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Better and Worse

Yesterday I worked myself through five sports sections of the London Free Press – Tuesday to Saturday.  I had finally caught up enough in my PVR viewing of the World Cup to do the deed.  (I still can’t look at the Monday, Tuesday and now Wednesday editions since I haven’t seen the championship game.)  What strangeness to pick up the paper from the mailbox, fold it in half and then religiously avoid looking at any print as I walk up the driveway. Inside the house, I stuff it under some other papers to make sure I don’t see any headlines.  And then all the personal support workers in our home need to be coached about never leaving the sports section exposed on the dining room table.  Such a lot of work!

My conclusion has been that it’s better for me to not know who won a certain game.  The surprise moments need to be experienced.  It’s not good enough for me to enjoy the flow of the game, armed with knowledge of the result.  But maybe I’m wrong.  What does it do to me to walk around with a “this, but not that” stance in life?  Well, for one thing, I know it can create some horribly tense moments.  One of out PSWs walked in a few days ago with a big smile on her face.  “The only thing I’m going to tell you is that Brazil plays Argentina today.”  Reaction inside the bod: “No!”  Outside: “Oh.”  Just that dissonance is enough to rip a guy apart.

So I immediately launched into a series of calculations that led me to an inescapable conclusion – both Brazil and Argentina lost their Semi-Final games and would have met in the third place game this last Saturday.  Grrr.  Dear PSW, how could you ruin my day like that?  Eventually, I watched the Argentina-Netherlands Semi-Final, and guess what – Argentina won at the very last moment with their final penalty kick.  All this angst about someone blabbing a soccer result … and she was just kidding!

“How do [I] do what [I] do to me?  If I only knew.”  So goes the song, sort of.  Then there’s my forays out into the community, committed to not knowing.  Yesterday was the dentist again, and the first thing I said to the sole occupant of the waiting room was “Please don’t tell me who won the World Cup.”  He smiled and said “I won’t.”  And this was 48 hours after the game had been played.  In the examination room, my first move was to ask for the remote.  No news station for me, with its twelve discreet bits of information staring at me every second … I retreated to a cartoon channel, where happily the characters didn’t mention soccer at all.

Last night, as the freezing started coming out, I was pretty groggy.  Of course, three fillings and a cleaning had their effect, as did the bike ride I went on in the morning,  but a basic choice I’ve been making was in the mix too.  All that psychic energy expended, all that contraction, all that strategizing … no thanks.

May I Suggest

In August, 2010, Jody and I drove to Nova Scotia to drink in the Lunenburg Folk Harbour Festival.  Some of my favourite singer-songwriters were performing: David Francey, James Keelaghan and the Barra MacNeils.  Five days of glorious folk music, with the evening concerts, in a huge white tent, running from 7:00 till midnight.

There were lots of workshops during the day at various venues in town.  We sat down one afternoon in the Lunenburg Opera House to hear groups who harmonized beautifully.

And along came Red Molly, three women based in New York City.  They favoured us (so true) with blissful vocals and a haunting message entitled “May I Suggest”.  Another one of those wide open mouth moments.  The song has stayed with me ever since, and it will continue to do so.

YouTube can help you experience the joy.  A search will yield several performances.  I recommend you listen to “Red Molly In Concert – May I Suggest”, the one indicating “by betsyfollystudios”.  Susan Werner wrote the song.  Would I ever like to sit down for a coffee with her.

See what you think:

May I Suggest

May I suggest
May I suggest to you
May I suggest this is the best part of your life
May I suggest
This time is blessed for you
This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright
Just turn your head
And you’ll begin to see
The thousand reasons that were just beyond your sight
The reasons why
Why I suggest to you
Why I suggest this is the best part of your life

How about if this very moment is blessed for me, no matter what’s happening or how I’m feeling?  How about if I can access timelessness and untold beauty right now, with no effort?  How about if light of a very subtle kind surrounds me (and you) always?  If all this is just beyond my sight, maybe I just need to turn my head a bit.  Maybe just look up a bit.  I know it’s there.

There is a world
That’s been addressed to you
Addressed to you, intended only for your eyes
A secret world
Like a treasure chest to you
Of private scenes and brilliant dreams that mesmerise
A lover’s trusting smile
A tiny baby’s hands
The million stars that fill the turning sky at night
Oh I suggest
Oh I suggest to you
Oh I suggest this is the best part of your life

I am loved.  So are you.  Something unnameable, I’ll call it Spirit with a capital S, is waiting, ready to open a door that I didn’t know was there.  And when I see what’s inside the room revealed, I’m sure that those smiles and hands and stars will stop me in my tracks.  And close my mouth.  Simply awe.

There is a hope
That’s been expressed in you
The hope of seven generations, maybe more
And this is the faith
That they invest in you
It’s that you’ll do one better than was done before
Inside you know
Inside you understand
Inside you know what’s yours to finally set right
And I suggest
And I suggest to you
And I suggest this is the best part of your life

I think of my grandpa, of sitting at his knee on the cement porch of his farmhouse,  listening to the stories pour out.  Grandpa gave me his heart and soul, though he would never have expressed it that way.  And now to pass it on.  Better?  I don’t know.  How could I possibly add to grandpa waving his hand around at the peak of the tale, looking me right in the eye as he scared me, or moved me, or made me smile?

This is a song
Comes from the west to you
Comes from the west, comes from the slowly setting sun
With a request
With a request of you
To see how very short the endless days will run
And when they’re gone
And when the dark descends
Oh we’d give anything for one more hour of light

There are a few Internet passwords I like.  One is “lasttime”.  Because I never know if tonight will be the final time I’ll say “Good night, Jodiette.  Sweet dreams”, or tomorrow smiling at a stranger, or sitting at the edge of the field watching turkey vultures soar.  Please may I have many more hours of light.  There is much to give.

And I suggest this is the best part of your life

July 14, 2014 at 7:53 pm will do just fine.

 

Christ the Redeemer

It’s a 125-foot statue of Jesus that looks down on the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and its harbour.  If you go to Google Images, you’ll find many stunning photos of this wonder of the world.  For many years, its beauty has held a sacred spot in some nook of my brain, but TV coverage of the World Cup has moved it to front and centre.

Christ the Redeemer draws forth a spirit from me.  Words stop and I just look.  I don’t analyze and I don’t compare.  Having said that, I guess that what I’m about to say is creating words and suggesting an analysis.  But whatever I say will fall short of the silence.  That’s okay.  I’ll just point to something that’s very, very big.

Jesus stands tall.  He’s erect but without strain.  He’s reaching his full height.  I can live an upright life as well, neither swaying to the left nor right, as the world presses me to.  I can be morally true, responding to others in ways that honour their being.

Jesus holds his arms out wide, his fingers gently extended, apparently needing no effort to hold the pose.  Horizontal.  I too can be level in my life, treating all people with the same respect, compassion and love.  No one better and no one worse.

Jesus bows his head, not pushing himself forward.  Instead, “I bow to the divine in you.”  I am not inferior to you, nor superior.  I’m not even “equal”.  You and I are simply waves on the ocean, one no more wet than the other.

Although I’m not sure, I thinks that Jesus’ eyes are closed, so that he can touch a power beyond, and bring it back to us frail residents of planet Earth.  I  close my eyes in meditation, bringing forth something beyond space and time.

Thank you to Heitor da Silva Costa for designing the statue, and to Paul Landowski for sculpting it.  Their work is a gift to all human beings, of any religion or none.

Namaste

Defeat and Triumph

I’m a bit behind in my World Cup watching on the PVR.  This morning I took in the Brazil-Germany Semi-Final that was played on Tuesday.  I’ve been absolutely committed to avoiding any soccer news – hiding the sports section on myself, having a friend set up the PVR for a game featuring teams I didn’t know were playing, prepping the hygienist at the dental office to make sure the overhead TV wasn’t on a sports channel.  Such dedication to the world of surprise.

And the game today was one shocking surprise.  In the first half, Germany scored four goals in six minutes on its way to a 7-1 thrashing of the host country.  Such a match is virtually unheard of, and created a lot of hurt among the 58,000 mostly Brazilian fans.

There was so much to see during those 90 minutes.  It seemed that all of human nature was on display:

***

The Brazilian team, mouths wide open as they sang their national anthem

A young Brazilian woman, face painted in her country’s colours, tears flowing

German fans, all decked out in red, black and yellow, jumping up and up and up

German players playing less aggressively in the second half, showing some mercy

Brazilian fans, late in the game, shouting “Ole!” after each successful German pass

Fred, one of Brazil’s star players, being booed lustily when he was replaced

Andre Schurrle launching a ball into the tiniest space of the top left corner … Goal!

A section of Brazilian fans, their faces dead, applauding Schurrle for his brilliance

Near the end, a Brazilian player helping a German player to his feet after a collision

Feeling the agony of 200,000,000 Brazilians after the team’s worst ever defeat

***

Such a magnifying glass … sports.  Showing us our fragility, heartbreak, joy.  Arms straight up or face buried in hands, it’s the human condition.  Whether we’re German, Brazilian or Canadian, we know the story.

The Best Home

The Buddha was a pretty smart guy.  My favourite ideas of his are called the Brahma Viharas.  These are four ways of living which together contribute to other human beings, and if practiced, shower great happiness on you.  Simple ideas, but not simple to live day-to-day.

I’ve grappled with these qualities for many years, to have them be my automatic response to life, requiring no effort.  I’ve had some moments of success and many periods of being unconscious to their beauty.  It’s a remarkable journey.

The first is lovingkindness.  Just as it sounds.  “Be ye kind.”  “Love them all.”  Of course, it’s easy to love some folks, the ones who are friendly and upbeat.  But what about those who have been mean to me, who have tried to stifle my aliveness?  In my better moments, love flows naturally from me to them.  At those times, I don’t feel angry at them for the injustice.  Instead I’m sad, thinking about the rotten karma they’re creating for themselves.  I believe the energy that each of us puts out into the world eventually makes its way back to us, in this case causing great pain.  I don’t want that for the ones who have hurt me.  They too deserve love.  “Hatred never ends through hatred.  By non-hate alone does it end.”

Compassion is the second trait.  Sometimes, when I see sadness in another, or low self-esteem, or physical pain, I feel my heart opening, and the “shimmering down” of energy inside me begins.  There are so many people who seem overwhelmed with the curve balls of life.  On our trips into St. Thomas, we pass the entrance to a psychiatric hospital.  In good weather, several patients are outside, sitting on the curb, some smoking.  I can feel the anguish.  It makes me sad.  There is a practice called tonglen, which asks me to breathe in the pain of others and breathe out goodness.  It seems like a self-destructive thing to do, but it has brought me great peace.

Altruistic joy is my favourite among the four.  Some writers refer to it as sympathetic joy, but that doesn’t ring true for me.  It suggests feeling sorry for someone.  I think altruism is a marvelous word … it’s not about me.  The Buddha taught that it’s possible to feel delight when faced with the good fortune of another person.  When I’ve experienced this quality, I just feel so light.  One time years ago, Jody and I were walking in Stanley Park, near the entrance to the Vancouver Aquarium.  I didn’t think we had the money to go in there, an attitude of deficit that has never served me.  On the flip side, though, I was astonished to see how happy I was for the folks paying the fee and going inside.  I still remember that vividly.  And I usually smile to myself when I see happiness in front of me.

Equanimity is the fourth trait … to let whatever comes my way be all right.  “Welcome everything.”  If I’m experiencing a difficult situation, I can work at improving it in the future, but right now what you see is what you get.  Can I feel fine when someone I love is enjoying the company of another person, rather than mine?  Can I forgive myself for the financial mistakes I’ve made?  Can I see all parts of the roller coaster as part of the trip?  I think so.

These four are a pretty good place to call home.  It’s okay to be on vacation for short spells, but home is where I belong.

It Makes Me Happy

To lie in bed with Jody, holding hands

To go see the cashier, instead of paying at the pump

To watch the hummer at the very top of our blue spruce, surveying their kingdom

To drink big gulps from my shining green Herbal Magic water bottle

To sit curled up in my man chair, reading a cool Buddhist book

To inject Jody with Fragmin without hurting her

To wander down a wooded path in London’s Gibbons Park

To smile at a person who’s sad

To touch my bald head and feel the brain parts inside

To put on my cycling jersey with the snarling clown on it

To whee down the big hill on Fruit Ridge Line astride my bike Ta-pocketa

To sit in front of the Buddha statue on the patio, with a candle lighting his face

To make people laugh

To watch one person enjoying the company of another

To wrap my hands around a mug of hot Dulce de Leche

To watch Bill Murray in The Razor’s Edge for the umpteenth time (It’s not a comedy)

To drive at the speed limit on a two-lane highway, watching the world float by

To sing Annie’s Song to Jody, adding a special Irish Blessing verse

To read Mr. Mercedes, Stephen King’s latest, out loud to my lovely wife

To eat pesto pasta with friends

To sit in a sidewalk cafe on an incredibly steep street in San Francisco, just looking

To rub the tummy of our neighbour’s cat Pretty, listening to her purr

To lie in bed at night, cozy under the blanket, listening to the rain pelt down

To breathe life into Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown

To write

 

 

 

The PW and Me

I worked at the Prince of Wales Hotel for five summers – 1969, 1970, 1974, 1975 and 1976.  The PW is a grand chalet-style hotel, perched on a hill above the northern end of Upper Waterton Lake, with mountains running southward on both sides towards Glacier National Park in Montana.  I had marvelous adventures during the tourist season, hiking many trails with many friends.  The fall of 1974, however, was another kettle of fish.

Johnny, the hotel’s caretaker, had asked me to stay for September and October to close the grand old lady down.  I became a specialist in draining toilets and putting up shutters.  I slept in my room at the middle dorm – the only person there.  After all the summer parties in employees’ rooms, and the general hustle and bustle in the hallways, there was silence.  I didn’t even want to play music.  Spent a lot of evenings under my comforter, looking out the window at Waterton Lake and thinking about life.

Mealtime was another story.  I ate in Johnny’s house – with him, his wife Jean and son Brent … just a wee little lad.  I sat across from Brent and loved pointing behind him (“Look who’s there, Brent!”), and having him turn to see.  Then I’d take his plate of food and put it on my lap.  Looking back, I’m sure that he figured out my ruse pretty quickly, but kept going because the game was fun.  Many years later, back visiting family in Lethbridge, Alberta (near Waterton), Jody and I were walking through a mall when a young man looked funny at me, came right up, and said, “You stole my food!”  It took me a few seconds, but I finally got it.  “Brent!”  Very lovely.

Back in 1974, it was just Johnny and me in the hotel for eight hours a day.  I loved the old place and still do.  It was built in 1927, I believe by the Great Northern Railroad.  Imagine tall rough-hewed beams of dark wood, am immense chandelier way up there and maybe the best view in the world.  Seven stories altogether, with the last two squeezed under the eaves, and a series of interior balconies looking down on the lobby.  Cozy leather sofas were available to both guests and staff, and I spent many an hour listening to the string quartet and watching folks from around the world stroll towards the dining room.

In the fall of 1974, I often leaned over the fourth floor balcony, with no Johnny in sight, opened my mouth, and sang.  The voice was pretty good.  The acoustics were sublime.  And the world stopped.  One of my all-time best memories.

Johnny and I took breaks together, downing a lot of black coffee.  He was such a gentle man, almost always sporting a big grin.  We both loved the place.  The fact that Johnny liked me made such a difference in my life.  I needed someone to like me – preferably a girl, but Johnny would do until the love of my life decided to show up.

I wish you all could have been there in 1974, and felt the spirit of the PW.  Many of you, of course, were in other places, drinking in their essence.  And some of you hadn’t yet made your debut on this fine planet.  I bet that without you ever being there, you already know my dear old hotel.

 

Sanctuary

I went to see my dentist Paolo today, courtesy of three cavities.  His office is in a mall.  The rain was pelting down as I parked but I decided to walk at a normal pace towards the building.  Inside the door, I was soaked and very cold.  Plus several dry people were staring at the water running down my bald head (that’s a story for another time).  Customers carrying their bags passed to the left and right, and the teen clothing store near the dental office was a flurry of colours and music.  I wanted to be in a safe space, far from “the madding crowd”.

I walked into Paolo’s office, took off my dripping cycling jacket, and sat down on a leather love seat.  Cozy.  I looked at the magazine rack and spotted a Sports Illustrated featuring the San Antonio Spurs and their run to the NBA championship.  I hunkered down on the couch and started to read.  Even better, the receptionist came up to me to say that my appointment would be delayed for 20 minutes or so.  So I got to read the whole article, which focused on the Spurs’ inspired passing and team play.  Yummy.

Once I got into the examination room, I started shaking – it was a lot colder than the waiting area.  Bonnie, my hygienist, brought me a blanket and covered me collarbone to ankle.  Oh, cozy some more.  After Paolo injected the freezing agent, Bonnie and I talked as we waited for my mouth and tongue to go numb.  She used to be a swimmer at school, and mentioned one race where she had to do the breast stroke for two laps of the pool, and thought her lungs were going to burst.  She did it though.  I saw a bit of sadness there.  I talked about my storied football career – just one year, in Grade 9, when I was on the third string of the bantam team.  I never got into a game.  I also told Bonnie how I love cycling, and how I’m just getting back to it after stopping everything when Jody got sick.  This was fun, two new friends chatting about life – until my mouth became inoperative.

I was safe, and felt that way throughout the two hours, with the possible exception of Paolo using his grinder on me.  That didn’t hurt – just lots of pressure and a burnt smell.  Melissa was the person responsible for inserting the white fillings, and she and Bonnie often had their gloved fingers in my mouth at the same time.  That felt good, as did their friendly talk.  Sometimes I looked up at the overhead TV.  A woman named Katie was hosting a show.  Her next segment was on mindfulness, a subject dear to my heart.  My eyes opened wide when I saw that one of her guests was Sharon Salzberg.  She’s one of the co-founders of the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, where I’ve attended three meditation retreats.  So I had another friend while in the dental chair.  Nice.

Part way through Melissa’s work, with those ever present fingers touching me, I shut my eyes and meditated.  So quiet.  Mall, what mall?

After the whole show was wrapped up, I said goodbye to Bonnie at the reception desk.  She’s on vacation next week … thinks she’ll go for a swim.  Think I’ll go for a ride.  Twin smiles.

Sing Me a Love Song

“Play your guitar.”  Although the request was from my lovely wife Jodiette, I gulped.  It had been so long.  But why had it been so long?  I took group lessons in Ottawa in 1972.  During the spring of 1974, I often took my guitar out to the beach in Vancouver.  And in the summer of 1975, when I was managing the laundry at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, me and my guitar were pretty much joined at the hip.  I played in a staff talent show, and later that year sang “Hello In There” to folks who were with me on Vancouver Island at a workshop called “Coming Alive”.  So why did I let the musical zest seep away?  I don’t know.

A few nights ago, I played “For You” for Jody, complete with not-quite-right-on chords and a questionable approximation of the melodies.  Jody loved it.  She cried.  And I loved hearing my voice again.  I went to the Internet and found the lyrics and chords for some old favourites:  “The Mary Ellen Carter”, “How Can I Tell You That I Love You?”, “Help Me Make It Through The Night”.  And somehow I made it through the songs, with the finger burn making me stop eventually.  But it was a very sweet hour.

Over the last few days, I’ve forgiven myself for having let the guitar go, for not singing to my darling all these years.  I vaguely remembered having a thick file folder full of songs but I had no idea where it was.  Jody said, “Look in the piano bench.”  And lo and behold, there it was.  I also found eight sheets of paper, dated February, 1997, with the title “Songs I Want to Learn” … 115 in all (sadly, none of them learned).

Such a strange journey we’re on, full of imperfect choices and odd diminishments of aliveness, having had no intention of doing so.  It’s as if I’ve been asleep at times, in some sort of trance, walking the expected walk through the events of the day.  Jody has asked me to wake up.  And so I am, with many stories, melodies, harmonies and chords to come.

May ABBA teach us all:

Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing
Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me

Complete

Last night, Jody was sitting up on her side of the bed, and I was in a chair beside her.  Right in front of me was the tiny wooden table that holds her Kleenex, water bottle and a bowl for meds.  I looked at the light brown hand towel that covers the table, and especially at the tag hanging from it, the one with washing instructions.  My forehead wrinkled, and inside I said “No”.  I wanted the towel to be pure towel.  I wanted the essence of towel to be all I saw.  I knew that the towel didn’t need the adornment of “Machine wash in cold water.  Tumble dry low.  Remove promptly.”  It was a diminishment of towelness.

I feel the same way about meatloaf.  Don’t want the heavy gravy.  I need to sense the beef itself, and the spices the chef used.  Sometimes I get strange looks from people, implying that I’m not dressing up my food appropriately.  “So boring, Bruce.”  Oh well … it just feels like a different drummer, wanting to taste all the subtleties.  No better and no worse than anybody else.

The beauty of the blue spruce tree in our backyard is just so “balanced”, symmetrical.  And the light turquoise tips blend naturally with the brownish needles closer to the trunk.  It is enough.  At Christmas, our neighbour festoons his spruce tree on the front lawn with strings of multi-coloured lights.  In that context, I see this too as “sufficient unto the day”, with its own beauty.  But some folks add blinking lights to their display … and that draws forth another “No” from me.

I’ve always enjoyed watching movies in theatres.  I went to Expo 67 in Montreal as a teenager, and one day was watching a film outdoors with hundreds of others.  Suddenly something happened that I had never experienced before – instead of one image on the screen, there were now two!  A collective gasp filled the space.  I enjoyed the novelty, and actually was shocked by it, but the fact that I needed my eyes to go back and forth to see both movies started feeling like … no.  In 2014, many advertisements have pictures flashing by every second, assaulting my sense of now.  I don’t like it.

Perhaps I have a towel, tree, light and film idiosyncrasy.  I don’t mind.