Author Archives: Bruce

Gently, Gently Some More

The walking room that I had discovered was really very beautiful.  At one end was a 4-foot-high statue of the Buddha, perched on a dark wooden shelf, so that his eyes were at the level of mine.  The first time I was in the room, three yogis were walking across its width.  Walking meditation is most typically done in a back-and-forth pattern.  I don’t like that.  (Here comes aversion)  I like the loop trip.

I yearned for walking the room lengthwise.  If I did that on a central path, I would come face-to-face with the Buddha.  The next time I entered I was alone, and so I got what I wanted.  At the opposite end from the Buddha statue, there was a little alcove between two closets.  I tucked myself in there and faced my friend from afar.  Then I slowly walked towards him, watching as he got closer.  When our faces were about two feet apart, I would sometimes bow, and sometimes not.  (Bowing is a whole other topic that I’ll save for a future e-mail.)  Then I would turn around and put foot after foot until I was in the alcove – the back wall a foot from my nose and little side walls to my left and right.

At that point, I created a meditation.  Walking towards the Buddha, I was living the teachings more and more.  (Pausing when I stood close to him)  Turning around was turning away from the teachings, and walking back was getting ever farther from them, until I was cramped physically and spiritually inside the alcove.  (Pausing)  And then to feel my turning away from the restricted life, facing the Buddha once again.  Sometimes I would say “Remembering” to myself as I walked forward, and “Forgetting” as I returned.  Again and again I trod the path.  And more and more, the small smile emerged as I turned my back on the Buddha and moved away.  I was gently holding the leaving of what I sensed was true.  There was happiness within the sadness, allowing the rhythms of life to be there.

After a few days of these sessions, I saw something: I was now addicted to a new walking meditation route.  I needed to have eye contact with the Buddha, and needed my coming-and going relationship with him.  (Sigh)

So what to do?  My experience of the moments in the room was often blissful.  I wanted to hold onto that bliss, and even push to make it more blissy.  So I got to look at that.  Needing pleasant experience after pleasant experience.  Except that this isn’t what life is like, is it?  Life keeps showing me liberal portions of both pleasure and pain.  The trick seems to be how to hold the pain.

Seeing my rampant attachment, I fantasized about having an Insight Meditation Society staff member open the door and put up a sign:  “All yogis will please walk width-wise in this room, so that more retreatants may use the space.”  That would fix me and my craving.  No more approaching and leaving the Buddha.

What do you think?  Would my life be enhanced if my deepest attachments were continually uprooted?  I don’t know.  Think I’ll sit in the question.

Gently, Gently

The Buddha taught about three big problems people have: attachment, aversion and delusion.  Over the nine days of the meditation retreat I just experienced, I learned how to be with these obstacles.  Easier said than done, however.  The teachers asked us to observe the eruptions of the mind as they emerged.  And to hold them gently, as you would cradle a baby bird, rather than getting all ramped up with an issue, creating a big story about the topic, filled with distress.  I found that if I was being quietly aware of, say, an attachment I was watching unfold, a telltale sign would be a tiny smile at the corners of my mouth.

I came to the retreat attached to a particular walking meditation route at the centre.  On previous retreats, I did a big loop, walking the long, curving driveway and then on the lawn, next to the hedge that borders the road.  When I arrived on Easter weekend, there were drifts of snow by the hedge, the temperature was about 5 degrees Celsius, and I was sick.  Still, I had to walk my route, every day.  Lips tight, leaning forward, I trudged on.  Sometimes my boot would break through the crust and sink down 8 inches or so, and sometimes my foot would stay on top.  I tried to convince myself that this just duplicated the ups and downs of life, and that it was therefore a good meditation.  But it didn’t work.  Mostly, it was just a pain in the ass.

Where, oh where, had vacated my meditative mind?  I was covered in a blanket of “have to”, determined to do as I had done before.  But the pressing doesn’t work.

By day three my cough had gotten worse, it was cold out, and I abandoned the great out-of-doors.  I found a rectangular walking room in the centre and stepped on out, marginally at peace.  The truth was though, at least to my addled brain, the smooth wooden floorboards were not good enough.  I lusted for my hedge, lawn and driveway.

As the teachers continued their daily lessons about simply observing our attachments – our greed to have life turn out just the way we want it – I got to see the huge tension I had created for myself.  I was sad, and tried to just let that be there.  Glimpses of that tiny smile broke through for a moment here and a moment there, quickly to be replaced by a pout.  That Buddha!  What does he know?

More about that tomorrow.

What To Possibly Say?

I’m back from my 9-day silent meditation retreat.  I feel very open.  Actually it’s like there’s space around each of my cells.  Breathing room.  And I don’t know what to say.  Most of you probably haven’t had the experience that I’ve just lived through.  How can I have you understand?  I’m sure you’re all smart people.  It’s not that.  But you may not have the context to hold whatever I have to say.  And so the likelihood of me being misinterpreted is great.  Maybe I’d try to talk about A but all you hear is B.  Such as the word “surrender”.

What I do know is that I want to communicate with you about what the past week has meant.  Part of me doesn’t know how.  But I know that part of me does.  I’m willing to risk being misunderstood.  So I will put fingers to keys over the next few days … and see what happens.

It was a fine journey, and continues to be so.

Unknown Days

Twelve of them, right in front of me.  I’m starting to drive tomorrow to Massachusetts for a 9-day silent meditation retreat.  Silence begins on Friday evening for the 100 participants.  What a blessing, not needing to speak and make eye contact to have communion among us.  Although there are short times before and after the retreat for the “yogis” to talk to each other, it’s likely that I won’t meet most of them.  And yet I know we will touch each other in our hearts.

I don’t have any goals.  I’ll just let the next moment replace the previous one.  I don’t want to get better at anything.  Gosh, what an adventure this will be!

Since we’re not allowed to do any writing during the retreat, you won’t hear from me again until I get back.  I’ll create a post on Tuesday, April 14 to tell you all about it.

May you have great peace and satisfaction in the days between.

Visitation

Yesterday, I went to the visitation for my friend Darrell’s wife Joanna.  Gone at 64, cancer I believe.  Even though I had never met Joanna, I wanted to go.  Many years ago, when I was trying to get a teaching job with the Catholic school board in London, Darrell wrote me a letter of reference.  And I got the job!  Darrell and Jody both worked at Parkwood Hospital and were joyous friends.  Always having fun.  So good to each other.

I showed up at the church right at the beginning of the visitation period, and there already had to be 50 people ready to say hello to the family.  And there were probably 25 of them.  So I experienced the “line that doesn’t move” syndrome, and that was fine.  I knew only one person there, but others probably knew the whole family.  Who am I to begrudge them precious moments with people they care about?  So the waiting was good.  There were two or three screens in the sanctuary, showing all sorts of pictures of Joanna.

Folks who came later than me were seated in the pews, waiting for the opportunity to join the line.  As I stood, I heard two precious words among a group who were seated: “Jody Kerr”.  A woman who works at Parkwood was talking about my lovely wife, about what a joy she was to see every day, and about Jodiette’s bright tops and pants.  I turned and sought out the source.  The four of us chatted for ten minutes or so about my dear girl, and I couldn’t care less about losing my spot in the line.

Then it was time to greet the first family members.  I was feeling a little nervous, but really not much.  I was clear that it didn’t matter what I said to all these strangers.  “Just be with them, Bruce.  All will be well.”  And it was.  I told different groups that I had never met Joanna, but the slide show on the walls showed me all I needed to know.  She just glowed in photo after photo.  There were even recent shots of her smiling broadly at the airport, as some of her kids and grandkids were heading back to Western Canada.  I imagine that everyone knew this was goodbye, but that didn’t stop Joanna from showering her world with love.  “Was she always like this?” I asked.  And one of her daughters answered, “Yes.”

To other linemates, I talked about what a huge presence Darrell was at Parkwood before he retired.  He’d be walking down the hallway, see someone he knew a hundred feet away, and start smiling.  I think it was one of his sons who added, “And he probably had a couple of conversations before he got to that person.”  Indeed.

When I reached Darrell, we gave each other a lingering hug.  He told nearby folks about the letter of reference, and mentioned that ever since I’ve been paying him with a toonie every time I saw him.  At which point I plunked one of those $2.00 coins in his palm.  And he did what Darrell does – tried to stuff the toonie into my pocket.  But I was too fast for him.  And in Darrell’s possession the coin remained.  Just like always.  I mean the guy has to keep his retirement well funded, doesn’t he?

Lots of visiting at the visitation.  Joanna and Jody were happy to see it all.

Dying and Living

Light and free you let go, darling
You are doing this so beautifully, so easily
You are going toward a greater love than you have ever known

I don’t know who wrote this.  I wish I had.  But I’m glad that someone let these words flow out of them.

I don’t know what’s next for me after this lifetime.  I don’t know what Jody’s experiencing now.  But whatever it is, I sense it’s good.  My wife is happy and her essence is with me every day.

What if Jody has merged into a force of boundless love?  What if she’s being cradled by that love at every moment?  What if some form of her is waiting for me to cross over, so I too can experience that love?

Next lifetime, it won’t be “Jody and Bruce”.  How about “Chantelle and Pierre”?  And I’m perfectly willing to be Chantelle.  Or maybe our Spirits will explore a realm far from this physical life on Earth.  I’ve always wanted to fly.

What if next time there’s no “self and other”, no “Brucio and Jodiette”?  Maybe each of us is a single atom in an unfathomable celestial body.  Maybe my darling wife and I entwine in a spiral of joy in which “my love for you” and “your love for me” become … love.

I don’t know.  And isn’t that so true?  The mystery beckons me onward.  To open, open, and open some more.

Now, and Again Now

Here I sit in my man chair.  Will I lean forward, hoping for a fine result in the next moment?  Will I turn away from current pain, not wanting it to continue?  Or will I just sit, letting whatever’s here be here?  I like that last choice.  So let’s see where the moments take me.

1.  I’m looking at Jody’s face on the cover of the third proof of her book.  I’m happy.  She looks great.

2.  I’m listening to my breath.  No wheeze.  No coughing.  On one level, that’s good.  On another, it’s just breathing.

3.  I’m closing my eyes.  My belt is tight against my stomach.  Some discomfort.

4.  I’m closing my eyes again.  Eyelids very heavy.  Thinking of my bed.

5.  Hard for me to type with my eyes closed, me not being an ace touch typist.

6.  I hear the oven doing its groinks, as the chicken works its way towards edibility.

7.  I look at the poster of Jody on the wall, her in her wedding dress, beaming.  I smile.

8.  I think of Thursday, when I’ll get into Hugo and set off for Massachusetts, and a nine-day meditation retreat.  Another smile.

9.  Oven timer goes off.  Excuse me, I’ll be right back.

10.  Can’t smell the chicken because of the cold.  Sure looks good.

11.  I made myself a cup of tea – Cinnamon Spice.  The cup overflowed.  Sipped it down a bit.  Hot on the lips.  Wiped up the spill.

12.  The house is silent.  So am I.

13.  I feel my breath catch.  I recognize it as the body showing me a pre-cough.

14.  Breathing smoothly again.  Happy.

15.  I ask myself, “Will I be well by Thursday?”  Strangely, I see that I’m fine with both a “yes” and a “no”.

16.  I notice the PVR humming softly.  I notice that I don’t like the sound.  Oh well.

17.  I think about whether I will ever again have a partner in life.  I hope so.  But I know it’ll be okay if I don’t.

18.  I rub the rough patch on my forehead, and smile when I see that I want my body to be perfectly smooth.  Good luck on that, guy.

19.  I look at the statue of the Buddha that sits on the hassock nearby, facing me.  A companion for the last three years.  Feel bad (a little) that I can’t sit that way.  Happy that he’s here.

20.  I miss Jody, and my eyes dampen.  Oh, my dear wife.

21.  I realize that Jody’s coming to Massachusetts with me.  My eyes are still wet.  Thank you, my dear.  “You’re very welcome, husband.  You and me.”

22.  No sign of a cough.  So thankful for that.

23.  I remember that I haven’t saved any of this post yet.  Do so.  No judgment.

24.  I worry about not writing a post every day.  And I just watch the worry.  It’s okay.

25.  25 seems like a nice round number, don’t you think?

***

That was about half an hour of thoughts bubbling to the surface.  I’m so pleased that I didn’t get stuck ramping up the goods and bads into fullfledged drama.  But “so pleased” sounds like a pretty high energy “good”.  Guess I’ll continue to watch my thinkings with good humour.  A lovely thing to do on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

All Of Life’s Hues

Life is timing, I’d say.  Months ago, after Jody died, I decided to buy a ticket to see Celtic Woman on March 25, 2015.  Jody and I loved to watch their DVDs.  Some truly enchanting songs.

Nearly four weeks ago, I started coughing.  Bronchitis, the doctor said.  It subsided for awhile but came back with a vengeance maybe four days ago – deep coughs, lots of mucus, stuffed nose, and intermittent nausea.

So, what to do?  Well, go to the concert.  I sat down next to my unsuspecting neighbours and tried my darndest not to cough.  The first song (three sublime female voices and a brilliant violinist) wasn’t bad, but halfway through the second one I was rocked with eruptions.  Totally unfair to the audience members.  I told the woman to my left that I’d be leaving at the end of the song, and to be ready.  She was feeling for me.

I made my stumble along the row, apologizing mightily.  Then down the tunnel to the concourse, where I just about fell onto a bench.  Down went my head and up came the mucus.  Later, I wondered how my noises echoed in the empty space, empty except for several employees getting ready to serve drinks and snacks.  One woman brought me over a paper cup for water.  Thank you.  A supervisor said she’d search for an empty area in the arena where I could enjoy the show and not disturb other patrons.  Thank you.  A third woman suggested I stand beside her in the tunnel and catch a glimpse of things that way.  Thank you.

But I wasn’t ready for any of that.  My ample supply of Kleenexes was dwindling and the mucus wasn’t.  And I was dizzy.  Somewhere far, far away I could hear the sweet strains of “Danny Boy”, one of Jody’s and my favourites.  Beauty and spasms with their arms around each other.

Later, I felt strong enough to stand in the tunnel, leaning on the handrail.  Such a unique view of the music.  Then, from behind a blackout curtain, came the supervisor.  She had found a spot for me.  Up the escalator we went, and then past a balcony filled with folks enjoying their meals at tables.  Through a secret door, and then another secret door.  And there I was – in a private box, which normally would seat twenty, but tonight was dark.  Thank you again.

Coughing continued, but at least people were far away.  And down below me, I listened to the magic of melody and harmony: “Amazing Grace”, “Caledonia”, “You Raise Me Up” and “The Parting Glass”.  Jody and I held hands and sang along.  I cried when she raised me up.  She thanked me for bringing her.  “The pleasure was all mine, my dear.”

Just your basic date night.

Speed Limit

Around here, it’s 80 kilometres per hour (50 mph) on the secondary highways and 50 or 60 in town.  In the 20 years that Jody and I drove to London for work, I varied from 85 to 90 on the 80 kph road, usually while being tailgated.

Last week, I decided to drive the speed limit, whatever it was.  It just felt right to do that, “appropriate”.  It allows me to flow, to feel Hugo moving smoothly up the road.  It allows for a big space in front of me, and a feeling of “spaciousness” within.  Someone has said that this is the maximum speed, and I’m going with it.  Not to be right and make someone else wrong.  Not to get people to slow down in life.  Just because it feels good.

Lots of people don’t like my new plan.  Many crowd my back bumper.  Some jerk to the left to see if there’s room to pass.  But happily, other folks just hang back at a respectful distance.  Maybe there’re lots of us who want to take it down a notch or two, who’d like to glance at the cows in the field, or at a particularly symmetrical tree.

I will continue my experiment – tomorrow, and especially in a week’s time, when I’ll take a leisurely day-and-a-half to get from home to Barre, Massachusetts.  May many congenial souls float along with me.

On The Stage

I went to a workshop yesterday for beginning actors.  I wasn’t nervous at all as I walked in.  I talked to a few people in the foyer, put on my nametag, and then took a chair by myself.  Gabbing and not gabbing … both were okay.

For the first hour-and-a-half, our leader did a lot of teaching, and then it was time for coffee.  I started talking to a woman whose nametag said “Gladys”, but other people laughed when I called her that.  Shirley liked having fun with nametags.  And so do I.  I asked her if we could switch.  She was all for it.  For the rest of the day, I had my moments of confusion, as I heard my fellow participants referring to “Bruce”.  Not the me I know.  I was enjoying being Gladys, that’s for sure.

Our improv group of three decided to be uptight bank robbers brandishing guns at a teller.  Little did we know that she was an undercover cop.  Such fun.  And I got to dress up in a fancy black suit jacket and a floppy hat.  I felt quite nasty for close to an hour, as we watched other groups perform and then did our thing.

Next on the menu, we sat in a big circle on the stage.  One person suggested a topic and would give us a sentence about it, starting with the letter A.  The next improv-er got to continue, beginning with a word that started with B.  And so on.  On one go-round I got Z, and was very pleased to come up with “Zowie!”  After a complete circuit of the alphabet, we debriefed.  I mentioned that I didn’t like it when someone was struggling to create a sentence beginning with a certain letter, and others would chime in with suggestions.  Duly noted by the group.  When we began again, with the topic slowly morphing into a discussion about pets, it was my turn with the letter K.  And I couldn’t think of a darn thing.  Naturally nobody helped me, and the silence deepened.  The tension rolled through me for at least thirty seconds, until I blurted out, “Killing pets is really not a good idea.”

So I got to sit with my fear.  And I realized that drawing a blank was all right.  I didn’t die on the spot.  Oh, drama, what a teacher you are!

Later in the day, our groups of three each put on the same ten-page play, holding our scripts as we told the story.  Partway through, I got really confused about where I was supposed to be standing, and how I was supposed to kiss a woman without blocking her from the audience, and in general about all the stage directions written in the script in italics.  Out of the corner of my head, I heard silence hanging in the air, and finally found the highlighted line that I was supposed to say seconds earlier.  Humbled again.  Totally out of character, I smacked myself in the head.  At least I got a laugh doing that.

I survived this faux pas as well, and learned one more time to laugh at my imperfections.  Later, I would have a third opportunity to eat humble pie.  Quite delicious, actually.  The workshop was over and I had gone to a restaurant in St. Thomas.  I sat at the bar and watched big screen sports.  Had a good conversation with the bartender.  After a generous helping of nachos, and a sinful brownie, ice cream and whipped cream combo,  I checked my shirt to see if I had blobbed stuff there.  Nope, I was fine.  But there was a piece of paper stuck to my chest.  It said “Gladys”.  My friend behind the bar said he hadn’t spoken up about it since it was none of his business.  I told him the switcheroo story.  I think he understood.  If not, it was another rich life experience within the world of dramatic arts.