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All Beings Everywhere

Like you, I had to choose a user name when I joined WordPress.  I tried “Brucio” but that was already taken.  Maybe I would have to go with”Brucio47″ to get the name accepted.  And I sure didn’t want that.  Part of the reason I started writing was to express ever more parts of what is both uniquely me and also inherent in all of us -47 made me cringe.

So … what word or words sing to me, I asked.  For a few minutes nothing came, and I was strangely okay with that.  I’ve learned to trust myself that ideas will be revealed.  And on June 15 or so, they did.  “All beings everywhere.”  May I honour them all – human, animal, insect.  And beyond that.  The Buddha described people in various ways.  Pairs of words that pointed to the beauty of us all.  I’d like to share his ideas with you, and see what bubbles up from me, so I may embrace each of God’s creatures.  Here goes:

All beings near and far

All beings known and unknown

All beings born and unborn

All beings from the north, south, east and west

All beings happy and unhappy

All beings enlightened and unenlightened

All beings male and female

All beings young and old

All beings physical and non-physical

All beings well and infirm

All beings “attractive” and “unattractive”

All beings here and there

All beings wealthy and poor

All beings of the land, air and water

All beings of the universe

All beings warm-blooded and cold

All beings strong and weak

All beings timid and brave

All beings assertive and withdrawn

All beings calm and anxious

All beings fashionable and unfashionable

All beings cool and nerdy

All beings fast and slow

All beings eloquent and tongue-tied

All beings sensitive and insensitive

All beings kind and cruel

All beings comfortable and in pain

All beings white, brown and black

All beings industrious and lazy

All beings intelligent and a little slow

All beings spontaneous and reticent

All beings able and disabled

All beings sighted and blind

All beings free and enslaved

All beings living in houses, apartments, group homes, and on the street

All beings worldly and local

All beings cold and warm

All beings fit and unfit

All beings fat and thin

All beings with hair black, brown, red, and none at all

All beings mobile and immobile

All beings generous and hoarding

All beings right-handed and left-handed

All beings who dance and those who don’t

All beings well fed and hungry

All beings included and excluded

All beings who say “yes” and those who say “no”

All beings who deserve love

All beings who want to be happy

All beings who suffer

All beings

 

 

 

 

 

 

Symphony

Perhaps it’s all music to the ears

A cellist playing the sublime melody of “The Swan”

The squeal of tires at the Monaco Grand Prix

Birdsong at dawn

A soloist singing “Amazing Grace” at a funeral Mass

The patter of raindrops on a tin roof

The moans of a mother during childbirth

Springsteen belting out “Badlands” in Barcelona to thousands of jumping up fans

Foster Hewitt shouting “He shoots, he scores!” after every goal at Toronto Maple Leaf hockey games in the 60s

The roar of an avalanche sweeping across a glacier near Lake Louise, Alberta

The whisper of “I love you” from one dear one to the other

The frenzy of three accordion players in Quebec City (definitely not “oom pah pah”)

Thousands of Brazilian fans singing their national anthem at the World Cup

The whistle of a steam locomotive crossing the far field of grandpa’s farm

The asthma patient’s wheezing as she climbs the stairs of her home

The song of crickets at twilight

The pitter patter of little feet on the hardwood

Jackie Evancho silencing the Christmas shoppers in Chicago with “O Holy Night”

The agonized scream of stitches coming out too late

The rustle of turning pages as a Constant Reader devours a Stephen King novel

Steaks sizzling on a barbeque

The soft whump of a volleyball lofted into the air for a teammate

The mutter of a jet engine passing 30,000 feet above me

The wind singing through the pines around a Canadian Rockies campfire

“F___ off!”

The tinkle of a coin dropped into a beggar’s cup

Silence

Look At Me

Call now and get Miracle Hair for $29.95 … the amazing new hair loss breakthrough that will give you the appearance of a full head of hair in just 60 seconds.

I wonder if I should call now.  I wasn’t planning on it, since my afternoon has been rolling along just fine, thank you.  I look in the mirror and I see … Bruce!  Somewhat untidy nose hairs, a blemish on my left cheek, baggy stuff under the eyes.  But definitely Bruce.

I look a little like David Letterman (George Clooney in my parallel fantasy life) but I certainly don’t want to be a celebrity.  Can you imagine being hounded by all those panzarotti?  Not being able to stroll downtown, chatting with passersby and seeing what’s in all those windows?  No thanks.

I suppose it would be good to be younger, with a six-pack on display, but my three- pack will do nicely.  As for the V-shaped body, what the heck’s wrong with a nice U?  Works for me.  And I can do that Incredible Hulk pose and grimace as well as anyone.  I just don’t take up the amount of space that the original did.

Until I started shaving my head in honour of my lovely wife Jodiette, I had beautiful golden brown curls … sort of.  Actually, I often told people that I had gray highlights put in at the hairstylist.  I’m sure most folks believed me.

As a young human, I had acne that left me with very few true friends and a yearbook photo that was speckled to say the least.  Clearasil treatments made me look even worse.  Somehow adulthood allowed me to grow past that.

I’ve been trying to reach the mythical Jesus height of six feet ever since I was 4’2″, but it’s never worked out for me.  I’m currently 5’10” and heading south, I believe.

For years I tried wearing contacts to invoke a Hollywood persona, but I just couldn’t see anything.  So it was back to a nose-weighing-down apparatus.  I look okay in glasses.

I don’t have the standard pot belly of a 65-year-old, and that makes me happy.  Guess I could work on one to help me fit in better.

I have a gorgeous tan but unfortunately it only extends to my head, forearms and knee caps.  When I was a timid teen, I used to glob on the autotan lotion, but that created a new definition of “streaker”.  The girls politely looked the other way.

Oh my goodness … what if all this stuff doesn’t matter?  Yes, I want to be healthy, but what’s the big deal about the package?  I do believe that I’m just fine, inside and out.  If someone else doesn’t think so … oh well.  On we go.

Not Knowing

I woke up at 7:00 this morning to the intermittent sound of “Beep, beep, beep” that I know only too well.  The smoke alarm near our kitchen.  The battery no doubt needed to be changed … and I’d been down that road before.

But today was uniquely today.  This sleepy human got up on a chair and unscrewed the alarm from its holder on the ceiling.  Piece of cake.  Then into the kitchen with its bright pot lights to open her up.  I had a new 9 volt battery ready to go.  Looks pretty simple – I’ll just twist the assembly to reveal the inner workings.  So I twisted.  And twisted harder.  Nothing.  “You’re not strong enough, Bruce.”  Well, that was a ridiculous thought.  Of course I’m stronger than an itsy bitsy smoke alarm.  So I grunted, and the alarm grunted back but wouldn’t open.  Okay, okay.  It’s got to be a “lift up” deal.  I found what looked to be an inviting thumb hole on the edge and pulled gently.  Open sesame.  Nope.  So I regrunted.  And the only response was a tiny smile spreading over the face of the alarm.  Yuck.

While all of this was happening, the beeps kept coming.  I tried pressing the “Silence Alarm” button.  All that did was initiate a constant brain-numbing squeal that threatened my sanity.  Despite the blare in my ears, I decided to read all visible instructions on the device.  Not a syllable about how to open the darned thing!  I twisted and pulled some more to no avail, and finally just held the beast up in one hand and stared it down.  “Stare away, buddy.  Won’t do you any good.”

A friend of ours is staying with Jody and me and he had gotten up to assess the state of the racket.  Neal took one look at my ceiling-dwelling friend, put his thumb in the thumb hole … and pulled.  You know the rest.  Open.  Battery inserted.  Replaced in its holder.  No more noise.

 Sigh

Life humbles me again and again.  This morning I developed a bad case of collapsed ego.  My mind assaulted me with a wide variety of “stupid you” invectives.  And then somehow it stopped.  And the tiny smile this time was on my lips.  There’s something strangely spacious about not being good at something.  I couldn’t recognize that in the moment, but “later” is a fine place for an opening of another kind.  Works for me.

 

Heaven and Hell

The great seventeenth century Japanese Rinzai Zen master Hakuin was once approached by a samurai warrior who asked Hakuin to explain heaven and hell to him. 

Hakuin looked up at the samurai and asked disdainfully, “How could a stupid, oafish ignoramus like you possibly understand such things?”  The samurai started to draw his sword and Hakuin chided, “So, you have a sword.  It’s probably as dull as your head!” 

In a rage, the proud warrior pulled out his sword, intending to cut off Hakuin’s head.  Hakuin stated calmly, “This is the gateway to hell.”

The startled samurai stopped, and with appreciation for Hakuin’s cool demeanour, sheathed his sword.  “This is the gateway to heaven,” said Hakuin softly.

Softly it is, I believe.  It’s a way of living with space around every word, thought and deed.  Room to breathe.  Often when I’m meditating, the breaths become so quiet that I don’t hear the air moving in and out.

Sometimes it’s the eyes of one meeting those of the other.  It could be for just a second, or far longer.  The moments of true contact are blessed … and they linger in the air for both of us to feel.

Softness and silence go well together.  The horizontal life of progressing towards a goal falls away before the vertical life of now.  In that precious instant, there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.  Later there’ll be time for making progress.

The brandished sword hurts the swordsman, cuts him to the quick.  All is tight, from the creased forehead to the clenched fingers to the contracted heart.  My anger hurries me away to what’s next.  It closes my eyes from true seeing.  It leaves me alone.

I wander in the world, touching antagonism and love, deficit and abundance, a wrenching belly and hands wide open.  My soul knows what needs to be done, but the rest of me may have lost the way.  And it’s all okay.  There’s no need to be better.  There’s no need for any particular thing to occur.  May I merely embrace all that the moments send my way.

Plato’s Cave

Plato was a Greek philosopher from around 400 B.C.  Another smart guy from history.  He reflected on what is real in life, and has shown us a new possibility using a powerful metaphor.

Plato asks us to imagine a cave, with a group of prisoners facing the back wall, their bodies and heads chained and unable to move.  Talk about a restricted view of life.  Behind these folks, near the entrance of the cave, is a massive bonfire.  Between the prisoners and the fire is a walkway on which other people walk by, carrying a varety of objects in their hands.  They cast shadows on the back wall, the only things that the immobilized humans can see.

If you can only see one thing, that has to be what’s real for you.  What if so much of our present day lives is just a shadow of reality?  Like gossip, small talk, complaining, winning and losing, better and worse, succeeding and failing?

The prisoners decided that the highest status holders among them were those who could best predict what shadow would come along the walkway next, or … seeing a particular shadow, be able to identify all its details of shape and size.  Those were the champions of life, similar to the ones today whom so many of us worship in the realms of sports and entertainment.  Could this all be false?

What would happen if someone released a prisoner from the chains (or they magically figured out how to set themselves free)?  No doubt they would turn around and see flesh-and-blood human beings walking in front of them, entities with a vibrant aliveness that they had never experienced before.  Would these beings be honoured and loved, or reviled and condemned?

And what of the fire?  Would the intense light blind them?  The heat fry their circuits?  Or would awe transform their faces?

Beyond the fire is the mouth of the cave, and past that the big, wide world … infinitely beyond those shadows.

What transcendent realities am I willing to let in?
What’s just too scary to accept?
Will I let my life be transformed?
Perhaps

Driving (Part One)

You learn a lot about people when you’re on the road.  Like myself, for instance.  I had the thought that since I’ve been meditating for years, it should all be smooth sailing (mixed metaphor, I know).  Oh well.

All it takes is for me to be approaching an intersection with an oncoming green, but with the orange “Don’t Walk” light flashing.  I can feel my body tensing up.  Not so long ago, I’d press the gas pedal hard to get through but I finally realized that the constant rhythm of speeding up and slowing down wasn’t what I wanted in life.  So now I lighten my foot and the yellow or green happens.  But the tightness remains.  I figure that I’ve many years of driving still ahead of me, so how cool that I’ll have all these future intersections to practice my mindfulness.

I first attended a retreat at the Insight Meditation Society in 2010.  I wanted to drive.  I wanted to be alone for a couple of days, and experience having no one know exactly where I was on planet Earth at any given moment, until I phoned Jody from my daily destination.  As I set out, already enjoying my aloneness, I felt peaceful.  I wanted the driving to be a preamable to the meditation.

My plan was to take secondary highways all the way from Union, Ontario to Barre, Massachusetts.  Nice two-lane blacktop.  And I left home with one assumption: in Ontario, all the way to Fort Erie, Canadian drivers would happily drive the speed limit with me (80 kilometres per hour, or 50 mph).  But once I’d cross the Niagara River into Buffalo, those darned Americans would tailgate me all the way across New York if I kept to 55 mph (or 90 kph).

It was early morning, not another car on the road.  A bit later, here comes someone from behind.  Coming fast, as a matter of fact.  And voila – there he or she was, stuck to my bumper.  After probably only a few seconds of that, the driver pulled the wheel right and zoomed noisily past me.  By mid-morning, Highway 3 was filling up, and the “car five feet behind my rear bumper” scenario was repeated over and over.  With fewer chances to pass, some drivers would jerk their auto to the centre line, looking for a break in the traffic.  Overall, I let my mindfulness fritter away.  I was shocked that we Canadians were so pushy, so “me, not you”.  That’s not who I am, is it?  After reflection, the answer came: “No, it’s not”.

Once I was off the mandatory section of Buffalo freeway, I found Highway 20 towards Albany and settled into my moderate journey across the state.  Or more accurately, prepared for the onslaught from the rear …  …  …

Guess what?  There was none.  I’d be toodling along at 55, glance into the rearview mirror, and see a driver several car lengths behind, matching my speed.  Oh, the bliss of space.  I got to look around at the world – the farmers’ fields, the cows, the heightening hills and the cutesy towns.  It seemed that half the houses were displaying the Stars and Stripes, and that made me happy.  Through New York and half of Massachusetts, I hardly ever encountered an impatient driver.  So much for stereotypes.  How wrong I was.

Then a week of slowness and silence at the retreat centre.  Sometime, I’ll tell you about it.  Coming back home, nothing on the road fazed me.  That tension at potentially yellowing lights was non-existent.  And out in the country, on a long series of rolling hills, another opportunity arose.  A semi-trailer was having trouble on the upslopes.  Sometimes his speed would drop to 20 mph.  Not only did I not care, it seemed that the four drivers between the truck and me didn’t either.  No darting over the centre line to see what’s ahead.  No bumper games.  Just five of us keeping a respectful distance from the vehicle ahead.  And there was another feeling … love for the human beings in those cars and that truck.  People doing their best, people okay with what the moment was giving them.  At one little town, one of my friends turned off the road, leaving four followers.  I missed that person.  There was a hole.

What if I could bring my mindfulness to all travelling moments?  Why not to all moments, period?  Not just when I’m sitting in a meditation hall, but when I’m living my life.  Sounds cozy.

 

 

Gosh, if Canadians were like this

Home County

I drove into London today to listen to some of the workshops at the Home County Music and Art Festival.  It was a gorgeous sunny day in Victoria Park – ten acres of mature trees and wide spreads of grass.

Here are some moments from the folk festival that took me beyond the world of form:

***

A woman leaning back against a big tree, her head nodding to the music, and her backside caressing the bark

A young black singer deep into a gospel song, standing at a stationary microphone without an instrument, opening her mouth so wide as she sang, her fingers opening and closing in the air

James Keelaghan telling us that his dog died last Friday and then singing “Sinatra and I”, an ode to his four-legged travelling companion.  All in a deep baritone

Nathan Rogers moving forward and back in his chair, as he channelled the storytelling energy of his dearly departed father Stan, with words such as “The mountains moved inside of him”

A young woman guitarist, resplendent in a white fedora, Shirley Temple curls and an all-black outfit, sending the melody to heights unknown with the vibrato in her fingers

The audience clapping and smiling after each fiddle, mandolin and electric bass solo

Connie Kaldor singing a song about a nightclub in France for dogs, and a woman in the audience standing up, moving to the stage with her white terrier in her arms, and dancing big circles with her doggie

The fingers of a bass guitar player making love to his strings as he took over from the vocals

A woman crooning the lyrics “With my aspirin, my soul begins to slip” (or so I thought), when she really was saying “With my last breath, my soul begins to sleep”

And more words from elsewhere:

The way she sang was magic
Of the things we know are real

Riding the dark train to heaven

It was a winter of record-breaking lows for me

***

The music lies within us all, and seeks to open our hearts.  May we listen.

The Eight Vicissitudes

Pleasure and Pain
Gain and Loss
Praise and Blame
Fame and Disrepute

“Vicissitude” is a pretty fancy word, and I used to think of it as somethng bad – a trial, a testing of the soul.  The Buddha had another idea, however, basically that the word represents all the changes in our life.  Positive changes and negative changes … or are those two terms even valid?

I grew up wanting just half of the pie – pleasure, gain, praise and fame.  I thought if I worked hard enough, was nice enough to people, and just plain had luck on my side, life would always roll along tickety boo.  Except it never seemed that simple.  Bad stuff intruded on my daily round.  And it was bad that it did.

The Buddha said that all eight of these experiences are a part of life.  Or as the old song says:

Used to think that love would be so simple
Just happy ever after one another
Sometimes it’s hot to trot
And sometimes it’s the old cold shoulder
Oh, you can’t have one without the other, brother
No, you can’t have one without the other

Was that Frank Sinatra?  Can’t remember.

Here’s my take on the eight:

Pleasure   Lying on the beach with Jody near Playa del Carmen, Mexico.  The water was turquoise; we were drinking beer in plastic glasses under the thatched roof of a tiny hut; I was reading an exciting novel; we were in love.

Pain   Having the stitches taken out a few weeks after tendon transfer surgery on my right ankle.  They should have been removed days earlier.  The skin had started to grow over them.  Agony, screams, 9/10 on the pain scale.

Gain   Just last week, handing the teller a cheque for $4500 from my school board, a bonus paid to teachers who retired this year.

Loss   Waking up one morning decades ago, umemployed, realizing that I was out of shampoo and didn’t have any money to buy more.

Praise   Standing up at the annual meeting of the Order of the Eastern Star sometime in the 1980s, walking to the microphone, and speaking to approximately 800 people about the need for the Star to attract younger members.  Received a standing ovation.

Blame   Several years later, attending a disciplinary hearing at work, and being the target of intense criticism while one official recorded every word I said.

Fame   Winning a nationwide contest for “Written Expressions” in celebration of Canada’s 125th birthday in 1992.

Disrepute   Being accused (wrongly) by a teenaged girl of abusing her sexually.  I was declared innocent, a victim of an emotionally disturbed young person.

How have I become the human being I am today?  Part of the goodness that I believe I bring to the world was forged in the heat of physical pain, poverty, poor job performance and accusation.  I know that’s true.

Do I wish those experiences for anyone else?  No
Am I open to having similar events befall me in the future?  Yes

Fat Blue Legs

It was nearly eleven years ago that I had tendon transfer surgery on my right ankle.  I ruptured that tendon in a school hallway, colliding with a kid.  I spent seventeen weeks on crutches and felt profound sadness, especially when looking down a stairwell and knowing that for the forseeable future I was an elevator guy.  So much pain, so many drugs, so immobile.  I just felt old and decrepit and depressed.

Once the cast was off and the air boot was on, I got a chance to look at my lower leg.  Parts of it were black for awhile and then morphed into a rust colour.  But what struck me the most was the swelling, pretty much up to the knee.  Jody and I laughed about my “fatty foot”, but the smile didn’t move up to my eyes.  That long thing on the end of my body just couldn’t be me.  “That’s not the Bruce I know.  I refuse to accept this.”  And the thing was, it never went away.  For many years, I woke up to a fairly normal looking leg, but by noon it would be all puffed up.  My refusal to let it be caused great emotional distress.

In the spring of 2012, I woke up one morning to find that I couldn’t stand on my left leg without huge pain.  A few hours later, tests showed that I had a blood clot which went from my groin to my calf.  Untreated, I could have died.  Happily I got the blood thinner medication I needed, and I’ll be taking it for the rest of my life.

My right leg was still swelling up after the 2003 surgery and now my left one was just as bloated.  Part of the treatment was to wear compression stockings which stretched almost to my knee.  I picked the blue ones.  I now had two huge legs cleverly disguised by the nerdiest socks I’d ever worn.  And so sank my self-esteem some more.  I just couldn’t get that these physical changes didn’t touch the essence of me.

In August, 2012, Jody and I jetted west to Alberta to visit her brother Lance and his family.  There was no way I was going to wear those compression stockings, so I left them at home.  People would stare at me.  I’d look about a hundred years old!  So I went hiking in the Rockies with bare skin down below.  One day, we were descending a gradual sidehill trail towards a lake.  I got partway down and stopped.  The pain was too much.  I stood there like a stricken statue, agonizing over my apparent disability and remembering my years of travelling off-trail in the mountains.  Jody had to come back up and help me.  Oh, my.  How can this be happening?  Such overwhelming woe.  There were no more trails for this guy that summer.

Back in Ontario, there I was: swollen legs and feet hidden inside nylon and Spandex, only to expand to their abnormal size once I took the stockings off in the evening.  I  went to the beach in my blues, and if ever there’s a double meaning, that was it.  I watched people watch me.  I swirled within a collapsing self.  Heck, I was just plain sorry for myself.

How, I ask you, could I let my well-being be reduced to folds of flesh and tight lengths of fabric?  So stupid (or perhaps so human).  I hypnotized myself into letting it happen.

There’s a strange ending to this story.  From late 2012 until October, 2013, the feet and the legs continued as before.  Then Jody was diagnosed with lung cancer, a collapsed lung (twice), and blood clots in her chest.  And … my fatty feet disappeared, not overnight but within a few weeks.  I haven’t worn the compression stockings for months.

Do I understand how life works?  Do I comprehend the mystery?  Not really.