Issuelessness

I’ve been listening to some of Patricia Albere’s conversations on the Evolutionary Collective website.  One in particular has stopped me in my tracks … the perception of issuelessness.

Can it be, that although problems will keep arising in my life, I don’t need to feed them energy?  I don’t need to define something as an issue, and allow it to bring me down.

I’m riding my bicycle across Canada this summer.  Last week, at the school where I volunteer, kids challenged me to run the 800 metres with them.  So I did it!  And now my ankles are nicely swollen.

So … issue or no issue?

In another realm, I look back at my life and the experiences that brought me joy.  I used to be an artist, creating batiks, a process of dyes and waxes on fabric.  Also, I’ve collected thousands of quotations, with the intention of sorting them into categories and publishing a book chronicling the world’s wisdom.  Will I return to these prior passions? I don’t know.

Issue or no issue?  Important to return or not?  One voice tells me to resurrect these activities and another says let them go.

I go back and forth in my assessment of realities: swollen ankles, no batik and no volumes of wise words.  In my better moments, there are no issues.  I feel such freedom, such peace.  And then there are the times I spend behind bars.

Such a work in progress, this living.

Jumping So High

I watched some Grade 5 and 6 kids in the gym today. They were practicing for the high jump. And they soared. Not one knocked the bar off its perch. I was enthralled by the beauty of flowing bodies.

Some were clearly athletes. They threw their backs over and legs followed suit easily … way over the bar. One girl was a little overweight and didn’t have the grace of some others as she approached the pit. But she got over – every time. And the gym exploded with applause at each of her triumphs. It was community.

There’s something about the high jump that transfixes me. Human beings leaving the fetters of their grounded life to be one with the creatures of the air … ever so briefly. May these children rise above in their lives, living moments where the hum and the drum fade into the background, replaced by the bliss of unselfish love, a blinding insight or an act of pure kindness. For we are beings of the stratosphere, citizens of the inner sweetness, followers of an unknown song.

May we never fall back to earth.

Exercise at the Speed of Light

I wanted to squeeze in an hour on the elliptical today.  Funny word, “squeeze”.  It feels like wringing out a dish rag until all the juice is gone.  And who would want to be such a rag?

After a early morning meeting, I hadn’t had any breakfast.  So off to the Belmont Diner I strode, on a mission:

“I need to be out of here in an hour (even though I love visiting).  If I finish eating within thirty minutes, I should wait an hour and a half before getting on the beast.  But this time, I’ll only have an hour.  Not good but it’s all I’ve got.  Get to the gym.  Wear your shorts and t-shirt there so you don’t waste time changing.  Forget stretching beforehand … and afterwards.  Wear your sweaty shirt home in the car, and blast that speed limit.  Then you’ll be home right at 2:00 to welcome your friend.”

I rolled into my driveway at 1:57.  “Jessica” was happy to see me.  And I was so proud of myself for getting the job done.

But at what cost?  Stomach sore, muscles tight, in-car sweat dripping down my face, just tuckered out.  Given today’s events, wouldn’t it have been wiser to skip the gym?  To let go of my “Tour du Canada training stats”?  (Sigh)  I think so.

It takes such a long life to learn so many things.

Finding Your Feet

What a glorious movie!  I saw it tonight at the Hyland Cinema in London.  Take an upper crust 60-something wife (Sandra) who has been dumped by her husband for a younger woman, put her into the ramshackle apartment of her free-spirited sister (Bif), and watch life evolve.

Mrs. Socialite was such a privileged bitch for much of the movie, tearing down the people around her as she was overwhelmed by pain.  Sis got her out to a dance club where she first of all refused to join in but memories of her childhood dancing, aided by a video of her as a kid (supplied by Bif), slowly led Sandra to move her feet again.

We learn of Charlie, a friend of Bif, who is accompanying his wife on the last stages of her Alzheimer’s disease.  It was so heartbreaking to see him reaching out to her while she slapped him away, not recognizing her husband.

Gradually Sandra lets herself have fun again, especially in the dancing, and she and Charlie do a lot of smiling together.  But she’s afraid of being hurt again and stands back from him some.

As Bif is dying from stage four lung cancer (the very disease that took my dear wife Jody), she thinks of her true love who was killed in a car accident.  She chose never to give herself to love again, and pleads with Sandra not to make the same mistake.

Many, many slices of life flowed across the screen.  It was all very real.  I often saw my life.  I bet others in the audience did too.

Sandra eventually chose to make a leap of faith.  As the credits rolled, the song “I’m Running To The Future” blasted our souls and we the audience applauded in recognition.

And now I look at me.  It does feel that I’m running to whatever’s next.  What will the bike ride across Canada bring to me?  Where will my Mutual Awakening practice with folks from around the world have me land?  And who will I be in the years to come?

I welcome the unfolding

The Vigil

Last night 20,000 of us gathered at Mel Lastman Square in Toronto to honour the victims of last week’s van attack, where a driver mowed down pedestrians on the sidewalk of Yonge Street.

I went to Olive Square Park two hours before the ceremony.  It was the site of a massive memorial: flowers, messages, photos and candles.  Soon thousands of us began walking the 1.5 kilometres to the square.  We were quiet and we walked slowly.

I thought of the ten folks who died, ages 22 to 94.  And of their families and friends.  I saw sorrow in the faces of those near me.  I felt like crying but I didn’t.  Many did.  On we walked.

About 50 feet away, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau comtemplated life, surrounded by TV cameras.  I watched him for a bit and then turned back towards the flow of humanity.  This was not the time to be gawking at celebrities.  Perhaps there’s never such a time.  We were here for all of us.

Young and old, black and white, Caucasian and Asian … we were together.  A voice within said “Look inside” and I realized right away that it was not urging me to self-reflect but rather to look into the souls of my companions.  “Look inside each one.”  And I did just that for many, seeing the beauty of human beings.

At the Square, I found a spot where I could see the stage.  Although it was far away, I was right there.  Looking out over the crowd, I felt our union.  Of course, we each have our life issues, but for that hour I sensed they were essentially laid down.  We stood with our grief and compassion and love.  How marvelous, I thought.  May we harness this sweetness even when there’s no crisis to bring us together.  May we love … just ’cause.

Speakers spoke, spectators shared and many of their words touched home:

In Toronto, in Ontario, in Canada, we don’t run away – we run to help others.

It’s amazing how on this one stretch of street, so many people are connected and affected by it.

Each of those who died are remembered as wonderful human beings who brought light into our world through a combined 539 years of their own acts of lovingkindness.

This is my town and my heart is just rocked by this, and I just want to be strong for my friends and my family and everybody in this city.  Everybody needs love.

Amen

 

Canada Joy and Toronto Sorrow

On Friday, I went walking down Weston Road in Toronto and came upon an ice cream and coffee shop named God Loves Canada.  Well, with a name like that, who am I to walk by?

Steps inside the door, I was greeted by Rosina, a black woman, and her husband George, a white man.  She had the biggest smile the world has ever seen and assured me that her ice cream was the best in Toronto, straight from Kawartha Dairies.  Rosina and I bantered back and forth about how cool Canada is, much to the delight of George, who sat alone at a tiny table.  Actually the whole place was tiny.

Clearly it was time to sing and Rosina and I launched into “O Canada”.  For some reason, George and the one other customer didn’t join in.  Oh well.  We raised the small roof.

How can anyone smile this much?  Rosina is one happy Canadian.  An hour later, fully supplied with a Rocky Road waffle cone and a cup of “Keswick’s Best Coffee” (decaf!), I walked out the door a grinning man.

Such a fine couple.  They’ve been married for twenty-some years and bug each other playfully.  Ah … the lightness of life that’s waiting if I have the eyes to see.

And then the day turned …

I took bus and subway to the site of Monday’s horrific van attack.  A fellow drove a rental van onto the sidewalk at Yonge and Finch and mowed down pedestrians.  Ten people died and fourteen were injured over a two kilometre stretch.  So immensely sad.

In my backpack I was carrying messages from nine of the Grade 5/6 kids at school, most adorned with art work:

“I am with you”

“Sorry about the accident”

“We are thinking of you”

I climbed the steps out of the subway at Yonge and Finch and looked across the street.  There had to be fifty folks reading all the messages and breathing in the flowers at a memorial set up in a small park.  A long stone wall was covered with the crying of a city.  And I mean covered.  The only blank spot I found was big enough for only one of the kids’ messages.  The thought came that I should just pick one to represent our class.  It only took a second to reject that idea.  Every one of these children needed to have their care seen and appreciated.

So I walked south.  I read an article on my phone that mentioned the sites of death: Tolman Street, Kempford Boulevard, Empress Avenue, Mel Lastman Square.  All places on my route.  No physical evidence remained but the feeling of loss was everywhere.  “The van came by right here, on this very patch of sidewalk.”  (Sigh)

On my way down the street, I looked for other places to suspend the kids’ hearts.  I wanted them to be part of a community outpouring, and nothing showed itself until … Mel Lastman Square – a big open space in front of government buildings.  And there it was: another memorial.  Flowers and thousands of messages.  Jampacked.  I could feel a twinge of frustration but right beside it was faith, that there would be a space for the souls of 10-, 11- and 12-year-olds.

And lo and behold, off to the side, right beside the sidewalk where Torontonians died, was a tree.  Unadorned.  Just naturally beautiful.

I set to work with nine messages of love embraced within plastic page protectors.  I had my packing tape and I had my scissors.  The wind made the stilling of the tape an adventure but with the help of a few local folks, I got the job done.

People came to read.  And take pictures.  And bow their heads.  I met Aurora, who lives nearby.  She read the kids’ words and smiled a lot.  “Please thank them for me.”  I will.  “I live right over there and I’ll come by often to say hi.”  Thank you, Aurora.

***

I was going to drive home today, but I’ve decided to stay another night.  This evening at 7:00 there will be a vigil at Mel Lastman Square.  The police expect 25,000 people to show up.  I’ll be one of them.

 

 

 

Caffeine

Last year I got off sleeping pills.  It was a long and arduous weaning after maybe ten years of needing them to cope with the stresses of teaching.  After all was done, I remember thinking that I was never going to get addicted again.

Since getting back from last fall’s meditation retreat, I’ve drunk three cups of coffee a day.  How I missed that wondrous flavour!  I was settling into a rhythm … the joy of coffee with my bacon and eggs.  And then there was Sunday.  I was at a restaurant and ordered decaf.  All was fine until early afternoon, when my brain started going fuzzy.  And I was weak.  Plus a headache starting.  Oh my.  I don’t want this.

I figured it was my lack of caffeine.  And it hit me: “I’m addicted again!”  A deep “No!” swept through me.  “I won’t have my well-being be dependent on consuming a particular substance.”  So there.

I remembered the pain of sleeping pill withdrawal and dreaded the road ahead.  But I knew that I’d walk the path of “no more” again.  So I began.  Monday was essentially yucky and I asked myself how many days this would take.  “It doesn’t matter.  Do it.”

So I’m doing it.  This is day five of decaffeinated life.  And lo and behold … my energy is coming back.  The eyes aren’t closing mid-morning.  The wool is mostly gone from my mind.  Gosh, there’s a faint light at the end of the tunnel.  I’ve been strong, and it’s happening.  Once again I’m proud of myself.

Yesterday’s breakfast accompanied by herbal tea seemed like a foreign land.  “Where’s the coffee that I know and love?”  But strangely, this morning it was “Here’s the peppermint tea that I’m getting to know and love.”  How can this switch be happening so soon?  Where is the prolonged angst and weeping?  Not to be found.

And now I ask:
“What other areas of my life are waiting to be transformed?”
Perhaps the bacon and eggs

Sweat Bands

I like watching myself.  And today I’m watching my tomorrow: I’m going to be on the elliptical in the gym for six hours, the equivalent of 120 kilometres of riding.  My bike is still in the shop, waiting for a part that will help me climb mountain roads like a whiz.  So the gym machine will have to do.

I’m watching my fear.  I haven’t been strong lately and yet my task is huge tomorrow.  I’m also in the middle of getting off caffeine, and the head is a bit fuzzy.  With all of this, I’m strangely calm and excited about the morrow’s adventure.  I don’t understand how this can be.

I sweat a lot on the elliptical and a few days ago I lost my Captain America sweat band.  The only one left is an ode to Batman.  If I go to the gym with just one, my eyes will be flooded with stinging liquid, and finishing the job will be a very large challenge.  So after buying a tent at Mountain Equipment Co-Op this afternoon (for the ride across Canada!), I went searching for reinforcements.

Hey, this should be no sweat.  I’ll go to SportChek.  In I walked and a lovely employee directed me to the band display.  No Captain America, no Superman … just the Nike swoosh and the NBA logo.  I’m not particularly attached to either.

One spiritual perception is that no one thing or moment is better than any other.  So Nike should be just fine.  Except it wasn’t.  I could feel myself pulled towards an expression of me, and there wasn’t any on the stand.  I walked out.

Again, Buddhism would say that there is no me to be expressed.  However Bruceness was clearly alive today and I decided to retrace my steps to MEC.  My tent discussion apparently left no room for sweat band contemplation.  In I walked, and a smiling woman revealed to me that sweat was not an issue for the foreheads of their customers.  No bands.

“Go back to SportChek.” > “No, I don’t want to be branded.  Search on.”  End of discussion.

I know!  A running store.  Makes sense.  So all the way into downtown London to enter the hallowed hall of The Running Room.  A friendly and yet incredulous saleswoman told me they had bands to hold back hair but nothing to mop up perspiration.  Oh.  I wondered how true runners keep their eyes clear.  She suggested I try National Sport.

Runner’s Choice is the other major running store in London, and it’s also downtown.  Due to clogged traffic, it would have been easier to head directly to National Sport but I seemed to be a driven man.  And a huge smile was adorning my face.  It was wonderfully silly to keep travelling between stores just to make sure I survived tomorrow.  So … Runner’s Choice.

Nobody home as I opened the door but eventually an unsmiling clerk came from the back.  No, they didn’t stock sweat bands anymore, except for one patterned pink one.  It didn’t even look like a sweat band to me, and although I love pink, I said no.

National Sport it is.  Another sweat band rack and this time I saw red, white and blue types festooned with some unidentifiable logo.  Sold!  Here’s to Wednesday’s dry eyes.

I marvel at my mind and take joy in watching it at work, with no judgment of the process.  It’s a marvelous instrument, just like yours.  And sometimes it has a mind of its own.

 

 

Fear of the Famous

I’m taking a live online course on relationships.  Eighteen of us from around the world have met for the past four Saturdays.  Our work is based on the ideas of Patricia Albere.  She sees the possibility that humankind can experience “mutual awakening” – the freedom of enlightenment experienced by two or more people together.

Part of our time together is spent listening to the teacher (Keren) speak.  And then there are times when each of us is paired with another participant for half an hour, doing an exercise meant to deepen the sense of connection.

During yesterday’s course, I pressed “Yes” to join my first 1-1 session and up popped … Patricia.  Fear coursed through me and words started racing: “The founder … famous person … smart person”.

Patricia went first and I watched myself flip back and forth between wallowing in my “stuff” and having my consciousness be inside her.  Again and again I brought myself back from terror and fell into the sweetness of relationship, only to see it slip away again.

When it was my turn, I told Patricia of my fear.  She got me.  And bit by bit another perception came through: That was a human being over there, admittedly one with great gifts, but in another sense quite ordinary, with the joys and sorrows that we all know.

We laughed a lot.  We enjoyed each other’s company.  I got to glimpse that I’m no more and no less than anyone else.  And maybe, just maybe, comparing is plain silly.

I started thinking of the Grade 5 and 6 kids I volunteer with.  I wonder if some of them are nervous around me, thinking that I’m a smart adult and they’re “just a kid”.  Hmm.  It feels like my job to talk to them from a “level” place, not like a pronouncement from on high.

Eleven-year-olds, Patricia and me.  All with something precious to give.

A Tale of Two Teams

I spent the afternoon at a high school in St. Thomas, watching a basketball tournament full of Grade 5’s and 6’s.  I knew I’d love cheering on the girls and boys from the school where I volunteer.

There was a stark difference in results.  The girls lost their four games and didn’t make the playoffs.  The boys won everything … champions!  Both teams had struggled in the regular season so the boys’ explosion of offence and smothering defence were unexpected.

You might think that the contrasting results would produce different behaviour during the games.  Think again.

They’re all great kids and it shows up on the court.  Male or female, they cheer their teammates’ sweet plays and give them a pat when things go bad.  And they’re so intense! Blasting down the court with the ball, going wide around a defender.  Coming back furiously to cut off an opponent dreaming of an easy layup.  Rolling on the floor clutching at a loose ball.  Finding an open teammate with a cool bounce pass.  All marvelous.

The best for me was that I couldn’t see any drooping heads when the score was climbing against them.  Just keep pressing and enjoy the conversation when you’re on the bench.

When I was growing up I wasn’t on sports teams (except for Grade 9 football, when I never got into a game).  These kids have an opportunity that I didn’t give myself.  Good for them.  They’re learning about jump shots, hand-in-your-face defence … and life.

Give ‘er!