Monthly Archives: December 2015

Eighty-Four Days … Part Two

As the weeks of silence rolled on, music came into my head … and stayed.  I was awake 18 hours a day and I’d guess that towards the end of the retreat the songs were alive and well for 16 of those hours.  First it was recognizable tunes, such as “All Through The Night” and “Pachelbel Canon”.   But then the words and known melodies faded away, in favour of unknown music.  I went for a three mile walk every day and one particular melody stayed with me for the whole time.  It was vibrant and danceable, and my body often responded with a jig and a jag.  That one song went on for an hour or more.

During periods of sitting meditation, the melodies were usually slow and sweet but occasionally the orchestra inside my head would swell to ecstatic highs – great runs of fast notes.  My head and the rest of my body rose up.  I was still sitting but my spine was erect.  It felt like I was reaching for heaven.  I worried that my fellow yogis could hear my silent singing.  One of my teachers commented, “Bruce, have you ever heard music that’s inside people?  No?  Neither have I.  They can’t hear you!”

For the first few days back at home, the melodies kept coming.  Now, two weeks from the end of the retreat, I don’t hear the songs anymore.  And I miss them.  Sometimes in the meditation hall, I tried to stop them.  I scrunched my forehead.  I lowered my head between my legs.  And still the music flowed.  I eventually let go and let it all wash over me.  Now I want it to come back.  And I can’t control that either.  Ten days ago, I sat at the piano and felt the music in my fingers.  I want to do that again.

I haven’t meditated much since I got home.  Tomorrow, I’m going to sit for an hour or so and see what emerges.  Not an act of will.  A letting be.  But I feel my attachment to the music.  Like I did with Ginette, I need to let that go.  By grace do we receive.

I might even go for a walk.

 

 

 

Eighty-Four Days … Part One

Since I’ve got home from the meditation retreat, I’ve mentioned some of my experiences there in this blog but I’ve never looked it directly in the eye and discovered what’s true for me two weeks later.  I’ve been scared to do that.  Not afraid of what I’d find but rather of being misinterpreted.  I’m sure you’re all smart people out there in WordPress land but I expect that very few of you have the context to hold twelve weeks of silence.

How I struggle to express myself here.  What’s true, Bruce?  Well, here goes …

One hundred of us sat in the meditation hall, did walking meditation, ate together in silence and listened to the teachers’ wisdom.  Although I didn’t make eye contact with my fellow yogis, I could feel them.  Plus I looked at them from afar.  Many were hurting – physically, emotionally and/or spiritually.  My heart went out to them.  As I quieted in meditation, I felt love waft out from me.  Peace too.  Not always but often.  As the weeks wore on, I heard more and more folks sniffing in the hall – some near me and some way up towards the front of the room.  I sensed that much of this was in response to my energy.  Perhaps I’m deluded about this.  Maybe they all had colds.  But the deeper voice inside said that some yogis were moved by my love.

Hmm.  I just had the urge to send this message right here, right now.  I’m scared to face the depths of the retreat.  Is my ego just flaring away or is it true that I touched people in that meditation hall?  As the weeks fell away, our senses, our emotions, were heightened.  I know that kindness came off me, compassion, love, peace.  Back here in society, it feels like others can’t feel me.  And I want to be felt.

When I applied for the three month retreat, one question on the form was something like “What goals do you have for your time at IMS [Insight Meditation Society]?  I answered in three words:  “To love people.”  And I know that I reached that goal.  It doesn’t make me special.  But it happened.

Throughout the retreat, I got to reflect on the Buddha’s words:  “Life is impermanent.”  My peace came and went and came again.  So did my back pain.  I fell in love with another yogi.  At the end, I found out that she’s happily married.  Now she’s thousands of miles away.

I suffered when I thought of my lost love, just like the Buddha said I would.  He said that all of our experiences are pleasant, unpleasant or neutral.  I’d sometimes be in the middle of “unpleasant” and have the astonishing experience of it floating into “pleasant”.  How is that possible?  All I can think of is that I was immersed within the bigness of life as I suffered, and to be so surrounded by infinity made me smile a little smile.

Towards the end of the retreat, I watched myself feel that the only important thing was to contribute to the lives of my fellow yogis.  Since I thought that being in their presence made a difference, I didn’t meditate alone in my room.  I went to every scheduled sitting in the hall, unless I had an interview with one of my teachers.  Oh my.  I just want to love people.  Travel, money, “success” – all very nice, but there’s so much beyond the daily round.

***

I’m very tired.  I told myself I’d come home and write more about the retreat.  But I don’t want to.  I treat the world gently.  I need to do the same for myself.  Heading down to Massachusetts in September, I chose a bus schedule that had me travelling for 16 hours straight, including all night.  I got no sleep. When I got to my motel in Worcester, I slept for 17 hours.  Upon waking up, I realized that I had committed violence on myself.  No more of that, thank you.

And so to bed.  Goodnight sweet princes and princesses.

Four Moments

I like moments.  When I pay attention to them, they slow me right down.  And some of them are magical … like these ones:

During my meditation retreat, my job was to stay present with what was happening in the now.  But sometimes I looked forward to next summer, when I’ll be crossing Canada by bicycle with an organization called the Tour du Canada.  Twenty-five of us will roll eastward from Vancouver, BC to St. John’s, Newfoundland.  Registration opened in October, but I was in deep silence then, and had no contact with the outside world.  Before I left for Massachusetts, I e-mailed the staff of the Tour and they assured me that I could register in December.

So a couple of days ago I filled out the form and wrote a cheque.  I had some of Jody’s books to send as well so I went to a post office in London.  There I was, envelope in hand.  I reached out to the postal employee, the paper was transferred to her … and the first step of riding the length of my country was complete.  Inside, I was transfixed.  My outsides handled the details of mailing stuff.  Within, though, time stood still.

***

Yesterday morning, I was at an elementary school, reciting “Twas The Night Before Christmas”.  As I signed in at the office, I noticed another name -an old friend of mine.  She was substitute teaching for the day.  I found out where her room was, and just before morning recess I walked in.  “Stephanie” was at the desk, hunched over some papers while a French teacher was finishing up a lesson.  I snuck up on her and just stood there.  She looked up, and the biggest smile crossed her face.  Up out of the chair, arms open wide, and we were hugging.  The moment of reunion.

As recess started, I noticed a Grade 7 girl standing near Stephanie and me.  I looked at her.  (Here comes another made up name.)  “Erin?”  She nodded through her smile.  It was the girl I auditioned with in September, for Jake’s Women.  Erin told me that she got the part of Molly and was so disappointed that I wasn’t chosen for Jake.  Her woe flooded me, and again time stood still.  Seeing Erin, I let my sadness come.  We hugged.

***

Later in the day I was at the workplace of a woman named “Dawn”.  I’ve thought about her many times over the last few months.  As of today, I’ve given away 790 copies of Jodiette:  My Lovely Wife.  Only once did I feel bad about the gift.  After I had left the person, I thought, “She didn’t want the book.  Why didn’t I pay more attention to her body language?”  I’ve lived by the credo “Do no harm” for years, and even more so after the retreat.  The person in question was Dawn.

I was sitting at a table, looking down at my snack, and became aware of someone standing in front of me.  I looked up.  Dawn looked down.  “I read your book this summer.  It really touched me.  Thank you for giving it to me.”

Oh my.  You never know if you’ve truly reached someone.  Until a moment like this.

***

Momentary snippets of life
May they keep coming

Twas

Twelve years ago my friend Carol, who was working at the library in Port Stanley, Ontario, came up to me with a request.  Would I “do something” at the Christmas talent show for the kids who attend library programs?

“Sure.”

Then Carol whips out the sheets of paper she was hiding behind her back.  Behold the words for “Twas The Night Before Christmas”.  Once I calmed down, and found out that I’d be wearing a nightgown and a stocking cap, and hoisting a candle onstage, I agreed.  “Okay, I’ll read the poem to the kids.”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“No reading.  Lots of memorizing.”

That was October.  After many visits to Sebastian’s restaurant in London, and much caffeine, and two months of cramming, I actually knew all the words.  And my performance at the show was a rousing success (or so I fantasize).

The next year I decided to take my act on the road.  I was an itinerant teacher of visually impaired students, and visited a lot of schools.  I asked my elementary teaching friends if they’d like me to recite in their classrooms, and many said yes.

So began years of Santa poem renditions.  Thousands of kids watched and listened. There was much happiness within me and, I think, in the hearts of the young’uns.

Which brings me to today.  My friend Heather had arranged for me to speak to ten classes, ranging from kindergarten to Grade 5.  I hadn’t done Twas last year, since my heart was heavy with Jody’s death.  But now I was eager.

The kids were so close to me, typically sitting on a carpet in front of my rocking chair.  Those young faces in the front row looked way up at me.  And I got on a roll.  Words tumbled out and so did audience smiles:

The children were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads

When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer

His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry

He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle

There was enthusiastic applause as I finished.  I was pleased.  But I knew that Part Two follows Part One.  I told the kids about a moment three years ago.  It was early December.  I had accompanied Jody to the doctor’s office and was sitting alone in the waiting room.  Alone except for the receptionist, that is.  I then did what any normal person would have done in this situation:

“Would you like me to recite ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas’?”

“Uhh … sure.”

Ignoring the woman’s somewhat muted enthusiasm, I launched into my shtick.  And I’d say she was much happier as I ended with “Merry Christmas to all … and to all a good night.”

And here came Jody out of the inner office, accompanied by a nurse.  Once more I offered my services.

“No, Bruce.  We don’t have time.  We need to get home, wrap those presents, and get them to the post office today, or they won’t get to Alberta by Christmas.”

I was scared, but decided to carry on.

“Well, what if I say it fast?”

“Do you know how to say it fast?”

“I’ve never tried, but let me give it a shot.”

“Okay, but hurry.”

And thus began my second “Night Before Christmas” career – “Speedy Twas”.

Oh my.  Kids laugh and laugh.  And so do I.  My record has been one minute and twenty-eight seconds.  Today, one class of small people challenged me to go low.  As the second hand closed in on 12, there was a hush.  And then bursts of excitement as I sallied forth.  Small cheers erupted as I blurted out “His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.”  One minute.  I heard “Go, go, go!” in my head.  It was 1:10 when Santa sprang to his sleigh.

I collapsed into “And to all a good night” while one young soul yelled out “1:19!”  Oh my goodness.  It’s a new world record.  And what a good boy am I.

I looked at all those upturned mouths, with several bodies lying flat on the carpet, in various stages of writhe.  And I knew … I was home.

May Christmas come every year
May the words always fill my head
And may children laugh

The Messiah … Part Two

I went to hear The Messiah on Wednesday evening and wrote about the first half of it the next day.  Now it’s Saturday [and now it’s Sunday] and I wonder if it’s “old news” and maybe I should write about something else.  The answer is no.  First of all, I said to myself and to you that I would comment about the rest of the words sung.  As well, I can bring freshness to it three days later.  So here we go:

 He was despised and rejected, rejected of men
A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief

Who amongst us hasn’t been rejected, tossed aside, treated like a thing?  We all hurt.  I remember being fired from a management job.  I knew I had done the best job that I could muster.  My self-esteem as I cleared out my desk was teetering on an edge.  “Bad person, good person, bad …”  And then there was losing my dear wife Jody to lung cancer.  How the grief came in waves, subsided, and then rolled again.  And it still comes.  Blame and loss … let them just be there, Bruce, when they appear.

Surely he has born our griefs and carried our sorrows

Something holds me in a tender embrace, especially when the world seems black.  There is an inner knowing beyond reason.  “All is well.”  Even amidst the storms.  Maybe my job is to just sit quietly and let the essence reveal itself … in its own time.

And with his stripes we are healed

The First Noble Truth of the Buddha: there is suffering.  Unlike angels and other heavenly folk, our lives are a mixture of pleasant and unpleasant.  The Buddha talked about our “precious human birth”.  We get to experience it all.  The pain teaches compassion, because we all have that pain.  We become more fully human.

All we like sheep have gone astray

I hurt a few people on the meditation retreat.  I tried to make them laugh, which is what I usually do in life.  But in the silence of a retreat, emotions are heightened.  Life issues appear right in front of the eyes, in surround sound.  And some guy playfully hiding your water glass at the dining room table may be an assault of great magnitude.  (Sigh)   So imperfect am I.  Don’t smash yourself in the head about this, Bruce.  Just notice and look for a better way.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates
And be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors
And the King of glory shall come in

To what shall we lift our heads, so that the sun meets our eyes?  Whatever it is, it’s inside us already.  No need to go out and find the King of glory.  It’s found us.  No need to trek in the Himalayas or go on long meditation retreats in Massachusetts.  It all resides at our home address.

How beautiful are the feet
Of them that preach the gospel of peace

No preaching needed.  Just be peace.  Get out of the way.  Peace will emerge.  People will know.

Their sound is gone out into all lands
And their words unto the ends of the world

Peace radiates beyond the assumed boundaries of time and space.  That oil worker in Kuwait.  That business leader in New York’s One World Trade Center.  That astronaut circling Earth in a space station.  They feel your peace.

Let us break their bonds asunder
And cast away their yokes from us

How do we help people free themselves from greed, hatred and delusion?  Not by lecturing, cajoling and in general giving the message that I’m right and you’re wrong.  Instead I gradually purify myself.  I stand and speak and act as one who is following the path to freedom.  Either others will see something curious and valuable in me or they won’t.  And I won’t drown myself in their suffering.  I will be with it, let it wash over me and then fall away.  “I care about your suffering.  Your happiness depends on the decisions you make.  I will stay with you on that journey.”

Hallelujah
For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth

Happiness is when the love flows.  When compassion and equanimity follow me throughout the day.  Love wins.

And though worms destroy this body
Yet in my flesh shall I see God

Bruce doesn’t last forever.  Nothing does.  Impermanence.  While I live, every moment beckons me to contact the inner glow.  It’s not going anywhere.  I often don’t see it.  May I uncover, again and again.

The trumpet shall sound
And the dead shall be raised incorruptible
And we shall be changed

Do I have the ears to hear?  Will I allow the flatness to fall away and animate the moments left to me until I die?

Forever and ever
Amen

Now, now and now
May all men and all women be happy

Karaoke

Last night I went with my friend Karina and her friends to sing karaoke at a London pub.  I was nervous.  Just coming off a long meditation retreat, it would be reasonable to expect that I’d moved beyond such tension.  I’m afraid not.  Meditation hasn’t taught me to eliminate fear and sadness.  Rather it’s shown me that I can hold these feelings more gently.  Instead of my vocal terror being smack dab in front of my eyes, I sometimes was able to move it to arm’s distance.  Instead of taking a sledgehammer to my fear, I had glimpses of cradling it as a mother would her newborn child.

My heart was still in my throat as I waited for my turn at the microphone.  Memories flooded in of another karaoke setting, and of someone precious to me walking out, saying she couldn’t stand listening to me anymore.

What’s true?  I love singing.  I got muted applause.  The person I was hoping would say “Well done” said I was nervous.  I’m still alive this morning.

I sang The Times They Are A-Changin’ by Bob Dylan.  It’s a lovely song.  And an angry song.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’

There I was, mic in hand.  I watched the screen and the first line of the lyrics appeared.  I couldn’t remember the tune.  The blue (?) highlighter started moving over the words but my mouth stayed closed.  Up pops the second line and I start singing.  My brain says, “It’s too low.  You’ll never hit the bottom notes.”  So midstream I went up an octave and found myself at the top of my vocal range.  No way to hold a good tone up there.  Once my voice cracked.  “Do it!” said my brain.  So I dropped back down to the bottom of my vocal range.  I waited for the lowest note, cringing that my voice couldn’t reach it … But I did!  And I couldn’t have gone a note lower.  I thought, “Way da go, Bruce.  It took courage to go down.”

Then I started feeling the words.  “Don’t criticize what you can’t understand.”  There was no time to reflect on the fear that leads us to put down someone whose experience of life is different from ours.  The very human need to protect our version of reality.  But I wordlessly felt our common humanity as I sang.

Did I do well?  Did I do poorly?  In a larger picture, it doesn’t matter.  Did I live in the words and the feelings within them?  Often yes.  Will I keep singing?

Yes

Not Jake

The dear old Messiah will have to wait for another day.  I found out half an hour ago that I didn’t get the part of Jake in the play Jake’s Women.  I got off the phone and sat down in my man chair.  I’d been sorting through some papers and felt the pull to get back at it.  No.  How about grab the sports section?  No.  So I sat.  My friend Renato came into the room and I told him the news.  He wanted to talk.  No.  And I sat some more.

I’ve been so light lately but now the sadness weighed me down.  I wasn’t slumping exactly but I felt … compressed.  And then … there was quiet inside me.

I realized how hungry I was and decided to have some breakfast.  I didn’t want distractions from how I was in the moment but I needed to eat.  So I did.  Quietly, with virtually no thoughts about the director’s decision.  I committed to sit down with my laptop as soon as I was done eating.  And here I am, alone in my bedroom.

So, what’s true?  My mind flits to the upside – not having to memorize over an hour of dialogue, no rigorous rehearsal schedule, don’t have to worry about stage fright, there’ll be another play …  I let those thoughts do their thing and now they’ve floated away.  Sitting some more, this time with fingers moving over the keys.

What does it mean when I say to myself “I am Jake”?  I don’t know, but I am.  In my heart, I celebrate the humanity of Jake.  He’s happy, sad, angry, loving and momentarily crazy.  He’s all that each of us is.  How about if I don’t nix any of that out of my life, if I let in the fact that we all hurt?  And if my neighbour is suffering, can I allow their pain and simply sit with them?

This doesn’t seem to be sadness now.  I’m very slow and quiet.  The experience of “not chosen” is common to all of us.  I feel my energy moving towards all the human beings I know and all the ones I’m just meeting.  This doesn’t feel like suppression.  Maybe I’ll cry later.  Hey, maybe I’ll laugh later.  (Oops.  I just laughed!)

Here I am, alone in my bedroom.  That’s fine for the moment but my place is out there in the world, loving and having other people laugh with me.  Time to go.

The Messiah … Part One

I went to see Handel’s Messiah at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, Ontario last night.  Fifty members of the Pro Musica Choir were joined by about twenty string musicians from the former Orchestra London.  Four soloists (soprano, alto, tenor and baritone) shared their passion with us.  The ceiling was lofty, the stained glass was exquisite, and we filled the church.

Maybe fifteen years ago, I sang The Messiah with the members of the Knox Presbyterian Church choir in St. Thomas, Ontario.  It was a precious event for me … just like yesterday.

I didn’t time things too well and walked into the church only ten minutes before showtime.  The place was packed.  I walked to the front, saw an empty seat in the second row on the aisle and asked the woman sitting beside it if the space was occupied.  No, it wasn’t.  I sat down, marvelling at how blessed I am in this life.

The context of The Messiah is Christian and the “He” being referred to in song is of course Jesus.  As I listened to the short interlocking pieces, though, I saw another way of holding the words.  Here are some reflections, some fostered by the Buddha, and some just entering my head unbidden:

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed
And all flesh shall see it together

What is to be revealed? Perhaps the animation of daily life, where each moment can be breathed into (“animus” in Latin), and a dimension of spirit accessed within the flow of the daily round.  Even within our difficult times, we can hold the world with new eyes.  And to be among a group of people who consciously walk this path, such as during the meditation retreat I just experienced, is lovely.

But who may abide the day of his coming?
And who shall stand when he appeareth?

To abide.  To stand.  No forward movement.  No becoming something new.  Rather being in place and allowing the essence of being to escape through the pores.

Nowhere to go
Nothing to do
Nothing to know
No one to be

In the conventional world, such phrases may appear to be nonsense.  But I think not …

And he shall purify the sons of Levi
That they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness

It seems that there’s a natural force of purification that seeps into folks who embrace a spiritual practice.  Often the need to accumulate diminishes, as well as the need to protect ourselves.  Fear lessens.  The heart opens.  And what was so important last year just isn’t so anymore.  Such as being right, being strong, being assertive.  What’s left is appropriate behaviour that often touches others.

Lift up thy voice with strength.  Lift it up.  Be not afraid
Arise.  Shine.  For thy light is come

As fear of what others think drops away, we speak wisely, with head held high.  We speak without demand, without needing to convince, without dominating.  We speak what is welling up inside us.  And people notice.

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light

There is the story of Plato’s cave.  Chained human beings face the back wall, observing shadows that they believe are real.  Such as “I need more, better and different.”  When unchained, they turn around, walk to the mouth of the cave, and behold the sun.  Perhaps terrifying.  Too bright.  But home nonetheless.

Unto us a son is given
And the government shall be upon his shoulder

Something is born in us.  Some mysterious energy.  And we feel the responsibility to do good in this world, to love unconditionally, to be kind.

Glory to God in the highest
And peace on earth.  Goodwill toward men

We are peace.  And the inside becomes the outside.  Simply “being with” people is a joy.

His yoke is easy and his burthen is light

Suffering still happens but something is different.  Fear, anger and sadness are held tenderly, embraced as part of life.  They still hurt but somehow there’s a sweetness within the pain.

Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world

I look at the ways I’ve hurt people and I feel remorse.  Still, self-compassion washes over me and I see the fragile, imperfect human being that I am.  Some energy is holding me up.

***

Hmm.  I’m tired, and I’m only halfway through The Messiah.  But I’m having fun.  I think I’ll tackle the second half tomorrow.  Goodnight.

Perfect

Now that I’m back in London, I’m rediscovering my worldly life.  I found out on Saturday evening that I missed the St. Mary Choir School Christmas concert.  It was last Thursday.  But today from 11:00 till 1:00, the Chamber Orchestra and Grade 8 carolers were performing in St. Peter’s Basilica and I was going to see them, hoping to say Merry Christmas to the kids I know.

Sudden update:  On Saturday night in Worcester, Massachusetts, I looked at the St. Mary’s website and found this concert.  It said “St. Joseph’s”, not St. Peter’s!  (Sigh)  Sudden all right, because I just figured that out as I was typing.  Eighty-four days of almost complete silence and I forgot the name of the church.

You know the rest.  I showed up at St. Peter’s, expecting to see legions of uniformed students climbing the steps.  No one there.  And virtually no one inside.  Maybe ten folks praying.

I felt a twinge of sadness.  I wouldn’t be seeing these children before Christmas.  But only a twinge.  Peace descended.  I sat down and meditated to the strains of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”, sung through CD in the lofty heights of the sanctuary by a boy choir.  And then more lilting songs, given from far away to the warmth of my mind.  So quiet.

After the meditation retreat, I’m very quiet inside.  There seems to be space around each cell of my body.  The moment of the moment is entirely sufficient.  There’s virtually no leaning forward towards some “better” spot in time.  The choir sings.  I think of the kids and wish them well.

Just as it is
Fine by me

Sweet Sadness

I got home from my long meditation retreat last night and there are many stories to tell. But I’ll start with what is most pressing on my brain … I fell in love.

A hundred of us meditated in the hall for about seven hours a day.  No talking.  No touching.  No eye contact.  So how is it possible to feel this depth of love for someone in that environment?  Well, it is.

For the first two days of the retreat, we were allowed to talk, and I enjoyed saying things to this woman, whom I’ll call Ginette.  She’s pretty, and that’s nice, but it was her smile that made her shine.  And later, for weeks in the meditation hall, as she sat right behind me, I felt this loving energy from back there.  I do believe that at least some of it was aimed at me.

I created scenarios to fill my future – our wedding day, vacationing in the Caribbean, just sitting on the couch, cuddling.  Sometimes I was fully aware of my thoughts and feelings of the moment.  At other times, I was lost in longing.

I thought of Jody, and how it’s only been a year since my beloved died.  “It’s too early, Bruce.”  “She’s probably happily married.”  “You don’t know anything about her.”  And still I loved.

I brought a Buddha Board with me to the retreat.  It’s a little soft inclined surface within a plastic frame.  If you dip a brush in water, you can create fanciful designs and lovely words.  Slowly and surely, those images disappear as the water evaporates.  Day after day, I wrote “Ginette and Bruce”.  And then watched the impermanence of it all.

I looked for any sign that she liked, perhaps loved, me.  Outside on the driveway, Ginette sometimes walked near me during our periods of walking meditation.  In the hall, she would occasionally make little sounds as we meditated.  All evidence of love, I reasoned.

Should I move to where she lives or should she come to me?  Decisions, decisions.  Oh, what a lovestruck boy am I.

About a week ago, the last three days of the retreat allowed for some talking.  Ginette and I went for a walk and sat on a rock at the edge of a large pond.  I told her that I loved her.  I believe she was taken aback.  And then I gathered all my courage and said what I’d been yearning to say, not knowing if I would be welcomed or rejected:

“If ever you don’t have a husband, I’d like to be your boyfriend.”

To say what is true with no intention of hurting the other person is a blessing.  Ginette said she didn’t know what to say.  “You don’t have to say anything.”  We talked for forty-five more minutes, not about what I’d said but about important things.  She uncovered parts of her soul and I did the same.

And this … Ginette is happily married.

And this from me … “I need to let you go.”  Smiles and a hug.  And great sadness when I was alone.

Weeks ago, I imagined Ginette and I dancing the waltz, with great tenderness and joy.  A day or two after the rock, I was sitting quietly when another image showed itself – Ginette and her husband dancing with the same joy.  I cried.  I see clearly that I want Ginette to be happy, and I want her husband to be happy.  If they’re happy together, then I want them to be together and watch their love grow.  Do no harm.  Their happiness, and my happiness – far beyond my longing to be with Ginette.  Yes.

Ginette’s husband’s name is Bruce.  I thought of my Buddha Board, and watched the phrase “Ginette and Bruce” become ever more beautiful.

Love wins.