Tag Archives: Communion

Day Eleven … On The Road And With The Poem

Uh oh.  I’m falling way behind.  It’s the morning [now afternoon] of Day Thirteen and I’m trying to remember Day Eleven.  I’ll do my best.

I left the home of Isabelle and Bruce and headed west towards Banff National Park, then north on the Banff-Jasper Highway, west from Jasper into BC, and north to my home-away-from-home: McBride.  Gosh, that was a lot of driving.

I was stuck in a traffic jam on the freeway approaching Banff.  How can this be?  I’m surrounded by picturesque foothills and towering cliffs.  Out in the middle of nowhere breathing in exhaust.  Once we got going again, several sights beckoned me.  First was this multi-coloured van with a black and white peace sign on the hood.  The back end and the left side were festooned with words and paintings that were extremely … sexual.  Since this is a family show, I won’t give you the details but it was astonishing to see.  Whoever the driver was, I’m sure that his or her mom won’t be riding in that van anytime soon.

Then there were the wire fences – six feet tall.  The divided highway was a corridor through all those trees, with the fences blocking animals from crossing.  All this to serve human beings?  It was eerie to drive through.  Every ten kilometres or so, I’d approach twin tunnels over the road.  The route above them dipped down in the middle and was covered with trees.  It wasn’t an intersecting road for cars.  This was for deer and moose and bears to get where they were going.  Okay.  Far better than not accessing the other half of their world.

I passed beside glaciers shining in the sun, wide river flats boasting the most exquisite aquamarine waters, and an infinite number of Jody’s trees, mostly coniferous folks reaching for the sky.  But it felt strange.  I stopped when there was a cool view to take pictures.  But I felt like an ordinary tourist, driving forever, stopping for a photo and then driving forever again.  No context.  No real relationship to what I was seeing, no walking in the trees … sort of empty.  Oh well.

Before leaving Isabelle and Bruce, we sat down for breakfast.  As we were sipping our coffee, Isabelle pulled out a book.  “I have a poem for you, because you’re a traveller.”  I’d like to share it with you.  It speaks to me as I wander from human being to human being.  Thank you, Isabelle.

To Bless The Space Between Us

Every time you leave home
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in

New strangers on other paths await
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit

When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way
More attentive now
To the self you bring along
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home

How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice
Opening a conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way

When you travel
A new silence
Goes with you
And if you listen
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say

A journey can become a sacred thing
Make sure, before you go
To take the time
To bless your going forth
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you

May you travel in an awakened way
Gathered wisely into your inner ground
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you

May your travel safely, arrive refreshed
And live your time away to its fullest
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you

Spirit in the Afternoon … Spirit in the Evening

I’m in Toronto this weekend to draw closer to God, Spirit, Essence, Love … whichever word you choose.

After lunch yesterday, I headed to the Tibetan Canadian Cultural Centre on Titan Road.  How did I know it was there?  Well, the hotel I was staying at displayed The Toronto Star at the front desk, and the Weekend Life section’s front page had an article entitled “Hometown Tourist: Tibet”.  We readers were directed towards the best of Tibetan culture, religion, restaurants and shopping.  And I found myself directed to Titan Road for the 80th birthday celebration of the Dalai Lama.  Someone is taking care of me.  And I bet her name is Jody.

As I walked towards the centre, I saw families gathered under the trees, many of them dressed in Tibetan dresses and robes.  Happy faces in the shade.  Colourful prayer flags were strung between the branches, and were lifted by the breeze.  At the entrance stood two eight-foot prayer wheels, which folks were turning clockwise.  The adults tended to rotate the wheels slowly but when it was the kids’ turn, the symbols on the cylinders blurred in the spin.  Both were perfect expressions of God animating our world.

Inside, after a few minutes of looking around, I came to the conclusion that I was the only non-Oriental person present.  And it was a good feeling.  Not once did I feel excluded.  I sat down with hundreds of others to hear Tibetan music and listen to speakers, all in a language I didn’t understand.  It still felt like home.  A woman had graciously offered me a chair near her family.  Later in the afternoon, there was a buffet spread out on a few long tables, and people started lining up, including several monks in their red robes.  A woman approached me and in English invited me to join the line.  She had such a big smile.  I couldn’t help return it.  One male server kindly warned me about the sauce I was about to glob onto my noodles.  “Very hot.”  So I took just a bit, still enough to attack my innards for a few hours.  Oh well.  When in Rome …

I wandered around the room, looking at the homemade posters on the walls honouring the Dalai Lama.  Many of them were done by kids.  Here’s a quote from His Holiness:

The planet does not need more “successful people”.  The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers and lovers of all kinds.”

Amen.

***

Last night, I sat on the steps of the Metropolitan United Church in downtown Toronto, becoming friends with Andrea and David.  Hundreds of us were waiting for the doors to open.  Krishna Das had come to lead us in two-and-a-half hours of Sanskrit chanting.  We sang the names of God in a huge sanctuary framed by tall stained glass windows.  Krishna would sing a line such as “Om Namo Bhagavaate Vaasudevaaya” and we would send it right back to him.  Just as earlier in the day, I didn’t know what the words meant, but the speaking of them touched the core of me.  As we chanted, I was often lost in love.  Sometimes the music sent my arms and legs into spirals and rhythms.  At other times, I was perfectly quiet, head bowed, just listening to the choir.

Where did those hours go?  I don’t know.  Strangely, I didn’t feel the urge to pee, or to shift my bottom on those hard wooden pews.  Lost in a lovely space.  And Jody was right there with me.  Thank you, Jodiette.

At the end, many people, including David, walked up to the front to say a word to Krishna.  I saw David wait patiently as Krishna talked to other people first.  And the man of the hour was so gracious … smiling, hugging and posing for photos with his new friends.  The Spirit is alive in him.

“The man of the hour”?  Well, that’s really not right.  In the afternoon and in the evening, each of us – male or female, young or old – was the person, not of the hour, but of the moment.  Such a huge family.

Perfect

But on the surface, it didn’t look that way.  On June 16, there was an article in The London Free Press about local authors.  It contained a photo of Jody on the front cover of our book, and a short description of our story.  I had hoped that many people would e-mail me to ask for a copy.

The response so far: 0

Yesterday was my book signing at Chapters.  I brought boxes of boxes and targeted 200 purchasers.

The response: 11, 3 of whom were Chapters employees

Oh, “the best laid plans of mice and men”.  The truth is that I put my energy out into the world with no promise of what will return.  Sometimes the goodness that returns to me is clear as a bell.  And sometimes it’s so subtle that I don’t even feel it.

What impact is our book making?  I think a lot.  I heard from a friend who read about Jodiette and me, and now her mom is starting it, with her daughter waiting in the wings.  And who knows the lives that will be touched through the few books I gave away last night?  I know that there’s more love in the world because of Jodiette: My Lovely Wife.  How much?  Impossible to know.

I’d say that 95% of the people who walked by my table in Chapters didn’t make eye contact.  Some of those faces were etched with pain and exhaustion.  I didn’t intrude in their lives.

I had sent an e-mail to over 300 folks a few weeks ago, mentioning that I’d be signing books on June 26 from 4:00 till 7:00.  By 6:45, none of those people had come to say hi.  I was sad.  But at 6:50, my friend Theresa strolled in to do exactly that.

Let go of numbers, Bruce.  Be in the moment with the human beings that show up in your life.  And that’s what I did last night.  A teenaged girl suffering through the death of a beloved teacher.  A woman in her 60’s whose family has been wracked with cancer.  A young woman struggling emotionally with a series of cruel events in her life.  Just be there, Bruce.  Be with them.

To Be With You

To be with you this evening
Rarest of the evenings all
And listen to the whispering leaves
And to the night bird’s call
The silvery moonlight on your face
To be with you in some still place

To be with you somewhere within
This evening’s mystic shade
To hear your plans and hopes
And tell you mine, all unafraid
That you’d forget to hold them dear
When I’m away and you’re not here

To be somewhere alone with you
And watch the myriad stars
Far golden worlds beyond the noisy
Earth’s unkindly jars
As quietly they sail night’s sea
Above the world and you and me

Max Ehrmann

Two Women

In the early 70’s, London had a coffee house downtown called Smale’s Pace.  Last night was the fifth Smale’s Pace Reunion, with nine folk musicians appearing in front of us at Aeolian Hall.  Such talent and passion for songs that tell a story.

Seven of the performers were men.  I was transfixed by the other two, especially when they were listening to other folks sing and play.  Laura Smith swayed to the music and joined in the choruses.  Then it was her turn:

I built a boat
I built her for one
I didn’t find any flaws
Until long after I was done
Everything was fine
Until I lost sight of shore
Then I knew
I didn’t want to be
In a boat for one anymore
You should see me working
I’m tearing her apart
Working night and day
Rebuilding with my heart
It’s there in all the pieces
I see it in every curve
The flawed design
I built a boat with fear
And shattered nerve
I’m building a boat
I’m building her for two
The hardest part was starting
I don’t know when I’ll be through
You should see me working
I’m tearing her apart
Working night and day
Rebuilding with my heart
I’m taking all the time I want to
All the time I need
I’m building her for comfort
I’m not interested in speed
I’m building a boat
I’m building her for two
She’s going to catch the wind
The way that lovers do

I’m so glad we built a boat for two, Jodiette.

My gate’s wide open and the world is coming in

 ***
My gate’s wide open and my dreams are getting out

What a lovely life to lead

***

And then there was Sue Lothrop.  She smiled and smiled as others played.  Actually, at first I couldn’t guarantee she was smiling.  A neighbour’s music stand covered the bottom half of her face.  But you can tell from the top half, can’t you?  All the muscles were up and the eyes were shining.

As one fellow played virtuoso ukulele, Sue’s whole being widened in astonishment.  Her hands were curled together on her lap, the left over the right.  Then she opened her left hand, fingertips stretching upwards, only to move in applause at the end of the piece.

I was there.  Oh, what a lucky boy am I.

Church

Imagine entering a hospital where, several times each day, the staff meditate and celebrate with all patients who are able to participate.  Imagine that all people would regard their work in such a hospital as inseparable from their private lives, that their home lives would be an extension of their work lives and vice versa.  You would know that all people who share with you while you are in this hospital consider it a privilege.  Imagine a staff that regards being well-rested and clear as their sacred duty.  Imagine the emergency room, surgical and ward teams understanding how to tap their collective energy and thus create a high energy team.

Wow.  And so I imagine.   I call this kind of environment a church, in the best sense of the word.  People are happy to be there.  People talk to each other about their lives, about important things.  People sometimes hold each other’s hand.  And people really look into each other’s eyes.

I think my Costco South in London is a church.  I am welcomed.  Folks smile at me.  The staff are usually very busy but they make sure I am seen.  I can be silly with the food demonstrators and with the people behind the hot dog counter.  I can go to the optical department and complain that my eyes are falling out.  I can greet fellow customers on my way through produce.  It’s home.

Sir Arthur Carty School in London is another church.  The principal is real, not a role.  The hallways are filled with happy chatter at recess time.  The staff room is full at lunch … little knots of conversation, and none of it complaining about students.  Short human beings and taller human beings appreciate each other.  And the answer to “What do you teach?” is “Kids”.

Places of communion exist
They are right under our collective noses
Let’s go find them

In The Next Room

Death is nothing at all.  It does not count.  I have only slipped away into the next room.  Nothing has happened.  Everything remains exactly as it was.  I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.  Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.  Call me by the old familiar name.  Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.  Put no difference in your tone.  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.  Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.  Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.  Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.  Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.  Life means all that it ever meant.  It is the same as it ever was.  There is absolute and unbroken continuity.  What is this death but a negligible accident?  Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?  I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner.  All is well.

Henry Scott Holland (1847-1918)

Kim Brundritt posted this quote on her Facebook page.  She’s the artist who created the sublime painting of a tree that graces the back cover of Jody’s book.  Her dad died two weeks ago.

Jodiette and I talk several times a day and I cry for her a lot.  All the trees out there in the world speak of her.  I’m so sad that I can’t touch her now, and hold her hand.  But we are together.  And Henry Holland helps me hold my darling wife close.  Jody is right next door, separated from my body by the thinnest of veils.  She was right there in Hugo (our Honda CRV) last night as I drove home from Toronto on the freeway.  I was pretty pooped and Jody protected me from harm.  And now, as I sit in my man chair typing, Jodiette has her arms around me.

“Oh, Bruce.  That’s silly,” I heard as I bantered with the waiter in Jack Astor’s yesterday, pretending I was talking to my mom on the phone after he handed me the Interac machine.  The thing is, Jody has seen me do that a hundred times.  She still enjoys it.  I know I’ve often embarrassed Jodiette with my antics, but as she says about any and all hurts I’ve caused, “I forgive you completely.”

“I am but waiting for you, for an interval.”  Yes, my dear.  We’ll hold our arms out wide to each other in reunion.  I love you.

Jake’s Women – Part 2

Three weeks ago, I was in the front row of the Pinnacle Playhouse in Belleville, watching excellent actors perform the play Jake’s Women.  Last night – same play, more excellent actors, front row at The Arts Project in London.  The same smile on my face.  The same standing ovation.

I loved the different interpretations of the two directors, and of the 16 actors (8 x 2).  But something astounding happened last night … tears throughout the auditorium, and almost tears on the stage.  The scene was between mother and daughter, a reunion of types.  An imaginary conversation that was dreamed up by Jake, a writer.  Julie was Jake’s first wife.  She was killed in a car accident at age 35.  When she was 25, she gave birth to their daughter Molly.  The conversation I witnessed was with Molly at 21 and Julie at 35.  It never happened in real life.  It never could.

Imagine Julie standing back in the shadows in Jake’s living room.  In comes Molly.  Jake to Molly: “There’s somebody here.”  Molly and Julie’s eyes meet.  Julie: “Hello, Molly.”  Molly is frightened and confused, and then … “It’s all right.  Now I understand.  Hello, Mom.”  Supreme communion from eyes to eyes.  Choked voices.  Reddened faces.  We the audience get it.  There is no longer a play.  That is my wife on the stage, and my daughter, and I cry.  What a privilege it must be to create love in the theatre, and to have every person in the room feel it.  That’s what happened last night.  Thank God I was there.

Glowing

I just spent the last five hours in the presence of four lovely people – two women, one girl and one man.  We sat in the kitchen for awhile, and later went downstairs, where one of the women was having her hair cut and styled by the other one.

I don’t want to name names.  I don’t want to share the issues that folks brought up.  I don’t want to quote anyone.  What I’d love to do is touch upon the space of love that we all created.  And, really, I don’t know what to say.  (So just type, Bruce.  See what emerges.)

Reverence.  That’s what wound itself through all our words.  Reverence for humanity, for our struggles, our pains, our beauty.  Lots of stories told, none of which were intended to demean anyone.  The stories lifted us up, shining a light on our tenderness.  We shared grief.  We shared sadness and the loss of relationships.  We shared the serendipity of us coming together tonight.

The fellow and I had been out for lunch.  When we got back to his house, I didn’t know whether he’d invite me in.  He did.  I had intended to have lunch with him yesterday, but complications led me to suggest today.  The woman having her hair done intended to come yesterday.  Somehow that got changed to today.  As the client pulled into the driveway, she saw the back of my head as I sat in a window seat in the kitchen.  It reminded her of me.  It was me.  I had never been in this house until today.

Some of our talk was serious.  Some of it was silly.  All of it was so very human.  One of us was 66.  Another was 15.  And the other three filled in between.  Age didn’t matter.  Male-female was irrelevant.  One person spoke rapidly.  Another slowly and quietly.  We laughed.  We pondered.  We came close to tears.  We prayed.

Pretty astonishing, actually.  No small talk.  Lots of big talk.  Human beings.

Books Into Hands

Jody’s books arrived 19 days ago but it took me awhile to figure out that I could go to the various schools I’ve taught at over the years to see who would like a copy.  As an itinerant teacher, I’ve visited low vision students in about 45 schools.  So far, I’ve been to 8 of them.

I sure don’t want to press people to take a book.  “Feel free to say no.”  What I’ve found, though, is that a lot of folks don’t want to be given a copy that could have gone to someone who might be closer to me than them.  So they don’t ask.  Most often I ask, they smile, and Jody’s story ends up in their hands.  That makes me happy.  I want our journey to reach people.  I don’t want money.  I’m hoping that the love which Jodiette and I share moves people to look a little more closely at their dear ones, to see the beauty in the person across the dinner table, to move beyond the busyness of life to the immediacy of the moment.

I went to three schools today.  Two recipients of our love story cried.  A few Grade 6 kids asked if they could have a copy.  We arranged for their teacher to read Jody’s book first, and if she thinks it’s appropriate, a child’s parents could contact me and ask for a book.  A friend mentioned that’s she’s taught her kids about the impermanence of life, and how we need to treasure each other while we have each other.  One woman has been through hell with relationships and physical issues and was so pleased that I included her.  I got lots of hugs.

The love received is very beautiful and I am blessed to have it come my way.  Still, what I want most of all is to have the love burst out of the pages into people’s hearts, and from there into the hearts of those they hold close.  What happiness to imagine Jody’s love, and mine, and her humour and courage, flowing across the globe.  That may or may not happen on the physical level, but in the realm of Spirit …  it’s all over the world.  Thank you, my lovely wife.

Dying and Living

Light and free you let go, darling
You are doing this so beautifully, so easily
You are going toward a greater love than you have ever known

I don’t know who wrote this.  I wish I had.  But I’m glad that someone let these words flow out of them.

I don’t know what’s next for me after this lifetime.  I don’t know what Jody’s experiencing now.  But whatever it is, I sense it’s good.  My wife is happy and her essence is with me every day.

What if Jody has merged into a force of boundless love?  What if she’s being cradled by that love at every moment?  What if some form of her is waiting for me to cross over, so I too can experience that love?

Next lifetime, it won’t be “Jody and Bruce”.  How about “Chantelle and Pierre”?  And I’m perfectly willing to be Chantelle.  Or maybe our Spirits will explore a realm far from this physical life on Earth.  I’ve always wanted to fly.

What if next time there’s no “self and other”, no “Brucio and Jodiette”?  Maybe each of us is a single atom in an unfathomable celestial body.  Maybe my darling wife and I entwine in a spiral of joy in which “my love for you” and “your love for me” become … love.

I don’t know.  And isn’t that so true?  The mystery beckons me onward.  To open, open, and open some more.