Unapologetic Greatness

In the Evolutionary Collective, people from near and far meet on the Internet to explore consciousness together, to further the growth of deep love in the world. There is a practice we do, usually 1-1, in which a profound connection often emerges. We glimpse the possibility of a unblemished unity flowing between members of the human family.

Sometimes on our calls, a teacher will ask for a volunteer to practice with her or him in front of the whole group. We see everyone onscreen by way of Zoom, a technology similar to Skype. The intention is for all of us to learn as the volunteer leaps in, sometimes missing the mark, sometimes hitting the bullseye. The teacher gives feedback. Ideally, the volunteer accepts it with grace.

I’ve been terrified of such encounters and have never volunteered.

Until last night.

Without thought, I found my finger tapping the “Raise Hand” button … and there I was, naked in the digital world. I opened to the moment and let the emerging words flow out. My expression was outside of the realms of “good” or “bad”. It was simply real.

Once we had moved on from the coaching, I felt warm inside. Glowing. At peace.

For many months, I’d labelled my timidity as fear of failure. But I wonder. Could it be instead that the image of me having outrageous power to do good in the world was just too terrifying? What would my life become if I was consistently “out there” in a huge way? Could I cope with the fierce bolts of electricity? Would I end up alone?

***

Afterwards, I remembered a woman who spoke piercingly about the fear of being great. I didn’t remember her name. I didn’t remember her words. So I just sat quietly, hoping that a phrase would come back to me. And it did:

“Playing small does not serve the world”

Mr. Google did the rest.

***

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, 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.

Marianne Williamson

The Quarter Auction Revisited

I wrote about this marvelous event about six months ago.  I can’t remember what I said then.  Maybe tonight it’ll be the exact same stuff.  And who cares if that’s so?

Take two hundred women and three men.  Arm them with numbered paddles and globs of quarters for participating in the draws.  Surround them with vendors offering products for the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Mix in an MC with a barrel of numbered balls.  The recipe yields two hours of fun, with endless servings.

It’s cool being in such a minority.  Some women smiled, some laughed and a few just stared at me.  That’s fine.  I simply wanted to contribute to folks having a good time.

The three of us got to have a bathroom all to ourselves.  There could have been lineups at the women’s for all I know.  Ahh … the perks of specialness.

As I rambled around the room for the first few minutes, up came a woman to complete a transaction.  I had ordered and paid for a book at the last auction but she’d lost my contact info.  So she fretted for six months, praying that I would show up for the next one.  And I did.  The relief was everywhere on her face and empathy on mine.  Actually I had forgotten all about the purchase.

Once more I sat with Linda and her daughters.  The funnest part of these auctions for me has been to drop quarters in their change purses when they’re looking the other way.  In the past, many people couldn’t understand such behaviour when they found out.  It seemed so irrational.  But it’s not.  A few quarters given propels deep happiness into my heart.

Ten minutes after I sat down tonight, four of the five women near me got up to inspect the treasures that were on offer.  I sat alone with Linda’s daughter Emma and with my five rolls of quarters.  I didn’t think, I just unwrapped, and plunked the contents of one roll into each of the four unguarded purses.  Emma stared and smiled.  And I was ecstatic!  Maybe giving freely is what this life is truly about.  And the sweet receiving is just a peripheral perk.

My number was 78.  Partway through the proceedings, The MC said “And the winning number is 78.”  I leapt up with a “Yes!” and romped over to the table holding decorative plates and tumblers.  People saw my joy and chimed in with chuckles and murmurs.

For the very next draw, the winning number was … 78!  Again I climbed high and skipped over to my prize.  I was examining my spoils at the table when I heard “78” ring out once more.  This time it was some gel that’s meant to produce faster orgasms, something that didn’t seem all that beneficial to me, but I jumped up once more.  My goodness … what are the chances?

That was it for the winnings.  I gave all the things away.  That made me very happy.  The evening flowed on – a series of paddles standing tall, winners’ squeals, and vendors sharing the joy of giving.  Ohh, and there were a few more opportunities to have coins fall into purses when heads were turned the other way.

I do believe a fine time was had by all.

 

 

Smoke Alarming

I know things.  Quite a few things, actually.  And then there’s all that other stuff.

Consider smoke alarms.  I owned a home in Union, Ontario for twenty years with my dear wife Jody.  I often had to change the batteries and sometimes buy and install a new alarm.  So you’d think that the events of today would be a snap.  Not so.

I woke up at 3:35 this morning to the chirping of the smoke alarm in my kitchen.  Sleep was pressing down hard on my head.  Clear thinking would have to wait till business hours.  The bottom line?  I couldn’t figure out what to do.  I lay in bed, stupefied.

“It’ll go away.”  Sure.  How likely was that?  Fifteen minutes later, it did!  “See?  No problem.”  Back to snoozing.

A further fifteen minutes of tossing and turning were replaced by rechirping.  I counted: the beeps were every forty seconds.

“It’ll go away.”  It did. And then it returned, right on the dot of fifteen minutes.  Away … return … away … return …  Now it was 5:00 am.  My paltry brain tried to make sense of it all.  “If the battery was low, wouldn’t it keep up the beeping – no breaks?  But maybe it’s wired in.  Do wired in smoke alarms have batteries?”  Fuzziness ruled the early hours.

Finally, oh finally I got up.  I put shoes on and stumbled to the garage for the ladder.  After setting it appropriately in place, I climbed.  “Will I be able to get the alarm off the ceiling?”  I so lack confidence in my home maintenance abilities.  Happily the unit came off with a simple twist, revealing a nest of wires.  “Hmm … wired in.”  The close proximity chirp was piercing to the core of my mind so I grabbed my headphones.  Better.  But now what do I do?

Yesterday I wrote about choosing “this”, as in the reality of the present moment.  That commitment seemed to be fading away as the blare of the alarm ruptured my insides.  “C’mon, Bruce.  Think.”

Somehow I came up with a word which has a deep spiritual connotation – “Google”.  Surely Mr. Google could help me out.  I typed “smoke alarm chirping” and indeed an answer appeared before my wavering eyes.  There could be dust inside that’s causing the malfunction.  So I got out the vacuum and shoved the wand into the mass of wires.  Almost immediately, the chirping stopped!  Oh, I’m so smart.  I left the unit dangling from the ceiling and dove under the covers.  Exactly fifteen minutes later … well, you know what happened.

The Internet article mentioned that some wired in smoke alarms have a backup battery to deal with power failures.  I mounted the ladder once more and turned on a flashlight, trying in vain to read the small print above me.  Then I felt the surface of the unit, seeking some compartment that would be perfect for a battery.  Nothing.  Thank God for those headphones.

6:20.  The sound of “this” was pissing me off.  After much searching and whining, I found a little latch on the alarm.  A bit of pressure and … Voila!  A plastic section opened to reveal the bliss of a 9 volt battery (the rectangular one).  Laden with memories of other plastic objects, and me pulling too hard, resulting in destruction, I gingerly tried prodding the battery this way and that.  No go.  I tried to resist the explosion of sentences such as “You’re so stupid!”

I bet ten minutes later the battery came out.  The chirping continued.  I knew I had a stash of 9V batteries and I went to get one, smartly remembering how to get it back into the compartment.  The deal finally done, I closed the little door, screwed the unit back onto the ceiling, and waited.  No chirps!  Maybe I’m decently smart after all.

It was 6:50 and my head could sense a closely approaching pillow.  Dreamland was with me right away.

9:00.  Chirping.  And my mind started a slow process of disintegration.  Being a little more alert, I realized one thing: I hadn’t checked the new battery’s expiry date way back when at 6:50.  Addressing that situation, I read “December, 2018”.  (Sigh)

The story finally ended after a trip to Costco for a package of 9V batteries, clearly described as lasting five years.  Yay!  10:20 found me placing the sacred object into said unit, closing the little door, screwing the whole thing onto the ceiling, and waiting.

Chirp

(Waiting)

Chirp

(Waiting)

… … … … … Silence

Start at 3:30.  End at 10:30.  Piece of cake

 

Choosing “This”

Sometimes I look back on my life and ask what moments I’m most proud of. Right now, one stands out. Maybe thirty years ago, I had gall bladder problems. The pain was intense. I spent a few nights in hospital. I remember talking to a nurse who seemed sad, even depressed. I remember willing myself to contribute to her, to somehow lighten her load. My body hurt a lot but I managed to rise above that. How?

Abraham Maslow talked about a hierarchy of needs. If we’re really hungry or sore, he thought there was no way that our urge to love could come through. I loved your work, Abe, but I wonder. What beauty can we human beings create in the moment, no matter what the world is sending our way?

If my pain is 8 on a scale of 10, it’s some stretch to float my hand down a loved one’s cheek. But what if it’s 4? Do I need perfect comfort in order to give? I don’t think so.

In moments of heat or deflation, I often use a key word to remind me of what’s important. One is “this”. The opportunity is to embrace all that the present brings, rather than yearning for what is not here and not now … “that”. Another is “give”, which brings that dear nurse to mind. Am I willing to send love in virtually every circumstance? My goodness, what a challenge.

If I sit around waiting for life conditions to be perfect before moving towards another human being with care, I lose a lot of zest, connection and aliveness. Seems like a pretty expensive choice.

***

So … my future beckons. The world of people roams by my window. I choose to open the front door, walk down the path and say “Hi!”

Tensing Up … Letting Go

For all my driving life, some unknown entity has tightened my stomach at a certain moment. I’m approaching traffic lights, which are green my way. The orange hand is flashing and there’s no countdown to yellow. There it is, some deep physical worry that I’ll have to stop for a red.

I consider myself a fairly mature person but this gut response has long fascinated me. After all, it’s a hopefully long life. What difference will it make in the span of time if on this day I arrive at my destination a minute later than hoped for? The answer to my unaddled brain is clear: none. But so often the cranium addles itself.

Tonight I was driving on Veterans Memorial Parkway in London. Traffic on this particular road zooms along at 90 kilometres an hour or so. Way ahead of the intersections are lights which come on in a flashing way to show cars that they need to slow down for an impending yellow. Oh, my history of seeing the light start flashing when I’m almost upon it, and then blasting down the gas pedal to “make it”.

Not tonight.

For some elusively mature reason, I let up on the gas in that moment. Some force did it … there was no intention. And then the yellow came on and I stopped, without a heart smashing my chest. Hmm. Perhaps this is wiser. Maybe it’s better to feel into the flow of driving rather than jerking around with the gas and brake.

And then there’s life. I wonder if “making it” happens when I smell the roses. They’re awfully sweet, you know.

Haunted House

Imagine a small elementary school. Imagine its tiny stage. It’s dark. Soft spiderwebby stuff hangs down. Lights glow and flash. There’s a severed hand over there. A small doll sits up, a beam illuminating its melancholy face. On the table is a cauldron of brains, better known as spaghetti. Organ music fills the space. Ten human beings stand or lie or hide behind the curtain, in various states of distress. Nine are young, one is old. All are grotesque.

Do you get the idea?

We have a manager – “Tammy”, a Grade 6 student. She orchestrates our visitors, who range from age 6 to 12, plus some hesitant adults. They are ushered into our home in groups of two or three. If it’s a Grade 1 child, we mostly laugh rather than scare. For the 12-year-olds, however, it’s full on terrorizing.

We played our roles for an hour-and-a-half. I cackled, moaned and invited folks in for dinner. A glob of spaghetti dripped from my right hand. Green stuff adorned my left.

Oh my God, we had fun! Our victims hopefully are having lovely, terrorless evenings as an entry to soft sleep. But they’ll remember their excursion into the Twilight Zone.

You are travelling through another dimension
a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind
A journey into a wondrous land
whose boundaries are that of imagination

Thanks for coming with me to the wild country
Sleep well

Love and Hate

First of all, I’m fine. The X-ray and CT scan last night showed nothing major. I’ve been taking Tylenol and magically I have no pain right now, just a sensation in my neck. What a lucky boy am I! I’ll rest up and go see Jess, my physio. Scarlet will take two weeks in getting herself repaired and meantime my garage is hosting Bullet, a silver Ford Focus.

***

Second of all, I’m really in the dark about things. The power went off thirty minutes ago and isn’t expected back on for another 2-3 hours. We’ll see if I have enough juice in the phone to complete this post. I’m sitting with my friends Candle and Flashlight. We’re having a good time.

***

I’m an avid tennis fan. I especially like watching the women pros hit the ball. I’m enthralled with Bianca Andreescu, a young Canadian woman who won the US Open in September. The Women’s Tennis Association (WTA) offers lots of posts on Facebook. I participate. Here are a couple of things I’ve said about Bianca:

I hope you realize, Bianca, what an incredible role model you are for young girls. You’re real. You show sadness, joy, confidence, anguish, determination when you’re feeling each of those things. No false modesty. No suppression. Lots of aliveness.

***

I’m so impressed with the human being that Bianca is. Her smiles are real. Her compassion shines bright. Sure, she plays great tennis and wins championships but she’s far bigger than that.

Some folks’ first response is to criticize. Others start with appreciation. I think the world needs a lot more kindness.

~~~~~

Countless people share my admiration for Bianca. However, there are those on the Internet whose glass seems to be empty. They prefer to attack:

Andreescu is a drama queen and a mercenary traitor.

***

All year she has been faking injuries … See how lying is wrong?

***

I hope she breaks her legs.

***

Ms. Piggy

***

Andreescu is too chubby.

***

That woman is always showing such a lack of sportsmanship. She is certainly one of the worst personalities in tennis right now.

***

So fake.

***

Cheap crap! Same spoiled child attitude!

***

Andreescu is so hard to like.

***

Such a bad handshake from Andreescu. Pathetic.

***

Andreescu is too fat.

***

Theatre.

***

Andreescu needs to stop acting like she’s injured when she’s not.

***

She’s just too full of it and cocky.

***

She’s selfish.

***

Class is so far away from Andreescu as class gets.

***

Bianca’s attitude was a bit unfair and fake.

~~~~~

Oh my. Such venom. It leaps out into the world … and finds its way back to the one starting it all. There is truly no cheese down that tunnel.

I’m sad for those among us who do such damage. What must their lives be like? What must their loved ones’ lives be like?

~~~~~

Let us pray for all beings
Large and small
Hurtful and hurting
Blessing and blessed
We all deserve a second chance

Whiplash

I never made it to the folk concert. I was turning left on a green light in the rain and dark when I saw a woman crossing the street. I jammed on my brakes but the fellow behind me smashed into Scarlet. As I got his insurance and phone number, I noticed that he didn’t even apologize. His girlfriend did, however.

I’m in the Emergency Department of Victoria Hospital in London, staring at the ceiling. I’ve been decked out with an attractive neck collar. A bright red board lies under my bod, a designer model I believe. I’m glad the staff are being careful with me.

On my way to and from X-ray, I watched blue-clad me pass under these clear globes at intersections. I’ve never seen myself from that view before.

The doctor just came visiting. He says I don’t need the neck collar. Yay! Physio and plenty of soreness will be in my future. I can live with that.

In the further expression of thoroughness, they’re about to do a CT Scan on me. Okay … bring it on.

Bottom line, folks … I’m fine. Worry not.

My phone is dying. Long live my phone.

Go To Life

I was home this morning and feeling emotionally flat. The world was lying heavy on my head. As in the poem Casey at the Bat, “there was no joy in Mudville.” How strange, I thought. I’m not usually like this.

I could feel myself slumping, both physically and spiritually. And the pull was strong … to bed. It was 11:00 am. An Internet call with members of Evolutionary Collective Global was on tap for noon. Those calls are such an opportunity to be with other human beings in a very deep way but I was already saying no.

Clothes off, covers pulled back and soon the comforter was tucked under my chin. A day of rest and isolation beckoned. Sometime in the afternoon I’d meditate for awhile, just me and my soul. Maybe there’ll be a hockey game on TV tonight … I could veg to the skating artistry of Mitch Marner. Eyelids fell towards sleep.

And then …

Go to life.

What? What did you say? (You heard me) And indeed I had. The voice within jolted me awake.

There are times to hunker down and rest. This is not one of them. Go to people. Give them all you have. Start with the ECG call. There might be twenty men and women from all over, folks to contribute to. Then go volunteer in the Grade 6 class – twenty-four kids and one teacher need your presence, your words, your kindness. And then, get to the gym. One hour on the elliptical would do just fine. After that, have supper somewhere and then go to the folk music concert at Acoustic Spotlight. Once all that’s done, go home and go to bed.

Well, aren’t you a pushy fellow.

You need it.

No, I don’t.

Yes, you do. Get out there and live your life.

(Sigh)

***

I did. I’m in Wimpy’s Diner as I write this. And then it’s off to hear the music of Larry Smith and Tara Dunphy.

Sometimes you have to heed the call.

Hobson and Juliette

I had lunch today with my friend Arlene at Shelly’s in London.  We talked for two hours.  It seemed clear to me that what brings her the most happiness is her two grandchildren.  Juliette is 10 and I think Hobson is 7.  The smile across the table said it all.

I thought Arlene said “Thompson” but, no, that wasn’t right.  It was “Hobson”.  Such an unusual name.  The young man’s parents, Lydia and Chris, are in the Canadian Forces, stationed at Petawawa, Ontario.  They met long ago when they both joined the Hobson Platoon.  I wondered what inspired them to give their son that name.

Frederick Hobson emigrated here from England and enlisted when Canada entered World War I.  He was sent overseas and fought the Germans.  He died in Lens, France in 1917 and was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery.  Here’s a newspaper account:

During a strong enemy counterattack, a Lewis gun in a forward post in a communication trench leading to the enemy lines was buried by a shell, and the crew, with the exception of one man, was killed.  Sergeant Hobson, though not a gunner, grasping the great importance of the post, rushed from his trench, dug out the gun, and got it into action against the enemy who were now advancing down the trench and across the open.  A jam caused the gun to stop firing.  Though wounded, he left the gunner to correct the stoppage, rushed forward at the advancing enemy and with bayonet and clubbed rifle single-handedly held them back until he himself was killed by a rifle shot.  By this time however, the Lewis gun was again in action and with reinforcements shortly afterwards arriving, the enemy were beaten off.  The valour and devotion to duty displayed by this non-commissioned officer gave the gunner the time required to again get the gun into action, and saved a most serious situation.

Chris and Lydia were so moved by Sergeant Hobson’s sacrifice that they wanted his name to live on.  A happy young boy now carries it.

***

Lydia was pregnant in 2008.  She had learned about General Romeo Dallaire, a general in the Canadian Forces.

Dallaire served as Force Commander of the United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda, the ill-fated United Nations peacekeeping force for Rwanda, between 1993 and 1994, and attempted to stop the genocide that was being waged by Hutu extremists against the Tutsi people and Hutu moderates.

Seeing the impact of this great humanitarian, Lydia wanted to name her future son “Romeo”.  Except that a girl was placed in her arms.  Mom and dad knew what to do.  They chose the name “Juliet”.  Since Chris’ mom was French-Canadian, the parents expanded the name to the Francophone version “Juliette”.

***

I sat enthralled as the grandkids came alive for me.  “They love each other so much,” said grandma.  Juliette and Hobson are at the same school but on a different recess schedule.  As Juliette’s recess ends, she lingers on the yard until Hobson emerges from the school … to give him a hug and a kiss.

Ahh, love.  Where would we be without it?