Monthly Archives: March 2018

Impact From Long Ago

I was walking in downtown London yesterday and was passing a group of women.  They all had Tim Hortons coffee cups in their hands.  “I could use a coffee,” intoned the inner me.  I approached one of the women and asked where I could find a Tims store nearby.  As she opened her mouth, I heard a voice off to the side:

“Mr. Kerr!”

I whirled around to see a young woman who I’ll call “Monique”.  Long ago, I had worked with a blind child at an elementary school, and Monique was one of her sighted classmates.  She wore a huge smile, as did I.  We hugged.  Sure she’d changed in fifteen years but I recognized her.

It didn’t matter what we talked about.  There was a sense of contact between us.  She told me about her musical career and I mentioned my cross-Canada bicycle ride this summer.  We joyed in each other’s adventures.  Monique’s friends simply watched us, enjoying the reunion.

At one point, I told Monique that a few years ago I decided why I was on the planet: to love people and make them laugh.  Her reply?  “You accomplished that well before then.”  What a sweet thing to say.

Later she said “You were one of the adults who influenced me most.”  Oh my.  I thanked Monique for saying something that I hadn’t heard very often over the years.  We smiled a lot, hugged again and were off into our separate lives.  But we’ll remember each other and our chance reunion on King Street.

May I always tell people how deeply they’ve influenced me.  It’s an act of such kindness.  We all deserve to be on the receiving end.

Go For The Waking Up

It’s likely that for much of my day I’m asleep, pulled by society’s values into a good/bad, right/wrong world.  And then there are moments when my mind floats free, when the peace descends and I see my neighbours with fresh and loving eyes.

On Wednesday evening I sat by my computer, waiting for a webinar called “Evolution Revolution: The Reality of Shared Unity”.  The talk by Patricia Albere was beamed out to nearly 200 people.  She invited us to join a community of souls across the world who would spend a year, each of us in our own homes, reaching out to each other, making a deep connection.  Patricia talks about “mutual awakening”, in which one person enters the consciousness of the other and the two experience being seen, in their essence, perhaps for the first time in their lives.

Through “Zoom” technology, we would see each other on our screens and do exercises which could lead to a deep sense of contact.  I could be looking into the eyes of a fellow from Afghanistan or a woman from New Zealand.  Can you imagine the possibilities?  Wow.

Another part of the program is presentations by spiritual teachers and Q&A sessions where we can all see each other.  Works for me.

As I watched the webinar on Wednesday, I felt a surge of “This is it” as in what I’ve been waiting for all my life.  I yearn for a deep connection with many other human beings – local as well as across the world.

I decided to sign up, and there was a financial incentive if I did it that evening.  But I thought about my cross-Canada bike ride this summer.  How could this transformational web program mesh with being on the road for seven hours each day?  What to do? Somewhere in the messages I’d received from the Evolutionary Collective (the organization Patricia created) was a phone number.  Minutes later I found it and dialled, not expecting that anyone would answer well into the evening.

Patricia answered!  How is that possible?  Well, I guess it’s very possible, since it happened.  She was excited about my bike ride and essentially said “Come on down.”  So I’m coming.

For the next year, I will be seeing human beings on my phone screen two or more times a week, and I really mean “seeing” them, as they in turn experience my essence.

And will I be able to transfer this sense of connection to nineteen other riders this summer?  I think so.

I’m 69. I don’t know how many more years I have on the planet.  All that time is really a huge bunch of moments.  I can’t think of a better way to have those moments break through into something totally new.

This Old Guitar

I made a promise to you folks two days ago that I would play my guitar yesterday … and I did.  It had been so many years and I didn’t even know if I could remember how to tune it.

I smiled as I pulled out the guitar case from its shelf and undid the clasps.  Am I really beginning again?  Apparently so.  There sat my friend with its strap laid tenderly over the strings.

In my hands now, the instrument felt right.  “Welcome home,” it seemed to say.  I resurrected memories of group guitar lessons in Ottawa in 1971 or so.  And there I was last night, tuning.

Use the pitch pipe to get the right sound for the low E string.  Place your left index finger in front of the fifth fret on the next string – the A.  Play the two strings, one after the other.  The two notes should sound identical.  If they’re slightly off, you should feel a vibration in tone.  If they’re right on, no vibration.  Wow, it’s actually coming back!

Continue the process on the next strings.  Strum them all with your flat pick.  Be extremely happy when the sound is wonderful.  Yes!  Except for the fact that I couldn’t put much pressure on the strings with my fingertips, and that adds up to a buzzing.

Okay, so some of my chords were a buzz.  The cool thing is that my fingers remembered where to go … C, F, G, D, Am, Bm, Dm and Em.  Four major chords and four minor ones – I can play a lot of songs with just those beauties!

I used to bemoan that I didn’t know how to fingerpick, and that I couldn’t move my left fingers out of the chord shape to hit individual notes.  Would I like to do these things?  Sure.  A guitar teacher could help me.  But sitting here right now, it doesn’t feel important.  All right.  Then what is important?

1.  I want to sing beautiful songs, ones that tell a story about life

2.  I want other people to hear me sing them

3.  I want other people to be touched by the stories, and to sense how they apply to their lives

I can do this.  First, I need to create some calluses on my fingertips, so I can play for longer than five minutes.  I have to learn some songs – know the chords, memorize the words.  And I have to convince someone to listen to me.  I can do this.

I started singing and playing last night … “Can’t Help But Wonder Where I’m Bound”.  I loved my voice and I loved hearing the guitar filling in the tones.  Was it performance ready?  Not at all.  But, to use a martial arts term, I had put myself on the mat.  The guitar was on my lap.  The words came out of my mouth.  The chords moved with the words.  Happiness.

I thought of John Denver, one of my favourite songwriters.  He loved playing too:

This old guitar taught me to sing a love song
It showed me how to laugh and how to cry
It introduced me to some friends of mine
And brightened up some days
It helped me make it through some lonely nights
Oh, what a friend to have on a cold and lonely night

New friends are coming my way.

Can’t Help But Wonder Where I’m Bound

Okay, so what do I want to do with the rest of my life?  There are many things that draw me – meditation, sacred relationships, cycling, spending time with kids.  And then there was the package that arrived in the mail today.  It consisted of two books, each offering the lyrics and guitar chords for 1200 songs.

Thirty years ago, I wrote out the titles to 100 songs I wanted to learn – singing and playing guitar.  My results so far?  Zero.  But here I sit, wanting to sing for people, wanting to touch them with stories that open the heart.  The dissenting voice inside says there’s only so much time left in my life.  A guy can have too many projects, can’t he?  And anyway, where am I going to find folks to sing to?

Well, a couple of weeks ago, I went to a house in London where Christine and John host folk music concerts every Wednesday evening.  I had a great time.  Maybe they’ll let me sing one of these months.

Do I really want to invest the time to learn old songs?  Well … I could start with one, such as this pensive tale from Tom Paxton:

I’ve been wanderin’ through this land just doin’ the best I can
Tryin’ to find what I was meant to do
And the people that I see look as worried as can be
And it looks like they are wonderin’ too

And I can’t help but wonder
Where I’m bound, where I’m bound
Can’t help but wonder where I’m bound

Wouldn’t listeners find it easy to ask themselves the very same question?  Yes, I think they would.

But what about my guitar skills?  They’re pretty rudimentary and it’s been so long since I’ve played.  So?  I guess it depends on how badly you want to do this, Mr. Kerr.  You decide.

Okay.  I will pick up my guitar tomorrow and see what happens.  That’s a promise.

Time for bed.

Thoughts for a Sunday Afternoon

Here are some musings from Patricia Albere, and a person whose name I can’t remember … and me:

“The yonder shore that is calling us”

When I was a teenager, I loved hearing Tennessee Ernie Ford sing gospel music. My favourite song of his was “Drifting Too Far From The Shore”. Mostly I was in love with his deep bass voice but part of me needed Jesus to keep me safe.

Why meet a terrible fate?
Mercies abundantly wait
Turn back before it’s too late
You’re drifting too far from shore

Nowadays it feels like I’ve set out across the waters of spiritual life. The way is often foggy but I trust that there’s a new shore awaitin’ – some unknown land that is beckoning me. Not “heaven” per se but something in the moment that’s beyond time and space. Something full of life.

“A wholehearted expression of fully being “met” in all dimensions of love – from simple, sweet human tenderness to sacred union”

The thought keeps returning: people don’t see me. They don’t know who I am, at a deep level. I yearn for contact, connection, a meeting of the eyes. Maybe no words would be spoken, or there might be a torrent of the soul’s work. Either way, the moment is complete. No opinions, no lecturing, no posturing … just you and me.

I want one of these oh so open relationships to include sexuality – the union of our bodies as well as our spirits. But that may not come to pass. I sense that one thing is not negotiable: the merging of consciousness so that the space between us is sacred. A wholeness that transcends and includes our individuality.

“The space between us became vivid and enlivened. As I continued exploring, leaning into it more and more, it became this vortex of consciousness, which had a momentum of its own. It was very compelling and had almost a “sucking in” momentum that was changing the experience of self, my sense of self, from someone limited in my body (kind of a consciousness inhabiting a body) to, in this case, two bodies being consumed by a vortex of consciousness. Being two was secondary to the incredible oneness of consciousness that consumed us.”

What if this vortex, this cycling of energy, was my common state of being? I’d be swept up in one long “oooohhhh” experience and I’d be sharing that with another human being. Astonishing.

“A stance of receptive surrender”

Such a tricky word. It’s not a giving up. It’s a letting go. Beyond the mind and beyond my feelings. But letting go into what? Perhaps that’s the idea. I let go into an unknown. Despite having “studied” spirituality for decades, I know not. Something brand new may be resting behind my eyes. I need to wait and see what approaches me, and to have it be okay that the depth of another person will come calling. May the energies reaching out to me be a revelation.

“What we see on the surface, and much of what we have been told is true, is a very shallow view of what exists.”

Oh my. Many folks have lent me their opinions about what is true. And most of my day features surface interactions. Still, what’s possible? Right now, I’m sitting beside a fellow in a concert hall, waiting for the music. His response to my hello was lukewarm at best. So again, what’s possible? Think I’ll say hi again.

***

Well, well, well. I drew him in. We talked about how we both love sitting in the front row, in the middle. And as for the guy on the other side, I offered to sing him “a little number”. He said yes. So I sang “Three”, which as we all know is a little number. Contact times two.

“Once they taste the mystical realm, their hearts are blown open and the flow of divine love overtakes them, and they cannot return to anything less.”

I’ve glimpsed divine realms, momentarily. I know they exist. And indeed I can’t settle for a longterm flow of anything less, even though I regularly encounter folks who want to stay on the surface of things. To be blown open, to be undone, unravelled, is a terrifying and sublime blessing.

“The first quality of mystical experiences is that they defy ordinary description or explanation. Those of us who have them find ourselves at a loss to effectively share them with others.”

But still I write, even though I fear I will be perceived as deficient and weird. I remember once I had no words for a woman so all we did was hug, for at least two minutes. It wasn’t sexual. It was communal. Afterwards all we could say to each other was “That was nice.”

“In Mutual Awakening practice, we do not speak about our experience; we give our experience a voice. We are not looking at our experience and describing it. We are allowing that experience to take us over and speak through us so that even we are amazed at what comes out of our mouths.”

Ha! Am I wide enough to just open my mouth and allow what comes out? I think so … when I’m talking to a beloved. And maybe, just maybe, there are a lot of beloveds out there waiting for me to sing them a little number.

Emerging

A few weeks ago, I was leaving the Aeolian Hall in London after a concert when a young woman said hi. I knew Noelle fifteen years ago when she was a Grade 6 kid at the school where I worked with a blind student. I also remember her sister Renee and their friend Hillary. Noelle told me that the three of them have formed a music group called The Pairs, featuring homemade songs and strong vocals. She told me they were part of a concert on March 23 and invited me to come.

My brain went into compute mode. March 23 was smack dab in the middle of a five-day trip to Toronto although nothing was on my schedule for that evening. The commute time was about two hours.

I said yes.

I would drive to London, take in the show, and then drive back to Toronto, no doubt getting in at midnight or later. Some people would see such behaviour as weird but not me. Seize the day, as Robin Williams told us in Dead Poets Society.

I stood at the front, listening to the girls sing. Except they’re 28 now. Young women. Great harmonies, great songs and a lovely caring among them. I smiled and clapped a lot. The Pairs are finding their way in the world and who knows where their musical path will take them.

The concert was a fundraiser for the Canadian Mental Health Association. Noelle talked to the crowd about how important it is that we be good to each other. She spoke of “relentless kindness”, a sweet turn of the phrase I thought. It was clear to me that these three women were becoming full human beings, contributing to the world. And it became even clearer when I heard them sing “Woman”:

Oh I’m woman, hear me roar
Oh I may not fit where I’m supposed to be
But I do what I need to make my heart soar
Oh I’m woman, hear me roar
And I won’t let you make a man outta me

I talked to Hillary, Renee and Noelle after the music. They were all pleased I had come. Me too.

Reconnecting with folks who were once young students is rare for me. Last night was a privilege. Many kids who were in my life have now stretched their wings in ways I’ll never know about. Good for them. I like to think I’ve made a contribution to many 12-year-olds. Actually, I don’t have to think it. I have.

Searching For A Younger Man

I grew up in Toronto in the 60’s.  I loved folk music, especially the songs that told stories.  And the place to hear singers was Yorkville, home to maybe ten coffeehouses.  I was too young to drink but just the perfect age for consuming gallons of caffeine.

I always went to the same place on Yorkville Avenue.  On the street there was a door rounded at the top with a semi-circular awning above, then stairs down to a cramped space that held a tiny stage at one end.  So many folksingers passed before my eyes and ears.

Yesterday I was walking along Bloor Street in Toronto, one of the city’s main drags.  Along the way, I had spent time in two libraries, reading my book and joying in no agenda.  I kept heading east, watching the flow of humanity on the sidewalk.  I tried to make contact with many of them – psychically that is.  No calls of greeting or stares.  I saw they all had lives just as rich as mine.  I wished them well.  And perhaps none of them noticed me.

As I strolled, a word flashed in my mind … “Yorkville”.  I was just a few blocks away.  As I turned onto Yorkville Avenue, classy restaurants and elegant shops showed their huge windows to me.  The days of underground hippie hangouts were long gone.  Along the street, I saw three historical plaques, honouring three classic folk clubs which were no more: The Penny Farthing, The Purple Onion and The Riverboat.  I hadn’t been in any of them but I was still sad.

And then there was 90 Yorkville Avenue.  I recognized the door and the tattered awning.  But I couldn’t remember the name of the club.  A woman stood smoking on the step.  I asked if she knew the history of the building.  She didn’t.  She told me the door was locked and the space below had been used for storage for a long time.  Smiling, she suggested I Google it.  A few minutes later, I was sitting on a bench, doing just that.  I learned that Yorkville had morphed into an area boasting condos with a price tag of up to $28 million.  I became reacquainted with the names of several coffeehouses, including, at #90, The Flick.  In the 60’s it had been the refuge of folk fans but later switched to the more popular rock and roll.  Trouble was, the name rang no bells whatsoever.

I decided to find someone who knew the history of Yorkville.  Right beside the rounded door, I entered a fabric repair shop.  (That’s the only term I can come up with.  For the life of me, I can’t remember what to call such a place.  Oh well.)  The young man didn’t know history but he referred me on to someone named Emil, a real estate broker.  “He’d know.  He’s old.  His office is in the next building.”  Securely deposited in the next building, I saw no sign of Emil.  I walked into a clothier store.  “Oh, Emil.  Go back to the street, turn left, nip into the alley, and climb the steps.  His office is up there.”

Following instructions, I could find no such stairs.  (Sigh)  Into a dress shop.  “I don’t know him.”  Into a record store.  The young man behind the desk knew neither local history nor Emil.  “But you could try Fred.  He works at the back.”  I approached Fred and was pleased to see that his hair was grey (like someone else I know).  Fred smiled but noted that he was a recent transplant from London, Ontario and wasn’t up on what Yorkville was like decades ago.

I stood in front of Fred.  Another dead end, it seemed.  And then an old fellow buried in a vinyl display case raised his head.  “It was called The Flick.  I went there a lot.”

“Me too!”

We talked for a few minutes about the good old days.  I thanked him and returned to the rounded door.  I stared.  I remembered the 18-year-old kid who opened that door on many a Friday evening.  He was a good person.  He yearned to play guitar and write his own songs.  He wanted to go to festivals.  He wanted to be good to people.

***

Thank you, teenage Bruce
For planting the seeds that blossomed into sixties Bruce
It’s nice knowing both of you

Fire in the Sky

I love traditions, and the residents of Toronto Island have a doozy.  Last night, they hauled dozens of Christmas trees to Ward’s Beach and had a bonfire.  I went last year and no doubt wrote about it in WordPress but my memory of such writing is tucked away in some inaccessible spot.  It’s time for now.

I took the ferry across as the sun was setting.  When what to my wondering eyes should appear but smoke rising above the trees.  “They started without me!”  And indeed they had.

I followed the path of humanity across parkland and through the brush … and there was the fire, licking high into the darkening sky.  Maybe 200 people stood at a respectful distance.  The local costume-clad band pounded out a rhythm on their drums and horns. I was in the presence of a community.

A family emerged out of the black, carrying a large Christmas tree.  Mom, dad, son and daughter.  With a ho heave ho and a “One … two … three!” the evergreen lofted and plopped into the blaze.  The crackling sound burst upon us, along with a light that illuminated all.  And the blast of heat!  Yes.  The heat without clearly inspired the heat within, as smiles broke open faces and cheers danced with applause.

Some ploppers waltzed around the flames before depositing their treasure.  Gifts ranged from gigantic spruces to the tiniest of boughs.  Givers from 70-somethings to wee kids. One train of five children launched a long pile of wood shavings upward.  There were endless crackles and glows for ninety minutes or more.  Sparks flew upwards against the crescent moon and sometimes sideways towards faces.  I felt some pricks of fire and brushed them off.  All part of the astonishing energy.

Two women hooped around the fire.  How someone can keep a hula hoop going just above her knees is beyond me, but she did it.  Later she reappeared rotating a hoop alive with fire.  The glow circled up and circled down, much to the joy of kids young and old. The second woman hooped with ecstasy lighting her face.  Her body moved sensuously and the vibrancy of her soul added to the erotica.  A young girl tried to keep a hoop aloft with little success but frequent visits to the ground wouldn’t stop her smile.

Many a time I looked around to wonder at the togetherness, the relationship, the community feeling.  The water lapped softly on the beach.  All was dark save for the blaze and a few far off lights.  The intensity of the city was worlds away.  All was well.

Perspective

I decided to do two hours on the elliptical yesterday afternoon.  No sweat, I thought, since I’d done much more than that recently.  The first hour was smooth.  A good rhythm and I felt strong.

On we go to Part Two.  And I started well.  Somewhere around twenty minutes, though, something was wrong.  My arms slowed, my legs slowed, and I swear my brain slowed. My breath was no longer silent and the weight of the world pressed on me.  “How can this be?”  I’d eaten enough, had a good sleep, and felt happy.  But I continued to spiral down.  forty-five minutes, I stopped.

And then it was time to choose … an attitude.

A. You’re a weak and uncommitted and just plain bad person.

B. For some unknown reason, you don’t have it today.  This says nothing about you as a person.  Accept what is.

A smile came as I chose Option B.  Sure I was disappointed but life keeps showing me its yins and yangs.  O great imperfect one … celebrate it all.

***

Last night I watched eight short films at the Wolf Performance Hall in downtown London.  One lasted just ten minutes but will stay with me considerably longer than that. It was about a figure skater.  We saw her being interviewed and the woman’s face was vibrant.  As they say, “Her smile reached her eyes.”  And the skating!  In a glowing dress, our heroine spun and floated, radiant on the ice.

Then there was the matter of her age … 91.  She winked and said that she doesn’t fall much anymore.  Good thing, I thought.  Over the last few years, she’s won several medals in her age group – 50 and above.

After our skater had finished her comments for the film, words appeared on the screen: her date of birth … and her date of death.  Most of the two hundred of us present let out an audible “Aww.”  I so much wanted her to still be alive.  And then more words: “She died as she lived – on the ice.”

I thought of my earlier weakness.  I thought of her thoroughly alive face.  Definitely something to learn here.

Who am I to play small?  I know someone twenty-two years older who rocked the house every time she did a spin.

Shift

Well, well, well.  I’m in the middle of a strange state of consciousness and I feel the need to write about it.  But will I make any sense?  Perhaps not.  Perhaps my readers will get together and recruit a few white coats for my front porch pleasure.  I guess that would be fine.

My head says that this is something about mathematics.  My face screws up in wonderment.  Maybe I’ll just go with it and see what operations present themselves.

I’ll start with the number 10.  11 and 12 are close neighbours and suggest incremental progression towards a number of life benefits.  I’ll get a little better day by day.  But what about 10³?  10 and 3 seem pretty closely related but when you put them together that way, you end up with 1000, which is a quantum leap from 10.  And what would my life be like if I leapt quantumly on a regular basis?  If I said things that sounded awfully strange to an innocent bystander but made celestial sense to me.  Would the world shun me?  Possibly.

What would be my purpose in saying strange things?  To merely stand out in a crowd or to find connections that up to now had remained dormant in me?  It could be that my contribution to life on this planet will be to connect two disparate thoughts in a way that no one has before.  That’s worth the possibility of social ridicule.

I wonder what I’m saying.  I’m floating in a shifted consciousness and am happily creating word groups that WordPress readers may find deficient.  Oh well.

Now I’m flying inside my head.  How remarkable.  It’s not an exploration of the various forms of earthbound self-transportation (walking, running, skipping, crawling) but a clean break from the general concept, a lifting beyond the bonds of gravity.

Now I’m under a tree, floating free on a swing.  The rhythm is intoxicating.  Swooping down to the low point and then climbing to a horizon, with time and space ceasing at the moment of stillness, before I plummet back towards the ground.

This conversation is nonsense, I say.  I suppose it is, in that I’m currently not in the realm of rationality.  My mind is swooping like my swinging, and soaring like a bird into the heavens.  But of what use is all this?  I don’t know.  It’s very different and my fingers on the keys seem to have a mind of their own.  I feel the pressure to stop, to cut my losses in the arena of public evaluation, to save my reputation, to return to balance.  Yes … I am skewed right now, leaning precariously into the unknown, risking isolation and condemnation.  Oh well again.

Now a smile on my lips.  “You’re free, Bruce.”  Society members will choose their reactions to me – some positive and some negative – and it doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t even matter what I think of me.  Something almost inexpressible is trying to emerge from my history of Bruceness and maybe I just need to get out of the way.

Something brand new, I do believe … at least in my life.