Monthly Archives: January 2015

Toronto – Part 3: Scarf and Applesauce

It’s so easy to be happy and openhearted when my body feels good.  In Toronto, my body mostly felt bad.

When I was a kid, mom and Aunt Norah wrote back and forth a lot.  I got to read Norah’s letters, which were usually full of reports about her various ailments.  I vowed that I would never turn into my aunt, that I would never let what’s wrong dominate my conversations.  But I feel the need to address the pain I felt last week, as a way to open to all of life.

I had already been cold for ten days or so, and Toronto’s deep freeze sent me over the edge.  I was terrified of being cold, colder, coldest.  “Will it hurt?  How long will it hurt?”  I don’t know what happened to the mountain man in me.  He was gone.  Instead, there was a guy who developed this dressing ritual every time a door was about to open onto the outside world.  The neck of my coat totally zipped up.  Toque pulled way down.  Scarf so tight around my nose and mouth that it brought up thoughts of asphyxiation.  Mitts struggling to fit way inside the sleeves of my jacket.  Neal waiting patiently.

Sometimes our forehead-burning street travels brought us to more subway time.  I loosened the scarf so it wrapped around my neck but the rest of the arrangements stayed put.  Mitts and toque fully engaged on the train.  As we jostled our way from station to station, all I could think of was diving under the covers of my hotel room bed.  No expansive mind.  No lovingkindness aimed at my fellow passengers (well, very little of that).  Just me, me, me.  How very unBuddhist of me.

And then there was my stomach.  For most of our trip, the nausea came and went and came again.  My diet was basic – microwavable rice, bananas, dry bagels, applesauce and herbal tea.  Neal had omelets and seafood fettuccini and beer.  I was drooping with a lack of calories and flavour.  Dizzy and roiling and flat.  Oh vacation, wherefore art thou?

At the Allan Gardens plant conservatory, I sat.  At the Royal Ontario Museum, I sat.  Neal boogied around, taking lots of cool photos.  I sat.  I tried to be present with what life was offering me, to see the pain as being no worse than pleasure.  But I couldn’t.  I rarely could talk to Jody.  I missed the beauty of the flowers, of the vendors offering their food at the St. Lawrence Market, even of the Buddhist statues at the museum.  I pretty much missed it all.  Sad some more.

On Sunday afternoon, we were leaving on the train for London.  My nausea had disappeared and the temperature had warmed to 0 degrees Celsius (32 degrees Fahrenheit).  How strange.

I wonder what life wants me to learn from all this.  Right now, I don’t know.  I’m open to an epiphany.  Come on down.

 

Toronto – Part 2: Fish Up and Fish Down

After depositing our belongings in the hotel room on Thursday, Neal and I braved the icy blasts and walked four blocks to Ripley’s Aquarium.  I was fully decked out in sweater, toque, parka and mitts, plus Jody’s white scarf wrapped tightly over my nose and mouth.  Oh my God!  I was just so cold.  My mind started heading to “I’m bad” but I nipped that in the bud.  Not bad, just sick.

Inside the building, I revelled for a minute in my senior reality.  I saved $10.00 off the adult price.  But the glee faded quickly when I saw the first tank just down the hall, populated with wild splotches of colour.  What came through was the warmth of peace.  I was somewhere special.

The upper tank was a tall cylinder full of large fish of every hue.  Actually, some seemed to have no hue, but all of the residents moved with such grace.  A lower and wider tank was teeming with small fishies, just as glorious as the big guys.

I just stared at all this flowing life.  Soon, I saw us human beings inside that aquarium too.  We’re so different from each other in how we colour our lives.  Some of us show the world a bigness of spirit, and some of us keep that part well hidden.  But we all can swim.

I didn’t know the names of any of these fish, although I could have studied the nearby signs.  I didn’t want to.  No labels please.  I just wanted to drink in the beauty.

Further down the hallway, I came upon a giant cylindrical tank that stretched way above my head.  It was crammed with silver fish, each about six inches long.  They were in a “school”, and seemed to hover in place … all these parallel lines of beings.  And again I saw us, this time how we are identical in our hearts, in wanting to be happy, in wanting to love and be loved.  I stared some more.

Many more tanks of fish beckoned me along the way.  A long pedestrian tunnel showed sting rays and sharks above, accompanied by far smaller swimmers.  The world was full of movement.  The curved glass distorted the size of the fish.  And soon it was my head that was swimming.  Dizzy.  Nauseous.  All I could do was sit down on a bench and wait for Neal’s return.  He came and went and came back again.  I sat and reeled.  I closed my eyes.  Families passed by in bubbles of excited chatter.  I faded.  My stomach rolled.  Both the happy variety of fish/human beings and their exquisite school of sameness were long gone.  I was sad.

I decided to follow the path of overhead fish to its end, and emerged to sit in front of a blessedly flat tank full of sting rays.  The huge ones rested on the sand floor, occasionally rousing themselves to float over the rock outcroppings.  The small ones pressed their bellies near the glass and climbed.  Although I was looking at their breathing apparatus, it sure looked like a lot of smiling faces to me.  And I had to smile back, despite the pain.  Messengers had come to tell me it would be all right.

And life is definitely fine, thank you.  I’ll just keep swimming through all the waters of the world.  Sights abound.

Toronto – Part 1: To and From

Neal and I set off on Thursday morning on the train from London to Toronto.  A big window to look out of, onto a big world.  As we rolled through downtown, I strained to catch a glimpse of an elementary school I taught at for years, a building that has been the source of much joy for me.  All I caught was the spire of the church next door but I knew that friends and students were in the school at that very instant, staying warm and throwing themselves into the life of the community.  It made me happy to know that this was so.

East of London, fields and woodlots flashed by as we picked up speed.  I thought of Jody’s words to me after her death:  “I am all trees, Bruce.  I welcome you everywhere.”  And Jody most surely did.  Groves of bare deciduous trees, groups of evergreens, a single tree spreading its arms in the middle of a field … Jody was all around.  Her words flooded over me, blessing me with her love.  Mile upon mile of Jody holding out her hands to me.  My wife.  My love.

I watched flags along the way, hoping that they would droop on their poles.  But alas, they remained at almost full flap.  And I was scared.  I was sick, and dreaded four days of deep freeze and major wind chill.  I didn’t think I was strong enough to cope with it all.  I needed to be held and warmed.

I saw kids tobogganing down a hill, dressed in their pastel snowsuits.  Wonderful!  Just what kids need.  And horrible!  It’s far too cold for me to join them.  I saw Canada geese winging their way.  I yearned to see a deer and spent nearly an hour trying to spot one.  Not to be.

I watched the man in the window seat in front of me.  (I was on the aisle.)  For awhile, he frantically jabbed away at his computer, with the screen seeming to change every few seconds.  Half an hour later, his laptop was closed and he was asleep.  I marvelled at the contrast.

Across the aisle and forward one seat, an elderly gentleman spent virtually the whole trip looking at a magazine.  It was full of articles about the military and veterans.  He looked so happy, immersed in something that gave his life meaning.

Eventually, fields faded away, to be replaced by, in singer-songwriter David Francey’s words, “good industrial landscapes”.  Toronto had reached out, consuming a lot of the natural world.  But the factories had their good stories too.

***

Homeward bound this afternoon.  This time, my views were severely restricted by an awkwardly placed window.  Mostly, I saw the tops of trees flowing by, no less Jody for their partialness.  Still a blessing.  Neal was on the lookout for deer, and finally I heard “There!”  I had two seconds to glance to my right, just enough time to see about ten of them, heads down in a field.  Yes.  Another blessing wrapped up in constriction.

Everywhere I looked inside the train, passengers were bent over their iPhones and laptops.  Ear buds abounded.  We were all in our own little worlds, including me with my book.  Part of me wanted to make contact, but I let that go.  I wanted to be home.  I wanted to be warm.  And I wanted to be alone.

Journey done.  Many more to come.

Travelling

Tomorrow morning, my friend Neal and I get on the train in London and head to Toronto.  He’s from B.C. and will likely be going back there in June.  I thought it would be cool to show him the big city before he goes.  I never expected just how cool our visit could be – daytime wind chill tomorrow is supposed to be around -25 degrees Celsius.  Oh my!

These four days will be my treat for Neal.  He deserves my kindness.  He deserves to have his Toronto whims satisfied.  Let’s start with a window seat on the train so he can see Ontario unfold.  Maybe a coffee cart will come rolling by to keep us warm.  Neal will be able to see the secret worlds of backyards and back fields.  He’ll be able to gaze and doze and perhaps dream.

Two hours away is downtown Toronto.  We’re staying at an historic hotel across from the train station – The Royal York.  A grand lobby.  A cozy lounge walled with the darkest wood.  A room with a view.  Even a thick white bathrobe, I hear.

In the evenings, we’re taking the subway to Hugh’s Room, the granddaddy of Canadian folk music clubs.  On Thursday, we’ll listen to Lillebjorn Nilsen, a gentleman who’s apparently a musical icon in his native Denmark.  On Friday, lots of singers and players will favour us with the music of Paul Simon.  And the best may be last.  Saturday night, we get to hear Joanna Chapman-Smith, a Toronto singer-songwriter who fell ill a few years ago and completely lost her voice.  The doctors worried that it would be permanent … but it wasn’t.  Happily for the world, Joanna is singing again.

As for the days, who knows?  We have ideas … the Ontario Science Centre, Ripley’s Aquarium, Allan Gardens (acres of greenhouses) and the Art Gallery of Ontario.  Or maybe sit in the lobby and read a book.  Neal’s call.

Friday is my birthday.  66 seems like a nice round number.  My first birthday without Jodiette.  Except that’s not right.  Jody will be with me every step of the way.  The “I am here, Bruce” is now very calm, as is my smiling nod in response.  There are still lots of tears falling from my eyes but Jodiette is here to share it all.  Even with the absence of her body, I am blessed.

No One Left Out

My friend Pat took me out to lunch today at an Italian restaurant in London.  We talked and talked, looking both at the pains and joys of life.  I am truly blessed to have many such friends, people who love me and allow me to say just what I need to say.  They listen and accept.

Earlier, I drove into London to see my doctor.  Julie is another one of those marvelous friends.

And then there were the two hours between.  I knew that I wanted to be around people, even if I didn’t know any of them.  So I went to my favourite branch library, an intimate space with a huge snow-covered skylight.  People milled around the shelves, picking out treasures.  A mom and her son were having an animated discussion in the kids’ section.  Older gentlemen were sitting in plush chairs, absorbing the daily newspaper.  Another older gentleman (me!) sat on a comfy couch and pulled out my book.  I enjoyed watching the symphony of humanity between paragraphs.

And then there was the woman returning patrons’ books to their spots on the shelves.  She walked stiffly and had a concerned look on her face.  Her clothes were not fashionable.  And I knew she was mine.  I knew that today I was going to make a contribution to her life … I just didn’t know how.

I needed to take my medication and I didn’t know if there was a water fountain in the library.  So I walked up to my pre-friend and asked.  No, there wasn’t.  She suggested I approach one of the staff members at the desk.  “They know more.”  The woman seemed really nervous.

Eventually, I discovered that there was a fountain in the food court, so the med got swallowed.  As I returned to the library, I saw my friend shoving a book into Adult Non-Fiction.  I turned down her aisle and smiled.  “Thank you for helping me.  I found a water fountain by the food court.”  And I received an absolutely brilliant smile in return.  “You’re welcome.”

Enough done.  Enough said.

King Kong

It’s always been one of my favourite movies (the version with Naomi Watts as Ann Darrow) and I watched it again last night.  I knew why.

It wasn’t because of the rip-roaring adventure, nor the special effects.  It’s because of the love between Ann and Kong.  Pure and simple.  First she’s terrified, of course, and he’s playing the he man.  But little by little, the look in her eyes and his softens, the gazes linger, and it matters not that one is a human and the other is a giant ape.

When Kong extends his open hand to her, and she climbs aboard, I melted.  When he’s leaping from rock to rock, and holding her so gently, I smiled.  When he slips off the top of the Empire State Building, I cried.

It doesn’t matter who or what the love is between.  Time stops.  Hearts open.  Hands hold.  What more could there be in life?

Illness and Light

Nausea has come and gone and come again for nearly a week now.  I thought it was food poisoning.  Finally, yesterday morning, I went to Emergency to figure things out.  (Turns out it was a bacterial infection.  I now have antibiotics.)

I waited in the triage chairs for my turn to be seen.  Those seats are right beside a sliding door that kept admitting the cold as people came and went.

No.

Overhead, a TV was blaring out a news channel, complete with on-the-spot reporting and brassy commercials.

No.

After I was registered, I sat back down in the waiting room at the far end, away from shivering and blare.  A couple sat down on triage chairs, her head slumping away from him, his hand on her shoulder.  He continued to comfort her as they waited to be seen.

Yes.

The vague nausea swept over me again.  Such a sense of not being present in my life’s moments.  Harder to reach Jody, to talk to her.  (“Bruce, I am here with you, even if it’s hard to sense me right now.  I’ll always be here with you.”)  But I can’t hear these words.  Jodiette, where are you?

No.

I wonder if I will get to the point in life where I’m totally accepting of what the world sends my way.  Where there’s no sharp demarcation between this being good and that being bad.  Maybe.  Maybe not.

Anyway, time to be ushered into the inner sanctum of Emergency.  I was in a long room which had been divided off into five curtained spaces.  I lay on my back, zipped up my parka and pulled on my mitts.  So cold.  And there I lay, comforted by the fact that I was no longer alone.  Someone would help me.

I heard voices from elsewhere in the room – doctors advising their patients, nurses coming and going, family members being with their loved ones.  I heard stories of not just nausea, but major vomiting.  And I felt small.  Here I was, not having vomited once in my week of discomfort, on the edge of feeling sorry for myself.  I decided to let the smallness go.  I deserved better.

And then I hear a woman tell her husband, “I left the meds list at home.  Stupid me!”  And I started crying.  Silently: “No!  You’re not stupid.  Please don’t say that.”  I was weeping for someone other than Jody.  And my wife was happy.  “You care so much, Bruce, about all these people.  I’m so glad you’re my husband.”

And now I’m crying for my darling wife Jodiette again.  “You are here, Jody.  I feel you.  Oh, my wife.  My darling wife.  We will be together in body again.”  “Yes, Bruce.  We will.  As for now and the rest of your life, I am with you always.  Every moment.  In sickness and in health.  In joy and in sorrow.  When you’re alone and when you’re surrounded by friends.  Always.”

I love you, Jodiette.

I love you, Bruce.

 

 

Out on the Town

I decided to go out to a New Year’s Eve dance.  After all, I do need to be around people, don’t I?  I signed up as a single for a rock and roll party at the London Music Club, a gorgeous old brick building near downtown London.

Parking was at the high school nearby and I decided to walk three blocks to Victoria Park before going into the club.  There was skating, hot chocolate and lots of singers huddled in the heated bandshell.  What wasn’t heated was me!  It was so cold last night, complete with a healthy wind chill.  Seems that a side effect of the food poisoning that has recently graced my body is being cold a lot.

Anyway, there I was walking towards the park – toque, scarf, parka and mitts.  I wanted to see all the Christmas lights strung on the big coniferous trees.  I drove by the night before and Jody told me very clearly once again, “I am all trees, Bruce.  I welcome you everywhere.”  Then she added, “I shine for you, Bruce.”

And despite the nip on my nose, and on every other conceivable body part, Jody was shining last night.  Strings of multicoloured lights wavered in the wind.  “Can’t you see that I’m waving at you?”

My first destination was clear: the heated public washroom.  I told a guy in there “I just have to convince the powers-that-be that I need to pee for two hours straight.”  We laughed.

Then it was out into the breeze again.  Jody was everywhere in those trees, smiling at me.  Thank you, Jodiette.  I lined up at the Salvation Army trailer for a cup of hot chocolate (Yum, with a glowing face handing me down the good stuff) and then was off to the bandshell to hear some songs.  A young woman kept crooning “I’m 22.  How about you?”  I was tempted to yell back “I’m just off by a decade or two,” but I was too discreet.

One song was all I could handle.  Back into the washroom.

Now totally bundled up, I decided to circumnavigate the park to say hello to more Jody trees.  I bowed to several of them.  I bowed to my dear wife.  But bowings were brief.  I set out for the club with all the low energy I could muster.  As I left the park, I caught the lovely voice of a woman from the bandshell, telling me “I want to know what love is.  I want you to show me.”  Thank you, my dearest Jodiette, for showing me so much about love … You’re very welcome, husband.  The feeling is indeed mutual.

What a delicious feeling it was to be reaching for the door, knowing that I soon would be warm.  Ahhh.  Hanging up my coat and moving into the small party room, where I was placed at a round table with several singles and doubles.  Hi to you and you and you.

And then I started to fade …

I sat down next to a woman, unaware that her husband was at the bar getting drinks.  When he returned, he looked at me and said goodnaturedly, “So, moving in on my wife, are you?”  Oh, my.  Before Jody died, I loved such repartee, and would no doubt have had a nifty comebacker for him.  But last night?  No.  After a few minutes, I told him that my wife died last month and I was sorry if I had been rude to him.  He understood and we shook hands.

For the next fifteen minutes, however, the gentleman talked to me, with his back to his wife.  I became very sad.  She deserved so much more.  Finally, I said, “May I make a suggestion? … You’ve talked to me for so long.  Please talk to your wife.”  And, graciously, he did.

Then the music started.  All those happy couples on the dance floor, swirling each other around.  I saw Jody’s smiling face from the past, and remembered how very much we loved to dance.  Sad some more.  What was I doing here?  I had no interest in small talk, no interest in asking someone to dance, just no interest.  And from inside me came the voice … “It’s okay, Bruce.  This is not for you tonight.  Go home.”

After the first set ended, I asked for people’s attention at our table and said, “This is not about any of you, but I want to go home.  I just can’t handle this.”  I smiled, wished them all a Happy New Year, and waved them goodnight.  Lost, a little bit.  Not wanting to pollute the space.  Found, quite a lot.

I armed myself for the winter winds and set off into the night.  A block later, I was in Hugo, and soon was driving along Dundas St., still fully clothed, heater cranked to the max.  A girl ran across the street, wearing a jean jacket and a mini-skirt.  How strange life is.