Tag Archives: Fear

Day Eleven: Bloggus Interruptus

You haven’t heard from me for the past few days.  I flew home yesterday and I’m glad to be here.  My intention had been to blog every day during the thirteen in Cuba, but something happened when I sat down on Wednesday morning to write about Tuesday (Day Eleven).  Here’s how I started:

“I had just closed my door and was walking down the hallway, heading to the beach.  A housekeeper’s cart was against the wall.  As I passed by, a black woman in uniform stood at the entrance to a room.  I looked.  She looked.  “Dorelys?”  She smiled and nodded.  We looked some more.

Dorelys (pronounced Dor-RAY-lee) was my maid sixteen months ago.  She speaks very little English but we laughed a lot.  She wrote me a sweet note when I left.  About ten days ago, I went looking for her.  I’m in building 55, although I had asked for 51, hoping to see Dorelys again.  When I showed up at 51, a fellow said that she was off sick and probably wouldn’t be back for a month.  I was sad.  I let her go, wishing her well.

Then yesterday.  She had hurt her foot and was back working for one day only, since the hotel was short-staffed.  And the building she was assigned to was 55.  What are the chances that she and I would reunite?  I figure there’s some force at work beyond the ability of my puny brain to comprehend.

Dorelys and I hugged.  I kissed her hand.  And then we looked into each other’s eyes for ten seconds or so.  I don’t do that very often.  It was a moment I’ll cherish for the rest of my days.  And then it was goodbye again.  Fare thee well, my dear.”

I think I got as far as “Fare” when my screen began to fill with the letter “q”.  That sentence is only five words long but it took minutes of deleting before I got it all done.  One q came, then ten and then the scrolling speeded up.  Within seconds, I was trying to erase a hundred of them!

I panicked, with absolutely no sense of spiritual well-being intruding on the laboured breathing and sweating of the forehead.  I thought I was going to lose my paragraphs so I tried copying the file.  When I opened the copy, the q’s kept coming.  I saw a virus taking over my laptop, eliminating all the insights hunkered down in saved files – basically turning my machine into a dead piece of metal.  I tried opening one of my old files, written two years ago.  One little paragraph showed up on the screen, soon to be augmented with qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq  “Shut it down, Bruce, before it’s too late!”  I clicked the Start button at the bottom left, ready to press “Shut Down”.  The address window nearby filled with q’s!

Finally, the machine stopped.

This morning, I took my laptop in to Martin, my friendly computer expert.  The diagnosis?  The q key was sticking.  No evil virus.  Life laughs.

 

Tanning

I’m going to Cuba in three weeks.  My skin is white.  Down in the Caribbean sun, I prefer that it be brown rather than red.  So off to Kokomo’s I went this morning.  I stood up for five minutes in the Monster bed.  I plan on doing the same every two or three days until I step on the plane.

I’m aware of the health issues but I also remember when Jody and I arrived in the Dominican Republic years ago.  Our first day, we walked a long ways on the beach, wearing shorts and T-shirts.  Jody had missed a spot near her bra strap with the sunscreen and she was in agony for the next few days.  I don’t want to go through that.

As a teenager, I didn’t like my body and certainly wouldn’t expose my virgin flesh on Toronto Island’s beach.  I was even afraid to lie out in the backyard with the neighbours’ windows looming.  So white I was, except for my forearms and lower legs.  But then there came an invitation to spend a long weekend at my friend’s cottage.

Rick had a older sister, age 17, who was gorgeous.  Oh my.  She was going to see my overall whiteness.  Something had to be done.  And the 1960s version of Instatan was my answer.  I snuck the tube home from the drugstore and gooped it on liberally in the privacy of my bedroom.  “Gosh, my feet are white.  Get those toes!”

How did I survive that weekend?  My body was orange and streaky.  Each toe had a little ridge of tan surrounded by a deep paleness.  For variety, my face was red, a condition that had nothing to do with the sun’s rays.  I can’t remember Rick’s sister ever making eye contact with me.

From the age of 20 till 27, I spent most of my summers in the Rockies.  By then the tanning lotion had worn off.  I adopted a new strategy to get the girls.  Hide your whiteness with turtleneck shirts.  It didn’t matter how hot it was.  I was up to my neck in fabric.  One time, a girl yanked down my collar to see what was underneath … the whitest of skin.  (Sigh)  I was a scared little adult who yearned for the brown beach muscles I saw in the ads.  But somehow I still had friends.

Two decades later, I was a member of the London Cycling Club.  And lo and behold, the culture there was deeply tanned faces, forearms and calves.  And I’ll leave the rest of the body to your imagination.  I was in the “in” group, finally.

Sadly (or happily) I now have returned to my roots – a longing for darkness.  And I’m going to honour that request.  Cuba will be graced with sleek brown muscles (courtesy of Kokomo’s and strength training), not to mention gaily coloured Speedos.  I tell you … I’m the whole package.  Nobody’s going to kick sand in my face!

And from Jody: “Bruce, you’re so strange.”

Lifesaving

Just south of me is the village of Port Stanley, Ontario, on the north shore of Lake Erie.  Jackson’s Fish Market is a local landmark, and one of its exterior walls is graced by a large mural – about 20 feet long and 10 feet high.  It depicts a rowboat heading out in wild seas to a stricken ship offshore.  Here is the inscription:

On October 29, 1902, in a savage Lake Erie gale, the three-masted American schooner Mineral State went aground and started to break up off the high clay bluffs east of the Port Stanley harbour.  The gallant Port Stanley lifesaving crew, watched by a large crowd of Port Stanley residents, braved the towering waves and rescued the entire crew of the schooner just as dusk was falling.  In recognition of their bravery, the lifesaving crew all received gold medals from US President Theodore Roosevelt.

I studied the painting.  The gold of sunset lit up the waves and the sky, as well as the faces of adults and kids who were watching the rescue.  The wind blew back their hair.  In the rowboat, a helmsman urged on the six rowers, who were cranking on their oars and straining in their faces.  On the horizon, the schooner’s masts were tilted at a 45 degree angle.

Oh, the fear that must have coursed through those men!  Was this the end?  Would their names be added to the list of fatalities?  How would their families carry on?

As I sat in my cosy car, I wondered how I’d react in an emergency.  I’ve never saved anyone’s life.  In the moment, would I have the courage to do that?  Or would I fold my tent and slink away, comforting myself with thoughts about the people in this world who needed me to stay alive?

Right now, I yearn for the chance to save someone.  And in the next breath, I hope never to face such a crisis, such a call for action.

And when the moment comes …?

 

First Yoga Class

On my meditation retreat last fall, we had weekly yoga sessions.  All new to me.  And I did some basic stretches nearly every day.  They sure helped me deal with the back realities of my yogi job – potwashing.

Now back in the world of Southern Ontario, I decided to take an introductory yoga class.  It started last night.

There were about fifteen of us – mostly women, mostly folks in their 20’s and 30’s.  Old memories of not liking my body and being un-fit dropped in to say hi throughout the evening.  I decided to say hi back and let them be.

I’ve sure made some silly conclusions in my life:

I can’t squat
I have bad knees
If I do certain stretches, I’ll end up incapacitated for life

One of the first moves we did was simply standing on the mat, feet touching at the front and the back, pressing down with the balls and the heels, spreading the toes and then lifting them.  How can that be hard?  But it was.  And here came my train of negative thoughts.  “Hello again.”

Then there was standing with my left side to the wall, hand touching, grabbing my right ankle and bringing it up high on my left thigh, and then pressing everything inwards to keep the foot in position.  Right hand eventually on my right thigh.  “O wondrous imperfect one that you are, Bruce!”  Thank goodness I could laugh at myself.

Late in our session, there I was – left foot against the baseboard, right foot flat on the mat at an “impossibly” long distance from the other.  Hips pointing straight ahead, but moving my right toes outward at a 45 degree angle, then moving my heel in so that the foot was perpendicular to the left one, foot and knee pointing down the length of the mat.  One of the assistants came by to help me with the alignment.

I looked at my twisted body in wonder.  After all, “I have bad knees.”  Or do I?

During the next eight weeks, I’ll be exploring what this body of mine is really about.  Hmm … an adventure.  I’m all for having lots of those.

Sick

It hit me last night – probably a cold, hopefully not the flu.  Today I’m very weak, sort of stuffed up, headache, coughing.  Just like every human being on the planet has experienced.  No big deal.

Why write about this?  It’s so ordinary.  And shouldn’t I take a break from tapping on the keys?  I’ve decided no.  Some of my favourite writing has been when I’m right in the middle of some experience.  It’s so much cooler than “This happened to me yesterday.”

During the meditation retreat, I learned how to watch my mind, without judgment.  To be curious about where it goes.  This morning, it’s gone off in many directions.

At 2:00 pm today, I’ve scheduled a Skype call with the organizers of the Tour du Canada.  They want to know more about me and I have lots of questions about the summer bicycle ride.  “But I have no energy.  I won’t sound like a potential crosser of my country.”  Too bad, Bruce.  Give them what you have in the moment.  It’s enough.

“What if this turns into seven weeks of bronchitis, like it did after Jody died?  How will I possibly get fit enough for the ride?”  Now there’s a little smile on my face.  I’m not quite laughing but I’m getting there.  Silly man.

“Will I have to cancel my trip to Cuba?  And the BC tall ship trip in early June?”  No, Bruce.  You won’t have to.  It’s just a cold, my friend.

“Is this the end of my newfound strength training?”  Oh, my.  That’s quite the mind you have there.  “Well, right now it’s an ill mind, having trouble putting thoughts together.  And struggling to maintain my self-esteem.”

“And I got turned down a couple of weeks ago for further life insurance – ‘a current abnormal ECG and blood profile results.'”  Don’t sweat it, Bruce.  Julie, your doctor, is looking into this stuff.  She’s always thought you were a very healthy specimen.

***

The Buddha had a word for the proliferation of negative thoughts … papancha.  “Well, hello papancha.  Nice to hang out with you.”

No judgment.  Just a human being being human.  I sort of like the guy.

 

Karaoke

Last night I went with my friend Karina and her friends to sing karaoke at a London pub.  I was nervous.  Just coming off a long meditation retreat, it would be reasonable to expect that I’d moved beyond such tension.  I’m afraid not.  Meditation hasn’t taught me to eliminate fear and sadness.  Rather it’s shown me that I can hold these feelings more gently.  Instead of my vocal terror being smack dab in front of my eyes, I sometimes was able to move it to arm’s distance.  Instead of taking a sledgehammer to my fear, I had glimpses of cradling it as a mother would her newborn child.

My heart was still in my throat as I waited for my turn at the microphone.  Memories flooded in of another karaoke setting, and of someone precious to me walking out, saying she couldn’t stand listening to me anymore.

What’s true?  I love singing.  I got muted applause.  The person I was hoping would say “Well done” said I was nervous.  I’m still alive this morning.

I sang The Times They Are A-Changin’ by Bob Dylan.  It’s a lovely song.  And an angry song.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’

There I was, mic in hand.  I watched the screen and the first line of the lyrics appeared.  I couldn’t remember the tune.  The blue (?) highlighter started moving over the words but my mouth stayed closed.  Up pops the second line and I start singing.  My brain says, “It’s too low.  You’ll never hit the bottom notes.”  So midstream I went up an octave and found myself at the top of my vocal range.  No way to hold a good tone up there.  Once my voice cracked.  “Do it!” said my brain.  So I dropped back down to the bottom of my vocal range.  I waited for the lowest note, cringing that my voice couldn’t reach it … But I did!  And I couldn’t have gone a note lower.  I thought, “Way da go, Bruce.  It took courage to go down.”

Then I started feeling the words.  “Don’t criticize what you can’t understand.”  There was no time to reflect on the fear that leads us to put down someone whose experience of life is different from ours.  The very human need to protect our version of reality.  But I wordlessly felt our common humanity as I sang.

Did I do well?  Did I do poorly?  In a larger picture, it doesn’t matter.  Did I live in the words and the feelings within them?  Often yes.  Will I keep singing?

Yes

Day Fourteen … Fired Up With Fun

Sometime I’m slow and mellow.  I figure I better be that way when I go on my long meditation retreat in the fall.  Other times – boys just want to have fun.  I’ve learned recently that my brand of humour often consists of lying to another person in a way that they know I’m kidding.  At least I hope they know.  People usually laugh.  And that’s what I want to do with the rest of my life, whether it’s five years or twenty-five.  Make then giggle.  Maybe when I’m withering away in some nursing home I’ll still be able to gather my forces and bring nurses’ mouths into an upright position.

Yesterday was a drive from Barriere, BC to Kamloops and over the mountains down to Vancouver.  Gosh, I’m having fun.  I’m not used to a six-lane freeway piercing the mountain grandeur at a speed of 120 kph (75 mph).  I just don’t want to drive that fast.  No prolonged worries on that score, however, because there was a series of red taillights ahead.  Gentle and not so gentle braking brought us all to a halt.  We were high up on a mountain slope, with the pines towering above us on the left.  The sky in front had a blob of smoke hanging in the air.  And that blob was getting bigger.  Within half an hour, it had enveloped us, but not dangerously so.  I could breathe in the subtle fumes just fine.  My small mind kept looking up to the left, with visions of flames crackling the tops of the trees and embers flying over the road to ignite the ones down the slope.  Oh, Bruce.  You’ve been watching too many movies.

In truth, we weren’t in danger.  But someone sure was.  Once we got moving, maybe an hour and a quarter later, I saw a burned out car on a flatbed truck.  The median was crisped for a few hundred metres.  Oh my God, I hope the folks in that car got out safe.

Back in time, there we stood – hundreds of travellers in and out of their cars.  I wandered over to the folks beside me, a couple from Calgary.  I told them that I was going to climb over the little barrier at the side of the road to take some pictures and asked them to watch Scarlet so that no one would steal her.  Lilian and Foluso laughed.  I then did what any normal human would do in our direless situation: I suggested we sing.  Lilian liked the idea and recommended “Jesus Loves Me”.  Sounded good to me so our duet rang above the vehicles nearby.  I think her husband was impressed …but I’m not exactly sure.

Next I shared that Scarlet has a special accessory which allows it to levitate over the short wall that separated westbound from east.  I could get in the other lanes and head back to where I’d come from.  (Strangely the traffic eastbound was unimpeded.  They were zipping away at 120.)  Anyway, Lilian and Foluso laughed again.

I was really feeling my oats now.  I moved over to the wall, stuck out my thumb, and hitchhiked.  “What’s wrong with these people?  No one’s even slowing down!”  Foluso, from the driver’s seat, just stared and grinned.  Truth is, I love it when people stare at me in … wonder?  Amusement?  Even disgust isn’t too shabby.  But I especially love the smiles and titters.

I’m now in Vancouver, waiting patiently for my ferry to Victoria to board.  I’ve found a parcel of shade so I can see what I’m telling you.  No Internet but thank you, Microsoft Word, for letting me do my thing and I can send it to you from the hotel tonight.  Makes me happy.

So … I’m officially caught up.  If I have the engerny tonight, I’ll let you know about the voyage through the Pacific waters to Vancouver Island, the seagulls who I trust will leap and spin to the foodstuffs I toss their way, and hopefully some fine soul whom I meet.  On we go.

Mastery of the Moment Part One

Long ago and far away, I came up with a personal development presentation, aided by a lot of reading.  On June 10, 1988, I led a workshop called “Mastery of the Moment” at the Annual Symposium of the Alberta Therapeutic Recreation Association.  Some members of the audience smiled and nodded but, as I remember, no one said anything positive afterward.  So I let it go, never bringing forth the ideas again.  I was sad.

Now it’s 27 years later, and I wonder … Why didn’t people hear me?  Why didn’t my thoughts impact their lives?  Why didn’t I have the strength to carry forward the structure of happiness that I was proposing?  An opportunity lost, but not forever.  I could tell you folks about the “attitude choices”.  They might make a difference with you.  My material wasn’t original but maybe bringing everything together as I did, was.

What’s my life about in 2015?  Well, I want to pass on something of me to whomever will listen.  Jody’s book is one example.  Maybe “Mastery” is another.

I don’t have the oomph to get into the choices tonight but I’ll start tomorrow.  For now, being thoroughly into reminiscing mode, here’s what the symposium brochure had to say:

Mastery Of The Moment: Attitude Choices For Dealing With
Any Interpersonal Problem Situation

This presentation suggests that attitude choice, when recreation therapists are faced with a problem, is far more important than problem-solving and stress management techniques.  Participants will be given ten pairs of attitudes (e.g. “sufficiency-deficiency”) and will be shown one possibility for working with them in particular recreation therapy situations.

Bruce Kerr

Bruce Kerr received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology from the University of Toronto in 1970 and a Bachelor of Education in Social Studies from the University of Lethbridge in 1977.  His past experience includes three years as a Life Skills Program Instructor at Lethbridge Community College and two years as a personal development seminar leader with a Lethbridge psychologist.  He is currently the Volunteer Coordinator at the Lethbridge Regional Hospital, Auxiliary Wing.

Who, me?  See you tomorrow

Illusions

A man sees a coiled rope in the dusk and mistakes it for a serpent, and is therefore frightened.  When day dawns, he sees that it was only a rope and that his fear was groundless.  The Reality of Being is the rope.  The illusion of a serpent that frightened him is the objective world.

I see lots of serpents.  What if they’re all unreal?

***

This bronchitis is bad.  It causes me great suffering.

I’m going to be alone for the rest of my days.

Jody isn’t with me anymore.

I can’t memorize long speeches, especially the hundreds of lines that Jake speaks in the play Jake’s Women.

I’m getting old.  My skin is sagging.

Nobody understands me.

I don’t have enough energy to write this blog post.

I’m no good at sex.

I should be interested in politics.

I won’t be strong enough in 2016 to ride my bicycle across Canada.

I’ll never get good at meditating.

I should sell my house and settle for a little apartment in London.

I am deficient.

Time is running out for me.

I shouldn’t walk around downtown London at night.

It’s too hard for me to learn how to fingerpick on my guitar.

500 copies of Jody’s book is way too many.

People won’t like my acting.

This summer, when I’m driving through Western Canada on my road trip, I won’t be able to find a place to stay at the end of the day.

Life isn’t fair.

Life takes all my energy away.

“Life is hard, and then you die.”

***

Silly me

Bookish Moments

11:30 am today

I got home from a chiropractic appointment to find a rectangular object wrapped in corrugated cardboard sitting on the dining room table.  My friend Neal had received it from a UPS delivery guy.  The proof of Jody’s book has arrived.  And I ran away … to the next room.  “First, I need to write a blog post about last night’s Bryan Adams concert.”  As I started tapping the keys, fear descended in the moments between the writing.  “What if it doesn’t look good?  Jody’s photo on the front cover and the painting of the tree on the back – what if they’re blurry?  What if the print on the back of the page shows through the one I’m looking at?  What if the blacks aren’t really black?  What if there are typos?  Arghh!”

1:00 pm

The post about Bryan Adams is done and published.  I like it.  What to do now?  Well, stay out of the dining room.  It’s too scary to open the package and really look.  Have some lunch.  Read the paper.  So I did.  And the hot tub repair guy is coming at 2:00.  Have to talk to him.

2:15 pm

Hadn’t you better start the post about Jody’s book, Bruce?  Okay, I’ll do that.  So I’ve just written what you see above.  And discussed tub problems.

2:38 pm

My repair friend just left.  I’ve brought the cardboard rectangle to my man chair, accompanied by an Exacto knife.  Okay, that’s progress.  Shouldn’t you read what’s on the outside?  Yes, of course.  It says that the book itself only weighs one pound.  Shouldn’t it be more?  And the box looks pretty skinny.  It was supposed to be 193 pages.  The whole thing feels pretty light.  (Sigh)

Oh my goodness, I just started taking the plastic cover off the cardboard.  Then I stopped.  C’mon, Bruce.  Get the plastic off.  (Doing so)  All right.  I’ve removed a pouch with folded sheets of paper inside – “Shipping Documentation”.  Better read that.  (Reading)

Oh, look.  Blurb sent it “UPS Expedited”, as in fast.  It was shipped from Pennsylvania on February 23, and it’s here with me on February 25.  Awesomely fast.  Okay, that’s enough reading .. of the sheets, I mean.  (Sigh)

2:50 pm

(Box in hand)  Open it, Bruce!   But just peek at the front cover.  (Opening)  Oh my God!  First view is of the white spine, with black print.  It says “Jodiette:  My Lovely Wife” on the left end, and “Bruce Kerr” on the right.  That’s me!  Breathe, Bruce, breathe.  (Opening the cardboard flaps)

2:55 pm

Jody’s eyes!  So beautiful.  Looking deeply into mine, and into those of future readers.  Oh, loved wife … you’re so pretty.  (Crying)  The photo isn’t quite as sharp as I would have liked it, but such are the limits of jpeg files, I guess.  My wife shines.  Ah … the front cover is gorgeous.

And the back?  (Flip)  Oh my God again.  Kym Brundritt’s painting of a “Cosmic Tree” just glows.  It fills the space with love.  But … its background is orange, without the vibrant yellow of the original.  Maybe Blurb can shift the colour.  But even if they can’t, it’s lovely.  Thank you, Kym.

3:08 pm

Off to the Blurb website to see the photo of the painting that I submitted.  It has more yellow than orange.  I’ll keep my toes crossed that this can be fixed.  Still afraid to look at the print on the pages … Go for it, guy!  Okay.

Oh, the blacks are beautifully black.  And the Constantia font looks so good.  The white paper isn’t as thick as I’d hoped, so I can see the print on the back of each sheet some.  But that’s okay.  It’s only a bit distracting.  Oh, Jody.  It’s our book and it’s great!  Oh, loved one.  May our story reach waiting eyes.

And now I’m going to read the entire book, to see if there are any glitches.  It’s 3:23.  See you later.

7:30 pm

Well, I didn’t read the whole book.  After all, I had proofread it twice before uploading it, so I know we’re good with spelling and grammar.  I did repeat a title from one page to the next, so Blurbites can fix that.  Also, the print is nicely level at the top of each page but a bit tilted at the bottom.  Go, Blurb, go.

I went out to supper at Braxton’s, a St. Thomas roadhouse, and showed Jody’s book to Leslie, a friend of mine who’s a server there.  She liked it.  Thought the covers were awesome.  Thanks, Leslie.

I read some of the entries before my meal and after.  The book was becoming comfy in my hands, rather than the suspected bomb I worried about when it arrived.  An old friend.  Jody talking to me.  Oh, my dear.  It’s you and me, loved one.

What a precious volume I hold.  May it reach far into people’s lives.