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Jody’s Books Are Here!

It’s 4:05 pm.  I just got back from a day of errands in London.  Something was different about my front door.  There was a little white rectangle sticking to it.  From Purolator.  There are 17 boxes waiting for me at their office in St. Thomas.  And I can pick them up after 5:00.  Did I mention that it’s 4:08?

Oh my God!  Jody, your books are here.  My dear wife.  The story we shared is going to reach people … whoever wants to read it.  I’m so happy, and so sad that you’re not here to share this with me.  Except you are here, and always will be.

“Yes, I certainly will always be with you, dear man.  I’m happy that people are going to read about us.  Maybe we’ll show them some things about living a life, about loving another person.  I love you so much, Bruce.  I miss touching you.  I miss holding hands.  But we’ll be together again someday, husband.  We will walk a different path and we will walk it together.”

Yes, Jodiette.  We will.

Tomorrow morning, I’m getting on a train and going to Belleville for four days.  When I get back, I’m going to write an e-mail to the 300 folks who have been with Jody and me since she was diagnosed in November, 2013.  I’m going to ask them if they would like a book.  It’s free.  I’ll pay for the postage.  And I’ll suggest that, if they want to, they donate some money to their favorite charity in memory of Jody.

But today is today.  I don’t know how many of you are out there in cyberworld, but if you would like a copy of Jodiette: My Lovely Wife, e-mail me at jodyandbruce@rogers.com and give me your address.  Our story is your story.

Okay, it’s 4:17.  It takes about 20 minutes to get to the Purolator office.  Maybe I should get organized, get goin’, get Jody’s books!

Oh my.

Krishna Das

When I was telling you about qi gong yesterday, and the beautiful male voice that sent me crying, I didn’t mention that the singer was Krishna Das.  I wonder why.  He’s an American who met with a guru in India back in the 1970’s and was overwhelmed with the love glowing from him.  Soon thereafter, Jeffrey Kagel became Krishna Das.  After his guru died, Krishna felt alone and lost in the world, and descended through the realms of depression and drug use.

Eventually the love that is Krishna Das, and is all of us, emerged and greeted the world through the singing of kirtan – call-and-response chanting in Sanskrit that speaks the names of God.

When I got back from Massachusetts, I watched Krishna on YouTube and was transported again deep within my heart.  I ordered CDs and a DVD from Amazon and they arrived today.  If you would like to experience the Spirit of the man, I’d recommend that you listen to “Sri Argala Stotram / Show Me Love” on YouTube.  It’s on one of my new CDs and I played it on our stereo system a few minutes ago.  The piece artfully blends the Hindu words with “I Want To Know What Love Is” by Foreigner.

Listening to this is not just blissing out.  As Krishna’s voice goes deep, I feel the love, not only for Jody, but for all of us.  Our struggles, our imperfections, our kindnesses.  All worthy of love.  I’ve just finished melting again.  Lots of tears.  And I think of the lyrics:

I want to know what love is
I want you to show me
I want to feel what love is
I know you can show me

Christine was a woman I met before the silent meditation retreat started, and we talked after it was over.  She was grasping for what the retreat meant to her, and I was doing the same.  I found myself saying, for the first time, “I come to retreats to love people.  That’s all.”  I’d never been brave enough to tell anyone.  And it’s true.  When I hear the women’s voices repeat “I want you to show me,” I know that I have a part to play in showing love on Earth.  I’m not sure how that will unfold over time, but unfold it shall.  A good thing to do in life, I’d say.

Jody’s Day at IMS

During my retreat at the Insight Meditation Society last week, yogis had the opportunity to pay for a meal in honour of a loved one.  I chose lunch on Saturday, April 11, the second last day of the retreat.  And there it was on the white board at the entrance to the dining room: “Lunch is offered ‘for my wife Jody’.”

When I arrived at IMS, I signed up for the job of bell ringing for each lunch.  I would stand near the serving area, gong in hand, beside three lineups of silent yogis.  After the cooks had placed all the food on tables, one of them would take a tiny xylophone and hit three notes.  She would then nod to me, I would hit the gong with the little wooden baton, and all of us would bow.  As retreatants came forward to take a plate, I would set off on a journey through the IMS buildings, ringing the gong loudly so that no one would miss their lunch.

On Saturday, April 11, after pausing several times that morning to see Jody’s name on the board, I lifted up the gong and baton and walked towards the dining room, telling myself not to cry.  I stood stationary for three or four minutes while I waited for the cook’s notes.  “Don’t cry, Bruce.”  Oh my, how silly of me.  But I held things together throughout the experience, and replaced the gong on its stand.  Then I walked into the coatroom and cried for my darling wife.  How I miss my Jodiette.

Later in the afternoon, from 3:00 till 4:00, I went to the optional daily qi gong session (pronounced “chee”) in the meditation hall.  I’d say 80 of the 100 yogis came every day.  Qi gong is a Chinese movement art, gently uniting us with heaven and earth, and with all of life.  Franz, our leader, had opened his soul to us.  We were much blessed.  This would be our last session, and Franz had a surprise.  Halfway through the hour, he mentioned that we would now link together the 18 qi gong movements … to music.

A resonant male baritone voice ripped through me, singing in Hindi, I believe.  I didn’t know what the words meant.  But my being knew.  I started crying for Jody, and I think for all of us.  I moved my body and kept crying.  Sometimes I would be overwhelmed and stood still, shaking.  A few of the movements involved twisting and looking back to the left and then right.  “Oh, no.  Now the folks behind me will see me crying.”  So silly again.  For one thing, if I’m looking backwards, so are the people behind me.  But more importantly, the human beings I was with honoured each other’s humanity, however it was expressed.  They didn’t know I was crying about Jody but they accepted my tears.  I kept crying.

It was a good day, Jodiette.  You deserved every moment, my dear.

The Beatles

I went to see the Fab Four at the Port Stanley Festival Theatre tonight, a venue which holds around 100 people.  At 8:00 the lights dimmed and the soundtrack rolled … it was a Sunday evening in February, 1964 and the Ed Sullivan Show was on TV.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, here they are – The Beatles!”  Well said, Ed.

And here they came … John, Paul, George and Ringo … guitars and drums in hand, launching into the first song.  I was in the second row and from behind me I could hear girlish screams, just like that night 50 years ago when I sat with my parents watching the music world change.  Can’t remember what mom and dad thought but I bet they didn’t like the long hair.

Soon two women in front of me were twisting and shouting.  One of them pretended to faint and flopped into the lap of the other one.  Big smile from John.  All night long my new friends moved and grooved, much to the pleasure of the band.  Actually, I moved and grooved as well, with a little less throwing of arms into the air.  What great fun.

From “She Loves You” to “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band”, we heard it all.  And we sang.  My teenage life came flooding back to me and I remembered how the Beatles’ music helped keep my self-esteem afloat, even if ravaged by acne and lack of sports prowess.  I loved the tender songs, especially “Let It Be” and the big finale – “Hey Jude”.  I loved John and his granny glasses.  I so much wanted him to sing “Imagine” but I guess he never did it onstage with the other guys.

Jody was right there beside me, rocking to the hits.  Thank you for coming with me, my wife.

Before the concert and during it some, I had fun conversations with the woman sitting to my right.  We enjoyed each other’s company.  After the final bows, though, I looked around and saw her and her husband heading to the exit.  No goodbye.  That made me sad.

So it was an evening of joyous remembrance, of letting the vocal cords hang out, but tinged with a note of melancholy.  Sort of like life.  I’ll take it.

Bowing

I enjoy bowing to the statue of the Buddha, with palms together and a light heart.  The Buddha isn’t a god.  He was a human being who lived 2600 years ago, and he had some good ideas about leading a life.  When I bow to him, I say inside, “All beings everywhere”.  That’s whom I want to contribute to.  At times, other words have bubbled up.  “The God in me bows to the God in you.”  “Love bowing to love”.  In the meditation hall in Barre, Massachusetts, the Buddha sits at the front of the room.  As I enter the hall for a sitting, with 100 other yogis, I pause and bow.  It feels right.

Between the coat room and the meditation hall is a walking room, where we practice walking meditation.  The Insight Meditation Society building used to be a Catholic seminary, I believe, and there are two lovely stained glass windows of Jesus in the walking room.  At previous meditation retreats, and at this recent one, I came to stop in front of one of those windows and bow.  I sometimes worried about what other retreatants thought of this behaviour, but more and more I didn’t care.  I imagine they think that I’m bowing to Jesus.  I’m not.

The stained glass shows Jesus sitting at a table, with the disciple John to his left.  John has his right hand on Jesus’ right shoulder, and his left hand on his left forearm.  John’s head is tucked into the hollow by Jesus’ neck.  And the look on John’s face is one of supreme peace.  I’m bowing to John’s love.  And as I do, I silently say, “Love them all.  Light the world.”  And that is what I’d like to do.

Eight months ago, I wrote a blog post called “Ego Bowing”, in which I described walking a three-mile loop road at IMS and bowing to every person I met, making eye contact.  When I walked the road this time, something inside told me not to bow and not to look.  So I didn’t.  I let everyone have their space, to be with themselves, not needing to respond to another.  That too felt right.

May I bow inwardly to each one of us whom I encounter on our dear planet.

Gently, Gently Some More

The walking room that I had discovered was really very beautiful.  At one end was a 4-foot-high statue of the Buddha, perched on a dark wooden shelf, so that his eyes were at the level of mine.  The first time I was in the room, three yogis were walking across its width.  Walking meditation is most typically done in a back-and-forth pattern.  I don’t like that.  (Here comes aversion)  I like the loop trip.

I yearned for walking the room lengthwise.  If I did that on a central path, I would come face-to-face with the Buddha.  The next time I entered I was alone, and so I got what I wanted.  At the opposite end from the Buddha statue, there was a little alcove between two closets.  I tucked myself in there and faced my friend from afar.  Then I slowly walked towards him, watching as he got closer.  When our faces were about two feet apart, I would sometimes bow, and sometimes not.  (Bowing is a whole other topic that I’ll save for a future e-mail.)  Then I would turn around and put foot after foot until I was in the alcove – the back wall a foot from my nose and little side walls to my left and right.

At that point, I created a meditation.  Walking towards the Buddha, I was living the teachings more and more.  (Pausing when I stood close to him)  Turning around was turning away from the teachings, and walking back was getting ever farther from them, until I was cramped physically and spiritually inside the alcove.  (Pausing)  And then to feel my turning away from the restricted life, facing the Buddha once again.  Sometimes I would say “Remembering” to myself as I walked forward, and “Forgetting” as I returned.  Again and again I trod the path.  And more and more, the small smile emerged as I turned my back on the Buddha and moved away.  I was gently holding the leaving of what I sensed was true.  There was happiness within the sadness, allowing the rhythms of life to be there.

After a few days of these sessions, I saw something: I was now addicted to a new walking meditation route.  I needed to have eye contact with the Buddha, and needed my coming-and going relationship with him.  (Sigh)

So what to do?  My experience of the moments in the room was often blissful.  I wanted to hold onto that bliss, and even push to make it more blissy.  So I got to look at that.  Needing pleasant experience after pleasant experience.  Except that this isn’t what life is like, is it?  Life keeps showing me liberal portions of both pleasure and pain.  The trick seems to be how to hold the pain.

Seeing my rampant attachment, I fantasized about having an Insight Meditation Society staff member open the door and put up a sign:  “All yogis will please walk width-wise in this room, so that more retreatants may use the space.”  That would fix me and my craving.  No more approaching and leaving the Buddha.

What do you think?  Would my life be enhanced if my deepest attachments were continually uprooted?  I don’t know.  Think I’ll sit in the question.

Gently, Gently

The Buddha taught about three big problems people have: attachment, aversion and delusion.  Over the nine days of the meditation retreat I just experienced, I learned how to be with these obstacles.  Easier said than done, however.  The teachers asked us to observe the eruptions of the mind as they emerged.  And to hold them gently, as you would cradle a baby bird, rather than getting all ramped up with an issue, creating a big story about the topic, filled with distress.  I found that if I was being quietly aware of, say, an attachment I was watching unfold, a telltale sign would be a tiny smile at the corners of my mouth.

I came to the retreat attached to a particular walking meditation route at the centre.  On previous retreats, I did a big loop, walking the long, curving driveway and then on the lawn, next to the hedge that borders the road.  When I arrived on Easter weekend, there were drifts of snow by the hedge, the temperature was about 5 degrees Celsius, and I was sick.  Still, I had to walk my route, every day.  Lips tight, leaning forward, I trudged on.  Sometimes my boot would break through the crust and sink down 8 inches or so, and sometimes my foot would stay on top.  I tried to convince myself that this just duplicated the ups and downs of life, and that it was therefore a good meditation.  But it didn’t work.  Mostly, it was just a pain in the ass.

Where, oh where, had vacated my meditative mind?  I was covered in a blanket of “have to”, determined to do as I had done before.  But the pressing doesn’t work.

By day three my cough had gotten worse, it was cold out, and I abandoned the great out-of-doors.  I found a rectangular walking room in the centre and stepped on out, marginally at peace.  The truth was though, at least to my addled brain, the smooth wooden floorboards were not good enough.  I lusted for my hedge, lawn and driveway.

As the teachers continued their daily lessons about simply observing our attachments – our greed to have life turn out just the way we want it – I got to see the huge tension I had created for myself.  I was sad, and tried to just let that be there.  Glimpses of that tiny smile broke through for a moment here and a moment there, quickly to be replaced by a pout.  That Buddha!  What does he know?

More about that tomorrow.

What To Possibly Say?

I’m back from my 9-day silent meditation retreat.  I feel very open.  Actually it’s like there’s space around each of my cells.  Breathing room.  And I don’t know what to say.  Most of you probably haven’t had the experience that I’ve just lived through.  How can I have you understand?  I’m sure you’re all smart people.  It’s not that.  But you may not have the context to hold whatever I have to say.  And so the likelihood of me being misinterpreted is great.  Maybe I’d try to talk about A but all you hear is B.  Such as the word “surrender”.

What I do know is that I want to communicate with you about what the past week has meant.  Part of me doesn’t know how.  But I know that part of me does.  I’m willing to risk being misunderstood.  So I will put fingers to keys over the next few days … and see what happens.

It was a fine journey, and continues to be so.

Unknown Days

Twelve of them, right in front of me.  I’m starting to drive tomorrow to Massachusetts for a 9-day silent meditation retreat.  Silence begins on Friday evening for the 100 participants.  What a blessing, not needing to speak and make eye contact to have communion among us.  Although there are short times before and after the retreat for the “yogis” to talk to each other, it’s likely that I won’t meet most of them.  And yet I know we will touch each other in our hearts.

I don’t have any goals.  I’ll just let the next moment replace the previous one.  I don’t want to get better at anything.  Gosh, what an adventure this will be!

Since we’re not allowed to do any writing during the retreat, you won’t hear from me again until I get back.  I’ll create a post on Tuesday, April 14 to tell you all about it.

May you have great peace and satisfaction in the days between.

Visitation

Yesterday, I went to the visitation for my friend Darrell’s wife Joanna.  Gone at 64, cancer I believe.  Even though I had never met Joanna, I wanted to go.  Many years ago, when I was trying to get a teaching job with the Catholic school board in London, Darrell wrote me a letter of reference.  And I got the job!  Darrell and Jody both worked at Parkwood Hospital and were joyous friends.  Always having fun.  So good to each other.

I showed up at the church right at the beginning of the visitation period, and there already had to be 50 people ready to say hello to the family.  And there were probably 25 of them.  So I experienced the “line that doesn’t move” syndrome, and that was fine.  I knew only one person there, but others probably knew the whole family.  Who am I to begrudge them precious moments with people they care about?  So the waiting was good.  There were two or three screens in the sanctuary, showing all sorts of pictures of Joanna.

Folks who came later than me were seated in the pews, waiting for the opportunity to join the line.  As I stood, I heard two precious words among a group who were seated: “Jody Kerr”.  A woman who works at Parkwood was talking about my lovely wife, about what a joy she was to see every day, and about Jodiette’s bright tops and pants.  I turned and sought out the source.  The four of us chatted for ten minutes or so about my dear girl, and I couldn’t care less about losing my spot in the line.

Then it was time to greet the first family members.  I was feeling a little nervous, but really not much.  I was clear that it didn’t matter what I said to all these strangers.  “Just be with them, Bruce.  All will be well.”  And it was.  I told different groups that I had never met Joanna, but the slide show on the walls showed me all I needed to know.  She just glowed in photo after photo.  There were even recent shots of her smiling broadly at the airport, as some of her kids and grandkids were heading back to Western Canada.  I imagine that everyone knew this was goodbye, but that didn’t stop Joanna from showering her world with love.  “Was she always like this?” I asked.  And one of her daughters answered, “Yes.”

To other linemates, I talked about what a huge presence Darrell was at Parkwood before he retired.  He’d be walking down the hallway, see someone he knew a hundred feet away, and start smiling.  I think it was one of his sons who added, “And he probably had a couple of conversations before he got to that person.”  Indeed.

When I reached Darrell, we gave each other a lingering hug.  He told nearby folks about the letter of reference, and mentioned that ever since I’ve been paying him with a toonie every time I saw him.  At which point I plunked one of those $2.00 coins in his palm.  And he did what Darrell does – tried to stuff the toonie into my pocket.  But I was too fast for him.  And in Darrell’s possession the coin remained.  Just like always.  I mean the guy has to keep his retirement well funded, doesn’t he?

Lots of visiting at the visitation.  Joanna and Jody were happy to see it all.