The Core group of the Evolutionary Collective has a retreat on Zoom this weekend – five hours on Saturday, the same on Sunday.  I am with family … from various parts of the world.

Am I still “sick”?  Well, I’m not vomiting and I don’t have a fever but the answer is “Yes”.  I am vacant in the head, heavy in the body.  The eyes keep closing, falling towards sleep. 

Our conversations online yesterday were supposedly familiar to me: about open hearts, deep connections and an evolving future.  But mostly I couldn’t follow what people were saying.  “And why are they talking so fast?”  (Except they weren’t)

I’m used to listening to Dutch conversations and grasping for meanings.  But in English?  Oh, dear body, what are you doing?

We 55 did a practice where four of us with sagging bodies were placed in the centre and the rest answered the question “What’s present?” as illness wafted through our online room.

My three friends and I were being held.  I was a lump of clay, being pressed and softened by loving hands.  It was sweet.

Another five hours approach.  My head is wavering between “I don’t want to” and “I do want to.  Plus I gave my word to be there.”

I’m wading in the waters of not knowing.  The softness around me appears to be of the body rather than the heart.  But maybe not.  What’s showing up physically may have a far broader span.

The journey beckons … again and again

I came upon a Facebook advertisement offering two familiar faces.  Sharon Salzberg and Joseph Goldstein are two of the founders of the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts, USA.  It’s a Buddhist meditation centre set amid fields and forests.

Joseph was one of my teachers during a long meditation retreat.  I’ve never met Sharon but I’ve read a few of her books.  They’re good people.

Sharon and Joseph are teaching an online meditation course.

Among the comments about the event, two stood out:

I bought this course a while ago and it’s totally worth it!  Loved it and will listen to the lessons again for sure

***

The fact that you charge money for something that should given freely is disgusting.  You should be ashamed

And there you have it … the full span of humanity on display.  It gives me pause.

I was watching something on TV yesterday when an advertisement came on for a video game.  The announcer encouraged us to buy it and then immerse ourselves in the game’s online community.  A carrot was dangled before our eyes …

Be remembered forever

I don’t think so.  I’ve done many good things in this lifetime but after I die, and the people who know me die, Bruce Kerr will be gone.  Some of my writings may linger … but maybe not.  This particular mind and body will be no more.

The Anglican Church’s Book of Common Prayer says it well:

We commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the soul of this our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

If only “sister” and “her” were added.

In the spirit of multiple lifetimes, I hope that some version of my essence shows up on Earth again.  But who knows?

***

Enough of this philosophizing.  The poet Mary Oliver reminds me of the moment:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Good one, Mary

For the past nine days, I’ve been determined to write posts, to throw something out into the world rather than simply receiving what the medical world was giving me.  Mission accomplished.

What’s true is that my recent posts have all been tinged with illness, or some other version of deficit.  I’ve been sitting in Izy Coffee this morning trying to turn this around … but no inspiration was coming.

Half an hour ago, I accepted that perhaps there’d be no post today.  Feeling obligated to write is no good reason to do so.

But then I looked out the window at the scene you see.  I needed to celebrate something rather than merely coping with life’s roller coaster.  And there they were …

Colours

The blue star on the white van

The green of the trees

The gold of the chair and the Izy logo

The red of the sign and the faraway fabric

The yellow of the pillars behind

The world blesses my eyes

I’ve written before about “This” and “That”.   This is right here, right now – the way things are in the moment.  That is over there somewhere, maybe yesterday or tomorrow, or something yearned for.

The challenge for me now is to accept this.

I’m very tired after the hospital, sleeping some during the day, and fully overnight.

I have a sleeping app which talks to my Polar watch.  It says that last night I slept for nine hours.  One category is “Deep Sleep”.  Here’s what Polar has to say about it:

Deep sleep is the stage of sleep in which it is hard to be awakened since your body is less responsive to environmental stimuli.  Most deep sleep occurs during the first half of the night.  This sleep stage restores your body and supports your immune system.  It also affects certain aspects of memory and learning.  The stage of deep sleep is also called slow wave sleep.

Polar says my longterm average for Deep Sleep is 16% of my sleep time.  Last night it was 24%.  Sounds about right.  I’m being renewed.

The perky Bruce seems to have left for parts unknown.  Here are my current responses to some cherished activities:

1.  Play my keyboard > No

2.  Keep learning the lyrics for a song I want to sing > No

3.  Welcome visitors to my home > No

4.  Sit in Izy Coffee in the morning > A weak Yes (I can’t be in the apartment all day)

5.  Talk to people at Izy > Yes (short conversations)

6.  Go on Zoom calls with the Evolutionary Collective > No

7.  Play the cello > No! (too much effort required)

8.  Write this blog > Yes (brief posts)

***

And speaking of “brief” … goodbye for now

Thank you for listening the last six days

I am blessedly home, tired in the bones

I’m resting.  I’m sleeping

See you soon

Guess what, dear blog readers?  I get to go home in a few hours!  The latest blood results show that everything is now normal – except for my foot.  And my family doctor can monitor the redness there.  Something happened to the foot but the doctors wanted to investigate all possibilities, such as my immune system, to make sure something far more serious wasn’t happening.

I don’t know why I’ve been so tired but I have a nice bed at home to address that situation.

Usually I say that I write for others, not for me.  For the last few days, however, creating public thoughts has been my therapy.  Thank you for listening.

Georges is my roommate, about the same age as me. I’d guess 39.  He speaks virtually no English … and then there’s my Dutch.  I don’t have the energy to figure out what people are saying.  I’m surrounded by high-speed Dutch conversations that are wearing me out.

But back to Georges.  We smile a lot at each other.  We’re both some version of “sick” but his cancer trumps my blood.  Two nights ago, I kept him awake as I was panicking about the infection climbing my leg to my heart.  (It didn’t)  Last night it was Georges’ turn – prolonged spells of coughing.  But why would I expect otherwise?  I’m in a hospital.

The bloody mystery continues.  The doctors this morning were wondering out loud about “something underneath” my red foot and previous pneumonia.  Could my immune system be compromised in a way that hasn’t become clear?  New blood results come this afternoon.

So often all I want to do is sleep.  That sounds so old.

I’ll wait for test results before sending off this post.  Pray, cross your fingers, or do anything else that comes naturally.  Mind you, you won’t be reading these words yet, so how can you follow my request?

I just changed my mind.  I’ll send the post now.  I don’t know if I’ll have the oomph for more writing later.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow

As the “not knowing” stretches into the future, I sigh in bed.  I’ve become so passive.  Slow in the mind.  Wondering when I’ll see home again.

The past weekdays have provided many cool conversations with staff members.  Maybe it’s my imagination but it seems that the weekend nurses see me more as “patient” than “Bruce”.  Or … perhaps it’s my dullness of the head that has created the difference.

I behold my foot, and it appears to be sticking out its tongue at me.  “I’m still red.  Too bad for you.”  Actually it’s a little less red in both brightness and size.  But I don’t have the energy to cheer.

Tomorrow the full crew of doctors shows up again.  Another test or two are scheduled.  Perhaps the clouds will part and a ray of sunshine will reach the blood infection.

I also hope the morning will bring the return of Katie, the smiling woman who asks what I want to eat and often delivers the trays.  Her British glow fills the room.  A few days ago, I asked her if she wanted to sing.  And she started singing!  My kind of human being.  I’ve been practicing how to say Katie’s name the way she does.  It’s approximately “Kay-tay”.

***

I’m making people laugh a little bit today.  I’m retreating a lot to my phone and the Tour de France.  And I’m more horizontal than vertical.  I hope tomorrow is taller and wider and brighter.

Stay tuned

Before the hospital stuff, there’s this, as reported by Cyclingnews:

The UCI has handed out a fine of 200 Swiss Francs to Julien Bernard (Lidl-Trek) after the French rider stopped to embrace his wife and celebrate with his fans on home roads during stage 7 of the Tour de France.

Bernard enjoyed a “dream moment” on the uphill part of the time trial course which was half an hour from his home, with friends and family lining every inch of the roads cheering ‘Julien!’ and holding signs that said ‘Allez JB’ as he came past.

“I was really looking forward to this day.  I knew my wife and my friends did something on the climb,” said Bernard.

“I started quite fast in the TT, and then I wanted to enjoy every second on this climb with, as you see, my friends and all my family.  It was a dream moment for me.”

But the jubilation was apparently too much for cycling’s governing body, who punished the Frenchman after the stage for “unseemly or inappropriate behaviour during the race and damage to the image of the sport”, according to the jury’s report.

A contrast in consciousness

***

I welcomed my friends Lydia and Luc to the hospital room last night.  As I related what the senior doctor had said about not yet finding the source of my blood infection, I said that his words didn’t scare me.  They made me curious.  That felt like the truth.

I woke up a few hours later … terrified.  My right foot had become redder – in intensity and span.  Even though there was no fever, my mind collapsed.  Maybe I’ve watched too many movies.  I imagined the redness climbing beyond my ankle, up the leg, into the chest, and poisoning my heart.

My goodness.  I consider myself to have evolved somewhat, thanks especially to my time with the Evolutionary Collective and to my many years of meditating.  But I was losing touch. 

The call bell is my companion, and in came my nursing friend of a few nights – Marijke.  She calmed me down.  Whew …  She and I have influenced each other.  I play cello and she used to.  She has approached the Poel music school about starting again in the fall.  I suggested my teacher Lieven in the group lesson on Thursdays at 4:00 pm.  My lesson! 

Marijke says that I’ve inspired her.  I thanked her for steering me away from thoughts of impending death.

***

There’s so much more that I want to say but the mind is slowing down.  And the body is pretty pooped too.

Mañana