I wanted to hear a concert last night, and a shelf of DVDs were handy. I reached for one I knew well: Chris de Burgh’s Road to Freedom. Before her death in 2014, my dear wife Jody and I had watched it several times.
I remember our wine-coloured leather couch and our positions on it. I’d be sitting at one end and Jody would be lying down, her feet in my lap. We both loved the rubbing. As familiar songs danced across the screen yesterday, I remembered our love.
Chris de Burgh evokes love … with his ballads and high ringing tenor voice. So pure. He stood alone on stage, accompanied only by his guitar and piano. There were tears among the audience members. Lighters and tiny glow sticks were waving in the dark, before our world of cell phones.
At one point, Chris launched into a medley of his songs. Wearing a headset, he and his guitar came down from the stage and walked amid the multiple beloveds. He got down on one knee to sing to an older woman. He put his hand on the shoulder of a physically disabled young man. And he smiled at everyone who was close to his path.
I knew what his final song would be: a soaring anthem called The Snows of New York. The audience knew it as well. Many of them sang.
You have always been such a good friend to me Through the thunder and the rain And when you’re feeling lost in the snows of New York Lift your heart and think of me
I spent the last half-hour lying in bed. I went there wondering if a writing idea would come to me in horizontal mode. And one did.
A few minutes ago, I approached my dear laptop with the thought “It’s 6:45. I bet I can finish this post by 7:30.” And I realized this was an odd way to look at life. The words will come out of my fingers as they choose, in the rhythm they want. The ideas, partially formed in the snoozing room, will emerge now in their own sweet time. Why quibble with nature?
I went grocery shopping this afternoon, a basic task for someone who doesn’t know how to cook. After making my choices, I participated in a basic human behaviour: lining up. I started near the cashiers and kept walking away from them, around the perimeter of the store, in search of the end of the line. Fifty or sixty people later, I found it.
That far away from the cash, there were no social distancing signs on the floor to reinforce our healthy six feet distance. What I saw in me and many others was a leaning forward toward the customer in front. I’d “wake up” and see that I was only three feet behind. It’s like being hypnotized: move forward, squish together … and you’ll get to your destination quicker.
Exhibit number two is the freeway. I usually hang out in the right lane, and let the speedsters blast by in the other ones. Recently, though, I see that I’m being tailgated in the slow lane as I do the speed limit.
Once I’m in the city, there’s the world of red lights. So many drivers creep up to the car ahead. It’s a compressing Slinky toy. I don’t creep, and often I sense the displeasure of the driver behind for my flaunting of social norms.
Exhibit number three is my body. Overall I really like it but sometimes I get impatient. I visited my doctor a few weeks ago. There was a growth on my right forearm – pretty red and raised up from the surface of the surrounding skin. Doc said we should watch that one: possibly skin cancer. When I come back for a flu shot in mid-October, if the bump is still big, she’ll do a biopsy. So … you see in front of you a frequent inspector of my right forearm. Happily, the blemish is getting smaller, less intense, and returning to the level of the skin. But my wee brain wants the return to normalcy to go faster. “It has to disappear by October 15!”
That’s enough exhibits. There’s a natural unfolding of grocery lines, highway travel and bodily healing. I need to respect it.
It seems pretty clear – happiness resides in the land of the open palm, the gracious gesture, the ease of time stretching slowly away. Misery knows the closed fist. the grasping, the muscles tense and rigid.
But then there’s money.
I love tennis. In August, 2019, I booked ten nights in a Montreal hotel for the summer of 2020. My sole reason for going was to feel the majesty of the women’s Rogers Cup tennis tournament.
This spring, the Government of Quebec said no to any professional sporting events in the province, due to Covid. Sad but alert, I leapt into action, asking the hotel to refund my money. They told me I’d have to talk to the travel company with whom I booked.
And so it began.
Actually, it wasn’t just one conversation with the hotel. I’m guessing that I’ve phoned them 20-25 times and have talked to a real person 2-3 times. Many requests on the answering machine for the manager to phone me went for naught. (Sigh)
Four months after my initial contact in May, and after probably 8-10 hours on the phone, $886.83 is still in someone else’s pocket. Today’s contribution was over two hours, talking to two reps of the travel company. My case had been “elevated” but instead I felt submerged.
Throughout the process, I’ve seen errors of omission, broken promises about when people would get back to me, and I believe (on the hotel’s part) some deceit.
The next chapter will be a phone call on Monday morning – the hotel manager, the travel company, and me.
I’m not letting go. Am I creating a lot of unhappiness for myself? Am I wise to stand up for myself? Am I being “Bruce”? Somehow it feels right to be in these shoes of mine. To quietly ask for fairness. To not give up. Although there are far better ways to spend eight hours than speaking into my smartphone and listening to what comes back, I find myself quietly nodding in approval for the journey I’ve chosen. Whatever the outcome.
I ask myself “What is beauty?” There are many possibilities. Before your eyes are some of the world’s wonders. Drink in the mauves, the spring leaves, the shining waters, the touches of yellow, the feminine curves of the land. Our souls delight in the display.
Of all the images, though, my soul flies to the white horse. She is gazing at all of us, seeking out the end point of her affection. The Earth gladdens the eyes but the breathing being reaches the heart.
My personal favourites are human. They need not be splashed with colour, have cascading hair or smoothness of skin. They might be young, they might not. But there is an entrance to mystery that brings me to silence. And so I abide at the windowsill …
My doorbell rang half-an-hour ago. I love my doorbell. It sounds like a classical pianist floating his fingers over the keys in a series of descending runs. Sometimes I ring my own doorbell … just for fun.
A boy of about 11 stood before me. I’ll call him Trevor. I know him a bit. He’s in the Grade 6 class that I miss volunteering in. And he was selling pepperette sausages. I opted for 25 hot ones and 25 honey-garlic. He was pleased.
The moment was also in front of me. Trevor mentioned that all the kids missed me. I was glad and sad. The opportunity was to tell him the entire truth about why I’m not at school right now. Or … just part of the truth. I decided on the whole enchilada.
The first reason is that the school board isn’t allowing any volunteers onsite – just paid staff. Strangely, it wasn’t even tempting to rely on that reason alone. It would have been a convenient out: some officials made the decision. Nothing I can do about it.
No thanks. “Partial” leaves a sour taste in my mouth. So I sprung for reason number two. “I don’t feel safe about being in the classroom. I’m 71, at higher risk for contracting Covid. And there’s no way that 26 kids can stay six feet away from each other in a classroom.”
I love those kids. And taking care of my health comes first. As soon as I told Trevor the truth, I sighed. The truth simply works. Nothing left out. Clean.
I look forward to a future WordPress post about my return to the young ones.
Last fall was not this fall. One of the many differences is my presence in the classroom as a volunteer. A year ago, I was in the Grade 5/6 class about four half-days a week. Now it’s not at all. No volunteers allowed, plus I’m too scared to go back. Advanced age, you know, and little social distancing.
What you see in front of you is the framed version of a collage, composed of 23 kids and me. We coloured our figure and added words that were important to us. Here were my choices:
Kind, folk music, elliptical tennis, you, golf, determined love, 70, connection, meditation hands, January 9, 1949
Twelve months on, the words still ring true … mostly. I haven’t been on the elliptical at the gym since March, and I don’t care about golf anymore, but love is still the coolest thing around.
I miss the kids but there is still a connection between us. Unspoken right now, unseen with the physical eye, and undoubtedly joined through the heart. Our time will come. I will again sit in my favourite spot – on top of a cupboard – and feel the flow of learning and wondering.
Political life in this era of Covid presents us with some unbalanced personalities, some cruelty, and some ignorance of others’ pain. I’ve decided to go back in time to see if history can help. I looked for someone who could cross the decades and speak to us today.
Charlie Chaplin was a British comic and actor. He featured in many silent movies in the 20’s and 30’s. He was loved by some, ridiculed by others.
In 1940, Charlie starred in the movie The Great Dictator, a satire about Adolf Hitler, and a biting critique of fascism. The last five minutes of this film showed Charlie speaking to the audience, holding nothing back about the perils of the time. His words were embraced by President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill.
Here they are:
I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be an emperor. That’s not my business. I don’t want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone – if possible – Jew, Gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness – not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way.
Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost …
The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men – cries out for universal brotherhood – for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world – millions of despairing men, women and little children – victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people.
To those who can hear me, I say – do not despair. The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed – the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish.
Soldiers! Don’t give yourselves to brutes – men who despise you – enslave you – who regiment your lives – tell you what to do – what to think and what to feel! Who drill you – diet you – treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder. Don’t give yourselves to these unnatural men – machine men with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts! You don’t hate! Only the unloved hate – the unloved and the unnatural! Soldiers! Don’t fight for slavery! Fight for liberty!
In the 17th Chapter of St. Luke it is written: “the Kingdom of God is within man” – not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the people, have the power – the power to create machines. The power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure.
Then – in the name of democracy – let us use that power – let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world – a decent world that will give men a chance to work – that will give youth a future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power. But they lie! They do not fulfill that promise. They never will!
Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people! Now let us fight to fulfill that promise! Let us fight to free the world – to do away with national barriers – to do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men’s happiness. Soldiers! In the name of democracy, let us all unite!
For years I’ve told people: “The last time I looked, I was 25.” Guess I haven’t been looking too often.
My wee backyard slopes up to a farmer’s field. A couple of weeks ago, huge machines came by and hustled the crop of winter wheat off the earth. I had enjoyed the waving strands and was feeling a little naked about it all.
Offending my sense of the flow of land was a border between grass and stubble: two feet of eighteen-inch-tall weeds. Although cute white butterflies often floated over the fifty-foot length, I decided that action was required. “I’ll chop ’em down!”
Lacking a shovel in my relatively new condo life (each of us has a separate building), I borrowed one from my always helpful neighbour. Two days ago, I set to the task. Moderate morning temperature, lots of sun, lots of water, and a sweatband adorning my forehead. “I can do this.”
Being a relatively intelligent person, I got the hose out for plenteous watering. “Look at how I’m softening the soil. This is easy.” Indeed, the shovel found its mark with aplomb, over and over again. But there were so many overs and overs, and my breaks in the shade gradually grew. Fifty feet looked like a marathon.
But I did it! In a tidy three hours. I had visions of bagging the resulting greens shortly thereafter, but my breathing was a mite heavy, as were my legs. “Tomorrow.”
Early afternoon I pulled the covers up to my chin and snoozed for an hour. Then a ninety-minute Zoom call with the Evolutionary Collective. After that, I contemplated some meditation, maybe reading some more of Stephen King’s The Stand. The answer to both came back clearly … “No.” I was dull of body and spirit.
Yesterday morning dawned as a perfect bagging day … not too hot, and ripe with the thrill of accomplishment. I started bending over to pick up the branches, the roots and the dirt. I enlisted a dolly to transport each full bag to the side of the house. “See how I’m saving energy? What a good boy am I!”
I lasted eight bags full, a task which somehow took almost two hours. “Hmm. Thought I’d last longer than this. Oh well. I’ll call it a morning.” And so to bed … for more than two hours. Then another Zoom call. In the evening, I watched Alice In Wonderland but I could barely keep my eyes open for her return up the rabbit hole.
Nine hours later, I awoke. As far as I can recollect, that was this morning. Everything in the lower half ached. Basic bathroom tasks were problematic. Walking was a pale version of Bruceness. The eyes appeared to be laden with lead weights.
Essentially I’ve stumbled through my day with scarcely a glance towards the backyard. My bed welcomed me for yet another two hours. Is this my future – professional napping? And another question … how exactly have I been able to gather mind and body sufficiently to write this post? Must be divine intervention.
Back to the original question. 25 or 71? Well, right now it feels more like 93.
Could it be that I’m aging?
Could it be that this is just fine?
Yes, that certainly could be
Take kindly the counsel of the years Gracefully surrendering the things of youth
That’s me. And how do I know? It’s simple, really. I meet the two basic requirements:
1. anatomical equipment
2. age
That should be the end of the story. But TV tells me otherwise. Consider the supplement commercial. Now I have nothing against supplements. I take a few myself, focusing on joint care and digestive health. But what I saw yesterday was different.
Along comes this v-shaped guy who’s sprinting along. Alas … Father Time is catching up with him, and the “v” is becoming a “u”. The spring is slowing to a plod. To the rescue comes a capsule – a magic pill that will no doubt produce a miracle transformation.
The announcer knows how to get my attention:
Feeling invisible? Get noticed! This is man-boosting More drive and passion Get back your swagger Feel younger
Two human beings take centre stage. One has recovered his “v” and sports lumpy muscles. The other has a 20-inch waist and fluttering eyes. She rubs his bicep to the accompaniment of “Ooo …”
The messages hide seductively beneath the surface: As I am (unlumpy), I’m not good enough. I need to add to what is here right now. I will be alone for the rest of my life unless I “man up”. Aging is bad.
It all seems so silly to me. Why add to uniqueness? Why focus on “less than” (or for that matter “better than”)? They’re both illusions. Commercials can hypnotize. I choose to see clearly what the truth is.
The subject is tanning. I’ve had a lot of history about the topic. A lot of angstful energy has accompanied my emerging life.
I knew the truth early: girls like guys with a tan, and I didn’t have one. In high school, a last minute invite to a friend’s cottage called for desperate measures. My friend had a gorgeous older sister (age 17) and my body was white. That just wouldn’t do. My teenaged mind knew how to fix things though, a day or two before the big weekend: buy a tube of some permatan goop and apply it liberally to all the places that should be brown. I woke up the morning after application to find that my fine motor skills weren’t optimal. My chest had gross orange streaks, as did my back. And my toes? Perfect ridges of artificial darkness framed by lily white skin. (Sigh) It was a forgettable weekend chock full of self-esteem spasms.
The need was still strong as I became a newbie adult. The backyard, hemmed in by lots of bushes and trees, would provide me the solitude necessary for unselfconscious tanning. But there was that one neighbourly window staring down in likely disapproval. During all my darking sessions, I never saw any face looking at me but I bet there were lots of them behind the glass – laughing and immediately posting photos on Instagram. (Wait a minute … there wasn’t any Instagram. Whew.)
I remember being called “Whitefoot” for years. The tan line went down from my shorts to the top of my socks. Forearms also looked good. But the rest of me? Yuck. And when inattention led to sunburn, I had the distinction of being tri-coloured. More “woe is me” doldrums.
In prep for Caribbean vacations, I’ve hung around in standing tanning booths. With lengthy periods of commitment, I emerged looking … good. Naturally brown. No doubt a man’s man. A likely recipient of womanly attention, but on the beach it didn’t seem like any lovely lasses even noticed. (Sigh again)
At the beginning of this summer, I stretched a robin’s egg blue sheet over a foam pad and toasted my bod on the back patio. “It’s only June. Imagine what I’ll look like in August!”
***
Well, it’s August, and a miracle has happened:
I’m still white
I don’t care
I’ve just lost interest … for the first time in my life
I didn’t grit my teeth. I didn’t spew out endless and tanless affirmations. I didn’t do anything. But the need for brown is gone. How incomprehensible.
The divine force within you is mightier than any mountain
Bruce's Blog 