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Why Am I Doing This?

I drink Gatorade on my cycling excursions, and I’m an equal opportunity guzzler – blue, green and orange.  A couple of weeks ago, I looked in the orange container and there wasn’t even a scoopful left.  So I poured the bits into the blue.  Before my next ride, I tried to get as much of the orange pieces into the scoop as I could.  Same on the ride after that.  Lately, though, I’ve been taking a teaspoon and picking out the orange grains and dropping them into the scoop, unavoidably accompanied by some blue.

Today I was like a surgeon, moving aside the blue stuff with the teaspoon and getting every orange granule that I could lay my eyes on.  It took me about fifteen minutes to fill that scoop.

So the question:  What am I doing and why am I doing it?  And then it came to me:  I am purifying the blue container as a symbol of purifying myself.  All this time I’d spent and the true meaning of it was just under the surface of my awareness.

So what else do I do as an expression of Spirit?  And not doing it as a way to get something or arrive somewhere, but as a way to deepen what is already inside of me.  Here are a few of my idiotsyncrasies (Jody’s word):

1.  I replace burnt out lightbulbs quickly.  (Having my light and others’ shine)

2.  A small statue of the Buddha sits on the hassock near my man chair.  I turn it so that my friend is looking directly at me.  (Making contact with people, a timeless kind of contact)

3.  When I turn on my laptop, a little sign appears in the bottom right corner of the screen once things are booted up, announcing that I’m connected to the Internet.  I watch that sign until it gradually fades away to nothing.  (All things – good, bad and indifferent – must pass)

4.  We have a ceiling fan in the kitchen.  When I pull the cord to shut it off, I watch the blades turn … slower and slower … until they finally stop.  (I will die.  The body that is Bruce will weaken gradually and someday come to a halt)

5.  I could use a wall switch to turn off the ceiling fan but I prefer the pull cord.  (I am drawn to ancient rhythms rather than modern conveniences.  But I still use light switches!)

6.  I sometimes take my right hand and draw it to the right, palm up, and hold it there for a few seconds.  (In moments of spiritual awareness.  And the palm is up to open and connect)

7.  I park Hugo and Scarlet facing in to the space.  (I want to be with whatever’s next, rather than turning away from it)

8.  When I’m doing walking meditation at IMS on the circular drive, I walk right in the middle of the road, and step aside if someone is approaching me on the same line  (To be balanced in life.  And to yield to others rather than pressing forward)

9.  I place the coffee mugs on the shelf right side up instead of upside down. (So they’re open to the world, not insulated from it)

10.  I stand with my arms falling loosely by my sides.  (So the energy will flow)

***

I haven’t put all this on video yet
Maybe someday soon in a theatre near you

Off to the Grocery Store

From Jack Kornfield, a Buddhist teacher:

We have within us an extraordinary capacity for love, for joy and unshakeable freedom.  Buddhist psychology describes this as optimal mental health.  I have seen this optimal well-being in many of my teachers.  Ajahn Jumnien describes his mind as completely steady, silent and free, throughout both his waking and sleeping hours.  He says, “I haven’t experienced a single moment of frustration or anger for over twenty years.”  I’ve also observed that he sleeps only one or two hours a night. 

 Ajahn Jumnien describes his inner life quite simply: “When I’m alone, my mind rests in pure awareness.  I am simply at peace.  Then, whenever I encounter people and experiences, the awareness automatically fills with lovingkindness or compassion.  This is the natural expression of pure awareness.”  All those around Ajahn Jumnien feel his free spirit and unshakeable joy.

Well.  I’m about to go out to the Real Canadian Superstore for some necessaries.  Will I live these words within the four walls, and as I drive to and from?  I’ll let you know.  (However, I’m not up for the part about one or two hours of sleep.)

***

Okay, I’m back.  Pretty uneventful, I guess.  No road rage or shopping cart rage to stress me out.  No need for anger.  I was quite peaceful and had some moments when people needed my love and compassion.  So I gave them what they needed.

Here are some people and moments I came upon:

1.  Driving on our home road, I passed an older gentleman I’ve met before, walking towards me.  He’s always been friendly but this time he didn’t wave back.  I felt sad and watched love burst through the windshield towards him. On some level, I know he received it.

2.  In front of our local psychiatric hospital, I saw a young man in a grey hoodie lighting a cigarette.  What is his life like, I wondered?  What demons assail him?  Does he have love in his life?

3.  Waiting behind another car at an intersection, expecting to turn left on this light.  But when the traffic suddenly thickened, a little nudge of frustration knocked me off centre.  Only a bit.  I was soon on track again.

4.  I noticed how slowly I was walking as I approached the store, and inside it. The rhythm was lovely.  It was like floating through the aisles.

5.  I made eye contact near the produce department with a fellow in his 30s. He returned the favour but I didn’t smile at him.  I felt disappointed about my contraction but quickly forgave myself for being human.

6.  I saw a pudgy middle-aged guy walking in front of me with his arms behind his back.  He had wrapped the fingers of one hand around the fingers of the other and was pulling hard.  I felt something very tight coming off him, and again I felt sad.

7.  I couldn’t find food colouring in the baking aisle and it was my turn for tightness.  I finally located the stuff – small bottles of blue, green and red. But the tag said there should have been a variety box sitting there as well – cheaper.  Nothing.  The compressing deepened a bit and then drifted away.

8.  A teenaged girl with what I guessed to be Down Syndrome was pushing a cart with her head down.  Her face was really puffy and her mother seemed to be urging her on to greater speed.  Compassion from me to her.

9.  I felt like talking in the checkout lineup and picked the woman behind me. I noticed that she had laid down two tall bottles of juice on the belt.  I mentioned to her that I’d never thought of doing that, despite having had tall objects fall over many times in the past.  Smiles all around.

Pretty ordinary stuff, I’d say.  Not in the league of Ajahn Jumnien.  But still a nice way to walk in the world.

Donna and Pete

During the summer of 2012, Jody and I spent two weeks visiting her brother Lance, our sister-in-law Nona, and their three boys – Jaxon, Jagger and Jace. They live in the village of Longview, Alberta, in the foothills of the Rockies southwest of Calgary.

We had a great time, camping in the Kananaskis, hiking in the mountains, sitting around watching TV, and talking at exquisite length to people we love.  I wanted to spend some time on my own as well, and so dipsydoodled around Longview to see what’s what and who’s where.

I wandered into a gift shop on Main St., and was thoroughly welcomed by the woman behind the counter.  She was Donna.  We just fell into conversation as if we’d been bosom buddies since the beginning of time.  We talked Alberta and we talked art, since she was selling originals and prints done by a local artist, Bernie Brown.  I ended up buying a drawing that showed a medicine man in mid-dance, but that wasn’t the important thing.  Donna was important.  She glowed.  It didn’t matter the topic – she breathed life into every word, and the wrinkles by her eyes got a workout.  Other folks came into the store and she lighted up with them as well, drawing out their humanity and humour with ease.  Then she’d chat with me some more. Ahhh.  I went back to visit her two more times.  Such a pleasure.

One day, Jody and I were walking along a residential street when along comes a gentleman dressed up cowboy, complete with a ten-gallon hat.  He was smiling at us from way back.  And then we to him.  He was Pete.  As we got near each other, I noticed that he had a large pink price tag on the toe of one boot.  After a few minutes of good-natured Easterner razzing on Pete’s part (and a similar repartee from Jody and me), I decided to broach the footwear topic.  “Oh, that.  Still haven’t decided if I want to keep these boots so I left the sticker right where it was, for an easy return if need be.”  We laughed. He laughed.  Pete became an instant friend.

Later in the week, I was sitting on the front deck of a bar on Main St., having an orange juice (or some reasonable facsimile), when I spied Pete strolling along on the sidewalk across the street.  He spotted me too, and started waving madly.  I naturally waved back, and yelled “Hi, Pete”.  Neither he nor I was remotely troubled by the looks we received from the other sunning patrons.  Truly, who cares?

The following week, having found out where Pete lived, I knocked on his front door.  How did he respond to the unscheduled visitor?  “Come on in.” (Big smile)  He was preparing supper and listening to the day’s rodeo on the radio.  Sure, he wanted to hear the results of the bull riding and the bronco busting, but he kept me and our conversation front and centre in his brain. So very much like himself.

So .. friends around every corner?  I think so.  Just gotta say “Hi”.

 

Just So

Yesterday morning, I had just assisted Jody with personal care and had moved to our bedroom to give her some privacy.  I sat in a rotating chair and looked at my bureau.  The bottom drawer wasn’t closed  completely.  About an inch of the top surface of the drawer was showing.

I was torn.  The part of me that wants everything in its place started contracting.  A less developed section of Bruceness didn’t really care.  But I could feel the tug of the words “totally” rather than “partially”, and of “flush” rather than “offset”.  My goodness, what’s the big deal?  Aren’t there more crucial life issues that need to be addressed?  Well … yes, but something was pulling me in to its domain.  I sure wanted to close that drawer!

Larger principles beckon me, ones that present themselves symbolically to me in the objects of daily living.  Doing a job completely, for instance, before moving on.

Then there’s horizontal and vertical.  In our hallway, Jody and I have put together a collection of small framed photographs on a wall.  One montage of our vacations sits right next to a light switch, and sometimes it gets jostled.  So the others are all at right angles but holiday pics are leaning just a bit, far less than that tower in Italy.  Still though, it’s not right, says a certain version of my mind.  Down deep somewhere is the appreciation of the vertical as representing an upright life, and the horizontal as seeing all beings as equally wondrous in God’s eyes.

Dish towels need to hang loosely from the oven door handle, falling uncreased towards the mystery below.  Being bunched and jumbled somehow interrupts the grace of the infinite.  Toilet paper falls down over the front of the roll, revealing transparency, rather than descending from behind, and thus keeping hidden and unacceptable some part of its being.

“Bruce, you’re nuts.  Make sure nobody ever finds out about your questionable analogies, and the fetishes that unfold from each.”

“Shhh.”

It’s time for another great life experiment.  Let the tea towels bunch.  Let the montage lean a mite.  Let that bottom drawer show all the glory of its top edge.  Don’t fix things.  Everything’s perfect as it is.  Next week, I can always return to the appropriateness of feng shui principles.  And then return to mild disorder the week after that.

After all, as Walt Whitman said, “I am inconsistent.  I contain multitudes.”

Beyond Which Not

I’ve been reading a book by Lex Hixon called Coming Home.  In it he points to the possibility of enlightenment as uncovered through various spiritual traditions.

I don’t know what to say.  Perhaps being at a loss for words is appropriate when glimpsing … Spirit.  I know I want to say something as I grope through an unknown territory.  I don’t think it’s about achieving anything, such as a rarefied state of being.  Or about starting at A and then experiencing what I need to experience to get to B, and then C, D, …  Here’s how Lex expresses the inexpressible:

From our perspective as seekers, we may imagine that we will someday turn a certain spiritual corner, finally to experience the vast new vision of what is truly ultimate.  But this is to misunderstand the Ultimate.  Turiya is not any particular experience but is what constitutes all experiences.

He refers to the “biggest” consciousness as turiya.  It seems to me like the essence of all people and things and moments.  All of this is aglow from within.  Maybe a simple white candle burns always in my chest and yours, an eternal flame.  Maybe your favourite tree holds the same candle … your bed, your coffee, your coat.  A building, a street, a field, a mountain, a lake.

Perhaps it’s all perfect – this moment and every other one.  Today I couldn’t find my vehicle permit for Hugo.  I need to have all the paperwork in place by Sunday.  I looked everywhere, watching my frustration grow.  Perfect?  Even the part about frustration and fear?  Could be.  (Never did find the permit, but the Government of Ontario will replace it for $10.00.  Whew.)

Sometimes my responses to life’s travails are mellow.  That feels right – spiritual.  And I’ve defined the absence of such a mature (?) response as bad, as less than.  But what if I could easily get in touch with the adequacy of everything I receive and everything I send out, “positive” or “negative”?

Right now, Jody needs my help, and so I’m leaving our conversation.  In this instant, within this spaciousness, allowing myself to be shifted away from the task I’ve chosen is perfectly fine.  So I’ll see you later.

***

I gave Jody her daily injection of Fragmin, to treat her blood clots.  I get scared when I’m about to push the needle into her stomach, worried that I’ll hurt her.  Today, I did the deed while surrounded by space.  Within the fear was complete sufficiency.

I thought tonight about how to access this turiya.  If only I could think of one word that would trigger an opening.  It sure wouldn’t be turiya.  Apart from the writings of Lex and another fellow named Ken Wilber, I’ve never heard of the term.  It doesn’t shine inside me.  I’ve often thought of the word Spirit, with a capital T, but that’s not it either.  Okay.  I decided to wait for it to be revealed.

I didn’t have to wait for long.  Jody was angry with me for an hour or so. During that time together, I let a vast consciousness be there.  And a word naturally came to the surface … “candle”.  Yes.  That feels right.

Jody has now fallen asleep.  Even though the residue of her anger is still with me, so is a little white candle, and the moment is illuminated.  Plus I just thought of a song by Peter, Paul and Mary:

Don’t let the light go out
It’s lasted for so many years
Don’t let the light go out
Let it shine through our love and our tears

Works for me

Meditating with Jody

It’s 7:00 am and I’m sitting beside Jody’s bed after she’s asked for a drink of water.  She’s dozed off again.  And so I’ll meditate.  I find that I usually can fall deeply within a minute or two.  The Buddha talked about “choiceless awareness”, allowing whatever thoughts, feelings and bodily sensations that come up to be there, and just watching them as they arrive and later leave.

I used to wonder what to do with my hands, but why bother?  Now I just cup my right hand in the left, letting my right thumb rest on the left one.  I can’t hear my breath.  It’s very slow.  I’m very still.  Cozy.

I hear Jody’s slow breathing.  I smile and let it embrace me.  Sometimes there’s a break in the rhythm – a little grunt – and I smile some more.  All part of the symphony.  My breathing and Jody’s aren’t on the same beat, and that doesn’t matter at all.  Actually, nothing matters.  I just welcome the moments as they come towards me.

My stomach groinks, and then once again.  Jody’s replies with a similar sound.  My goodness, it’s a conversation.  Another smile.  I know that a small clock is sitting nearby but I don’t open my eyes to see it.  Wouldn’t do me any good in the dark anyway.  I hear the thought, “Find out what time it is. Find out how long you’ve been meditating.”  A smile and a gentle “No thanks” in reply.

Thoughts of being in the meditation hall at IMS bubble up.  Comparing this to that.  And I watch that go.  Such a blessing to welcome it all – the arriving, the abiding, the departing.

Then the itch.  A few inches below my right nipple.  “Scratch it.”  “Don’t.”  I let it alone, just observing instead.  It gets stronger but after a short time lessens to nearly nothing.  As I continue, the itch flares again (five more times!) and then recedes, over and over.

I turn my head way to the left, and then to the right, enjoying the crackle sound.  “Don’t turn your head.  Be still.”  Later I turn again.  “It’s okay, Bruce.”  No right or wrong when I’m meditating.  No deficit.  And increasingly, no yearning.  I like it.

At some point, with Jody continuing to saw logs, I open my eyes in the dim light, get up from the chair and lie down again on the foam pad beside her bed.  I don’t look at the clock.  Everything is fine.

Lost

Sometimes my consciousness is “normal”, with me addressing the daily tasks of life.  Sometimes it’s spacious, as the flow of awareness and compassion holds me.  And sometimes there’s a jolt of disorientation as something completely new floods my being.

In the early 70s, I travelled with my girlfriend and her dad from Vancouver to the slopes of Mount Baker in Washington.  They were skiers.  I was not.  I strapped on my snowshoes and set off up a hill on my own.  Partly I was thrilled to be exploring solo, but there was an itsy bitsy parcel of fear as well. Soon the lodge was out of sight and it started to snow.  Gosh, what a winter wonderland!  I plodded onward, being careful to make my steps wide so that one snowshoe wouldn’t overlap the other.  At one point, I looked up and saw that the nearby trees were dimming … and then some more … and then gone. Everything was gone, in all directions.  I had walked into a whiteout.

There I stood.  Nowhere to go.  Not knowing uphill from down.  No idea how long it would last.  Stunned to silence and immobility.  All my insides were stunned as well – mind, heart and soul.  Would I survive this?  Is this the end of Bruce as we know him?  All the structures I had built around my humanity were gone, irrelevant.  It was like A, B, C, … Ψ.

I stood for at least twenty minutes.  Then the snow cleared.  But I was changed.

In August, 2010, Jody and I were driving back from Nova Scotia through the States.  After crossing back into Canada at Buffalo, we headed west on Highway 3, a secondary road.  I knew that sooner or later we’d catch a glimpse of Lake Erie on our left.  A couple of hours more and we’d be home. That trip was a lot of time behind the wheel, and I was tired.  On and on we went until there was a huge lake up ahead … on our right.  I pulled over and gazed out the window at the blue.  Huh?  Does not compute.  Actually, I wasn’t doing any computing.  I just sat there with my mouth open. Completely fried.  All functions having ground to a halt.  Stunned again.

There was a big empty space where brains should have been.  It had to be another planet I was on.  All thoughts of reason, of a gradual accumulation of life experience, frittered away.  Only many minutes later did Jody and I figure out how to get back to Earth.  For a short distance, Highway 3 curved to the right and headed north.  The idea was to turn left at a certain intersection to resume the westward trip.  I missed the turn.  And continued until I came upon … Lake Ontario.

A total break in the head
A discontinuity of consciousness
A plummet into the unknown
Lovely

Our Children

On one level of existence, we don’t have any young’uns.  But hey, why stick with just one version of life?  After we got married in 1988, Jody and I decided that we wouldn’t have any kids.  Instead we would do a lot of travelling.  But I can’t help imagining how it could have been …

Fifteen years ago, our reality snapped, and lo and behold, we were parents.  I don’t know how it happened.  Divine introspection perhaps.  Jody and I were blessed to welcome our son Dollop to the planet.  Such a fine lad, and he’s grown to be a quality dishwasher and lawn cutter.

Just before Dollop was born, I remember thinking that having one child was just the right amount.

Two years later, along came our darling Puce.  A brother needs a sister, right? She was so sweet, and still is.  From Barbies to boys, it’s been a long road, and such a pleasant one.  Someday, I’m going to walk her down the aisle.

Just before Puce was born, friends and neighbours told us they were green with envy that we were about to have a daughter.

In 2010, we were both super busy, but gosh – there’s always time for childbirth.  I was holding Jody’s hand in the delivery room as Inkling emerged into the world.  Soon red hair and a fiery personality joined us at the breakfast table.  One of a kind you are, my dear.

Just before Inkling was born, I had an idea that there was a princess on the way.

With the foundation of a really good housekeeping team in place, Jody and I were delighted that Squirm decided to join us … out of the blue.  Unexpected but not neglected, we loved her to bits.  A very active child, she’s always enjoyed life’s twists and turns.  Lovely.

Just before Squirm was born, I remember feeling really antsy.  How would we cope with four kids?  As it’s turned out, no problemo.

We both thought that was it.  For years the Kerrs were a scintillating sixsome.  And then just last week, Santa, the Easter Bunny or maybe David Letterman plopped a new being in our laps.  Imagine – Jody at 54 and me at 65!  Thank you, Somersault.  Seven of us.  Aren’t we a lucky family?  And who knows what this young boy will become?

Just before Somersault was born, I woke up in the middle of the night, absolutely flipping out.  I’ve calmed down since.

So there you have it, folks.  We’re very proud.  I’ll send you a photo sometime.

 

ta-pocketa

It was 1964 and I wasn’t liking much of Grade 10.  A notable exception to the muddy flow of life was Miss Bruce (no relation).  She was our easy-to-look-at young English teacher.  The source of many a fantasy for Bruce Archer Kerr. Plus we got to read a lot of cool stuff in her class.

These days I ask myself what I remember from high school studies.  Not very much of a pleasant nature, I’m afraid.  But there was a short story by James Thurber that has stayed with me all these years: “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”. Now it’s a movie, and I read recently that it doesn’t keep to the story very well.  I don’t know … haven’t seen it.

From the very beginning, I’ve yearned to be a hero, and in Grade 10 Walter was my guy.  Henpecked by his semi-lovely wife, he sought solace in his mind.  As a navy pilot in the heart of a hurricane.  As a renowned surgeon inserting a fountain pen into a damaged anesthetizer.  As a World War II flying ace in a pitched battle with the Germans.

And in each desperate situation, there was the noise of a machine in the background, urging Mitty/Kerr on to victory.

“I’m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander.  “Throw on the power lights!  Rev her up to 8,500!  We’re going through!”  The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

I stood taller after selected English classes.  Never mind the acne.  Never mind the monosyllables with girls.  Never mind the nude swimming classes for a terrified non-swimmer.  Inside, Kerr of the Yukon forged his way through the great northern wilderness.

In 2000 or so, Jody and I bought titanium road bikes.  I had the choice of keeping the frame’s metallic sheen or having it painted.  I chose a blended red and yellow.  The bike shop owner also said that I could have a name printed in black on the top tube.  So yes to that too.  Not “Bruce”.  Not “Road Warrior”.  Certainly not “B Kerr”.  You know what bubbled to the surface of my latently heroic mind.

As senior citizenship has somehow snuck up on me, Walter is alive and well. A spiritual teacher speaking to hundreds in Boston’s Beacon Theater.  A humble Canadian author stepping onto the stage in Stockholm, Sweden to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Roger “Bruce” Bannister circling the Iffley Road Track in Oxford, England four times on May 6, 1954, hitting the tape in a time of 3:59.4, the first human being to break the four-minute mile.  The crowd went nuts.  Bruce acknowledged them with a tiny wave.

I love being in the here and now.  There and then isn’t bad either.

 

 

Laughing with Kabir

Kabir was a mystic poet in India during the 1400s.  He rejected the rigidities of Hinduism and Islam, and wrote ecstatic poetry about experiencing union with God.  He also chuckled a lot, sometimes enjoying the presence of others, and sometimes gently mocking the world’s foibles.  Here are a few choice quotes:

The caller calls in a loud voice to the Holy One at dusk
Why?  Surely the Holy One is not deaf
He hears the delicate anklets that ring on the feet of an insect as it walks

Why should I flail about with words
When love has made the space inside me full of light?

I laugh when I hear that the fish in the water is thirsty
You don’t grasp the fact that what is most alive of all is inside your own house
And so you walk from one holy city to the next with a confused look!

Do you have a body?  Don’t sit on the porch!  Go out and walk in the rain!

It is time to put up a love-swing!
Tie the body and tie the mind
So that they swing between the arms of the Secret One you love

The Sacred Books of the East are nothing but words
I looked through their covers one day sideways
What Kabir talks of is only what he has lived through
If you have not lived through something, it is not true

Don’t go outside your house to see flowers
My friend, don’t bother with that excursion
Inside your body there are flowers
One flower has a thousand petals
That will do for a place to sit

Suppose you scrub your ethical skin until it shines but inside there is no music
Then what?
Mohammed’s son pores over words and points out this and that
But if his chest is not soaked dark with love
Then what?

Then what, indeed.  Not what this life is intended to be.  I have so many spiritual books but they only touch me if I in turn breathe life into them. Along with Kabir, “if you have not lived through something, it is not true.” Each day, then, I listen inside for the sweet ring of “yes”.  If the package I hold in my hands sings to me, then I place it gently on my shelf so that I may enjoy it another day as well.

And as for the lightness of life, where do I find people who laugh and laugh and then laugh some more?  Who open and open and open some more?  I bet Kabir would say …

Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money
Maybe we’re ragged and funny
But we travel along
Singing a song, side by side

Oh, we don’t know what’s coming tomorrow
Maybe it’s trouble and sorrow
But we’ll travel the road
Sharing our load, side by side