Category Archives: Uncategorized

Not Too Bad

I study words.  I study the way people speak.  It’s a strange hobby but I like it.  In the spirit of glasses being half full or half empty, I look for how I want to express myself face-to-face or on the computer screen.  Life has its share of suffering for all of us but I wonder if our words can uplift the world.  Of course they can.  We simply have to choose.  Even in the heat of the moment we can enhance or diminish.

Today I’m reflecting on phrases that are termed double negatives.  Not just one deficit thought aimed at our fellow man, but two.  Let’s take “No problem”.  That phrase is meant to be a positive but there’s something subtly sinister hiding under the surface, I think.  How about “Good” as an alternative?  That feels better.

Here are some other word groupings that can invade our psyches:

1. Not insignificant
2. I do not disagree.
3. I can’t hardly believe …
4. Less unhealthy cigarettes
5. There is hardly no worse challenge.
6. I am not, no way, ever going to help her.
7. Congress decided not to refuse to delay the vote …
8. I’m not saying he isn’t honest.
9. I choose to not allow negativity to seep away at my soul.

Am I just talking the rules of grammar here?  No.  I choose to put positive energy into the world and therefore I’m vigilant about the words I use.  May I never be hypnotized by convention.

Waiting

In an hour, I’ll walk into a restaurant for my second date with a lovely woman.  We had great fun the first time and no doubt tonight’s conversation will be well punctuated with laughs and smiles.  That’s certainly what I want in life.

Here I sit, bathing in uncertainty.  That little smile comes back to my lips again.  Perhaps we’ll become a couple, perhaps not.  Both are fine.  It’s possible that she’ll come to Cuba with me in three weeks – possible but unlikely.  But hope springs eternal.  I’ll have a wonderful time down south whether I’m alone or walking beside a companion.

This feeling in the moment is sublime, actually quite sweet.  I’m just sitting with the unknown, open to whatever the universe will provide.  There’s big space inside me.  My taps on the keys are slow and gentle, sort of a caress.  I’m in the library, sitting across from a young couple who are speaking in a language I don’t know.  They’re tender with each other, in tone of voice and facial expression.  It fits well with my reverie.

How come I’m not nervous?  I don’t know but it works for me.  Whatever happens tonight, I’m back in the game of relationship.  I’m moving towards a future of being with, doing stuff together, holding hands.  It’s time.

Jody is right here, cheering for me.  Thank you, Jodiette.  Life truly goes on.

Two Men

I was having breakfast at a restaurant this morning and the TV monitor on the wall facing me showed Washington, DC.  There were uniforms, a band, fluttering flags … one of which was Canadian.  Our Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, was visiting Barack Obama.

The two of them strode to the podium.  They stood still, not speaking.  The sound was off but I knew what was happening: the band was playing our national anthems.  I was moved.

First of all, it was just two human beings who stood before me.  Each doing their best in life to be happy.   Then it was two men, not puffing out their chests and uttering a Tarzan call, but instead being in the moment.  Then it was the leaders of two nations, with all the responsibility and heartaches that this entails.

I was glad to be watching.  I felt a part of it.  I’m no less nor more than the brothers I saw.  And I say “brothers” knowing that the two leaders have policy disagreements, differing personalities and divergent histories.

Justin and Barack walked over to a small crowd of onlookers who stood behind a flimsy barrier.  They walked down the line, shaking hands with young and old.  I smiled.  I also gulped.  My brain created a memory of Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas.  1963.  Smiling faces greeted a smiling president as his motorcade proceeded down Elm Street.  The rest is history.

Many times in my future life, I will stand beside another person.  May I be present for the humanity near me, glimpsing the beauty within, thanking my lucky stars that I am not alone.

What’s True?

On my way into London, I pass two parked semi-trailers, a kilometre apart.  They’re both advertising the same hotel in Ingersoll, Ontario.  The first one announces that you’re only 25 minutes from soft beds, yummy food and the pleasures of a spa.  That time just doesn’t compute in my brain.  The second one says you’re 10 minutes away.  That seems about right.  But there the two of them sit, one truthful and the other clearly lying.

How often do I assume that a sign, a newspaper article, or a radio news item is accurate?  Often.  Seeing or hearing it somehow makes it legitimate in my mind.  I don’t have the energy nor the time to delve deeply and find out if the truth is being spoken.  I just go along.

A celebrity says X, and does so with a convincing tone of voice and facial expression.  Is the truth sometimes Y?  No doubt.

The Canadian history textbook I studied in high school said nary a thing about how white people often treated natives poorly.  All was fine as the dominant culture spread west, apparently quite heroically.

In Canadian politics, the party in opposition invariably is critical of the governing party’s policies.  Rarely do you hear about good ideas being acknowledged as such.

All this leaves me with a healthy skepticism and a commitment to another source of truth … the intuition that lives within us all.

 

Tanning

I’m going to Cuba in three weeks.  My skin is white.  Down in the Caribbean sun, I prefer that it be brown rather than red.  So off to Kokomo’s I went this morning.  I stood up for five minutes in the Monster bed.  I plan on doing the same every two or three days until I step on the plane.

I’m aware of the health issues but I also remember when Jody and I arrived in the Dominican Republic years ago.  Our first day, we walked a long ways on the beach, wearing shorts and T-shirts.  Jody had missed a spot near her bra strap with the sunscreen and she was in agony for the next few days.  I don’t want to go through that.

As a teenager, I didn’t like my body and certainly wouldn’t expose my virgin flesh on Toronto Island’s beach.  I was even afraid to lie out in the backyard with the neighbours’ windows looming.  So white I was, except for my forearms and lower legs.  But then there came an invitation to spend a long weekend at my friend’s cottage.

Rick had a older sister, age 17, who was gorgeous.  Oh my.  She was going to see my overall whiteness.  Something had to be done.  And the 1960s version of Instatan was my answer.  I snuck the tube home from the drugstore and gooped it on liberally in the privacy of my bedroom.  “Gosh, my feet are white.  Get those toes!”

How did I survive that weekend?  My body was orange and streaky.  Each toe had a little ridge of tan surrounded by a deep paleness.  For variety, my face was red, a condition that had nothing to do with the sun’s rays.  I can’t remember Rick’s sister ever making eye contact with me.

From the age of 20 till 27, I spent most of my summers in the Rockies.  By then the tanning lotion had worn off.  I adopted a new strategy to get the girls.  Hide your whiteness with turtleneck shirts.  It didn’t matter how hot it was.  I was up to my neck in fabric.  One time, a girl yanked down my collar to see what was underneath … the whitest of skin.  (Sigh)  I was a scared little adult who yearned for the brown beach muscles I saw in the ads.  But somehow I still had friends.

Two decades later, I was a member of the London Cycling Club.  And lo and behold, the culture there was deeply tanned faces, forearms and calves.  And I’ll leave the rest of the body to your imagination.  I was in the “in” group, finally.

Sadly (or happily) I now have returned to my roots – a longing for darkness.  And I’m going to honour that request.  Cuba will be graced with sleek brown muscles (courtesy of Kokomo’s and strength training), not to mention gaily coloured Speedos.  I tell you … I’m the whole package.  Nobody’s going to kick sand in my face!

And from Jody: “Bruce, you’re so strange.”

Double Words

I like words.  Today I’m liking words which have two very different meanings, while keeping the same spelling and pronunciation.  Homonyms.  I find the contrast fascinating.

1.  Conviction … being found guilty or being committed

2.  Ball … a fancy dance or an object to throw

3.  Race … a person’s physical imprint or a competition among runners

4.  Pupil … a student or part of the eye

5.  Organ … a musical instrument or part of the body

6.  Volume … how big something is or how loud something is

7.  Date … a day of the year or a rendezvous with romantic potential

8.  Mass … how much something weighs or a religious ceremony

9.  Cataract … a waterfall or an eye problem

10.  Staff … people who work for an organization or a walking stick

***

The thing is … we human beings often look at an object, a person or an event in one particular way.  It means this.  But what if it could also mean that?  Something completely different from our usual perspective.  What if we were open to discovering the infinite amount of thats in life?  Would we not be enriched?

Withdrawal

I’ve been telling myself for the last two days that I won’t write another post until I’m feeling better … but here I am anyway.  I’m weaning myself off the sleeping pill Lorazepam and it’s a tough go.  But having been on the medication for years, why would I expect any different?

I’m faded … dull … not Bruce.  And yet of course this experience is an aspect of me.  My meditation practice has taught me to sit gently with whatever life offers, even when my brain is refusing to work.  Wait a minute – how exactly have I been able to write these two paragraphs?  Perhaps it doesn’t seem like much to you, but to me it’s verging on a miracle.

My recent strength training has focused on being “fierce” and I’m doing my best to bring that quality to my withdrawal from the drug.  Yesterday, the woman who greeted me at a local natural health store told me it might take months for the effects of leaving Lorazepam to subside.  Months!  Fierceness blew up in my face as depression took over.

Today I’m not depressed, just mightily sleep-deprived.  I’m having trouble keeping a conversation going with anyone.  The thoughts seem stuck along with the words that exit my mouth.  And I’m crying a lot.  Without a logical reason, it seems.  And yet what’s logical about sadness?  I’ve cried for a beautiful tree, for Jody, for a new pro basketball player in London who sounds like a nice guy, for a golfer who hit a beautiful shot on TV, for the waitress who called all of her patrons “my dear” this morning.

My body’s not working right in a number of ways.  I’ll spare you the details.  A physio appointment this afternoon, a doctor one on Friday.  Heck, why don’t I toss a psychiatrist into the mix, just for fun?  No, don’t worry, I’ll not be needing a shrink.  I’m rolling through a time of “less than”, and in the big picture it doesn’t matter that I don’t like it.  What does matter is that freedom from sleeping aids is in my future.  Jody, in our daily talks (It’s okay if that’s outside of your reality), says “I’m proud of you, husband.  You can do this.”  And I will.

I guess there are many people who live perpetually in the fog I feel.  How sad.  We’re meant to be vibrant beings who touch each other in many ways.  I fully intend to be back there soon.  For the time being, however, I’m being as gentle with myself as I can muster.  That makes me dully happy.

Drugfree Overnight

Another fine concert yesterday evening and another late night, what with the subway ride home to my hotel.  I dabbled on the Internet for thirty minutes or so but then it was time for sleeps.  I thought I did my usual pre-bed routine but I missed one crucial thing: taking my sleeping pills.

I’ve been on Trazodone and Lorazepam for many years.  I didn’t handle the stress of teaching very well.  It was common for me to get no sleep at all on Sunday evenings, so scared was I about the tasks of the week.  So my doctor first prescribed one pill and later she added a second.  They’ve helped a lot.

The stresses after retirement just changed their tune.  I was caring for my dear wife Jody as she declined towards death.  The pills remained.  Now I’m officially a retired human being with greatly diminished worries.

So … last night.  I just forgot.  The few times this has happened before, I’d be awake again within the hour and trudging to the medicine cabinet for relief.  This time I slept for about four-and-a-half hours.  How is this possible?  A cold turkey event and still my brain slowed into slumber.

Here I am post-shower and pre-breakfast.  I feel a bit rough but the shower helped.  Now what do I do?  Wisdom suggests that what I experienced overnight was the worst of it all as I contemplate weaning myself off those little round things.  I could try skipping the Lorazepam tonight to see what Trazodone by itself can accomplish.  Later I could cut those pills in half, and then … nothing.  No pills.  Me.  Bruce Kerr.  Sleeping medications have been part of me for so long.

I want this.  I want to be free.  I don’t want to be dependent on anything or anyone.  I want a loving relationship in my life, but the word I see there is “interdependent”.  Can I let the pills go?  “Yes” is the quiet answer that rises to the surface of my mind.  Most likely with considerable discomfort but really I don’t know if that’s true.

I want to be healthy
I want to live a long time
This is one piece of the puzzle
Here we go

 

A Toronto Day

I’m living in an exquisite hotel room, all white and maroon, with a rain shower (square 7×7″ head) that I love standing under.  I’m sitting on the comfy couch, tapping out the words while the downtown sun splashes through the sheers behind me.  I have a sanctuary.

Yesterday I had fish.  I went to Ripley’s Aquarium to see a lot of swimming life.  The best scenes for me were:

  1.  A huge cylindrical tank of small fish, all hovering in mid-water until some unknown leader suggested a course change and the school responded
  2. One little fishy person who seemed to tread water, sitting vertically in place, its mouth doing deep breathing exercises
  3. A gaggle of blue eels, wrapped around each other, with each head looking shockingly like a human face, complete with a variety of expressions
  4. Standing in a tube with sea creatures meandering by to my left, my right and above.  For a long while, I stood in place, waiting for a toothy shark or the flat mass of a manta ray to pass right over my head
  5. The “Ray Bay”, a huge aquarium full of rays.  Some would approach the wall of glass and climb straight up, their undersides apparently revealing a big smiling mouth

I rode the subway here and there, remembering my daily trips from home to the downtown campus of the University of Toronto.  90% of my fellow passengers were connected – that certainly wasn’t part of my memory cells.  I reminisced about how I used to watch people by gazing at their reflection in the window beside me, and I followed suit.  Such stealth!

I was also jolted by the speed at which most people walked … definitely a sprint.  Oh yes, and then there’s escalator etiquette.  Stay on the right side if you want to stand, and watch the flow of humanity beat you to the destination.  A fellow told me yesterday about climbing a narrow escalator in a Toronto mall, just room for one person at a time.  He had chosen to stay still.  The woman behind would have none of it, apparently.  It must have been an effective body check as she squeezed past him.  (Sigh … and no thanks)

One subway station had two large posters that saddened me:

Don’t want to make eye contact?  Read a subway poster

Thinking of suicide?  There is help.  Let’s talk

My second concert in two days was a pretty loud affair, featuring four brilliant musicians: lead guitar, bass guitar, piano and drums.  I enjoyed seeing them express their craft.  But I wanted more quiet stories about life … my definition of folk music.  The highlight for me was when a woman joined them on stage and sang of a place – Aille, I think – and the love that happened there.  The song and the voice were haunting.  It was far and away the highlight of the concert for me.

I wanted to tell the artist how her performance had moved me.  At the break, I looked for her and saw that she was engaged in conversation with the pianist the whole time.  After the whole shebang was done, I sought her out again.  She was talking at the bar to a woman who had sung a song with the band during the second half.  And they kept talking.  I kept standing in the background.  I wanted to thank the Aille inspirer but I didn’t want to share my appreciation with the other person being there, because that woman’s performance didn’t reach me.  How strange.  I was determined to contribute to the first lady without diminishing the second.  How much of my desired contact was the ego speaking?  I don’t know.  Finally, as they continued chatting, the voice inside me said “Let her go, Bruce.”  So I did.  And off into the night …

David Francey

Off I went on the subway last night to the first of my three concerts at Hugh’s Room, a small folk music venue. One of my musical heroes – David Francey – was the reason for the evening.  I was given a table for one tucked into a corner at the back.  I had a great sightline to the stage and “back” was actually pretty close.  I arrived really early because I had made a dinner reservation.

As people started coming in, I looked at them.  Almost all couples (sigh) and hardly anybody as old as me (no sigh).  Lots of laughing, lots of hugging … the room was bright and sweet.  I sat back in my little alcove and smiled a bit.  The universe was flowing along as it was meant to do.

A couple maybe in their 60s took their seats at the table in front of me.  She was on the left and he on the right.  I didn’t see them touch.  As David began singing, the gentleman leaned his head way to the right.  At first, I concentrated on maintaining the tiny window I was left with, but later I let in the distance between man and woman.  I urged them closer in my brain but that was not to be.

At intermission … how wrong I was.  My unknown friends shared large smiles.  He put his arm over her shoulder and she rubbed that arm lovingly.  And so my persona as keen analyst of the human condition frittered away.

In front of these two was a waist-high wall.  Beyond that towards the stage, the seating was lower so all I could see of those folks was their heads.  During the break, I saw a grey-haired fellow right at the front, looking ahead.  A woman was leaning the back of her head against his back.  How lovely, I thought.  Just the type of relationship I enjoy observing.

How wrong I was.  It was a trick of the eye, my view of this couple.  In fact, they weren’t a couple.  They weren’t even at the same table.  She was leaning forward, talking to her friends.  Gosh, a fellow can only be wrong so many times.  Can’t he?

And then there was David’s music.  He creates word pictures that any human being can relate to … all the emotions that bubble up over the course of a lifetime.

The joy of youth, as revealed in the song “Paper Boy”:

And my feet flew in the morning light
Racing the dawn as the sky grew bright
And everything in the world was right
When I was a paper boy

The angst of teenage passion (“Broken Glass”):

Saw you standing in the cafeteria line
I’d have given the world just to make you mine
Saw you at your locker, in the high school hall
And it didn’t take a minute for my heart to fall

The loss of love (“The Waking Hour”):

She was once my heart’s delight
My need and my desire
She was my day, she was my night
My water and my fire
And I was once the same to her
When we still walked together
But the heavy heart at the waking hour’s
Expecting heavy weather

Thank you, David, for your humanity
And the same gratitude for my fellow audience members