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Shrek and Allie

I saw a musical tonight, performed by the Grade 8 students of St. Mary Choir School.  Twice I taught a blind student there, each time for three years.  But now I don’t know any of the kids and they don’t know me.  What an eerie feeling that is, so familiar with the school, it being part of my history, but now I’m a stranger.

The kids were magnificent in their acting, singing and dancing.  The ogre Shrek seems to be rejected by nearly everybody.  Just a big green “ugly” fellow.  The beautiful princess has eyes only for the lord of the land, someone who hopefully will sweep her off her feet.  Alas, she harbours a terrible secret – a spell turns her into a disfigured green maiden every night at sunset.  How could the prince love a girl like that?

Only a kiss from her true love will transform the princess into eternal beauty.  And finally she sees that Shrek is that love.  His kiss, however, doesn’t return her to Hollywood loveliness.  She remains green but is changed within.  True beauty.

It was such a sweet story.  Let’s all be ourselves and celebrate each person’s uniqueness.

***

There’s a Part Two to my evening.  Before the show, as I was seeking my seat, I saw a girl who four years ago was a classmate of the blind child I worked with.  I’ll call her Allie.  As our eyes met, she smiled and said “Mr. Kerr”.  We hugged.  And I couldn’t remember her name.  I remembered how alive she was back then, so spontaneous, but no name came to me.  I decided to admit to her that I’d forgotten.  Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.  As resilient as I guessed she was now, it’s hard to be forgotten.  She said it was okay, I found out how high school life was for her, and we wished each other well.

As I watched the play, I was sad.  “Do no harm, Bruce.”  And I never intend to.  I’ve prided myself for a long time in remembering people’s names but lately it’s been a struggle.  As with you, Allie.

At the end, I wanted to find her, to apologize, to tell her how she had made me smile so often back then.  After talking to an old friend for a few minutes, I went in search.  Allie wasn’t in the theatre.  She wasn’t in the lobby.  On a whim, I returned to the theatre.  Nope.  Oh well, I hope you got that I meant no harm.

Time to go.  Back through the lobby … and there she was standing with her friends.  We saw each other.  We smiled again.

“I’m so sorry that I forgot your name.  I remember your zest for life, and I’m sure you still have it.”  My eyes were watering.

“It’s not important.  There were a lot of us.”

“It is important.  It’s your name.”

Two final smiles and then the latest intersection of our lives was gone.  Fare thee well, young woman.

Fuzzy

My head has been swimming most of the day.  I know I’m not physically sick but I have some theories about what’s wrong with me.

***

I rode my bike hard yesterday for over an hour.  It’s been a long time since ta-pocketa and I have done that.  I have a cool cycling computer from Polar that records stuff like speed, calories burned and heart rate.  As well, it gives me my “recovery status”, showing the amount of stress I put on my body and how many days I should wait until I ride again.  The results?  “Extreme” and “3 days and 3 hours”.  Ouch.  That’s a long time.

Today is Day One of those three and my body feels heavy, like my internal organs have gravitated southward.  No exercise today, thank you.

***

I’m in the midst of weaning myself off sleeping pills, something I’ve wanted to do for years.  This week and next, I’m taking half a pill every day instead of a full one.  Sleep has been short and interrupted.  This morning, it felt like my brain was on a slow-motion treadmill.  Conversations seemed to have big spaces in them.  This afternoon I tried meditating (Good luck!) and then slipped beneath the covers for an hour.  I was just as vacant upon arising.

***

I asked a woman to be my girlfriend last night, and she’ll answer when she’s ready to do so.  Take your time, my friend.  Many years ago, Jody told me that sometimes people would get curious about her, and visit her spiritually when everybody was sleeping.  And later I noticed that, after I had done something unusual, my head would often get hot and sleep wouldn’t come.  Well, last night felt pretty unusual and my head’s been hot.  Could it be that I’ve had a few visitors?

***

So the mind is warm, absent and plodding.  And so what?  More seasons are on their way.

 

On The Bike Again … Part Two

I get nervous every time I start cycling again.  And it had been many months since my bum was glued to the saddle.  I have clipless pedals, meaning that my shoes are attached to the pedals.  When I need to stop, the idea is that I jerk my left foot leftward and it detaches (from the pedal, not my leg).  Once I’m stopped, I detach my right foot.  If I fall, the impact sets me free so I don’t break an ankle.  Sounds good.

Last Monday, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get my left foot off the pedal since there really wasn’t any lubrication between the metal piece on the sole of my shoe and the pedal.  Being a resourceful type, I poured gobs of chain oil on the offending parts.  I then snuck around to the side of the garage, got astride ta-pocketa and did a clip-and-unclip dance for several minutes.  I hoped that my neighbours weren’t watching.  (John and Sharon, you’re not reading this, are you?)

Appropriately chagrined with my irrational fears, I pushed my dear bike to the roadway.  It was time.  I had a funky cycling jersey on my back (featuring a snarly clown), padded shorts on my rear end, and a red, white and black helmet atop my noggin.  My destination?  South Dorchester School, where I intended to surprise unsuspecting 12-year-olds.

It was 11.9 kilometres and I was painfully gaspy.  I unclipped and reclipped a dozen times before I convinced myself that I hadn’t forgotten everything I’d learned on the bike.  A slight slope became a 20% Tour de France mountain.  I started pooping on myself but then happily gave it a rest.  My fitness is what it is.  Over time, it will be what it will be, i.e. better.

My goal was to roar up to the Grade 6 portable about ten minutes before afternoon recess.  I got there two minutes before the bell.  A boy was opening the door, heading into the school.  He stopped, gaped, and rushed back inside the classroom.  “Mr. Kerr’s here and he’s on his bike!”  I entered the fray and was surrounding by short people staring at my getup, especially at that nasty clown.  Questions, questions, questions, and between pants the occasional answer.

I stayed through recess and for half an hour thereafter, opening myself to curious children.  Then they started working on an assignment and it was time for me to go.  On went my helmet, on went my jacket, and on went my fanny pack.  I waved goodbye and headed outside to get foot reacquainted with bike.  All attached, I heard voices behind.  At least twenty kids were out on the playground, cheering my departure.  Their teacher Tiffany was leaning out a window, recording it all for prosperity.  Thus inspired, I cycled away, feeling like an Olympic hero.

I love volunteering.

Dancing Eyes

My friend Eleanor told me about a local “Dancing With The Stars” competition three weeks ago.  It was to be held in a historic railway station in St. Thomas, Ontario, built in the 1870’s to the tune of 354 feet long and 36 feet wide.  It was fascinating to hear that the seven couples had no ballroom experience but were getting two months of instruction from a skilled teacher.

And then I forgot about the whole thing.

A week ago, I saw Eleanor again and discovered that the show was sold out.  “Strike while the iron is hot” – so said someone from my deep dark past.  No striking from this guy.

For the past few days, I’ve had three folks trying to score me a ticket for last night’s performance.  I phoned the first two and they weren’t successful in their quest.  “Oh well, I don’t need any particular life experience to be happy,” chirped my little Buddhist soul.  But I sure wanted to go!

Thursday evening, just before the big hockey game on TV, here comes a phone call.  Eleanor’s sister-in-law was to go with a friend, but that person’s husband was ill, so she had to cancel.  “Do you know anyone who needs a ticket, Eleanor?”  “Well, I do know this guy named Bruce.”

And so I got to go, plus I got to sit in the second row, perfect for checking out flying feet.  Thank you, universe, for aligning the CASO Station and me.

Here are my personal highlights:

1.  I sat next to Lora and we laughed all night, ending up with a marriage ceremony planned for next Tuesday at 2:00.

2.  I talked to Bonnie, an old friend from the Port Stanley Community Choir.  I got to renew my zest for sopranos, altos, tenors and basses.  Maybe I’ll have a future back there.

3.  I watched one of the couples swirl across the dance floor with great love in their eyes.  Their bodies moved beautifully but it was the eyes that held me.  Afterwards, I told them how vividly their love shone.

4.  With another couple, the woman’s face was so darn alive.  I didn’t think skin could do all that.  I told her later about the joy I saw.

5.  Another pair were the driving force behind the St. Thomas Performing Arts Series – many years of concerts in a sublime circular sanctuary.  At the end, I thanked him for bringing the Barra MacNeils and many other artists to a small city.

6.  The last dancers included a woman I know well.  She was Jody’s nurse practitioner as my dear wife fell towards death.  I hadn’t seen her since Jodiette went to the hospital for the last few days of her life.  On a break, I walked up to Laura.  We smiled, we hugged, and I thanked her for taking such good care of Jody.

***

Eleanor was the coach for one of the dancing pairs and they won the People’s Choice Award.  She bounced up and down and presented us all with a huge smile.  In the audience, I was smiling pretty widely too.  Lots to be happy about.

On The Bike Again … Part One

It’s been months since I’ve ridden my bicycle.  And I get scared whenever I start up again.  I guess it makes no sense, but I have a history.

“How old were you, Bruce, when you learned to ride a bike?”

(Gulp)  “47.”

I was afraid of lots of things when I was a kid.  I knew I didn’t have the balance or confidence to ride.  My parents never asked me if I wanted a bicycle and I never pursued the matter.  Strangely, even though I guess all my friends had bikes, it never was an issue among us.  When I was around, we just walked everywhere.

My first job was flipping hamburgers at Hanlan’s Point on Toronto Island.  I was 17.  One day, my boss took me to the back of the snack bar, pointed to a bicycle, and told me to take a box of frozen patties to the stand on Centre Island, a few miles away.  And then he was gone.  It was just the offending bike and me, staring at each other.  Had I been wearing a heart rate monitor, it no doubt would have read 225 beats per minute.

I’d never even been astride a bike.  But now I was, with one arm wrapped around the frozen food.  Seems to me that there wasn’t a carrier to put the box in.  My feet found the pedals.  My right hand found the handlebar, and I set off.  Within a second or two, my body found the ground.  I remember lying there, thinking that I was the slimiest human being on the planet.  Oh teenage angst … how I know thee well.

I got up, glanced around to find that I was alone, and ran the bike towards some bushes.  In it went, nicely covered by the foliage.  And then … I ran to Centre.  That’s where the memories stop.  I have no idea how much humiliation I swallowed from my peers.  Maybe that’s a blessing.

Fast forward a few decades.  Jody knows about my bike trauma.  She’s taken me at night to a subdivision under construction in Lethbridge, Alberta.  Street lights, asphalt and bare lots.  She pushed, she ran beside, I pedalled.  And I stayed up for a hundred yards or so.  Was I exhilarated?  No.  I was terrified.  At the end of my trip, Jody rushed up to me, saying “You did it!  You rode a bike.”  My response?  “No, I didn’t.”  To this day, I don’t know what that was about.  How skewed is my brain when drowning in fear and embarrassment.

A few YEARS later, I finally agreed.  I could ride a bike.  Did I mention the 47?

Ramping Down

I think driving is such a metaphor for life, and what someone does on the road is a fair indicator of how they treat their family and friends.

I often take Highway 401 from Belmont into London, Ontario.  It’s a freeway, and I usually go about 110 kilometres per hour (65 miles per hour).  The Wellington Road exit ramp is a long one, maybe half a kilometre.  It blends into a city street, where the maximum speed is 50 kph (30 mph).

When I move onto the ramp, I take my foot off the gas and coast towards the 50 kph sign.  Invariably I’m tailgated and at busy times there are four or five cars bumper to bumper behind me.  I’m curious about this but not really surprised.

Life is full of transitions from one condition to another.  I enjoy blending from the first to the second, instead of jolting.  On the 401, it’s the coasting rather than the slamming of brakes.  At the dinner table, it’s a pause between the main course and dessert, rather than launching into pie as soon as the dinner plate is empty.

Life for sure has its twists and turns but I’ve never been keen on the hairpins.  It seems that my spirit is happiest when I embrace the changes and let myself flow through them.  Abruptness will come my way, such as the morning I woke up with a blood clot in my leg, but overall the transitions feel smooth.  It’s like a dance – and a waltz instead of a frantic disco tune.  A soaring symphony rather than the smashing of a drum.  A film full of love rather than the latest shoot-’em-up thriller.

Am I “right” about this?  Not at all.  It just feels good.

Dish Drainer

The kitchen and I have never been good friends.  Jody was a marvelous chef and created many brilliant meals for me over the years.  As for this entity, I was an incredible dishwasher.  But I’ve never learned to cook.

Since moving into my condo six months ago, I’ve wanted to have friends over for dinner but I’ve been too scared.  What would I feed them?  How would I do this and how would I do that?  You can’t just wash dishes – you have to present the yummies.

Farm Boy has been my frequent rescuer with tasty dinners.  On Wednesday, I walked in there and threw myself on the mercy of the manager.  I was so embarrassed and she was so kind.  “Happens all the time.  Gentlemen who don’t know what to do.  We give good advice.”  Whew.  My heart slowed down a mite.  And I left the store with a plan: mesquite chicken, oven roast potatoes and corn with coriander.  Not to mention a kale salad and something called maple cream pie.

Now it’s yesterday, and I realized in all my months in the condo, I’d never washed a pot.  The dishes from the few little faux meals were gobbled up by my dishwasher.  When I left Jody’s and my home last summer, I got rid of a lot of little things, such as a dish rack.

Here I was, worrying about how to dry pans, how to warm things up in the oven, and where the heck was the corkscrew for the wine.  Goodness.  I ventured forth to the supermarket and found a small white dish rack.  It sat proudly on my counter overnight.  This morning, however, it looked wrong.  (Remember, I’m the professional dishwasher.  I should know this stuff.)  It finally hit me – I didn’t buy the accompanying drain board.  Silly me.  Back to the store.  Unfortunately, the only drain boards they had were black, even though they sold white racks.  Arghh.  To another supermarket I went and now the two white folks sit companionably in the kitchen.

Okay, I’m exhausted.  Dinner is tomorrow at six and somewhere in a celestial realm, Julia Child is cluck-cluck-clucking at me.  (Sigh)

And then my dear wife’s voice to the rescue: “It’s okay, Bruce.  All is well.  Your guests won’t die tomorrow night.  In fact, they’ll enjoy themselves.”  Thank you, Jodiette.  Perhaps I’m overreacting just a tad.

How can I be so confident in some areas of life
and so plastered with sweat in others?
I don’t know
Maybe just a human being being human

Strength

I like myself a lot.  I think I’m kind and compassionate.  I’m working out on the elliptical in the gym and soon with the bike on the road.  So cardiovascular health is coming my way.  But there’s one aspect of life where I’ve always defined myself as “less”: strength.

In 1980 or so, I lost an arm wrestle to my 11-year-old niece Diana.  And yes, I was really trying.  Growing up, I related to that skinny kid on the beach who had sand kicked in his face.  I go the gym now and see the huge weights that some of the men and women are hoisting.  And the “less” starts to grow.

I’ve dabbled in strength training over the past few years, even hired a personal trainer, but I would always find reasons to fritter away my expressed commitment.  During some sessions I was fierce in my determination to do all the reps but then injury or illness always seemed to derail me and my progress returned to zero.

Today I began again.  Light weights but I did my full Day One program.  And oh, it felt good.  I see the opportunity right in front of my nose – to be strong, not with big, blocky muscles, but still, able to grunt my way up hills on the bike, climb stairs with ease twenty years from now, and have my body support my spirit.

One version of spirituality focuses on the sweetness beyond this physical round, on epiphanies of the soul, feeling the depth of the present moment.  Another emphasizes the glory of the senses – the body moving through space, the pleasures of a soft breeze or a fine meal.  But there’s more: the chance to embrace both.

I can be more than my heart and head.  I can include my biceps and quads.  No need for the V-shape but lots of room for a different type of meditation – the intensity of contracting muscles can be in partnership with stillness.

It’s possible that physical fitness can allow me to reach more people with my caring.  I’d like that.

 

And I’d Do It Again

It doesn’t make sense to head to Toronto at 5:15 in the afternoon to see a bonfire for two hours and then drive home.  It’s two-and-a-half hours each way, counting the ferry trip to Toronto Island.  But since when is making sense the way to go?

I’ve been to three brunch and concert afternoons at the island church this winter.  Marvelous food, sweet sounds and a bunch of friendly people.  Someone thought I should come on down for the humungous bonfire on March 21 and who am I to disagree?  There are about 800 residents on the island.  These fine locals save up their Christmas trees for the big evening in March.  I stepped off the ferry and followed the train of people and trees to the beach.  And there, past the bushes, was the glow.

As I got closer, embers rose forty feet above me.  Eventually, maybe 200 treegoers circled the flames.  The wind swirled, blowing the sparks this way and that.  Lake Ontario lapped onshore a few metres away.  And beyond the bursts of white and orange, all was dark.  Folks sipped their favourite beverage and chatted away.  Away from the fire, it was darn cold.  A young woman did wonders with a shining, multicoloured hoop.  A well-dressed band beat their drums for the twentieth year or more.  Gosh, it was fun.

I got back to Scarlet at 11:15, savouring the festivities.  I almost felt like an island resident.  A smooth two hours on Highway 401 and I’d be cozy in my bed.  The traffic was light and I was zipping along at 110 kph.  All was well … until Guelph.  Sideways snow jolted me and soon the car ahead was dimming, despite its emergency flashers.  A few kilometres later I could barely see it and 110 was now 20.  Plus I was gaining on the fellow.

As the margins of my world disappeared in whiteness, I imagined getting schmucked by a semi-trailer.  I was scared.  If that car wasn’t out front, I’d have no idea where to go.  “Okay, Bruce, get off this road.  You need to stay alive.”  I could just make out the sign for an off-ramp and I edged to the right.  Here it is, I think.  I could feel the slope of the road bending but were it not for those yellow diamond reflecting signs, I’d have launched into No Man’s Land.  Thank you, dear Ministry of Transportation.  I’d never noticed those suckers before but I’ll watch for them from now on.

I spent an hour at a Tim Horton’s coffee shop, sipping a brew and watching my heartbeat descend.  What exactly was I doing here?  Well, having fun … and there’s lots more of that to come.

Circle of Peace

How strange that yesterday my mind was floating free and today I’ve come gently back to earth.  No pulses of energy behind my eyes, no sublimities.  And that’s okay.  We’re all rolling along within some unknown rhythm of life.

I did meditate today and an image presented itself.  I’ve been thinking of the type of sculpture I want for my bathroom and had settled on a human figure in metal – arms outstretched and head down.  But this morning came a circle, one composed of people, holding hands.  It was so vivid as I floated in quietness.  They were all smiling.  And I thought back to other circles I’ve known.

1982.  A suburban parking lot in Honolulu.  Christmas morning.  Perhaps one hundred of us held hands for awhile and then sang carols.

Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say
On a bright Hawaiian Christmas day
That’s the island greeting that we send to you
From the land where palm trees sway
 Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright
The sun to shine by day and all the stars at night
Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii’s way
To say Merry Christmas to you

And then “Silent Night”.  So sweet a time in the presence of strangers who became not that.

Years later, fifty of us stood in another parking lot, joined in a prayer circle for my lovely wife Jody.  We held hands, we talked of Jodiette, and we prayed for her.  Sweetness again.  A fellow was walking through the lot and decided to join us.  We made room and he favoured us with tender words for my dear wife.

Hawaii and London, Ontario … just places where the heart resides.  And in a month of two, the same spirit will call my bathroom home.