Category Archives: Uncategorized

The Woman and the Bee

My wife Jody has been sick for many months and only recently have we been getting out into the community.  Today there was an extra special reason to go – our 26th anniversary.  Neither of us had got a card for our loved one, so a trip to Shoppers Drug Mart was in order.  Linda, Jody’s personal support worker, and I assisted her from her wheelchair into Hugo, our Honda CRV.  And then back into the wheelchair a few minutes later for a stroll down the card aisle, not to mention the glory of cosmetics.  Linda put her body between Jody and me to block any chance of me seeing the choice of card.  Then, after a half hour of girl time, we were off – to wonder at hundreds of swallows zooming around Hugo on Dexter Line, right beside Lake Erie.  Finally a stop at Shaw’s, our local ice cream emporium, for the decadence of a chocolate brownie cone.  And then home.

Linda and I assisted Jody into a lounge chair on our patio.  Jody asked for pen and paper.  I was sitting right close, but she asked me to back my chair up for the privacy of inscription.  As I moved the little red chair, I looked down and saw a bee sitting on the stone and squirming some.  Maybe I had knocked it with the chair.

And there we were, pens in hands, minds creating words of love, two silences ten feet apart.  I started … but couldn’t help gazing at the bee.  It was pushing the air madly with its wings, but staying on the ground.  It sort of waddled a few inches, wings still a blur.  Guilt swept over me.  When a person is hurting, you can see the pain on their face.  But I couldn’t see the anguish on that tiny bee.  I tried to feel its hurt, and I couldn’t.  An ant came over to the bee and seemed to bite it.  A flurry of wing, then stillness.  The ant left and the bee stillness remained.

I looked over at Jody and her pen was moving, her face a study in concentration.  Back to the bee – still no movement.  Then to my writing.  Back to Jody.  Back to the bee.  After maybe three minutes, still a tiny motionless speck on the stone.  “Please don’t be dead.”

A glance over to Jody, and she was beckoning me over.  I moved my chair close and opened the envelope.  Precious words of wifely endearment rolled over me.  I kissed Jody and tasted her tears.

Jody: “You are the most wonderful man.”

Bruce: “You have loved me for so long and have always thought of me first.”

Our eyes met and met and met again.  Happy anniversary.

And the bee had flown.

Church of the Grocery Lineup

I have an odd take on the word “church”: to me it’s any place where two or more people make spiritual contact, where they connect at a selfless level.  The Real Canadian SuperStore qualifies.

Yesterday I had just a few items to pick up.  Having accumulated two tubs of cottage cheese, two plastic boxes of blueberries, six red peppers and a brick of mozzarella cheese, I took an infrequent trip down the express lane.  Piece of cake to be on my way in a minute or two.

The woman ahead of me had her twelve or fewer items spread out on the conveyor belt.  But her box of tea bags was scanning with the regular price, not the cool deal she had seen in the coffee and tea aisle.  The cashier called for help on the phone but nobody was available to answer right away.  My cuppa friend glanced at the growing line of folks and gave me a tight little smile.  “It’s okay,” I said with a grin.  “Life happens.”

Part of me wanted to turn back to the customers behind me.  I knew they were there.  I wanted to chat with them but I sensed that I would be drawn into the play of hurry and contraction.  So I didn’t rotate to face them.  The woman on pause in front of me didn’t need that.  She hadn’t done anything wrong.  She just wanted to get the right price.  She tossed a bigger smile my way and I responded in kind.  It was our shared church service.

Several minutes later, after the correct price was located (my friend’s price), and points had been recalculated,  she turned to leave.  The “Thank  you” that flowed from her mouth to my heart went down deep.

My turn.  No price worries with my bundle of goodies.  “I’m sorry for the delay, sir.”  “Not important,” I replied.  Co-smiles.  As I picked up the two bags to leave, I looked at my companions to the rear.  The four humans there all seemed calm.  One was laughing with her neighbour.  Just laughing, not laughing at.

I like being in church.

 

 

Mount Lineham: View from the Top

It was 1969, and I had just taken the train from Toronto to start work in the mountains, at Waterton Lakes National Park, Alberta.  Every day off from the hotel was a hike – slopes that this Ontario kid had never experienced.  My new friend Vince and I decided one day to take the Rowe Lakes trail.  The turquoise waters of Lower and Upper Rowe Lakes beckoned.  Partway along the trail up the valley, the trees parted, and a scree slope presented itself on the right, drawing our eyes up and up to the top of Mount Lineham.  Vince and I looked at each other and knew what our next free day would be about – straight up the slope to the first mountain peak experienced by kids from Regina and Toronto.

And that’s what we did, not realizing that loose rock and gravel meant two feet up and one foot down.  So naive, and so eager.  Hour upon hour fell to our feet, and our breaks revealed the beauty of the mountain on the other side of the highway below us.  Each time we rested, that other mountain showed us its secrets – masses of evergreen yielding to scraggly pines, fields of scree, and tiny waterfalls.

Looking back up at Lineham, we wilderness virgins got to experience the “false summit” phenomenon.  What looked like the top from our angle simply wasn’t.  And it continued not to be … until …

The last hundred feet to the summit was an agonizing slog.  Breathing in loud gasps, we saw Alpine Forget-Me-Nots and orange lichen pass slowly beneath us.  And back the other way, we were just below the summit ridge of the neighbouring mountain.  I was nearly crawling, until finally the steepness lessened and lessened, till ahead we saw a plateau maybe twenty feet across.  Thirty steps to go … twenty … ten … three … and we stepped onto the top of the world.

A panorama of snow-capped peaks was suddenly all around us.  They stretched to four horizons, seas of white.

Silence from Vince.  Silence from me.  For many minutes.

***

In my todays, Mount Lineham remains.  Years ago, I read a description of “ah-ha” moments in a book.  The writer asked us to imagine being inside a tent, staring at the four brown walls.  Then some magical force grabs the ridgeline and hauls the canvas up and away, revealing a sublime beauty.  For me, it’s the beauty of the mountains surrounding Lineham on that sunny June day in 1969.   Whenever I want to, or really whenever I’m present enough to, the ordinary moments of my life are animated with white, and I’m welcomed to a vastness beyond words.

I Love You

Spouses and lovers holding hands on the couch, slipping into each other’s eyes.  A little girl and a little boy sitting on the asphalt, her hand over his bleeding knee.  A big slobbery dog smiling up at his master, wagging his tail wildly.  All love.  And at the deepest, I feel, no different from one another.

For me, when I love, there is a quietness in my body.  It’s like all the cells have come to a halt.  And there’s a “shimmering down” vibrating from my head southward, a little ripple of contentment.  They are feelings that often descend when I’m with my wife Jody.  But they can also show up in the classroom, on the highway, in the mall.  Sometimes I shimmer when I see kindness flowing from one human being to another.  Occasionally, I’ve felt love after reading the written word, even messages from people I’ve never met.

I’ve ended some e-mails with “I love you”, and it’s felt totally right.  Me aiming something at you.  When I’m less brave, I write “With love”.  Coming back to me, I usually see “Love” or “xoxo”.  Hardly ever “I love you”.  And that’s fine.  I bet there’s a shimmer behind the word.

I’m scared to say “I love you” in person, but on occasion I’ve girded my loins and uttered the phrase.  Why is it so hard to speak those three little words?  They’re such blessed words.  I wonder if people come my way in life who have never heard them.  I need to say them, and act in a way that expresses the love I feel.

There’s a song by John Prine called “Hello In There”.  Here’s a sample:

So if you’re walkin’ down the street sometime
And you should spot some hollow ancient eyes
Don’t you pass them by and stare
As if you didn’t care
Say “Hello in there. Hello”

Indeed.

 

 

 

 

Costa Rica versus Italy

In the World Cup of soccer, this is a minnow facing a salmon.  Costa Rica is ranked 28th in the world, with a population of 5,000,000.  Italy is 9th, with 61,000,000.  I wonder why I always pull for the underdog, the little guy.  I guess it’s a part of my “no one left out” vision of life.

So I want someone to win, and someone else to lose.  I get nervous when my team is behind.  Costa Rica is “me”, and Italy is certainly “not me”.  But Costa Rica doesn’t always succeed, and even if they do eventually win the match, they’re often trailing their opponent at the half.  So … I get to be unhappy a fair bit of the time.   Gosh, is that really necessary?  Isn’t there some other approach I can take to “the beautiful game”?

Maybe.  How about if I pull for the team who plays to win, rather than the one trying not to lose?  The players who push the ball up the field with long passes, who shoot first and pass second when the scoring opportunity is there, and on defence throw their foot at the opponent’s ball to knock it away, risking a penalty if that foot contacts leg first, rather than the ball.

Or … cheer for the team who really belts out their national anthem at the beginning of the game, whose fans chant and sing and jump up and down.  You know, a country that drips with passion for life.

On the other hand, maybe I don’t have to cheer for either team.  I could just drink in the essence of great plays – the hard shot that looks like it’s going wide right and then curves towards the net, only to be batted away by a horizontally leaping goaltender.  The deft flick of the head or of the outside of the foot, placing the ball softly at the feet of an onrushing teammate.  I could just cheer for wonderfulness, no matter the colour of the jersey.  And  I could stand up for games that are close all the way through, where the excellence of one team sparks the excellence of the other.  Wow … maybe I could be happy all the time during World Cup 2014.

By the way, Costa Rica won 1-0.  I’m happy.

 

 

Sitting and Watching

I retired yesterday and decided to declare 4:00 pm as the end point of my teaching career. My wife Jody and I have a lovely home on a deep lot. At the back of our lot are maybe 20 metres of trees, and then it’s on to a farmer’s field and beyond that a wide expanse of trees leading down into a ravine.

Taking my trusty red fabric chair in hand, not to mention a Bacardi Breezer, I trundled off to a spot at the edge of the field and plunked myself down. It was 3:00 o’clock. The sky was blue. The wind whistled through the trees. The shade was cool. One hour away from being a retired human being.

My mind raced. Then my mind stopped. Then raced again. How to analyze a career? (Don’t) Who are the dear souls I want to think about? (It’s okay if no one comes to mind) What are the moments of grace in the classroom and on the yard? (You may not remember)

So I let go. Not just into a meditative state, but into an okayness with whatever showed up. There was nothing to accomplish in this hour. “Bruce, let it all flow over you.” So I did.

I wanted birds. My sitting would be better with birds. For some of the time, no birds appeared. But I knew that birds often flew the sky in front of me. There was bird energy all around. And then they showed up. As many as five turkey vultures at one time, with their high arcs of swoop, sometimes way up there and sometimes almost touching the treetops. When there was only one vulture, I wanted two. Then that urge was gone, and I thought of the “ugly faces” that some folks see, somehow missing the glories of five feet of wing soaring so sweetly.

On the far side of the soybean field, the trees stretched in a wide arc. I wanted to know their names. I couldn’t remember many of the species I saw. And then … poof! The names meant nothing at all. Trees were there, just standing there, being trees.

Way off to the right, I heard the highway to Port Stanley. Trees blocked my view of the cars. That’s good – I need to have quiet. But then … I missed the people. I want to see the cars. The only note of civilization I could glimpse from my spot was one backyard. Good. I don’t want to be with people … But I love people. Why isn’t there anyone in the yard for me to wave to? And hey, aren’t I supposed to be thinking about my career? After all, it’s 3:23.

And then I just sat. All these thoughts, zooming every which way. “Bruce, they’re all okay.” There’s no right way to sit and watch.

The field rolled to my twin horizons. Such graceful curves of land. The trees stood there – light green, dark green, a few of them dead. Birds came and went. I thought of a kid. I thought of a school. I thought of nothing.
I had brought a fancy watch that I received from my school board as a retirement present. At 3:55, I put my eight fingers inside the metal band. “Thank you” bubbled up, and it didn’t matter who it was aimed at.

At 3:59, I started watching the second hand count me down to a new life. And guess what? It arrived. I threw my arms into the air and smiled. Wherever I am now is very fine. I think I’ll write.