Danger and Love

If you were reading my blog two years ago, you heard about Lydia and Jo, Belgium and Senegal.  In December, I’m visiting my friends in Belgium and then we’re flying to Senegal in Africa to visit their twenty foster children.  A grand adventure.

Today I went to the London Travel Clinic to find out what shots I need.  The doctor didn’t pull any punches: “You’re going to one of the most dangerous places in the world.”  Dangerous as in disease.  She described a belt which runs west to east across the middle of Africa … big problems with respect to health.  But I can get the “full meal deal” of vaccines and pills to protect me.

Today I had four injections.  In a month I’ll have two or three more.  Here’s what I’m avoiding:

1. Yellow fever – potentially fatal without protection, widespread in parts of Africa, carried by infected mosquitoes

2. Hepatitis A – contracted through impure water

3. Hepatitis B – contracted through blood or other bodily fluids

4. Typhoid – contracted by eating food or drinking water contaminated with the feces of an infected person

5. Meningitis – inflammation of the membranes that cover the brain and spinal cord, due to infection

6. Measles, mumps and rubella – infections caused by viruses

7. Malaria – a life-threatening disease transmitted through the bite of an infected mosquito

And here are some other do’s and don’ts for me to contemplate:

1. Put on insect repellent at the beginning of the day and every four hours thereafter. Make sure it has a high concentration of DEET.

2. Don’t pet dogs.  Actually, stay away from dogs.  Rabies is a common cause of death in Africa.

3. To avoid diarrhea, drink only boiled fluids or those coming out of a sealed bottle.  Stay well-hydrated.  Brush your teeth with bottled water.

4. Eat well-cooked meat, rice and peeled fruit, such as bananas. Don’t eat salads or berries since they may have been washed in impure water.

5. Stay well-hydrated to avoid constipation.  Take a supply of Bran Buds with you since African food tends to be low in fibre.  Use a laxative such as Restoralax as needed.

***

Well, this definitely gets me thinking.  Ruth, the doctor at the clinic, told me not to worry since I’ll be well protected.  Still, I need to be on high alert while I’m in Senegal.  Not exactly a “falling asleep on the beach” vacation.  Here comes a dog.  Those greens look yummy but …  Did I take that malaria pill at breakfast?

I’m a bit afraid but then clear thinking returns.  I’m committed to being safe.

I want the trip to be about people – especially Jo and Lydia’s kids, but also the Senegalese adults I’ll meet.  I’ll handle the health details, breathe easy because of that, and open myself to love.

Excess

(I sent out an incomplete version of this post this morning. Oops! If you received it, you may have wondered what follows “A 40”. Read on.)

I’m sitting in the living room of my B&B in Toronto, staring at the cover of a local magazine. There sits a gigantic hamburger in high definition, piled with two patties, two onion rings, bacon, carmelized onions, lettuce, tomato and cheese … cheese … cheese. The burger looks to be four inches in diameter and six inches high.

My knee jerk response is lust, but then I settle down. My eyes narrow and desire fades to revulsion. How would you get such a thing in your mouth? Do we really need five vivid flavours competing for space in our consciousness? Well … no.

I wonder what other examples of animal magnetism I’ll find in these pages:

1. A 40-storey condo tower will be prime real estate – at Bloor and Yonge. If you have a few million dollars lying around, you’ll be able to call “a shimmering sculpture of light and gold” home.

2. How about a fitness experience? If you join this club, you’ll feel “a great energy and flow to the space”, not to mention the change room and “its accoutrements: the towels, the shower products, the padlock-less lockers, the vanity, and even that earthy rug/mat”. Perhaps especially the vanity.

3. “I splurged on a $350 sweater for my boyfriend [Aimé Leon Dore microfleece]. We’re both obsessed with this designer.”

4. A weeklong event to “bring the city’s celebrated bars, bartenders, brands and cocktail lovers together. Come for the amazing parties and bar crawls, the one-of-a-kind seminars and tastings, and even a boozy film screening or two.”

Hey, there’s nothing wrong with any of this. If you have the money it’s one choice you can make. But subtle messages shine through:

Bigger is better
Look at me
Happiness is an outside job

I don’t think so

Notes from the Davis Cup

For the last two days, I’ve been watching men’s tennis at the Coca-Cola Coliseum in Toronto. Canada versus the Netherlands. Here are some of my thoughts:

1. The place was only half full. I was sad for the players and for me. I’ve been to many sporting events when the building was packed and the energy sky high. I just love that energy. It makes me bigger. It reminds me of the spiritual realms that human beings can reach.

2. On Friday, Milos Raonic was playing a match when his Dutch opponent blasted a ball right at him. It went through Milos’ legs and struck the linesman standing behind. The man or woman (I couldn’t tell) crumpled, and Milos was there in an instant, offering support. That’s what the world needs. Sure, Milos has the status and the big bucks, but we’re all human beings who hurt every so often.

3. These players are so powerful and serve the ball at over 100 miles an hour, but it’s the delicate shots I love – a sliced backhand that seems to go sideways when it hits the court, a big backswing disguising a slow-motion drop shot falling softly out of the opponent’s reach, a lob that arches way over a player’s head and lands six inches inside the baseline. Give me the artists, please.

4. Then there are the very few fans who make a noise just as a Dutch player is starting his serving motion. No one does this when a Canadian is serving. Spare me from the world’s ethnocentric folks … my group is better than your group and maybe I can do something to have my group win. I love cheering for Canada and I also love applauding a brilliant shot, no matter who makes it.

5. The first day, I had a lovely couple on my right and two lovely women on my left. I had a great time bantering in one direction and then the other. Strangers became friends. Caution gave way to smiles. Yesterday the two women sat several seats further to my left. I don’t know why. I had fun with the couple but within that was a sadness, that a relationship had faded, that close had become distant. I hope the two women come back today but they may not. It seems that so much of life is a letting go.

6. The Coca-Cola Coliseum has been the home of the Toronto Marlies hockey team for a long time. They’re one level down from the National Hockey League’s Toronto Maple Leafs. Inside the front entrance is a sign: “Building Maple Leafs since 1927.” Very cool. And all around the arena, on the little wall separating the lower seats from the balcony, are many of the team’s leafy logos, each with a name.

“Armstrong 1949” – the year of my birth. And that must be George Armstrong, whom I idolized in the Stanley Cup years of the 1960’s. George was the Leafs’ captain for 13 years. I looked up at all those names and thought of the history of the place. Tennis below … hockey above. May we always remember the history of those we love.

7. Daniel Nestor. The greatest tennis player in Canadian history. And yesterday was his final match, a doubles loss to the Netherlands. Daniel played poorly and later admitted that he wasn’t good enough anymore. Jean-Julien Rojer, his opponent and friend, said “You can say that eventually Father Time was undefeated because it catches up to you.”

Daniel cried as he spoke to the crowd after the match. “I love you guys [the Canadian team]. I love you fans. I love the city.” Well said.

I read an article last night about Daniel retiring. The writer said that Nestor “lost his composure”. Thank God he did. I don’t want to be a composed human being. I want to feel life, down deep in my bones.

Like you, Daniel

Parallel

I was sitting in the living room this morning with Ihor, my Toronto B&B host. We talked about life. He mentioned that his all-time favourite teacher was Mr. Whiteside in Grade 7. He helped the kids feel like human beings, like they mattered.

Years later, Ihor saw Mr. Whiteside on the subway one evening. He was snoozing. Ihor decided to leave him alone. He no doubt was exhausted from a day of teaching, marking and creating lesson plans. The intended message was simply “Thank you.” But there was no joyous giving and no likely joyous receiving. Ihor was sad in the years proceeding that he didn’t speak up.

I listened … and remembered the same. It was about 1970 and I was a student at the University of Toronto. As I approached an old stone arch on campus, I looked through to see “a little old man” coming towards me from the other side. Closer, I recognized the fellow: it was Lester Pearson, the recently retired Prime Minister of Canada. Pearson had been a leader in promoting peace in the world. He was a true Canadian hero. “Say something, Bruce!”

And now we were both entering the arch. I looked towards him with a dry mouth … and averted my gaze as we passed by. (Sigh) My sadness lingered for many years.

Ihor nodded.

Then he began again. “Many years later, I was walking on the Lake Huron sand near Wasaga Beach. A guy was walking towards me. It was David Crombie, known as ‘the tiny perfect mayor’ of Toronto. Visions of Mr. Whiteside. I walked right up to him and said ‘Hi.’ David smiled back and we had a good talk.”

I nodded.

Then I shared the story which took place in Bruno’s Fine Foods, a few decades after Mr. Pearson. I wheeled my shopping cart into the next aisle, and there at the far end was a little old man, pushing his. Closer. I knew him. It was King Clancy, a former player and coach of the Toronto Maple Leafs. Now he was 80 or 90. He reached for his shelf and I reached for mine. Soon we were cart to cart …

“Hello, Mr. Clancy.”

(Big smile) “Hello.”

“Thank you for your contributions to the Leafs and to hockey.”

“You’re most welcome.”

And we talked some more.

***

Lesson learned, eh, Ihor?
May we always remember

An Earlier Life

I love sitting at the counter of the Belmont Diner.  I get to joke with the regulars and meet some new folks too.  Separate tables are a part of life but you don’t get to know people that way.

The topics of conversation are all over the map: politics, sports, occupations, local gossip, philosophy, religion, travel … they all make an appearance.  The farmers have their own lingo, which I understand, sort of.  “Too wet to get into the field … Guess what I saw at the equipment show?”  And the hours needed to take care of all those cows.

This morning at breakfast, “Steve” ventured into the past.  He was a snowplow operator for decades.  Sometimes it was school parking lots and sometimes the open highway.  If there’d been a storm, Steve hopped on at 7:00 pm and hopped off at 8:00 am.  Just the concept of working all night boggles me.  I know what it’s like to be on the road when the snow blows the visibility away but having to concentrate like anything for 13 hours?  Whoa.  And maybe there wasn’t any chance to sleep during the daytime before.  Exhaustion and a whiteout.  “You just got used to it.”

I’m looking across the counter at a hero who doesn’t often talk about his escapades.  But once Steve gets going on the topic …

One night he was in the cab of the plow, coaching a new driver.  They could vaguely make out a car parked on the shoulder, and Steve thought he could see inside too easily.  The driver’s window was down!  “Get the blade up!”  Too late.  The snow piled in, filling the compartment nicely.  Later they found out that the driver was furious.  Somehow Steve omitted the part about what happened next.

Another time, a very small car (maybe a Volkswagen beetle) got caught up in the blade and was carted along for miles.  The visibility was so bad that Steve had no clue about his passenger until he slowed for an intersection.

Oh, I love these stories.  Now I have to figure out how to keep drawing out such tales from my counter companions.  I can do it.  I want to do it.  There are glowing moments hidden just under the surface of the bodies drinking coffee beside me.

Thirteen

The contrasting number is 69, which happens to be my age.  Tonight I’m going to see Eighth Grade, a film about a girl trying to figure out who she is, how to be herself in the face of friends and parents.  I volunteer with 11-year-olds, kids who are starting to experience similar angst.

I tell myself that I’m an empathetic adult who can sense what kids are feeling.  After all, I used to be one.  Well, maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe I forget the young wallows of self-esteem, the despair of loneliness, the pull towards conforming so you can have friends.

So tonight I learn.  There’s so much I don’t know.  And I want to know more so I can love more.  These kids need love.  They need to have people in their life who “get” them, who “see” them.  I can be one of those folks.

And now the movie …

Kayla has full-blown acne and there are many who can’t see beyond the texture of her skin to find the person.  She hardly says anything in school as fear usually rules her day.  As the school year winds down, she wins an award … as the quietest female student.  And she shrinks some more.

In band class, as her peers try on the trumpet and trombone, Kayla gets to clang the cymbals.  Sometimes even that is too much – she can’t quite get the rhythm right.  Her world continues to fall apart.

Throughout the film, despite the pressures on her mind, Kayla is remarkably brave.  She creates Internet videos, full of tips for kids her age.  Apparently hardly anybody watches them but she keeps going.  A stuck up girl in her class is forced by her mother to invite Kayla to her birthday party.  Kayla knows she’s disliked and still goes to the party.  She’s a little overweight but still puts on her bathing suit and heads to the pool … where everyone awaits.  Waydago, Kayla.

It was painful to see how most of the teens rejected her, since she was deemed not to be “cool”.  Kayla initiates conversation with two of the “in” girls in the school hallway and they barely respond, staring at their phones the whole time.  Kayla keeps talking.

It’s so hard for dad, a prince of a single parent, to feel Kayla distancing herself from him.  There’s really no dinnertime conversation, just the phone.  At one point, he’s driving her somewhere, not saying anything for the moment.  Her response?  “Don’t be weird and quiet.”  He’s baffled.  It teaches me that sometimes I just won’t understand what’s going on in the teen’s brain.  There’s nothing wise I can say.  Just love them from afar.

Kayla has a crush on a boy and tells him that she’s created nude photos of herself (which she hasn’t) – anything to get him to be her friend.  Another boy tries to initiate sexual activity in his car, and she’s sorely tempted, but courageously says no.

In the fifty-six years after being thirteen, I’ve forgotten so much about the horrors that kept popping up back then.  And I didn’t have to deal with social media.  I left the theatre with huge love and respect for the young people who are groping through the mists to answer the question …

Who am I?

Kids!

I’m back volunteering in the Grade 6 class.  Although I talked to some of these kids last year, they’re essentially new to me, except for a few of them who were in the split Grade 5/6 class last year.

Today was my second visit this fall and I’m enthralled to be with these children.  Since the Grade 6’s will graduate in June and head to a school in another community next year, there’s a real sense of loving them for ten months and then letting them go.  Perhaps my life is largely an accumulation of moments in which I often make a difference in the present environment … with new folks showing up after that.  Maybe a few kids will look back when they’re 40 and remember me fondly, or maybe not.  What I do hope is that I plant a few seeds that will blossom when they’re adults.

The Grade 6 teacher is new to the school.  I’ll call him Ben.  He’s already showing a great willingness to have me contribute to the life of the classroom.  The discussion early this morning was about 911.  When I arrived in the afternoon, Ben invited me to share my memories of the day.  Thank you, Ben.  I love sharing my history, in hopes that my stories will touch a heart or two.

I told the kids that I was in an elementary school that morning in 2001.  All the TVs were on.  Students and staff members were crying.  All I could think of doing was going around to kid after kid and saying “You’re safe.”  Of course I didn’t know that.  I didn’t know if Toronto would be attacked next.  I was terrified.

Most of the kids were with me as I spoke.  In general, I think they watch us adults like hawks, trying to figure out how to be one themselves.  So we need to speak the truth, and kindly so.

At one point, Ben had the class read a short story in which a boy ends up applauding a girl who bested him in a hula hoop contest – another great lesson for these young ones.  The victorious girl was Rachelle, and I noticed that as each student read a sentence or two they all pronounced her name “Rachel”.  Afterwards I asked them the question “If, while people were reading, you thought the girl’s name should be pronounced ‘Rachelle’, would you have made the change when it was your turn to talk?”  And then I told them there was no right answer – it’s just something to think about.  The opportunity to say things like this to 11-year-olds is absolutely precious to me.  Thanks again, Ben.

When I’m volunteering, I’m always on the lookout for kids being kind to each other.  It’s what the world needs.  Today I didn’t notice anything but I’m sure it will come.  And when it does, I’ll take the giver aside and privately thank him or her for doing something that helps.  For school is most deeply about growing human beings.

 

Friends of Fiddler’s Green

This is a folk music group which was founded in 1971.  Last night at the Cuckoo’s Nest in London, Ontario, five fellows treated us to accordion, guitars, keyboard and a tiny squeeze box, as well as impassioned singing.  The musicians used to play at the old Fiddler’s Green folk club in Toronto.  They played songs and tunes from wide in the world, some raucous and some tender.

I got the last chair in the place, back and to the left of the keyboard player.  I was immersed in sound.  Closing my eyes and tapping out the rhythms on my thighs came naturally.  And so did watching Jeff’s fingers fly over the keys.  Propped up in front of him was a little notebook, with only a few hen scratches shown for each song … and yet he played such beautiful runs!

Usually there was a chorus where we the audience could sing along.  What joy to reach a harmony or two amid the sweet melodies.  I love the blending of voices – it both sends me away and drops me inside.

Our choir throbbed inside an old Tom Paxton folk song – “The Last Thing On My Mind”:

As I lie in my bed in the morning
Without you, without you
Each song in my breast dies a-borning
Without you, without you

Are you going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind?
I could have loved you better, didn’t mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind

Oh my God … we were so fine.  We knew the humanity within the words.  And the instruments soared with us.

Alistair Brown is a very funny guy.  Between his singing and playing, he peppered us with jokes:

(A man and his young son)

Daddy, why is the sky blue?

I don’t know, son.

Daddy, how do birds fly?

I’m really not sure, son.

Daddy, do people live out there in space?

I really don’t know, son.

Daddy, do you mind me asking you all these questions?

No, son.  If you don’t ask questions, how are you ever going to learn things?

It was a delightful evening.  From my angle, I got to look at a lot of glowing faces in the audience.  We stood at the end.

 

The Rules of Life

I sat in Boston Pizza yesterday afternoon, watching the women’s final of the US Open tennis tournament. The sound was off.

Naomi Osaka was playing beautifully and Serena Williams, probably the best female player in history, was struggling to keep up. At one point, Serena started gesturing at the umpire. It looked like she was yelling at him. Then she smashed her racquet onto the court, breaking it. More gestures, including finger pointing. More yelling. Two more officials walking onto the court to talk to Serena. Then she was crying.

What was happening here? I wished I could hear.

Naomi won the match and both players were crying at the awards ceremony. Virtually no smiles from the victor.

Only later could I piece it all together:

1. Carlos Ramos, the umpire, gave Serena a warning when he saw her coach giving her advice from the stands, using gestures. Coaching during a match is not allowed.

2. Serena complained to the umpire with words and gestures.

3. After losing a game to Naomi, Serena broke her racquet, also a violation. A second violation means that the player is assessed a one-point penalty. Carlos did that. (For those of you unfamiliar with tennis, a point is sort of one quarter of a game. You need to win six games to win a set. And usually a match is the best two of three sets.)

4. Serena continued to complain to the umpire. She called him a “liar” and a “thief” and said that he’d never again referee a match of hers. Carlos, again according to the rules, gave Serena a third violation, this one for “verbal abuse”. A third infraction comes with a one-game penalty, which is clearly far more important than a one-point one.

So … what to make of all this? Here’s my take on it:

In any human endeavour, there are rules to encourage appropriate behaviour and to penalize inappropriate acts. For life to work, these rules need to be applied to everyone, regardless of their status, wealth, gender, age, personality, or any other variable you can think of. The act determines the consequences, not the person performing the act.

If someone thinks that a rule is unfair, he or she needs to work through a democratic process to get the rule changed. In the present moment, the current rule stands.

In the tennis world, Carlos is known as a “stickler” for the rules. That term is often seen as derogatory. To me, though, it feels like a commitment to the truth, and should be applauded.

Do we want a society where it’s okay to berate each other, to cast aspersions on the integrity of another, to use one’s power to make inappropriate things happen? Well … I sure don’t want that.

The Holy Land

My friends Anne and Ihor got back from their pilgrimage to Israel last week. They’re devout Christians and shared this devotion with 24 other souls from their Ukrainian Catholic church. Yes, “pilgrimage” is the right word.

Pilgrims from all over the world come to Jerusalem, Nazareth, Mount Tabor, Bethlehem and Jericho. They walk the Via Dolorosa, the street where Jesus carried his cross. They gaze up at Golgatha, where he died.

I sat in the living room this morning as my B&B hosts told me what most deeply impacted them on the trip.

Ihor was struck with the groups of pilgrims who each dressed in their traditional clothing as they honoured Jesus by their presence. Flowing gowns in bright colours were common. Some devotees formed a circle and sang holy songs. Reverence filled the space. The North Americans, in their individual clothing choices, contrasted with the “families” of worshippers, but their inner faith was no doubt the same.

Anne experienced the presence of God atop Mount Tabor. As she looked around at her companions, many of them were similarly moved. The mountain is apparently the site of Jesus’ “transfiguration”. In Matthew we read:

After six days Jesus took with him
Peter, James and John the brother of James
and led them up a high mountain by themselves
There he was transfigured before them
His face shone like the sun
and his clothes became as white as the light

Who knows what energies are alive in the world? Sitting quietly though, in a state of reception, we may welcome in God, the Buddha, Spirit or whatever we choose to call it, and we too may radiate lovingkindness. Some immensity touched Anne and her friends on Mount Tabor.

Alas, all is not roses and lemonade. Ihor and Anne were in a cafeteria packed with locals and tourists, about to chow down on the lunch they had prepared in their hotel. Chicken and cheese sandwiches looked pretty tasty.

Suddenly a middle-aged Jewish woman ran over to them, yelling:

“You are breaking kosher laws. Get out! Get out!”

Although many Jews abide by kosher rules, in which meat and dairy products are not to be eaten together, this was a public place, with people from all over the world. Sadly, in their shock, my friends chose to leave. Even though the woman’s behaviour did not show a general Jewish attitude, it was a sad commentary on the abuse that can be done in the name of religion. Anne and Ihor are still trying to process this incident.

Ihor loved being at the site of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount – the side of a hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee. As a priest led a ceremony, the view was through graceful trees down to the water. No doubt many pilgrims could imagine Jesus standing exactly where they were, sharing his soul with the faithful:

Blessed are the poor in spirit
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

Blessed are those who mourn
for they shall be comforted

Blessed are the meek
for they shall inherit the earth

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness
for they shall be satisfied

Blessed are the merciful
for they shall obtain mercy

Blessed are the pure of heart
for they shall see God

Blessed are the peacemakers
for they shall be called children of God

Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

And blessed are Ihor and Anne