What We See

Walking down Main Street. What do you see? Is it each individual separate from everyone else – whether that person is strolling alone, holding hands with a loved one, or in a group that takes over the sidewalk? Maybe you like some of them, don’t like others, and don’t even notice the rest. Maybe you evaluate: too young, too old, too fat, too sloppy, weird clothes, stupid expression on their face. Or compare: better than me, worse than me, equal to me. Perhaps you want them all to go away, so you don’t have to talk to anyone. Dogs are better.

Of course, this isn’t the only way to see. Luminous vision is available.

Jack Kornfield writes: Thomas Merton, the Christian mystic, was walking down the street in Louisville, Kentucky – at Fourth Street and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district. Right now, there’s a monument there. It’s the only monument I know that the government has put up to a mystical experience.

Thomas Merton reflects: I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, and that they were mine and I theirs, and we could not be alien to one another. It was like waking from a dream of separateness. It was monastic holiness. The sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such relief and joy that I laughed out loud. I saw the secret beauty of everyone that was passing, and the only problem was that I wanted to fall down and worship each one as they went by. No more need for war, cruelty or greed when we could see each other in this way. This is really the miracle – that each person who passed me is walking around shining like the sun.

What if Merton’s way of seeing could become normal?

The Parting Glass

Of all the money that e’er I had
I have spent it in good company
Oh and all the harm I’ve ever done
Alas, it was to none but me

And all I’ve done for want of wit
To memory now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be to you all

So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate’er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all

Of all the comrades that e’er I had
They’re sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e’er I had
They would wish me one more day to stay

But since it fell into my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I’ll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all

So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate’er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all
Good night and joy be to you all

Let’s die … shall we?  Whether tomorrow or decades from now, the moment will come.  And before it does, let’s have a beer together.  You celebrate your life and I’ll celebrate mine.  Then we’ll switch.

So many people have come and gone.  Some have stayed.  Each has brought a flavour to our tummies: Butterscotch Ripple, Rocky Road.  Even Vanilla has swirled on our tongue.  And we are the better for it.  A goodbye will come … to everyone and everything.  Let us smile at the leaving.  Let us sing together, raising our voices to the rafters and sky.It’s a good gig.  May it stretch deliciously into a far off future.

Smash The Ball!

Bookends, it seems.  Two days ago I wrote “Fill The Room!”  This morning, my love of tennis took over.  I feel this surge of energy coming out .. blasting out!  And tennis analogies speak loud.

I’ve never really blasted.  Mostly I’ve embraced, which is lovely.  I’ve marvelled at the players who can build a point, and finish it off with a medium speed ball that’s just beyond the fully stretched opponent.  The sweetness of artistry, not the crudeness of blunt force.  

I love watching a player caress a “slice backhand”, hitting with a long left-to-right stroke so the ball skips sideways when it reaches the opponent.  It’s so hard to return.  Again, tennis as an art form.  Or consider the “drop shot”.  The other person is way at the back of the court and you cozy a soft shot that barely gets over the net.  The element of surprise is a formidable weapon.  Or … when the opponent rushes to the net, hit a long, looping ball over their head – a “lob”.  Properly applied, the ball lands just inside the baseline – virtually a sure winner.

Ahh … Picasso. 

But today I’m not in the mood for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.  I want Lebron James dunking the basketball over a member of the other team, slamming it down with his teeth gleaming.  I want the speed, the passion, the fierceness.

So today I smash the tennis ball!  Delicacy be damned.  “Hit the ball hard, Bruce!  Pick an empty corner of the court and give ‘er.  You can even yell if you want.”  

My home is sturdy, and verges on soundproof.  I now have two choices for raising the decibels.  Or I can do them both till the cows come home.  “Grrr!” some more.

What Do We Want?

I could have a mansion
That is higher than the trees
I could have all the gifts I want
And never ask please
I could fly to Paris
It’s at my beck and call
Why do I go through life
With nothing at all?

But when I dream
I dream of you
Maybe someday
You will come true

I can be the singer
Or the clown in every room
I can even call someone
To take me to the moon
I can put my makeup on
And drive the men insane
I can go to bed alone
And never know his name

But when I dream
I dream of you
Maybe someday
You will come true

Sandy Mason Theoret

***

At Gate C22 in the Portland Airport, a man in a broadband leather hat kissed a woman arriving from Orange County.  They kissed and kissed and kissed.  Long after the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons and wheeled briskly toward the short-term parking, the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other like she’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island.  Like she’d been released from the ICU, snapped out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.  

Neither of them were young.  His beard was grey.  She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine her saying she had to lose.  But they kissed lavish kisses, like the ocean in the early morning – the way it gathers and swells, sucking each rock under, swallowing it again and again. 

We were all watching.  Passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling sunglasses.  We couldn’t look away.  We could taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face.  When he drew back and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost as though he were a mother still open from giving birth.  As your mother must have looked at you no matter what happened after – if she beat you or left you or you’re lonely now.  You once lay there, the vernix not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you as if you were the first sunrise seen from Earth.

The whole wing of the airport hushed, all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middleaged body, her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses, little gold hoop earrings – tilting our heads up.

Ellen Bass

***

It’s simple really.  We want the kiss … and the eyes full of love

Fill The Room!

I’ve been on many meditation retreats in Massachusetts.  They’re mostly silent but every evening a teacher would give us a talk in the meditation hall, about such things as the mind, the qualities of spiritual life, and love.  I’ve seen so many teachers at the front of the room.  Almost all of them were “with” me and the other participants.  But there was one who stood taller.  Her name was Gina Sharpe.  As she unfolded her thoughts to us, something strange was happening to me.  I was being entered, graciously, from 100 feet away.  Gina was spreading through the hall.  Unlike every other person, she was filling the room.

It wasn’t Gina’s topic (which I forget).  It wasn’t her command of the English language.  It had nothing to do with people skills.  The mystery sat in front of me … and came inside.

I’m in the teacher training program for the Evolutionary Collective.  There’s a four-part course about connecting deeply with each other that I’m learning to facilitate.  Another mystery!  Patricia Albere, the founder of the EC, has been coaching me in the elusive teacher function.  Yesterday she told me to feel the fire of the work.  “Fill the room, Bruce.”

I realize that in my life so far I haven’t extended myself outwards enough.  Being careful doesn’t cut it.  I haven’t let the benign power in me explode into the world.  So today I decided to erupt.  I started yelling in the privacy of my home.  I knew that no one else could hear me, so I let ‘er rip!  “Fill the room!”  Over and over again.  Imagine two walls facing each other.  I created my arms and legs spreading in an X shape.  I saw my hands touch the joining of ceiling and wall at the midpoint, and my feet doing the same where the wall meets the floor.  And I yelled some more.

I’m not used to yelling.  I’m used to the sweetness of love.  But I kept breaking the decibel barrier.  There’d be a twinge here and there about how weird I am, but I shoved that aside.

Then it was time for groceries.  I drove to St. Thomas for the necessaries.  On the highway, I decided “Why not?”

“Fill the car!”

I mellowed myself once I was in town but there still was a silent fierceness that twisted my mouth.

I see that not having written in my blog for seventeen days is timid, a world away from fierce.  Time for a change.

How much of me am I willing to accept and allow to flourish?  Apparently lots.  I might even yell again tomorrow.

 

The Mouth Knows

Are we spiritual people?  I don’t even know what that means.  Perhaps you do.  It might point to communion with the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  It might be to walk in the steps of the Dalai Lama.  To be in prayer as you kneel by the bed and as you walk down Main Street.  To be loving and compassionate.  To have equanimity in your heart, undisturbed by the events of the day.  To lead a solitary life, cloistered away from the teeming masses and the volatile emotions.  Or to hug every person you meet.

I have a theory that there’s one experience essential for the open heart, the open hands, the Spirit.  I won’t share my opinion just now.  I trust you’ll feel it at the end of the story which follows.

A couple from snowy Minnesota decided to take a winter vacation back in the simple Florida resort where they had stayed for a honeymoon twenty-five years before.  Because of his wife’s delayed work schedule, the husband went first, and then when he got there he received a message that she would meet him soon.  So he sent her this e-mail in reply.  But because he typed one letter wrong in the e-mail address, it went by mistake to an old woman in Oklahoma, whose minister husband had died the day before.  Here is what she read:

“Dearest,

Well the journey is over and I have finally arrived.  I was surprised to find they have e-mail here now.  They tell me you’ll be coming soon.  It will be good to be together again.  

Love as always.

P.S.  Be prepared.  It’s quite hot down here.”

Locating It Here … Searching For It There

There are sacred places everywhere
The world is still our holy grove where we wander
hunting for the tree of life …
under which we already live

(An unknown poet)

Take this very moment of reading.  It’s you and the couch or chair, in a room you love or one you don’t know, alone or with a beloved.  It’s now … and it’s so easily lost.  There’ll be future moments of reading, perhaps some novel that will inspire … someday.  But that day is not here.

Someone talked to one of the world’s most respected violinists (Joshua Bell) and stuck him down in the subway with a $3,500,000 Stradivarius.  He opened the case so people would put coins in it.  And he played some amazing Bach pieces on his Stradivarius.  Nobody stopped to listen except kids.  Little kids would stop.  Everybody else was on their way.  (Jack Kornfield)

How come we don’t stop?  Places to go, people to meet.  It’s important, you know, to get there … and as quickly as possible.  What has happened to the wide-eyed wonder of gazing upon the moment?  Someone stole it away.

It’s good to use the best china
The oldest lace tablecloth
The most genuine goblets

Of course there’s a risk
Every time we use anything or share an intimate moment
A fragile cup of revelation

But not to touch
Not to handle the artifacts of being human
Is the quiet crash, the deadly catastrophe
Where nothing is enjoyed or broken
Or spilled or spoken
Or stained or mended
Where nothing is ever lived, loved
Laughed over, wept over
Where nothing is ever lost
Or found

(Thomas Carlyle)

Let’s feel the little ridges of the lace and behold the pattern within
We have the time to do that

Large

I’ve been sending out e-mails about the Evolutionary Collective to many people I know. The EC has made a huge contribution to my life. I invite folks to check out our Facebook page to see if the words there resonate. I’m not pressing anybody to do anything.

I feel naked. “Here I am, world!” You’re welcome to take me or leave me but lurking in the shadows isn’t much fun. In the light of day, I show myself. Some of you won’t like that. Some may turn away. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I’m okay with that. There’s something to stand for … even if no one else comes closer.

I feel my old tendency to shrink, to fade away into the wallpaper, to lower my head. I honour that version of Bruce. I did what my self-esteem asked of me. Now something else is being asked. I’m being nudged towards the large. Say what’s true. Smile a lot. Actually, laugh a lot. See if there are other people in my realm who want to deepen their connection with others. I know there are. I’m on a journey to find them.

As I lift my head to your gaze, a quote from Marianne Williamson comes calling. Marianne knows how to stand tall:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us. It’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

(Smile)

Who Do You See?

One package is wrinkled and troubled and old. The second is smooth and beckoning and young. But we don’t know what the packages contain. We don’t know the secret life of the inside.

I believe we need another type of vision. Can we detect the hopes and fears, sorrows and loves, that lie beneath the skin? Can we gaze upon what is truly real?

We need to. And then we need to bring each one of us into the circle of our care.

***

A family went to the restaurant. A little seven-year-old kid and his parents. The waitress goes around the table and takes their orders. She looks at the boy and says “So what is it you’d like to eat?”

“I’d like a hot dog and root beer, please.”

And his mother says “He’ll have meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots and a glass of milk.”

The waitress goes around, taking the other orders, and as she’s leaving the table she says “Would you like ketchup or mustard on your hot dog?”

The little boy looks up as she walks away and says “You know … she thinks I’m real.”

Slowpoke

I was watching a TV show today where a boyfriend and girlfriend were heading off to work.  She was gathering her possessions for the commute, at a speed that wasn’t to his liking: “Hey, slowpoke!  Let’s go.”  They weren’t late.  He just wanted to go faster.

I paused and “Hmm”ed.  Do we really need to be in such a hurry?  What’s true is thatdon’t want to be in such a hurry.  Communing with my friend Google, I discovered descriptions of the word … all of which have a negative connotation:

An unnecessarily slow person
Lagging behind, slowing everyone down
Doing something too slowly
Slow as molasses
At a snail’s pace
At a tortoise-like pace
Laggard, dawdler, dallier, slug

Me, I like verbs that take their time, such as “linger”.  The word seems to stretch out time, which feels like a fine idea.  Who needs a crumpled-up, squeezed-together anything?  How about some room to breathe?  I’m also partial to “meander”.  It’s all well and good that the shortest distance between A and B is a straight line but the freeway is far less fun than a winding country road.

I’ve gone to several meditation retreats at a Buddhist centre in Massachusetts.  Before my first trip, I found out that I could drive there from Southern Ontario in less than nine hours.  Sure, that’s a long day behind the wheel but look at the time I’d save!  Take one Canadian superhighway and then transfer to a humongous US one at Buffalo, New York.  Piece of cake.

I said no to such nonsense – two days will be ticketyboo for this fellow.  (I don’t know where the word came from.  Mom loved it.)  And so I got to experience the cutesy little towns of upstate New York, a sweet overnight in Utica, NY, and the green-to-the-top grandeur of the Berkshire Mountains in Massachusetts.  Happy is the man who goes slow.

There were so many hills in eastern New York that the 90 mph speed limit was a fantasy.  I didn’t care.  Hardly any driver did.  We moseyed along, which is a another fine verb for your perusal.

I’m a slowpoke.  It rolls off the tongue really well.