Monthly Archives: April 2019

Day One: Have You Ever Been to Denver?

I’m sitting in a pub, watching Toronto Airport passengers chow down – some happily engaged in travelling-type conversation and others solitary, perhaps contemplating what their life’s journey will be. Ahh, that’s such a mystery. Out on the concourse, carry-on suitcases zip by with their owners, bound for Gate This or That. Some folks stroll. Others push hard towards boarding times. All is well.

Denver is three hours and forty-five minutes away, Monterey, California a couple of hours beyond that. My layover in Colorado will steep me in airport architecture and the comings and goings of more passengers. I’ll be able to say that I’ve been to Denver, but I won’t. Just like people, it takes time to know the insides of cities. In the same spirit, I don’t know Amsterdam, The Netherlands or Lisbon, Portugal. Name-dropping, anyone?

The five days of the Evolutionary Collective’s seminar in California will offer me the insides of many cosmic travellers. We give each other what is most precious, and we allow the giving to flow well beyond “the group”, for all Earth-dwellers need love. The surface contact of typical social discourse just won’t do on the shores of the Pacific. We’re up for bigger and broader things.

***

Now I’m in Denver and the last three hours have been spectacular. Not because of the scenery, other than the swoop over downtown Toronto on takeoff. After that, it was clouds. The majesty was in the woman who sat beside me across the States. Her name is Shanti. She’s a podiatrist who lives with her husband in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Those details are fine but they don’t touch the spirit of the person. How is it that I’m so blessed to meet such a bevy of fine human beings? I don’t know but I’m totally willing for this to continue.

Shanti told me so many things. I’m sitting here trying to keep her stories straight … unsuccessfully! We both laughed hard when I admitted my confusion. And it doesn’t matter. If I get the facts all jumbled, it’ll just be more fun to read.

Shanti told me about her once nine-year-old daughter who went on a mission trip to Ecuador with church members. This “girly girl”, who at home had to look perfect, didn’t give a hoot about that in the jungle. The group was building a road and the young one spent her days felling plants with a machete. Mom showed me a long ago photo of one beaming young lady.

Then there was longer ago – a family trip to Barbados. Shanti’s childless aunt and uncle lived there and insisted that everybody stayed with them over Christmas. A fine time was had by all. And … the emerging tradition was repeated for the next twenty years! Longterm joy to everyone.

Shanti and I share the blessing of community. For her, it’s the church in Albuquerque. For me, it’s the worldwide members of the Evolutionary Collective. We’re both immersed in the deepest sense of family. In 2020, Shanti and her husband will travel to somewhere in the US for a retreat for church members from probably 90 countries. Maybe more than a thousand folks in this family. Truly a wow.

Do you get the sense of this person? I sure do. She lives her life in a reaching out, a being of service … a bottomless love.

Blessings abound.

California

I’m off again, this time for ten days.  My destination is Pacific Grove, California, south of San Francisco.  The Evolutionary Collective is meeting there for five days, starting on Thursday.  We’re staying at an oceanside resort called Asilomar.

It doesn’t really feel like a vacation – or does it?  The scenery on the coast of the Monterey Peninsula is spectacular – crashing waves, towering cliffs, the endless Pacific stretching towards Japan.  But I’m here for the relationships.  I’m here to join with fine human beings in extending love across the planet.  I’m here to look deep into the beloveds’ eyes.  And actually, that does feel like a vacation … from the daily round of daily life.  True contact between people animates us.  It makes life glow.  Sounds like a rejuvenating week to me.

I could turn my analyzing mind on and predict what “growth” I will experience over the next ten days.  What “learning”, what “improvement” on the way to being a better person.  But that’s not it.  It’s really not about me.

On one level, about a hundred of us will turn up in Asilomar to enhance each other’s lives.  But it’s even broader than that.  How can our love reach over the horizon to touch folks in Paris and Istanbul, in Sydney and Morocco?  Is such a stretching outward just pie in the sky or is it true that we are able participants in the evolution of consciousness?  Could it be that every one of us is a blessing, that together we can banish the loneliness in this world?  Can we all belong?

Five days in Asilomar.  One hundred people.  The unknown could very well be unleashed.  And I get to be there.

Painting Churches

This is the title of a play I saw this afternoon at Procunier Hall in London.  It’s about the impact of Alzheimers on a family.  It’s also about longstanding emotional dysfunction and how there are no winners here (or are there?)

A reviewer sets the stage for us:

A last remnant of the old-money, socially elite WASP families that used to be Beacon Hill’s principal inhabitants, the Churches are an artistic clan.  Gardner Church is an aging poet, now going dotty, whose eminence is suggested by a library that includes gifts from Robert Frost and Andre Malraux.  His wife, Fanny, long used to running the household and serving as her husband’s real-world anchor, is easily recognizable as the type of upper-class woman whose own suppressed artistic instincts find fruition in her consciousness of clothes and furnishings.  Sharp-eyed and even sharper-tongued, Fanny also functions, with supportive intent, as a kind of critical nemesis to both her husband and their daughter, Mags, an aspiring painter, now living in New York, about to have her breakout solo show.

Mags has come come home to help her parents move out of their too expensive Boston townhouse, and into the cottage they own on Cape Cod.  She wants to paint them sitting together.

There is such sadness in this play.  Such a sense of loss in each of the three.  It’s far more than dementia.  It’s about how imperfect we all are.  We achieve something and then life seems to conspire to take away the satisfaction, to drop us down a bottomless pit for awhile.  Perhaps ending it all would be a good plan.

Through the tossings and turnings of relationship, though, a light shines.  There’s a recognition of who the other really is, even if that’s usually buried under a blanket of low self-esteem and woundedness.  There is a dance to this.  There is a tiny smile, as each person at least momentarily sees beyond the condemnations, the status, the fame, the need to have the other do what you want them to do.

As Gardner becomes more and more disoriented, as he grapples with his inability to write anymore, as he loses his awareness of the moment, he can still tell his daughter how beautiful she is.  He can dance with his wife.  He can quote the most memorable poems of Yeats, with a faraway look in his eyes.

Mags seems to have had a young life of “not good enough”.  Mom lets her know right between the eyes that her dyed hair is an abomination and that she’ll never get a man wearing clothes that look like discards.  What ills of the past still live in her mind?  They appear to be embedded in the walls of the home place.  She needs to paint her parents, and when they finally see the finished work, they smile, they comment on the stylistic beauty, they’re proud of her.  Mags’ eyes widen in wonder, hearing words that never flowed before from her mother’s lips.

Fanny is all knotted up.  She remembers the joys of courtship with Gard, how their lives flowed effortlessly as his fame and income surged.  The parties, the fancy clothes she could afford, the sense that their peers thought well of this well-appointed Beacon Hill couple. Why, or why, couldn’t their daughter see the wisdom of staying within the fold of tony society?  Perhaps a reprimand or thousand would have her see the error of her ways.  In the end, though, there is the painting Mags created, showing the sweet togetherness of decades.  There is the dance with her dear one, as wobbly as he is.  Gard and Fanny’s eyes meet in love.

***

I sit here now, thinking of a song written by Stan Rogers, telling of a ranch wife looking forward to Friday night, when she’ll be dancing with her man at the Legion.  It’s called Lies:

Then she shakes off the bitter web she wove
And turns to set the mirror, gently face down by the stove
She gathers up her apron in her hand
Pours a cup of coffee, drips Carnation from the can
And thinks ahead to Friday, ’cause Friday will be fine
She’ll look up in that weathered face that loves hers, line for line
To see that maiden shining in his eyes
And laugh at how her mirror tells her lies

Here’s to Gard and Fanny, to Mags, and to Friday evening dancers everywhere.

Vlady and Flatness

I’m sitting here in what I’d like to call the SkyDome, waiting for a baseball game to break out. Corporately renamed the Rogers Centre years ago, this building has been the home of the Toronto Blue Jays since 1989. I haven’t graced its cavernous space for at least two decades. So why am I here?

Vladimir Guerrero Jr.

He’s a 20-year-old Dominican Republic native who hits the cover off the ball and smiles his way through life. He was promoted to the Blue Jays on Friday … and the buzz has been immense. I want to see him.

Part of me isn’t attached to individuals. I want everyone to excel. I wish everyone well. Still, I love witnessing profound athletic achievements, where the person flies through the air like Superman or launches the baseball, golf ball or javelin. And I fantasize about being such a hero. Down deep, I know that true heroism has nothing to do with athletic achievement. It’s a matter of the heart. But still I watch.

Batting practice has just finished. I missed the Blue Jays’ version but I gazed in wonder as balls hit by the Oakland A’s soared to the outfield and beyond. Transcendent.

It’s forty minutes to game time and there might be 2000 of us here. Doesn’t the whole world want to see Vlady? Not yet, apparently. But I bet there’ll be 40,000 soon.

Almost game time. Here’s the Blue Jays’ mascot, BJ Birdy, jogging along the stands on the third base side, high-fiving kids in the front row. Cool. Here are the Blue Jays taking the field, throwing the ball around. And now … the first pitch. Fly ball to left – easy catch. We’re off!

Here comes Vlady to the plate, along with our roars. Bases loaded. Maybe a monumental moment is coming and the crowd is feeling it. But … called third strike. We boo the umpire’s decision, although we’re a hundred feet or more away. Blue Jays fans have such acute distance vision!

Brandon Drury just hit a rope to deep right centre field. I watch the arc and the outfielder sprinting back. He leaps to full extension and the ball blasts past his glove. A double. Our cheers are “moderate”. “Why is that?” I ask. It was a line drive over the head of the centerfielder. Spectacular. Well, it seems that we temper our response because Brandon is not Vlady. Sadly, I’m one of the “we”. I want the superhuman that I can pretend to be. Hmm. I need to think on this one.

We’ve completed four innings and we’re ahead 4-0. The crowd is a lot smaller than I’d hoped – maybe 20,000. And we’re quiet. Cheering seems in short supply. All those folks in a huge circular stadium, with its roof closed. Plus it’s almost winter again outside. This sport seems far more suited to a hot summer day in the sunshine. Wait a minute, though, that’s such an external factor. Surely it’s my job to create my own engagement, my own excitement. I’m just not getting the job done right now.

Vlady was up to bat a couple of innings ago and stroked a line drive straight at the second baseman. The power! Also the quick out. Just now, he walked. I’d guess the pitcher was worried about throwing him a pitch he could knock out of the park.

Someone in management is trying to rev us up through the PA system:

“Everybody Clap Your Hands!”

“Make Some Noise!”

“Get Loud!”

“We Will, We Will Rock You!”

And through the speakers we hear a trumpet playing “Charge!”

Still, we are remarkably flat. Me included.

This feels like a whole bunch of nothing with a hit or two sprinkled in to keep me from nodding off. Hockey has far more action, and basketball has cheering whenever the home team scores a basket, as well as awesome dancers. But this … the A’s player just struck out and I barely noticed, being preoccupied with my thumbs.

I’m not creating any oomph here and that feels all right. There’s no law saying that I need to love baseball. I’m going to create other events in my life to get the juices flowing.

For now, though … nighty night.

Love in the Front Row

Tonight I get to experience the Royal Conservatory Orchestra from the middle of the front row. I’m jumping inside. What’s possible?

Will there be the joy of creation shared between the players? Will the word “orchestra” explode into a heart-stopping epiphany of union – all these parts blossoming into an unfathomable whole?

I’m feeling a fierceness inside that flies so beyond any worries about how you’ll respond to the language of those two questions. It truly doesn’t matter. I am open to an outrageous evening … part of which is what I’ll bring to the front row seat and the musicians nearby. For we the audience flow out to the violinists, cellists, trumpeters and flutists. They aren’t inert lumps of virtuoso mud. Our energy touches them. So how about ecstasy for all tonight?

***

I just walked into the foyer of Koerner Hall, seeking a spot where I could take off my walking boots and put on my dress shoes. Ah ha. There’s a bench with lots of people and a space for me! I sit down and smile at the woman to my right. I’m not sure what her face did in reply. After a minute of me fiddling with laces, she says “Are you here for a rush seat?” > “No, I have my ticket.” > “You’re awfully early for the concert.” > “Well, a few music students are doing a pre-concert at 6:45” …

And then it hit me. I’d plunked myself down in a lineup for rush seats. I laughed and laughed. The woman smiled (a really genuine one).

***

Speaking of the pre-concert, it just ended. My chosen spot is dwarfed by the Steinway grand looming above. I get to be under a piano! A young oriental woman walks onstage and bows. Once she’s settled on the piano chair, all I see is her lower body. Fingers to keys … and the notes vibrate in a way that’s absolutely new. The tender passages seem to waft out from the underside of the instrument and make their way into my pores. My heart is nearby. And when she plays frantically, her right foot smashes onto the pedal, her thighs bounce and her bum elevates at regular intervals. Once in awhile, the pianist arches back and I catch a glimpse of her black hair shining, but never her face. And that was just fine.

Next up is a young violinist wearing a shimmering shirt. Swaths of green and red shone like a Christmas tree. I watched his body flow and erupt, but again there was no face. It was hidden behind his music stand. I felt in the presence of Everyman.

Mr. Unknown was accompanied by a young woman who wore a long black skirt and high heels. Between were her bare feet. As she worked the pedals, I was fascinated by the pulsing bones of her right foot. So, sitting in the Underworld, I beheld sights and sounds unknown to folks occupying the 30th row.

***

Now another pianist, leading the orchestra through a piece by Tchaikovsky. She wore a gorgeous green dress and took turns caressing and then slapping the keys. During the fast stretches, I saw the muscles of her upper right arm vibrate, and her right earring flew into view. Then there was the end of the movement, with her hand held high, the fingers curling.

Linda Ruan stood, all smiles, receiving our applause. Then she turned to the musicians, and they all joyed together, the orchestra stomping its collective feet. On her way off the stage, she touched the shoulder of the very last violinist.

***

For the final number before intermission, no piano was needed. So my world widened to include actual faces – some vibrant, some meditative. The principal violist smiled a lot at her stand mate. A first violinist was the tallest blond fellow and he twisted his body every which way in his passion for the melody.

There were moments when the full orchestra swelled and the timpani player sounded the depths of his drum. The energy flooded me, and I felt mine arc back to the players, willing them on to excellence. They gave. We gave. We all received.

***

Now it’s intermission. I’m happy, ready once more to live inside the music. The time is coming for passion to reappear, and we are all the better for it. Thank you, dear players of instruments large and small; high and low; string, brass and woodwind.

Join Me

When I started volunteering with a new Grade 6 class in September, I knew a few things.  I would challenge these kids to think independently, to express their opinions and to be no one but themselves.

As a symbol of self-expression, I knew I’d sing “O Canada” whenever I was in the class in the morning.  And it is expression, not performance.  It’s processing oxygen as you throw yourself into the world.  No divas, no Eltons, no concerts … just human beings giving ‘er.  Or so I hoped.  I didn’t know how many kids would join me in song.

As it turned out, nobody did.  Occasionally I thought I heard another voice come through, but usually it was just solo me.  I wondered what the other twenty-seven people in the room were thinking as I bellowed out “God keep our land glorious and free”.  Along with my disappointment was hope, that the seeds I was planting would nestle into fertile ground.

Yesterday was an a.m. volunteer gig.  As the mid-morning announcements described the events of the day, I knew what was next.  And the oomph inside decided to speak up:

“I challenge somebody to come stand beside me and sing ‘O Canada’.”

The opening chords wafted from the PA.  I stood alone … and then I didn’t.  Kids tumbled over to me – some shuffling along, some striding with head held high.  About ten of them stood and sang with me.  Oh my.  I was indescribably happy.  “Thanks, kids.”  It was the best moment of my day.

This morning I was back at it, helping a few students with Math, marking a few quizzes, seeing who could find the typo on the worksheet projected on the Smart Board.  And then announcements.  This time I would say nothing.  Would it be “if you build it, they will come”?  Or simply solo Bruceness as before?

Alone during the opening chords.  And then a boy appeared in my right peripheral vision, soon to be joined by other kids.  We sang, again probably ten of them and me.  Kids started things.  I didn’t have to.  Happy, happy, happy.

Will any of them remember these two singings a year from now?  I bet a few of them will.  And when they’re 32, rather than 12, may they stand tall and say what they need to say.  Because their voices are needed.

To Give a Gift

The Evolutionary Collective meets in California for five days starting next Thursday. And I’m going! We’ve received e-mails to prep us for the proceedings and one sentence grabbed me and wouldn’t let go:

Bring an item that holds special significance for you that you are also willing to give to another Core member.

The Core folks have been immersed in this consciousness for years and are no doubt eager to welcome us newbies to the fold. The context of it all is love.

Something that’s significant to me. Perhaps you’re guessing that I entered into a cost-benefit analysis of my homebound objects, furrowing my brow to see what I’m just willing to let go of. And you’d be wrong.

I’m sitting in a pub, gazing at a small wooden statue of an adult and child, their eyes locked. As I read the e-mail, these two presented themselves to me immediately. I knew I loved this piece of sacred art and I knew that it would be in someone else’s living room in two weeks. I smiled. How strange. How new. Not wrapping my fingers around the wood in a death grip. Instead an open palm. Something is moving in me.

In December, I was so struck by the humanity of the Senegalese people. Their smiles were genuine. Their joie de vivre was real. I wanted to take them home with me. Instead I sought a symbol of the connection I saw. There were lots of artisans in Toubacouta but for days nothing “sang” to me. Many creations were exquisite but I needed more than that … I needed the depiction of relationship. And then I came upon the parent and child. The statue said it all. I could have it in my home. But there was a problem. I had lots of Euros but the local artists needed to be paid in CFAs, the Senegalese currency. And the money changer wouldn’t be by for a day or two. So I waited, and watched my lovelies in the shop, wondering if they’d be scooped from me by some other tourist. I could feel the wanting, the pull to make the statue “mine”. Many hours later, it really was.

Now there’s the letting go of beauty, of communion. Another object of the heart will come into my life. “All is calm. All is bright.” All is wonder in the mystery of what’s flowing.

To Sing a Song

Next week, The Evolutionary Collective is meeting for five days on the Monterey Peninsula south of San Francisco.  There probably will be a hundred of us there as we explore consciousness together.  Usually EC meetings are just during the day, but this time there’ll be some evening activities, such as … karaoke!

Woh.  I love karaoke.  It doesn’t matter if the voice is elite or if the songs are transcendent.  It’s about self-expression, from the heart rather than the mind.  The e-mail I received actually talked about that – choosing a song that speaks of love, of togetherness, of spirit.

So … what shall I do?  I suppose nothing is a choice but that feels pretty pale.  “Just go ahead and sing, Bruce.  You’ll reach people.”  Thank you, dear inside voice.  That’s what I’ll do.

I sat quietly for about four seconds and then a song burst through.  It’s resided in my heart for decades.  John Denver and Joe Henry collaborated on the creation:

The Wings That Fly Us Home

There are many ways of being in this circle we call life
A wise man seeks an answer, burns his candle through the night
Is a jewel just a pebble that found a way to shine?
Is a hero’s blood more righteous than a hobo’s sip of wine?

Did I speak to you one morning on a distant world away?
Did you save me from an arrow?  Did you lay me in a grave?
Were we brothers on a journey?  Did you teach me how to run?
Were we broken by the waters?  Did I lay you in the sun?

I dreamed you were a prophet in a meadow
I dreamed I was a mountain in the wind
I dreamed I knelt and touched you with a flower
I awoke with this: a flower in my hand

I know that love is seeing all the infinite in one
In the brotherhood of creatures, who the father, who the son?
The vision of your goodness will sustain me through the cold
Take my hand now to remember when you find yourself alone
You’re never alone

And the spirit fills the darkness of the heavens
It fills the endless yearning of the soul
It lives within a star too far to dream of
It lives within each part and is the whole
It’s the fire and the wings that fly us home
Fly us home
Fly us home

How astonishing lovely.  And I’ll be singing it to the beloveds on May 3 or so.

I have about ten days to memorize the words.  Some of them have already worked their way into my heart.  I know that the rest will follow suit in their own good time.  They’ll be part of me when I open my mouth one evening in Asilomar.

And then there’s the singing.  I sat down at the piano last night and discovered what note I needed to start on.  I chose a low F.   The song has a range just beyond mine.  If I start too low, the bottom notes will be lost in a growl.  Too high and I’ll squeak out the soaring ones at the end.  I went to bed with the problem, sweetly confident that an answer would come.  This morning it did.  I can lower the notes of the second last “Fly us home” and make it work.  I’ll now start on the E and take in a lot of air before “There are many ways”.

It’ll be a performance, I guess.  But far more than that, it’ll be a love letter.

Creating Something New

I wonder what’s possible.  Not just a better toothbrush or a smarter Smartphone, but something outrageously new, with a stunning possibility of contributing to human beings.  An idea, an object, a synthesis perhaps, that no one has ever created.

I wonder if this is merely my ego talking – an effort to distinguish myself from the crowd, to walk the red carpet of societal praise.  Maybe.  But there’s more.  I’m willing for my contribution to be anonymous – no standing ovation.  A willingness to lie on my deathbed with a smile on my lips, knowing that what I gave lives on.

I wonder if how I lead my daily life – the love I bring to people, the swooning within beauty, the eyes I offer – could be my unique gift.  Countless people project love into the world but the blossoming of my particular flavour could be my newness.

Guess I’m wondering a lot …

I’ve had an unfinished project for at least three decades.  I’ve amassed thousands of quotations on recipe cards, words that truly “sing” to me beyond Hallmark greetings and lists of thoughts that others have chronicled.  My vision is to create an online book, putting all these quotes into categories.  If forty writers have thought long and hard about the meaning of “peace”, and if each of their passages has sung in my heart, what’s possible when all those words are brought together?  “The whole is larger than the sum of the parts.”  Can that adage be profoundly true within my collection of quotes?  Can my bringing together of wisdom across time and space and philosophies and other ways that we compartmentalize deep knowledge … make a difference?  Yes, it can.

I suppose my system of categories isn’t really new.  After all, there are a lot of humans out there thinking about things.  But it might be.

And while I’m at it, what else looms just beyond the horizon of my vision?  Is there a brand new flavour that the world hasn’t yet savoured?  I wonder.

Anger

For years now, I’ve defined myself as a nice little Buddhist guy – sweetly peaceful, wouldn’t hurt a fly.  I certainly have that part of me but sometimes another version of Bruce pokes his head above the ground.

***

One day at school, a group of girls were laughing beside me.  I asked “What’s so funny?”  The main giggler stepped forward and told me that she had got some ketchup packages, squeezed the contents onto her face, and then lay down, still and silent, waiting for people to find her.  I don’t know if she was with family or friends.  I just stared at her at first.  The fury was climbing up my throat.  And then it burst out …

“What?  That’s such a cruel thing to do!  When someone came upon you, they’d wonder if you were dead.  Don’t you see what that could do to a person?”  The girl giggled some more.  “You can laugh all you want but that was a rotten thing to do.”

Was I yelling?  No.  Was my voice raised?  You bet.  And that vein in my neck was probably throbbing.  Speaking out in anger is not something I’ve done much in my life but here it was.  The insensitivity towards another human being was completely unacceptable to me.

Hmm, I thought.  This is new.  And it doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

***

This morning, I walked into the Belmont Diner.  There were six guys sitting at the horseshoe-shaped lunch counter.  I cheerily said “Good morning.”  Silence.  A pause.  And then me: “Isn’t anyone going to say good morning?”  Woh.  Was that really my voice?

I realized that two of the fellows had been wrapped in a conversation, but the other four had sat there like stones.  The fury had exploded again.  Within twenty seconds, people were engaging me in conversation, and my antagonism faded to the background, but the initial spurt was vivid.

***

So, dear friends, what kind of person am I becoming?  Not all peaches and cream, for sure, but I still love peaches and I still love cream.  Bruce, antagonistic?  No way, I’ve declared.  But clearly I have that part too, lurking within.

It seems that more of me is emerging from the shadows – more love, more compassion, more energy, more anger … and more courage?  It feels right to embrace it all.