Tag Archives: Happiness

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.

 

 

 

Happiness

So Much Happiness

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness
With sadness there is something to rub against
A wound to tend with lotion and cloth
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up
Something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change
But happiness floats
It doesn’t need you to hold it down
It doesn’t need anything
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing
And disappears when it wants to
You are happy either way
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
And now live over a quarry of noise and dust
Cannot make you unhappy
Everything has a life of its own
It too could wake up filled with possibilities
Of coffee cake and ripe peaches
And love even the floor which needs to be swept
The soiled linens and scratched records
Since there is no place large enough
To contain so much happiness
You shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
Into everything you touch.  You are not responsible
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
For the moon, but continue to hold it, and to share it
And in that way, be known

One more time, I don’t know who wrote this.  Thank you whoever and wherever and whenever you are.  You could be a monk living in 200 BC or you could be a commuter on yesterday’s subway in Toronto.  No matter.  All that’s important is whether I’ll learn from you.

I agree with the author that when you’re truly happy there’s nothing to rub against, no cause staring back at you in our day-to-day world.  Of course good things happen to us (“I got a _____”,  “_____ loves me”, “I accomplished _____”) but those don’t touch the essence of happiness.   Somehow, it comes from within (or from … somewhere), uncaused.  It is by grace that it touches us.  And so we float.

At this depth of knowing, my neighbour’s happiness, my co-worker’s, my “enemy’s”, is mine as well.  Their smile has no power to diminish mine.  And when I have troubles at work, or my back hurts, or the dog ate my homework, those are only ripples on the surface.  Far beneath is the cool unmoving benediction of peace.

It is true, I believe, that the body is too small a container for this happiness.  It has to leak out – from the mouth, from the eyes, from the hands.  And those dribbles turn into rivulets … creeks … streams … rivers … reaching everyone within eyesight and earshot.  Reaching them on some level anyway, maybe not consciously.

And the source of this boundless happiness is unknown.  We don’t earn it.  We aren’t any type of chosen one.  It falls as gentle rain onto upturned hands.

Sweet Times

Satya gave me a massage yesterday afternoon.  She’s our massage therapist and has been rubbing Jody and me the right way for months.  I spent the whole hour reminiscing about my times on retreat at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts.  I retraced everything right from the moment I kissed Jody goodbye and set off down the driveway in Hugo.  The hills of Richmond, Ontario, the bridge across the Welland Canal in Port Colborne, talking to the border guard in Buffalo, getting lost in Buffalo and asking for directions, the American flags hanging from homes in New York State, lunch at the little cafe in Seneca Falls, the gift shop in Skaneateles, the creeping vine on the power line over the road near Bridgewater, dinner at Babe Macaroni’s in Utica, phoning Jody from the classic old train station, walking in downtown Utica after dark, dreaming of tomorrow as I lay on my bed at the Red Roof Inn, breakie at Denny’s, getting lost in Albany and asking for directions, the steep climb through the woods to the Massachusetts border, the cutesy homes of North Adams, the view and conversation on the balcony of the Golden Eagle Restaurant with the Berkshire Mountains spread all around, the winding country roads leading southeast towards Barre, eating a Rocky Road waffle cone in a little downtown park, my first glimpse of the IMS retreat centre, walking up the driveway from the parking lot, being greeted by IMS volunteers, unpacking in my wee room, eating supper with 100 other retreatants at long tables and not knowing what to say, sitting for the first time in the meditation hall, doing walking meditation on the driveway, listening to the teachers, brewing a cup of tea and sitting on a bench outside with the stars overhead, walking to my room, lying down, the moment of sleep …

And a very large etcetera

At the end of my massage, I was warm and cozy, inside and out.  Such a beautiful thing – memories.  My head has been trained to stay in the here and now, and I know that’s wise.  To fall into the moment, knowing that whatever’s happening, on one level it’s all fine.  I know that there’s danger in leaning forward in life, trying to put pleasant boundaries on a totally mysterious future.  Or taking past experiences and trying to replicate them in the present.  Still …

I think I’ll always allow myself to relive precious moments from my history.  Why exclude anything?  My lips still smack when I think of artichoke dip and pita chips, the world’s most overflowing strawberry shortcake, and a glass or two of local beer at the Golden Eagle.  Yum.

Getting Out of My Head with Betty

My head is usually pretty full.  Thoughts just zoom in, and some of them end up in my blog posts.  Of course there are the empty times too, when silence falls down around me, but mostly the wheels are turning.  I think of this author or that – a spiritual master, a philosopher, Stephen King, and what they have to say.  Some awfully deep stuff.  Sometimes, as an alternative, you just have to consult undercover sages such as Dr. Seuss, or in this case, Mother Goose:

Betty Botter bought some butter
“But,” she said, “the butter’s bitter
If I put it in my batter
It will make my batter bitter
But a bit of better butter
That would make my batter better”

So she bought a bit of butter
Better than her bitter butter
And she put it in her batter
And the batter was not bitter
So twas better Betty Botter
Bought a bit of better butter

Really – who needs bitter butter in this lifetime?  Not me.  Except it just seems to spread over us when we least expect it.  As an antidote, and in the interest of better butter, why don’t you launch into this beloved poem (out loud of course)?  And then do it really fast, so your words start tumbling out faster than your brain can handle, and you come to a screeching halt.  It’s awful fun.  And a sure way to let go of metaphysical insights, at least for awhile.

I used to recite “Twas the Night Before Christmas” to classes of children.  When I started doing it super fast (in about a minute and a half), the kids ate it up – roaring laughter and just plain glee on the faces.  On mine too.

So … tongue twisters are now officially part of my repertoire.  At my next cocktail party, I’ll be sure to recite until my mouth foams up and my teeth fall out of my face.  Except I don’t go to any cocktail parties.  Oh well.  The folks in line at the supermarket will do just fine.

164.2

That’s what I weighed when I got up this morning.  Both a milestone and a meaningless piece of trivia, I’d say.  For maybe twenty years, I’ve wanted to weigh 165 but I always floated between 168 and 180.  What’s interesting to me is my reaction to having finally reached my goal: a warm feeling in my tummy and a Mona Lisa smile.  They’ve been with me all morning.

This is one type of happiness.  Can I say a lesser kind?  One that could fritter away when I step on the scale Wednesday and perhaps read 166.7.  Another happiness is always with me, sometimes way in the background, but still absolutely there.  And it’s so hard to describe.  Some smart person once said, “You can’t walk to your feet.”  They’re already with you.  You can’t get to those toed fellows by studying, by trying, by improving.  In one sense, there’s no journey to be taken.  There are no books to read.  No there that’s not already here.  It is by grace that I am opened to such happiness.  Not my doing.

On the other hand, can I really call one happiness lesser and the other greater?  What if my warm 164.2 tummy is all there is?  That the moment on the scale can’t be improved by “transcendent” happiness?  It is transcendent happiness.

And on I wander through the thoughts of the world.  Feeling lost at times but also strangely, deeply, found.  Making sense. Talking nonsense.  Glimpsing.  Forgetting.  Glimpsing again.

Why not celebrate it all?  I choose to let the joy of the scale bubble up, knowing that, like a bubble, it could go “Pop!” at any time.  I also choose to lie down in the mystery beyond good times and bad, bliss and despair, effort and release.

Who knows?  On Wednesday morning I may look down between my feet and see 0.0.

 

You and Me

A popular fable describes hell as a room in which a bunch of angry, emaciated people sit around a banquet table.  On the table is piled a wonderful feast, with many platters of the most delicious-smelling foods that one can imagine.  Strapped to the forearms of the famished people sitting around this table in hell are four-foot-long forks and spoons, so no matter how they try, they cannot get any food into their mouths.

Heaven, on the other hand, is a room in which jovial, well-fed people sit around a banquet table that is piled high with a wonderful feast, with many platters of the most delicious-smelling foods that one can imagine.  Strapped to the forearms of the happy people sitting around this table in heaven are four-foot-long forks and spoons … and the people are feeding one another across the table.

When I’m in a room with other folks, I have a choice: make contact or don’t.  Right now, I’m sitting in an Emergency waiting room with my friend Neal who is having pain under his ribs.  He’s trying to read a magazine.  Around us are a few men and women, and some appear to be suffering.  Should I say something, trying to make people smile?  Any comment of the “Do you come here often?” variety isn’t likely to have a positive effect.  Would my words invade the other person’s privacy?  Should I say them anyway, and be willing to be misinterpreted, out of my commitment to contribute?

I decide that I’ll use what’s in front of me – anything that’s happening now – to connect with one of my fellow sitters.  The current waiting room issue is getting access to the washroom.  Staff have coached us about the proper technique.  Pull the handle down while you also turn the thumb lock that (strangely) is on the outside of the door.  I look in the direction of a woman who’s just commented on the task, and I say “Maybe hospitals create challenges like this so we can solve them and feel good about succeeding.”  And in return … a smile.  Good.  I guess I could have received a big frown instead, but I figure it’s worth the gamble.  We need to help each other emerge from loneliness.

A few minutes later, as news was coming through on the TV about this morning’s earthquake in the San Francisco area, I ventured another comment.  No one near me was saying anything, so I directed my words to Neal.  “Have you ever experienced an earthquake?”  “Yes, in Washington State.”  “I never have.  I’ve seen videos about the ground shaking, cans falling off shelves, etc., but it still doesn’t seem real.”

A second woman looked at me and started talking about a mild earthquake that happened in London a few years ago.  We had a good conversation.

Little moments of contact.  Perhaps the second woman heard me mention washroom doors and decided that I’d be an okay person to talk to.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I’ll keep taking chances.  Who knows what impact I’ll make with someone?  Maybe they’ll forget about me an hour later, but I still might linger inside them.

May we always see each other
May we always hear each other
May we always nourish each other

Cause or Effect?

Do I cause my experience of life or am I at the effect of circumstances?  Bad things happen, that’s true, but do I have control over how I react to them?  Why do some people collapse under the weight of unemployment, cancer, lost loves, lost hair or the home team’s losing streak, while others let it wash off their back?

What would my life be like if I just laughed at my travails, while still working to improve things?  I’d have all that extra energy available for love, kindness, compassion and other good works.

Here’s a story that stopped me in my tracks, since I’m the type who gets antsy about creepy crawly things.  Mr. Lama knows a thing or two, I’d say.

Today was particularly bad for me as the rain would not let up.  And the leeches were relentless.  At one point I counted twenty-two of them sucking on me at the same time  … Sloshing along the muddy trail in the pounding rain, I came upon a large, slimy log that had fallen chest high across our brush-choked path.  In my agitated state, I viewed the log as a menacing obstacle that was clearly separate, in my way and against me.  With no way under or around, I jumped, stomach first, and slid over the top.  Regaining my balance on the other side, I was infuriated at the mud and decaying mush that seemed to have covered the entire front of my body.  Rubbing off the crud, I cursed the log and the god-damned rain.  It was my brother Todd who suggested that we wait and see how the Lama would handle this formidable impediment.  Surely this test would break him.

Hiding off the trail, we peeked through the underbrush just in time to see him trudge up to the log.  Ever smiling, he took a couple of steps back and tried his jump with a running start.  With not enough momentum – coupled with a portly belly – he slid back down on the same side of the log and landed on his back in a large puddle.  Shaking his rain-drenched head, he burst into spasms of uproarious laughter.  Staggering to his feet, he repeated the same maneuver – with the same results – two more times.  With each collapse back into the puddle, his laughter grew stronger and louder.  On his fourth attempt, he made it over the top and slid headlong into the muddy puddle on the other side.  Again, the laughter was knee-slapping.  Continuing to chuckle, he wiped himself off as best he could, lovingly patted the log as though it were a dear friend, and proceeded up the trail – smiling.  Todd and I just stared at each other.

Time to pat a log or two

Ego Bowing

During my retreats at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, I’ve really enjoyed walking a three-mile loop road past old stone walls, farmers’ fields and acres of woods.  We had an hour-and-a-half of free time after lunch and many retreatants chose the same walk, some doing the loop in my direction and some the other way.

At the retreat centre, we were encouraged to avoid eye contact with other yogis, but on the road I decided to cheat.  As I was approaching someone, I’d look at them for an instant, smile and bow as we passed each other.  Most people smiled back.  All in silence of course.

A pure spiritual act, wouldn’t you say?  Mostly yes.  But a big slice of me would sometimes take over, and I let it happen.  I remember one woman who didn’t make eye contact and looked very uncomfortable as I bowed to her.  The next day, here she comes again, and instead of letting go of my ritual, I bowed again.  Same reaction.  I was pushing, and I did it again the day after that.  Nothing.  Finally, on day four or five, I walked by her with head down.  A very reluctant letting go.  I wanted so much to say hi.  (Bruce, please learn from this.)

One day, after breakfast, I headed off to visit a sister organization, the Barre Center for Buddhist Studies.  I walked part of my usual loop road and then ventured down an intersecting street to get to BCBS.  On my way back, nearing the intersection, I saw a woman I knew from a past retreat heading towards me on the loop.  She got to the intersection before me and turned left to continue the loop.  At the intersection, I turned right, back onto the loop, and there was Mary about fifty yards ahead of me.  Did I stay centred, continuing to flow along at my moderate pace?  No.  I sped up.  I had to catch her and bow to her.  (Ouch)  I went faster.  She went faster, but I was gaining.  Closer, ever closer, … And I zoomed up on her right, turned sharply left and jerked a quick bow that was more weapon than blessing.  I think I saw a grimace on Mary’s face.  From spaciousness to the contraction of a race, for both of us.

Let them go.  Let them all go.  Let them do what they need to do.  If there’s a natural opportunity for a bow on the road, take it.  And don’t press if there’s no reaction.  Surely my mind can absorb such simple thoughts.

Life keeps teaching and sometimes I listen, sometimes not.  No saint in these shoes.

Fun

I use a simple test to see if I want to spend time with a certain person.  It’s totally non-scientific but has been remarkably accurate as a precursor to friendship.  After I’ve talked to him or her a couple of times, I start observing whether they ever use the word “fun”.  “Yes” means my kind of folks.  “No”, and I wonder whether we’d enjoy hanging out together down the road.

Here’s a delightful story about the Dalai Lama.  I might just mosey over to Tim Hortons with him for an herbal tea, if the opportunity ever presented itself.

***

My friend Sid once placed a Groucho Marx mask in a hotel room where the Dalai Lama would be staying during a visit to an Ivy League university.  It was a gesture of karmic abandon because, really, who could gauge the terrestrial and spiritual consequences of such an act?

So imagine this: a cascade of university bureaucrats arrayed in the Dalai Lama’s suite, waiting for their guest to appear.  They sit erect in armchairs designed for slouching.

Minutes pass and then a door flings open.  Unaccountably, Groucho Marx – wearing long, maroon robes and serious lace-up shoes – emerges, chuckling loudly, laughing so hard that tears come to his bespectacled eyes.

How do people react when a dignitary – especially of a spiritual kind – does something so, well, undignified?  Intrigued, I call up the university official in charge of the visits of the accomplished and the famous and the presidential.  She clearly is not a woman easily impressed.  How did she feel, I asked, at the Groucho Moment?  At first, she tells me, she didn’t know how to react.  And then she and everyone started to laugh at the wonderful absurdity of the situation, laughed with a joy and incaution uncharacteristic of people in their position.

The Dalai Lama didn’t care about maintaining his image.  He saw a chance for fun, for deflating others’ expectations, and he took it.  And he just somehow knew whom to thank.  Wagging his finger at Sid, he took off the mask, still laughing.  Even His Holiness needs a little Groucho in his life.

***

I know a fellow who:

-joshes with the cashiers and customers at the supermarket
-heads to Costco at Hallowe’en in full costume
-wears silly t-shirts (such as the picture of a bone accompanied by “I found this humerus”)
-applauds as he watches a concert from his family room couch
-yells down the sewer on the playground at recess for a kid to “Come up here immediately!”
-has named his fantasy children Dollop, Puce, Inkling and Squirm
-dances in a rather odd way, with his feet flying out in all directions

The guy’s sort of weird, but I like him.  He likes me too.

Look At Me

Call now and get Miracle Hair for $29.95 … the amazing new hair loss breakthrough that will give you the appearance of a full head of hair in just 60 seconds.

I wonder if I should call now.  I wasn’t planning on it, since my afternoon has been rolling along just fine, thank you.  I look in the mirror and I see … Bruce!  Somewhat untidy nose hairs, a blemish on my left cheek, baggy stuff under the eyes.  But definitely Bruce.

I look a little like David Letterman (George Clooney in my parallel fantasy life) but I certainly don’t want to be a celebrity.  Can you imagine being hounded by all those panzarotti?  Not being able to stroll downtown, chatting with passersby and seeing what’s in all those windows?  No thanks.

I suppose it would be good to be younger, with a six-pack on display, but my three- pack will do nicely.  As for the V-shaped body, what the heck’s wrong with a nice U?  Works for me.  And I can do that Incredible Hulk pose and grimace as well as anyone.  I just don’t take up the amount of space that the original did.

Until I started shaving my head in honour of my lovely wife Jodiette, I had beautiful golden brown curls … sort of.  Actually, I often told people that I had gray highlights put in at the hairstylist.  I’m sure most folks believed me.

As a young human, I had acne that left me with very few true friends and a yearbook photo that was speckled to say the least.  Clearasil treatments made me look even worse.  Somehow adulthood allowed me to grow past that.

I’ve been trying to reach the mythical Jesus height of six feet ever since I was 4’2″, but it’s never worked out for me.  I’m currently 5’10” and heading south, I believe.

For years I tried wearing contacts to invoke a Hollywood persona, but I just couldn’t see anything.  So it was back to a nose-weighing-down apparatus.  I look okay in glasses.

I don’t have the standard pot belly of a 65-year-old, and that makes me happy.  Guess I could work on one to help me fit in better.

I have a gorgeous tan but unfortunately it only extends to my head, forearms and knee caps.  When I was a timid teen, I used to glob on the autotan lotion, but that created a new definition of “streaker”.  The girls politely looked the other way.

Oh my goodness … what if all this stuff doesn’t matter?  Yes, I want to be healthy, but what’s the big deal about the package?  I do believe that I’m just fine, inside and out.  If someone else doesn’t think so … oh well.  On we go.