Just A Human Being

I was reading an advertisement recently when I came across this description:

Buffet included soap, salad bar, about 6 entrées, and a selection of deserts

The first thing that drew my eye was “soap”.  That’s pretty funny, imagining myself with a knife and fork chowing down on a beauty bar.

Then I saw “deserts” and moved into critical mode.  Why can’t people learn to spell?  I know how to spell.

After a time of better-worse, I paused.  And it came to me … we’re all human.  Maybe I can spell because I love writing and reading.  Perhaps the author of this ad isn’t so focused on the written word.  What if the writer didn’t finish high school or had parents who didn’t care about reading?  What if he or she was in the middle of some traumatic experience?

This person struggled with the ad.  I can’t swim, can’t skate and am afraid of heights.  We’re all so imperfect and marvelous.  Next time, may my first seeing be of compassion, not criticism.

 

Benchmark

I do believe that I’ve waxed poetic in these pages about Belmont, Ontario, my soon-to-be home.  About seeking a waffle cone at the convenience store on Main Street, and then standing outside, longing for a bench.  Seeing none, I leaned against the wall and loosened my eyes across the street.  The post office.  And in front … a black metal bench.  I’ve already consumed many chocolate-peanut butters with my backside caressed by the smoothness.  And I can tell that this will be a continuing tradition.

On visit number eight or ten, I saw something new.  There was a rectangular hole, about 2″ x 10″, in the middle of the bench back.  “That’s nice,” I thought.  A spot for a tiny plaque.

Several licking sessions later, I turned around and stared at that hole.  “Jody.”  What if I spoke bronzed words to my beloved, and those words seeped inside all who sat there?

Yesterday I went to the Municipality of Central Elgin and asked about bench memorials.  “The cost is $2500, sir.”  Ouch.  When I asked how many words I could fit on the plaque, the woman recommended that I do a tour of the region and read the messages.

So I did.  I wandered the harbour of Port Stanley in the evening and read about fifteen tributes to loved ones.  Some were so beautiful.  I cried for Jody.

This morning, I sat down and typed out my words of love:

In Memory Of
Jody Kerr
A marvelous human being and my life wife
I love you, my dear Jodiette

Yes, that’s what I want to say.

The person responsible for memorials is on vacation this week.  I don’t know if anyone else has reserved the post office bench.  But I have already spoken and the residents of Belmont will hear.  This I know.

Being Different

Yesterday’s Toronto Star had a story about a little girl who loves bugs.  Sophia is seven years old.  Grasshoppers, worms, ants and snails are also part of her repertoire.

Her family moved to Ontario last year and Sophia had high hopes for her new school.  On the first day, she carried a caterpillar around.  A classmate wasn’t impressed:

“You’re weird.  You shouldn’t be playing with bugs.”

And when Sophia brought another caterpillar in for show-and-tell , a boy crushed it underfoot.  This fall, Sophia is transferring to another school where hopefully she will be accepted for being herself.

I thought back to 2001, when I was assisting a blind student in her sixth grade classroom.  One day the topic was your favourite type of music and a girl whom I’ll call Jessica stood up.  “I like classical music.”  Groans, grimaces and knowing looks followed.  But Jessica wasn’t to be swayed.  She loved playing her cello.

Hello, dear Jessica and Sophia
Carry on loving what you love
The world needs you

A Balmy Morning

I was motoring along a Kitchener, Ontario freeway on Saturday morning.  Ahead of me waited Lydia Ko and the LPGA golf tournament.  All was well, except for my lips.  Four days of sun had dried them to a crisp, and they were starting to hurt.

Blistex.  The wonderful ointment that soothes and softens.  And the tube was back in my B&B bedroom, forgotten on the dresser.  Oh, silly man.

No worries.  There must be a drug store around here somewhere.  I remembered that the freeway frittered out at one point, with traffic slowing down through a littering of big box stores.  There’ll be Blistex somewhere amid the rectangles.

First though, I spotted a furniture store ahead – The Brick.  At their store in London I had recently bought an off-white bedroom suite for my condo.  Forsaking the urgency of peeling skin, and completely forgetting the marvelous person who is Lydia Ko, I pulled into the parking lot, hoping to visit another incarnation of my suite.  And there it was, in the double bed model.  I touched the wood.  I opened the drawers.  I drooled.

On my way out of the store, I asked two fellows if there was a drug store handy.  “Costco has one.  It’s just down the road.”  Thank you, my esteemed sales associates.

A few twists and turns later, I walked into consumer paradise.  I had my doubts about the Blistex since everything seems to come in Grade A Large at Costco.  I approached a druggie (I mean a drug department employee) to find that the tiny tube I sought hadn’t made it into inventory.  My lips groaned.  I asked her if she knew of another drug store nearby.  She smiled and drew me a map, featuring a return to the freeway, a long looping road, and a few traffic lights.

My lips pursed as I followed the lovely young woman’s directions.  I kept looking for Shoppers Drug Mart on the left but there was nothing.  Then a “Pharmacy” sign on the right.  I veered in.  Smacking my lips in anticipation, I approached the counter.  “No, we don’t stock that product.  Sorry.”  (Sigh)

Back on the road again, I squinted for a Shoppers.  And finally it appeared.  There was even a “Lip Balm” aisle.  I walked down it, glancing left and right.  Nothing again.  Finally, I noticed a rotating display.  I twirled … and there it was: my sacred tube of Blistex.

Out in the car, I applied liberal amount of the goo, coming perilously close to the underside  of my nose and my chin.  All was right with the world.  Except for my cell phone sitting awkwardly in the left pocket of my shorts.  I reached in to adjust things.  My fingers touched something soft.  It was a tube.

Although my intention had been to follow the sweet Lydia Ko for all eighteen of her holes, I managed to see just four.

Strange, this person
Strange, this life

Choosing A Golfer

It’s Saturday morning, “Moving Day” in golfing parlance.  During the third of four rounds, players often move way up or way down the leaderboard.

I’m about to head downstairs at the B&B for breakie.  Among the weighty matters I must ponder is  which golfer I will follow for eighteen holes.  Brooke Henderson is Canada’s sweetheart, an 18-year-old who’s pretty, hits the ball a long way and has a glowing smile.  She’s the obvious choice … but maybe not.  Cheering for Canada feels good but it has the sense of ethnocentrism – my group is more important than people outside my group.

Going with someone close to the lead seems natural too.  I feed off the drama of win-lose situations.  So Marina Alex from the USA is the head of the pack right now.  Wander with her … or perhaps not.

In the spirit of the human family, I could choose any twosome on the fairways of Whistle Bear Golf Club.  We all have the joys and agonies of being human.  I could watch life reflected in the birdies and bogeys of the golf course.  Just pick someone at random, Bruce.  Hmm.  No, I don’t want to do that.

Okay, I’ve decided.  I will walk with whom I perceive to be the nicest person out there – kind to her fellow golfers and to the fans, accepting of her mishit shots, loosy goosey on the fairways and greens, with an easy smile.  Lydia Ko from New Zealand.  She also happens to be the number one player in the world, but right now she’s eight strokes behind Marina.  I want to see a full human being.  I want to see her interact with other human beings.  I want to cheer her on.

Time to eat.  Time to walk.  And my day unfolds before me.

Boston Pizza Epiphanies

I’m in Cambridge, Ontario for the LPGA golf tournament.  I love watching women hit the ball down the middle and sink curling putts.  Plus most of them are friendly … just nice people.

Tonight I went to Boston Pizza for supper.  I enjoy watching sports on their large screen TVs.  I keep searching for myself onscreen but no luck so far.  I ordered the spinach and artichoke dip that comes with pita wedges.  Yummy.  I was chowing down and not being very observant about my remaining pieces.  Oops.  Three pita bits to go and lots of dip.  Oh well.  A few spoonfuls of dip would go down just fine.

And then Adrianne the bartender comes over and says “Would you like a few nacho chips to finish off your dip?”  I stared for a second, and then smiled.  “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

I fell into the moment of kindness.  It seemed to represent all the kindnesses that have come my way in life.  It was lovely.  Adrianne was lovely.  I believe I thanked her three more times.

When it was time to pay, I reached for my wallet.  But an empty pocket greeted my hand.  Panic … but just for a second.  I remembered that I’d left the wallet in Scarlet’s console this morning.  I didn’t want to lug it around all day on the course.

To Adrianne:  “I have a problem.  My wallet’s in the car.” > “That’s fine.  We’ll chase you if you don’t return.” > “Back in three minutes.”

So off I went into the night.  I stopped walking halfway across the parking lot.  I realized that there was no possibility of me getting in Scarlet and leaving.  That’s not who I am.  Choosing to go back in and pay my bill had nothing to do with the prospect of being caught if I didn’t.  Acting with integrity is simply essential to my being.  I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t paid.  (Oh.  That’s me.  How ’bout that?)

No need for a place of worship
No need for a mountain top
A chain restaurant will do nicely

Pre-Op

A few months ago, I wrote a post where I was afraid to press “Publish”.  It was about my testicles and how the presence of benign cysts had caused personal growth … to the tune of 3-4 times their normal size.

My surgery is on September 21.  Yesterday I met with a doctor and a nurse for a couple of hours.  I’ve been pretty calm about it all so far, but it’s amazing how a raft of paperwork can send me back to the terror of my only previous surgery.  In 2003 I had a tendon transfer operation on my right foot after creating a pretty good rupture.

Point number one:  Back then, the stitches were removed too late and I was in agony during the procedure.  I remember yelling at the top of my lungs, no doubt creating a heart attack or two in the clinic.  I’ve had long experience with the pain scale of 1 to 10, and that moment has been my benchmark ever since for what 10 feels like.  This time, I was reading in the patient booklet about removing the plastic bandage 24 hours after the operation.  I glanced at the next sentence and saw the word “stitches”.  There goes the old heart rate!  After marshalling my forces, I read.  The stitches will dissolve.  (Huge and lengthy sigh)  Oh, how I fear pain.

Point number two:  The booklet went on at length about constipation.  I know the topic well.  What came to my quivering mind, however, was lying in my bed hours after the surgery and not being able to pee.  The horror came back to me like a slap in the face.  The pain mounting.  The nurse saying “We may have to insert a catheter, sir.”  More liquidless hours.  Insertion.  (Oww)  And still nothing.  “Try singing a song.”  “Imagine a waterfall.”  “Here, dip your fingers into this water glass.”

Not a drop.  6 … 7 … 8 …

And then, in the wee hours – a drop.  Eventually followed by a torrent.

***

I’m a mature adult (most of the time)
My Buddhist training will see me through
I’ll be fine

And still I fear the 21st

Jolt In The Darkness

I went to a movie yesterday at the Hyland Cinema in London.  It’s such a cozy place and shows real stories with real people.  I was settling into the Coming Attractions.  And then …

“We can hear you talking from over here!”

The voice from behind was female and snarly, and was aimed at someone on the far side of the theatre.  I forgot about the upcoming movie.

What washed over me was sadness.  It was such a violent outburst.  And I don’t want any violence in my life.  But nor do I want to hear chatting moviegoers while I’m sinking into the film.

One choice is whether to speak up when something’s not right.  I say yes.  Suppressing myself surely withers my internal organs along with my psyche.  I’ve spent too much time in my life not saying what’s true for me.

But how to do it?  I fear confrontations.  In this situation, I would have left the theatre and asked an employee to speak to the yapper.  Once, at a concert, I said “Please don’t talk while the singer is performing” to the people beside me, and that felt good.  Plus nobody hit me.

If I’m to continue making a difference in this world, I need all of me available for the next person I meet.  Shutting myself down won’t get the job done.  So I will express, with caring and without antagonism.

 

Fear Of Colour

I’m living in the Comfort Inn in St. Thomas, Ontario for about fifteen days.  My condo in Belmont should be ready for me sometime between September 15 and 20.

Jane is the interior designer I hired to “stage” my home in Union for sale and to help me design my new living spaces.  A couple of weeks ago, it was time for us to decide on colours for the walls.  You’ll be happy to know that as well as a warm white, I’ve picked bright red, green, teal, yellow, purple and blue, as well as a cozy reddish brown for the den.  I love them all!  At one point when Jane saw the directions I was heading, tears came to her eyes.

How strange that along with the grief in losing my dear wife Jody comes an unexpected silver lining:  I don’t have to run wall colours by anyone else, except getting Jane’s opinion … It’s the Bruce show.

My bedroom will be teal – both walls and ceiling, with a warm white crown molding separating the two surfaces.  It’ll look so cool.  The new owners of my former home in Union asked for Jody’s and my reddish wood sleigh bed in their offer to purchase so I needed to buy a new headboard, footboard and rails.

Friday I went to The Brick on a furniture hunt.  I rounded corner after corner with nothing singing to me.  And then, there sat a creamy white bed with a sweetly curving headboard.  And I’m pretty sure there was a sign hanging on it saying “B-R-U-C-E”.  I fell in love.

Soon thereafter, I realized I could buy a matching dresser, mirror, chest and two night tables, all for a very good price.  I wanted to leap to the sky but I felt myself contracting.  “I must see if Jane thinks this stuff will go in my bedroom.”  So I texted her, even though she had told me the day before that she was heading off on a week’s vacation.  No answer Friday.  No answer yesterday morning.

As I waited for a text that probably wouldn’t be coming for a few days, I thought about Bruce.  The guy has some design skills.  He can recognize “esthetically pleasing” (most of the time).  And I noticed that over the past few weeks, I’d fallen into the trap of depending on the professional’s opinion.  Thank God Jane agreed with me about the bold colours.  But here I sat, afraid to say to myself “This works.”  Afraid to be the sole one choosing.  Afraid to head back to The Brick with my MasterCard.

I just watched this fear, as a good Buddhist is wont to do.  My body was rigid.  And then it wasn’t.  And then it was again.  Then another letting go.

I got in Scarlet
I drove to The Brick
I sat on my bed
I opened the drawers of my dresser
I looked in the mirror to see who was there
And I pulled out my credit card

Done deal

Haida Gwaii … Islands Of The People

I was aboard the schooner Maple Leaf for seven days in June.  Thirteen of us experienced the wonders of Haida Gwaii, north of Vancouver Island.

Part of the learning centred on humpback whales, sea lions, black bears and many species of birds.  But there was more.

Haida watchmen are the guardians of ancient villages and their totem poles.  We got to visit five of these sites.  Many years ago, there were hundreds of villages scattered among the islands of Haida Gwaii.  Then came the white people.  Then came smallpox.  Ninety per cent of the Haida died.

For much of the 1900’s, another reality was residential schools.  Kids were removed from their homes and sent away, as far as PEI.  They weren’t allowed to speak their language.  If a brother and sister were at the same school, they weren’t allowed to talk to each other.  Their long hair, a deep symbol of identity, was cut.

At one of the villages, I stood beside Ken, a watchmen in his 30’s.  Do I ask him what I really want to ask him?  Yes.  I mentioned the smallpox and the residential schools.

“You folks seem so happy.  Have you forgiven us whites for what we did?”

Ken smiles.  “Oh yes.  We welcome everyone.”

Oh my.

The people are alive and so very well.  It was a privilege to spend time with them.