Day Three: The Ocean

I’m on a huge ferry, taking six hours to cross from Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia to Newfoundland. Before boarding, I sat with a fellow from Newfoundland at a Tim Hortons in North Sydney. I had asked a friend of his if I could look at the sports section from his newspaper, and had received an enthusiastic “yes” in response. So I offered to put the gentleman into my will. He seemed pleased with the prospect, but soon toodled off to another table to woo a woman.

So now we were two. I asked my new friend how folks from Newfoundland feel about being called a “newfie”. He smiled and said “depends on the attitude.” As I struggled with his accent, I had no problem with his being. We chuckled together … and then said goodbye.

On the ship, I sat with a mom and daughter from Digby, Nova Scotia, off on an adventure together before the younger begins her university adventures. Taylor was the Prime Minister of Student Parliament in high school and seems to have a firm sense of what leadership is all about. I marvelled at her commitment to contribute and wished for a time machine to view the adult she’ll become.

Now I’m in the forward lounge, facing a straight line of water and sky. Not a ripple of land at the horizon. The simplicity is sweet. I want to be alone with my beer, on a break from human beings. A bit of yin, a bit of yang … and so we go.

Finally the land – Port aux Basques – pastel-coloured houses on a mass of rock. The beauty of the sea bounding the end of the world is stunning. Welcome to Newfoundland, Bruce.

My hotel is on a hill facing the ocean and I sit on a bright yellow chair, taking in the horizon. Way below me I hear music – guitars and accordion punctuated with voices cranking out newfie songs. I go down to investigate. A outdoor dance floor is surrounded by colourful bleachers, and a couple are strutting their stuff. She especially is smiling her way through the twirls.

Now the band moves into a tender one:

Put me in your pocket so I’ll be close to you
No more will I be lonesome and no more will I be blue

The dancers flow and the audience nods in approval. We’re down home together. Nice. I chat with a few folks and lean towards bed.

Goodnight.

Day Two: Rocking and Rolling

Walking on the train was an adventure. The dining car was about ten cars ahead of where I slept, with the dome four back. Since people’s small cabins stretched across most of the width of the train, the corridor was sixteen inches wide. As the train moved and grooved on the rails, so did my bod, caressing the walls as I stumbled forward. I was left to imagine what travel would be like if I had a beer or two in me … “Bruising on the Halifax Express”!

I loved my tiny space – two comfy chairs that a staff member transformed into a bed in the evening. I had visions of leaving the drapes open overnight so I could be bathed in moonlight, but a series of red lights flashing by soon dampened my romantic aspirations.

My bed was just fine, although I half expected to fall off at 2:00 am, given how narrow it was. As I laid down my head, the jostling of rail travel had me thinking that it would be a short night but that thought soon fell into sleep.

At breakfast yesterday, I looked out at the views – left was a wide stretch of water and right forests and fields. I had asked a gentleman sitting alone if I could join him and he smilingly said yes. Habib was a Pakistani fellow from Toronto, a commercial real estate agent.

And … we had the most marvelous conversation – my life and his life, and how important it is to be kind. I asked him if he experienced much discrimination, and he said yes. He spoke without antagonism. In fact he spoke with love. The scenery around me faded away and our words flowed.

Other meetings followed. Karen in the dome car, just returning from a yoga retreat and so interested in my long term meditation experience. Like-minded voyagers on our dear planet. Then there was Jo at lunch. She was from the UK and had fallen in love with Kelowna, B.C. A future possibility as a Canadian was beckoning.

Late in the day, a staff member told me that our train was an hour behind schedule. Oops. I was supposed to get off at Truro, Nova Scotia at 4:20 pm and get on a bus to North Sydney at 5:00. As the minutes ticked by, it became clear that I wasn’t going to make it. Jo stayed by me as I grappled with sketchy phone service to call the bus company, my soon-to-be B&B hostess, and other transportation options. Jo was so supportive.

I was amazed at how calm I was. I just knew that the universe would provide. I would get to North Sydney tonight and take the ferry to Newfoundland tomorrow afternoon. I sat there quietly pleased with who I’ve become.

Via Rail arrived in Truro at 5:05. The bus had left at 5:00. And a shuttle van was picking me up at Murphy’s Fish and Chips at 6:30. All was well.

I had a homemade piece of coconut cream pie and a fine chat with my server. When it was time to pay, I approached an older woman at the counter. I told her my Via Rail story. Her response? “Okay then. This is on the house.” I was tempted to protest but the look in her eyes told me not to. Thank you, Natalie, and to the other fine human beings who have come my way.

Night One: Sleeper

Ahh … the dome car. As the evening light fades, I look out across the fields to the hills beyond. Maybe forty years ago, I passed this way by car and was brought to silence by a huge white cross way up high. Tonight I searched for it but no luck. It’ll have to stay vivid in my memory.

I’ve been talking to a couple from Colorado. They’re so proud of their son, who’s a star football player. And the three of us shared memories of walking through the ancient streets of Quebec City.

And now it’s dark. Our attendant Emily is in the car, telling us about the ghost who lives here. Apparently he’s a former conductor, complete with swinging lantern. I hope he comes by.

Dinner is in half an hour. Lovely.

I get to sit with Dianne from Mississauga, Ontario, Claude from Campbellton, New Brunswick and Steve, a Via Rail employee from I don’t know where. Thank you, dear power of the universe, for providing me with these genial folks. Yes, I like my own company but this was far better.

Claude has lived in Campbellton all his life, and it’s been a long one. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be. His eyes shine when he talks of his family. Claude stays pretty quiet as the other three of us blab away but I can tell he’s enjoying our presence.

Dianne seems alone in life but delights in travelling the world. She’s met so many cool folks on her bus tours. She likes the quiet, slow ones (tours, that is). No “If It’s Tuesday It Must Be Belgium” for her.

Steve has loved trains ever since he was a kid. With bated breath, he tells us the history of the cars we’re rolling in – many of them were built in the fifties and are still doing fine, thank you.

In the late evening, Steve, Dianne and I retire to the Bullet Lounge at the back of the train. We’ve let passengers off at Sainte-Foy after crossing to the north side of the St. Lawrence River. Since there’s no way to turn the train around to get back south, we need to back up for five miles at 25 mph or so! This requires an engineer to sit with us in the lounge to make sure nothing or no one is on the track, and that we miss the nearby freight train. In walks a grizzled old fellow, wearing coveralls over a dress shirt and a perfectly-French-knotted tie, as well as a vibrant smile. Steve says this gentleman has been an engineer for forty years. The two of them engage in a long conversation in French, punctuated with back-and-forth talk on the walkie talkie with the engineer at the front of our train and the one on the freight. Steve’s eyes are aglow, absolutely captivated with this piece of history sitting beside him. I give off a faint little smile that won’t disappear.

Well … I guess I misnamed this post. I never did get to my sleeping accommodations and I’m tired of writing. Stay tuned for more Bruce-on-the-move adventures.

Day One: On to Montreal

And so I begin the journey. I’m looking out the window on my Via Rail train, bound for Toronto. So many fields, so many trees. I’m out in the middle of nowhere until we cross a road at an angle. Briefly I’m brought back into the world of cars … and then plunged back into the wild. The plunge is delicious. A few kilometres back, a hundred Canada geese sat together in a bare field. It was family, and I loved seeing them.

The whole thing is magical, with the morning mist rising above the land. I have a private view of scenes usually beyond me – dense tangles of underbrush, tiny ponds, towering deciduous trees and the sweep of rolling fields. It’s a privilege to be here.

***

Well … so far I’ve composed this post using my Android phone because I couldn’t get any connection with my laptop. A Via Rail employee tried to help me but eventually ran out of ideas. He suggested I phone the tech support 1-800 number, so I did. Nearly an hour later, the gentleman on the other end of the line was still trying to fix me up. He had a thick French-Canadian accent, and I struggled to understand what he was saying. Plus nothing he recommended worked. What was miraculous was that we were both so determined … and so patient with each other. Just what a frustrated human being needs!

Finally, my Via tech guy said he’d phone me back in five minutes. Told me that he had one more idea. Meanwhile, a fellow named Christian had got on the train miles back in Kitchener, and he was my seatmate. He asked if he could help. Of course. His fingers flew over assorted screens and soon he came to a setting that looked like a problem. He switched things to “automatic DNS settings” and …

Connection!
Thank you, kind sir

A few minutes later, tech support guy phoned back and I told him that Christian had fixed the problem. I handed the phone over and the two of them talked computerese. Sweet. I imagine Mr. Via is embarrassed that another passenger got the job done in a shake of a lamb’s tail, but he’ll be okay. Thank you, everyone, for pitching in. Exactly what the world needs.

***

We’re rolling east of Toronto. I look forward in the car and realize how very narrow a train is. Just a little arrow of human togetherness. And the corridor through which we pass is also squinchy. The life of the landscape is just metres away, flowing away as in a dream. Here’s a crow walking along the rail beside me. Here are the clouds billowing overhead. Here are cars lined up to let us pass.

Dead trees poking out of an evaporated wetland. Pillars of crushed rock evoke the pyramids. And now the sun shows up to animate the leaves. As we slow towards a town, a gaggle of residents look up to mark our passage. Somebody’s shirts are drying on the line.

Into Belleville, we parallel a road, and the cars have no chance in keeping up with us. At the station, I glance over at John’s Variety, where I savoured an ice cream cone two years ago. That time I came here to see the play “Jake’s Women” three nights in a row.

A Via Rail employee just made an a announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that it is strictly prohibited to smoke anywhere on the train, especially if you are in car five, in the middle.” Oops. Public shaming.

Now, at the Kingston station, there’s a sea of marsh grass out my window, waving in the wind. I imagine each blade as a person, and see us flow together. Fifteen minutes later, a complete contract- the 401 freeway parallels on my right. I find myself wishing for a traffic jam, so I can experience leaving them all behind. Nasty, Bruce.

It’s Sunday afternoon, and the final round of the CP Canadian Women’s Open is unfolding in Regina, Saskatchewan. I’m not just stuck to the window. I’m stuck to my phone. Canada’s darling golfer Brooke Henderson has a three-stroke lead on the back nine. Go, Brooke!

A great blue heron just flew beside the train! So graceful. These sublime creatures have a wingspan of six feet. Now, back to Brooke. She has a three-stroke lead with three holes to go.

***

She won! Brooke is the first Canadian woman to win our national championship since 1973. Marvelous. Yay for Canada.

I’m so high that I’m virtually on the roof of the train. No more travelling words right now. I’m just going to bask in the glory of hero worship.

Tonight at 7:15 or so, I’ll step into my sleeping compartment on the Montreal to Nova Scotia train. I no doubt will so hyped this evening that I’ll have to write you again. I’ll call it “Night One: Sleeper”.

See you then.

Deer Hunting

I was driving home from London today, taking a well-treed secondary road called Dingman Drive.  At one point, I looked to my left and saw the curve of a bare field against a grove of trees.  And … sploing!  I was transported back years ago when Jody and I used to go deer hunting.

If you know me from my writing, you might be surprised that I’m a hunter.  Well, I’d be pretty surprised myself if I actually wanted to take another being’s life.  I do not kill deer.  I find them.  I gaze at them in wonder and kinship.  Or so I did with my beloved wife when we lived in Union, Ontario.

Once firmly ensconced in my Lazy Boy chair this afternoon, I knew what I’d be doing in the late evening, after tackling all the packing for tomorrow’s trip.  Scarlet and I would go looking for dear.  (I just misspelled the word, or did I?)

Sunset was at 7:48 tonight.  At 7:43, I was on the road, heading back to Dingman.  And my heart was going pitty-pat.  I remembered the pitty-pats of long ago, and the joy of seeing a graceful animal at the edge of the woods.  Oh, the joy of anticipation, of yearning for contact, of sharing the world with a four-legged one.  I would travel the quiet Drives – Dingman, Westminster, Scotland and Manning.  And maybe I’d have company.

No friends lingered in the fields of Dingman.  There was lots of corn, though, perfect for hiding the brown ones.  A thought came that has often been my companion: Even if I don’t see them, they are there.  This is their land, and the sense of deer is here.  That’s always been comforting when my searches don’t seem to produce results.

As I turned onto Westminster, I was soaring.  I was in relationship with other beings, whose lives were so different from mine.  The communion was important, far more so than sightings.

Westminster was empty of me seeing deer … Scotland as well … Manning the same.  My timing was perfect, bracketing the sunset.  Surely my friends were out there feeding, no doubt hidden by the corn.  In October, once farmers have taken off their crop, the fields will be bare and I’ll get in Scarlet about 6:30 to seek my fellow citizens of planet Earth.

Jody will be along for the ride, cheering me on.

 

A Natural Exit

When I drive into London from Belmont, I usually take the 401, our Southern Ontario freeway, which has a speed limit of 100 kph (about 60 mph).  After ten kilometres or so, I’m ready to take the Wellington Road exit.  The ramp goes straight for maybe a kilometre, and then around a slight bend is a 50 kph (30 mph) sign.

As I veer off onto the ramp, I lighten the pressure on my gas pedal and gradually decrease to the 50.  I sense I’m in a natural rhythm of blending with my environment.  It feels good, like I’m flowing from one chapter of my life to the next.

Other drivers disagree.  Usually I’m tailgated on the ramp and the crowd of cars behind sometimes reaches double digits.  Once a fellow swerved onto the paved shoulder to get by me.  At the 50 kph sign, a second lane appears, with traffic lights shortly thereafter.  If the light is red, a vehicle or two has time to blast by me on the left and then slam on their brakes.  If it’s green, a convoy flows past, with most of them then flashing into my lane, since lots of us are turning right at the next light.

I let myself feel the pressure of the tailgating, and my fear.  It’s definitely a part of life.  But it’s very sweet to maintain my flow in the midst of impatient drivers.  I’m the source of my actions, not them.  Overall, the whole thing is a meditation and I’m pleased that I choose to experience it regularly.

***

I ask myself if I’ll have the same grace as I leave this planet.  Will I let myself feel the body diminishing and the mind clouding?  Will I let the words of William Shakespeare linger?

Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace!
And lips, O you the doors of breath
Seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death

Or will I vote with Dylan Thomas?

Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rave at close of day
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

The ramp awaits
Soon, or not soon, my turn signal goes on

The Rails Ahead

On Sunday at 7:30 am I get on a train in London, Ontario.  Two trains, two buses and one ferry later, I arrive in St. John’s, Newfoundland on Thursday.  The next day I get to greet the cyclists of the Tour du Canada as they end their cross-country journey.  So I’m on a journey of my own.

All told, I’m gone for ten days.  And I ask myself: “What can I create in that time?”  Seems like a odd question.  Am I not going simply to absorb all that the world of travel offers?  To consume the land, the food and the people I meet?  Well, yes, that’s part of it.  I want to draw experiences, conversations and scenes inside of me … so they may nourish me.  Yes, I want to be fed.  But if my life is all about eating, I fear that I’ll bloat – be so full of incoming energy that I don’t even give a thought to what I’m sending forth.

Very simply, I want to contribute to the lives of the folks I meet.  That starts with the attendant at the London train station, as I figure out how I’m going to make my luggage work for both the train travel and the return flight from St. John’s on September 4.

There may be a human being sitting beside me as the fields give way to the towers of Toronto.

There may be a hot dog vendor outside the Montreal station.

There’ll be a waiter or waitress as I get to eat three fancy meals in the dining car while we roll through Quebec.

There may be fellow travellers watching the world go by from the next table.

There may be a host or hostess orienting me to my sleeping berth.

And on and on.

Will I share my heart with the human beings I meet?  Yes, I will.  And if they turn their head away or move the topic to the fortunes of the Toronto Blue Jays, then I’ll gracefully follow their lead.  It may be, however, that some of my companions will be fellow explorers of consciousness … and we’ll fall together into the mysteries of living.

Will I make people laugh?  I’ll sure try.  The thing about meeting new folks is that they haven’t heard my repertoire of silly comments.  It’ll all be fresh to them.  Perfect.  And as for those who just stare when I sing them “a little number” (i.e. “3”) I’ll bless them as they retreat.

Maybe the coolest thing is that every day I’ll be blogging to you cyber inhabitants.  I bet there won’t be any shortage of material.  We human beings are good at being noteworthy.

See you on the train and boat and plane

We Are We

I look back on the last week and an image comes to mind. It feels like a recurring dream but part of my mind says that it really happened in this physical life.

There’s a huge white sheet of paper and in the middle are typed some words … unknown words. Then the mad typist in charge of things writes more words up and to the right of the first group, overlapping them. Then the process continues, overlap after overlap, until the whole page is full. And I still didn’t have a clue about the message.

Okay, clearly this is a dream. So why does my brain keep saying “This is real”? Ah, the mysteries of life.

There was another wake up call this morning (definitely a good thing!). And the voice: “The first words are ‘I am me.'” Oh. Thanks for sharing. “One step out from the centre, in all directions, is ‘You are you.'” I just lay there, waiting for the next revelation. “After that, the words are ‘We are we.’ Then the pattern repeats … endlessly.”

More lying there feeling stunned. The personal story isn’t about Bruce Kerr. A lot of it is to do with all the “you’s” who come my way. But the real message is that I am through the we. I only know Bruce through the relationships he has. I’m no island. I’m an archipelago, with flowery bridges joining us all.

I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight. I hope we all show up.

Being Written

I’ve been doing this blog for more than four years, and 750 posts later I’ve discovered a few things:

1.  Whenever I sit down at my laptop to write, a post is revealed.  Maybe I have a clear picture of the future words, or maybe nothing has come to me.  Either way, I trust deeply that my inner me will express itself in some manner.

2.  I write about what moves me, whether it’s silly or serious.  If the topic doesn’t “sing” to me, why bother?  Sometimes I feel a narrowing of my forehead skin and a pursing of the lips … signs that I’m engaged.   A quickening of the heart.

3.  Increasingly, I don’t care what you folks in cyberland think of my thoughts.  First of all, I have no idea how many of you there are.  “Likes” are nice but that’s just small ego stuff.  Even if you don’t enjoy what I have to say, I figure I’m planting seeds that will somehow enhance life on Earth.  “That sounds egotistical, Bruce.”  Oh well.  I don’t think it is but if I’m perceived that way by some, that’s okay.  I deeply want to contribute but even if you’re all sitting there shaking your heads, I’ll keep writing.

4.  I’ve read a lot in my life, and my posts often reflect what someone else has said.  Works for me.  But beyond that, what brand new things can I bring to this existence?  Yes, brand new.  I think it’s in me, and in you, to bring new flowers to blossom.

All right, how about a quote, from one of my faves – Teilhard de Chardin:

I would like to speak as I think, without concern for what is accepted, with the sole idea of translating as faithfully as possible what I hear murmuring in me like a voice or song, which are not of me, but of the World in me.  I would like to express the thoughts of a man who, having finally penetrated the partitions and ceilings of little countries, little coteries [groups that are exclusive of others], little sects, rises above all these categories and finds himself a child and citizen of the Earth.

Often, such as tonight, the words flow from my fingers without much thought.  It feels like I am being written.  It feels like I’m a conduit for something big.

Okay, Bruce, that’s enough musing.  Just publish the darn thing.

History Now

My new condo neighbour “Brad” is a very cool fellow.  He’s well into his 70’s and brimming with appreciation for Belmont, his new home.  Both of us have a cornfield out back that we love.

Brad and I went out for breakfast today at the Belmont Diner.  I wanted to introduce him to the regulars and he enjoyed meeting them, engaging in several conversations.  He’s an easy guy to know.

Brad is a historian.  He’s done lots of research on the Black Donnellys, an Irish family who emigrated to Lucan in Canada in the 1800’s.  The Donnelly clan got involved in some violent disputes with the locals, and many members of the family were killed at their homestead one night in 1880.

I watched Brad’s face as he talked about the Donnellys, about standing by the foundation of their home, about the feelings of the Lucan residents he’s met.  He was living right now in the events of the past, totally engaged in the story.

Brad lived for a time in Fort Erie, Ontario, and I learned of him gathering artifacts from the War of 1812, between the United States and the precursor of Canada.  He talked about the heavy cannonballs that the Americans fired at the British from their ships in the Niagara River, and then told me that he has one of them in his home.  Brad also has a collection of buttons from the tunics of American soldiers.  His eyes were wide as he transported himself back 200 years.

Then there was the native princess who lived by herself in a tent near Minnedosa, Manitoba – Brad’s hometown.  As a young boy, he watched the woman as she sat on a large rock in her native dress, gazing out over Lake Minnedosa.  He would encircle the  rock, trying to draw her into conversation.  But she was in her own world.  In the years since, Brad has tried to figure out who she was, and has collected many arrowheads from a local battleground once shared by two tribes.

Throughout all of this, there was Brad’s face … animated with the stories of the past.  Clearly he is enriched by the journeys of those who have gone before.  History is alive in his soul.

My eyes were opened over bacon and eggs.  The aliveness of Brad merged with my own and I realized that people who lived decades and centuries ago have lessons to teach me.  May I absorb these lessons in order to become a more empathetic person, and may that empathy touch lives in 2018.