Category Archives: Uncategorized

Many Over the Land

I was driving back from south London’s Costco this afternoon, having accumulated a good share of groceries and meds for Jody.  After rounding the Glanworth Curve, I saw some dots of white far up on the right.  As I got closer, I saw that the dots were seagulls, feeding on the dark brown of a farmer’s field.  Perhaps a thousand of them.  I was struck by the beauty, by the white and brown contrast, and by something else.  Something unspoken but so clearly present in the moment.  All these beings on God’s brown earth.

Five minutes later, far up on the left, was an orange stippling of the ground. Soon I could see that pumpkins protected part of another field.  The contrast this time was orange on brown, but no less lovely.  The gourds were another type of being, resting gently on the soil, waiting for pies and Jack O’ Lanterns.  Struck again.

Why did these displays draw me so?  And why did they happen one after the other?

My brain transported me back to 1992.  October.  The sixth game of the World Series, between the Atlanta Braves and my beloved Toronto Blue Jays.  I and 47,000 other faithful showed up at the SkyDome to watch the festivities. Except there was no baseball in Toronto that day, nothing happening on the field.  The game was in Atlanta, and we were watching it on the JumboTron.  I spent a lot of time looking at my fellow parishioners, worshipping at the shrine of the slider and the long ball.  Look at all of us, watching TV!  I loved them a bit.  They were my family of the evening.  And the moving sway of multicoloured dots filled nearly every seat.

As Mike Timlin threw the ball to first for the final out, we rose as one body, cheering and high fiving … the Blue Jays had won their first ever World Series.  Minutes later, maybe 20,000 of us were walking noisily up Yonge St. Such a flow.  Such joy.  And no looting, no overturned cars.  I walked north for the seven miles it took to get home, feeling the loss of the folks who turned left here and turned right there.  Family.

During the summer of 2008, Jody and I took the train to Quebec City to help celebrate the city’s 400th anniversary.  We decided to go see an evening concert on the Plains of Abraham, the site where the British defeated the French in 1759.  “Simple Plan” was playing.  We started up the trail which left the boardwalk by the Chateau Frontenac Hotel.  As we climbed higher, we could hear the band above us.  Finally it felt like the next rise would be our last … and it was.  As we reached the peak, we gazed down at a tiny stage very far away.  Between us and the band sat and stood and danced 100,000 people. So said the paper the next day.  Knolls of folks.  Meadows of folks.  A rolling blanket of humanity scattered on the plain.  I was struck dumb.  The music was fine but the spirit among us was … big.  So infinitely big.  I rocked and rolled inside my soul for hours.

Seagulls, pumpkins, baseball fans and concertgoers – spreading out to cover the planet.

Comforts

Especially now that Jody is sick, I grasp onto the little pleasures that come my way.  It’s almost like sucking my thumb when I was a kid.  I did that until Grade 5, accompanied by my teddy bear Teddy.  I remember the overwhelming sadness I felt when Teddy’s head fell off.  Soon after that, my thumb started morphing into other pursuits – showing appreciation, creative twiddling, and eventually hitchhiking.

Today, I still need my teddy.  The first one is the London Free Press sports section.  I start on the front page, looking for stories that show human beings being human.  Let’s say it’s an article about the London Knights Junior A hockey team (young guys between 16 and 20).  If the article continues on page 3, I go there to finish it.  Generally though, I start on the first page and proceed on from there in order.  A lovely ritual or a deviant rigidity?  Who cares?  It makes me feel cozy.

I also love rows of sports stats, usually printed in the tiniest of fonts.  Jody has always called this particular passion my idiotsyncrasy.  Hey, it’s okay if it is.

I have a favourite ceramic mug.  Actually, I’m looking at it right now.  It’s tall and blends from a dark blue glaze at the bottom to a delicate pink one at the top.  And it feels just perfect in my hand.  Once my coffee or tea cools down a bit, I like wrapping both hands around.  The warmth spreads through me.  Ahhh.

I’ve mentioned my man chair before in these posts.  It’s a green upholstered Lazy Boy.  (And I just remembered that it’s featured in my photo for WordPress.)  I love pulling the lever to get the footrest to push out and the head to go back.  I get my knees up and prop my book against them.  More bliss.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been sleeping on a foam pad next to Jody’s hospital bed.  I lay a flat sheet on the pad and cover myself with a second sheet and a blanket.  Then I arrange things by my neck just so.  The edge of the top sheet has to curl back over the blanket so the sheet is what I feel.  Since the sheet and blanket are loose at the bottom, I then throw my legs into the air, so the covers fall over my toes.  When I bring my legs back down, I’m snug as a bug in a rug.  Yum.

That’s all the symbols of soothing I can think of right now.  I’ll let you know if other ones float down upon me.

The Five Precepts

The Buddha had some pretty good ideas about how to lead a life.  Much of his wisdom focused on what he called the five precepts.  Here they are:

Do no harm to anyone
Take nothing that is not freely given
Speak truthfully and helpfully
Use my sexual energy wisely
And keep my mind clear

Can my happiness really be as simple as this?   Maybe I don’t have to read 1000-page texts written centuries ago.  Maybe I don’t have to dedicate an hour or more a day to formal sitting meditation practice.  Maybe I don’t have to remember a single phrase of liberated understanding.  How about if I just do five little things?

***

Don’t hurt anyone or anything.  Not even an insect.  Not even someone who talks rudely to me.  Not even someone who sees me as a “thing” to be ignored or brushed past.  Don’t get angry.  Don’t get even.  Love the transgressor as the victim they are.

Don’t misuse other people’s property or time.  Allow them to come towards me if they choose, and to stay away if that better meets their needs.  If they love someone else far more than loving me, even if I deeply desire that love, have that be okay.

Let go of the words of anger (antagonism, outrage, hatred, impatience, resentment, …) and deception (falsehood, hypocrisy, trickery, craftiness, guile, …) and embrace the words of love (tenderness, appreciation, fondness, cherishing, friendship, …) and kindness (altruism, sweetness, good will, gentleness, benevolence, …).

Let my erotica be I-Thou, you more than me, companions, making love, connection, transparency, without boundary, pleasuring, enfolding, caressing, allowing, joining and giving.

No Coors Light, no Cabernet Merlot, no Mai Tai, no shot glasses, no pitchers, no carafes, no woozy, no tipsy, no plastered.

***

Smart guy

Last Time

I like those two words so much that I often use them as my user name on Internet sites.  (Don’t tell anyone, please.)  I realize that any given moment could be the very last time I see someone or something, I do something, I experience something.  We just don’t know.

Yesterday Jody spent many hours being disoriented.  She slept well, thanks to an increased dose of her sedative.  When she awoke this morning (with me lying beside her bed on a foam pad), I sensed that Jody was “there” as she asked for water.  I wondered whether this was the last time we would have an oriented conversation.  And so, I began:

“I love you, my dear.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m glad you’re my wife.”

“I’m glad you’re my wife … (smiles) … husband.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

To be so present right then was stunning and truly wonderful.  Oh, if only I could be this way always with everyone, not knowing if this time is our last.  I’m thinking of an old friend Linda, whom I palled (or is that “paled” – no, that’s not right) around with at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Alberta, and later in Vancouver.  We had such good talks.  Linda was the older sister I never had.  And then we lost touch.  Miraculously, years later, I saw her on the streets of Calgary and introduced her to Jody.  And then she was gone, and she remains so.  Was I present to our moment of departure from each other?  I fear not.

***

When will be the last time that I:

– ride my bike ta-pocketa?

– eat pumpkin pie?

– go dancing?

– write a post in Bruce’s Blog?

– walk in the mountains?

– tell someone I love them?

– sing a song and play guitar?

– sit cozied up in my man chair, reading a good book?

– set foot in my home … 6265 Bostwick Road, Union, Ontario?

– wear a t-shirt and shorts?

– say something silly?

– speak?

– shave?

– be on a beach in the Caribbean?

– drive a car?

– josh around with people at Costco?

– make love?

– watch “The Razor’s Edge” and “Titanic”?  (my two favourite movies)

– am with Jody?

– awaken?

***

The mystery unfoldeth

 

Voices

I think that voices can heal.  It’s not just the pitch, the inflection, the flow. Something can reside behind those, and can reach out and touch us, if we have ears and souls to hear.  Like this:

He began with a simple song, something in Gaelic with a strong rhyming chime to the lines, accompanied by the merest touch of his harp strings, so that each plucked string seemed by its vibration to carry the echo of the words from one line to the next.  The voice was also deceptively simple.  You thought at first there was nothing much to it – pleasant, but without much strength.  And then you found that the sound went straight through you, and each syllable was crystal clear, whether you understood it or not, echoing poignantly inside your head.

It’s good to have the sound go straight through you.  And to be affected profoundly, whether you’re conscious of that or not.

Here are two voices that have moved me:

Frank Muller was the narrator of many audio books, including “The Body” by Stephen King.  I was right there with him as four young boys went in search of a dead body by the railroad tracks.  Those four guys seeped inside me, thanks to Stephen and Frank.  Here is what Mr. Muller had to say about his art:

Building to crescendos, weaving the arc of a story over so many hours, requires total perspective and sure sense of direction.  And intimacy.  An audio book is a very intimate one-on-one relationship between reader and listener.  The microphone is the ear of the listener.  I often imagine that I’m sitting on a comfortable couch speaking the narrative text into the listener’s ear.  When the characters speak, they parade around in front of us, and we watch them together.

Patrick Stewart was the actor who portrayed Captain Jean-Luc Picard in “Star Trek: The Next Generation”.  Sure he had a Shakespearean background, but he mesmerized me far beyond that.  He seemed to stop, to sit in the middle of the present moment, when he spoke.  He often used few words, with my favourites being “Make it so”.  His rich baritone enveloped me.  And then there were the inexpressibles … about which therefore there is nothing to say.

I like my voice.  I don’t try to make it “good”.  I just speak.  And I do believe it reaches people.  I want to embrace the world in any way I can … by eyes, ears, fingers and mouth.

Lost and Found

Since bedtime last night, Jody has been crying a lot and angry a lot about what looks like oncoming death.  Such profound despair.  And such a natural reaction.

What can I do?  From way down inside comes “I don’t know”.  When Jody is lucid, I think my words make some difference.  When she’s not, all they seem to do is feed the flames of her anguish.  When I read to Jody, it seems that my voice soothes her.  And I brush her hair.  She softens then.  Last night, she didn’t want me to touch her, so I sadly withdrew my hand.  I tried to breathe in her pain and breathe out my love for her, but I was too lost to keep that up for long.  So I just sat beside.  I was in her presence.  She was in mine.

Often it feels like I’m being ripped apart, or disassembled.  What I’ve taken to be Bruce (happy, witty, determined, spontaneous) seems to be dissolving.  You know, that person, that separate entity walking the earth.  As Jody’s crying goes on for an hour or more, there’s a profound letting go in me.  Something remains after the personality fades.  I don’t know what it is.  I guess it’s okay to not know.

Do I need these moments of heartbreak to open to what’s next for me?  Perhaps.  It feels like a cleansing, maybe more like a violent dermal abrasion in that it hurts while it heals.

I love Jody so much.  At times like these, it doesn’t seem important what comes back from her.  It doesn’t seem like there’s much of a me for it to come back to.  Beneath my sadness is a big open space and immense quiet.  The intensity of my need for the usuals falls away: quality conversations, high self-esteem, physical comfort, getting enough good food, having alone time, breaking an hour for the time trial on my bike ta-pocketa, reading a good book.  Okay without that.

No movement away from the present moment
No deficiency
No needs

Forgiveness

I read something recently that touched me:

O Lord, remember not only the men and women of goodwill but also those of ill will.  But do not only remember the suffering they have inflicted on us.  Remember too the fruits we have found thanks to this suffering – our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, our courage and generosity, the greatness of heart which has grown out of all this.  And when they come to judgment, let all their fruits which we have borne also be a part of their forgiveness.

(Prayer written by an unknown prisoner
in the Ravensbrück Concentration Camp
and found on a piece of wrapping paper in the camp
near the body of a dead child)

Love thine enemies, indeed.  I wonder if this prisoner was able to love his captors more deeply than feel the pain they were inflicting on him or her.  Could he or she look first at the horrible karma they were creating for themselves, and be sad for them?

In my life, many have sent me ill will.  Some of them, I believe, were furious about my spontaneity.  Some no doubt hated me for being popular.  Who knows … maybe the fact that I enjoyed life and other people was an affront.  Here are a few of those folks:

1.  I was out with a friend at a restaurant.  He had driven.  I said something that offended him.  He stood up, glowered at me, and left.  I walked the five miles home.

2.  A supervisor didn’t like how I was doing my job.  He reported me to the powers-that-be.  I was grilled during two long meetings with Human Resources, with the possibility of being fired hanging in the air.

3.  A teenaged girl accused me of sexual harassment.  I was innocent.  She apparently had to lash out at someone, and she picked me.  Until I was cleared of this charge, I suffered a lot.

These three people are probably still out there in the world somewhere.  I hope they are happy.  I hope they are surrounded by human beings who love them.  I let them go.

Alone in a Room

Somehow, this is special – to be all alone in a large room, one that’s used for meetings, gatherings, and socializing.  Me and a big space.  And when I’m quiet in that space, all by myself, it’s a holy feeling.

My most vivid memory of this is one late evening during a retreat at the Insight Meditation Society.  The last sitting was over at 9:30, and I had gone outside to sit with a cup of tea and the stars.  And now to bed?  No, actually, back into the meditation hall.  I walked in, glanced around, and saw that I was alone.  Facing the statue of the Buddha at the front were rows of square purple meditation cushions, with chairs at the sides and back.  Just me.  I sat on a chair in the back middle, central to the Buddha’s gaze.  And something slowly happened.  In my meditation, I could feel warmth cuddle me close.  I got glimmers of all the human beings who had sat here since 1976, and I felt cradled in their company.  I stayed a long time.

About ten years ago, I had the rare opportunity to visit my former high school during school hours – Lawrence Park Collegiate in Toronto.  I walked into the foyer to find my name on a plaque … and there I was, circa 1967.  Ahead of me were the doors to the auditorium.  I pulled on a handle and it gave, opening to me a grand space of soft chairs sloping down to the stage.  I walked a few rows in and sat down.  Just me.  And so quiet.  I remembered the acne-sprouted teenager who sat in these chairs – for assemblies, concerts and plays.  I also remember the young cellist who got to play some stunning symphonies on the stage, surrounded by many gifted musicians.  A younger man, and he sat there quietly beside me.

And then there was the fall of 1974 when I helped the caretaker close up the Prince of Wales Hotel in the Rockies of Alberta.  Built in 1927 as a huge chalet, the PW’s interior beams and posts of the darkest wood, plus its chandelier and interior walkways, left me in awe.  And that fall I often got to be on the fourth floor balcony alone, looking down into the lobby as I sang a little song.  And then fall silent as the space of history wrapped itself around me.  Just me.

***

Three big rooms and an itsy bitsy human being, enjoying each other’s company

 

Waiting with You

Jody had a hankering for Chinese food yesterday and one of our PSWs recommended a restaurant in London.  So off I went to gather in some breaded shrimp, Oriental noodles, chicken fried rice and lemon chicken.  Other than my bike rides every second day, I don’t leave our home very often, usually just to get groceries and meds and then scurry back.  I used to like writing about my adventures out in the world that day, but it hasn’t happened much lately.

After I gave my order to a most delightful hostess, I plopped down in a chair, and saw that I had company in the takeout department.  Near me sat a woman in her 50s, deeply tanned and sporting an exotic hairstyle – lots of curls here and there.  In the other direction, a grandma and her perhaps six-year-old grandson faced each other across a small glass-topped table.

“What should we do while we wait, grandma?”

“Let’s play hockey.”

“Okay.”

With that, the woman pulled a quarter out of her purse and instructed the young man about the rules of the game.  Finger on the coin at the near edge of the table.  Brush it forward towards the far side, where the other person is waiting, holding two fingers up as goalposts.  Either you score or you don’t.  Then it’s the other person’s turn.  The woman suggested that the boy be Canada and she’d be the USA.  The fellow heartily agreed.

So back and forth they went.  Lots of cheers and groans.  And I didn’t have to pay for a front row seat!  At one point, grandson said, “Isn’t it time for the Zamboni to clean the ice?”  (For those of you unfamiliar with hockey games, the Zamboni is a vehicle that melts the surface of the ice, making it smooth for the next period’s play.)  Grandma sighed, and told the boy that unfortunately the restaurant didn’t come equipped with a Zamboni.  “Let’s keep playing.”  And they did … until a brown paper bag and a smiling hostess appeared in front of them.  Game over.

As they headed towards the door, I asked grandma what the final score was.  She smiled with her whole body and said “5-2 Canada”.  Well done, young man.

Basking in the glow of this lovely encounter with professional athletes, I said hello to the woman with the tan.  She smiled back and mentioned the sunny fall weather we were having.  I agreed.  She talked about the tough winter we’d had.  My response?  “I like weather.”  Seeing an opportunity for storytelling, I told my new friend about the time I’d spent Christmas in Honolulu, and how seeing wizened little Christmas trees, and Santa in shorts, just seemed … wrong.  I had asked one Hawaiian gentleman what the weather was like in March or August, and he had replied, “Oh, about the same”.  And that had made me sad, leaving me longing for snow, blasting winds and tingling fingers (but not quite freezing rain).

The lady asked me about Hawaii, what I enjoyed about it. “Waikiki Beach was cool, although it was very crowded.  The best, though, was Hanauma Bay, where I walked knee deep into the water and found myself surrounded by all sorts of colourful fish.”

And then … another bag.  Another moment with the gracious hostess.  It was my turn.  Story over.  My weather companion and I smiled at each other and said goodbye.  Truly, a good time.

 

Thou Shalt Not Kill

A hapless clumsy spider tripped and fallen in the sink?  Everything stops.  Down slides a paper towel spidey-ladder to the rescue, and when the creature steps aboard, it’s lifted outside and set gently in the garden, tucked away with soothing words and soft warnings that sinks are not safe places for spiders to play.

Would that I were always this type of person.  Most of the time, I am.  I have copyrighted a method for depositing spiders, bees and other Godly creatures safely outdoors.  On the top shelf of a closet just off the kitchen sits a small margarine tub (empty) and a manilla file folder.  If the wee timorous beastie is clinging to a window screen or sunbathing on the kitchen counter, I sneak up, tub in hand, and move to hovering position about six inches from said bug.  Then, with the reflexes of a World Series pitcher, I attach tub to surface in one swell foop.  The other hand has been holding the file folder, which I then slip behind the tub.  Grabbing the edge of the folder and keeping a firm grip on the container, I lift off.  And voila – I march resolutely to the front door (pre-opened, which you could say presents more opportunities for bug rescue), walk outside, and throw my arms into the air, sending tub and folder flying along with my winged friend.  If the momentary prisoner is a spider, I’m far more gentle.  Either way, the bottom line is that the visitor lives.

One time, when I was on a silent retreat at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, I had a chance to reveal my skills to the world.  One hundred of us retreatants were having lunch, when I noticed a wasp high up on one of the big windows, frantically seeking escape.  No margarine tub in sight, nor a file folder.  There was worry, however, about what my fellow yogis would think of my probable action.  No thought of them thinking well of me for saving a life, just afraid of their criticism.  (Sigh)  I stewed only for a minute or so.  “Just do it, Bruce.  It’s a living being who needs your help.”  So I got up, went to the foyer where I remembered seeing a large laminated card listing instructions about something or other, grabbed the card, plucked a small bowl from its pile, marched back to my table, got up on a chair … and hovered, trying to push aside my fear of the stinger.  “But bowl against glass is going to make an awful noise!” …  “Good grief, please be quiet.”  Plunk.  Slide.  Grab hold with both hands.  Down from the chair.  Hip open the door.  Fly!

Then serenely back to my spot, eyes down to avoid likely stares, sit down, and resume my enjoyment of vegetarian lasagna.  And a deeper enjoyment as well.

So I’m pretty good with spiders and bees.  But then there are flies.  Those little so-and-so’s are too fast for my tub/folder trick.  So I’ve most often used a weapon of destruction – the fly swatter.  I have killed, many times.  All to avoid the buzzing, the alighting, the darned inconvenience!  Today, I vow to never again raise that long-handled piece of yellow rubber.  I vow to flick the little ones away, but not to crush the life out of them.  Thinking practically, flies don’t live long.  Thinking spiritually, I will let them be.  I promise you.