Monthly Archives: October 2018

Cigarette Butts

Two years ago, I was talking to two Grade 5 boys about my thrice-weekly walks down to the Belmont Diner for breakfast.

“Maybe sometime I’ll pick up garbage as I go.  That’d be good – keep Belmont clean.”

“Well, why don’t you start doing that?”

“Okay … sure.”

But I didn’t, for months.  Then one day I was sorting through some documents and I came upon a slip of paper with the kids’ names on it.  Oops.  I didn’t do what I said I’d do.  I pride myself on keeping my word, but clearly not this time.

I began making a half-hearted effort to get the job done, which amounted to picking up stuff twice over the next year.  No oomph, no commitment, no satisfaction.

I woke up one morning this spring and found myself headed to the closet where I keep plastic grocery bags.  I plucked out two.  Apparently a fire was being kindled.  On my way downtown, I found no shortage of plastic wrappers, bits of paper, tiny metal things, pieces of wood and … cigarette butts.  All the items on list were fine for pickup but not those gross little white cylinders.  Yuck!

And then one day, without thought, I started stooping for the butts.  They lay mostly in the gutters so I began to walk there, with the occasional thought that motorists will think I’m crazy.  I’d move back onto the sidewalk to avoid parked cars and to capture other butts, plus assorted flotsam and jetsam, but then I’d return to the gutter.

The yuckiness had somehow disappeared.  “Hey, I’ll wash my hands when I get to the Diner.”  And the rhythm of removing cancerous waste said hello.  My previous trips down Main Street allowed me eye contact with drivers and the occasional wave, things that I want in my life.  But now I was head down, focused on the task at hand.  And I was perfectly fine with not meeting others’ eyes for a wee part of the day.

Okay, it’s time to go for breakie.  Time for the bags.  Time for my eagle eye.

In the spirit of keeping you in suspense (and having you return to read my next post!) I’ll tell you soon about how many butts I picked up today.  I’m used to goals amounting to “more” of something.  To soothe our dear environment, today my goal is “less”.

I’m off.

Unexpected Beauty

I was picking at myself last week, literally.  I found a hard nub in my left eyebrow, a tiny mountain of distorted flesh (or so I perceived it).  Without thought, I simply wanted it out of there.  And so I picked.  After three days, I finally got the sucker.  The surface of my skin was a bit sore, but thank God it was smooth.

This afternoon I was lying in bed, trying to figure out why I was so tired.  I touched my eyebrow and remembered the previous excavations.  “What’s with this thing of needing my body to be smooth?”  Now there’s a question.  I crossed my hands over my heart and waited.

“Smoothness is a symbol of perfection.  No blemishes.  Unsullied.  Pure.  That’s what you want.”  Alrighty then … thanks for the quick response.  Have I been sucked in by the surface perfection of famous models?  If so, isn’t that a pile of wayward thinking?  Yes, I think so.  Do I really want the ultra-smoothness of a naked mannequin?  After all, they’re made of plastic – not the most natural state for someone like you and me.

I’m a human being, alive with mental imperfections – false assumptions, subtle insensitivities, blurting out words that can hurt.  My intention is to nourish others but sometimes I do otherwise.  And occasionally my body gets into the act, sending me a rough patch of skin or a pimple or a swollen ankle.  Include it all, Bruce.

While lolling on my bed contemplating recent disruptions of my skin surface, I looked at my right hand with its fingers extended.  I examined the row of knuckles halfway down those fingers.  Lots of lumpy skin!  And the long bones of my hand were highlighted.  Then I closed to a fist: smooth knuckles and no bones.  In the spirit of ah-ha, I sensed that hands are most beautiful when they’re open and relaxed, instead of being balled up with tension.

So … the mountains, the knuckled folds of flesh, and the bones of the hand – they all have their place.  They show the details of a person.  They’re beautifully me.

Birds Near Me

Out back I have two feeders – one for sunflower seeds and the other for nyjer seed. I love seeing the sparrows, finches and mourning doves when they come to call.

But three days ago, they stopped calling. The levels of seed haven’t diminished. There’s no “chirp, chirp, chirp” greeting me as I open my eyes. (Sigh)

Love them and let them go. So true … for human beings, lovely places and birds. Not knowing whether I’ll ever again see a dear soul from my long meditation retreat feels bitter … and somehow sweet. The same with Playa del Carmen, Mexico, where Jody and I spent two sublime vacations.

I know the birds will come back but I’m sitting here imagining my world without them. I am the lesser when marvelous beings depart. I know they’re out there somewhere and I’m happy when I think they’re flying high. On my back patio, there’s a space where birds belong. I can feel their presence within their absence.

Now I look out over the cornfield. No one flying. A dog barking way to the north. A few cars on Belmont Road. I lean towards the birds I don’t see, wanting them to return, and yet peaceful within what is.

And now a flock of twenty black ones enter my field of vision from the left. They swoop over the field and fall into a big old tree at the end. I watch them now, chattering together on a few dead branches.

“Come back!”

But the birdies will do as they will. I’m not in control. The river of life carries me along.

Enough

My family of professionals were always struggling to learn more and to be more. It seemed there was always more. It was never enough. If I brought home a 98 on a test, my father would ask “And what happened to the other two points?” I pursued those two points relentlessly throughout my childhood. But my grandfather did not care about such things. For him, I was already enough. And somehow when I was with him, I knew with absolute certainty that this was so.”

Rachel Remen

Rachel is pointing to the common stance that who I am, and who you are, is deficient. Sadly, many of us buy the idea. And so we launch a quest to find that elusive “enough”. But I don’t think we’ll ever get there within that mindset. Goal #1 achieved leads immediately to Goal #2 pursued, or Goal #1 enhanced.

I like what grandpa brings to the world. “Sure, strive to improve, but who you are is just fine.” We all need to hear this. Completely separate from our abilities and disabilities, we are golden, shining like the sun.

May you have someone in your life who looks deeply into your eyes and sees beauty there. Someone who nods and smiles when another mentions your name.

My dad was my biggest cheerleader. When I got zero in a university course because I didn’t hand in the one assignment, he sat with me and helped me plan for the future. When I told him that I wanted to hitchhike from Toronto to Alberta (a distance of 3500 kilometres), he said “Go explore” and drove me to the on-ramp of Highway 400. Did I make mistakes? Many. Did he know about them? Yes. Did he keep loving me unconditionally? You bet.

Now I’m a grandpa figure in a class of 11-year-olds. I get to look into their eyes and have them see that all is well. They deserve to know that they are truly worthy of respect, appreciation and love. If I can do this, maybe they’ll pass it on twenty years from now.

And the world will be a better place.

The Hip … A Step Forward

It’s intermission time at London’s Aeolian Hall. I’m here to see The Strictly Hip, a tribute band for Canada’s great rock group The Tragically Hip. It’s been decades since I’ve been to a rock concert (other than dancing to Five Alarm Funk at Sunfest) and here I am in the front row.

Straight ahead of me, fifteen feet away, a young man wields an impossibly long bass guitar, his head bobbing and weaving. The lead guitarist plays some incredible licks with a macho flair that has the girls swooning. The drummer is brilliant. Still, the star of the show is the Gord Downie lookalike, complete with cowboy hat. I can barely make out the words but he’s belting out the hits as folks wearing Hip t-shirts move their bods in front of the stage.

Sometimes I close my eyes and feel the pulse of the drum in my heart … it moves right through me. The guitar runs, the deep bass parts and Gord’s strident vocals flood me with the juice of life.

***

And now it’s later. A little girl is jumping up and down by the stage and Gord reaches down to shake her hand. She bounces giddily back to her seat. The way ahead of me is crowded with dancers. A couple slow dances for a slow song. Friends jump straight up and high five for the fast ones.

I don’t know the songs but clearly just about everyone else does. I don’t feel like dancing and I wonder if that’s because of my recent ankle and knee problems. I take a second to poop on myself and then that smallness magically disappears.

I’m loving the energy in the room but then a thought comes: this group surge is nowhere near what I feel when I’m online with members of the Evolutionary Collective global community. That energy bubbles up from within. Tonight’s source is the wild band in front of me and their songs – some raucous and some tender. The truth is that I don’t need rock concerts to expand. Just give me a few open-hearted folks and I’ll bring forth love. A subtle and yet immensely powerful surge.

I continue to change in the world. Old versions of me are honoured and included in what’s emerging. Thanks, Gord and friends, for being on the journey with me.

Tomorrow?
A delightful mystery

Next year?
Perhaps a Bruce I can’t even imagine

Bring it on

Hurtling Through Space

Many a time, I’ve written about something that I was feeling recently but no longer.  If the experience was real in my soul, the words reached others.  It’s even more special, however, when what I’m telling you about is still with me … such as right now.

I’m in a global community that’s exploring consciousness, especially what’s possible when two or more of us look into each other’s eyes.  Can we experience great freedom?  Can we awaken together?  The answer that returns is “yes”.

Last evening there was a live internet session with about ten of us.  I looked inside as the call started.  I was “space-y”, disoriented, “loose” – but not in a negative way.  The cognitive me seemed to have taken a back seat.  And the question was large: “Where am I?”  What realm of being has come calling?

Part of our time together is the opportunity to practice with another person as we look at each other through our computer screens.  As I sat with a fine fellow, images flooded me and I shared them.  For a bit, I was floating in space, untethered from my spaceship.  Suddenly I was beside the rings of Saturn.  I spun them like a frisbee.  Then I was hungry, and the moon beckoned.  We all know that it’s made of green cheese and I took a huge bite.  Next I grabbed the moon, and having conveniently gotten rid of the planet Saturn, I threw the moon through the rings.  Bulls eye!

Fear came by.  “Shut it down, Bruce.  He’ll think you’re weird.”  As soon as I uttered these thoughts, they floated away and I was back in deep space.  I gasped as the meteor that was Bruce blasted into the darkness.  Fire trailed my splayed arms and legs.  I was hurtling through space!  And I still am.

I’m experiencing being launched somewhere, at supersonic speed.  I don’t know what the “somewhere” is, and I don’t care.  There’s no sense of danger.  Just astonishing velocity.  I’m vibrating with it.

I’ve had many meditation experiences where everything stops.  The stillness and peace abide.  Right now that peace is also here – a great calm – but I’m being thrown into some future.  There’s a vacuum sucking me forward.  There’s a magnet pulling me in.  I’m on a bullet train to the next moment.

Here’s the fear again.  “Don’t publish this.  Leave it as a draft … forever.”

Sorry, worried voice.  I’m about to click “Publish”.  It won’t be a record of the past.  It’s still an awe of the present.  I’m Superman – “faster than a speeding bullet”.

Mitch … or Me?

Last night was the first National Hockey League game of the season for my beloved Toronto Maple Leafs.  I was ready to be glued to the TV set.  This could be the year that the Leafs hoist the Stanley Cup for the first time since 1967.  I was a teenager back then, a Torontonian who watched four cup parades in that decade … a fanatic fan.

I watched the game last night, waiting for my body and soul to explode as the Leafs peppered the Montreal net with brilliant shots, and as our goalie Frederick made one stunning save after another.  And then, of course, we’d win.  As it turned out, we did win, but I didn’t explode.  Actually I was pretty flat during the whole affair.

Why?

I went to sleep clueless about my waned devotion.  I woke up with one word on my lips … “Mitch”.  A few years ago, Mitch Marner played for my local junior team – the London Knights.  I loved watching him zoom up the ice, make impossible passes and blast the puck into the top corner of the net.  An 18-year-old was my hero.  And then the Leafs drafted him.  Thus rekindled was passion for my team.

Mitch didn’t do much last night.  His passes went awry.  His shots missed the net.  And I wasn’t engaged in the game.  The truth seems clear: I create heroes.  I imagine myself as them.  If they don’t perform well, I’m bummed.  Somehow it’s an attack on my self-esteem.  I want heroic moments so I can bask in the glory of their excellence.

I did the same thing with Mike Weir, Canada’s champion golfer who won the Masters in 2003.  I lived and died on every tournament result.  If I was watching on TV, it was on every shot.  What sense does it make to allow my happiness to be blowing in the wind of Mitch and Mike’s performance?  None!

I’m a different person than I was in 2003.  There’s a richness to life, to the possibilities of consciousness, that wasn’t as fully developed then.  Could it be that my ho-humness is less about Mitch’s lack of results and more about competitive sports no longer floating my boat?  I wonder.  I still love the transcendent moments in hockey, golf and tennis but something has changed.  What animates my life these days is a conversation with one other person where we touch each other’s souls.  The flow of a hockey game can’t hold a candle to communion.

You and Me

My favourite moments in life are when I’m sitting with one other person, talking about things that matter to us.  There’s a sense of connection, of communion.  The other is special to me, and a spiritual light encloses our being together.

I wonder if I can create that sense of intimacy in relationship to other things.  Let’s see.

1.  Life:  The ups and downs of human existence.  The joys and sorrows of the day, the triumphs and failures.  Yes, I can embrace it all, as I would hug a friend at a cozy restaurant.

2.  My Books:  My favourite one is The Grand Option by Beatrice Bruteau.  As I sit in my man chair caressing the pages, the words and I touch each other, quietly and sublimely.  Contact.

3.  The Younger Me:  So many years have drifted down the tunnel of time.  Earlier versions of Bruce scrambled up mountains, created a soulful batik and played cello with a passion.  Now they’re gone from the surface of life but somehow they still sit with me as I sip coffee at the diner.  To be revered.

4.  My Home:  My orange-brick sanctuary.  It’s where my soul has space to unfold.  Favourite chairs and my delicious bed cradle me as I sink into them.  I am being held, as I would by a lover.

5.  My Car:  Scarlet has been my companion on journeys to meditation retreats and to reunions with faraway friends.  She has led me to thrilling sports matches and harmonic concerts.  She knows where I want to go.

6.  My Clothes:  My favourite red shirt, my ancient red toque, the jeans that feel like home.  And don’t forget all those t-shirts with the funky sayings.  They’re part of me, expressions of me.

7.  The Songs I Love:  Where would I be without The Wings That Fly Us Home, Imagine and Dancing Queen?  Such longtime friends and tender reminders of what’s important in life.  I breathe into you and you hold me in return.

8.  The Land:  I am drawn to the fields and forests, the birds that fly high and the streams that roar or meander.  Time often stops in your presence.  We sit together in peace.

9.  My Ceramic Mugs:  I wrap my hands around you and enjoy the coffee you offer.  I am nourished.  I am comforted.  I am happy.

10.  My Body:  Parts that I like, parts that I don’t.  But behold the miracle when they all come together.  Even if some things don’t work perfectly, I celebrate the uniqueness of these muscles, bones and organs, all enclosed nicely in my skin.  I kiss my hand.  I wrap my arms around me as far as they stretch.  There’s a lot to love.

***

Things to be used?
I don’t think so
They’re all you’s to me

North Sea Gas

Three gentlemen from Edinburgh, Scotland – one in his thirties and the other two probably in their sixties – strode onto the stage.  After a few songs, the young guy said “If you like our music, ask us back … [glances at his companions] … but don’t wait too long!”  And such is the spirit of North Sea Gas.

Guitar, fiddle, banjo, brilliant vocal harmonies, and outrageous humour – what a recipe for audience fun.  There was just no way these fellows were going to let us have a ho hum evening.

Mr. Banjo introduced a song written by a great Scottish poet named Tannahill.  “Unfortunately he was overshadowed by the brilliance of Robert Burns.”  To which Mr. Guitar sighed “I know a thing or two about that.”  Right on cue, Mark, the lighting and sound guy, dimmed the lights.  We laughed and laughed.

Then there was the tender ballad I Don’t Look Good Naked Anymore.  “Now when the wife and I dance, we look away from each other … sort of cheek to cheek.”  Or how about the song about a fellow whom the women cuddled when he was a baby, but not so much anymore.  No more rubbing the chest or rolling in the clover.  Ahh, the elusive male self-esteem.

“How many of you have been to Scotland?”  >  About four hands go up  >  “And why exactly did you come back?”

“Now we’re going to sing … [Mr. Banjo starts choking up]
“Now we’re going to sing … [more wringing of the hands] an English song”
[Mr. Fiddle hurries off stage in a huff.  We cajole him back]

North Sea Gas are on a six-week tour of North America.  After a few days back home, they head off for a month in Germany.  They are marvelous instrumentalists and the blending of their voices is otherworldly but the deepest joy comes from their fun.  They’re not politicians, spiritual leaders or musical superstars … but they are teachers.  Their simple message?

Lighten up, folks

Three

It was yesterday evening, and I couldn’t think of anything to write. And that was okay … I knew that sooner or later something would come. The voice inside said “Go meditate. Your answer is there.” My small mind didn’t think so, but since I love meditating I headed for my chair.

Soon thoughts became few and far between, and any urge for a “solution” disappeared. About an hour in, it felt right to stop. My longtime tradition is to caress my singing bowl with the mallet three times as I end. And so I did.

“Three. Write about the beauty of that number.” Thank you, sweet voice.

In one tradition of Buddhist meditation, the three gongings represent the Buddha, the dharma (the Buddha’s teachings) and the sangha (the community of practitioners). Lovely. I feel a sense of deep belonging in that. There’s a togetherness that creates a far more profound happiness than my own spiritual progression.

And now my own name bubbles up: Bruce. I remember as a kid asking my mom for more syllables … one was not enough. My ideal length was always three. Yesterday I watched a champion golfer do his thing. His name was Francesco. Perfect. Just call me “Francesco” from now on, please.

On the train towards Newfoundland a month ago, I was passing through Montreal. A glance to the left showed me the former US Pavilion at Expo 67. Back then, it was a radical new design, from the mind of Buckminster Fuller – a geodesic dome. Its skeleton was composed of triangles of metal tubing. Extremely stable, grounded. Hmm. Thanks to Bucky, the image of a triangle has been firmly planted in my brain.

I think again of the Buddha and me. Another threesome comes to mind: me, you and all of you. Such are the joys of my life. I sit across from you in a coffee shop and we talk about life. Around us are other you’s who need to be included. There’s a lovely balance among the three.

Balance
Strength
Inclusion