Love Is …

Well, I’m off.  At least that’s what some people think.  Actually, I don’t start driving until Sunday morning.  I’m heading to a one month silent meditation retreat in Massachusetts.

For the last few weeks, I’ve told folks where I’m going.  Over the years the responses I’ve received have pretty much been the same:  “Oh, I couldn’t do that!”  Only two or three human beings thought they could.

Many people look at me funny when I say I’m going to be silent for a month (three months back in 2015).  When I mention that I’m a Buddhist, some of them really get weirded out.  “You’re not a Christian?”  “No.”

All of this pales before what I’ve decided to tell them in front of this trip.  I’ve only said this to a few because they’ve thought it’s so strange.  I’m tempted to shut up, such as right now.  But that’s no fun … so here goes.

“I’m going to this retreat to love people, to explore what the depths of love can be.”  It will be unlike any I’ve been on.  Usually, I’d have a few hours at the beginning to talk to other yogis, and a few hours at the end to discuss how it went.  On February 1, I immerse myself in an environment where I’ll never talk to the other participants.  I won’t make eye contact with them.  Is it possible to love people whom I won’t meet?  They’ll be near me in the meditation hall and the dining room.  I’ll look at their faces and bodies, from the side.  I’ll see the joy and pain.  There won’t be any contact but I say there’ll be a connection.

Sometimes love is more of an exchange than a communion.  “I’ll keep loving you as long as you keep doing X.”  Happily, relationship can be a world beyond that.

And then, who do you love?  For some, it’s just themselves.  Or just my life partner.  Or my family.  Or the members of my faith or culture.  How about everyone, even the grumpy folks?  How about all beings, from my dear one to a mosquito?  Is it possible?

So off I go, curious about how widely love can spread its wings.

I’ll never meet them
Probably I’ll never see them again
I want nothing from them
Ain’t life grand?

Road Of Dreams

I was so excited Thursday morning.  I was going to ask 27 Grade 6 kids for help.  I had let my dream fade and maybe they could get me back on track.  I want to ride my bicycle across Canada in 2018.  It’ll be about twenty of us embracing the Tour du Canada – taking 70 days to pedal 7600 kilometres from Vancouver, B.C. to St. John’s, Newfoundland (a bit more if I start in Victoria).

I started by asking the kids if they have a goal which so far they hadn’t achieved.  After one young man responded, I told them about the Tour.  It seemed like there was a collective drawing in of breath as I launched into my story.  Tiffany, their teacher, said that here was an opportunity to bring school closer to real life.  Indeed.  She handed out huge pieces of paper and groups of students charted ideas for me.

As the kids hummed along in their work, one girl came up to me and asked “What colour are your eyes?”  (Huh?)  Turns out that she was drawing a picture of me on the paper and wanted to get my eyes right.

And then the presentations.  No more junk food.  Ride my bike every day.  Find someone to train with.  Write encouraging letters to myself between now and June, 2018, and open them on the ride when I’m having a hard day.  Write a blog as I cross the country so folks can find out how I’m doing.  Thanks, kids!  Tiffany will be marking their posters and then I get to take them home for inspiration.

After all was said and done, two girls came up to me (separately) and said that they want to do the ride with me.  Whoa!  I mentioned that a lot of thinking had to be done, parents had to be totally on board, and the training would be intense.  Inside, I was churning.

Have you ever read a book three times?  I have.  The title is Hey Mom, Can I Ride My Bike Across America?  A teacher and his wife rode with five 12- and 13-year-olds from Washington, D.C. to Santa Barbara, California.  It took four months.

Yes, I’ve dreamed of doing the Tour du Canada for many years.  Sitting right beside that dream was another: to include a couple of kids on the adventure.  I only have two regrets in life – that Jody died so young and we didn’t have children.  I think I would have been a good dad.  Wouldn’t it be cool if I could be a sort-of-dad for two months and share the wonders of Canada with fine young Canadians?

Now, a few days after speaking my heart, I try to put myself in the parent’s chair.  It’s not too likely that mom and dad would let their daughter or son travel with me for ten weeks.  It’s  a long ways.  Hills.  Bad weather.  Possible illness and injury.  Maybe a few unsavoury characters discovered along the way.  If it was my child, would I let them go?  Well … yes.  If I trusted the person to keep my dear one safe.  Roots and wings.

Here I sit, not knowing if some Grade 6 kids will accompany me.  Maybe there are parents out there who will say yes.  First of all, of course, maybe there are a couple of children in that class who truly want to do this and are willing to put in the work to make it happen.

Oh my
The weight of reason suggests that this part of my dream won’t happen
But you never know

Thumbs Up

I walked into the Belmont Pharmacy today, supposedly for no useful purpose.  Actually I figure saying hi is quite useful.

Suzanne greeted me and we blabbed a bit.  About what I can’t remember.  But I got really excited about something.  In a fit of verticality, I threw my arms into the air.  Unbenounced to me  (Wow.  I don’t know how to spell that word.  Excuse me for a minute while I take a SpellCheck break.)  … …  Now, where was I?  Oh yeah …  Ouch.  Apparently the word doesn’t exist.  All I got back was “undenounced”.  I’m pretty sure that’s not the same.  Okay, let’s try Google  … …  Ah hah!  Unbenownst  →  “without the knowledge of”.

I realize that was a lot of further ado, so let’s cut to the chase.  My right thumb smashed into a plastic sign hanging from the ceiling.   My soul yelped and my thumb gushed red.  Darn blood thinners.  They’ll get you every time.  Quick like a bunny, Suzanne passed me a paper towel.  I love it that Bounty is the quicker picker-upper but I guess I needed three-ply.

Suzanne didn’t have any Bandaids except for those nestled in boxes for sale.  I didn’t want her to break open a package so I headed to the Diner, grasping said digit.  Chrystal saw my scarlet plight and got me a couple of Elastoplasts (I’m an equal opportunity adhesive bandage guy).  Being a righthanded dude, I couldn’t get the paper off so I approached a table of local women and Sue did the deed.  Off to the washroom and soon I was well covered.  I decided not to go with the flow.

That’s enough dramatics, Bruce.  We’re not exactly talking heart surgery here.

Much of the rest of my day was humbling.  I was a whiz at peeing but how does a thumb deprived human get his pants done up again?  Then I was trying on winter boots at Mountain Equipment Co-Op.  I couldn’t shove my insoles down deep but Janique came to the rescue.  She just about had to do up my laces but I managed a loose approximation of the task.

You know, the thumb is an awfully valuable tool out there in the world, not that I was aware of the fact before today.  I was fumbling, again and again.

Somewhere along the way, in a quiet moment of digital repose, a thought crossed my frontal lobe:

What did you learn today, Bruce?
Do you avoid all exultations in the spirit of painfree thumb wholeness?
Or do you throw yourself into the air whenever a deeper spirit moves you?

I vote for the jump-up

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.