To Do Or Not To Do

For maybe fifteen years, I’ve had a goal: to ride my bicycle across Canada.  In fact, I’ve told myself that I’m not going to lie on my deathbed grieving that I didn’t do it.  When Jody was ill and after she died, my oomph for the journey faded and wearying thoughts flooded my brain:

You’re too old
It’s too hot and humid in Ontario
You’ll never climb the roads on Cape Breton Island’s Cabot Trail

And I believed it all.

As far as I know, the oldest person who’s completed the Tour du Canada is 73.  I’ll be 69 in my target year – 2018.  “That’s pretty close to 73.”

“You wilt in the heat, my man.  And that’s when you’re sipping a drink on the patio, not riding for seven hours a day.”

“Have you seen pictures of Cape Breton?  It’s straight up!”

So says my small mind.  But I know there’s a bigger one inside too.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a thought.  I love these Grade 6 kids at South Dorchester School.  I wonder if they could help me break past my mental barriers about the ride.  I’m smart but they’re no doubt smart in different ways.  Fresh brains.  Ideas unfathomed by this “mature” guy.  And how often does an adult ask a kid for help?

I showed up at the school this afternoon for volunteering.  But there were hardly any young ones since freezing rain had cancelled the buses.  There stood Tiffany, the teacher I work with.  “Ask her.”  So I spilled my thoughts about crossing the country.  She got excited.  “The distances you cover can be a Math assignment.  I told her that I wanted to blog from Victoria, B.C. to St. John’s, Newfoundland.  And that on days when I was struggling on the bike, maybe a few students would e-mail me some encouragement.  Tiffany then envisioned a writing project.  Seventy letters from the children, written in 2017 but not opened until the seventy days of Tour du Canada 2018.  Oh my.  That would sure be a boost to my spirits.

How about Geography studies of towns I pass through?

How about the students writing people I talk to in Saskatchewan, Prince Edward Island and Quebec?

How about composing a song that we 25 Tour du Canada riders could sing on our merry way?

How about making funky posters to be mailed to us at spots along the route?

How about creating recipes that we riders could cook up for breakfast or supper?

How about sending us photos of you kids on your bikes?

Limitless horizons
Children and adults
Adventure on both ends

Island Thoughts

Yesterday was brunch-and-concert day on Toronto Island, at St. Andrew-by-the-Lake Church.  It’s another world, only a ten-minute ferry ride from downtown.

As I walked from the docks, I heard a familiar sound.  I’m used to the scrape of skates on ice during telecasts of Hockey Night In Canada.  Go you Maple Leafs!  But this was classic.  Up ahead, a hockey game was breaking out on the channel between islands.  I stopped and marvelled.  So deep in Canada’s roots, doing stuff outdoors.  I thought of David Francey’s song:

The music from the skating rink
 Drifts across the town
The stars of heaven high above
Forever looking down
I stand here looking upward,
And I’m listening to the sound
Of the village in the lonely heart of winter

Here were ten women flowing on their blades, some very skilled, a few not so.  There was one grey hair and several teens.  Plus ten smiles.  For goals, they had laid two six-foot beams on the ice.  If you wanted to score, you couldn’t raise the puck.  And no bodychecking.  I stared some more.  It was so simple and so beautiful.

On to the church.  Pews were turned around and tables placed between.  I sat with local folks, steeped in the history of the Ward’s Island and Algonquin Island communities.  An Algonquiner praised her land as “The Heights”, clearly superior to the Ward’s accommodation.  Jabs in the ribs and more happy faces.

And then … tofu with a sweet-and-sour sauce, bok choy, exotic mushrooms, a nest of rice noodles, and cucumber.  Not to mention a dark cake drizzled with vanilla icing.  Waydago, chef.

We talked about island life.  Coming soon is a huge bonfire on Ward’s beach, reducing the island’s Christmas trees to ash.  I mentioned the meditation retreat I’m about to go on.  Beside me sat a fellow with a speech impediment.  I felt a stereotype bubble up as I struggled to understand him.  But then I got the hang of his lingo and we were off to the races.  He had many wise things to say.

Amply satisfied, we switched the pews to theatre style.  Three gentlemen began their enthrallment of us the audience.  Violin, cello, piano.  Mozart, Brahms, Tchaikovsky.  Oh my.  Melodies soared.  Harmonies filled the tones.  Brilliant runs and calm lacings of notes.

Directly in front of me sat a young woman with curly red hair stretching to the middle of her back.  I exhaled, a few times.  She was so pretty.  I longed to run my fingers through her tresses.  Showing admirable restraint, however, I returned again and again to the music.

The alignment of bodies ahead meant that I rarely saw a full performer’s head during the performance.  Occasionally just the violinist’s eyes were seen through the gap, and they were usually closed.  Sometimes an upbow rose above the crowd, or a shoulder gave way to an ear.  I decided to let it be, rather than twisting myself to see more.  I thought of how, in one telling, the moment is perfect as it presents itself.  I thought that the folks behind me would have to adjust if I made sudden moves.  And that hair was just so divine.

Ahh
Thank you, Toronto Island
and more especially the people who call it home
I’ll be back

In The Arena

Many years ago, Jody and I went to a Toronto Raptors basketball game.  It was at the Air Canada Centre.  Last night I retraced our steps.

I walked in the door, escalated myself to the heavens, and then proceeded even more upward to the very top row of the ACC.  Way below me were an array of red and blue ants, otherwise known as professional basketball players warming up.

Directly ahead of me, about twenty feet away, was a large screen hanging from the ceiling. As the game unfolded, I forced myself to watch the ants rather than lapsing into TV mode.  I’d glance up occasionally at a closeup of a player taking a free throw but mostly I was faithful to the “here and nowness” of it all.

A Raptors game can be a full body experience.  Employees roamed around with heavy cameras on their shoulders, watching for fans jumping up and down, smiling, laughing, hugging and in general having a good time.  Although I suspected that part of the fervor was an effort to get oneself on the big screen, it was still great fun.  Kids bouncing, arms of all ages in the air, mouths agape … go for it you Raptorites!  Children especially were totally themselves.  Their friends and their parents shared in the joy.  So very cool.

Adult moving and grooving seemed to peak when the team’s dancing girls bounced up the stairs with t-shirts to throw.  There even was a multi-barrelled gun on the court, sending a rain of shirts skyward.  But who cares about the motivation?  Give me an event with happy faces and I’ll be happy.

I loved the energy of cheering fans in their thousands.  I also love the energy of sitting with one person, talking about our lives.  And the energy of silent aloneness, watching the tapestries of life parading behind my closed eyes.

I love it all

 

Just A Word

In the early years of human presence on Earth, I was a kid.  I loved going to the matinée at the movie theatre on Avenue Road in Toronto.  It was a bit of a walk but I was young and strong.

Inside, a large waddling woman patrolled the aisles.  Fifty-five years later, I still remember her bellows:

LESS NOISE!

In recent days, I’ve been re-exploring Stephen King’s novella The Library Policeman.  I love how King creates such believable characters.  Poor Sam Peebles, a respected Junction City insurance agent, is about to be devoured by Ardelia Lortz, the town’s bewitching librarian.  He opens the front door, steps into the foyer, and is greeted by a large sign pressing down on its tripod stand:

SILENCE!

In my sixties, I’ve come into the world of Buddhist meditation.  In two weeks, I’m heading to the heart of Massachusetts for a one-month silent retreat.  I’ve been many times before.  Love and peace often surround me there.  Over all, we are embraced by a single word:

Silence

How is it that a human expression can hold such different meanings?  Every muscle in my body tightening.  And then an undoing, a sweet mushing of my structures, a blessed puddling.

Such a mystery, this life.  The agony, the ecstasy and the calm in which high and low seem irrelevant.  I’m for all of it.

Beyond Reason

Yesterday was my birthday.  I officially turned 48.  Of course I’m also a chronic liar, so my true age will appear inconspicuously somewhere in this post.  68!

When I was a kid, mom told me that I was born at 10:00 am.  So at 9:30 I walked out of my dear condo and headed down Main Street to the Belmont Diner.  I sat at the lunch counter and announced “When I was a kid, mom told me that I was born at 10:00 am.”  Chrystal (the owner, and a very sharp cookie), chimed in with “So it’s your birthday.”  She then proceeded to waltz over to the white menu board and add “Happy birthday, Bruce -72 years.”  Well, not quite.

I took out my phone and saw that it was 9:55.  One more countdown.  I’ve done this every year since I was knee high to somebody’s knee.  As 9:56 appeared in my universe, I started a slow chant: “67, 67, 67, …”.  My companions smiled.

The radio was playing a wee dittie.  I recognized one of my favourites:  Superman’s Song.

I’ve always related to the words.  I’m no Superman, but like him I’ve wanted to do good.  I could be a “hangin’-out-in-the-cave” Buddhist, but that’s not me.  Tarzan had his jungle but I’ve yearned to be like Supe:

Sometimes when Supe was stopping crimes
I’ll bet that he was tempted to just quit and turn his back on man
Join Tarzan in the forest
But he stayed in the city
And kept on changing clothes in dirty old phonebooths
Till his work was through
And nothing to do but go on home

Coffee to my lips, 9:59 became 10:00 and I was 68.  Superman sang on.  What are the chances that words I love would intersect with my birthday moment?

Time for the next song, another Brucio smiler:

I want to know what love is
I want you to show me
I want to feel what love is
I know you can show me

Well, I was 2 for 2.  Unknown forces were flowing around me.  Peace was there.  Wonder too.

Oh, what we tiny humans don’t know

You and Another

I sat in the lounge of the Sheraton Four Points Hotel yesterday, eating my curds and whey.  (I think that’s from some fairy tale)  The waitress and I had a few good mini-talks while she came and went.  I wanted those talks to be longer but duty called.

I drank my white wine and devoured my honey garlic wings and read Toronto Maple Leafs articles on my phone.  All in a cozy chair.  So nice.  Glancing over to the bar, I saw my serving friend chatting with a grey-haired fellow (just like me!).  And their conversation extended, much to the delight of both.

After I got over the “Why not me?” reaction, I smiled.  How marvelous that they’re connecting, making meaning, enjoying each other’s company.  I should always be so happy in such circumstances.  “It doesn’t have to be about you, Bruce!”

The Buddha had a lot of good ideas.  My favourite is the thought of empathetic joy … being happy about the good fortune of another.  It’s such a sweet thing to do.  More of that, please.

Here I am on January 8, 2017, reflecting on my future joys.  As much as I want the goodies of life, including a love, I marvel at the happiness I feel when a friend glows about her boyfriend.  Clearly, I’m not the most important person in her life.  I don’t make the biggest impact.  I’m not the one she thinks of first.  And the smile again.

As far as I know, all the you’s in my life have a primary other who isn’t me.  Even though I hope a lovely woman will walk into my life and see me as her most significant other, that’s not happening right now.  I bask in the redirected glow  of dear companions gazing into the eyes of a third person.  And I take pleasure in their union.

 

 

 

In Spirit Together

My neighbours invited me to a London church, to eat good food and hear a gospel concert.  I said “Sure.”  I like eating and singing along.

I’m not a Christian.  I’m a Buddhist.  But Gospel’s just fine.  I tapped my toes to a group from London who had their beginning forty-eight years ago!  Then it was the turn of a family from North Carolina – mom, dad, two sons and a friend.  They gave ‘er too.

I heard songs like “I’m Going Home With Jesus”, sung with passion.  Throughout, the faces onstage were alight with joy, and love as they looked at each other.  Very cool.  In the audience, some folks raised their arms in blissful devotion.  A few swayed in their seats.  And most of us blasted out the fast songs we knew.  A mom held her tiny daughter on her lap, the two of them moving and grooving.

The small voice residing in my head said “This is not you, Bruce.”  But the big one countered with “Yes it is.”  It didn’t matter that Baptist worship wasn’t my spiritual expression.  It was Spirit.  I don’t worship God.  Nor do I see Jesus as my personal savior.  But I saw the light in those faces, both in front of me and beside, and it was the real deal.

I don’t see Buddhism as a religion, although some say it is.  To me, it’s a philosophy, a way of life.  Mr. Buddha was a smart guy who happened to hang out 2600 years ago.  He had some fine ideas about leading a life.  I feel at home when I’m on a retreat.

I don’t compare one religious expression to another.  I figure that opening to a depth of love and peace is a fine thing for all of us to do.  To look over there and see God in the other’s eyes.  To move beyond “I’m better than you” and “I don’t care about you” and “More, better and different”.  Just let the present moment in and be good to those around me.  Yay for religion.  Yay for Spirit.

Skating In My Mind

I don’t know how to skate.  As a kid, my ankles just kept flopping over.  I was scared to fall.  I was scared to look stupid, which I guess I did.  Come to think of it, I was scared about most things.  But I turned out okay.

Last night was New Year’s Eve and I didn’t know what to do.  My massage therapist told me that there was some sort of family festival happening in the early evening in Aylmer so I decided to go.

It was a short drive to the East Elgin Community Complex and I was greeted by a packed parking lot.  Lots of folks were heading to the entrance with ice skates over their shoulder.  Somehow I forgot mine.

Inside, the lobby was overflowing with festive types young and old, with the pull of the crowd leading to the skating rink.  I got myself a coffee and climbed the stairs to the upper level.  Below me were a hundred skaters looping around the ice surface.  I looked … and I marvelled.

And there I was, in teenaged female form.  The young lady was walking unsurely on her skates, with none of that graceful pushing off motion to the sides.  She jerked when gravity threatened to take over.  The fear shot through her body.  For several laps, she skated  alone.  But then an older gent, perhaps her father, came alongside.  They talked and smiled.  And my unknown friend kept going, undeterred by the graceful forms flowing by her.  Good for you.

The music of Abba was flooding the scene:

Chiquitita, you and I know
How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they’re leaving
You’ll be dancing once again and the pain will end

And on the world glided.

***

A young mom pushed her son in a wheelchair.  He was laughing every time around

Two ten-year-old girls skated unsteadily together, holding hands and sharing the latest news

A six-year-old boy burst past the slow ones in a flurry of speed and skill

A teenaged fellow tried to look cool as he moseyed along, hands in his pockets

A girl practiced her figure skating, shifting suddenly from one foot to the other, and then took a lap moving backwards

Parents on the boards smiled at their kids and shared the video they’d just taken

And a guy sitting in the balcony took it all in

Matilda

On Wednesday, I came to Toronto to see Matilda: The Musical.  Weeks earlier, when I started volunteering in the Grade 6 class at South Dorchester School near Belmont, Tiffany asked me to read a chapter from the novel the kids were studying – Matilda.  Never heard of it.  But I like reading aloud, so off I went into the world of a five-year-old child, her lovely teacher Miss Honey, her wretched parents the Wormwoods (who didn’t give a whit about her), and the ominous Miss Trunchbull, a thoroughly evil principal.

I really got into the various voices.  One day, when the Trunchbull told a kid to “Shut up!”, I really yelled it.  Oops.  Not a few children leaned back in their chairs.

I went to Toronto a few weeks ago, was walking along Bloor St., and glanced up at a banner hanging from a lamppost.  “Matilda: The Musical” it announced.  Minutes later, with the wonders of technology, I had myself a ticket.

The kids at South Dorchester knew I was taking in the drama, the singing and the dancing this week.  Tiffany asked me to send a photo once I had arrived at the theatre.  “Sure,” I replied, not totally sure how to do that on my phone.  But Tiffany coached me and I left town with marginal confidence.

The performance was to start at 1:30.  I arrived around 1:00 and snapped a pic of folks lined up under the marquee.  Eager faces.  As I stood there I realized that the Ed Mirvish Theatre was formerly called the Pantages, where many years ago Jody surprised me with tickets to Phantom of the Opera.  My dear wife.  I remember the grand staircase (similar to the Titanic’s) and being ushered down, down until we were seated only six rows from the stage.

I took two more photos before the show, both in the spectacular lobby.  One was a selfie, showing a beaming face with a “Matilda” sign in the wee background.  Now for some words and my text would float over the miles to the Grade 6’s.

Hi Tiffany and all you kids,

Would you believe that Miss Trunchbull roared up to me in the lobby and screamed “You filthy little maggot!”?  Gosh, and she hardly knows me.

Have fun,

Mr. Kerr/Bruce

Tiffany texted back, saying that the kids had questions about the Trunchbull and that they liked the photos.  Cool.

The musical got going and we saw Mr. Wormwood as an immoral used car salesman, skilled in turning back odometers, and the Missus as a TV addict who lusted for her Spanish dance instructor.  Baaad people.  And dear Matilda was just a book-loving “thing” who wouldn’t go along with proper TV gazing values.

Then there was school.  Miss Honey was a lovely human being with a glorious voice.  Miss Trunchbull was almost as wide as she was tall and spewed venom wherever she went.  (It turns out the actor was male!  Didn’t matter.  He did a great job of bringing forth mean.)

One of the best scenes saw the Trunchbull grab a girl by the pigtails and swing her horizontal, just like in the book.  Actor-wise, it looked like the young one was wearing a neck brace that the old one could grab onto.

Matilda wowed the class with impossible math skills.  MIss Trunchbull led a gymnastics class with yells punctuating the jumps and rolls.  At one point, a small trampoline sat beside a padded “horse”.  The weighty principal lined herself up, lurched towards the trampoline, bounced high, flipped in the air and landed with grace on the padded surface.  Awesome!

Matilda started tipping over water glasses with her mind.  Then she caused writing to appear on the blackboard, words that suggested Miss Trunchbull had killed her brother (and Miss Honey’s father) in order to get his money.  Matilda shone onstage, especially during tender scenes with Miss Honey.  Such joy and such despair peppered throughout the musical.

At intermission, Mr. Wormwood strolled onto the stage.  I texted the South Dorchesterites:

Mr. Wormwood just came onstage at intermission and told the kids in the audience … “Don’t try this at home.”  He meant reading books!  “They make you ugly and give you head lice.”

Tiffany replied:  “They love that!”  Thanks, kids.

At the end, we favored the young actress playing Matilda with a standing O.  It was richly deserved.   I walked out of the Ed Mirvish/Pantages with a light heart.  Waydago, Matilda.  The Trunchbull had no chance against you!  And I hoped the children back in Belmont were smiling.

Beloved

Craig Sager has been a courtside reporter for the NBA for 26 years.  He lived and breathed basketball.  And he died yesterday.

I was watching a video about him this morning.  He spoke to an audience, wearing a delightfully outrageous sports jacket full of flowers from the rainbow.

“I will live my life full of love and full of fun.  It’s the only way I know how.”

I stared at the screen. He was me.  I figured out a few years ago that my life was about two things: loving people and making them laugh.  Hi Craig.

Tributes have poured in:

“He was a way better person than he was a worker, even though he was amazing in that regard.  He loved all the people around him and everybody felt that.”

“If my dad was right and time really is how you live your life, then that son of a bitch outlived us all.”

“You could be on my team any day.”

“He gives everything realness.”

“Thank you for being you!  Brought the best out of everyone you met.”

“God bless you Craig Sager for your wit, the way you entertained us, made us smile and for your sheer will and courage, class and dignity.”

“Craig Sager may be the only man that could get away with those brightly colored suits and gators to match AND GET AWAY WITH AND OWN IT.”

“A life well lived.”

“When I think of him, I just think of joy, of smiling.  A dude you could have fun with, somebody that had pride but didn’t take himself too seriously.”

“Was able to take a joke, and able to give a joke, was able to understand what a good time was.  We love you Craig.”

***

I know that I’m loved by some people.  Many no doubt will say nice things about me when I die.  I’m not Craig Sager.  I’m Bruce Kerr.  We’re brothers.

Last words to you, dear man:

“Sports are supposed to be fun, and so I have fun with the way I dress”

“I try to get there three hours before the game, talk with the ushers and the security guards, the coaches and the fans”

“I laid in the hospital for months, hoping to do this again”