Glistening

A light snow covered the world as I woke up this morning.  It clung to the branches and adorned the bushes.  And it had stopped falling.  The day was cloudy, with the soft light bringing all this to a quiet glory.

So you have bare trees in winter and you have bare trees today.  You have the events of daily life and you have those same events imbued with wonder.

What words can paint such a picture of illumination?  How about …

Glow
Love
Animation
Vibrancy
Magic
Luster
Shine
Gleam
Halo
Oh my

What will it take for me to see with these eyes throughout the day?

What will it take to animate the gentleman sitting across from me right now in the library?

What will it take for me to see the beauty around me always?

And what will it take for me to be moved by it all?

***

Will

Unseen

The substance of things hoped for
The evidence of things not seen

What beauties are hiding in this world, so we puny human beings aren’t aware of them?  Well, if I’m not aware, how can I possibly write about such unknowns?  I don’t know but it’s worth a try.

1.  Lines of connection between people who walk by each other on the street … maybe fine red strings that entwine

2.  Roaming at night over the world, visiting friends old and new, alive and dead

3.  Whatever’s under the ground … roots that go way down, insects that scurry to and fro, moles that construct long tunnels

4.  What goes on inside of dogs, cats, horses and dolphins

5.  The future laying itself down as we wind our way through the present

6.  Blood coursing through my body over 60,000 miles of arteries, veins and capillaries

7.  The marvel of the brain, allowing me to suddenly relive moments from decades ago.  (As I wrote this, I was transported back to kid-dom, lighting firecrackers in the back alley, and being terrified of the noise)

8.  My friend gravity, constantly keeping me from zipping off into space

***

Simple stuff, really, but fun to imagine

 

 

Waiting For The Light

One more time I couldn’t think of anything to write today on my blog.  So what did I need?  Some sort of stimulus that I can then reflect on.  Okay, where do I find that?  “Get in Scarlet, drive to the nearest convenience store, buy a copy of The Toronto Star or The Globe and Mail, head to Wimpy’s Diner in St. Thomas for an early supper, find an article that moves you, and write about that.”

So who am I to argue with a voice like that?

I had just started my pursuit on the front page of The Star, perusing an article about two teens who died on the Olympic bobsled track in Calgary.  They snuck in overnight and launched their toboggan.  So sad.  I was sitting here in this booth half an hour ago, wondering if this was “the one”, when I glanced up at the TV.  There sat Barack and Michelle Obama, being interviewed in what looked to be the Oval Office.

I watched transfixed, leaving Calgary far behind.  Barack and Michelle sat on a love seat, facing the female interviewer.  Their arms were touching.  What a couple is supposed to do.  When each of them smiled, often at each other, their faces were genuine, thoroughly so.  No beauty contest winner show of teeth.  No brief raising of the mouth that disappears in the next second.  Instead … lingering love.  So sweet to see.

Did I mention that the sound was off?  I didn’t know the topic, but since it was a pre-game show for the Super Bowl, I had my guess.  In fact, though, I didn’t care what they were talking about.  The visuals said all I needed to know.

One might expect the President of the United States to do most of the talking but not so.  The three of them shared the floor pretty equally.  Mr. President often reached over and took Mrs. President’s hand in his.  Just folks … really caring folks.

***

Time to go.  No wi-fi here so I’ll go home to publish my post.  I’ll take my copy of The Star.  Didn’t really need it.

New

Well here I am on Zoosk, a dating website.  I’ve sent messages to several women who appealed to me.  So far, no one has expressed interest.  Oh well.  I’m sensing that whether it’s from Zoosk or some other source (such as Cuba in April!) a new love will be entering my life.  Someone unknown to me today will be by my side within the next year.

New.  What a concept.  A letting go of the past to some extent.  My love for Jody and for my friends will always be there but there’ll be some type of breakthrough.

1.  A new human being.  Maybe shy or maybe assertive.  Maybe athletic or not so much.  Older than me?  Younger than me?  Likes to travel or a homebody?  A great cook or “Let’s eat out”?  Action movies or romantic ones?  A cyclist like me or a swimmer not like me?  Oh, what mystery.

2.  Your home or mine?  I’ve lived on Bostwick Road in Union, Ontario for 21 years.  It’s a big place.  Lots of upkeep required and I’ve never been good at home maintenance.  Maybe it’s time to let go of all that.  Perhaps my future love lives in a downtown condo.  Neighbours on the other side of the wall.  Someone else cutting the grass.  Take off to the Caribbean without a worry in the world.

3.  Your city or my village?  I could find myself living in Toronto, the city where I grew up.  Or near the forks of the Thames River in London, Ontario.  Walk to cool places to dine.  A city park just a stroll away.

4.  Europe?  I’ve never been.  All those ancient buildings.  Sitting in a sidewalk café on a cobblestone square.  Trying out my high school French.  Why not?

5.  Family  The only close family members Jody and I have had are her brother Lance and his family in Alberta.  I especially love my nephews out there.  But in Ontario we were alone.  What if I discover a prospective partner who has children and grandkids?  I would love that.  To perhaps be a grandpa-type figure!  I miss all the fine school conversations I had over the years with young people from Grades 1 to 12.

***

I’m open to whatever beckons me

Being Hated

There was an article in The London Free Press this morning about an actor who’s rehearsing the title role in a local play about the life of Martin Luther King.  Twice in our mostly fair city, E.B. Smith has been taunted with “nigger” out in public.

I don’t understand.  Sure, I know the history of racial discrimination, especially in the United States, but I can’t get my mind around the consciousness that would do such a thing.  It’s just skin.  I guess that even for us of the white tone, there’s some prejudice against old skin (wrinkled and dotted with age spots) as compared to young skin (smooth and firm).

“Different than and therefore inferior” could be applied to anything, if one really wanted to be small about it.  Being lefthanded.  Being 6’2″ and a woman.  Being 4’10” and a woman.  Being fat.  Being anorexic.  Hardly ever smiling.  Needing a walker.  Having a facial tic.  And one humungous etcetera.

The article today mentioned another shameful moment in London’s recent history.  At an NHL pre-season game, a black hockey player saw an object thrown at him from the stands … a banana.  I wonder what the reaction of the fans was that night.  Stunned silence, I hope.  Outrage, I hope.  Surely no laughter, I hope.

It’s a tough job each of us has, living this life.  Existence on our planet seems to come with gobs of suffering, even for people like me – white and privileged.  Please, no extra and totally unnecessary pain.  It hurts too much.

Zoosk

I never would have thunk it … I’ve spent most of my evening on a dating website.  Who, me?  First of all, I haven’t dated for 30 years and that was with my lovely pre-wife Jodiette.  Gasp … I don’t know what to do!  Well, I suppose being an ordinary human being would be a good place to start.

It’s now 14 months since Jody died.  And I can feel it: I’m ready for a relationship, one that could be love for the rest of my life.  My goodness, how thrilling … and terrifying.  I don’t want to be alone.  I want to love and be loved.  I’m going to Cuba in April and somehow I want to go with a fine woman.  Maybe the timing is unrealistic but it’s sure fun being in the ballgame.

Yesterday and today, I’ve looked at the profiles of hundreds of women: divorced, separated, widowed.  All of us reaching out for love.  I hope all of us being truthful about the person we are.  Human beings wanting to be happy.

I’ve sent messages to six women who appeal to me.  They all seem kind and alive and independent.  So far no one has replied, and that’s a good healthy jolt to the ego.  I’m no perfect person but I am a good person.  Someone out there in Zooskland will see that.  Sometime in the weeks ahead, I’ll be in a coffee shop with a woman.  We’ll discover each other some.  Maybe there’ll be a second date, maybe not.  But love definitely looms ahead for me.  It’s what both Jody and I want.

Me on a dating site.  Makes me smile.

Pope Francis

My impression is that Pope John Paul II was a good guy.  I feel the same about Pope Francis.  Looking at that smile of his, I’m sure that he and I would have a good time over coffee at a sidewalk café in Rome.

I read today that he’s writing a book called Dear Pope Francis, his responses to questions posed by thirty kids from around the globe.  The article talked about how determined the Pope was to give deep answers to the soulful questions the children asked.  “Often, he looked off into space and tried to imagine the child in front of him.  And in his gaze I saw care, love.”

Those young folks deserve no less.  They need adults to neither look down nor look up at them … just eye to eye, on the level, one human being to another.  It’s not important that one of them is 79 and the other somewhere between 6 and 13.  There’s the wisdom of accumulated years, and then the spontaneous insights of youth.

One boy asked, “Will the world be again as it was in the past?”

Pope Francis responded, “There are those who manufacture weapons so that people fight each other and wage war.  There are people who have hate in their hearts.  There are people who are interested only in money and would sell everything for it.  They would even sell other people … No, when the time comes, the world will not be as it was.  It will be far better than it was in the past.”

Children need to hear hope, to hear love, not just from famous human beings such as the Pope, but from all us adults.  They also need to see this on our faces and in our deeds.  Are we strong enough to let go of antagonism, entrenched opinions, and a general malaise?  Yes we are.

 

 

Holding Your Head

During the year that Jody was ill and dying, her head started tilting more and more to one side as she lay in bed.  How strange that I can’t remember which side it was.  But I know I did my darndest to straighten her head some, so she could eat and drink.  We had a tiny pillow to support her jaw.  I would stand behind my dear one, place a hand on either side of her head, and lift … as gently as I could.  Often this hurt Jodiette, and I withered in response.  Sometimes, though, all went well.  I paused as I felt the weight of my wife’s head in my hands.  Those moments were magical.  Such a precious object to be holding.  A timeless moment.  And such a responsibility.

When I think of expressing love towards someone’s head, I think of kissing first of all … surely one of the great pleasures in life.  Kissing on the lips is such an expression of romantic love.  But kissing on the cheek is sweet as well, whether or not there’s romance in the air.  Such a pure thing.

Once in awhile, I’ve been moved to brush a fellow human’s cheek with the outside of my first two fingers.  Oh my.  Especially to do this in silence, with eye contact.  “You are beloved to me,” so says my hand.  Words couldn’t add to the intimacy.

And then, of course, there’s looking deep into the eyes of another.  Not in the general vicinity of their eyes, but way down into the pupils.  Unimaginable treasures reside in there, especially if we’re willing to hold that gaze with our companion.  Awe emerges.

I’m glad we all have heads.  They’re lovely receivers of delight.

 

Nothing In My Fingers

I’m written 380 posts in Bruce’s Blog but it feels like I’ve dried up.  Here I am right now creating a post about not being able to write a post.  And that’s not what I want to do.  I don’t want to delve into whatever’s happened to my writing … I want to write – about stuff that’s important to me.

This can’t be the end, can it?  Have I exhausted all topics that interest me?  I sure hope not.  But all writers hit the wall sometimes, don’t they?  And sitting with my silent laptop on my knees for an hour just isn’t it.  Maybe I should watch TV (but I don’t want to).

The voice inside is saying that 380 is a pretty good number, that within all those posts is enough food for thought to please anyone.  But what about the future?  Maybe I’ll go somewhere tomorrow that moves me to communicate, or someone will say something that I just have to share with the world.  But apparently not tonight.

No apologies.  But some regret.  I’ll say goodnight.  I hope we get to talk soon.

Tears

An hour ago I sat down with my laptop to write a blog post.  Couldn’t think of a thing.  Fifty minutes later I gave up.  “Read your Stephen King novel, Bruce.  Nothing to say tonight.”

Brian’s dad gave David a strained smile.  There was sweat trickling down his cheeks and standing out on his forehead in a galaxy of fine dots.  His eyes were red, and to David he looked like he had already lost weight … Mr. Ross now had one arm around his wife’s waist and his other hand clamped on her shoulder … David then realized that it wasn’t sweat trickling down Mr. Ross’s cheeks but tears … He realized that he was shortly going to be crying himself.

I’ve spent most of my life not crying, willing my face to stay dry even in the most despairing situations.  All that changed when Jody died.  I’ve cried for my wife most days in the 14 months that her body hasn’t been with me.  Often this happens in the car when I’m alone, remembering Jody’s hand in mine as we floated towards London.

Lately I’ve been crying because I’m lonely and finally ready to look out into the world for a new love.  I go out for meals with friends, partake of a weekly yoga class, and talk to the staff at World Gym.  I contribute.  But so often when I get back home, the tears come, both for me and Jody.

Oh so strangely, my eyes may moisten at the simplest moments.  Why do I start crying when I see:

A mom and young daughter walking up steps towards their front door?

A couple holding hands on the street?

A most likely homeless guy looking for handouts by the left turn lane?

A symmetrical tree looming ahead?

A driver trying to enter the flow of traffic and no one letting them in?

An Asian golfer being interviewed on lpga.com and struggling to express herself in English?

A two-storey house at night, with a light shining from an upstairs bedroom?

9000 fans cheering in a London hockey arena?

Hardly anybody singing “O Canada” at that same game?

Person after person walking downtown with head tilted to their Smart Phone?

An obese woman shuffling down the sidewalk?

Three teenaged girls laughing and poking each other in the mall?

A man sitting alone in the library, tucked into a good book?

 

 ***

Is there something wrong with me?
Or is there something right with me?