Monthly Archives: July 2014

The Best Home

The Buddha was a pretty smart guy.  My favourite ideas of his are called the Brahma Viharas.  These are four ways of living which together contribute to other human beings, and if practiced, shower great happiness on you.  Simple ideas, but not simple to live day-to-day.

I’ve grappled with these qualities for many years, to have them be my automatic response to life, requiring no effort.  I’ve had some moments of success and many periods of being unconscious to their beauty.  It’s a remarkable journey.

The first is lovingkindness.  Just as it sounds.  “Be ye kind.”  “Love them all.”  Of course, it’s easy to love some folks, the ones who are friendly and upbeat.  But what about those who have been mean to me, who have tried to stifle my aliveness?  In my better moments, love flows naturally from me to them.  At those times, I don’t feel angry at them for the injustice.  Instead I’m sad, thinking about the rotten karma they’re creating for themselves.  I believe the energy that each of us puts out into the world eventually makes its way back to us, in this case causing great pain.  I don’t want that for the ones who have hurt me.  They too deserve love.  “Hatred never ends through hatred.  By non-hate alone does it end.”

Compassion is the second trait.  Sometimes, when I see sadness in another, or low self-esteem, or physical pain, I feel my heart opening, and the “shimmering down” of energy inside me begins.  There are so many people who seem overwhelmed with the curve balls of life.  On our trips into St. Thomas, we pass the entrance to a psychiatric hospital.  In good weather, several patients are outside, sitting on the curb, some smoking.  I can feel the anguish.  It makes me sad.  There is a practice called tonglen, which asks me to breathe in the pain of others and breathe out goodness.  It seems like a self-destructive thing to do, but it has brought me great peace.

Altruistic joy is my favourite among the four.  Some writers refer to it as sympathetic joy, but that doesn’t ring true for me.  It suggests feeling sorry for someone.  I think altruism is a marvelous word … it’s not about me.  The Buddha taught that it’s possible to feel delight when faced with the good fortune of another person.  When I’ve experienced this quality, I just feel so light.  One time years ago, Jody and I were walking in Stanley Park, near the entrance to the Vancouver Aquarium.  I didn’t think we had the money to go in there, an attitude of deficit that has never served me.  On the flip side, though, I was astonished to see how happy I was for the folks paying the fee and going inside.  I still remember that vividly.  And I usually smile to myself when I see happiness in front of me.

Equanimity is the fourth trait … to let whatever comes my way be all right.  “Welcome everything.”  If I’m experiencing a difficult situation, I can work at improving it in the future, but right now what you see is what you get.  Can I feel fine when someone I love is enjoying the company of another person, rather than mine?  Can I forgive myself for the financial mistakes I’ve made?  Can I see all parts of the roller coaster as part of the trip?  I think so.

These four are a pretty good place to call home.  It’s okay to be on vacation for short spells, but home is where I belong.

It Makes Me Happy

To lie in bed with Jody, holding hands

To go see the cashier, instead of paying at the pump

To watch the hummer at the very top of our blue spruce, surveying their kingdom

To drink big gulps from my shining green Herbal Magic water bottle

To sit curled up in my man chair, reading a cool Buddhist book

To inject Jody with Fragmin without hurting her

To wander down a wooded path in London’s Gibbons Park

To smile at a person who’s sad

To touch my bald head and feel the brain parts inside

To put on my cycling jersey with the snarling clown on it

To whee down the big hill on Fruit Ridge Line astride my bike Ta-pocketa

To sit in front of the Buddha statue on the patio, with a candle lighting his face

To make people laugh

To watch one person enjoying the company of another

To wrap my hands around a mug of hot Dulce de Leche

To watch Bill Murray in The Razor’s Edge for the umpteenth time (It’s not a comedy)

To drive at the speed limit on a two-lane highway, watching the world float by

To sing Annie’s Song to Jody, adding a special Irish Blessing verse

To read Mr. Mercedes, Stephen King’s latest, out loud to my lovely wife

To eat pesto pasta with friends

To sit in a sidewalk cafe on an incredibly steep street in San Francisco, just looking

To rub the tummy of our neighbour’s cat Pretty, listening to her purr

To lie in bed at night, cozy under the blanket, listening to the rain pelt down

To breathe life into Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown

To write

 

 

 

The PW and Me

I worked at the Prince of Wales Hotel for five summers – 1969, 1970, 1974, 1975 and 1976.  The PW is a grand chalet-style hotel, perched on a hill above the northern end of Upper Waterton Lake, with mountains running southward on both sides towards Glacier National Park in Montana.  I had marvelous adventures during the tourist season, hiking many trails with many friends.  The fall of 1974, however, was another kettle of fish.

Johnny, the hotel’s caretaker, had asked me to stay for September and October to close the grand old lady down.  I became a specialist in draining toilets and putting up shutters.  I slept in my room at the middle dorm – the only person there.  After all the summer parties in employees’ rooms, and the general hustle and bustle in the hallways, there was silence.  I didn’t even want to play music.  Spent a lot of evenings under my comforter, looking out the window at Waterton Lake and thinking about life.

Mealtime was another story.  I ate in Johnny’s house – with him, his wife Jean and son Brent … just a wee little lad.  I sat across from Brent and loved pointing behind him (“Look who’s there, Brent!”), and having him turn to see.  Then I’d take his plate of food and put it on my lap.  Looking back, I’m sure that he figured out my ruse pretty quickly, but kept going because the game was fun.  Many years later, back visiting family in Lethbridge, Alberta (near Waterton), Jody and I were walking through a mall when a young man looked funny at me, came right up, and said, “You stole my food!”  It took me a few seconds, but I finally got it.  “Brent!”  Very lovely.

Back in 1974, it was just Johnny and me in the hotel for eight hours a day.  I loved the old place and still do.  It was built in 1927, I believe by the Great Northern Railroad.  Imagine tall rough-hewed beams of dark wood, am immense chandelier way up there and maybe the best view in the world.  Seven stories altogether, with the last two squeezed under the eaves, and a series of interior balconies looking down on the lobby.  Cozy leather sofas were available to both guests and staff, and I spent many an hour listening to the string quartet and watching folks from around the world stroll towards the dining room.

In the fall of 1974, I often leaned over the fourth floor balcony, with no Johnny in sight, opened my mouth, and sang.  The voice was pretty good.  The acoustics were sublime.  And the world stopped.  One of my all-time best memories.

Johnny and I took breaks together, downing a lot of black coffee.  He was such a gentle man, almost always sporting a big grin.  We both loved the place.  The fact that Johnny liked me made such a difference in my life.  I needed someone to like me – preferably a girl, but Johnny would do until the love of my life decided to show up.

I wish you all could have been there in 1974, and felt the spirit of the PW.  Many of you, of course, were in other places, drinking in their essence.  And some of you hadn’t yet made your debut on this fine planet.  I bet that without you ever being there, you already know my dear old hotel.

 

Sanctuary

I went to see my dentist Paolo today, courtesy of three cavities.  His office is in a mall.  The rain was pelting down as I parked but I decided to walk at a normal pace towards the building.  Inside the door, I was soaked and very cold.  Plus several dry people were staring at the water running down my bald head (that’s a story for another time).  Customers carrying their bags passed to the left and right, and the teen clothing store near the dental office was a flurry of colours and music.  I wanted to be in a safe space, far from “the madding crowd”.

I walked into Paolo’s office, took off my dripping cycling jacket, and sat down on a leather love seat.  Cozy.  I looked at the magazine rack and spotted a Sports Illustrated featuring the San Antonio Spurs and their run to the NBA championship.  I hunkered down on the couch and started to read.  Even better, the receptionist came up to me to say that my appointment would be delayed for 20 minutes or so.  So I got to read the whole article, which focused on the Spurs’ inspired passing and team play.  Yummy.

Once I got into the examination room, I started shaking – it was a lot colder than the waiting area.  Bonnie, my hygienist, brought me a blanket and covered me collarbone to ankle.  Oh, cozy some more.  After Paolo injected the freezing agent, Bonnie and I talked as we waited for my mouth and tongue to go numb.  She used to be a swimmer at school, and mentioned one race where she had to do the breast stroke for two laps of the pool, and thought her lungs were going to burst.  She did it though.  I saw a bit of sadness there.  I talked about my storied football career – just one year, in Grade 9, when I was on the third string of the bantam team.  I never got into a game.  I also told Bonnie how I love cycling, and how I’m just getting back to it after stopping everything when Jody got sick.  This was fun, two new friends chatting about life – until my mouth became inoperative.

I was safe, and felt that way throughout the two hours, with the possible exception of Paolo using his grinder on me.  That didn’t hurt – just lots of pressure and a burnt smell.  Melissa was the person responsible for inserting the white fillings, and she and Bonnie often had their gloved fingers in my mouth at the same time.  That felt good, as did their friendly talk.  Sometimes I looked up at the overhead TV.  A woman named Katie was hosting a show.  Her next segment was on mindfulness, a subject dear to my heart.  My eyes opened wide when I saw that one of her guests was Sharon Salzberg.  She’s one of the co-founders of the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, where I’ve attended three meditation retreats.  So I had another friend while in the dental chair.  Nice.

Part way through Melissa’s work, with those ever present fingers touching me, I shut my eyes and meditated.  So quiet.  Mall, what mall?

After the whole show was wrapped up, I said goodbye to Bonnie at the reception desk.  She’s on vacation next week … thinks she’ll go for a swim.  Think I’ll go for a ride.  Twin smiles.

Sing Me a Love Song

“Play your guitar.”  Although the request was from my lovely wife Jodiette, I gulped.  It had been so long.  But why had it been so long?  I took group lessons in Ottawa in 1972.  During the spring of 1974, I often took my guitar out to the beach in Vancouver.  And in the summer of 1975, when I was managing the laundry at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, me and my guitar were pretty much joined at the hip.  I played in a staff talent show, and later that year sang “Hello In There” to folks who were with me on Vancouver Island at a workshop called “Coming Alive”.  So why did I let the musical zest seep away?  I don’t know.

A few nights ago, I played “For You” for Jody, complete with not-quite-right-on chords and a questionable approximation of the melodies.  Jody loved it.  She cried.  And I loved hearing my voice again.  I went to the Internet and found the lyrics and chords for some old favourites:  “The Mary Ellen Carter”, “How Can I Tell You That I Love You?”, “Help Me Make It Through The Night”.  And somehow I made it through the songs, with the finger burn making me stop eventually.  But it was a very sweet hour.

Over the last few days, I’ve forgiven myself for having let the guitar go, for not singing to my darling all these years.  I vaguely remembered having a thick file folder full of songs but I had no idea where it was.  Jody said, “Look in the piano bench.”  And lo and behold, there it was.  I also found eight sheets of paper, dated February, 1997, with the title “Songs I Want to Learn” … 115 in all (sadly, none of them learned).

Such a strange journey we’re on, full of imperfect choices and odd diminishments of aliveness, having had no intention of doing so.  It’s as if I’ve been asleep at times, in some sort of trance, walking the expected walk through the events of the day.  Jody has asked me to wake up.  And so I am, with many stories, melodies, harmonies and chords to come.

May ABBA teach us all:

Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing
Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me

Complete

Last night, Jody was sitting up on her side of the bed, and I was in a chair beside her.  Right in front of me was the tiny wooden table that holds her Kleenex, water bottle and a bowl for meds.  I looked at the light brown hand towel that covers the table, and especially at the tag hanging from it, the one with washing instructions.  My forehead wrinkled, and inside I said “No”.  I wanted the towel to be pure towel.  I wanted the essence of towel to be all I saw.  I knew that the towel didn’t need the adornment of “Machine wash in cold water.  Tumble dry low.  Remove promptly.”  It was a diminishment of towelness.

I feel the same way about meatloaf.  Don’t want the heavy gravy.  I need to sense the beef itself, and the spices the chef used.  Sometimes I get strange looks from people, implying that I’m not dressing up my food appropriately.  “So boring, Bruce.”  Oh well … it just feels like a different drummer, wanting to taste all the subtleties.  No better and no worse than anybody else.

The beauty of the blue spruce tree in our backyard is just so “balanced”, symmetrical.  And the light turquoise tips blend naturally with the brownish needles closer to the trunk.  It is enough.  At Christmas, our neighbour festoons his spruce tree on the front lawn with strings of multi-coloured lights.  In that context, I see this too as “sufficient unto the day”, with its own beauty.  But some folks add blinking lights to their display … and that draws forth another “No” from me.

I’ve always enjoyed watching movies in theatres.  I went to Expo 67 in Montreal as a teenager, and one day was watching a film outdoors with hundreds of others.  Suddenly something happened that I had never experienced before – instead of one image on the screen, there were now two!  A collective gasp filled the space.  I enjoyed the novelty, and actually was shocked by it, but the fact that I needed my eyes to go back and forth to see both movies started feeling like … no.  In 2014, many advertisements have pictures flashing by every second, assaulting my sense of now.  I don’t like it.

Perhaps I have a towel, tree, light and film idiosyncrasy.  I don’t mind.

Smiles

I study smiles.  Have for a long time.  Would you believe that I have a subsciption to The National Enquirer and that I reflect on the faces therein?  Well, whatever the magazine or newspaper, I’ve noticed that very few people in advertisements, stories or obituaries really smile.  I look at each face and say either “Yes” or No”.  Is it a truly genuine smile that shows the spirit within?  Is there a shining forth?  Too often, there is great pain revealed through the upturned mouth.  It makes me sad.  What are those lives like, and what about the loved ones who live beside that pain?

In my travels to many schools, I met countless faces.  I’m thinking of one woman, a secretary, whom I’ve known for many years.  Over perhaps fifty visits to her school, I had never seen her smile.  It’s been my hobby to say or do silly things, trying to make people smile or even laugh.  “Mary” never did.  None of my twistings and turnings worked.  And I was sad some more.  Last fall, actually just a few weeks before I stopped teaching and went on short term disability, I was leaving Mary’s school near the end of lunch hour.  There were big windows near the entrance, and I saw Mary coming in from the parking lot.  Timing my approach perfectly, I opened the door as she was about to reach for it, bowed, and said, “Welcome to ______ School, ma’am.”  Guess what?  Mary smiled.  It wasn’t a big one but it was there.  It made me happy.

One of the best parts of the World Cup for me is when the camera catches fans up close and personal.  A person will see themselves on the JumboTron and a brilliant smile lights their face.  One of those genuine types.  The shift in my well-being is huge … I’m so happy that they’re happy.  And it’s even more intense when they spot the camera operator and look straight into the lens.  Ahh.

May I smile even on my deathbed.  People deserve to be on the receiving end.

 

John Sings to Jody

Last night, Jody and I sat up on our bed, watching “The Wildlife Concert” on her laptop.  The singer was John Denver.  Such a voice, such a presence.  I looked at his face, and it was just about transparent.  Radiant he was, and the words of the songs covered us both.  After a half hour of holding each other, Jody asked me to put on “the love one’.  And so I did.

John was at the piano, accompanied by four women – two playing the violin, one the viola, and one the cello.  He sang “For You” … through the laptop screen … to Jody.  The strings swelled, the piano fingers drifted along, and all was right with the world.  Jody was crying.  I think John knew.

Here are the lyrics.  I wonder if you can sense the melody through them.  I wonder how deep they’ll drop into you.  I wonder if they’ll draw you even closer to your loved one.  And if right now you don’t have a loved one, may the music open your eyes to another soul.

For You

Just to look in your eyes again, just to lay in your arms
Just to be the first one always there for you
Just to live in your laughter, just to sing in your heart
Just to be every one of your dreams come true
Just to sit by your window, just to touch in the night
Just to offer a prayer each day for you
Just to long for your kisses, just to dream of your sighs
Just to know that I’d give my life for you

For you, all the rest of my life
For you, all the best of my life
For you alone, only for you

Just to wake up each morning, just to have you by my side
Just to know that you’re never really far away
Just a reason for living, just to say “I adore”
Just to know that you’re here in my heart to stay

For you, all the rest of my life
For you, all the best of my life
For you alone, only for you

Just the words of a love song, just the beat of my heart
Just the pledge of my life, my love, for you

Facing Death in 1970

I can only think of three times when death has been at my door, and they all happened during the summer of 1970, when I was working as a bus boy at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, Alberta.  What was that all about?  What was I being asked to see?  Here’s one of the days that changed my life:

I loved hiking with friends in the mountains.  Our group had just passed over the Carthew Summit, a low point on Carthew Ridge, and were heading down to the three Carthew Lakes.  Bare scree slopes and below that we could see meadows of tiny white and yellow wildflowers.  What could be more beautiful?   Some of us were fast.  Carol, Paul and I, however, were drinking in the sights.  Off to the left, we saw about ten bighorn sheep,  and the curls on those horns were sure new to us rookie mountaineers.  A bit scary too.  Even more scary when the sheep started ambling towards us.

I panicked.  I didn’t know anything about sheep.  I had us run downhill towards some big rocks.  Between them, the scree slope gave way to a steep snowfield.  We nipped into the cleft between the rock and the snow, breathing hard.  I poked my head out from our sanctuary and saw a bighorn just above.  “They’re coming!”  I grabbed Carol’s hand and pulled her onto the 45 degree snow.  We were wearing running shoes.  I caught a glimpse of the turquoise lake perhaps 100 feet below – the snow dove right into it.

I lost my footing and started sliding on my stomach.  I smashed my runners into the snow and grabbed Carol’s ankles as she fell above me.  “Toes in!  Toes in!”  I didn’t think that but I guess my body did.  We somehow stopped, and I held Carol, as the white pressed against our faces and hands.  And there we stayed, with the numbness slowly taking over.

“My God, I’m going to die,” said my brain.  “I can’t swim and I’m going to die.  Carol too.”  As I let a likely death flood over me, I heard Paul above us say “I’m coming down.”  With rescue on his mind, Paul took a few steps onto the snow … and down he went.  The toes didn’t work for him.  He slid past us, way past us, and plunged into the lake.  Paul had told me at some point that he was a strong swimmer but that didn’t help him much now.  Carol and I heard huge inhales of air, and over my shoulder I watched him struggle in slow motion towards the shore.  His head went under a couple of times.  “O my God, I’m dead,” came from within, as Paul collapsed at the edge of Upper Carthew Lake.

Minutes later, once Paul had dragged himself upright, he said that he was going to run to Middle Carthew Lake to get the others.  Someone with hiking boots would save us.  And off he went.  Carol and I continued our numb embrace of the snow.  How long could I hold her up?  Would she just fall into me and take me into the water with her?

Finally, we saw little dots running up the trail towards us.  Once they reached the edge of the snow slope, they just stared at us for a bit, and then someone uttered some words of encouragement.  The snowfield must have been 100 yards long, and Carol and I were somewhere in the middle, about 40 feet above the water.

Ron, one of the hotel bellmen, said “I’m coming to get you.”  He started gouging steps in the snow with his hiking boots, and worked his way across with infinite care and slowness.  When he reached us, Ron cut steps just downslope from my feet.  I edged into them, and together we lowered Carol into other footholds.  She and I were dazed but standing up at last.  Ron turned back, and led Carol and then me across the face of the snow.  So slow.  As we got within conversation distance of our friends, a supremely loud “Crack!” noise assaulted our ears and the whole 100 yards of snow fell away into the lake with a “Thwump!”  I watched the snow crack away no more than two feet to the left of my left foot, and we later saw that the fallaway was undercut below our precious footholds.  We all ran … into the arms of our friends.

To be almost dead is to be very much alive – in the body and in the heart.  Forty-four years later, I often relive our Carthew adventure.  It wasn’t time for me to be taken.  There was a lot of living and giving to be done.  And there still is.

 

Listen Fall See Act

Since the 1980s, I’ve collected quotations – about 6000 of them so far.  Every single one resonates inside all there is of me.  If the words don’t sing, I pass them by.  I’ve never kept track of who says what.  I just liked what the person had to say.  I suppose if I ever published all these cool thoughts, someone would get mad because I wouldn’t have listed the authors.  Oh well.

Way back when, I came across LFSA, as I’ve abbreviated the term.  I hoped that by making it short, like “this”, I’d let the wonder of it all percolate through my innermost spaces.  But it hasn’t happened.  And that makes me sad.  I’ve too often let the affairs of my world take me away from what’s important.  I’m writing about LFSA today, in hopes that it takes hold, and holds me tenderly for the rest of my days.

It’s a sequence, those four words.  What would happen if I let them flow, one after another?

Listen

Meandering through the events that come my way, it’s possible for me to stop and listen, not to sounds necessarily, but to something big that wraps itself around all the people, all the things, all the moments.  I “hear” that something when I’m quiet.  No picture comes to mind.  But there’s a stirring where my heart is.  The air seems to vibrate.  I have no desire to move, or move away from what’s here.

It’s not a quick thing, this sequence.  When I am present, it takes its time.  To listen is to float on my back in the embrace of the ocean.  I could look up at the sky all day.

Fall

I can feel a mixed metaphor coming.  From the mirrored surface of the sea … I am falling.  Not underwater.  The “no parachute, but then again no ground” kind of falling.  No fear to be found, just the gentlest of breezes coming up to say hi.  I’ve never skydived, but I’ve fallen, even if infrequently.  Nowhere to go.  Nothing to do.  Just watch whatever’s touching me deepen and deepen some more.  Closing my eyes.  Like those trust exercises in the encounter groups of the 60s.  Letting go and knowing that the group will catch you.  They will.

See

And then the inner eyes open without plan or effort.  The whole world is animated -from the Latin “anima”, meaning “breath”.  To breathe life into the moment.  But actually, that seems too active a phrase.  Maybe for the moment to be breathed into.  However I say it, the seeing reveals a beauty and grace that can’t be described.  The mouth opens, the heart quivers, and all that is beheld shines like the sun.  The moments linger together.

Act

Seeing like this, there is only one way to act … with love.  Anything else would be ridiculous.  No options, no doubt, no problem.  Love them all.  Light the world.

***

Thank you.  I needed that.