?  This nice little Buddhist guy who bows and smiles a lot?

Yes

For a few weeks now, my neighbour has often played his music too loudly, far beyond what I think the word “appropriate” means.

One time when I asked him to turn it down, he yelled at me.  I didn’t yell back.  That would have been bad, showing that I was a bad human being.

The next time my walls were rattling with downstairs music, I phoned the police.  I didn’t want to be yelled at again.  They told him to lower the volume.  He did, and then yelled at me in an e-mail.

It was 9:00 am this morning.  Music from within.  I knocked on his door.  No answer, but the volume went up.  I walked down to the street and looked up at his open window.  He was standing there.

Me: Turn down the volume!

Him: This is not America!

Me (yelling): Turn down the volume or I’ll phone the police!

***

Even though my memory is an inexact science, I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone before in my entire long life.

Now it’s an hour later, and I’m tapping away in Izy Coffee.  The knots in my stomach about music at 4:00 am are gone at 10:00.

What is this?

Where am I?

What does it mean to be me?

My view of being a spiritual person has been stood on end.  Made broader.  Embracing more of the tapestry of life.

The issue with my neighbour is still there.  But my experience of it has been shaken.  Energy is flowing, not crammed into a box.  I am bigger.

And on we go

Photo by Sebastian Wienroth

I sat with a friend in a tiny park today, watching young boys kick a soccer ball around.  I couldn’t tell if it was two teams or just kids having fun.  I was having fun experiencing the pure joy of them “going for it”.

I took a photo of the action, but not the one you see.  My friend advised me that the boys would be recognizable in the picture, and therefore it was illegal to post it on the internet.  The photo above, although clearly not from Belgium, gives you a feel for the game.

No uniforms, no apparent strategy, just a lot of kicking, chasing and yelling.  I loved it!  Kids falling, kids skipping, passes usually off target.  The joie de vivre of the young ones – teachers of the old ones, if we’re willing to look.

The male teacher let the kids rumble over the makeshift playing field, with coats laid down as goalposts.  He let the bursting of ten-year-olds take over the local world, only speaking up when it was time to go.

Grass stains, muddy patches, sweaty faces … it was wondrous to behold.  I was lifted up in my soul.

***

Thanks, kids

You taught me