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Just This

I’m sitting on my back patio, facing the farmer’s field.  I get to be in the shade in the early afternoon and my lawn sprinkler is waving its way across the lawn.  All is well.

Tiny corns are starting their summer’s journey and the traffic on Belmont Road to my left is carrying souls to their destinations.  Way in the distance, past the trees at the end of the field, Harrietsville Drive stretches left and right.  My friend Barry’s barn pokes above the leaves.  A weathered barn and a probably unused silo say hi off to the right.  When I first moved in, verging on two years ago, I was disappointed that there were roads and traffic and buildings out back.  Not any more.  Now there are friends out there, some stationary and some moving, reminding me that we are part of a very large family.

And there are birds.  When I got home from my long meditation retreat last December, I was also disappointed that the builder had planted deciduous trees every twenty metres or so along the back edge of our separate condo homes.  “They’ll wreck my view.”  How silly my brain can be.  Those trees are now twelve feet high and love fluttering in the breeze.  My view is still supreme.  And there are birds sitting on the branches.

My two bird feeders are about two metres away from my loveseat, slightly to the left.  As I tap away, a couple of brave souls hang off the sides, rooting out the seeds.  Oops … now they’re gone.  But how marvelous that they came to visit this up close human being.  Sometimes the moments of bliss are so fleeting but I thank God that they happen.

I think I’ll pause the writing and see if any feathered ones return to their food.

Five minutes later.  One male goldfinch (brilliant yellow!) sits on the tree beyond, sizing me up.  Now he flutters to the feeder pole.  Now he descends to the sunflower seed sanctuary.  I worry that my tiny typing will scare him away – but no – he’s still there, craning his neck to get a better view of me.  At least five other birdies are zooming around but so far he’s the only brave one.  Pretty special to make a new friend from a distance of two metres.  May I always be a benign human.

Three metres straight ahead, at the edge of my patio, sits an 18-inch statue of the Buddha.  He’s in full lotus position, something I can’t do (but who cares?) and his hands touch.  His eyes descend.  Mr. Buddha is simply here, and now, and he’s silently cheering me on.  Smart guy, Mr. Buddha, up there with Jesus in figuring out what leads to happiness.  Right now he doesn’t have much to say.  Just sitting will do fine.

A few minutes ago, I noticed two flutterbys in the grass – one large and grey, one itsy bitsy and white.  But now they’re gone too.  That’s all right.  I trust they’ll be back, just like I trust moments of transcendence will return in their own sweet time.

Did I mention that all is well?

 

Emerging

In any given moment, such as this one, what is wanting to be born? What is just over the edge of the horizon, beckoning to me? I wonder … and wondering is so uncertain, not solid, unknown. I like the not knowing.

I’m sitting in the beer garden at Sunfest, a world music festival in London, Ontario. When I arrived with my trusty cell phone, I had made up my mind to blog about the wild group I danced to last night – Five Alarm Funk. I was going to talk about my wounded knee and still my determination to move the body. But sitting here right now, the story of yesterday isn’t on the tip of my tongue. It’s not pulling me forward. Since Five Alarm Funk isn’t alive in me right now, I don’t want to tell the tale.

And so I sit, watching what I’m drawn to do. Fifteen minutes ago, the musicians on the stage moved me to tap out the rhythms on the table. There was no thinking, just my hands starting to caress the wood. Soon all that morphed into playing table piano, and then this Samsung phone found its way into my hands.

There are about ten people in front of the stage, dancing. I look inside and see that dancing is not emerging, and so I’m still at the table.

What’s real now? The leader of the group onstage has just invited all of us to dance to their last song. What’s bubbling up is leaning over to the woman sitting to my right and saying “I don’t want to dance.” She smiles and says she doesn’t want to either, but she’s happy to tap her toes. Smile returned.

What if I felt into each moment and looked for what wanted to express itself? No judgment, no have-to, no contraction. That sounds like a very sweet way to lead my life. Let’s do it.

Now there are about forty folks dancing in front of the stage. Good for them. I love dancing and I don’t want to join in. Good for me.

And the next moment is about to burst forth.

Saying Yes to Kindness

I phoned Greyhound today and found out that my bicycle has arrived from the west coast.  I felt myself contract, knowing that I’m nowhere near ready to get back on the saddle.  But it was time to pick ta-pocketa up.  Happily, my boxed steed fit nicely into Scarlet and it was off to Cyzzle Cycles.  Sygnan was out and about somewhere when I arrived but would be back in half an hour.

I knew that around the corner was Cyprus Pizza and I thought it would be a slice to show up there.  Tony was very friendly and I headed outside to eat and drink.  The wooden bench I aimed for was in the sun, and it was a hot and humid day.  Tony intercepted me and moved the bench into the shade.  How very kind.  He was sitting with Koula, his sister-in-law.  Since there were no other customers, the two of them were luxuriating under a tree.

Immediately the three of us were cozy together.  Those were real smiles looking my way.  I asked if they were from Cyprus and the answer was yes.  With great longing, they described the beauty of their homeland, an island near Greece.  Isn’t this just the way life should be … instant friends chatting in the shade?

Their pepperoni pizza was thoroughly yummy and I made sure to tell them so.  Little grins appeared.  Koula asked me about Belmont, my home village, and we three were off to the conversational races.  She offered me strawberries, cherries and a peach from her tray, and I unthinkingly said “No thanks.”  After all, I was perfectly immersed in pepperoni.   But there was a niggling something in the back of my head, which didn’t move into the thinking part of my brain for a few minutes.

Was Koula’s head a little lower than it has been a bit earlier?  Was there a slump in her body?  I believe there was.  Seconds later, she asked again if I’d like some fruit.  Without consciously sensing my earlier mistake, I said “Yes.”  Her glow and her outstretched hand said it all.

The gift is in graciously receiving the other’s gift.  It’s a two-way street of generosity.  From unconscious to conscious, I made the course correction.  It’s what the world needs.

Koula, Tony and I waved goodbye after the strawberry of life was savoured.  We knew what had happened and we were glad.

Shaking Again

After I quit the Tour du Canada, my body took over.  I was so scared on those B.C. highways, and my right hand shook sporadically for days afterwards.  Pure stress.  Pure imagining my death on the side of the road, brushed aside by a semitrailer.

Today was worlds away from terror, but the result was magnified: my whole body shook.  I’m taking a course on relationships – it’s live on the Internet.  For some of the time, we do a practice with one other person, who could be living anywhere in the world.

A woman and I were having a fine old time this afternoon.  In response to her question “What are you experiencing right now?” I found myself clinging to a huge ball, and so was she, and so were many other folks.  As my mind let go, our arms lengthened and soon we were all holding hands … and smiling. The ball was rolling and there was a great sense of ease among us.  When the ball rolled over someone, he or she would pop up laughing.  Nobody knew where we were going but we all knew it would be good.  We were safe.

I’m loving these images when suddenly some huge energy ripped through me.  My arms, my legs, maybe even my internal organs were vibrating madly.  And this lovely human being was watching me unfold from her side of my laptop.

I had experienced something like this before, during a long meditation retreat.  But now I was on public display.  Embarrassment flew from me to her but my friend stayed with me.  I could feel her calm presence inside my head.  “No thing is wrong,” she said.  So comforted, I let go into it.  I wanted to name the energy, figure it out, but that mind subsided … and I just shook.  And then, near the end of our conversation, it stopped.

Back in the large group, it was time for sharing.  I decided to tell the folks about my ungluing, from the safety of “This happened back then.”  So I did.  Partway through my words, the shaking resumed.  “Here it is again,” I told my companions.  Now it was naked time.  Something that others might label as negative was coursing through me … right now.  No escape from the eyeballs of my fellow travellers.

Soon it was on to the next sharer but I knew that if the participants had their screens set for “Gallery View” they’d continue seeing all of us, in little rectangles.  My head jerked a bit and my arms wouldn’t stop.  The laptop on my thighs jiggled.  Some energy, of a spiritual nature I thought, was having its way with me.  I closed my eyes and let it be there, also trying to be okay with the attention of others settling on my trembling body.

There is no badness here, no deficit.  Our evolving group consciousness seems to be stirring something deep inside me.  “Well, Bruce, let it stir away.  Who knows what worlds you’ll visit?”

Hours later, I’m still.  In the days to come, as I go back online with these folks, the universe will decide how it wants to use me.

Bill

If ever there was a William who truly is a Bill, this is it.  Bill Gilbert, my neighbour and friend, died a few days ago.  He was, and is, an immense human being.  How many of us look every visitor in the eyes and send the wordless message “I’m glad you’re here.  Tell me all about your life”?  Precious few, I suspect, but this was thoroughly Bill.

I went to the great man’s funeral today.  Clearly, he was universally loved.  Bill’s daughter Stephanie had the courage to speak about her dad.  Or maybe it didn’t take courage – just a loving daughter revering a loving father, the fellow who held her tiny hand decades ago, who walked her down the aisle, who gratefully accepted her hand in the days before his death.

Throughout her life, Stephanie heard Dad say “You can do anything.”  Clearly, that included giving his eulogy.  It wasn’t “Dad did this … Dad did that.”  It was “Dad loved here … Dad loved there.”  I chuckled at what a committed environmentalist Bill was, years before it was popular, with multiple bins in the garage for all sorts of recyclables.  And how sweet that as he neared death, he wanted to make sure that the expired batteries from some device would be recycled.

As Stephanie said, she had a front row seat for the beauty and kindness of Bill Gilbert.  What a privilege.  And she gets to say to her kids, “You won’t see grandpa, but you will feel him.”  Yes.  Those young ones will become 30-somethings and then 60-somethings and they’ll still sense grandpa beside them, cheering them on.

As Stephanie spoke, her son Devon sat nearby, facing Bill’s family and friends.  He was clearly torn up at losing someone he deeply loves.  I was touched by his courage, with tears close by, and him fully visible to all.  Then he stood and recited beautifully a poem which I believe Stephanie created for her grandpa.  So perfect for honouring Bill.

Towards the end of the service, Pastor Art said something about Bill, or something about what’s important in life (I can’t remember!).  I nodded in agreement, and just as I did, the electric candelabras on either side of the sanctuary flickered.  They too were saying yes, to a fine human being, and to the rightness of loving and being loved.

Well done, Bill
Look what you’ve created
It shines in your family’s eyes

Ouch

I went to see the fireworks last night at the soccer fields in Belmont.  I saw lots of people I know and love.  As I was moving over the uneven grass with my chair, on the way to the best spot, a sharp pain in my right knee said hello.  After sitting a bit, I went for a hobbling walk with two wonderful kids.  It was fun to talk to them.  But then it was time to sit down and await the light show.

The sky was full with bursts of colour.  I especially liked several explosions that looked like the multiple blossoms of a rhododendron.  So cool.

Alas, all good things come to an end.  As I got up to leave, the knee shrieked.  In the dark it was hard to see the subtleties of grass contour and I paid for my missteps.  For awhile I held on to the top of a low fence as I muddled along.  Not good.

The strangest thing was that I smiled through it all.  Despite the pain, I felt peaceful.  Somehow I knew that all would be well.  I crawled into bed and strategically arranged my legs for comfort, trusting that life would continue working.

Early this morning, there was trouble in River City.  Rolling over sent shoots of yuckiness through the bod.  “All right, that’s enough.  Go to Urgent Care in London.”  I’m getting better at obeying those commands.

Walking in the bedroom was in slow motion.  I tried to keep my right leg straight and pretty much dragged it along.  Still I was fine in the head.  Remarkable.  I then took the most careful shower of my life.  Images flooded back of the ruptured tendon I had in 2003.  That produced a tendon transfer surgery and 17 weeks on crutches.  Then those pictures floated away.  I remained calm.

Once I was shoehorned into Scarlet, driving was fine.  I parked in the garage at St. Joseph’s Health Care and began a tedious shuffle towards the door of Urgent Care.  How humbling to be so slow, to make sure there were no cars for 100 metres before crossing the street.  I felt very old … so why was I happy?  I don’t understand me.

As I reached the receptionist, words unfolded in my head: “Be good to them, Bruce.”  Well, of course.  That’s why I’m on the planet.  And I followed through with that intent.  I made the triage nurse laugh and she made me comfy in a wheelchair.  I also shared chuckles with the X-ray technician.  Plus the doctor (“Call me Danielle”) and I reflected on the mysteries of the body while she expounded on the meniscus, a collateral lateral ligament strain, Tylenol, Advil and ice.  She told me that I wouldn’t damage the knee any more by walking on it, so I said no to crutches.  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she smiled, as we said goodbye.  And the same from me.  Thanks for helping me, doc.

I’m happy.  I’m icing.  I’m medicating.  And I’m going to the visitation tonight for a dear friend and neighbour.  Bill deserves my presence, even a limpy version.

Under the Tree

Since getting home from my bicycling adventure, I’ve told myself to blog every day.  “It doesn’t matter what you talk about, as long as your words are true to your soul.  And those words need to go out to the world because there are some folks there who will understand.  They’ll see their own lives in your struggles.  It may help them and it will definitely help you.”

Okay.  I’ll do that.

***

Today was hot and humid in Belmont, Ontario.  Kids decorated their bikes and rode in a parade to the community centre.  Such sweet young ones sweating their way to a hot dog lunch, plus a drink, chips and a slice of Canada Day birthday cake.  I love Belmont.

Along the way, I talked to two moms of kids I’ve volunteered with.  I enjoyed both conversations.  I talked briefly about my trials and tribulations out west and they told me how their daughter and son and families were doing, including cool plans for the summer.  I had lunch under a tree with one of the women and two fellow moms.  Thank God for the shade.

One 8-year-old fellow I know climbed way up the tree.  I didn’t see his ascent since I was facing the other way, but when I turned around “Peter” was perched comfortably on a branch about 12 feet off the ground.  I marvelled.  I saw how high the lowest branch was and wondered how he could have reached it.  He must have major upper body strength.  For a second, I lamented that my body couldn’t do such a thing … but just as quickly I let that thought go.  Peter’s job is to climb trees.  Mine is to explore consciousness.  We’re 60 years apart.  Why would I want his job?  And I smiled.  “Climb high, dear Peter.  I will too.”

Eventually the group of us were finished eating and we headed back to the picnic shelter.  I was reaching for the gooeyness of vanilla cake when I saw a third mom.  I volunteered in her daughter’s class last year.  It seems to me that she asked how I was and I think I said “Shaky” in reply. “Denise” looked right into my eyes and said “Let’s talk.  Let’s find a tree to sit under.”  From the very first second, I was touched by her generosity.  I suggested we walk over to Peter’s tree.

And there we sat, for maybe an hour.  Her two kids were with us for a bit and then they wanted to go home.  Denise knew the older would keep the younger safe on the short walk … and off they went.

Denise knew I needed to talk and she let me do so at my own pace.  She looked at me softly, without judgment, just “getting” the contents of my heart – the fear, the sadness, the loss of Bruce.  Denise talked about moments in her life that were hard, wanting her words to be helpful to me.  They were.  And I thought: “Hmm.  She’s not rushing off.  She wants to understand me.  She sees me.”  What a revelation that was.  Sooner rather than later, I found myself smiling.  Plus I do believe there was a laugh or two bubbling up to my surface.

I can feel the light beyond the murkiness, a floating beyond the dead weight, a pulsing beyond the drone.  How about that?  Did Denise do that for me or did Bruce do that for me?  Well … I think we were co-conspirators!

***

People keep giving me gifts
Some folks are 10 years old
Some are 40
Some are 48
Some are 77
All are so very human

The World Cup of Spirit

I love watching the soccer games in Russia this week and I wonder what they can say to me about a transformed life.  Are there perspectives open to me that can bring alive the events of the game and point to other realities?

The World Cup is about nations, people cheering for their countrymen.  It’s about belonging to a group, and what a fine feeling that is.  But what if the group was … everybody?  We could cheer for all the great passes, shots and saves, no matter who made them.  We could cheer for players who push the ball forward, launch lots of shots at the net, throw themselves through the air for a header, rather than those who play defensively, hanging back, not risking a pass in heavy traffic.  I would like that.

I love watching the ball fly through the air.  When a right-footed player curves a ball towards the goal, and it looks like it will miss to the right, but then tucks inside the post, it’s a thing of beauty.  It makes me think of times when something I’m doing isn’t working out right but somehow providence intervenes and I’m being carried on the winds of goodness to a safe landing.

I love seeing the fans go crazy when their team scores – the ecstatic smiles, the hugging, the jumping up into the air.  Especially little kids, maybe with painted faces, their eyes so wide with delight.  What if we could have the same explosion of joy because we love each other – a celebration of including everyone in our human family?  No one left out.  What if a man or woman walks into the room and our immediate response is “You’re here!  I’m so glad to see you”?  That would be lovely.

Near the end of the Portugal – Uruguay game today, Edinson Cavani, who had scored both of Uruguay’s goals, fell to the ground, injured.  Portugal’s Ronaldo, acknowledged by some as the best player in the world, helped Cavani limp off the field.  What life is all about, I think.  Fierce competitors, yes.  Companions on the human journey, even more so.

And then there were the national anthems.  It looked like every player on both teams held their head high and belted out the familiar lyrics.  What if we all expressed ourselves that way, looking into the eyes of those around us and saying what was true, expressing ourselves without antagonism or a beating of the breast?  That would be so fine.

Sport points to the truths of transcendence and community and love.  May we have the eyes to see that winning and losing are pale shadows of what really matters.

Rest In Peace

I thought this morning about my overwhelmed reaction to normal group conversation at the school’s staff party last night.  “What is happening to me?”  I went out to breakfast at Wimpy’s Diner in St. Thomas, mostly to see my friend and usual waitress Angie.  She was wonderfully supportive about my early exit from the bike ride and made sure I got the message “No failure there.”  Still, I lingered in the restaurant for at least an hour after the meal was toast, really vacant in the head.

Afterwards, I wanted to wash Scarlet, who was massively dirty after I laid my sodden tent over her a couple of weeks ago.  I like manual car washes and I heard there was one on the east edge of St. Thomas, which would be a good ongoing choice for me.  When I pulled up to the place, however, I realized that it was an automatic one.  I told myself I was too tired to go further into town to use the manual one I knew, so I pulled into line.  It was so strange – I couldn’t figure out how automatic car washes work.  The attendant who eventually came into view was very patient but was perhaps seeing me as a new arrival on the planet.  “What is happening to me?”

My plan was to spend a good part of the day at the St. Thomas Library but as I approached the right turn for such a location, my mind said “Turn left.  Go home.”  I obeyed.  “Meditate.”

I sat down in the cozy meditation chair in my bedroom.  As I was about to close my eyes, the telephone rang.  It was my friend Adele.  She reads all my posts and was concerned about me.  “I wonder if you have PTSD.”  Immediately my head said “Yes.  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”  Maybe that conclusion is a little dramatic, but I fear (appropriate word, I’d say) it’s in the ballpark.  Adele continued: “You need to rest.  Take a week and be with yourself.”  >  “I could have a meditation retreat … at home.”  >  “Yes, you could.”

Before that phone rang, I felt immersed in “badness, lostness, sadness”.  The term that came to mind, also with the potential of exaggeration, was “The Dark Night of the Soul”, a spiritual state of despair that many people have experienced and documented.  And then Adele shows up in my ear.

After we finished talking, I did close my eyes … for one hour and forty minutes of blessed sitting.  Very few thoughts came.  I slipped deeply into rest.  Some lovely energy floated down over my face and over my body.  Down, down and down, and yet always alert to the world of my bedroom.  I nodded off nine times, five or six of them with tiredness so profound that I nearly fell off the chair.  After each one, some voice said “Continue.”  So I did.

Now it’s an hour after I rang my singing bowl three times as an expression of completion.  The Dark Night is not here.  No demons assail me.  Will the darkness and fear return?  I have no doubt they will.  They have a mind of their own.  The healing, I believe, will take time.

The Buddha said some cool things.  Here’s one:

You can search throughout the entire universe
For someone who is more deserving
Of your love and affection than you are yourself
And that person is not to be found anywhere

Thank you, Mr. Buddha

Energy Spikes

I wonder what I mean by that title.  The words just came to me.  They don’t seem to be about running the 100 metre dash in ten seconds, or lifting twice my body weight.  Some other energy is afoot.  I sense a sudden inbreath of astonishment – a moment that moves me, jolts me, and in some sense frees me.

***

We had a farewell assembly today for the teachers who were leaving, including our marvelous resource teacher, who offers certain kids extra academic help.  At the end of the ceremony, she was sitting right beside me by the wall of the gym.  From the far side, a Grade 5 girl rushes over in tears and gives the teacher a long, gentle hug.  The 11-year-old’s love shone from her.  It was a holy moment, and a privilege to witness.  How we can touch each other.

***

Yesterday a neighbour of mine died.  He was so sweet to everyone, and always interested in how my life was going.  His granddaughter goes to my school and I couldn’t imagine her showing up for the final day.  But she did.  “Emma” sat there in the assembly, looking vacant.  At lunch recess, I knew I wanted to say something to her but the yard was a flurry of kids.  What chance did I have of finding her?  After aimlessly walking around for awhile, I spotted a few kids in a little opening in the trees.  One child emerged – Emma.  I approached her and said what I needed to say.  I believe she felt the love behind the words.

***

Assembly number two featured one of the school’s bus drivers.  “Fred” walked onstage with his guitar and launched into “Puff The Magic Dragon”.  He had a lovely voice.  A song or two later, he began one of his own compositions.  It was the story of his riders.  As he followed his route in the verses, each child’s name was mentioned.  I scanned the room and saw face after face come alight as Fred shared one of their fine qualities.  On one level, I was amazed that he could memorize all this.  Far deeper was my joy as light after light turned on.

***

Last recess.  One of my favourite kids asked if I was going outside.  I said yes.  We walked together for a bit and then sat down at a table.  She and I talked about our summers – camps for her and music festivals for me.  She encouraged me about the early end of my bicycle ride.  The differences in our ages didn’t matter.  It was two people talking about important things.

***

I was invited to this evening’s staff party.  It was so generous of the teachers to include me.  We sat in a big circle and the banter whizzed around.  Usually I love these situations but tonight was not usual.  Just like yesterday’s foray onto the 401, I felt fear, and my hand started shaking.  As the conversation sped up and the laughter grew, I couldn’t handle it.  Too many inputs.  Too much energy whirling this way and that.  I was so much not myself, and yet for these three hours my tense silence was Bruce.  I let myself fall into the fear … and how very unpleasant it was.  I stopped trying to manufacture happiness, and my eyes widened in response.  As I left the party and said a few words of explanation, the smiles on faces said they understood.

***

These are the moments that stood out today.  Whether I enjoyed them or not, they brought me to an deeper vibration, and for that I am thankful.