Category Archives: Uncategorized

A Circle of Drums

Yesterday was sunny and warm in London … such a blessing.  I strolled into Victoria Park – ten acres of green grass and mature trees – and sat on a bench.  Just me and the birds, except for that group of people over there.  Actually a circle of folks sitting on the grass, most of them with a drum on their lap.  Even from a hundred yards away, the sound was hypnotic.  The rhythms moved deep within me.  I closed my eyes and opened my heart.

Then I looked more carefully at these people, about twenty of them, mostly young adults with a few kids sprinkled in.  Two of the women who weren’t drumming stood and danced in their long patterned skirts.  One of them picked up a hula hoop and whirled it around.

I was transported back to the 1970’s, to the Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island.  Lots of gentle movement there too.  Friendly faces.  Big smiles.  No problem, man.  In Victoria Park, the sun was falling between the trees, illuminating those flowing skirts and drumming hands.  I smiled.  How about if the whole world has a go with a drum on its lap?  We’d let the being emerge and the doing fade into the distance.

I closed my eyes again and began meditating.  The beat was strong, but over the minutes it lessened … and eventually stopped.  Excited voices for a bit.  And finally silence except for the breeze and the birdies.  Then I opened my eyes.  My friends were gone.  There was sadness in me.  May the good times never end.  But they do, of course, and that’s just the way life is.  Still, the beat goes on in the space where it had been.  The circle in the grass a hundred yards away still holds the joy of an hour before.  May I sense similar reminders of past glories as I walk through the day.

Turner Brown

Back in the 1990’s, Jody and I bought a light brown stuffed bear, about 18 inches tall.  Jody named him Turner Brown.  He has sat in our bedroom for many years.  After Jody died, I got closer to Turner.  I’m sad to admit that the two of us had often gone weeks between our chats.  No longer, though.  Turner and I talk every day, just like Jody and I do.

A few weeks ago, I went on a 9-day meditation retreat in Massachusetts.  More recently, I spent four days in Belleville.  There was no question each time … Turner Brown was coming with me.  I packed my suitcase, carefully placing my friend on his back on top of the clothes, and shut the fabric cover.  I prayed that Turner could breathe okay.  It turns out that he was fine.  There was a little bump pressing out from the suitcase.  I don’t think anybody noticed.

In my room in Barre, Turner sat on a chair.  In Belleville, I created a place of honour for him on a chest-of-drawers.  In our bedroom, it’s a chair again.  Every morning, I sit in front of Turner and make eye contact.  He seems comfortable with that.  I put my hand on his fuzzy head and say, “Turner Brown … … All beings everywhere.”  And I think of all of us, how fragile we are, how we need love.  Then I take my right hand and draw the outside of my fingers down his left cheek.  It’s one of my favourite gestures.  He gets it.  I hope all people do.

Speaking

I woke up yesterday morning and opened the pages of The London Free Press, our local paper.  There was an article about Art Boon, a 90-year-old World War II veteran who had participated in the liberation of Holland.  For all these years the Dutch people have revered Canadian troops for giving them their freedom.

Art has been invited to participate in the 70th anniversary of this momentous event and he wants his son Rick, an elementary school teacher in Stratford, Ontario, to accompany him, to share in the celebration and also assist with Art’s physical needs.

Rick’s school board has turned down his request for a 6-day unpaid leave.  And the media storm has stretched across Canada.  The article mentioned that there would be a town hall meeting on Thursday evening in Stratford to discuss the situation and possible solutions.  I put down the paper and realized … I’m going.  It felt right.  It also felt strange.  I have never been very political.  But Art and his fellow veterans need to be honoured and to be allowed to stand beside their family members in Holland.

I arrived in Stratford and was advised to go to Bentley’s Restaurant for a good burger.  I sat at the bar, beside a fellow who was on the edge of being drunk.  Also, he appeared to have a memory problem, as he told me over and over again about working in a plastics factory in the 1970’s.  But I enjoyed his company.  I paid attention to him.  I wonder how many people do that.  What I was doing was nothing special, just honouring a fellow human being.

Chairs were set up in a large room at Stratford’s City Hall.  On the stage, eight people took turns speaking: Art, a veteran of Bosnia and Afghanistan tours of duty, two representatives of the school board, an historian, a lawyer, a professional singer who lives in Stratford, and the chairman.  We also heard from a 16-year-old student and the mother of one of Rick Boon’s students.  I thought they all spoke well, with great sincerity and respect.  It’s so tempting to look at this issue as “I’m right.  You’re wrong,” but that’s not it.

I knew halfway through the proceedings that I would speak when the audience members were invited to do so.  It was a natural sureness.  No tension.  Later, I stood in a line at the microphone, waiting for my turn.  Now I was nervous, but I was fine with that.  Long ago, I learned that the best public speeches are real.  They don’t need to be polished, “professional”.  They just need to come from the heart.

My turn.  In the past I’ve often obsessed about how far my mouth should be from the microphone.  Just a wee bit of obsession last night.  Here’s approximately what I said:

“My name is Bruce Kerr.  I live in Union, Ontario.  I don’t really have an affiliation.  I read about this meeting in this morning’s London Free Press, and I wanted to come.

There are two perspectives here, and I think that they’re both valid.  However, one perspective can be “senior” to the other one – more valuable.  I’m a retired teacher.  I know something about collective agreements and I’m sure that working with them is difficult for school board members.  I know that with my former board, the phrase “exceptional circumstances” showed up in our agreements.  The other perspective focuses on the incredible gift that the Canadian troops gave to the Dutch people, and the value of father and son celebrating that together, and celebrating their love for each other.  Also I understand that Rick assists with some of Art’s physical needs.  I think this perspective is more valuable.

And I have a question: Concerning this issue, what are Rick Boon’s students learning?”

It was a rhetorical question.  I sat down.

I’m glad I spoke.  No fanfare.  No reporter asking me afterwards for further comment.  Just a natural speaking.  I said hi to a couple of people, walked out the door, got in my car Hugo, and drove home.

The Musicians of Orchestra London

I went to a concert tonight – 25 musicians playing classical music brilliantly in an old church with a wraparound balcony.  Up until a few months ago, these folks were the core of Orchestra London.  Then city council cut their funding and now the orchestra is virtually bankrupt.  How sad that our city of 350,000 no longer has funded classical music.

These players have a motto: “We Play On.”  And they most certainly do.  When we gave them a prolonged standing ovation at the end of the evening, there were tears in my eyes, and in those of several musicians.  Plus smiles all around.  We lightened their hearts, I do believe.

I sat in the third row, right in the centre, and I saw wondrous things.  The concertmaster (that is the violinist who sits close to the conductor and plays lots of solos) was a ball of passion.  He rocked forward and back.  He closed his eyes.  His notes, full of vibrato, were wondrous to behold.  At times, it looked like he was kissing someone.  At others, he seemed to be making love to his instrument.  The flautist was just as expressive.  Her head would dip and sway as she played her solo line.  And her long silver flute, usually held horizontally, would dip and sway as well.  It was all a dance.

The violinist closest to me had the most expressive eyes.  I was behind her and to the left so I could see her eyelashes move.  She would glance at her music, and then her eyelashes would rise as she looked at the conductor, keeping to the beat of his baton.  It was lovely to see.

I played cello from Grade 6 till Grade 13.  Why, oh why, did I give it up?  Tonight I watched the cello section intently.  When the cellist dips and sways, it’s a big instrument that moves around.

All these heads in motion.  All these eyes closing and opening again.  I couldn’t think of another profession where such expression is normal.  The average teacher doesn’t move like that.  Nor doctors, executives or plumbers.  It must be so cool.

We heard pieces from Mozart (composed when he was 17!), Wagner, Bartok and Haydn – different styles but the passion remained.  At one point, one of the musicians spoke to the audience.  She talked about classical music being “transformational”, beyond words.  Yes.  I was transported tonight to a land of tone and movement.  I’m glad I was there.

Welcomed to Belleville

I had never been to Belleville before.  But I’ll be back.  People were so kind to me.

It started with a phone call weeks ago to reserve a room at the Place Victoria Place Bed and Breakfast.  This fellow Gord was so … conversational.  This is good.  I’m going to enjoy this.  And I did.

Gord and Danielle are clearly proud of their home.  Danielle’s tour was done with such pleasure.  I loved the 12-foot ceilings, the white duvet in my white bedroom, the claw foot tub and clamshell sink, plus my own private sitting room.  But it’s people who make the world go round.  I was looking for a purveyor of liquorious fluids for Thursday’s supper, and Danielle recommended The Beaufort Pub.  The woman who served me at the bar (Valerie?) clearly enjoys Belleville, and I enjoyed her roast beef cradled in the world’s biggest Yorkshire pudding.  And my barmates were happy to talk.  We covered the NHL playoffs and the sad demise of the Bulls.  It didn’t matter that I was a stranger.  Nobody gave me the “Do I know you?” look.  Just folks.

Chatting at breakfast each morning was awfully fun.  On Saturday, I wanted to write a blog about my Friday walk, which took me way east on Dundas St. to a carwash and a convenience store.  I was obsessing about the name of the carwash.  I really wanted to include that but my brain wasn’t co-operating.  Gord took off to his computer and tried to find the name.  No luck.  And none with the Yellow Pages.  Danielle and Gord were even willing to get in their car and drive over there for me, but I asked them not to.  I wanted to write my blog and then get out into the Belleville world.  So the car wash remained anonymous.  But it’s coming to me now … I’m sure it’s called “Sammy’s Shiny Sudsy Car Wash”.  Yes, that’s it.

My hosts told me about the wonders of Sandbanks Park.  I’m definitely going to experience the dunes when I come back.  And Gord helped me locate a little strip of Belleville park near Great St. James St.  It turned out to be a wild place!

Still in the spirit of “We’re glad you’re here,” on Friday evening, after the performance of Jake’s Women, a guy in the theatre’s lobby asked me if I’d like to meet the cast.  “Yes, I sure would.”  This was Phil, who I later found out was the director.  He led me into a room off the lobby … and I’m confused about what occurred next.  It all happened so fast.  I think he looked at the cast members in the room and said, “This is Bruce.”  Then all these bright faces were turned towards me, smiles and hands heading my way.  I was known.  I was appreciated.  And I was welcomed into their dramatic world.  So touching.

Now I’m back in Union.  But Belleville is still vibrating in my heart.  My thanks to you all.

On the Trail And At The Play

Went splorin’ yesterday afternoon in Belleville.  Gord, my host at the B&B, suggested that I walk the trail beside the Bay of Quinte, so off I went.

Near the water I came upon a semi-circular path done with small paving stones.  And there were messages of love on many of the stones, to the dearly departed.  One stone expressed love for a family member, and the one below it said, “P.S.  I miss you.”  Lovely.  The stones breathed affection, appreciation and sadness, and I got to be there, watching.

I strolled eastward on the asphalt path, enjoying the bay, the trees, the cattails and the birds.  Most people responded smilingly to my “Hi”.  It all felt good.  I walked so slowly.  I love doing that.  One time Jody and I were staying at the Riu Tequila Hotel on the Mayan Riviera in Mexico.  The grounds were festooned with flowering bushes.  We dipsydoodled along.  Around day three, I announced to my dear wife that I had a goal: for us to be the slowest couple at the resort.  All was going well until one day I spied two elderly folks ahead of us.  We were catching up!  Darn.  Lots of smiles as we passed them at a moderate pace.  Oh well.  I looked at Jody and said, “you’re my little runner up”.  (Okay, that last sentence was a lie.  Seems to me that it’s some quote from a magnificent play, full of magnificent performances, that I saw awhile ago.)

Now, where was I?  Oh yes, the Belleville waterfront.  At one point the paved track ended, but I saw a short length of chain link fence ahead.  Beyond was a dirt path, cradled by bushes on either side.  Around the fence I went, and so began at least two miles of adventure.  Soon I beheld a huge weeping willow to my left, adorned with the light green beginnings of leaves.  I went over and stood under.  Jody was right beside me.  “I am this tree, Bruce.  I shelter you.  I protect you.”  Familiar words.  I cried for my wife.

Farther along was a big marsh, again to the left.  I came past some bushes and came face-to-face with a white swan, who was paddling and dipping.  We talked a bit.  And then said goodbye.

Later things opened into a meadow, where I noticed a white thing on the ground.  Turns out it was a plastic sheet, and a big one, maybe fitting a queen bed.  “Well, we can’t have that sitting there among the beauty.”  So I picked it up and kept walking.  Soon I came upon “a good industrial landscape” (a quote from David Francey, a Canadian singer-songwriter).  There was a large cement foundation but only one wall standing.  And the top of the wall wasn’t a horizontal line, but instead the broken shape of a rounded mountain.  Sticking out of the top were long pieces of rebar, flowing every which way, like the arms of a dancer.  Cool.

I found an old road and followed to the left.  There was traffic ahead.  It was the east part of Dundas St.  As I got closer, I saw that my way was blocked by more chain link, supplemented by barbed wire.  My heart moved higher.  As worry started to take over, I glanced to the right and saw a dirt path that took me to the highway.  Gosh, I think that someone is looking after me.  Always.

I hauled my white blob across Dundas, wondering where I would deposit the sheet.  But my answer was right in front of me – a pink garbage can by the vacuum station of a self-serve car wash.  In she went.  Across the street was Mr. Convenience.  I was ready for food.  I went inside and picked up representatives of Canada’s four major food groups – SmartFood cheesy popcorn, honey peanuts, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Gatorade.  Yum.  I sat down facing some old cattails and ate meditatively.  I was having fun.

Heading back towards downtown, I strolled into McDonalds.  Since Canada’s fifth food group is Smarties McFlurries, I decided to participate.  I sat beside a couple who looked pretty down-and-out.  She hadn’t taken care of herself over the years and dearly missed her deceased parents.  We had a good talk.  At one point, I looked out at the parking lot.  And there was a young woman, sitting on a low cement barrier, head down, crying.  Then she lay down, still crying.  A woman came over and sat beside her.  Sometimes she talked to the girl, and sometimes just sat with her.  It was very beautiful to see.  But the crying continued.  I had finished my ice cream and told my new friends that I was going to walk out there and see if there was anything I could do.  They told me that I shouldn’t get involved, that the girl might hurt me.  I smiled, but I knew I was going over there.

First I phoned 911, worried that the girl might hurt herself.  The dispatcher told me that she was well known to police, was mentally unstable, and often didn’t take her meds.  She wasn’t a danger to herself or others.  “A lost soul.”  Well, lost souls deserve to be found.  I walked over as the Good Samaritan was getting ready to leave.  We talked a bit.  And then I asked the girl if I could sit down beside her.  I didn’t sense any response through the tears, either positive or negative.  So I sat down.  I tried saying a few things to her, and then realized that wasn’t it.  My meditation practice has taught me that the most powerful giving is “being with”, without judgment, and without speaking.  So we sat together for about twenty minutes.  I wasn’t pushing love out to her, but love was flowing.  At the end of that time, she asked for some money.  I gave her some.  She got up and walked over to Subway.  Fare thee well, my dear.

***

Wow, that’s a lot of words, and I haven’t even told you about Jake’s Women.  I enjoyed the second night as much as the first.  Seeing Bill play Jake on night one, I had questioned my ability to do the job he was doing, to memorize all those lines and to wander with such grace through the emotional spectrum that is Jake.  Last night, I let that go.  I sat there enjoying the story and celebrating the actor and actresses who made their characters real – human beings that I’ve met in my life.  I realized that I can be Jake.

There were some scenes that may bring me to tears onstage.  Is it okay for an actor to cry?  What if I can’t stop the tears when I’m supposed to deliver a funny line?  Lots of I don’t knows.

Jody and I didn’t have kids.  We decided to focus on travel.  That decision is one of only two things I regret in my life.  The other is that Jody died so early, at age 54, and that we can’t hold hands anymore.  As for the kids, my favourite scene in Jake’s Women comes at the end of Act 1.  His wife Maggie has just left him, wanting a six-month separation.  Jake sits on the couch, head down.  And along come two versions of his daughter Molly, one at age 12, and the current Molly, age 21.  They sit beside him.  The love they all share is front and centre.  Jake puts his right arm around young Molly and his left one around older Molly.  They sit quietly … and fade to black.  Oh my.  I have so much wanted a daughter.

In Act 2, there’s a scene in which Julie (Jake’s wife who died in a car accident) and Jake kiss.  “Goodbye, Jake.”  Oh my again.  Thinking of my darling Jody, how can I not cry?  I miss her so.

At the end of the evening, I got to meet the cast.  Wow!  I’m running out of writing oomph here, so I’ll save that story for tomorrow morning.  It’s a lovely one.

One of the cast members asked me if I would write a review of the play and their performances.  Sure, I’ll do that.  Also tomorrow morning.

As for today, it’s more walking, a beer at the Red Lion Pub, and a rendezvous with a love story.

On The Train And At The Play

So off I went yesterday, taking VIA Rail from London to Belleville, a trip of 6 hours including a stopover in Toronto.  I found my precious window seat and introduced myself to my neighbour.  I’ll call him Trevor.

We talking about lots of stuff, including our interest in Buddhism.  Trevor and I compared notes about the retreats we’d been on.  Very cool.  He mentioned a book that sounded familiar.  The author started with an historical incident, in which Chinese troops were chasing Tibetan refugees who were fleeing their country for Nepal, and wove a tale of adventure and morality.  “It’s called _____________,” Trevor said.

“I have that one on my Kobo.  Haven’t read it yet.”  And our discussion continued.  Only after a minute or two did I clue in to the fact that I was sitting beside the author.  My small voice said, “Golly gee.  I’m talking to a famous person.”  Happily, that voice closed its mouth almost immediately.  We were just folks, Trevor and me, chatting about our love of words.  It was fun.

Later, as we said goodbye, Trevor and I exchanged books … his about nineteen human beings who were “cast adrift on an ice floe”, mine about my dear wife Jody.  At the Bed and Breakfast in Belleville, I read snippets of reviews about Trevor and his story:

“A triumph of a novel … [Trevor] has pulled off a masterpiece.”

” _______________ is up there with the best work in the genre … This is gripping stuff.”

What a blessing to have spent time with Trevor.  But truly, what a blessing it is to spend time with anyone.  We all glow, even though with some of us, the body is currently hemming it in.

***

“The play’s the thing.”  Would you believe I just made that up?  No, I didn’t think so.  It was time for the first of three performances of Jake’s Women at the Pinnacle Playhouse.  I walked in the door, showed a woman my Internet ticket for last night’s show, and she walked off into another room.  “I’ll be right back.”  When she returned, she was carrying three real tickets wrapped in a little piece of notepaper.  I opened the note and read:

“Hi Bruce,

Read your blog.  Glad to have you here.  Enjoy the show(s).  See you after.

The Cast of Jake’s Women”

Awesome!  I cried out in joy in the lobby.  Another woman approached me and I showed her the note.  She had seen it before.  Her husband had written it.  “I know who you are,” she said, smiling.  Oh, this is a good time.

I sat in the front row and watched Jake’s every move, every subtlety of mouth and hands, of tone and pause.  He was magnificent.  I was happy for him.  And the woman playing his wife Maggie so deeply inhabited her role, it was a joy to see.

***

It’s Friday morning.  After a yummy breakfast, I’m in a sitting room, cheerily tapping away.  I’m so glad I’m here.  After a day of meandering around downtown Belleville, strolling by the Moira River, and perhaps getting lost in the trees of Riverside Park, it’ll be time for round two of Jake’s Women.  I’m ready.

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.