My friend “Beatrice” wants to be a model. I’m guessing she’s 50. She has a large body but not what society would call “fat”. And she’s a great distance from the anorexic-looking young women whose upper arms are a straight line, with no visible bicep.
There’s the eternal question that adorns one of my t-shirts: “Why not?”
Where do limits come from? Do we really need fences? Or high walls topped by razor wire?
I think we’re made to run free in the meadows of life. And yes, we need to pay the rent and put food on the table.
But I’m pretty sure the wind was created so that it could flow through our hair. And our eyes seek the mountaintop vista.
Two nights ago, I went to the Sphinx movie theatre to watch “Pressure”. Last night I did the same thing.
It’s World War Two. The Allies are planning for D-Day … the invasion of Normandy. They need an accurate weather forecast for their soldiers crossing the English Channel – infantry, paratroopers, pilots.
The man in the blue shirt is James Stagg, a brilliant Scottish meteorologist recommended by British Prime Minister Winston Churchill.
The man at the upper left is Dwight Eisenhower, the commander of the Allied forces. The buck stops with him.
I will watch “Pressure” a third time, because I need to learn how to be brave.
I’ll watch Jim Stagg. He forecasts bad weather for June 5, 1944 – the scheduled invasion day. His American colleague says that it will be clear skies, an opinion that Eisenhower and all the generals want to be true. Stagg stands alone … quietly, assertively.
Eisenhower yells …
My recent problems with my landlord are nothing compared with the lives of thousands of soldiers. Still, it took courage to stand up to him.
I keep watching Jim Stagg. At one point, when Eisenhower is glaring at him, determined that D-Day sticks to schedule, a call comes in for Stagg. His pregnant wife has been taken to hospital, and that hospital has been bombed by the Germans. He doesn’t know if his wife is alive or dead.
He walks out of the command centre onto lawns where a tent village has been set up for soldiers. Four of them are drunk – dancing wildly, singing loudly. And Stagg’s brain is exploding.
His wife, the future of the world (Nazi controlled or not), and he’s the chief meteorologist, about to tell Eisenhower his decision, his best guess about the weather … which is bad.
I walked into a church today that I had never before entered. It was a lovely space. What I hadn’t realized was that it would be closing between 13:00 and 14:00.
Just before the time, a male voice came from above. A short message, delivered in Dutch, French, German, English, Spanish and two other languages that I didn’t recognize.
I smiled at the symphony of words. It felt like the whole world was sitting with me in the sanctuary. We all were included. We all were seen.
***
I read an article today in Tricycle magazine, a Buddhist publication. It was written by Vanessa Zuisei Goddard.
One of my favorite stories is by Ursula K. Le Guin, called “Things”. Set in a nameless country, the inhabitants are facing the end of the world, divided between those bent on destroying the last of what’s left and those celebrating the End of Days. Belonging to neither camp is a bricklayer named Lif, who dreams one night that beyond the horizon lies a set of islands. It’s a place he’s never been to, has never even seen, yet he knows, with a certainty that surprises him, that if he wants to live, that’s where he must go. If the old world is dying, his only hope is to go to a new world – a world he somehow knows is possible, is real. And so, the next morning, he gets down to work.
…
Standing at the end of the path, water up to his nose, and wind whipping his hair, Lif paused for a moment at the threshold of the known, trusting this was the way to the unimagined. Then he leapt.
My dear wife Jody died in November, 2014. At her Celebration of Life in January, 2015, I chose a few of my favourite music videos to honour her. One of these was Jackie Evancho performing “Angel”. In two weeks and a bit, I will do the same at an open mic session.
It’s a song of love … and of the sadnesses that life contains. Here are my favourite lines:
There’s always some reason To feel not good enough And it’s hard at the end of the day
…
In the arms of the angel Fly away from here From this dark cold hotel room And the endlessness that you fear
You’ll find Jackie’s concert video at the end of this post. It still speaks of Jody.
“Angel” was written by Sarah McLachlan. Jackie’s rendition left out a verse that contains more glimpses of the heart:
It’s easier to believe In this sweet madness Oh this glorious sadness That brings me to my knees
Sarah’s video follows Jackie’s, and has the complete lyrics.
I told you yesterday about yelling at someone for the first time in my adult life. Then a friend said “You were a teacher. You never yelled at a kid?” And a 40-year-old memory came. So … yesterday I yelled at someone for the second time in my adult life.
This weekend I’m in an online retreat with the Core group of the Evolutionary Collective. I told my yelling story to the group – about 60 folks.
The teacher asked me to let go of all the identity stuff …
I’m a good person
Maybe now I’m a less good person because I yelled at someone yesterday
I’m a bad person
My first thought was “If I drop all these identities, will there be anything left?” The second was “Will I just be part of some bland spiritual soup, my molecules no different than the ones next to me?”
I didn’t voice these concerns in the meeting. I just reflected on what the teacher said.
Something about paper, about lists, about figuring things out. Words came back …
Let the piece of paper float away, Bruce
Today “identity” feels solid:
I am A
I am not B
I don’t want to be solid.
There’s a particularity that flows out of me, unique in the world. I can’t stop that flow – nor would I want to. Today it seems that settling on an identity gums up the flow. A dam. Stagnant water.
Hmm. What a waste of energy – deciding on, constructing and defending an identity
I did? Me? This nice little Buddhist guy who bows and smiles a lot?
Yes
For a few weeks now, my neighbour has often played his music too loudly, far beyond what I think the word “appropriate” means.
One time when I asked him to turn it down, he yelled at me. I didn’t yell back. That would have been bad, showing that I was a bad human being.
The next time my walls were rattling with downstairs music, I phoned the police. I didn’t want to be yelled at again. They told him to lower the volume. He did, and then yelled at me in an e-mail.
It was 9:00 am this morning. Music from within. I knocked on his door. No answer, but the volume went up. I walked down to the street and looked up at his open window. He was standing there.
Me: Turn down the volume!
Him: This is not America!
Me (yelling): Turn down the volume or I’ll phone the police!
***
Even though my memory is an inexact science, I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone before in my entire long life.
Now it’s an hour later, and I’m tapping away in Izy Coffee. The knots in my stomach about music at 4:00 am are gone at 10:00.
What is this?
Where am I?
What does it mean to be me?
My view of being a spiritual person has been stood on end. Made broader. Embracing more of the tapestry of life.
The issue with my neighbour is still there. But my experience of it has been shaken. Energy is flowing, not crammed into a box. I am bigger.
I sat with a friend in a tiny park today, watching young boys kick a soccer ball around. I couldn’t tell if it was two teams or just kids having fun. I was having fun experiencing the pure joy of them “going for it”.
I took a photo of the action, but not the one you see. My friend advised me that the boys would be recognizable in the picture, and therefore it was illegal to post it on the internet. The photo above, although clearly not from Belgium, gives you a feel for the game.
No uniforms, no apparent strategy, just a lot of kicking, chasing and yelling. I loved it! Kids falling, kids skipping, passes usually off target. The joie de vivre of the young ones – teachers of the old ones, if we’re willing to look.
The male teacher let the kids rumble over the makeshift playing field, with coats laid down as goalposts. He let the bursting of ten-year-olds take over the local world, only speaking up when it was time to go.
Grass stains, muddy patches, sweaty faces … it was wondrous to behold. I was lifted up in my soul.
The stream is cold, brisk, and my hands are bright pink, nearly numb when I lift them from the water. What began as a game when I was a child in a bathtub has persisted over the years: If I can cup my palms just so, and press my outstretched fingers together, maybe the water will stay.I manage, for a minute or two, to keep it from seeping out, but each time it inevitably finds its way through the spaces I cannot close no matter how forcefully I push together the sides of my palms.
I don’t know who wrote this but I’m glad they’re on the planet.
There is a flow in this life that’s beyond my calculating mind. I don’t know where it begins. I don’t think it ends. If we say so, we are carried along, giving in to the current. Some small minds may build dams to contain the uncontainable. For awhile it seems to work but eventually the force of the water breaks through.
I have no name for what’s flowing past my ears. The mystery doesn’t require one. It is free, unencumbered by borderlines.
Even amid my daily troubles, there’s an opportunity to fall into the water, unconcerned by destinations, by fences, by figuring things out.
***
May I always have the wisdom to say no to clinging
And may I always have the wisdom to say yes to letting go
As I headed off to Bruges, I put my phone charger and cable in my backpack, to make sure I could re-charge late in the day if needed and therefore have enough juice to access the train app when it was time to return to Gent.
And then it rained most of the day. I was missing one tiny detail: “Put the cable in a plastic bag.”
Back at home last night, I tried charging my phone. No go. The cable felt moist.
This morning I tried again, thinking that an overnight drying out would do the job. It didn’t.
Lying in bed, I thought of “Bruce’s Blog” – what you’re reading. As of yesterday I had written a post for 156 days in a row.
The thought called “I can’t think of anything to write about” never came up during those months. It might take a few minutes but something would emerge in my mind.
And the thought called “I don’t want to write” didn’t make an appearance either.
So I laughed horizontally a few hours ago. “The universe (also called ‘technology’) may stop my streak.”
At 10:00 this morning my internet company Proximus came to the rescue. The rep facing me across the desk said “It’s the cable. It’s still damp. And even when it dries out, it likely won’t work very well.”
Many years ago, when I was living in London, Canada, I put together a booklet called “Spots” … maybe fifty locations in and around London that were lovely to behold.
They were places where tourists didn’t go. Except for one spot: a gigantic Canadian flag blowing above the six lanes of Canada’s busiest highway – the 401.
On the train this morning from Gent to Bruges, I decided to write about a few spots I’d discover today in the medieval city …
Spot Number One
This is the Lovers’ Bridge in Minnewater Park. It was built in 1739. Folklore says that any couple crossing the bridge together will have eternal love. So the two folks in red and purple are set for life!
The bridge wasn’t my spot. The bench on which I sat was. A bit secluded. Looking up at the human beings. Perfect.
Spot Number Two
The Sint-Elisabethkerk was built in the 13th century and reconstructed in the 15th after a fire. It sits within the grounds of the Ten Wijngaerde Beguinage, where nuns still live and pray.
I got to sit in the quiet, and to reflect on the words “Laus Deo” (Praise God).
***
For awhile here in Bruges, the rain was on and off. Now the rain is simply on.
In the spirit of optimism, here’s my next headline:
Spot Number Three
Undiscovered as of yet. And perhaps it will remain so for the rest of the day. Either the train home will beckon me soon or another wonder will reveal itself.
…
Okay, it’s 17:10 (5:10 pm for the North Americans). The Weather Network tells me to expect two millimetres of rain between 18:00 and 19:00. I’m going home.
Sure, it’s possible that on the way to the train station, I may peek out from under my umbrella to find Wonder Number Three before my eyes … but I wouldn’t count on it.
Bruce's Blog 