In the Evolutionary Collective, we do a practice on Zoom where two people speak together, with the focus being not on the words but on the connection between the two. It’s not romantic. It’s humans being with each other, whatever their ages, gender, personality, culture or language.
Attention rests on the eyes … softly. Not staring. Drawing out the essence of the other. We linger together.
Contact can occur with any living beings. Letting go of me in favour of we:
In the last little while during these practices, something larger is happening. The world is participating as two people fall into each other’s eyes …
Someone, some presence, is accompanying us. Smiling … holding us … cheering us on. The we is blossoming, growing, filling the room and the sky beyond.
I sat in Izy Coffee yesterday with a friend from Nepal. I’ll call her Parvati. We talked of many things, including her husband Prashant. They’ve had the civil marriage ceremony in Nepal, but the three-day celebration of wedded love is yet to come, perhaps next June.
And … Parvati has invited me to her wedding! Wow. What a privilege to be included. And what a blessing to experience a country far from my own.
And where to find the money to go? Time will show me the way.
Parvati and I also talked about the tilak, the red dot between the eyebrows worn by many Hindu people.
The application of tilak is a significant tradition in Hindu culture, symbolizing a spiritual connection and awakening of consciousness. It serves as a mark of devotion, cultural adherence, and protection against negative energies.
Such fine words … spiritual, connection, consciousness, devotion. They’re rich in my life. And I got thinking:
How about if I wear a symbol of my love?
Of people … of life
I’m not a Hindu so the red dot is not for me. But what is? Could it be that, after decades of saying “I’ll never wear a tattoo” that I will get one? It boggles this small human mind.
And if yes to a tattoo, what about where?
The answer just came – on my right palm, so I can flash it at people.
And the fear just came – of pain. Not much skin on the palm. Lots of bones. Hmm.
Probably five years ago, I gave away all of my DVD’s and CD’s. Now I wonder why. Was it an attempt to deepen my spiritual life, to become purer and lighter?
Included in the purge was a precious gift of music, the DVD “Leonard Cohen: Live In London”. I remember my loving of the man, the songs, and the space of gratitude created by him, his backup singers and his band.
This morning I ordered the DVD from Amazon. Friends to be reunited. Smiles all around.
Just now I came across a review of the concert, which had two sets of an hour each … and a 40-minute encore! Surferofromantica writes about the beauty of the music, but even more vividly quotes the love spilling forth from Leonard’s mouth. For me, the words that follow are worth the price of admission:
He starts his London set off with the words “Thank you so much, friends, so very kind of you to come to this …” He’s drowned out in applause.
Thanks so much, friends. It’s wonderful to be gathered here just on the other side of intimacy. I’m so pleased that you’re here. I know some of you have undergone financial and geographical inconvenience. We’re honoured to play for you tonight.
It’s been a long time since I stood on a stage in London. It was about 14-15 years ago, I was 60 years old, just a kid with a crazy dream. Since then, I’ve taken a lot of Prozac, Paxol, Wellbuttrin, Exexor, Ritalin. I’ve also studied TV and the philosophies and the religions, and cheerfulness kept breaking through. But I want to tell you something that will not easily be contradicted – there ain’t no cure for love!
There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
I was having a drink with my teacher, he’s 102 now. He was about 97 at the time. I poured him a drink, he clicked my glass and he said “Excuse me for not dying.” (laughter) I kind of feel the same way. I want to thank you, not just for this evening but for the many years you’ve kept my songs alive.
Don’t stop, don’t leave me here alone, don’t ever stop. Sing me to bed and sing me through the morning, because I’m so grateful to you because tonight it’s become clear to me, tonight the great mysteries have unravelled and I’ve penetrated to the very core of things, and I have stumbled on the answer. And I’m not the sort of chap who would keep this to himself. Do you want to hear the answer? Are you truly hungry for the answer? Then you’re just the people I want to tell it to. Because it’s a rare thing to come upon it, and I’ll let you in on it now. The answer to the mysteries … and he makes a hand gesture towards the backup singers … is “da doo dum dum …”
***
Leonard was so full of “Thank you”, especially for the souls who shared the stage with him …
The sweet shepherd of strings, on the laud, Javier Mas
The master of breath on the instrument of wind, Dino Soldo
The signature of steady, on the pedal steel and the electric guitar, Bob Metzger
The prince of precision, our timekeeper – on the drums, Rafel Bernardo Gayol
On the Hammond B3 and the keyboards, the inpeccable Neil Larsen
My collaborator, the incomparable Sharon Robinson
Hattie and Charley Webb, the sublime Webb sisters
Our guardian and sentry, the musical director on the upright and the electric bass, Roscoe Beck
Yesterday Isabelle and I talked about the trials of life, the thrills of life and the slow creeping towards future death. We met.
Later I wrote to her, words that I had never uttered before: “Thank you for being at my side as I’m dying.”
My friend Lydia has estimated my age when I die – 104. So in 2053. I have lots of time to learn new songs.
I wonder what’s beyond. I imagine you do as well. Multiple lifetimes? My dear wife Jody had a deep experience of her past lives. She told me that we were once farmers in Germany. We worked so hard to survive.
In another lifetime, Jody said I was a sailor on a freight ship, sometimes gone for weeks. Our home on the coast had a “widow’s walk” on the roof:
A young man of 23 or so wrote a song for his wife Ariel … Forty-five Years. He was deeply in love, as the lyrics so clearly show:
There’s God in the trees I’m weak in the knees And the sky is a painful blue I’d like to look around But Honey, all I see is you
At the age of 33, Stan Rogers died in a burning plane that stood on the tarmac of Cincinnati Airport in the USA. A loss for Canadian folk music, a loss for the musical life of the planet.
Stan wrote about people he met, about places he explored, about experiences he had.
Forty-five Years is about love.
Now the summer city lights Will soften the night Till you’d think that the air is clear And I’m sitting with friends Where forty-five cents Will buy another glass of beer
He’s got something to say But I’m so far away That I don’t know who I’m talking to ‘Cause you just walked in the door And Honey, all I see is you
I had the privilege of seeing Stan live in concert. His rich baritone voice brought life to the words. I was inside them. I was Stan.
And I just want to hold you closer Than I’ve ever held anyone before You say you’ve been twice a wife And you’re through with life Ah but Honey, what the hell’s it for?
After twenty-three years You’d think I could find A way to let you know somehow That I want to see your smiling face Forty-five years from now
Many years after Stan’s death, Aeolian Hall in London, Ontario, Canada started having annual Stan Rogers tribute concerts. An array of fine musicians took turns singing Stan songs.
Paul Mills was Stan’s manager and a deep friend. He picked up a chair, moved it to the front edge of the stage, and sang Forty-five Years to his dear wife in the front row.
I have three favourite movies. One of them I can stream – Titanic. For the other two, I’ll give each of you 100 euros if you’ve ever heard of them – Sunshine On Leith and Whale Rider.
Hmm … perhaps that was a little excessive.
Oh well. I’ll check my savings account.
The Blu-Ray of Whale Rider arrived yesterday. Arlene and I watched it last night. It was a delightful reunion with Paikea, a 13-year-old Maori girl in New Zealand. An astonishing human being.
Paikea’s grandfather is the chief of the local Maori tribe and was praying that his daughter-in-law would give birth to a boy. Grandpa then would groom the kid to eventually be the new chief. But what arrived was Paikea.
And so the story of a patriarchal society unfolded, plus the one about a teen speaking truth to power. And yearning for the love of her grandfather.
In the words of a young girl:
In the old days, the land felt a great emptiness. It was waiting. Waiting to be filled up. Waiting for someone to love it. Waiting for a leader.
A long time ago, my ancestor Paikea came to this place on the back of a whale. Since then, in every generation of my family, the first born son has carried his name and become the leader of our tribe … until now.
But we can learn and if the knowledge is given to everyone, then we can have lots of leaders and soon everyone will be strong, not just the ones who’ve been chosen.
At one point, Paikea, in traditional Maori dress and facial adornment, gives a speech to the community. Her grandfather hasn’t come to the meeting.
This speech is a token of my deep love and respect for Koro Apirana, my grandfather …
She cries.
And at the end of the film:
My name is Paikea Apirana, and I come from a long line of chiefs stretching all the way back to the whale rider. I’m not a prophet, but I know that our people will keep going forward, all together, with all of our strength.
I was kind yesterday. Two times linger in my mind.
I followed a woman into the elevator that leads to my fitness club – Basic-Fit. I noticed that she didn’t press the button to choose a floor. We got talking. Vicky is in Gent briefly from the UK. She was hoping to get a one-day pass at Basic-Fit to stretch her sore body.
I told Vicky that my membership allows me to bring one guest a week for free. She smiled at my offer.
I’d never brought a guest before but a staff member named Daphné showed us the process, which eventually resulted in a QR Code showing up on Vicky’s phone … and she was in! A simple good deed but Vicky’s smile told me it was a big good deed.
Giving is such receiving.
On to the men’s change room …
I was in a sweet world of “Thank you” as I pulled on my t-shirt and shorts. But then I noticed the guy on the floor, grimacing, pulling on his body. I’ll call him Ahmed. The face said agony.
“Are you all right?” I couldn’t figure out the words in response but I got the message: dislocated shoulder.
“I’ll be right back.”
I found Daphné and Maryna, one of the club’s trainers. Soon all three of us were talking to Ahmed. But action was needed.
I phoned 112 (Belgium’s version of 911). The operator asked me questions about the fellow’s condition. I relayed them. “Can you feel your fingers?” > “Yes.”
Paramedics were on their way. I sat with Ahmed as gym members came and went in the change room. He accepted my offer of water. I asked him to stay still. Help would be here very soon. Much of our time together was in silence. I was with Ahmed deeply, quietly loving him, praying for a release from pain.
And now the paramedics – a woman and a man, also kind human beings. Ahmed needed to go to hospital and the two helpers gently accompanied him to the elevator.
Then they were gone. Daphné and I talked about what had just happened. I started stretching on a mat. Normal gym life returned.
I sat under a chestnut tree a few days ago. On the ground before me lay some green pods, each no doubt containing a shiny, reddish-brown chestnut. I picked one up and took it home. Voilà:
The brownish-green round thing looked pretty ordinary. Nothing special. But I knew what was inside. A time would come when I’d break it open.
This reminded me of a story told by Jack Kornfield, a Buddhist teacher:
In a large temple north of Thailand’s ancient capital, Sukotai, there once stood an enormous and ancient clay Buddha … At one point the monks who tended the temple noticed that the statue had begun to crack … After a stretch of particularly hot, dry weather, one of the cracks became so wide that a curious monk took his flashlight and peered inside. What shone back at him was a flash of brilliant gold! Inside this plain old statue, the temple residents discovered one of the largest and most luminous gold images of Buddha ever created in Southeast Asia.
Unlike the monk, I was sure about what was inside. But it was time to see the magnificent colour. I took a knife and cut around the pod, then pulled the two halves apart. Take a look …
“I guess the brilliant red is one layer down. I’ll pry the rough outer nut apart to reveal the glory.”
The nut didn’t pry. I scrubbed off the dirt and stared. Could it be? > “This is it.” There’s nothing else.
I stared some more.
Oh. This is a walnut, which did not come from a chestnut tree. Oops … wrong again.
And I wondered … Do I have the eyes to see the beauty of the object before me, even though there was no shine and no red?
“An inflammation of a thick band of tissue that connects the heel bone to the toes. The inflamed tissue runs across the bottom of the foot. Symptoms include stabbing pain near the heel.”
(Sigh)
I remember it well. I don’t know why I got it or how I got rid of it … but there were months between. And yes, the heel! There I was, 40 or 50 or something, wondering if my walking days were over.
Like things I’ve mentioned before, I’d forgotten about this period of pain, of being “a little old man” before my time. Forgot until a week ago. I was walking somewhere with someone. (Hmm … how’s that for senior memory ability?)
It was early afternoon. A touch of pressure in my right heel. “So what? I’m bigger than that.”
Late afternoon. Pressure has become pain. Pain is becoming sharp pain. Limping. “Woh … guess I’m smaller than that.”
And then the mind. “Not again. Not all that agony for all that time. Please, God!”
Despair as I hobbled home. “Rest. Put your feet up. All will be well in the morning.”
Time for bed. Limping to the bathroom. Feeling “Poor Me” entering the space.
I sat on the edge of my bed and proceeded to do what I do every evening. Unroll and take off my compression stockings. I start with the left one. Off the leg and flying through the air to a conveniently empty spot on the floor. I smiled as I beheld the athletic move.
Now for the right. Unroll. Remove from the toes. And then …
Ping (or some word like that)
Something dropped onto the floor. I stared at the round smallness. Here it is, recently relocated to my bedside table:
One tiny blood pressure pill. And my heel felt funny. I touched. And there was a tiny blood pressure pill hole!
So the truth of the universe was revealed. No future months of pain caused by a word that is difficult to spell.
***
The day before, I had sat on the bed with bottles of pills and supplements. I had doled out twenty-days-worth of the little critters, and plopped them into a plastic bag.
All except one. It had found the floor, ready for the next morning’s ritual – Bruce sitting down and putting on his compression stockings.
I love meditating in my bedroom. And I enjoy being watched … by statues. They’re also quiet.
They’re my friends. Jesus with his arms spread wide. A boy angel balancing delicately on one foot. A wee girl and boy under their umbrella. An African woman with her hands together above her head.
The picture shows all except the upstretched lady. They stand there loving me … and I return the favour.
And yesterday I added to my family:
Arlene and I were in the gift shop of the Carmelite Church on Burgstraat. There were many wonders, including small books of poetry in Dutch – Rainer Maria Rilke, Rumi, Saint Teresa of Avila …
The room glowed with spiritual life.
And then there was her, looking so gracious in her blue robe, tenderly holding her son. She kept looking at me. I asked if she’d like to come to my home. She smiled and nodded.
The statue says “Parent and Child” to me. All the possible combinations:
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