The Australian Open of professional tennis is underway in Melbourne.  Elite athletes are giving everything to vanquish their opponents.  Only one woman will win seven matches – the winner of the tournament.

Oleksandra Oliynykova is a tennis player from Ukraine (on the left in the photo).  Not well known.  Not at the top of the game.  Not sought for interviews.

In Kyiv, “There was explosion just near my home, and a drone hit the home just across the road.  My apartment was literally shaking because of the explosion … In my apartment, I have no electricity, no water, no heat.”

What type of person does war mould you into?  Depends on the person.

In the first round of the Australian Open, Oliynykova was playing Madison Keys from the USA, ranked 9th in the world.  Oleksandra is 92nd.  It was supposed to be “no contest”.

Here’s what a reporter had to say:

Oliynykova won the crowd over – and for a set, flummoxed Keys – with her game, all dogged defense and creative variety.  When she went up a double break with one of the best points of the match, retrieving the American’s hardest strikes before slotting an angled pass past her, an unlikely upset seemed to be brewing.

A story many of us love … an underdog giving the favourite all she could handle.

But there was far more to Oliynykova:

But even as Keys worked out the puzzle, settled her nerves and reeled her opponent in, nothing could stop Oliynykova from relishing her experience.  She frequently clapped Keys’ clutch winners and aces, and approached the net after the match with a broad smile on her face.

Such joy – in playing a game she loves, in being stretched by a skilled opponent, in being applauded by thousands of fans.  Madison Keys was touched by Oleksandra Oliynykova …

No wonder that Keys also applauded Oliynykova after their hug, and opened her on-court interview by praising her as a “great competitor”, a moment that only broadened the smile of Oliynykova, who was still signing autographs by the side of the court.

“I think it’s not always about winning or losing,” Oliynykova said.  “It’s not good in the sport that we are putting too much pressure on the athlete depending only the results, because when you are playing great tennis, you are playing against great opponents, you see high sportsmanship from both sides, you see very kind fans who are cheering for both.”

Well said, Oleksandra

You’re a jewel in the world

I wish we could go for coffee

Dirk is my beloved neighbour downstairs.  He’s a theatre director … and an all-round creative human being.

Florian is my friend.  He’s staying with me for a week as he studies for exams at U Gent.

This morning Dirk invited us for breakfast.

Voilà …

So many flavours.  So many colours.  So much fine conversation.

I especially enjoyed some things that Dirk said.  He talked about inspiring young actors to be themselves onstage, to be uniquely great, to reach towards the audience.  The words that follow are close to the words he chose.

If you chase butterflies, they’ll fly away.

If you create and nurture a lovely garden with the right ingredients, the butterflies will come, and share their beauty with you.

***

If the earth is hard, dig it up and turn it over.  The soil will be dark and moist.  Plant your seed here.  So many actors, so many different kinds of flowers.  We will make them into a bouquet and give it to our audience.

***

I gazed in wonder at the eloquence of the man, but more so at the humanity, the love of all things in the world.  Dirk told us he had that as a kid – seeing the majesty of sunlight through the trees, the shapes of houses, the green of grass. 

Dirk still sees.  Florian and I got to witness the wide spread of his arms.

I’ve loved this painting since way back in my Canada days.  It shines.

The waves about to crash … the eyes of the dolphins … and O the aquamarine!

Here in Gent, I wanted to see all this every day, to have my breath disappear again and again.  But the depth of the beauty often escapes me as I brush my teeth.

In a perfect world, the majesty would flow to my eyes effortlessly.  But in my bathroom it requires conscious thought to see the waves.  Unless I back up some, the roar of the water remains hidden under a cupboard.

Some days I remember

And some days I don’t

So the moment doesn’t sparkle my soul

It’s such a loss

***

I vow to remember

Always

I don’t feel like writing today but four days ago some anonymous person did.  She or he told us about Sinéad O’Connor.

I’ll give you the highlights:

Her childhood was brutal.  Physical abuse.  Emotional trauma.  A mother who hurt her.  A system that failed her.  By age 15, she’d been placed in a Magdalene asylum – institutions where “troubled” Irish girls were sent to be reformed, punished and hidden away.

***

The music industry took one look at her and had notes.  Lose weight.  Grow your hair long.  Wear dresses.  Smile more.  Look feminine.  Be marketable.  Sinéad’s response?  She shaved her head.  Completely bald.

***

Sinéad O’Connor appeared with a shaved head, ripped jeans and combat boots.  No apologies.  No explanation.  No compromise.

***

A woman’s voice – not trying to be pretty or palatable – just furiously, desperately honest.  Songs about abuse.  About anger.  About surviving.  About refusing to be broken.

***

The music video was revolutionary in its simplicity: Sinéad’s face.  Tears streaming down her cheeks.  Nothing else.  No dancers.  No special effects.  No elaborate sets.  Just a bald woman crying and singing about loss with such raw vulnerability that it destroyed you.

***

She got death threats.  She didn’t care.  At the 1991 Grammys, she refused to accept awards.  Refused to stand when the national anthem played.  People called her ungrateful.  Difficult.  Crazy.  She kept going.

***

She performed an a cappella version of Bob Marley’s “War” – changing the lyrics to be about child abuse rather than racism.  Then, staring directly into the camera, she held up a photograph of Pope John Paul II.  She tore it in half.  “Fight the real enemy,” she said.  The audience sat in stunned silence.  The backlash was immediate and brutal.  Her records were steamrolled by bulldozers on radio station parking lots.  The Catholic Church condemned her.  Fellow musicians denounced her.   Her career in America essentially ended overnight. 

But here’s what most people didn’t understand at the time: Sinéad was protesting the Catholic Church’s systematic cover-up of child sexual abuse.  This was 1992.  Years before the Boston Globe investigation.  Decades before the world would fully acknowledge what the Church had done.  Sinéad knew.  She’d lived it.  She’d survived it.  And she refused to stay silent – even knowing it would destroy her career.  Even knowing the world would hate her for it.  She was right.  About all of it.  But she paid the price anyway.

***

For the next decade, Sinéad released music that barely anyone heard.  Performed for audiences that barely existed.  Was dismissed as “crazy”, “unstable”, a cautionary tale about what happens when you don’t play by the rules.

***

She struggled with mental health.  With trauma.  With a world that had punished her for telling the truth.  But she never apologized for tearing up that photo.  Not once.  Not ever.  “I’m not sorry I did it,” she said years later.  “It was brilliant.”

***

She never stopped being exactly who she was.  A woman who refused to be anything other than exactly who she was.  Who shaved her head when they told her to grow it.  Who spoke truth when they told her to stay silent.  Who tore up the photo when they told her to bow down.  Who paid the price and never regretted it.

***

Sinéad O’Connor’s story isn’t just about music.  It’s about the cost of telling the truth before the world is ready to hear it.  It’s about being punished for being right.  It’s about choosing authenticity over acceptance, even when authenticity costs you everything.  She was told to be pretty.  Be quiet.  Be grateful.  Be normal.  Instead, she was Sinéad O’Connor.  Bald.  Furious.  Honest.  Uncompromising.  Right.

***

To stand alone

Head held high

Eyes meeting the world

I killed a cat yesterday … in a dream.

Yes, I’d like my dreams to be full of meandering paths bordered by flowers, but it ain’t always so.

I’d like photos of me to show grace and kindness, not the fury of the kid you see here, but it ain’t always so.

I guess I’m all of it, including both my public sweetness and my private agonies.

The black part showed up overnight.  I was standing on a slight hill.  Below me a tiny cat (a kitten?) was running full speed, chased by a huge tabby … from my right to left.

Then again, coming left to right.  I stepped down the hill and drew back my leg like a football player (soccer).  The kitten saw the movement and sidestepped out of the way.

I followed through, and my foot caught the big cat square in the forehead.

He collapsed in a puddle of ooze.  And died.

I woke up … eyes wide

***

Who am I anyway, in the depths of my being?

The assassin?

The lover?

The rescuer?

The bystander?

All of it?

Impossible to understand

Much of the unknown, of the “beyond”, has shown up in my mind lately.  I welcome the wayward, the tilted, the upside down.

Sometimes I shake my head in response.  Often I nod.

Exhibit A

My Polar watch keeps track of my sleep.  The total for the past five nights is 48 hours … that’s nine-and-a-half per snooze.  Huh?  Unheard of in this body.  I remember some virtually sleepless nights when I was a teacher.  Such contrast.

Yes, I’ve been sick with some sort of virus, and the organs need to repair.  But this elongated slumber?

Exhibit B

It’s a dream remembered from last night.  I’m looking at the doors of a car.  The colour is robin’s egg blue … and it overwhelms.  And right in the middle of this glory is a large patch of pink, complete with outlined circles and spreading tree branches.  The whole story took my sleeping breath away.

Exhibit C

A simple and sad question:

How could millions of American women vote for Donald Trump in the 2024 US election?

***

I remain boggled by it all

Mark Kelly is a Senator in the US Congress.  A leader in governing, in guiding the future of the country.

The President of the USA has a vision for the future that places himself at the centre.  Mark sees all the American people in that location. 

He has courage:

Everybody needs to wake up.  The occupant of the Oval Office is ignorant to the Constitution and has no regard for the rule of law … I will not be intimidated by this president.  I am not going to be silenced by this president.

There is danger in the air.  As Glenn Carr says on Facebook:

Time Zones are so crazy
In Denmark, it’s noon
In Canada, it’s 6 am
In the USA …
      It’s late 1930s Germany

Mark is both embraced and reviled.  Here’s a hug from Ginger Kimbrell:

Please keep up the fight!  Our whole country needs you and others with your knowledge and experience to help us become what we have stood for since our Constitution was written

And from an unknown poet:

Sit like a mountain
Sit with a sense of strength and dignity
Be steadfast, be majestic, be natural and at ease in awareness
No matter how many winds are blowing, be intimate with everything and sit like a mountain

***

Thank you, Mark … and so many other human beings

Into companionship or close association

I’ve slept for eleven hours two nights in a row.  This has got to be a world record for me.  There’s not much oomph in the bod but I wanted to put something out into the world today.  So here goes …

The photo is of Donald Lopez Jr.  He’s a professor of Buddhism at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor.  My antennae are always up for good teachers.

First of all, a note about vocabulary:

“In Buddhism, sutras are sacred scriptures, considered records of the oral teachings of Gautama Buddha or his close disciples”

Donald had an assignment for his students.  In his words …

The second paper topic pointed out that Buddhist sutras were written for centuries after the death of the Buddha, with anonymous authors attributing their own words to the Buddha, thus allowing the Buddha to address important issues of the time, sometimes in the form of prophecy.  Using the literary style of a Buddhist sutra, the students were asked to compose a sutra, setting forth what the Buddha might teach those living in America today.

What a cool task to present to young minds!  The article I read didn’t give examples of student sutras but I bet there was a lot of spiritual energy flowing from student to prof within computer files.

***

A big Yes to the spiritual life of the planet

My brain is mush, as is my body.  I slept eleven hours last night and some more today.  Wayward, floating, wide open spaces … sounds transformational but actually it’s some type of virus.

(Oh … this is going to be a short post!)

This weekend is a Zoom retreat for the Core group of the Evolutionary Collective – six hours a day.  If you subtract for breaks, it’s about four-and-a-half hours of focusing.  On the words of the teacher, on the words when people share in the large group, on the words of my partner when we’re doing a practice.

I just didn’t have it.  Sentences drifted off into the ether, with their meanings invisible to me.  My mind floated away as well.  All I could do was “be with” my fellow members as best as I could, and silently love them.

But the sun was setting on Bruce …

This afternoon I decided not to attend the retreat today.  Four more hours would be beyond my grasp.  It was a good decision.  I’ll listen to the recording this week.

I woke up mid-afternoon from a long slumber.  I had closed the blinds.  And this is what I beheld:

Gifts always find a way