Tag Archives: Happiness

Plato’s Cave

Plato was a Greek philosopher from around 400 B.C.  Another smart guy from history.  He reflected on what is real in life, and has shown us a new possibility using a powerful metaphor.

Plato asks us to imagine a cave, with a group of prisoners facing the back wall, their bodies and heads chained and unable to move.  Talk about a restricted view of life.  Behind these folks, near the entrance of the cave, is a massive bonfire.  Between the prisoners and the fire is a walkway on which other people walk by, carrying a varety of objects in their hands.  They cast shadows on the back wall, the only things that the immobilized humans can see.

If you can only see one thing, that has to be what’s real for you.  What if so much of our present day lives is just a shadow of reality?  Like gossip, small talk, complaining, winning and losing, better and worse, succeeding and failing?

The prisoners decided that the highest status holders among them were those who could best predict what shadow would come along the walkway next, or … seeing a particular shadow, be able to identify all its details of shape and size.  Those were the champions of life, similar to the ones today whom so many of us worship in the realms of sports and entertainment.  Could this all be false?

What would happen if someone released a prisoner from the chains (or they magically figured out how to set themselves free)?  No doubt they would turn around and see flesh-and-blood human beings walking in front of them, entities with a vibrant aliveness that they had never experienced before.  Would these beings be honoured and loved, or reviled and condemned?

And what of the fire?  Would the intense light blind them?  The heat fry their circuits?  Or would awe transform their faces?

Beyond the fire is the mouth of the cave, and past that the big, wide world … infinitely beyond those shadows.

What transcendent realities am I willing to let in?
What’s just too scary to accept?
Will I let my life be transformed?
Perhaps

Better and Worse

Yesterday I worked myself through five sports sections of the London Free Press – Tuesday to Saturday.  I had finally caught up enough in my PVR viewing of the World Cup to do the deed.  (I still can’t look at the Monday, Tuesday and now Wednesday editions since I haven’t seen the championship game.)  What strangeness to pick up the paper from the mailbox, fold it in half and then religiously avoid looking at any print as I walk up the driveway. Inside the house, I stuff it under some other papers to make sure I don’t see any headlines.  And then all the personal support workers in our home need to be coached about never leaving the sports section exposed on the dining room table.  Such a lot of work!

My conclusion has been that it’s better for me to not know who won a certain game.  The surprise moments need to be experienced.  It’s not good enough for me to enjoy the flow of the game, armed with knowledge of the result.  But maybe I’m wrong.  What does it do to me to walk around with a “this, but not that” stance in life?  Well, for one thing, I know it can create some horribly tense moments.  One of out PSWs walked in a few days ago with a big smile on her face.  “The only thing I’m going to tell you is that Brazil plays Argentina today.”  Reaction inside the bod: “No!”  Outside: “Oh.”  Just that dissonance is enough to rip a guy apart.

So I immediately launched into a series of calculations that led me to an inescapable conclusion – both Brazil and Argentina lost their Semi-Final games and would have met in the third place game this last Saturday.  Grrr.  Dear PSW, how could you ruin my day like that?  Eventually, I watched the Argentina-Netherlands Semi-Final, and guess what – Argentina won at the very last moment with their final penalty kick.  All this angst about someone blabbing a soccer result … and she was just kidding!

“How do [I] do what [I] do to me?  If I only knew.”  So goes the song, sort of.  Then there’s my forays out into the community, committed to not knowing.  Yesterday was the dentist again, and the first thing I said to the sole occupant of the waiting room was “Please don’t tell me who won the World Cup.”  He smiled and said “I won’t.”  And this was 48 hours after the game had been played.  In the examination room, my first move was to ask for the remote.  No news station for me, with its twelve discreet bits of information staring at me every second … I retreated to a cartoon channel, where happily the characters didn’t mention soccer at all.

Last night, as the freezing started coming out, I was pretty groggy.  Of course, three fillings and a cleaning had their effect, as did the bike ride I went on in the morning,  but a basic choice I’ve been making was in the mix too.  All that psychic energy expended, all that contraction, all that strategizing … no thanks.

The Best Home

The Buddha was a pretty smart guy.  My favourite ideas of his are called the Brahma Viharas.  These are four ways of living which together contribute to other human beings, and if practiced, shower great happiness on you.  Simple ideas, but not simple to live day-to-day.

I’ve grappled with these qualities for many years, to have them be my automatic response to life, requiring no effort.  I’ve had some moments of success and many periods of being unconscious to their beauty.  It’s a remarkable journey.

The first is lovingkindness.  Just as it sounds.  “Be ye kind.”  “Love them all.”  Of course, it’s easy to love some folks, the ones who are friendly and upbeat.  But what about those who have been mean to me, who have tried to stifle my aliveness?  In my better moments, love flows naturally from me to them.  At those times, I don’t feel angry at them for the injustice.  Instead I’m sad, thinking about the rotten karma they’re creating for themselves.  I believe the energy that each of us puts out into the world eventually makes its way back to us, in this case causing great pain.  I don’t want that for the ones who have hurt me.  They too deserve love.  “Hatred never ends through hatred.  By non-hate alone does it end.”

Compassion is the second trait.  Sometimes, when I see sadness in another, or low self-esteem, or physical pain, I feel my heart opening, and the “shimmering down” of energy inside me begins.  There are so many people who seem overwhelmed with the curve balls of life.  On our trips into St. Thomas, we pass the entrance to a psychiatric hospital.  In good weather, several patients are outside, sitting on the curb, some smoking.  I can feel the anguish.  It makes me sad.  There is a practice called tonglen, which asks me to breathe in the pain of others and breathe out goodness.  It seems like a self-destructive thing to do, but it has brought me great peace.

Altruistic joy is my favourite among the four.  Some writers refer to it as sympathetic joy, but that doesn’t ring true for me.  It suggests feeling sorry for someone.  I think altruism is a marvelous word … it’s not about me.  The Buddha taught that it’s possible to feel delight when faced with the good fortune of another person.  When I’ve experienced this quality, I just feel so light.  One time years ago, Jody and I were walking in Stanley Park, near the entrance to the Vancouver Aquarium.  I didn’t think we had the money to go in there, an attitude of deficit that has never served me.  On the flip side, though, I was astonished to see how happy I was for the folks paying the fee and going inside.  I still remember that vividly.  And I usually smile to myself when I see happiness in front of me.

Equanimity is the fourth trait … to let whatever comes my way be all right.  “Welcome everything.”  If I’m experiencing a difficult situation, I can work at improving it in the future, but right now what you see is what you get.  Can I feel fine when someone I love is enjoying the company of another person, rather than mine?  Can I forgive myself for the financial mistakes I’ve made?  Can I see all parts of the roller coaster as part of the trip?  I think so.

These four are a pretty good place to call home.  It’s okay to be on vacation for short spells, but home is where I belong.

It Makes Me Happy

To lie in bed with Jody, holding hands

To go see the cashier, instead of paying at the pump

To watch the hummer at the very top of our blue spruce, surveying their kingdom

To drink big gulps from my shining green Herbal Magic water bottle

To sit curled up in my man chair, reading a cool Buddhist book

To inject Jody with Fragmin without hurting her

To wander down a wooded path in London’s Gibbons Park

To smile at a person who’s sad

To touch my bald head and feel the brain parts inside

To put on my cycling jersey with the snarling clown on it

To whee down the big hill on Fruit Ridge Line astride my bike Ta-pocketa

To sit in front of the Buddha statue on the patio, with a candle lighting his face

To make people laugh

To watch one person enjoying the company of another

To wrap my hands around a mug of hot Dulce de Leche

To watch Bill Murray in The Razor’s Edge for the umpteenth time (It’s not a comedy)

To drive at the speed limit on a two-lane highway, watching the world float by

To sing Annie’s Song to Jody, adding a special Irish Blessing verse

To read Mr. Mercedes, Stephen King’s latest, out loud to my lovely wife

To eat pesto pasta with friends

To sit in a sidewalk cafe on an incredibly steep street in San Francisco, just looking

To rub the tummy of our neighbour’s cat Pretty, listening to her purr

To lie in bed at night, cozy under the blanket, listening to the rain pelt down

To breathe life into Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown

To write

 

 

 

The PW and Me

I worked at the Prince of Wales Hotel for five summers – 1969, 1970, 1974, 1975 and 1976.  The PW is a grand chalet-style hotel, perched on a hill above the northern end of Upper Waterton Lake, with mountains running southward on both sides towards Glacier National Park in Montana.  I had marvelous adventures during the tourist season, hiking many trails with many friends.  The fall of 1974, however, was another kettle of fish.

Johnny, the hotel’s caretaker, had asked me to stay for September and October to close the grand old lady down.  I became a specialist in draining toilets and putting up shutters.  I slept in my room at the middle dorm – the only person there.  After all the summer parties in employees’ rooms, and the general hustle and bustle in the hallways, there was silence.  I didn’t even want to play music.  Spent a lot of evenings under my comforter, looking out the window at Waterton Lake and thinking about life.

Mealtime was another story.  I ate in Johnny’s house – with him, his wife Jean and son Brent … just a wee little lad.  I sat across from Brent and loved pointing behind him (“Look who’s there, Brent!”), and having him turn to see.  Then I’d take his plate of food and put it on my lap.  Looking back, I’m sure that he figured out my ruse pretty quickly, but kept going because the game was fun.  Many years later, back visiting family in Lethbridge, Alberta (near Waterton), Jody and I were walking through a mall when a young man looked funny at me, came right up, and said, “You stole my food!”  It took me a few seconds, but I finally got it.  “Brent!”  Very lovely.

Back in 1974, it was just Johnny and me in the hotel for eight hours a day.  I loved the old place and still do.  It was built in 1927, I believe by the Great Northern Railroad.  Imagine tall rough-hewed beams of dark wood, am immense chandelier way up there and maybe the best view in the world.  Seven stories altogether, with the last two squeezed under the eaves, and a series of interior balconies looking down on the lobby.  Cozy leather sofas were available to both guests and staff, and I spent many an hour listening to the string quartet and watching folks from around the world stroll towards the dining room.

In the fall of 1974, I often leaned over the fourth floor balcony, with no Johnny in sight, opened my mouth, and sang.  The voice was pretty good.  The acoustics were sublime.  And the world stopped.  One of my all-time best memories.

Johnny and I took breaks together, downing a lot of black coffee.  He was such a gentle man, almost always sporting a big grin.  We both loved the place.  The fact that Johnny liked me made such a difference in my life.  I needed someone to like me – preferably a girl, but Johnny would do until the love of my life decided to show up.

I wish you all could have been there in 1974, and felt the spirit of the PW.  Many of you, of course, were in other places, drinking in their essence.  And some of you hadn’t yet made your debut on this fine planet.  I bet that without you ever being there, you already know my dear old hotel.

 

Sing Me a Love Song

“Play your guitar.”  Although the request was from my lovely wife Jodiette, I gulped.  It had been so long.  But why had it been so long?  I took group lessons in Ottawa in 1972.  During the spring of 1974, I often took my guitar out to the beach in Vancouver.  And in the summer of 1975, when I was managing the laundry at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, me and my guitar were pretty much joined at the hip.  I played in a staff talent show, and later that year sang “Hello In There” to folks who were with me on Vancouver Island at a workshop called “Coming Alive”.  So why did I let the musical zest seep away?  I don’t know.

A few nights ago, I played “For You” for Jody, complete with not-quite-right-on chords and a questionable approximation of the melodies.  Jody loved it.  She cried.  And I loved hearing my voice again.  I went to the Internet and found the lyrics and chords for some old favourites:  “The Mary Ellen Carter”, “How Can I Tell You That I Love You?”, “Help Me Make It Through The Night”.  And somehow I made it through the songs, with the finger burn making me stop eventually.  But it was a very sweet hour.

Over the last few days, I’ve forgiven myself for having let the guitar go, for not singing to my darling all these years.  I vaguely remembered having a thick file folder full of songs but I had no idea where it was.  Jody said, “Look in the piano bench.”  And lo and behold, there it was.  I also found eight sheets of paper, dated February, 1997, with the title “Songs I Want to Learn” … 115 in all (sadly, none of them learned).

Such a strange journey we’re on, full of imperfect choices and odd diminishments of aliveness, having had no intention of doing so.  It’s as if I’ve been asleep at times, in some sort of trance, walking the expected walk through the events of the day.  Jody has asked me to wake up.  And so I am, with many stories, melodies, harmonies and chords to come.

May ABBA teach us all:

Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing
Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me

Smiles

I study smiles.  Have for a long time.  Would you believe that I have a subsciption to The National Enquirer and that I reflect on the faces therein?  Well, whatever the magazine or newspaper, I’ve noticed that very few people in advertisements, stories or obituaries really smile.  I look at each face and say either “Yes” or No”.  Is it a truly genuine smile that shows the spirit within?  Is there a shining forth?  Too often, there is great pain revealed through the upturned mouth.  It makes me sad.  What are those lives like, and what about the loved ones who live beside that pain?

In my travels to many schools, I met countless faces.  I’m thinking of one woman, a secretary, whom I’ve known for many years.  Over perhaps fifty visits to her school, I had never seen her smile.  It’s been my hobby to say or do silly things, trying to make people smile or even laugh.  “Mary” never did.  None of my twistings and turnings worked.  And I was sad some more.  Last fall, actually just a few weeks before I stopped teaching and went on short term disability, I was leaving Mary’s school near the end of lunch hour.  There were big windows near the entrance, and I saw Mary coming in from the parking lot.  Timing my approach perfectly, I opened the door as she was about to reach for it, bowed, and said, “Welcome to ______ School, ma’am.”  Guess what?  Mary smiled.  It wasn’t a big one but it was there.  It made me happy.

One of the best parts of the World Cup for me is when the camera catches fans up close and personal.  A person will see themselves on the JumboTron and a brilliant smile lights their face.  One of those genuine types.  The shift in my well-being is huge … I’m so happy that they’re happy.  And it’s even more intense when they spot the camera operator and look straight into the lens.  Ahh.

May I smile even on my deathbed.  People deserve to be on the receiving end.

 

Extra

Improving myself

Hurrying

Creeping forward at a red light

Groaning

Thinking about standing up Jean Deeth when we were 18

Preferring one life experience to another

Labelling someone

Worrying about what people think of me

Pushing someone or something away

Calculating what my next move should be

Harming any living being

Comparing me to you

Trying

Weighing myself every second day

Rehearsing what I want to say

Slamming myself for being terrified during a case conference about a child

Planning my day, my retirement, my life

Being jealous of other men for their good looks

Analyzing why I did something

Saying “I’m sorry” for doing something that really doesn’t hurt the other person

Craving chocolate, popularity, anything that will make me “better”

Hovering around someone

Reading tabloid articles

Explaining why I feel this way

Continuing to go down a tunnel with no cheese

Laughing at someone

Having to be right

Disagreeing

Having an opinion

Escaping from anything

Making sure that the toilet paper falls down the front of the roll, not behind it

Protecting myself

Checking whether I turned off the lights

Hating

Pretending to be someone I’m not

Trying to impress someone

Ruining someone else’s fun

Interrupting someone

Gossiping

Skipping steps to get the job done faster

Memorizing anything

Pleasing people

Complaining about politicians

Resisting

Preaching to anyone about anything

Changing what someone else thinks

Rescuing people when they can handle it themselves

Separating beings who love each other

Moaning about “poor me”

Diminishing the well-being of others

Wasting the moments

Making sure that my blog posts are “long enough”, whatever that means

 

Flat and Distant

For those of you who read my post yesterday, I got six hours sleep last night – just what I had hoped for after cutting back on sleeping pills on Saturday.  Still, my mind has been cloudy most of the day.  Guess you could say that I’ve been experiencing a different level of consciousness while getting a clear picture of what I’m all about in life.

Lots of errands for Jody in the car.  I’ve been listening to Stephen King’s Insomnia while motoring along.  Great book, but not today.  I’ve loved the elderly hero Ralph Roberts, but this morning I didn’t care about him.  Ouch.  Down somewhere among my functioning brain cells, I knew that I care deeply about other human beings.  But I just couldn’t cope with Ralph.  During my glimmers of alertness, I was shocked.  “Not me!  Not me!”  Except that it was.  And how arid that felt.  How could I possibly stay sane if this was my daily grind?

One of my early stops was at “Canada’s Finest Coffee” in London, to pick up some Keurig K-cups.  I got out of Hugo and was walking to the store when along came a woman.  I virtually always say “Hi” at these moments, and there’s no effort to do so.  It’s just like rolling off a log.  But as she got closer, I had to push myself with all my might to meet her eyes, smile, and say hello.  And push I did.  I just couldn’t look the other way and pass on by.  So … that’s good.  But what must it be like if that’s what you do minute by minute and day by day?  It’s horrifying to think about what that does to a person.

Inside the store, I was talking to an employee named Holly about different coffees that were on the Keurig website.  Another monumental effort.  I mentioned that Jody was sick and we talked some about cancer, which has touched both of us.  But I wasn’t there.  It was just a blur of words coming out of me that hopefully made some sense.  Where, o where, was my commitment to “be with” people?  Some place where I wasn’t.

Then on to Costco (awfully tired of Ralph en route), where I know a lot of the staff members and demonstrators.  I usually love the banter.  But today, I just wanted to stay away from people.  No visit to to the Vision Centre, nor to Customer Service.  I picked a cashier that I didn’t know, and was the basic transaction-oriented customer.  How yucky.

Finally on my journey of dimness, I walked into the Real Canadian SuperStore to buy just one item: silver polish.  As I was about to plunk the little can down on the express conveyor belt, the darkness lifted.  I had me back.  So I placed my Silvo beside the groceries of the fellow in front, and said to him, “Do you mind if I put my silver polish here when you’re not looking?”  He laughed.  The cashier laughed.  I thanked God.

I can’t live like that morning guy.  It hurts too much.

How Am I Doing?

I love riding my bicycle but I haven’t done it regularly for at least eight months.  Today was my third time out this week.  I was finally strong enough to do my time trial route – out and back on the ups and downs of Fruit Ridge Line.  It was the 86th time I’ve completed the ride.

I love the farmers’ fields, the woodlots, the horses to the left and then to the right.  I know every kilometre by heart.  But being in the beauty of the moment – feeling my legs, feeling my breathing, feeling my old friend and bike Ta-pocketa beneath me – often fritters away.  I can get pretty stuck in stats.

My fastest time ever was 54:34 on September 29, 2004.  Today was 1:06:29.  And I leaned towards badness in my mind.  “That’s my eighth worst time.”  Not important.  “I should be faster.”  Not important.  “Most cyclists could do the route far quicker than me.”  Not important.

“I averaged 21.7 kph a couple of days ago.  I should have done better than that today.”  Not important.  “Burning 750 calories an hour is a really good fitness standard, and I didn’t reach that.”  Not important.  “My average heart rate was 145 beats per minute – that’s too much effort.”  Not important.  “This was my 86th time trial ride.  I have to make 100.”  Not, not , not.

What happens to the essence of me within all those facts and figures?  It gets hidden.  I spend too much time looking down at the cycle computer on my handlebar  and not enough time taking the long view … Fruit Ridge flowing up and down, the rows of apple trees, the bird boxes on stilts in the pond … the green and yellow and blue.

Can I let go of self-assessment on the bike, and just be there?  I don’t know.  I don’t think statistics are bad, but I need to change something.  How about putting the computer on my wrist and only looking at the numbers when the ride is over?  Yes, that would work.  The world is there to be seen.  And see it I will on Sunday.

Maybe someday, I’ll just leave the darn old computer sitting on my chest-of-drawers.  And never put it on Ta-pocketa again.  Wouldn’t that be an ultimate letting go?  No attachment.  No more, better and different.  No sense of me and mine.