Author Archives: Bruce

Two Statues

First of all, for those of you who read yesterday’s post, Willie signed at 4:55!

***

I’m a Buddhist. I feel it in my bones. Mr. Buddha was a smart guy. He saw that life is not only pleasure, praise, gain and fame. It also has its fair share of pain, blame, loss and disrepute. And we humans can embrace it all.

On my back patio sits a cement Buddha, about a foot-and-a-half tall. His eyes are closed, his head is bowed … perfect repose. I used to look at my friend a lot, but not very much lately. I wonder why. I still meditate about four times a week, adopting the same pose. Sometimes I reach a deep peace, or rather a deep peace comes upon me. And often love bubbles up: for my friends, for all of us human beings, for life. It’s very soft and quiet.

On an end table in my living room sits another Buddha, this one in polished stone, an inch-and-a-half tall. His head is up, his eyes meet mine, his smile includes and his belly rounds. I like him more than my friend who’s just shed his mantle of snow. Hmm.

A few weeks ago, I experienced an orientation to the work of the Evolutionary Collective. It was in Asheville, North Carolina. I got to be in the physical presence of some fine folks whom I had previously only known online. I sum up the experience with one word: “eyes”. We really looked at each other. We talked to each other, often within a sublime space of love.

On my meditation retreats, I was always encouraged to avoid eye contact, to leave people alone so they could deal with their issues. And these were silent retreats. Within them, I felt love for my fellow yogis but couldn’t express it outwardly.

I revere the tall statue
I adore the short one
They’re both fine fellows

Nylander

If you’re a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey fan, you probably know all about the saga of William Nylander. He’s a flashy skater and scorer who’s refused to sign a new contract, wanting more money than the team is willing to give him. If he doesn’t sign or get traded by 5:00 pm Eastern Time today, he sits out the rest of the season.

Thousands of words have been written about Nylander by professional sports journalists … and now it’s my turn.

I love the Leafs like I loved them in the 60’s. “Willie, come back!” sings in my soul. For the first time in years, there’s a “my team”. Part of me thinks I should always elevate my consciousness above “us versus them” but there are times when cheering on the Leafs makes me so very happy.

I remember how much I enjoyed players who spent their entire National Hockey League career with one team. There was Henri Richard in Montreal and Steve Yzerman in Detroit. I’m hoping that Willie wants to be one of those players. There’s a sense of place, of being part of a long hockey tradition, of loving the home fans and being loved right back. Willie, would you like that?

I fear that money is more important to Nylander than being a Leaf. The potential for Toronto winning the Stanley Cup multiple times in the next decade is right before our eyes. But perhaps dollar signs shine brighter. If that’s true, it makes me sad. Yes, we need enough money to get along in life, plus to have some neat experiences. But surely the difference between $8 million and $7 million a year doesn’t guarantee larger happiness. I know that hockey players retire around age 35, and they need to plan for their future after being a professional athlete. But Willie … come back.

Think of being revered by countless Torontonians and Canadians. Think of lifelong friendships with your teammates. Think about being a part of Stanley Cup history.

Please …

Coffee Shop

I’m sitting in a Tim Hortons in London, gazing at the span of humanity before me. People-watching is so much fun.

Across the way, two guys and a girl, all seniors I’d guess, are having a grand old time. They’re probably setting a world’s record for laughs per minute. I can’t quite hear their topics of conversation but it seems like they’re not laughing at anyone. It’s more like they’re chuckling at life. Every so often they greet someone in line so these folks must be regulars.

Off to my right, another old guy sits alone. He’s wearing a grey plaid beret, plus a scowl. Wow, does he look unhappy. His arms are crossed and he’s looking down. Such a contrast to the laughers nearby. I ponder going over and talking to him, but leaving him alone and wishing him well feels like a better plan. So that’s what I do.

I look at the teenager who served me half an hour ago. Her face is pretty, when you think of Hollywood. It’s buried, however, under a white coat of makeup. And there’s a paleness about her spirit too. She filled my order with the contact of a robot. I felt like a “thing” in her eyes. Still, I also wish her well. May she discover what’s truly beautiful in our world.

Now a young guy sits down with the laughers. Green ball cap, camouflage jacket, heavy growth on his face. F-in this and F-in that. Complaining about someone or something almost continually. The smiling ones adjust and smile some more.

I switch seats to watch the parade of cars at the drive-thru. Faces waiting in line:

A young man at the wheel, passenger seat empty, an elderly woman in the back. What does that mean?

A 60-something woman wearing a bright red coat, surgical mask tucked under her chin. What could this story be?

A blue Dodge Ram truck looming above me, with two bearded fellows talking loudly to each other.

A teenaged girl driving her mom, I suppose -the young one gesturing in the air and the old one smiling.

A black SUV climbs the curb. Inside, there’s a grey-haired fellow with a black coat and sunglasses. I look to see if there’s an earpiece.

And beyond the drive-thru lane is the traffic on Wellington Road. The flow of human beings, slowed only by red lights. I’m in the midst of us and it’s a pleasure to be here. Home is not alone. Home is with you.

Couple Love

I went to another house concert last night.  It was folk music – the songs of stories.  I listened to marvelous lyrics and voices … and I watched love unfold.

I’ll make up names for the stars of the show, and no, I don’t mean the performers.  Lillian and Mike are our hosts.  Most Wednesday evenings, they open their home to all who have ears to hear.  While the musicians were playing last night, this lovely couple sat close to each other, touching.  They held hands.  I think we should all do that.  Every so often, I’d sneak a glance over to them, and a tiny smile would show up on my lips.

Each week, Todd plays a first set on the keyboard.  His fingers float and caress.  After a few creations, he asks us to welcome “the amazing” Erica, she of the haunting voice.  Often at the end of a song, she’ll lean over and kiss the side of Todd’s head.  I’m sure that Lillian and Mike were in the background, nodding.

Jake’s voice has deteriorated.  It’s raspy.  I never heard him when the flow was sweet, and that’s just fine.  Last night, in the third set, he joined the evening headliners for a rendition of Comfortably Numb from Pink Floyd.  Jake didn’t hold back:

There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb

As Jake gave us his all, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Julia.  She was beaming at her hubby and soon joined in with a delicate harmony to his melody.  The room fell into the beauty of it all.

Love lives
We take turns, you and me
One with the top line, the other with the bottom
So deeply in tune

Cozy

6:30 pm

AccuWeather is calling for ten hours of snow overnight.  Right now it’s freezing drizzle.  I’m sitting in my den at the front of the house, watching for snow signs in the streetlight.  I’m eager for the storm and so very thankful that I’m safe inside.

I think back to forty years ago, in the mountains of Manning Park east of Vancouver, British Columbia.  A group of us had rented a chalet for a few days and the snow was coming down hard.  A fire kept us warm and the windows looked like a Christmas card.  After dark, we ventured out to the neighbouring chalets, singing carols to the occupants.  We smiled and they smiled.  What a great memory.

Tonight, though, I don’t want to be out and about.  I’m curled up on my love seat with a marvelous book – Wonder.  It’s the story of a 10-year-old who has a deformed face.  His spirit, however, is just fine.  And he’s starting to draw people in.

I’ll keep watching the streetlight and will tell you when there’s some action up there.

8:15 pm

It’s starting!  Essentially horizontal snow.  Oh, bring it on!  So far, the street is still black but I have great faith that white is on its way.

11:30 pm

Snowflakes still dipping and diving in the light … but very little on the ground.  (Sigh)  I want inches blanketing the road.  Blizzard, wherefor art thou?  It’s time to lay my head on the pillow and dream of a white world on the awakening.  Goodnight.

8:00 am

Boo.  Just a skiff of snow, with patches of grass showing through on the lawn.  The street remains black.  What happened to my blessed blizzard?

Once I sat with these thoughts for a few minutes, I realized that I don’t need the outside world to do what I want it to do.  I can bring forth “sanctuary”, “nestling down”, “coziness” whenever I choose.  Now, as I look over my backyard, I see a delicate painting … a covering of white sprinkled with strands of green.  It’s beautiful.  It’s home.

Together

It was towards the end of French class this morning.  Many kids had completed the assignment and free time beckoned.  A girl came up to me and suggested that I start up Duolingo, the French app on my phone which is helping me prepare for Senegal, where I’ll be with children who only speak French.  Duolingo is très cool, announcing my successes with a little trumpet blast.

I sat on the edge of a table with a girl on each side.  They often chimed in with the correct answer to a question, and sometimes pressed the screen to make my word choices for me.  A little bit of me thought “Wait a minute.  It’s my app. I’m the one who has to learn this stuff.”  But that melted away like the first snowfall of the season.

The three of us were together.  It didn’t really matter what the topic was – studying French would do nicely.  Beyond the task, we were simply having fun, and enjoying each other’s presence.  Other than a few comments about the French terms, not a word was spoken.  Words weren’t needed.

The girls were eleven.  I’m sixty-nine.  No problem.  Just human beings wanting to share a few moments with other human beings.

 

An Inside Job

I was riding the UP Express train to downtown Toronto just now. Houses and streets flashed by. For two seconds, I saw something special: attached to a tiny house was a sunroom. Inside, there sat a cutesy round table and two chairs.

I imagined a couple holding hands and having a glass of wine. Lovely. And then another thought: the train roars by every fifteen minutes from 5:00 am till 1:00 am. Wouldn’t that put a damper on romance? Well … not necessarily. What if their love shone like the sun? What if each of them was looking deep into the eyes of the beloved? What if time stood still in the other’s presence? Hurtling missiles outside the glass would matter not.

***

Now I’m on Toronto Island, walking towards St. Andrew-by-the-Lake Church. It’s been six months since I’ve attended a brunch and a concert here. I think of all the Island residents I’ve met … and many of their names are lost to me right now. I feel the contraction, the “should” of remembering their names, and then, magically, the deficit disappears. A little smile crosses my face and stays for a visit.

***

Two hours later, it’s music time. A saxophone quartet is here to entertain. Their loud and fast pieces bang against my ears. But I listen more carefully and the deep notes of the bass saxophone vibrate my heart. I watch how the musicians blend, how they take turns in the spotlight. I see their smiles and give them one in return.

***

Next, on the ferry back to the mainland. A fellow I met at the concert sees that a young boy is wearing the kit of the Chelsea football (soccer) team. Both of them are fans and their conversation flows along. I wrinkle, wanting to be the man talking to the boy. And then … I open my eyes wider and see the beauty of the moment. I bask in their joy together. And that is enough.

***

Moments in a day, each containing the same lesson
And all is well

Hayden

A 21-year-old athlete and a 6-year-old girl … friends.  Mitch Marner is a magician with the puck in the National Hockey League.  Hayden Foulon has battled leukemia for most of her life.  They’re each other’s heroes.

Mitch met Hayden in 2015 when he played Junior hockey for the London Knights.  He and some teammates visited kids at the Children’s Hospital.  And a bond with a very young human being was formed.

“She is my hero,” Marner said, his eyes welling up.  “What she has gone through and the way she has fought in her brief life is an inspiration for all of us.  All I want to do is try to bring some happiness to her life any way I can.”

He gets it.  This life is not about fame and money and status.  It’s about love.  It’s about looking over there and seeing a person who’s undoubtedly dealing with some big issue – whether it’s health, self-esteem, relationships, money or the death of a loved one.  They need our presence.  Not necessarily wise words.  Just being there.

On tonight’s hockey telecast, we saw a video message from Hayden to Mitch:

“I love you, Mitch.  I miss you.  Please score a goal for me tonight.”  And then she blew him a kiss.  I bet millions of us were pulling for him to put a puck in the net for Hayden.  I had all my digits crossed every time Marner took a shot.  Alas, no goal.  But look what did happen: Hayden got to watch her hero.  Mitch got to think about his.  And we at home were warmed by their friendship.

Oh, how powerful we can be.

We Are the Champions

I went to see Bohemian Rhapsody tonight.  It’s the story of Freddie Mercury and Queen.  We met his loves (female and male), saw his explosive personality (firing anyone who didn’t share his vision) and watched him descend into alcohol and drug abuse.

We also heard Freddie soar.  The grand finale was onstage at Live-Aid, the 1985 concert in Wembley Stadium to raise money for the starving people of Ethiopia.  Closeups showed the passion of the man, his full-throated blasting of the lyrics into the hearts of the 72,000 in attendance, and millions around the world.  The man of the hour jumped, twisted and twirled.  He threw hit fist aloft and spat out the words.  Thousands of fans sang along to Radio Gaga as Freddie strutted his stuff.

The best for me was We Are the Champions.  Freddie’s power tore me apart.  My mouth dropped open:

We are the champions, my friends
And we’ll keep on fighting till the end
We are the champions, we are the champions
No time for losers
‘Cause we are the champions of the world 

Power.  Such intense power, surging through Queen and their adoring devotees.  Oh, if we could harness such joy for the good of the world.  Imagine thousands and millions united in love, not for a celebrity, but for all of us.  We’re all champions.  Love exuded not for someone famous, but just to do good in the world.  To know in the end that we matter.  We give and someone out there is receiving.

Oh, Freddie
You made ’em laugh, you made ’em cry
You made us feel like we could fly

Thanks

A Small Truck

I told the kids today that the oldest object I own has been around for 64 years.  It’s a small blue truck, a Dinky Toy.  As a five-year-old, I loved going to grandma and grandpa’s farm near Lindsay, Ontario.  So different from the speed of Toronto.  Every summer, we’d spend two weeks there.  I’d hang out with the cows and walk the fields with dad and Uncle Orville.  In the evenings, I played with my Dinky Toys under the big shade tree in the front yard.

One time, mom called me in after sunset.  “Time for bed, Bruce.”  >  “See you in the morning, cars and trucks.”

I rushed outside before breakfast and saw that my blue truck was … white.  “Someone’s painted my truck!” I screamed, in the general vicinity of the parent types.  I remember being furious.  It was my truck.

A year or two later, mom explained what had happened.  “A bird went to the bathroom on your truck.”  Huh?  No way.

Yes way.

I asked the kids to look back on their lives.  Did something happen at age five or so that was totally weird?  And you made up a story about it that turned out to be way off the mark?

We had a very cool discussion, ranging through the fears of children – snakes in the toilet, the dreaded disease TV (really TB), shadows on bedroom walls, the boogeyman lurking outside the door.

My favourite came from “Tessa”, who had been watching a TV program at a young age.  Somebody was hurting someone else, and the girl knew this had to stop.  She called 911.  She already knew her address.  The police arrived.  Parents sighed.  And then all was well again.  Who knew that television could be so real?

We ran out of time for me to ask this question, but I wonder:

Is there some idea in an 11-year-old mind today
that the passing of years will show to be ridiculous?
Or maybe in a 69-year-old mind?

I wouldn’t be surprised