There’s a rhythm in my musical expression.  I sing a song I love at an open mic session … and then I look for what to sing the next month.

I have to love the words.  They must say something of our human condition.  I have to love the melody.  It needs to thrill my heart.

June beckons.  What will come out of my mouth in song?  I love expressing myself in music.  How about a song that speaks of that?

How Can I Keep From Singing?

My life flows on in endless song
Above earth’s lamentation
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails the new creation

Above the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing
It sounds an echo in my soul
How can I keep from singing?

Though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth
And though the darkness ’round me flows
Songs in the night it giveth

No storm can shake my inmost heart
While to that rock I’m clinging
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble sick with fear
And hear their death knell ringing
When friends rejoice both far and near
How can I keep from singing?

In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging
When friends by scorn are undefiled
How can I keep from singing?

My life flows on in endless song
Above earth’s lamentation
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails the new creation

Above the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing
It sounds an echo in my soul
How can I keep from singing?

***

There are lines that especially warm me …

Above earth’s lamentation

It sounds an echo in my soul

Since love is lord of heaven and earth

When friends by scorn are undefiled
How can I keep from singing?

I need these words especially to flow out of me … and into you.  I need the audience (at least some of them) to be touched.

And so I begin

Yesterday I had the opportunity of a lifetime to experience something that had never come my way before.  It was just after the dinner break of our Evolutionary Collective Core retreat on Zoom.

My chicken, rice and peanut sauce meal was not doing well in my stomach and some of it was lingering in my esophagus.

And there I am, one of 67 video tiles on my screen (and everyone else’s).  Vomit approaching.

No!  Not in front of all these people.

When I’m in these meetings, my face usually feels pretty fluid.  If someone says something funny, I laugh.  If I agree with a comment, I’ll nod or say something to the speaker (which of course no one can hear, since I’m muted).

Not yesterday after the break.  My face was stone.  I wonder if anyone noticed.  Probably not.

As the upchuck came closer, I turned off my video and texted the meeting host about the possibility of the moment.  Then I turned the video back on.

I was teetering on an edge, and I chose to stay in the meeting, stay visible.  That makes me happy.

Shortly thereafter, we were put in groups of three to discuss something.  One of the principles in the EC is to stay close to whatever is emerging in the moment, and express that to the person(s) you’re practicing with.  So I did that.  And my companions held me.

***

No onscreen explosion

The nausea passed

The Me was surrounded by the We

The Core group of the Evolutionary Collective is having a two-day Zoom retreat this weekend.  Our founder and leader Patricia Albere is introducing us to the word “contagion”.  That word, and its adjective form “contagious”, are usually associated with the spread of disease but Patricia is pointing us elsewhere.

Here’s another definition, from the world of psychology:

An ubiquitous process by which information, such as attitudes, emotions, or behaviors, are rapidly spread throughout a group from one member to others without rational thought and reason

Even this one has a negative connotation – “without rational thought and reason”.  But Patricia is drawing us towards a mystery beyond the rational, where something marvelous is catching … from one human being to the next.

It might be laughing.

It might be flowing into the We rather than the Me.

It might be words of shared unity falling out of our mouths.

Some union is beckoning to us, propelling us into a more inclusive future, one in which we deeply see the human being standing before us … and in which we share the Divine.

First … a tid-bit from yesterday (so to speak):

I couldn’t hear much, especially in the right ear.  The doctor found a ball of ear wax almost a centimetre in diameter deep inside.  Ten minutes of rinsing and reaching in with tweezers and voilà … out it came!  And I can hear.  She said it might have been in there for a year or more.  Who knew?  Not me.

***

And secondly, I reached a goal last night that has been fresh in my mind for three months or so: I sang Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” at an open mic session at Salvatore’s.

The pesky little voice inside my head had said there was no way I could memorize a six-minute song.  It was wrong.  I sang well.  I sang with passion.  I sang softly … and then loudly … then softly.  I felt the words.  I felt the audience.  And many of them felt me.  And so I am happy.

***

As I sat in Izy Coffee yesterday, contemplating my hearingless life, I took a photo of the scene before me …

At the next table, a dad was loving his son, and the boy was returning the favour.  Brief blessed moments of eye contact.  Cuddling.  Lifting the young one way up high, to his delight.

Just beyond, a woman leans way back in her chair.  Is it simply a delicious stretching of the back, or is there more?  Perhaps a long sigh into the travails of life?  Or remembering a precious moment with a beloved?  I’ll never know … but there she was.

And in the background, on the street, a young man brought wonder to my face as he removed the plastic sheeting of a sign covering a window.  The real thrill was seeing him put up the new sign.  Such graceful, dancing skill.  There were two vertical strips.  He aligned the first one perfectly to the window frame, and used his tool to smooth the sheet.  I saw the partial word “roomwoning”.  The edge went through the second “o” of “room”, and joined almost seamlessly.  I applauded the beauty of movement.

***

There’s so much to see with two eyes

And to hear with two ears

I’m somewhat old as compared to somewhat young.  The aches and pains of my body show up a lot more these days, often interrupting my plans for the near future.

Oh well.

I signed up for a good, long life … far longer than my dear life Jody, who died at 54.  “So suck it up, Bruce.  There’s a lot of living still to do.  When you have a physical problem, find resources to help … and then get on with the journey.”

Okay, I’ll do that.

I woke up this morning with little hearing in my right ear.  Hours later, it’s the same for my left one, and I’m dizzy.  I have a lunch date with a friend and an evening open mic session where I plan to sing a Bob Dylan song.  These moments may or may not happen.

So … what shall I do now?  Well, first of all write this blog post.  It’s not taking much energy and it makes me happy.

And I can continue sitting on Izy Coffee’s gorgeous black couch and watch people.  Inside the shop and out on the street.  “I wonder what your life is like” (again and again).  “I wish you well” (again and again).

I’d also lie on my bed for awhile if it wasn’t so darned hot in the apartment.  So here I sit.

It’s a good life

And it will continue to be so

What direction draws us?

The one pointing to the left I see as the past.  Sweet memories and sour regrets, yearning to be younger, reliving childhood traumas and joys.

Pointing down says “going inside” to me.  What am I feeling and thinking?  How fine or ill is the body?  Hours of analysis are available.

Pointing up is the contemplation of Spirit or God, of non-dual realization, of perhaps enlightenment.  To speak of “non-dual” suggests “the interconnectedness and oneness of all things”.  In my mind, it’s a broad spirituality that doesn’t focus on human beings.

Pointing to the right says “forward” to me, into the wonders of the future, closer to the wonders of the person standing before me.  It’s where I want to live.

In the world of other human beings

Touching them gently

Exploring paths together that lead to unknown places

After coming back from Canada, I’ve continued reading a novel – The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman.  Philip is an artist of the written word.  I’m often stopped and stunned.

Here is a passage that points to moments of “flatness” … perhaps despair.  We all know those times.

The colour was slowly seeping out of the world.  A dim green-grey for the bright green of the trees and the grass, a dim sand-grey for the vivid yellow of a field of corn, a dim blood-grey for the red bricks of a neat farmhouse

Happily there are other times, where our heads are held high and we embrace the world.  Hopefully we all know those moments too.

David Francey wrote a magnificent song about his time working on a huge cargo boat on the Great Lakes of Canada … All Lights Burning Bright.

That storm overtook us
And it fell like the night
And the Point and the Island
They passed out of sight

But we sailed on rock steady
Set course through the storm
As the sky fell upon us
And the wind drove us on
And I thought to myself
I’d be just like this ship
If I kept my light burning
On every trip

The watch it was ended
With the turn of the night
And I wrote in that log book
All lights burning bright

We had all lights burning bright
All lights burning bright

We are coloured by living our lives

How intense will be the hue?

I went to a slam poetry session last night on Gent’s Burgstraat.  Thirteen poets were vying for the five spots available for the next level of the competition.  The picture is from the Internet.

I didn’t know what “slam” meant.  What came to mind was watching WWE wrestling on TV in Canada.  One guy would  pick up his opponent and slam him down to the mat.  I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be happening last night.

What I eventually got is that the power of the poet and the poem “slams” into the audience.  Impact.  And that’s what happened.

The first thing to say is that I didn’t understand any of the poems.  I knew certain words in Dutch but I couldn’t follow the lines of poetry.  But I did get what unfolded before my eyes.

I watched the eyes onstage.  Some were full of wonder, some fierce, some soft.

Hands often painted pictures of the poem, sometimes tenderly.

There were pauses in the narrative, ones that let we the audience drink in the majesty of the moment.

Some poets varied the speed and volume of their offering, to great effect.

Some cast their eyes widely, since the room had a far left side, a far right side, and a centre.  These ones reached us.

Most of them clearly loved their creations … and yearned for us to love them too.

My favourite moment was when a woman stopped during her recitation, and put a hand to her heart.  And then again.  I didn’t know whether it was part of her performance or whether she’d forgotten the words.  Each time she began again and flowed to the end.  At intermission she told me she had indeed forgotten and improvised for the rest.  Brilliant!  Courageous.  Full of life.

About five of the thirteen read their poems from a notebook or phone.  That took their eyes away from us … and they didn’t touch me as deeply.

We audience members got to vote for the poets who moved us the most.  Our votes determined who would go on to the next level.  Each poet came back to the stage for their voting.  Some closed their eyes, some turned their backs to us, and some faced the many or few raised hands.

I loved the celebration of verse

I loved the courage of the poets

I loved

First of all, I think giving is one of the coolest things going.  And when I give, the receiving is huge.

My giving is often simply being with one other person, listening to their story, “getting” the human being before me.

Also telling them my story … what’s true for me.  And expecting nothing in return.

Sometimes my giving is sharing the wonders of life.  Pointing at something and asking my companion “Do you see that?  Wow!”

Every day my giving includes my silent mouth.  I smile easily.  There is so much to be thankful for.

Occasionally my giving is money.  Someone’s in trouble.  I can help.

***

Every day, as I climb the steps to my apartment, I see another giving.  And now I share it with you …

My neighbour Dirk is an artist of the spoken word, and of the unspoken beauty of lilies.  Just buds, then slowly opening to their full glory, then dropping to the floor … their job done.  Thank you, Dirk.

We give

My vacation in Canada was about people I love.  Almost all of them were flesh-and-blood – two were metal.

First is Jack Layton:

Jack was the leader of the New Democratic Party in federal politics.  He fought for people’s rights.  He talked cordially to his political opponents.  He said “Hi” to people on the street.  And all-round nice guy.

Jack was a Trekkie.  He showed up in an officer costume at a Star Trek convention.  He loved singing and playing guitar for people, and getting them to sing along.

The enduring image of Jack, captured in his statue, was he and his wife Olivia Chow riding their tandem bicycle through the streets of Toronto. 

Jack was my friend … from afar.

***

Second is Johnny Bower:

Johnny was the goaltender for the Toronto Maple Leafs ice hockey team from 1958 till 1969.  From age 33 till 44!  Amazing.  For years he had toiled in the minor leagues of hockey.  During his time with the Leafs, he led them to four Stanley Cup championships – the pinnacle of the sport.

I loved watching Johnny perform gymnastic moves on my black-and-white TV.  He was fearless.  And this was in the days when goaltenders didn’t wear masks.

Johnny was my hero.  If he could do great things at age 40, there was hope for the future of this 16-year-old kid.

***

When I lived in Canada, I often visited Jack and Johnny’s statues in Toronto.  I’d hold Johnny’s hand.  Since Jack’s hand was busy on the handlebar of his bicycle, I’d hold his arm.

I did the same last week