Author Archives: Bruce

Only Birds and Deer Need Apply

I’m visiting my friends Cam and Ann in Richmond Hill, north of Toronto.  Although most of the town seems to be dominated by huge, tall homes that fill nearly all of the lot, I’m sitting in an oasis of peace.  Cam and Ann live in a small house that’s 150 years old.  It’s part of a huge property that her uncle used to own.  He’s donated a small lake, with its surrounding wooded slopes, to the Province of Ontario, with one stipulation: no people will be allowed in this newly created conservation area.  Uncle holds the vision of a sanctuary for wildlife, untroubled by the purposeful activities of mankind.  Ann and other family members will be allowed to walk on the land until they move away from the property.  When they’re gone, no human beings will touch this earth … forever.

Yesterday afternoon, we went walking into another world.  On the shoreline, we watched an owl fly silently across the lake, and a few minutes later heard its mournful hooting.  Otherwise … silence.  The lake was frozen and was decorated with tiny animal tracks going across.  The trees were the tallest of guardians.  Some of them were the most exquisite pines – tall trunks of vibrant red topped by small clumps of needles.  Jody was there with me.

We walked to an old boathouse – a berth on the water topped by a large room with windows viewing the lake, topped by a rooftop patio.  Ann told us about the parties she had enjoyed there as a young person.  Looking down from the roof, I saw a dock extending into the lake, with two railings jutting out of the ice, and I was torn.  I imagined happy swimmers hauling themselves out of the water, lots of laughing, and peaceful moments of companionship as twilight settled over the land.

All the history of humans will end soon.  The birds will fly joyfully.  The deer will bound up and down the slopes unhindered.  A sanctuary for them, and not for us.  I was happy.  I was sad.  Life showing me all its colours once more.  Let both sides embrace you, Bruce.

Celebrating Jody

Dear friends,

I hope that you’ll come to Jody’s Celebration of Life on Saturday, January 31 at 11:00 am.  It will be held at the Bellamere Winery in northwest London.  The best way to find Bellamere is to get yourself to the intersection of Wonderland Road North and Gainsborough Road.  The Sherwood Forest Mall is on the southwest corner.  Turn left if you’re coming from the south and head west on Gainsborough.  Keep going past Hyde Park Road and you’ll find Bellamere about a kilometre along on your left.  There’s been major construction on Hyde Park, so I wouldn’t go that way.

From the 401 westbound, take the 402 where it splits off the 401 and exit at Wonderland Road.  Head north for quite awhile until you get to the Sherwood Forest Mall.

There’s free parking at Bellamere.  You’ll see two buildings.  Walk towards the right one.  Under the portico, go in the double doors on your right.  If you’re in a wheelchair, there’s a ramp in front of the single door that’s to the left of the double one.

There!  Directions handled.

Please sign the guest book on the long table as you go in.  After Jody’s celebration, I hope you’ll stay for a light lunch.

May our time together be a marvelous sharing of stories … of Jody’s smile, her humour and her love.  My darling wife touched so many people.  I hope that I’ll be laughing a lot.  Most likely I’ll also be crying a lot.  Both are just fine.

May you have the courage to come to the front and tell us about Jody and you.  We can paint pictures of how Jody moved through life.  I certainly have a few fun experiences to share.  Jody knew fun.  If you can’t imagine speaking in front of potentially a lot of people, please send me an e-mail of what you want to say, and I’ll read it to the group.

No doubt, there will be a lot of love in the room.  There’ll also be a lot of music … some of Jody’s favourite songs.

***

The past few weeks have helped me remember the beauty of my lovely wife that she showed as her life moved towards a close.  In September, Jody wanted to bake me a loaf of French pepper crackling bread, our Christmas tradition, but she wasn’t strong enough to do it.  So she coached Linda, one of our personal support workers, in the baking of this wonder.  There was Jody in her wheelchair, telling Linda this and telling Linda that.  And a couple of hours later … Voila!  My bread awaiteth.  And it was delicious, just as it’s been for twenty years or more.

Only weeks after Jody’s death did I realize that she wanted me to have one more loaf of our love bread, and that she knew she wouldn’t be around at Christmas for this blessed tradition.  Jodiette loved me quadruple oodles, and she still does.

For the last two months of Jody’s life, she wanted to wear all the rings that I had given her … and so she did.  Seven in all.  My favourite is the heart-shaped golden ring, with three little blue stones, that I gave to Jodiette as I asked her to marry me on English Bay Beach in Vancouver.  That was in September, 1986.  So many lovings ago.

My life has been changed by the time I got to spend with Jody Anita Kerr in this lifetime.  She gave me all she had.  Jody made sure I ate well, looked good and was happy.  Her song for me has always been “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You”.

Search your heart and your soul
You can’t tell it’s not worth dying for
I’ll be there
I’d walk the fire for you
I’d die for you

On February 24, Jody and I will be in Budweiser Gardens, listening to Bryan Adams sing to us.  I only bought one ticket.  That’s all we need.  We’ll sing along.

I love you all,

Bruce

Sweet Music in the Evening

Neal and I went into London tonight to listen to a Canadian folk music group, appropriately called “Eh?!”  Two fiddlers and a bass violinist.  All brilliant performers.  Their concert was held at The Cuckoo’s Nest, an intimate club that takes over Chaucer’s Pub on some Sunday evenings.  Chaucer’s seats about 50, and features a huge stone fireplace, dark wood, and beer steins on a high shelf.

We sat immediately to the right of the band, in the second row.  I was about eight feet from James fiddler’s right arm.  Joe bass violin was on the other side of James, and farther along was Anne fiddler.

Sitting right in front of me was a man of about my age with a very large head.  He kept that head extremely still throughout the concert.  There was no hint of grooving to the fiddle tunes.  I felt sadness and dryness coming off him, even a depression.  And so I felt sad.  I decided to simply be with him.  No beaming of positive energy his way.  Just let him be as he was, with my company.  But sometimes he would lean way to the left or right, trying to see beyond James.  The first couple of times, I was irritated, and then I let that go.  Actually, when he leaned right, I could see Joe playing haunting melodies on the bass, rather than just the top of his head.  So my neighbour was helping me out.

At the break between sets, I decided to talk to the gentleman, to see if I could make a contribution.  “Hard to see past the first fiddler from our angle, eh?”  Big smile in return.  I was happy.

The tops of Joe’s and Anne’s heads were just fine for me because I got to see three musical heads feeling the melody and making the harmony, swaying to the peaceful tunes and jerking wildly during the raucous ones.  Very cool.  Oh, and I also got to see Anne’s left hand on the neck of her fiddle, her fingers alternately caressing and smashing down on the strings.  Cool again.

During the love songs, Joe played his bass like a violin, moving his fingers way down the fretboard to draw out ethereal melodies, with his head bowed as in a trance.  Gone I was in those moments.  Tears came to my eyes as the distinct sound of incredibly high bass notes worked its way into my soul.  Jody came flooding into me.  She was happy I had brought her to the concert.  Always with me, my dear.

It was a lovely evening.  Virtuoso musicians.  Tunes that led me away.  And a bigheaded man who knows how to smile.

 

 

 

Another Celebration

Two weeks from now,  Jody’s Celebration of Life will be held at Bellamere Winery in London.  This afternoon, I went to another one, honouring Kathy, an occupational therapist colleague of Jody’s.

I didn’t know how hard it would be for me.  As I walked in, I recognized person after person.  First of all, Jody’s former boss from many years ago.  Last January, she had dropped off gifts at our house, but I hadn’t seen her.  The best of the lot was a sculpted fabric seat to give me some lower back support as I sat with Jody.  I’ve used it many times but never found out the woman’s address to thank her.  Today I did, mixed with sorrow and embarrassment.  She wasn’t fazed at all.  Just me.

I started talking to a friend of Jody’s who retired from Parkwood last month.  Soon, though, I was pulled away to say hello to another workmate of Jody’s.  A dangling conversation.  Made me sad.

As I bounced from person to person, I got scared.  We were here for Kathy, not Jody.  Except that I’m always here for Jody.  And people wanted to give me a hug.  So let them, Bruce.

A few minutes into Kathy’s Celebration of Life, it was time for the first musical number, sung and played by a mellow male guitarist.  Oh, no.  It was “Annie’s Song” by John Denver, a piece I had sung to Jody for years.  I tried to stop the tears but they pooled in my eyes.  “It’s not about you, Bruce.  It’s about Kathy.”   I thought about staring into Jody’s eyes all those times as I’d sung “Come let me love you.  Let me give my life to you.”  Oh, Jodiette.  How I miss you, my dear wife.

Later, the musician favoured us with “Bridge Over Troubled Water”.

When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all

Oh, Jody.  Will you dry my tears, dear one?  They seem to go on forever.

Family and friends came to the front and talked about Kathy’s life, and how kind she was to everyone.  She was truly a wonderful person who had always treated me royally.  My focus moved to Kathy from Jody.  And I could breathe again.  But near the end of the ceremony, the master of ceremonies mentioned the good people who Parkwood had recently lost … “Kathy, Jody and Rob.”  And my tears came once more.

How will I ever cope two weeks from now, when maybe 200 loved ones will show up at Bellamere, and I’m the master of ceremonies?  I don’t know.  Jody, please be with me then.  Help me draw forth the love that’s already in the room.

I’m always with you, Bruce
I will shelter you
I will protect you
Love them all

In Its Own Sweet Time

I remember one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the bark of a tree just as the butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out.  I waited awhile, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient.  I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it.  I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life.  The case opened, the butterfly started slowly crawling out, and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled.  The wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them.  Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath.  In vain.  It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings needed to be a gradual process in the sun.  Now it was too late.  My breath had forced the butterfly to appear, all crumpled, before its time.  It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.

And so it is with me … or could be.  I cry every day for Jody, often several times a day.  A part of me wants the crying to stop, the grieving to end.  Thankfully just a small part.  The wisdom eye knows that I will cry when I need to, for as long as I need to.  And if my weeping for my loved one extends over months or even years,  then that is the rhythm I must honour.  People may talk about me needing to move on, but there is a far deeper mystery that calls me for as long as it does.  I will listen.

Crying for Kindness

A few days ago, I was watching a commercial on TV and started crying.  Deep sobs.  Afterwards I couldn’t remember what they were selling.  All I retained was Person A criticizing someone who wasn’t there and Person B agreeing.  Then that scene was repeated twice.  On the fourth viewing, Person B responded to Person A by saying something kind about the absent someone.

I’ve been crying for Jody every day and I figured that my response to the commercial had something to do with my vulnerability.  But it still seemed a mystery.  And then I stopped analyzing it … the why and wherefore just floated away.

Tonight I was watching a CNN report about a terrorist attack being prevented in Belgium.  It was time for “a message from our sponsors”:

(Scene: two employees chatting in the office)

Person A:  I hear she’s still depressed and on sick leave.

Person B:  We could both use a vacation too.

(Repeat twice)

(Fourth time)

Person A:  I hear she’s still depressed and on sick leave.

Person B:  I’m going to swing by with Mary and see how she’s doing.

(Person A thinks … and nods)

And Bruce cries again, weeping uncontrollably for a minute or two.

Then I used the “rewind live TV” function on my PVR and watched it again.  There was a single message at the end:

Be kind
1 of the 5 ways you can end
the stigma around mental illness

The advertiser?  Bell – a large Canadian company providing TV and phone service.

Lovely to behold
Cry on, Bruce

Toronto – Part 4: The Music

Neal and I went to folk music concerts at Hugh’s Room on Thursday, Friday and Saturday evening.  Immersion indeed.

First up was Lillebjorn Nilsen, a singer-songwriter from Norway.  He had come to Toronto to pick up an acoustic guitar made for him by Grit Laskin, a mainstay of a longstanding local group called “The Friends of Fiddler’s Green”.  Lillebjorn was so enthralled with his new instrument.  It was as if he was making love as he played.  Grit was pretty happy too.

Lillebjorn sang in Norwegian, which was fine for the large Scandinavian crowd at Hugh’s but a challenge for me.  Even though he sometimes gave a little description of the song beforehand, I was getting frustrated.  I love lyrics most of all.  At some point, though, I let go.  “Just be with Lillebjorn, Bruce.”  So I did.  The soul of the man flowed out of his mouth and out of his fingers.  He could have been reciting a grocery list.  It didn’t matter.  He loved his country.  He loved people.  He loved making music.

At the end of the evening, he pulled out a Norwegian fiddle … with nine strings.  Oh, how he could make that violin sing!  Sad, joyous, mesmerizing.  Thank you, Lillebjorn.

***

Our encore visit favoured us with the songs of Paul Simon, offered by seven individuals and groups – two pieces for each.  Some of the songs I’d never heard of.  And the best performances came from a trio of musicians – keyboard/vocals, lead guitar and bass guitar.  I’m sitting here trying to remember their songs, and I can’t.  But it doesn’t matter.  The fellows were brilliant together.  I remember the smile on the face of the lead guitarist as he played a long lick … in a trance, it seemed.  One rollicking tune featured the pianist belting out the melody while tickling the ivories with his left hand and banging the keyboard lid against the vertical surface of the piano with his right.  So cool.

Then there was the trio of East Indian descent who gave us “The Sounds of Silence” – an ethereal female voice accompanied by a sitar.  Otherworldly.  Finally, the whole crew went up on stage for a rousing version of “Slip Slidin’ Away”.  We were in love.

***

Day three featured Joanna Chapman-Smith, a Toronto singer-songwriter who had lost her voice during an illness, and had it magically return months later, to our immense benefit.  Joanna was such an original … rich love songs, some unusual melodies, storytelling mixed in with the singing.  The place was packed in celebration of her aliveness and virtuosity.  I struggled with the long stories and with some of the dissonant melody lines but I marvelled at her humanity.  Such a glowing face.

The biggest revelation for me was during the break between sets.  I listened to the one hundred of us talk.  It was a symphony of voices that seemed to get louder as the minutes passed.  First, I resisted.  After all, I’m a nice little Buddhist guy that needs his large doses of silence.  But then I started smiling.  It was music.  It was we humans embracing our fellows.  It was sweet.

***

Sing me a melody, please
Make it last long inside me
Sing me a melody, please
Give me a good vibration

Toronto – Part 3: Scarf and Applesauce

It’s so easy to be happy and openhearted when my body feels good.  In Toronto, my body mostly felt bad.

When I was a kid, mom and Aunt Norah wrote back and forth a lot.  I got to read Norah’s letters, which were usually full of reports about her various ailments.  I vowed that I would never turn into my aunt, that I would never let what’s wrong dominate my conversations.  But I feel the need to address the pain I felt last week, as a way to open to all of life.

I had already been cold for ten days or so, and Toronto’s deep freeze sent me over the edge.  I was terrified of being cold, colder, coldest.  “Will it hurt?  How long will it hurt?”  I don’t know what happened to the mountain man in me.  He was gone.  Instead, there was a guy who developed this dressing ritual every time a door was about to open onto the outside world.  The neck of my coat totally zipped up.  Toque pulled way down.  Scarf so tight around my nose and mouth that it brought up thoughts of asphyxiation.  Mitts struggling to fit way inside the sleeves of my jacket.  Neal waiting patiently.

Sometimes our forehead-burning street travels brought us to more subway time.  I loosened the scarf so it wrapped around my neck but the rest of the arrangements stayed put.  Mitts and toque fully engaged on the train.  As we jostled our way from station to station, all I could think of was diving under the covers of my hotel room bed.  No expansive mind.  No lovingkindness aimed at my fellow passengers (well, very little of that).  Just me, me, me.  How very unBuddhist of me.

And then there was my stomach.  For most of our trip, the nausea came and went and came again.  My diet was basic – microwavable rice, bananas, dry bagels, applesauce and herbal tea.  Neal had omelets and seafood fettuccini and beer.  I was drooping with a lack of calories and flavour.  Dizzy and roiling and flat.  Oh vacation, wherefore art thou?

At the Allan Gardens plant conservatory, I sat.  At the Royal Ontario Museum, I sat.  Neal boogied around, taking lots of cool photos.  I sat.  I tried to be present with what life was offering me, to see the pain as being no worse than pleasure.  But I couldn’t.  I rarely could talk to Jody.  I missed the beauty of the flowers, of the vendors offering their food at the St. Lawrence Market, even of the Buddhist statues at the museum.  I pretty much missed it all.  Sad some more.

On Sunday afternoon, we were leaving on the train for London.  My nausea had disappeared and the temperature had warmed to 0 degrees Celsius (32 degrees Fahrenheit).  How strange.

I wonder what life wants me to learn from all this.  Right now, I don’t know.  I’m open to an epiphany.  Come on down.

 

Toronto – Part 2: Fish Up and Fish Down

After depositing our belongings in the hotel room on Thursday, Neal and I braved the icy blasts and walked four blocks to Ripley’s Aquarium.  I was fully decked out in sweater, toque, parka and mitts, plus Jody’s white scarf wrapped tightly over my nose and mouth.  Oh my God!  I was just so cold.  My mind started heading to “I’m bad” but I nipped that in the bud.  Not bad, just sick.

Inside the building, I revelled for a minute in my senior reality.  I saved $10.00 off the adult price.  But the glee faded quickly when I saw the first tank just down the hall, populated with wild splotches of colour.  What came through was the warmth of peace.  I was somewhere special.

The upper tank was a tall cylinder full of large fish of every hue.  Actually, some seemed to have no hue, but all of the residents moved with such grace.  A lower and wider tank was teeming with small fishies, just as glorious as the big guys.

I just stared at all this flowing life.  Soon, I saw us human beings inside that aquarium too.  We’re so different from each other in how we colour our lives.  Some of us show the world a bigness of spirit, and some of us keep that part well hidden.  But we all can swim.

I didn’t know the names of any of these fish, although I could have studied the nearby signs.  I didn’t want to.  No labels please.  I just wanted to drink in the beauty.

Further down the hallway, I came upon a giant cylindrical tank that stretched way above my head.  It was crammed with silver fish, each about six inches long.  They were in a “school”, and seemed to hover in place … all these parallel lines of beings.  And again I saw us, this time how we are identical in our hearts, in wanting to be happy, in wanting to love and be loved.  I stared some more.

Many more tanks of fish beckoned me along the way.  A long pedestrian tunnel showed sting rays and sharks above, accompanied by far smaller swimmers.  The world was full of movement.  The curved glass distorted the size of the fish.  And soon it was my head that was swimming.  Dizzy.  Nauseous.  All I could do was sit down on a bench and wait for Neal’s return.  He came and went and came back again.  I sat and reeled.  I closed my eyes.  Families passed by in bubbles of excited chatter.  I faded.  My stomach rolled.  Both the happy variety of fish/human beings and their exquisite school of sameness were long gone.  I was sad.

I decided to follow the path of overhead fish to its end, and emerged to sit in front of a blessedly flat tank full of sting rays.  The huge ones rested on the sand floor, occasionally rousing themselves to float over the rock outcroppings.  The small ones pressed their bellies near the glass and climbed.  Although I was looking at their breathing apparatus, it sure looked like a lot of smiling faces to me.  And I had to smile back, despite the pain.  Messengers had come to tell me it would be all right.

And life is definitely fine, thank you.  I’ll just keep swimming through all the waters of the world.  Sights abound.

Toronto – Part 1: To and From

Neal and I set off on Thursday morning on the train from London to Toronto.  A big window to look out of, onto a big world.  As we rolled through downtown, I strained to catch a glimpse of an elementary school I taught at for years, a building that has been the source of much joy for me.  All I caught was the spire of the church next door but I knew that friends and students were in the school at that very instant, staying warm and throwing themselves into the life of the community.  It made me happy to know that this was so.

East of London, fields and woodlots flashed by as we picked up speed.  I thought of Jody’s words to me after her death:  “I am all trees, Bruce.  I welcome you everywhere.”  And Jody most surely did.  Groves of bare deciduous trees, groups of evergreens, a single tree spreading its arms in the middle of a field … Jody was all around.  Her words flooded over me, blessing me with her love.  Mile upon mile of Jody holding out her hands to me.  My wife.  My love.

I watched flags along the way, hoping that they would droop on their poles.  But alas, they remained at almost full flap.  And I was scared.  I was sick, and dreaded four days of deep freeze and major wind chill.  I didn’t think I was strong enough to cope with it all.  I needed to be held and warmed.

I saw kids tobogganing down a hill, dressed in their pastel snowsuits.  Wonderful!  Just what kids need.  And horrible!  It’s far too cold for me to join them.  I saw Canada geese winging their way.  I yearned to see a deer and spent nearly an hour trying to spot one.  Not to be.

I watched the man in the window seat in front of me.  (I was on the aisle.)  For awhile, he frantically jabbed away at his computer, with the screen seeming to change every few seconds.  Half an hour later, his laptop was closed and he was asleep.  I marvelled at the contrast.

Across the aisle and forward one seat, an elderly gentleman spent virtually the whole trip looking at a magazine.  It was full of articles about the military and veterans.  He looked so happy, immersed in something that gave his life meaning.

Eventually, fields faded away, to be replaced by, in singer-songwriter David Francey’s words, “good industrial landscapes”.  Toronto had reached out, consuming a lot of the natural world.  But the factories had their good stories too.

***

Homeward bound this afternoon.  This time, my views were severely restricted by an awkwardly placed window.  Mostly, I saw the tops of trees flowing by, no less Jody for their partialness.  Still a blessing.  Neal was on the lookout for deer, and finally I heard “There!”  I had two seconds to glance to my right, just enough time to see about ten of them, heads down in a field.  Yes.  Another blessing wrapped up in constriction.

Everywhere I looked inside the train, passengers were bent over their iPhones and laptops.  Ear buds abounded.  We were all in our own little worlds, including me with my book.  Part of me wanted to make contact, but I let that go.  I wanted to be home.  I wanted to be warm.  And I wanted to be alone.

Journey done.  Many more to come.