Two Women

In the early 70’s, London had a coffee house downtown called Smale’s Pace. Last night was the fifth Smale’s Pace Reunion, with nine folk musicians appearing in front of us at Aeolian Hall. Such talent and passion for songs that tell a story.

Seven of the performers were men. I was transfixed by the other two, especially when they were listening to other folks sing and play. Laura Smith swayed to the music and joined in the choruses. Then it was her turn:

I built a boat
I built her for one
I didn’t find any flaws
Until long after I was done
Everything was fine
Until I lost sight of shore
Then I knew
I didn’t want to be
In a boat for one anymore
You should see me working
I’m tearing her apart
Working night and day
Rebuilding with my heart
It’s there in all the pieces
I see it in every curve
The flawed design
I built a boat with fear
And shattered nerve
I’m building a boat
I’m building her for two
The hardest part was starting
I don’t know when I’ll be through
You should see me working
I’m tearing her apart
Working night and day
Rebuilding with my heart
I’m taking all the time I want to
All the time I need
I’m building her for comfort
I’m not interested in speed
I’m building a boat
I’m building her for two
She’s going to catch the wind
The way that lovers do

I’m so glad we built a boat for two, Jodiette.

My gate’s wide open and the world is coming in

***
My gate’s wide open and my dreams are getting out

What a lovely life to lead

***

And then there was Sue Lothrop. She smiled and smiled as others played. Actually, at first I couldn’t guarantee she was smiling. A neighbour’s music stand covered the bottom half of her face. But you can tell from the top half, can’t you? All the muscles were up and the eyes were shining.

As one fellow played virtuoso ukulele, Sue’s whole being widened in astonishment. Her hands were curled together on her lap, the left over the right. Then she opened her left hand, fingertips stretching upwards, only to move in applause at the end of the piece.

I was there. Oh, what a lucky boy am I.

Straight Down The Middle

I love golf. And today I was loving golf in Cambridge, where the top women professionals are playing this week. I’m at the Travelodge tonight and will be heading back to the course tomorrow morning.

I especially love women’s golf. Why, you may ask? It’s not just because they’re pretty (but that is a factor). The best, however, is that many of them smile and have fun with the gallery. I want famous people to be friendly, to be nice human beings, folks that I’d enjoy having a coffee with.

Today I followed a 17-year-old Canadian girl – Brooke Henderson. You should have seen her after the round, signing autographs for kids and other human beings. She smiled and made eye contact. Lovely.

I think that a good golf swing is a thing of beauty, especially the full follow through after the club contacts the ball. Many times today, with Brooke and other women, I was close by as they teed off. I was so taken with the pose at the end of the swing that I usually didn’t even watch where the ball was going. Power and grace. And one example of full self-expression.

In other moments, the flight of the ball held me. When I hit a ball, it’s always coming down by the time I lift my head on the follow though. Not these women. The ball climbs and climbs … touching Spirit on high.

Of course there’s the world of golf scores and who’s in first place and who gets to hoist the championship trophy. That’s good, but it’s the moments that enthrall me, not the cumulative result. Some of golf’s moments are ecstatic and some are devastating, but they’re all symbols for the roller coaster that each of us lives.

Another reality today was that I got really tired. My feet and legs had enough of sidehill walking through fescue grass. And despite my water bottle, I got dehydrated in the sun. I told myself this morning that I’d walk 36 holes, but in fact I did 16. I retreated to a tent housing some energy company, and the attendant there kindly allowed me to sit down for awhile in the shade. We had a lovely talk and she was happy to take a copy of Jody’s book.

Tomorrow I’m into grass once more. Sure I’d like to see Brooke play well and make the 36-hole cut but it’s far more important to see the balls fly and the mouths turn upwards. The soul soars.

Fame?

Five hundred more copies of Jody’s book arrived on my doorstop this afternoon. And this e-mail from Chapters South in London showed up in my Inbox:

“I am very interested in having you in the store to do a signing or two.”

Assorted thoughts now proceed from my brain:

1. Get a grip, Bruce. You’re not going to become famous. You’re just going to sign a few books.

2. Fame sounds like a pain in the ass. You’d have no life.

3. I want our story to reach the hearts of people far and wide. How exactly do I do that?

4. There’s no time for book signings. On July 21, I’m heading off on a six-week road trip to Western Canada. Then home for a week, followed by a very long meditation retreat in Massachusetts. See? No time.

5. Think of all the folks I could meet in the store. I love talking to people.

6. What if nobody came? What would that do to me?

7. It’s not like Jodiette: My Lovely Wife is a novel or anything. I just wrote a lot of e-mails and blog posts and strung them together into a book.

8. But it’s a good story, of two human beings who love each other deeply, who suffered and joyed together.

9. I don’t want this to be about ego. It’s not “Oh, what a good boy am I.”

10. Jody touched so many people in her life – friends, family, patients, colleagues. Now she’s opening the hearts of readers after her death.

11. What exactly am I going to do with the rest of my life? Whatever it is, I’ll be with people.

12. Will a publisher pick up our book so that readers across the globe can be nudged a little closer to their loved ones?

13. What are you blathering on about? Pick some other topic for today’s post.

14. On the front cover, Jody is looking deep into the soul of whomever’s holding the book.

15. Stay on topic, Bruce. Corral your thoughts into some coherent whole.

16. Who am I?

17. One woman told me that she read our book and now her mom has started it. And her daughter is waiting in line.

18. It’s just a book … 190 pages of large type. No photos. It’s ordinary.

19. Me, sitting at a table, watching a line of book holders approach? (No, no. There won’t be a line.)

20. Why don’t I just meditate for awhile? You know, the silent stuff.

21. Whew, sigh, hmm, and other short expressions of the unknown

***

Tomorrow I’m going to write about golf

Haida Gwaii

Haida Gwaii is an archipelago of 150 islands north of Vancouver Island in British Columbia, and an eight-hour ferry ride west of the BC mainland. It means “islands of the people”, the aboriginal Haida people. It used to be called the Queen Charlotte Islands. Thank goodness Canada now recognizes its native residents by name.

I’m going there – in June, 2016. I’ll be spending eight days on a sailing ship with seven other guests and a crew of four or five. Wow. I’m really doing this. Jody and I wanted to explore the BC coast together, but alas, that was not to be. Except that Jodiette says she’ll be at my side every wave of the way. Thank you, my wife.

I’m likely to see humpback whales, bald eagles, dolphins, sea lions, very large black bears, and maybe killer whales. I will listen to Haida elders talk of their totem poles and their spiritual life. I will enjoy the company of my new friends onboard. And I will meditate on God’s vast reach on our planet.

On a trip to Haida Gwaii a few weeks ago, here are some notes from the captain:

This morning we visited K’uuna (Skedans), and as we approached we had another humpback whale on the starboard side. We counted 100 bald eagles at Skedans Islands.

I can anticipate, plan, expect and predict … but my journey will unfold as it should. What if I never see a humpback? Then that’s how it is. What if my roommate turns out to be a macho young fellow. Then that’s how it is. What if it rains and pours for the whole trip? So be it. My heart will be open. My spirit will soar. Whatever happens, I expect to be stunned into silence every day.

I’m so glad I’m going.

Church

Imagine entering a hospital where, several times each day, the staff meditate and celebrate with all patients who are able to participate. Imagine that all people would regard their work in such a hospital as inseparable from their private lives, that their home lives would be an extension of their work lives and vice versa. You would know that all people who share with you while you are in this hospital consider it a privilege. Imagine a staff that regards being well-rested and clear as their sacred duty. Imagine the emergency room, surgical and ward teams understanding how to tap their collective energy and thus create a high energy team.

Wow. And so I imagine. I call this kind of environment a church, in the best sense of the word. People are happy to be there. People talk to each other about their lives, about important things. People sometimes hold each other’s hand. And people really look into each other’s eyes.

I think my Costco South in London is a church. I am welcomed. Folks smile at me. The staff are usually very busy but they make sure I am seen. I can be silly with the food demonstrators and with the people behind the hot dog counter. I can go to the optical department and complain that my eyes are falling out. I can greet fellow customers on my way through produce. It’s home.

Sir Arthur Carty School in London is another church. The principal is real, not a role. The hallways are filled with happy chatter at recess time. The staff room is full at lunch … little knots of conversation, and none of it complaining about students. Short human beings and taller human beings appreciate each other. And the answer to “What do you teach?” is “Kids”.

Places of communion exist
They are right under our collective noses
Let’s go find them

Memorizing

As some of you know, I want to be Jake in the play Jake’s Women, which will be performed in St. Thomas, Ontario in February, 2016. Auditions are months away. I’ve told people that I’ve started memorizing Jake’s lines, and that’s true, but I haven’t turned a page in a month. Time to begin again.

Many years ago, Carol, the librarian at the Port Stanley Library, challenged me to learn the poem “Twas The Night Before Christmas” in time for the kids’ talent show in December. I showed up day after day at Sebastian’s, a cozy restaurant on Springbank Drive in London, to talk to myself creatively. And the deed was eventually done. Onto the stage I walked in a nightgown and night cap, holding a candle, and I told the story to the children. “And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.”

This afternoon, I drove from home with the script beside me. I knew that all the libraries were closed on Sunday, so where to go? A hotel. Good idea. Which one? How about the Sheraton Four Points on Wellington Road South? Sure. The lounge at the Four Points had been one of Jody’s and my favourites.

My early attempts at learning Jake had been weak. I was full of negative thoughts. “Maybe I’m too old to memorize hundreds of lines.” A friend of mine told me of some research about meditators. Apparently those who practice regularly can remember things more easily. Well, that’s good, but I still wasn’t bringing my whole self to the task.

Today, I sat in an easy chair looking out at the rainy world. I decided to order a glass of white wine. How about a Gewurztraminer, a semi-dry variety that I used to love? Sounds good. Now … page one. And guess what happened? I wasn’t scared. I tackled the sentences with gusto. Cool. I’ve seen six performances of Jake’s Women in the last six weeks – three in Belleville and three in London. I knew the flow of the story. I remembered Jake saying this and saying that. Yay!

After multiple sips of chilled white goodness, I opted for food. The menu proclaimed that French fries in garlic with bits of some fancy cheese was a winner. And the menu was right. There I was, the glass of wine perched on the right arm of the chair, the bowl of fries sitting on my lap, and my left hand hoisting Jake’s script. I talked out loud between bites and slurps. Oh, I had fun! And I was Jake. Wonder if the patrons halfway down the lounge thought so too?

I was getting some lines right, and some almost right, but more importantly I was on stage, at least in my mind. And here comes page 12, where Jake speaks at length to the audience. Power, and more power, flowed through me. I can do this. Who cares if I’m “old”? I sure don’t feel it.

“That little room up there [where Jake writes] is eight by ten feet but to me it’s the world. The universe! You don’t get to play God … You get to be God!”

“She’s so damn stubborn and intractable – only she’s not saying it. You wrote it! You’re bright, witty and clever and she’s a pain in the ass.”

My free hand was gesturing. My mouth was alternately orating and devouring. My heart was thumping away. No smallness here. I’ve got stuff to say, hopefully in February, 2016. And the words will come.

Surreal

It all started when I dropped into Catholic Central High School in London yesterday afternoon. I had a fine visit with my friend Stacy and then walked into the classroom of another friend, Lyrinda. There were only a few minutes left in the last period of the day.

As the students were walking out at the bell, I recognized one girl and she knew me. I’ll call her Mary. Years ago, when I was working with a blind child in Grade 7, everyone went over to the church for Mass one day. The Grade 8’s sat behind us. Mary sat directly behind me. The organist began a hymn (I can’t remember the name of it) which had a descant, an optional melody that’s very high-pitched. As I sang in my baritone voice, Mary hit the high notes. There are no words to describe the beauty. I was writing a blog back then (I still am, as you can tell), and I wrote about Mary that night, being sure not to name her in the piece.

Months later, virtually all of my blog posts got deleted by mistake, over a hundred of them. (Sigh) What sadness. Yesterday, I told Mary the story, and how I wish that I had shown her what I’d written. Was her post one of the few that escaped the delete? I didn’t know.

Then Lyrinda and I talked … for over an hour. How she loves her students! She prays with them at the beginning of every class. The teens share worries about loved ones. They share love. Lyrinda and I talked about love, about she and I being emissaries of such. There was no ego in our talk, no “Look at me!” Just friends doing some “big talk”. To be immersed in such communion for an hour was … I don’t know the word, but it was big.

I said goodbye to Lyrinda in the parking lot. As I walked to my car, I knew I was “as high as a kite”. No drugs in my system but something was sure in there! I walked into the post office to mail one of Jody’s books. There was a little roped corridor where patrons line up, with a sign saying “Please Wait Here” at the end. Two employees were behind the counter. The only other customer in the room was off to the side, addressing envelopes. “Come on over, sir.” “But the sign says to wait here. I always do what I’m told.” (Huh?) Soon the woman with the envelopes was ready. I walked to the back of the room and she approached one of the clerks. I was being eyed suspiciously (or quizzically) by the Canada Posters. Over the next five minutes, I returned to the sign again and again, only to retreat when a new person came through the door. Oh my goodness. Am I mentally unstable or just silly? I’m hoping the latter is true. Finally it was just the three of us. A glance back showed me that no cars were parking, no arms carrying packages were approaching the door. So I mailed Jody’s book, to the amusement of the woman taking my money.

I decided to go see a movie – any movie. It didn’t matter which one. I knew there’s usually a film starting around 5:00 at the Hyland Cinema, so I started driving over there. I was on Wharncliffe Road – four lanes and lots of traffic. A bus was ahead of me in the curb lane. I knew what to do, of course. Pull into the left lane and pass the frequently stopping beast. Except I didn’t. I stayed right behind, pausing whenever it did. Oh my goodness again. Why am I doing this?

Kite aloft, I walked into the theatre. I’ll be seeing Preggoland, so said the sign. And I saw it alone. I don’t think I’ve ever been alone in a movie theatre. Do I hear the music of The Twilight Zone? It was a great film, morphing from a comedy about a depressed girl who fakes a pregnancy to something entirely different and sublime. The audience loved it.

Grocery time. As I parked in the Costco lot, I picked up my little black bag of Jody’s books and went inside. I was floating. “Someone in here will want a book,” I promised. After chatting with the pharmacy folks for a few minutes, sharing with them that I was high, I wandered the store, dropping stuff in the cart, and vaguely looking for book recipients. No one. At the checkout, a packing clerk checked out my bag. “I wrote a book.” “Can I have one?” he said. “Sure. My wife died in November and I wrote a book about her. I’m giving them away to anyone who wants one.” The female cashier beside him: “You’re going to make me cry. I’d like one too.” “Of course.” Cue the music.

Homeward bound, with my bread, laundry detergent, bananas, but sadly no fruit tray. Hey Costco! Give us back our fruit. But I wasn’t really bothered by my fruitless endeavour. The world was shining.

Sitting in my man chair, I looked through the hard drives of my old laptop and this new one, searching for the remnants of my ancient blog. I tried entering Mary’s name, but that was silly. I never would have mentioned that in the post. Using all my brain cells, I thought that I had referred to her as an “angel”. No luck there either. In fact, if there were a few posts that had escaped my errant finger, I couldn’t find any. After nearly an hour of this, I gave up. Sorry, Mary.

***

C’mon, Bruce. One more try. So I typed “school” in the My Documents search window. 42 hits. Scroll and scroll. Here was one called “City of God”. The hymn! Open the file. And there was Mary:

And once again … her soprano blending with my baritone
Like nothing I’ve heard in my life
Like no moment I’ve experienced in the 62 years
I’ve been on the planet
Never before
Probably never again

Now that I knew where to look on the hard drive, I saw that only two posts from the days of yore survived – the very first one I wrote, entitled “Time to Write Again” … and Mary’s.

I have a delivery to make next week.

Magic Times Three

I got up yesterday morning and realized that I hadn’t listened to my answering machine for a couple of days. There were three messages:

1. (During Jody’s illness, Manulife was so good in approving prescriptions and in supporting me when I was on short term disability. For months, though, I have been trying to have them accept receipts for services that occurred within the three months after Jody’s death. According to Jody’s employer, St. Joseph Health Care, these receipt submissions were legitimate.)

Message from my contact person at St. Joe’s. Manulife accepts my receipts and will issue me a cheque. He and his supervisor had gone to bat for me. Thank you!

2. (A month ago, I had left a copy of Jody’s book with The London Free Press, asking someone on staff to review our story.)

Message to call my contact at the newspaper. He told me that although they don’t review the works of local authors unless a major publisher has picked up their work, he’s writing an article about us local folks, and Jody’s lovely cover photo, plus contact information for me, will be in the piece. It will be published this Saturday, or maybe the next one. Thank you!

3. (I’ve gone to the Ontario English Catholic Teachers’ Association retirement banquet in May for fifteen years. I love seeing friends, eating a great meal, and listening to retirees speak about what their career has meant to them. As an employee, I would be contacted by my OECTA rep weeks before the banquet to see if I’d like a ticket. Now that I’m retired, no such e-mail. The banquet is tonight. I called my union office on Tuesday. (Oops) “I’m sorry, Bruce. There are no tickets left.” Sad but determined, I decided to show up at the banquet anyway. There’d be no food for me but surely I could pull up a chair to a table of 10 and chat.)

Message from the union office. “One ticket just became available. It’ll be waiting for you at the registration table.” Thank you!

***

I’m such a lucky guy … blessed left, right and centre with kind human beings

Bela Angel

Well, it seems that I’m on a “Book Tour”. Over my career, I visited 45 schools in our board, to work with visually impaired students. I decided a few weeks ago to drop into a lot of them, to see who would like a copy of Jody’s book. So many people are saying yes, and even if the answer is no, it’s wonderful to see old friends again.

Months ago, I was trying to decide how many books to have printed. The number “500” bubbled to the surface, to be immediately squashed by my small mind: “Oh, Bruce. You’re going to end up with 480 books in the basement.” As of tonight, I’ve given away 432, and last week I ordered another 500. I’m so happy that people are touched by our story.

Today I was at St. Vincent de Paul School in Strathroy, Ontario. As I was talking to a teacher in the hallway, a young girl came up to me smiling and said, “You gave me your ring.” I’ll call her Bela. Three years ago I was working with a low vision child in a Junior Kindergarten class. A student I didn’t know (Bela) approached me and said, “I like your ring.” (It’s a large gold band with a red garnet … a gift from my lovely wife Jodiette.) I didn’t think. I just did. I twisted the ring off my right pinky finger and put it in Bela’s hand. I smiled. And then I walked back to my student. A few minutes later I glanced over at Bela, and she was cupping my ring in her open palm … just looking at it. A bit later I took it back.

That was then. This is now. Bela in the hallway, now a Grade 2 student. I did what any normal human being would have done: I twisted off Jody’s ring and put it in Bela’s hand. Big smile from her. Later in the classroom, she said, “I hope I see you again. I want a hug.” So we hugged. I know I’m not supposed to, but gosh, there was a human being in front of me.

At the end of the period, as the kids were leaving the room, Bela looked back at me, smiled, and spoke a sentence with the word “God” in it. I wish I could remember exactly what she said. My guess? “God loves you.” And she was gone.

(Sigh)

Sufficiency

There is no need for what is happening to go away
Or for what is not happening to appear

So says Ashin Tejaniya, a Buddhist teacher. But what does it mean for my life?

Such as right now. I’m sitting in my man chair, typing. It would be lovely if Jody could sit beside me and let me rub her feet, something we did so often. I’d get to send physical love to my dear wife. But in this moment, I don’t need Jody to be here. I don’t need wonderfully wise words to fall out of my brain into my fingers. I don’t need to look in the mirror and see some outrageously handsome dude looking back. I don’t need my feet to be warm and toasty.

Just as I am. Just fine.

But what about if life was throwing me a few curve balls? What if I was sitting here sad because I’m alone in life now? My best self wouldn’t need the sadness to disappear. What if now was just like the fall of 2003? Seven-teen weeks on crutches after tendon transfer surgery, plus lots of pain. Perhaps I wouldn’t need the cast and the angst to disappear. What if I was being condemned by my colleagues for being a poor teacher? I don’t think I’d need the hurt to go away.