Lap Dance

Jody and I went to hear Bryan Adams at London’s Budweiser Gardens last night.  My dear wife was deep within my heart as I walked in and sat down.

Jody loved, and loves, Bryan.  As “Heaven” rolled over us, I realized that my darling girl was sitting on my lap.  I reached around and held her thighs, just above the knee.  My wife and me.

And love is all that I need
And I found it there in your heart
It isn’t too hard to see
We’re in heaven

Then we were rocking to one of our favourites – “Summer of ’69”.  Jody’s hands were way up high, punching the air.  Oh, that smile!  And how we loved to dance.

Standin’ on your mama’s porch
You told me that it’d last forever
Oh, and when you held my hand
I knew that it was now or never

But Jody was just warming up.  Bryan found a lady in the audience who was willing to dance in the spotlight to “If Ya Wanna Be Bad, Ya Gotta Be Good”.  And my wife was just as nasty as she turned to me, snarling and pointing to my chest.  Oh my.

I’ll give you what you want, boy, but let’s make it understood
If ya wanna be bad, ya gotta be good

And more of the same with “The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me Is You”. Go, Jodiette!

The only thing I want
The only I need
The only thing I choose
The only thing that looks good on me … is you!

For many years, Jody caressed me with a Bryan Adams song.  The title says it all – “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)”.  And she did.  Jody loved me so much.  Bryan started.  I held my hands over my heart and cried.

Look into your heart, you will find
There’s nothin’ there to hide
Take me as I am, take my life
I would give it all, I would sacrifice

Near the end of the concert, as the anthem “Straight From The Heart” began, Jody’s hands were flying, palms forward.  I placed my hands over hers, and our arms swayed to the music.  Just the two of us.

Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we can make another start
You know I’ll never go
As long as I know
It’s comin’ straight from the heart

May there be another start for us, Jodiette, just beyond the horizon.  I love you.

Ah, For Just One Time

I went a tribute concert last night for Stan Rogers, a Canadian singer-songwriter who died from smoke inhalation on a plane in 1983.  As the brochure said, “Stan Rogers touched the lives of countless people.”

Stan wrote about ordinary Canadians … fishermen, farmers, factory workers, lovers, explorers, displaced East coasters who went west to work in oil refineries.  He told the story of an aging housewife, gazing at the wrinkles in her mirror but dreaming of “Friday at the Legion when she’s dancing with her man”.

Five passionate musicians stood in front of me, recreating Stan’s stories with their mouths and fingers.  And we in London’s Aeolian Hall responded with our voices held high, blasting out the choruses so the walls trembled.

Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage
To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea
Tracing one warm line through a land so wide and savage
And make a Northwest Passage to the sea

And then it was over.  Time to leave.  Or perhaps not just yet.  Do I say hi to the performers or let them have their space?  “Be a decent person, Bruce.”  But really, what does that mean?  As Jack singer and guitarist walked off the stage and started down the aisle where I stood, I knew this moment’s version of decency.  I smiled.  He smiled.  I shook his hand.  “I enjoyed your music.”  Contact, of the most lovely kind.

Further down the aisle, Brad singer and guitarist was talking to an audience member.  To brush past or to linger?  I’m sure you know.  Brad had enchanted me with his singing of one of Stan’s lesser known tunes – “White Squall”.

But I tell these kids a hundred times “Don’t take the Lakes for granted
They go from calm to a hundred knots so fast they seem enchanted”
But tonight some red-eyed Wiarton girl lies staring at the wall
And her lover’s gone into a white squall

“I loved your singing, especially on ‘White Squall’.  Thank you.”  Two smiles.

The concert hall was three flights of stairs up from the street.  A narrow stairway.  So it was a very slow process having all of us move towards the outside world.  Just before I reached the top of the stairs, I saw a little room on the right, with a snack bar.  Leaning against the counter was Paul singer and guitarist, waiting to be served.  There was no thought, just an abrupt change of direction.

Bruce:  “Thank you for your music.”

(Smile in return)

Paul:  “It’s Stan’s music.”

Bruce:  “Yes, but really it belongs to all of us.”

(Nod)

Down the stairs.  Off into the night.  Happy.

Me or You?

I went to see a movie yesterday – Two Days, One Night.  It hit me hard.  The story is about Sandra, one of 17 employees at a small factory.  She is returning to work after a period of depression, and I guess her job performance isn’t back up to snuff yet.  The boss met with the other 16 people and held a vote: Lay Sandra off and give the 16 a bonus of about 1000 Euros each or keep Sandra and forget the bonus.  The result?  14-2 in favour of the money.  At closing time on Friday, Sandra and her friend meet with the boss and convince him to hold another vote on Monday morning.  Sandra has the weekend to approach each of her fellow employees and ask them to vote to keep her on.

This is life in all its rawness, and realness.  How do you compare the value of someone losing her job (with the family likely having to go on welfare), with the stories of many other people who are just getting by?

One family saving for their kids’ education, a second one wanting a new patio, a husband and wife at war about “the right thing to do”, a man in tears as Sandra approaches him, horribly guilty about having voted for the bonus … it’s all on the screen.  Plus Sandra’s decency – her tears when someone says they’ll vote for her on Monday, and her gracious “I understand” when another person says they need the money.  And then there’s her courage, knocking on door after door, not knowing whether she’ll be hugged, hit or ignored.  Such grace.

I sat in the theatre watching the largeness and smallness of human beings.  All part of the tapestry.  All to be honoured.  And yet … may we be large.

 

Categories – Part 2

Given gibberish in old WordStar files, to the rescue came Martin, my computer guy.  He recovered the contents, converting the files to Word and placing them on my laptop hard drive.  Yay!  As well as the phrases and sentences, the files are full of random symbols.  I’ll have some major editing to do.  That’s okay.

So … all those full categories were from the 1980’s.  Thirty years later, in addition, I have five inches of piled white 3 x 5″ index cards, crammed with quotes, plus 464 pages of thoughts I’ve inputted into Word.  All of this random.

“What do you want to do, Bruce?”  And the answer comes swiftly:  “Before I die, I want to put all these quotations into categories, adding and subtracting subjects as a reflection of me as a 70-, 80- or 90-year-old, rather than the WordStar youngster of 35 that I was in the era of big blue binders.  I want to publish the results through Blurb and somehow get the books into the hands and hearts of people who will appreciate them.”

So there.

How many pages am I talking about here?  The one binder that I still have is 248 pages.  So double that to include the resurrected contents of the missing binder … 496.  Add the 464 pages in Word, and then whatever five inches of index cards would amount to – 200 pages?  So … drum roll please … that comes to 1160.  The maximum number of pages that Blurb allows for their trade books is 480.  Therefore to do all this would take three volumes of “Transformational Subjects”, averaging say 400 pages.  Whew!

A few questions seem to be poking out through the vines of my mind:

1.  Who would I give these books to?  How would I find folks who’d like to read about one bloke’s take on life?

2.  For close on forty years, I’ve plucked quotations from books and articles without writing down who the author is.  So if I self-publish this potpourri of wise thoughts, am I going to have hundreds of people suing me for using their words without permission?  (Wow, that sure sounds paranoid.  Or maybe true.)

3.  Do I really want to spend a large portion of the next five years pulling all this material together, arranging it to my liking, designing the books and publishing them?

4.  If I don’t share these perspectives on life with whomever wants to hear them, why exactly have I been poring over index cards for four decades?  Have I done all this just so I can get a little more evolved?  I don’t like that.  I see my job as being a contribution to people near and far.  How can I keep all this stuff hidden?

Time to sit quietly, Bruce, and think.

…

I want to publish these ideas
I’m willing to be sued
I want to leave something behind when I die

Do it, Bruce

Categories – Part 1

It all started back in 1973.  I had just moved to Vancouver and was hanging around used book stores.  I found myself gravitating to the “Religion” section, with an emphasis on “Eastern”.  I bought a book called The Importance of Living, written in 1937 by Lin Yutang, and was enthralled.  Many more purchases followed.

At some point, I began to write down quotations that resonated with me.  And I’ve never stopped.  By the mid-1980s, it was time to computerize all these little pieces of paper.  Jody and I had bought a desktop computer (no laptops then) plus the WordStar word processing program.  I started typing.  Many months later, all the insights I’d collected were on my hard drive.  I backed them up on 3.5″ diskettes.

Next, I needed to organize these thousands of ideas.  So I created my categories, an effort to make the world’s wisdom (or my view of it) accessible.  Here were my A’s:

5     Abiding, Standing, Resting, Stillness / Motion
10   The Absolute
15   Accepting, Letting, Allowing / Resisting, Rejecting, Analyzing, Judging
20   Action, Doing, Expression
30   Always Already, Prior To
37   Anger, Upset
38   Animation, Life, Aliveness
39   Annihilation / Survival
43   Appropriate, “Right”
55   Attention
75   Awakening, Being Awake / Being Asleep, Dreaming
77   Awareness, Sensitivity, Being Conscious, Listening, Hearing
78   Awe, Wonder

Perhaps some explanation would be appropriate.  “Always Already” refers to a state of being spiritually awake, one that we don’t need to reach for.  It’s within us at all times, waiting to be uncovered.  “Annihilation” points to a letting go of a sense of “me” or “mine”, while still acknowledging that I need to navigate through the challenges that society presents.

The task then before me was to plug each quote into a category, or maybe more than one.  I called them “Transformational Subjects”.  I don’t know how long that took, probably more than a year.  What I was left with was two huge blue binders full of thoughts, each page cradled within a clear, yellow-bordered page protector.  I remember asking Jody if she would buy me page protectors for my birthday.  She did.

Sometime in my past, one of the binders disappeared.  So sad.  Just now, I looked through the one I have left … 248 pages of double-spaced vibrating words.  When Jody and I eventually bought Microsoft Word, I used to wonder how I’d convert the old WordStar files.

Last fall, I found all the diskettes, but when I inserted them into the disc drive of our desktop computer, all I saw on the screen was gibberish.  WordStar was long gone.  What intense sadness.  Why, oh why, had I done all this decades ago?

The story continues tomorrow.

Clothes

I started one day a month ago but I couldn’t handle it.  I stopped.  And this morning I began again.

I know that I need to get Jody’s clothes out of the house, but it’s hard.  So many memories of my darling wife enjoying her bright ensemble.  One of the first items I looked at was Jody’s wedding dress.  What a fine day that was … June 25, 1988.  My sister-in-law Nona said that I could put the dress in storage, but that didn’t feel right, and it still doesn’t.  I’m going to give all of Jody’s clothes to Goodwill.  Right now, I’m looking at a 24×36″ poster of my lovely wife that’s hanging on our family room wall.  She’s beautifully wrapped in the dress and veil.  But all that whiteness is not the woman I love.  “Let go of my clothes, Bruce.  They’re not me.”  Okay, Jodiette.

My favourite photo of Jody is of her sitting in a Quebec City restaurant, looking at me.  She’s wearing a short-sleeved top, with horizontal stripes of light and dark blue.  When I found it hanging in our closet a month ago, I held it to my chest and cried.  “Let it go, Bruce.”  So I did, folding it gently and adding it to the pile in a huge clear plastic bag.  Sigh.

This morning, I made an agreement with myself to work on Jody’s clothes for an hour.  I kept my word.  But now I’m exhausted.  An hour in a closet … remembering, crying and packing.  Also marvelling at the beauty of Jodiette’s tops and pants and dresses.  The colours of the rainbow, reflecting my girl’s embracing of life.  How I miss you, dear one.

I held a scalloped green-turquoise-black dress, adorned with glitter.

“You’re so pretty in these pretty clothes, life wife.”

“Thank you, husband.”

 

Ordinary

A diligent young student lived across the river from his Master.  One day the student sent an inspired enlightenment poem to his teacher, proudly announcing “Sitting still upon the purple golden lotus, the eight winds cannot move me.”  In response, the Master wrote the word “fart” across the poem and sent it back.

Full of indignation, the student rushed out of his house and ordered the ferry to take him quickly to the other shore.  Outraged, he felt he deserved an apology.  When he got to his Master’s door, he found a note saying “The eight winds cannot move me, and yet one fart blows me across the river.”  Deflated and humbled, the young student realized how blinded he was by his so-called spiritual “attainment”.

As recounted by Kittisaro, in Listening to the Heart, written by Kittisaro and Thanissara

[According to the Buddha, the eight winds are gain and loss, pleasure and pain, praise and blame, and fame and disrepute.]

It’s so easy for me to fall into the trap of seeing myself as special, evolved and wise.  After all, I’m now an author, right? …  Just so much blather.  Not at all what is true.  I choose to let go rather than puff up, to float rather than press, to smile at the heavens rather than wave my arms.

False modesty?  I don’t think so.  Those words aren’t even in the realm of my being.  All I have to do is look in your eyes, and hold my gaze there for a bit, to see that we’re the same, you and I.  The same wants, the same beauty, the same essence peeking out from behind our worldly clothes.

Off to the Printer

So here I am … an author.  Jodiette: My Lovely Wife is a reality.  I won’t have a proof copy for a week or two, but the deed is done.  Earlier today, I did my last little bit of proofreading.  All the words are as I want them.  And they’re spelled right.  The commas are where I would like them to be.  The front cover (Jody in Quebec City), the back cover (a gorgeous painting called “Cosmic Tree”, created by Kym Brundritt), italics, centering, lots of space around the entries … It’s all there!  Happy am I.

What impact will the recent story of Jody and me have in the world?  Large maybe.  Or small.  I do know that the book will reach people’s hearts.  And those hearts will extend to other human beings.  If something that Jody said or did can foster an opening in someone – wonderful.  Waydago, my darling wife.  Your courage and love and kindness will live on.  You live in me every day, dear one.

Somewhere around March 15, 500 copies will arrive on my doorstep.  This was the number that came into my head months ago.  I sit here right now and smile, knowing that all of those books will find their way into the hands of folks who want to read them.  Perhaps it will take years for that to happen.  I don’t care.  Jody touches.

I’m giving the book away.  It’s the right thing to do.  It makes me happy.

 

 

 

My Surprising Wife

Aren’t human beings supposed to be predictable, regular and measured?  Well … not the one called Jody Kerr.  In this lifetime, my dearest Jodiette hatched a few plans and smiled her biggest smile when they came together beautifully.  Let me give you a few examples:

***

It was after Christmas and the world was cold.  Jody announced that we were going on a trip over the long weekend.  Actually a winter camping trip.  (Huh?)  “That’s right, Bruce, get out your woolies and your long underwear.  We’re heading to a park near Sarnia” (an hour west of London).  As I scrounged through my underwear drawer, bewildered, I heard Jody in the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans.

“But it’s too cold!”

“Nonsense.  Get packed.”

The next morning, we drove north from Union, through St. Thomas, and angled towards the 402, a westward freeway that would deposit us in Sarnia.  Before the 402, however, was the 401, another east-west road (east to Toronto, west to Windsor).  At the last second, Jody points to the right and yells “I want to go there,” that is the eastbound ramp leading to TO.  I obligingly jerked the wheel and a-curving we did go.

“What about winter camping?”

“Still on.  Just elsewhere.”

Gracefully dodging the bulks of semi-trailers, I took us east … past Ingersoll, Woodstock and Kitchener.  As I approached the exit ramp to Guelph – Guess what? – “I want to go there!”  Okay, winter camping in Guelph, I guess.

As we’re motoring north towards the city, we come to a traffic light.  I’m waiting in the left lane on the red when Jody says “I don’t want to go here.  Turn around.”  A silent “What?” in response.  But I’m a dutiful husband, so I turned left, turned around, and back to the 401 we went.

“Go here.”  As in back onto the easterly lanes of the freeway.  And on to the suburbs of Toronto, whose skyscrapers had me thinking about the unlikely likelihood of sleeping in the snow.

Grinning continually, Jody directed me downtown, where we eventually pulled up in front of the Delta Chelsea Hotel.  Oh my God.  Something’s a-brewin’ in my lovely wife’s head.

In the hotel room, I had eyes for only the fancy bottle of red wine sitting on the coffee table.  I poured Jody a glass, totally oblivious to the bottle’s label, and to a few small signs that were posted about the room.  What a silly boy am I.  Good wine, though.

After breakie the next day, Jody and I decided to walk the eight blocks or so to the St. Lawrence Market, an old Toronto tradition of food and craft vendors in a cozy brick building.  But the wind.  And the cold!  We were boogieing down Yonge St, hunkering down inside our clothes, when we came upon the Pantages Theatre.  I had to stop and look through the glass door to see the opulence inside.  “Oh, I want to go in there some day!”  But I was too cold to notice Jody’s reaction.

After munchies here and munchies there at the market, Jody announced that we needed to go back to the hotel room.  A silent “Why?” in return.  So off we went, risking fingers and toes in the holy pursuit of warmth and wine.  No sooner were we well established on the love seat when Jody shared that we had an appointment at 2:00 pm, and it was important to dress for the occasion.  She reached into her suitcase and pulled out … my suit!  “Put this on.”

Visions of a fancy meal flooded me, and I protested – out loud this time – “I’m not hungry, you know.  There’s no way I’m going to some hoity-toity restaurant!”  Jody smiled and held out my dress shirt.  In a half hour, we were both dolled up and ready for the wilds of Yonge St. again.  So cold.  Head down, I really wasn’t noticing my environment.

And then …

“Stop, Bruce!  We’re here.”

I looked to my left, and there it was – the Pantages Theatre.  The doorman in his long red coat was grinning at us both.  Shock and incomprehensibility from yours truly.  The gentleman held the door open and Jody and I entered a world of golds and reds, arm-in-arm.  After depositing coats, we strolled Titanic-like down the double staircase.  Jody so happy.  Me so dumbfounded.  We kissed.

Jody gave our tickets to the usher, and we followed her into the theatre … down and down and down the aisle till we ended up six rows from the front, in the middle.  I love my wife.

At intermission, Jody leaned over and asked “Well, what do you think?”  As our eyes met, there was only one answer … “It’s wonderful!”  So was holding my darling’s hand.

***

Another year, another Christmas.  Or leading up to one.  Jody told me in November that she was taking me on a surprise trip.  On a Saturday morning, we were having breakfast at the Lakeview Restaurant in Port Stanley, and I was plying her with clever questions.  At one point, I got it.  I knew where we were going.

“You’re taking me to Disney World, aren’t you?”

(Wifely face sinking)

“Well, that’s good.  I really want to see Mickey.”

And so I prepared myself, emotionally and physically, for the big Florida show.  Did I have enough t-shirts?  Of course, I love t-shirts.  But Mickey ears … now there was a deficit.

On December 23, it was another trip to Toronto, this time to stay at the Holiday Inn Airport, before catching the early morning shuttle.  As we zoomed down the 401, I reminded Jody of the importance of me getting Mickey ears before we took off.

“We’ve got to go to the Disney store in Yorkdale.”

“Oh, Bruce.  It’ll be a madhouse in there today.  Why don’t you wait until Florida and buy them there?”

“No, no, no.  I need them now.”

Magically, I found a parking space and later returned to it with a new type of hat for my head.  I was so enamoured with my ears that I wore them in the hotel lounge that evening.  The next morning, I was bringing my suitcase down to the lobby (with appropriate Mickeyness), when I saw Jody and the desk clerk standing at the checkout counter, laughing.  Clearly, he was caught up in the joy of approaching Disney.

In the shuttle, my ears sat proudly on my head, much to the amusement of several passengers.  And then the arrival.  I wheeled my suitcase through the opening doors and started looking for the airline counter.  Jody, however, had other plans.

“Let’s sit down.”

“Sit down?  You don’t sit down at the airport.  You line up.”

“C’mon, Bruce.  Humour me.”

So I sat … light yellow coat, big ears, and furrowed brow.  Jody stood in front of me, with her right hand behind her back.

“Where are we going, Bruce?”

“Disney World!”

“No, Bruce, we’re going to Playa del Carmen, Mexico.”

˅
˅
˅
˅

“No Mickey?”

And there was my semi-lovely wife, whipping out the camera and immortalizing my pain on film.  Oh, the sorrow.  Minutes later, however, I was gobbling up the brochure description of the Riu Tequila Hotel in Mexico.  Gosh, it looked sort of nice.

The vacation was stunning.  Pristine white sand beach.  Awesome evening entertainment.  All sorts of yummables.  And my Jodiette by my side all the time, loving me.  I was a happy man.  Still am.

***

Way back when, in the days before marriage, Jody and I had the thought that we might just be able to afford a down payment for a small home.  There was a new subdivision in Lethbridge, Alberta, and we decided to wander over to a Sunday open house.

We walked in.  I checked out the living room, cram-packed with weekend browsers.  Looked good.  Unknown to me, Jody had gone upstairs to see the master bedroom.  It was a strange design up there.  In the middle of one wall was a large rectangular hole, which looked down on the living room.

My musings came to a screeching halt when I heard …

“Brucio, Brucio.  Wherefore are thou, Brucio?”

Gazing upwards, there was my precious pre-wife, arms wide.

Naturally, I followed suit.  Down on one knee and hands to the sky of Jody.

“Jodiette, Jodiette.  Sweet, sweet Jodiette.”

So we became Jodiette and Brucio
And evermore shall be

I love you, my dear girl

Pressing Down and Allowing to Rise

The hand is a wonder.  It can contract and force, putting pressure on your world, making things happen.  Or it can open, palm up, letting a small bird light upon it.

And so goes energy.  Do I really want one without the other?  If I kept the fist tight throughout my life, or if my hands always reached to the sky, is that true to life?  I think not.  There is a time for action and a time for contemplation.  The two need each other, I believe.

There was a time in my life when doing dominated me.  I wanted to be an accountant, a social worker, an artist, a real estate agent, a life insurance agent and a teacher.  I strove for excellence.  I studied.  I stretched.  I pushed.  I made noise.

More recently, I’ve allowed myself to open to a vastness that falls around me, like a gentle rain.  I’ve let myself not know.  I’ve turned to the quiet.

There is indeed a place for both.  Right now, as I reread all the e-mails and blog posts I’ve written about Jody over the last year, Spirit opens me and love flows out beside the tears.  There is space around the words, helping me see how deeply I’m connected to you.  But the yang of that yin is my need to create a result … called a book which I hope will reach people near and far, a book which will show love and be a bridge to more love in the world.  I need to know about font styles, font sizes, line spacing, paper quality, the use of blank space, per unit cost, timelines and shipping realities.

I need to both focus and blossom, because that is the way of life.  To be in this world but not of this world, engaged and floating free, of the furrowed brow and the radiant heart.  It’s all me.