Not Jake

The dear old Messiah will have to wait for another day.  I found out half an hour ago that I didn’t get the part of Jake in the play Jake’s Women.  I got off the phone and sat down in my man chair.  I’d been sorting through some papers and felt the pull to get back at it.  No.  How about grab the sports section?  No.  So I sat.  My friend Renato came into the room and I told him the news.  He wanted to talk.  No.  And I sat some more.

I’ve been so light lately but now the sadness weighed me down.  I wasn’t slumping exactly but I felt … compressed.  And then … there was quiet inside me.

I realized how hungry I was and decided to have some breakfast.  I didn’t want distractions from how I was in the moment but I needed to eat.  So I did.  Quietly, with virtually no thoughts about the director’s decision.  I committed to sit down with my laptop as soon as I was done eating.  And here I am, alone in my bedroom.

So, what’s true?  My mind flits to the upside – not having to memorize over an hour of dialogue, no rigorous rehearsal schedule, don’t have to worry about stage fright, there’ll be another play …  I let those thoughts do their thing and now they’ve floated away.  Sitting some more, this time with fingers moving over the keys.

What does it mean when I say to myself “I am Jake”?  I don’t know, but I am.  In my heart, I celebrate the humanity of Jake.  He’s happy, sad, angry, loving and momentarily crazy.  He’s all that each of us is.  How about if I don’t nix any of that out of my life, if I let in the fact that we all hurt?  And if my neighbour is suffering, can I allow their pain and simply sit with them?

This doesn’t seem to be sadness now.  I’m very slow and quiet.  The experience of “not chosen” is common to all of us.  I feel my energy moving towards all the human beings I know and all the ones I’m just meeting.  This doesn’t feel like suppression.  Maybe I’ll cry later.  Hey, maybe I’ll laugh later.  (Oops.  I just laughed!)

Here I am, alone in my bedroom.  That’s fine for the moment but my place is out there in the world, loving and having other people laugh with me.  Time to go.

The Messiah … Part One

I went to see Handel’s Messiah at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, Ontario last night.  Fifty members of the Pro Musica Choir were joined by about twenty string musicians from the former Orchestra London.  Four soloists (soprano, alto, tenor and baritone) shared their passion with us.  The ceiling was lofty, the stained glass was exquisite, and we filled the church.

Maybe fifteen years ago, I sang The Messiah with the members of the Knox Presbyterian Church choir in St. Thomas, Ontario.  It was a precious event for me … just like yesterday.

I didn’t time things too well and walked into the church only ten minutes before showtime.  The place was packed.  I walked to the front, saw an empty seat in the second row on the aisle and asked the woman sitting beside it if the space was occupied.  No, it wasn’t.  I sat down, marvelling at how blessed I am in this life.

The context of The Messiah is Christian and the “He” being referred to in song is of course Jesus.  As I listened to the short interlocking pieces, though, I saw another way of holding the words.  Here are some reflections, some fostered by the Buddha, and some just entering my head unbidden:

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed
And all flesh shall see it together

What is to be revealed? Perhaps the animation of daily life, where each moment can be breathed into (“animus” in Latin), and a dimension of spirit accessed within the flow of the daily round.  Even within our difficult times, we can hold the world with new eyes.  And to be among a group of people who consciously walk this path, such as during the meditation retreat I just experienced, is lovely.

But who may abide the day of his coming?
And who shall stand when he appeareth?

To abide.  To stand.  No forward movement.  No becoming something new.  Rather being in place and allowing the essence of being to escape through the pores.

Nowhere to go
Nothing to do
Nothing to know
No one to be

In the conventional world, such phrases may appear to be nonsense.  But I think not …

And he shall purify the sons of Levi
That they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness

It seems that there’s a natural force of purification that seeps into folks who embrace a spiritual practice.  Often the need to accumulate diminishes, as well as the need to protect ourselves.  Fear lessens.  The heart opens.  And what was so important last year just isn’t so anymore.  Such as being right, being strong, being assertive.  What’s left is appropriate behaviour that often touches others.

Lift up thy voice with strength.  Lift it up.  Be not afraid
Arise.  Shine.  For thy light is come

As fear of what others think drops away, we speak wisely, with head held high.  We speak without demand, without needing to convince, without dominating.  We speak what is welling up inside us.  And people notice.

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light

There is the story of Plato’s cave.  Chained human beings face the back wall, observing shadows that they believe are real.  Such as “I need more, better and different.”  When unchained, they turn around, walk to the mouth of the cave, and behold the sun.  Perhaps terrifying.  Too bright.  But home nonetheless.

Unto us a son is given
And the government shall be upon his shoulder

Something is born in us.  Some mysterious energy.  And we feel the responsibility to do good in this world, to love unconditionally, to be kind.

Glory to God in the highest
And peace on earth.  Goodwill toward men

We are peace.  And the inside becomes the outside.  Simply “being with” people is a joy.

His yoke is easy and his burthen is light

Suffering still happens but something is different.  Fear, anger and sadness are held tenderly, embraced as part of life.  They still hurt but somehow there’s a sweetness within the pain.

Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world

I look at the ways I’ve hurt people and I feel remorse.  Still, self-compassion washes over me and I see the fragile, imperfect human being that I am.  Some energy is holding me up.

***

Hmm.  I’m tired, and I’m only halfway through The Messiah.  But I’m having fun.  I think I’ll tackle the second half tomorrow.  Goodnight.

Perfect

Now that I’m back in London, I’m rediscovering my worldly life.  I found out on Saturday evening that I missed the St. Mary Choir School Christmas concert.  It was last Thursday.  But today from 11:00 till 1:00, the Chamber Orchestra and Grade 8 carolers were performing in St. Peter’s Basilica and I was going to see them, hoping to say Merry Christmas to the kids I know.

Sudden update:  On Saturday night in Worcester, Massachusetts, I looked at the St. Mary’s website and found this concert.  It said “St. Joseph’s”, not St. Peter’s!  (Sigh)  Sudden all right, because I just figured that out as I was typing.  Eighty-four days of almost complete silence and I forgot the name of the church.

You know the rest.  I showed up at St. Peter’s, expecting to see legions of uniformed students climbing the steps.  No one there.  And virtually no one inside.  Maybe ten folks praying.

I felt a twinge of sadness.  I wouldn’t be seeing these children before Christmas.  But only a twinge.  Peace descended.  I sat down and meditated to the strains of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”, sung through CD in the lofty heights of the sanctuary by a boy choir.  And then more lilting songs, given from far away to the warmth of my mind.  So quiet.

After the meditation retreat, I’m very quiet inside.  There seems to be space around each cell of my body.  The moment of the moment is entirely sufficient.  There’s virtually no leaning forward towards some “better” spot in time.  The choir sings.  I think of the kids and wish them well.

Just as it is
Fine by me

Sweet Sadness

I got home from my long meditation retreat last night and there are many stories to tell. But I’ll start with what is most pressing on my brain … I fell in love.

A hundred of us meditated in the hall for about seven hours a day.  No talking.  No touching.  No eye contact.  So how is it possible to feel this depth of love for someone in that environment?  Well, it is.

For the first two days of the retreat, we were allowed to talk, and I enjoyed saying things to this woman, whom I’ll call Ginette.  She’s pretty, and that’s nice, but it was her smile that made her shine.  And later, for weeks in the meditation hall, as she sat right behind me, I felt this loving energy from back there.  I do believe that at least some of it was aimed at me.

I created scenarios to fill my future – our wedding day, vacationing in the Caribbean, just sitting on the couch, cuddling.  Sometimes I was fully aware of my thoughts and feelings of the moment.  At other times, I was lost in longing.

I thought of Jody, and how it’s only been a year since my beloved died.  “It’s too early, Bruce.”  “She’s probably happily married.”  “You don’t know anything about her.”  And still I loved.

I brought a Buddha Board with me to the retreat.  It’s a little soft inclined surface within a plastic frame.  If you dip a brush in water, you can create fanciful designs and lovely words.  Slowly and surely, those images disappear as the water evaporates.  Day after day, I wrote “Ginette and Bruce”.  And then watched the impermanence of it all.

I looked for any sign that she liked, perhaps loved, me.  Outside on the driveway, Ginette sometimes walked near me during our periods of walking meditation.  In the hall, she would occasionally make little sounds as we meditated.  All evidence of love, I reasoned.

Should I move to where she lives or should she come to me?  Decisions, decisions.  Oh, what a lovestruck boy am I.

About a week ago, the last three days of the retreat allowed for some talking.  Ginette and I went for a walk and sat on a rock at the edge of a large pond.  I told her that I loved her.  I believe she was taken aback.  And then I gathered all my courage and said what I’d been yearning to say, not knowing if I would be welcomed or rejected:

“If ever you don’t have a husband, I’d like to be your boyfriend.”

To say what is true with no intention of hurting the other person is a blessing.  Ginette said she didn’t know what to say.  “You don’t have to say anything.”  We talked for forty-five more minutes, not about what I’d said but about important things.  She uncovered parts of her soul and I did the same.

And this … Ginette is happily married.

And this from me … “I need to let you go.”  Smiles and a hug.  And great sadness when I was alone.

Weeks ago, I imagined Ginette and I dancing the waltz, with great tenderness and joy.  A day or two after the rock, I was sitting quietly when another image showed itself – Ginette and her husband dancing with the same joy.  I cried.  I see clearly that I want Ginette to be happy, and I want her husband to be happy.  If they’re happy together, then I want them to be together and watch their love grow.  Do no harm.  Their happiness, and my happiness – far beyond my longing to be with Ginette.  Yes.

Ginette’s husband’s name is Bruce.  I thought of my Buddha Board, and watched the phrase “Ginette and Bruce” become ever more beautiful.

Love wins.

 

My Meditation Retreat … Part 3

Another aspect of my day on retreat is walking meditation.  The typical plan is to take a 20-foot span of lawn or floor and walk back and forth.  I suppose that sounds pretty boring.  The yogi is not looking around and saying, “Wow, that’s a great tree!”  Instead they’re staying present with the rhythm of the footsteps and noticing the thoughts and feelings that come up.

There’s a walking room in one of the buildings.  At the far end is a large statue of the Buddha.  Many times, I’ve walked towards the Buddha, stopped in front of him, turned around and continued in the opposite direction.  I see in this a rhythm of my life: moving closer to the man’s wisdom and then turning my back on it, over and over.  This walking path is one of many examples in my life of taking something in the physical world and having it be a symbol of something larger.

Another favourite route of mine isn’t a straight line.  Rather it’s a loop … the circular driveway in front of the center over to the edge of the front lawn near the road.  My meditation is to walk down the very middle of the driveway, symbolizing the value of moderation.  I glance up occasionally to see if anyone is coming.  If they are, I move towards the side of the drive and let them continue on their path.  Your needs first, without sacrificing mine.  I need to be on the driveway, “on the path”.  I don’t need to always be in the middle.

And then there’s my rock.  It sits on the lawn, conveniently along my way.  It’s rounded, about two feet high, and partially covered with lichens.  Or is it moss?  Guess I’ll find out on Saturday.  I stop, lay my right hand on my solid friend, and pray for someone I love:

May you be free from danger
May you be happy
May you be healthy
May you live with ease

***

I don’t know what I’ll be like after three months of silence.  I know I’ll be a good person.  I already am.  But some other version of a good person, hopefully with a heart ever opening, a touch for those who need it, a smile on my face.

Time appears to be marching on.  And it’s time to stop writing … for 87 days.  I love writing, and I’ll miss my blog and you readers.  I hope my words have sometimes helped you in your life.  I hope you’ve laughed.  I hope you’ve cried.  I have.

I’ll be home on December 7.  I’ll write a blog post on December 8.  I hope you remember me.  Thank you for tuning in to my meanderings.  It’s been a privilege to talk to you.

My Meditation Retreat … Part 2

I yearn for the routines of a day at the retreat center.  Now the Buddha would say that I am thus attached, and that attachment causes suffering.  Fair enough.  But a bit of clinging has its upside.

We wake up at 5:15 to the sound of a gong that a yogi (retreatant, such as me!) carries through the dormitories.  The gong marks transition times during our day.  There’s no need for a timepiece.

From moment one, I have choices.  Do I zoom to the communal bathroom, hoping to catch one of the shower stalls?  Naw, that’s just more societal rushing.  So I begin by shaving in my room.  (As I now reflect on removing hair from skin, my right hand goes to my head.  Yesterday, Julia, my hairstylist took it all off.  No … I don’t mean that she’s a salon stripper – it was my hair that disappeared.  I had her do the shaving not because I’m a nice little Buddhist guy, but rather as an issue of practicality.  During my three months at the Insight Meditation Society (IMS), I have no way to get my hair cut.  So I’ll start from zero and let it grow.)

After the emergence of upper cheek smoothness, I then saunter over to the bathroom for a shower.  If the stalls are all taken, oh well.  I’ll get clean after breakfast.

The first sitting in the meditation hall is at 5:45.  One hundred bleary-eyed folks sitting basically upright.  Over the years, I’ve had thoughts of looking good in the hall.  You know, the full lotus position on the cushion.  Well, you’ll be happy to know that I find the full lotus impossible and even the half lotus is a massive pain in the knee.  So I sit in a chair.  So much for appearances.

In the warmer months (like right now), I wear traditional Buddhist garments – T-shirt and shorts.  In such circumstance, I just love walking into the hall for the first sitting.  (Oops, I feel ego flaring!)  All my shirts have something to say and past retreats have taught me one thing: yogis experience inner laughter at 5:45 when they read my shirt-of-the-day.  I suppose  a true Buddhist wears plain shirts.  Maybe I’m a fake Buddhist.

The sittings range from 30 to 45 minutes, with another gong marking the conclusion.  I go into a instant place of bliss and remain there eternally (Not).  Thoughts of a lovely or morose nature just show up.  I’m getting good at waving and wishing them a good day.  They wave back and sooner or later just mosey away.  Sadness and joy come easily, usually not at the same time.  My back lets me know that it wants to be included in the fun.

Breakfast is cool.  One hundred of us in the dining room, with the only sounds being the clittering of cutlery and the shuffling of feet.  No eye contact with the human across the table.  Mostly, my head is down and I look at my food, which I taste with slow pleasure (usually).

After breakie, one of the teachers will talk to us in the hall about what the Buddha had to say about leading a good life.  I’ve always hoped that I’d hear a recommendation for chocolate peanut butter waffle cones, but that must happen in the advanced class.

Then there’s the 45-minute work period … dishes, vacuuming, cleaning bathrooms – whatever task I’ve been assigned.  The commitment of the yogis includes “taking what is given”.  So I do my job without complaint and hopefully without leaning towards a job I’d like better.  On one retreat, part of my responsibility was to vacuum the office.  I moved slowly and did the work thoroughly.  So thoroughly, in fact, that I used the long wand to clean the window sills, upon which sat a tiny clay Buddha.  I sucked it up, you might say, resulting in little Buddha bits on the floor.  It hadn’t been fired.  Oh, the guilt!  The totally useless guilt.  Later that morning, breaking the code of silence, I apologized profusely to the staff member whose sill was now empty.  What fury did I receive in response?  None.  “Life is impermanent, Bruce.  No worries.”  (Sigh)

I could keep going here, and I will tomorrow, but I have about 1.5 million tasks to complete today, and it’s time for vroom … vroom … in a meditative way, of course.

My Meditation Retreat … Part 1

A little voice in my head told me yesterday that on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I should write about my upcoming meditation retreat.  I leave for Massachusetts on Thursday afternoon and I won’t be doing any writing for about three months.  I asked that voice, “What the heck am I going to talk about for three blog posts?”  After all, I’m falling towards silence.  The answer?  “You’ll figure it out.”

When I tell people that I’m going to be silent for 84 days, invariably I get two responses:

1. “You?  No way.  You won’t last ten minutes.”  Well, past retreats have shown me that I can last at least eleven minutes.  But I know where they’re coming from.  I talk to virtually everyone.  I’ll find the flimsiest excuse to begin a conversation.  Like standing in a grocery line and sharing with the person in front or behind that my tall cylindrical objects (such as shave cream) won’t stay standing up on the moving belt.  That’s all it takes.  The pump needs to be primed.  If course, if the person just replies with a withering stare, I shut it down right away.  I’ve learned to detect the folks who want to play.

So how can I let that fun go for three months?  As much as I love the banter, I know the silence will be easy.

2.  “I couldn’t do that.”  I suppose they’re right, concerning a jump into a very long retreat.  But I’ve been on 7, 8 and 9 day ones, and I bet most people who say this to me are wrong.  It’s just that extended periods of silence haven’t been part of their experience.  It wasn’t easy for me at first, and I’ve seen many folks in the meditation hall who are clearly going through their “stuff”.  We all have stuff – thoughts, feelings, body sensations.  I don’t see meditation as fixing the negative parts of those things.  It’s more an expression of who I am, an uncovering of what’s already there.  I say that most of us would experience some of that uncovering during a retreat and would slowly allow the silence to caress them.

I used to think that I wanted to be a better meditator.  Sit in the full lotus position, for instance.  Well, my knees hurt too much for that.  I use a chair.  Have all my thoughts disappear.  Good luck on that one too.  Thoughts continue to enter my head but sooner or later they leave (to be replaced by more complex thoughts!)

Over the next twelve weeks of my life, I will not:

1. Talk (except to a teacher, who will meet with me every two or three days to see how it’s going)

2.  Make eye contact (other than with the teacher)

3.  Read

4.  Write

5.  Listen to music

6.  Be on the Internet, e-mail and generally mess around with my laptop

7.  Lie or use demeaning language (I don’t do that anyway, and besides we’re silent)

8.  Have sex

9.  Take something that isn’t freely offered (such as pushing to sit in the front row, or getting a large piece of the vegetarian entrée)

10.  Hurt any living being, even an insect

11.  Consume alcohol or non-prescription drugs

12.  Pee

Okay, just kidding about that last one!

See you tomorrow.  I might be silent, however.

Pride and Prejudice

Renato is an Italian chef who’s living in my home while I travel here, there and down the street.  Last night, we sat down to watch a movie – Pride and Prejudice, starring Keira Knightley.  It was an immense love story.  Snapshots from the film stay with me:

1.  The country dance at the beginning.  Rows of happy people – smiling, laughing and clapping hands to the beat of the music.  Intoxicating.

2.  The severe Mr. Darcy referring to the beautiful young Lizzie as “tolerable” as she overhears the conversation.  A human being as a thing, a piece of meat.  How sad.

3.  Later in the evening, Lizzie throwing Mr. Darcy’s words back at him, swirling around and walking away.  The girl is afraid of nothing and no one.  Who cares about relative status, about being socially appropriate, when your heart and soul need to express?

4.  Mrs. Bennet running down the path after Lizzie when her daughter refused Mr. Darcy’s marriage proposal, in the spirit of “Come back here and marry him!” with dollar signs in her eyes.  Thank God my mom wasn’t anything like that.

5.  Mr. and Mrs. Bennet talking to Lizzie afterwards.  “I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t marry him!” shouts her mother.  Dad returns with “I’ll never speak to you again if you do.”  He knows that there’ll be war in the bedroom but it’s far more important that he speak the truth.

6.  Mr. Darcy’s barely visible Mona Lisa smile as he falls for Lizzie, such a contrast to the scowl he wore for the first part of the film.  Despite his power in society, he can’t yet share his true feelings.  As so we have the ache of love that most of us know well.

7.  The first touch of hands.  Mr. Darcy is helping Lizzie into the carriage and her wide-eyed wonder shines.  Is he the one?

8.  The final scene between Lady Catherine De Bourgh and Lizzie.  She’s Mr. Darcy’s aunt.

“Miss Bennet, I warn you.  I’m not to be trifled with.”

***

“Now tell me once and for all.  Are you engaged to him?”

“I am not.”  [with great sadness]

“And will you promise never to enter into such an engagement?”

“I will not and I certainly never shall.  You have insulted me in every possible way and can now have nothing further to say.  I must ask you to leave immediately … Goodnight.”

“I have never been thus treated in my entire life!”

***

Go, Lizzie!

Chapters

Yesterday morning was my second book signing at Chapters.  Jody sent her love with me as I left home.  I was wonderfully calm and was so looking forward to whomever would be strolling down the aisle.

What does it mean that I sit at a table in a bookstore and sign copies of Jody’s book?  Am I famous?  No.  Is there a sign in the lobby mentioning my name?  Yes.  I don’t think that the signing itself means anything.  It’s just another opportunity to spread the love that Jody and I share.  There’s my desire to have ever more folks read our story, hopefully be touched by it, and then give a little more love to their precious ones.  Yes, that’s what I want.

I had 1000 copies of Jodiette: My Lovely Wife printed.  When I sat down at Chapters, I had given away 746 of them.  In one context, that’s better than 300, but in another it doesn’t matter.  Our love migrates outward whether on the written page or not.  Somehow, in a universe not far, far away, Jody and I touch people, whether or not they realize it.

So .. there sits my bum in a chair behind a table decorated with feng shui-like piles of books.  People come and people go, most of them not making eye contact.  Those that do receive a “Hello” from me.  Nothing more, unless they want to talk.

Several friends show up and I get to hug and palaver.  How wonderful that they came.  The little part of me that’s tied to stats is disappointed, though.  “They already have one of Jody’s books.”  Oh, Bruce … let go of the smallness.

Here comes Trevor (all names here are changed to protect the happy).  He’s the employee that has set up the table for me.  He asks about Jody’s story.  He talks about the importance of love.  He invites customers to come over and see me.  He wants to have a book.

Here comes Barry.  He’s an older gentleman, just like me.  He wants to write about the tapestries of his life.  He’s put this off for a long time.  I tell him about self-publishing with Blurb.  I talk about my writing challenges and delights.  He smiles.  He wants to have a book.

And then there’s Nicole, probably in her 70’s.  We talk of love and loss.  Her husband and my wife.  We both soften.  She wants to have a book.  A half hour later, she comes back to the table with a man who has become her second husband.  They’re holding hands.  They’re caressing each other’s arms.  Nicole says that neither of their partners were very affectionate physically, but the two souls in front of me sure are.  Everyone smiles.

What a privilege to sit there and welcome human beings into my space.  I just might do that every day, no matter where I am.

Eleven Readers

It was going to be an ordinary “get ready to go to Massachusetts” day.  I went to the tire shop to have new tires installed on Hugo, my Honda CRV.  And I got to see Brian again, the manager.  This man is friendly to everyone.  There was a stream of folks walking through his door and he lit up as he noticed each one.  He actually reminded me of the Dalai Lama.  So cool.

Next I went to the drugstore, parking a block away, when something hit me.  No … not a car!  A thought.  All I did was look through the front passenger window at the store beyond.  It was the office of a company which provides occupational therapy and physiotherapy to folks in their homes.  When Jody came home from the hospital in March, 2014, Kerry Ann and Kathy were of great service to her.  They were both kind.

I had a box of Jody’s books in the car.  I took two out and walked into the office.  A smiling receptionist greeted me.  My therapist friends weren’t in.  I sat there and wrote messages in the books and gave them to the receptionist, who was happy to pass them on.

Back in Hugo, I realized that there were other professionals who had been good to Jody.  I marvelled at why I hadn’t made this trip before, prior to leaving for Western Canada.  No guilt showed up, just a fascination with the waywardness of my mind.

Now, how do I find these fine humans?  I remembered that a new public health facility had been built in St. Thomas so I went there.

“Does __________ work here?”  >  “No.”

Times four.

Even though I was shooting blanks here, the receptionist was helpful in tracking down where these health care people might be hanging out.

So Hugo and I resumed the quest.  Down the street, I parked in front of another office. And voilà!  A second receptionist told me that Laura (our nurse practitioner) and Charlotte (our co-ordinator of services) each had a desk there.  They were both kind.  And they weren’t in.  More inscriptions ensued and again the woman welcoming me said she would pass on Jody’s books.

Office number three was the home of two marvelous visiting nurses – Henry and Cindy.  Henry always made Jody laugh and Cindy loved talking about non-nursey things that Jody was interested in.  Just folks, but plenty smart.  They were both kind.  And they weren’t in.  So … signing > receptionist > to be delivered.

As well as the health care heroes who had looked into Jody’s eyes, three receptionists and two drug store employees took a copy of our book.  And I know that all of them were happy to receive the gift.  Each of them will laugh.  Each of them will cry.  It’s what we human beings do.  It makes me happy.