Since getting home from my bicycling adventure, I’ve told myself to blog every day.  “It doesn’t matter what you talk about, as long as your words are true to your soul.  And those words need to go out to the world because there are some folks there who will understand.  They’ll see their own lives in your struggles.  It may help them and it will definitely help you.”

Okay.  I’ll do that.

***

Today was hot and humid in Belmont, Ontario.  Kids decorated their bikes and rode in a parade to the community centre.  Such sweet young ones sweating their way to a hot dog lunch, plus a drink, chips and a slice of Canada Day birthday cake.  I love Belmont.

Along the way, I talked to two moms of kids I’ve volunteered with.  I enjoyed both conversations.  I talked briefly about my trials and tribulations out west and they told me how their daughter and son and families were doing, including cool plans for the summer.  I had lunch under a tree with one of the women and two fellow moms.  Thank God for the shade.

One 8-year-old fellow I know climbed way up the tree.  I didn’t see his ascent since I was facing the other way, but when I turned around “Peter” was perched comfortably on a branch about 12 feet off the ground.  I marvelled.  I saw how high the lowest branch was and wondered how he could have reached it.  He must have major upper body strength.  For a second, I lamented that my body couldn’t do such a thing … but just as quickly I let that thought go.  Peter’s job is to climb trees.  Mine is to explore consciousness.  We’re 60 years apart.  Why would I want his job?  And I smiled.  “Climb high, dear Peter.  I will too.”

Eventually the group of us were finished eating and we headed back to the picnic shelter.  I was reaching for the gooeyness of vanilla cake when I saw a third mom.  I volunteered in her daughter’s class last year.  It seems to me that she asked how I was and I think I said “Shaky” in reply. “Denise” looked right into my eyes and said “Let’s talk.  Let’s find a tree to sit under.”  From the very first second, I was touched by her generosity.  I suggested we walk over to Peter’s tree.

And there we sat, for maybe an hour.  Her two kids were with us for a bit and then they wanted to go home.  Denise knew the older would keep the younger safe on the short walk … and off they went.

Denise knew I needed to talk and she let me do so at my own pace.  She looked at me softly, without judgment, just “getting” the contents of my heart – the fear, the sadness, the loss of Bruce.  Denise talked about moments in her life that were hard, wanting her words to be helpful to me.  They were.  And I thought: “Hmm.  She’s not rushing off.  She wants to understand me.  She sees me.”  What a revelation that was.  Sooner rather than later, I found myself smiling.  Plus I do believe there was a laugh or two bubbling up to my surface.

I can feel the light beyond the murkiness, a floating beyond the dead weight, a pulsing beyond the drone.  How about that?  Did Denise do that for me or did Bruce do that for me?  Well … I think we were co-conspirators!

***

People keep giving me gifts
Some folks are 10 years old
Some are 40
Some are 48
Some are 77
All are so very human