Personal Training

I worked out with my trainer today.  Marcin pushes me a lot and this afternoon was no exception.  We’ve decided that I need to be “fierce”, absolute gritting-the-teeth determined to complete all the reps.  I seem to growl inside towards the end of most exercise sets.  And I’ve never experienced myself as a growler.  At times since Jody’s death, I’ve let myself fall into “poor me” … a woefully weak energy and lack of engagement with life.  Strength training brings me back from that malaise.  Today Marcin wanted me to do bicep curls with a 45-pound bar.  I tried the first rep and nothing happened – the bar stayed at my waist.  I was appalled.  Marcin, however, was unperturbed.  “I’ll help you get the first one up.”  And he did.  Then I got going, with the occasional wee bit of help from my very fit friend.  “I’m doing it!  How is this possible?”

I’ve had enough of comparing myself to others and finding the composer of these posts wanting.  So Marcin and the other well-muscled gents in the gym are on their own path of development.  I’m on mine.  Sure, he assisted me some with that bar, but look what I did – 45 pounds.  Not so long ago, I thought 20 was an achievement.  I want to be strong.  When I’m 80, I want to be mobile.  I’m on the way.

Meditation brightens the moment, often with a sublimely peaceful energy.  Lifting weights also focuses me on the present, but with a completely different energy.  I’m so happy that I have both in my life.

***

I’ve decided to create some vacations for myself.  Two months ago, with no lovely woman in my life, I decided to go to Toronto for three days … alone.  No sense in just sitting at home and sighing.  So tomorrow morning, I’m riding the train, then staying in a hotel downtown, then going to three folk music concerts over the next few days.  There’s no way that I’m going to relegate adventure, discovery and joy to the past.

So off I go.  I love the window seat, looking out at the world without having to watch for traffic.  Searching for deer in the fields that lie far from any road.  Watching for the treasures that show up in backyards and industrial sites.  Other worlds.  I hope someone cool sits down beside me and that we have a groovy conversation about life.  And the train can be my vehicle for all this wonder.

***

I’ll let you know about tomorrow when tomorrow is done.

Jodiette Fifteen Months Later

My dear wife Jody died in November, 2014 and here we are in February, 2016.  How I still miss her.  I remember our walks, our talks and our cuddling.  I remember her wonderful smile.

I’m alone in our home now.  And I’m just getting comfortable with the words “my home”.   Every morning and every night, I stand in front of a photo of Jody that I took in Quebec City in 2008.  We’re in a restaurant and she’s looking at me with love.  Now I moisten the index finger of my right hand and press it to her lips.  “I love you, Jodiette.”  And the answer comes, “I love you, Bruce … very much.”

We still talk  every day and no doubt some people wonder when I tell them that.  It’s okay.  We all have our own perspective on what’s real.  “I’m here, husband.  I want you to be happy.  It’s time to find a new love.  I’m cheering you on.”  With my wife’s urging, I’ve signed up for the dating website Zoosk.  I’ve had one date with a happy woman and we’re going out to dinner next week.  Time will tell.

I don’t cry for Jody every day.  I’d say it’s about two out of three.  My eyes fill with tears when the moment beckons.  The timing is unpredictable.  Many times, instead of getting choked up, a little smile crosses my face as I think of my dear one.  We had our joys, we had our problems, and always we had our love.   Thank you, Jodiette, for staying with me, for continuing to love me.

New chapters will reveal themselves and Jody will journey through them with me.  I’ll be able to give myself fully to whomever emerges as my future love without Jody looming over the new relationship.  But my wife will be with me always.

I was in Wimpy’s Diner a couple of days ago for breakfast.  Kelly is a waitress there and we had a good talk.  I had given her a copy of Jody’s book.  She told me that her young daughter saw Jody’s picture on the cover.

“Mommy, her very beautiful.”

After Kelly told the girl our story, the wise one said, “Her more pretty now that her an angel.”

Thank you, little girl.  You’re so right.

 

 

Jane Siberry

I listened to Jane Siberry at the Aeolian Hall in London last night.  She’s a Canadian singer-songwriter who goes her own way.  She has refused to adjust her songs so they’ll be more commercially acceptable.  She’s raised money for her own record label instead of bowing down to the profit-first demands of corporations.  It’s quite the breath of fresh air just reading this.  More so when she walked onto the stage.

Jane sings of love and Spirit:

I love you, yes I do
I love everything about you
I love how you laugh in your sleep
How you smell of roses when you weep
I love your style
your wide-open prairie smile
Hide not your light under a bushel

***

Marjorie works the diner
At the five and dime
Making sure that no one feels alone
She’s famous for her kindness
And her Solomon’s advice
But if you saw her on the bus
You’d not look twice

***

Oh darlin, only touch the things that turn you on
Let whatever makes you dark and dull and drained be gone
Even if people criticize you and say you’re wrong

***

The heart is worn on her sleeve.  Sometimes, the midst of a gorgeous tune and lyrics, Jane started talking to us, in a stream-of-consciousness fashion.  She laughed a lot.  At one point she said, “I guess you’re used to a break.”  She usually pushes on through to the end.  A woman who’s totally herself … no apologies, no arrogance, no pretense.  It was lovely to see.

Jane was embarrassed to talk about us buying a CD at intermission.  Still, she offered us an “ambassador CD”.  “Give it to someone who might be interested in my music.”  Buy one, give one.  So cool.

There was no announcement of the last number.  Jane just said something like “That’s it.”  After we absorbed this message, almost all of us rose for a standing O.  It was well deserved.  Once the applause had settled, she simply said “I’d like to do an encore.  None of this going offstage and then coming back on.”  So she sat down at her piano and gave us more of her soul.  Easily remembered, this Jane Siberry.

Behind The Bus

Wharncliffe Road is in London, Ontario.  It’s a busy four-lane street with no left turn lanes for a stretch of eight blocks or so.  Many years ago, I sold life insurance and was on Wharncliffe every working day.  After getting stuck several times behind cars that were turning left, I created a rule: “Stay in the right lane.”  It worked pretty well, except for the occasional bus making its stops.  Being an upwardly mobile young businessman, I learned how to zip back and forth to avoid all pausing vehicles.

I became a driven (so to speak) salesman, looking for every advantage on the road and elsewhere.  No wonder I needed medication for high blood pressure.  Go, go, go!  Be better.  Push.

But is this really a wise way to lead a life?  I’d say not.  Today I experimented with another choice.  I was on Wharncliffe, naturally in the right lane.  Up ahead I spied a bus and my hands contracted on the wheel.  My index finger lurked over the left turn signal.  Somewhere inside, though, there was a quiet “No”, and my digit returned to the wheel.  The bus was slowing, with its right turn signal on.  I nestled in behind and came to a stop.  My lips were pursed, protesting such unusual behaviour.  Isn’t faster the way to go?  “No” again.  I scanned the sidewalk for the number of bus boarders.  “No” once more.

Mr. or Miss Bus Driver pulled away from the curb and we were off again … at a sedate pace.  There were no cars coming up in the left lane.  I could easily have moved over but I chose not to.  Slow as it goes.  No tailgating either.  And then we were coming to a stop again.  This time my heart was pure and calm.  We’ll get there when we get there.

And so our journey together unrolled until I turned off on Duchess Avenue.  Bye, you calm bus.  Hello, you calm Bruce.  Nice.

 

Blinds Down

Here I am in the St. Thomas Public Library, plunked down in my favourite chair.  Across from me are five windows fifteen feet high.  I love looking out at downtown.  Except I can’t right now … five translucent blinds are pulled all the way down.  I see the vague basics of the heritage building across the street but the brick is a mystery to me.  Two men are in chairs in front of those windows and I’m choosing not to intrude, not to raise the blinds.

There’s a flatness inside of me.  I like long views.  I like expansiveness rather than feeling I’m inside of a cardboard box.  The world outside is tantalizingly close but its rich details are lost.  Now I’m looking inside some more.  I’m sad.  I want the light to shine in, to touch me.  I’m sitting quietly as I type, feeling the contraction.  On one level it’s all okay.  It’s just the phenomena of life saying hi.  But it’s not the phenomenon I want.

I love window tables.  I love sidewalk cafés.  I love the sun on my face … and on my food.

During my long meditation retreat in Massachusetts last fall, we had a late afternoon sitting in the hall as the sun was falling to the horizon.  More tall windows.  One day, I was thrilled to feel the sun as I sat with my eyes closed.  It slowly moved across my body, increasing in intensity, plateauing and then declining.  And then it was gone.  Ahh … like the journey of life.

A few days later, I had just sat down, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the sun.  Another yogi walked over and closed the blind.  I was devastated.  However, my Buddhist training had taught me to let people be, unless what they were doing was hurting others.  I couldn’t say that the closing of the blind was damaging me.  But I was sad.  Most days thereafter, one yogi or another would close that blind.  Only occasionally would the light and heat touch my eyelids.  (Sigh)

Little darling
I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling
It seems like years since it’s been clear

Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun
 And I say, it’s all right

Singing and Crying

I love golf.  I love women’s professional golf.  Yes, the women are pretty but more importantly they let themselves be human beings on the course.  Many of them smile, celebrate and interact with the fans.

Last week I learned of an event that started in 2014 and is played every two years: The UL International Crown.  Women pros have a world ranking system.  In July, the four best female golfers from each of the best eight countries will compete against each other near Chicago.  If the Crown was held today, the countries would be South Korea, United States, Japan, Taiwan, England, Sweden, Thailand and Australia.

There’s never been a competition like this in professional golf, where you get to represent your homeland.  In the men’s game, there’s the Ryder Cup every two years in which teams from the United States and Europe face off.  In the alternate years, the President’s Cup pits the US golfers against “International” pros, who come from countries outside of Europe.  But apart from the Americans, you don’t hold the banner of your own land.

I read about the inaugural edition of the Crown, which was held in Maryland in 2014.  On the first day, on the first tee, the four Australian golfers stood next to the team from South Korea, and the two national anthems were played.  Soon thereafter, competitors from Thailand and Spain heard their own beautiful music.

Karrie Webb from Australia sang “Advance Australia Fair”.  Good for her.  In a foreign country, surrounded by hundreds of fans, and by no means a professional musician.  It was expression, not performance.

Belen Mozo didn’t sing the Spanish national anthem.  She cried.  I saw the video.  How lovely.

During the competition, flags were waved, cheers were cheered, golfing compatriots were hugged, smiles were beamed, more tears were shed.  The videos blew me away.

I decided last night to be a part of this in 2016.  So I’m going to drive from Union, Ontario to Chicago (about eight hours) on July 20.  I’m staying in the Super 8 Motel in Gurnee, Illinois for five nights.  And I’m going to be walking the golf course with the competitors for four days.

Bring on the joy.  Bring on the anguish.  Bring on the music.

 

 

First Date

In thirty years.  At 2:35 yesterday, I sat down in a London coffee shop, waiting for 3:00 to roll around.  I was going to talk to a woman whom I’d met on Zoosk, a dating website.  I’ll call her Erin.  Strangely, I wasn’t nervous.  But I sure was excited.  A new human being, potentially a new love.

As I sipped my tea, a little smile adorned my face.  I was happy.  It’s been 15 months since Jody died, and it’s time for companionship.  From my window table, I watched people cross the street, including several women, none of whom matched the photo on the website.  I realized that 3:00 pm could be a huge moment in my life, or maybe not.  The smile remained.

I needed a napkin for my pumpkin tart so I headed to the counter.  A woman was making a purchase, her back to me.  “Is that her?” I gushed on the inside.  No.  Her hair was curly and Erin’s was straight.  But my heart did a few flippy-flips before I figured that out.

Back to the sanctuary of my table.  More human beings outside, slow slogging through the snow.  The neighbourhood was an older one – classic brick buildings with most of them turned into restaurants or shops.

There!  That’s Erin.  Oh my goodness, she’s probably coming into the coffee shop.  She’s probably going to order.  She’s probably going to come looking for me.  Now the smile has turned into a laugh … aimed at moi.  And sure enough, a woman named Erin is soon walking down the aisle towards me.  I wave.  We smile.  And so it begins.

Erin is a lovely person, full of energy and with a smile that shows up easily.  We both enjoy meditating and yoga.  When she used the words “opening the heart”, I jerked.  Oh my.  Another person who says stuff like that in everyday conversation.

We talked for an hour-and-a-half.  It was easy.  It was fun.  We agreed to meet again sometime soon.

The mystery will continue to unfold.  I will continue to smile.  Whatever happens, I’m so glad to be walking this path.

 

Letting Jake Go

Last September I auditioned for the part of Jake in the Neil Simon play Jake’s Women.  The director chose someone else.  I was sad, and that sense of woe has been a frequent visitor in the months since.  I so much wanted to be Jake.

The play is about a writer who lives in his head, working on characters and plot while largely ignoring his wife Maggie.  Jake has conversations (some imaginary and some real) with the women in his life – his current wife, former wife, daughter, sister, therapist and new girlfriend.

Jake’s Women opened a few days ago in St. Thomas, Ontario.  I went last night.  I’ve known for months that I would see the production, rather than staying away from something that represented pain.  The truth is that I love the play.  It has both funny and tender moments.

I got there early and scored a front row seat.  The set was spectacular, especially Jake’s home office at the top of the stairs.  I sat quietly for half an hour, and all sorts of thoughts came my way.  I wanted the theatre to be full (about 150 people).  I wanted the theatre to be virtually empty (How small of you, Bruce).  I wanted the actors to be great, totally inhabiting their roles.  I wanted the actors to stumble over their lines.  I wanted Jake to be superb in his happiness, sadness, anger, giddiness and love – the best Jake ever.  I wanted him to be ordinary so I could think I would have done better.

As the story unfolded, I realized that it was a first class rendition of Simon’s play.  And Jake was brilliant.  Perhaps far better than I would have been.  I enjoyed the evening immensely.

At the end, as the actors were fanned out across the stage for their bows, I stood, clapped and smiled.  They deserved the standing O.  Although I had planned to see Jake’s Women once this week and once the next, I won’t be coming back.  I am complete with Jake.  What’s in him is in me.  On we go.

Daypacks

I’ve owned a small backpack for 20 years or so.  It’s been my faithful companion … in the Rockies, on the beach in Cuba, and in the gym.  If an inanimate object can be a friend, this is it.  But my maroon and grey Bruce attachment is showing its age.  The rubberized coating on the neck of the bag is pulling away in big messy globs.  Plus one of my beloved liquid black pens gave up the ghost a few months ago, spilling ink over big parts of the exterior.

I decided today to replace my pack with something bright and new, and give the old one to Goodwill.  It’s not like I’m recycling a person, of course.  I would never do that.  This is an object, and I’m willing to let it go, with sadness.  So many adventures we’ve shared.

So off I went a couple of hours ago to Mountain Equipment Co-0p to see what 20 years has wrought in the world of daypacks.  Turning down an aisle, I was welcomed by countless packs of every size, hanging proudly on their hooks.  My eyes fell on a bright red jobbie – my favourite colour.  The salesman owned this exact model and waxed poetic about its virtues.  On MEC’s website, here’s what I encountered:

What sets this full-sized daypack apart from the rest is the unique Aircomfort suspension system.  A powder-coated steel frame tensions a mesh back panel between the pack’s body and your back.  The result is a narrow air space that allows continuous ventilation and airflow, which leads to greater comfort for the wearer.  The pack also features two sets of zippers and an internal bag divider that can be quickly removed.  This means that you can access the bag from the top or bottom and retrieve items without unpacking the entire bag.  It’s a great size for long day-hikes.

Who am I to argue with such praise?  Maybe with the price, though – $160.00.  Ah, what the heck?  It’s an investment.  I grabbed my red treasure and headed to the till.  When what to my wondering ears should appear, but a totally unexpected dollar figure – $49.00.  The supervisor told me that my choice was “on clearance” because of the colour.  People didn’t want a red pack.  They were all for Granite/Black and Forest/Emerald though.  How strange, I thought.  Red is so passionate.  Granite/Black is so trendy.  I’ll take passionate any day.

The salesman told me that there was one more of these red packs in the store.  Another $49.00 and it would be mine.  First I said no.  “Let someone else buy it.”  Even if I intended the second one to be a gift, the double purchase seemed excessive, another example of knee jerk consumerism.  Planning out my future.  Making sure I have enough.  But that’s wrong.  The second one’s not for me.  It’s a gift for a special someone in my future.

So I paid the guy $98.00 plus tax.

I now own three daypacks.  One will always be in my heart.  One will be on my back tomorrow and will gradually work its way into my heart.  And one will help someone else move through the world.

 

Admitting Deficiency

I could have done better

So said a Canadian political leader yesterday about his party not doing well in a recent election.  And how often do we hear words like that?

I love golf, and I love following the heroics of professional golfers.  Years ago, there was one particular fellow that I was cheering on.  It was sad … I was living and dying on whether he got a birdie or a bogey.  Part of the reason that my enthusiasm for him waned was that when he scored poorly he would blame bad lies in the fairway, an unlucky bounce into the rough, or less-than-smooth greens.  Anything but the fact that he hit a lot of poor shots.

My political friend apparently looked at himself in the mirror and saw that he had made some questionable campaign decisions, or that he had focused on the shortcomings of his opponents rather than on a thorough analysis of the issues and his response to them.  Whatever he was thinking, he then spoke to the media and took full responsibility for the lukewarm results.  Not the party organization, strategy or candidates.  Just him.  How refreshing.

I too need to look in that mirror.  Here are some things I see:

1.  As a young adult, I was often irresponsible with my money, even to the extent of getting a cash advance to make the minimum payment on my credit card

2.  In marriage, I sometimes bulled ahead with what I wanted to do rather than seeing what Jody’s needs were

3.  Many a time, friends would send e-mails to me and I would take forever to respond

I’m a good person, and a thoroughly imperfect one
Just like that politician
Just like all of us