Tag Archives: Home

My Golf … The Course

Can you fall in love with a piece of land?  I say yes.  For me, it’s the Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario.  Years ago, the farmers who owned the property decided that they wanted to build a championship golf course there.  They recruited a British golf architect, Martin Hawtree, to create a masterpiece in rural Southern Ontario.  And Martin came through.

Tarandowah is a links course, which usually means a track by the sea with dry fairways, deep pot bunkers, wild fescue grass in the rough … and wind.  My home way from home has all that, except for waves lapping on the shore.  It’s an environment of the heart for me.  For the first time in my life, I’ve found a course where I love every hole.  All eighteen of them have character, the sense of a unique place in the world.  And there aren’t any condo developments surrounding the fairways … just more farm land.  The content thrives within a context of peace, lingering and birds on the wing.

I would love to get to the point where the score matters not.  Walking on the land does.  Hitting some shots that fly off the clubface and touch the sky.  Finding the out-of-the-way spots between fairways, high points of land where I can see much of the journey through the front and back nines.  A relationship to the earth.

I think of the sixth hole, a honey of a par four with an elevated tee and a big mound of fescue in the middle of the fairway.  That’s not a mistake.  It’s an opportunity to see that life throws us lots of curve balls.  A fine drive that ends up in six inches of grass.  A hard fairway that turns a “down the middle” drive into a sideways bounce, plopping my ball into a deep sand trap.

I yearn to find companions who will join with me in seeing the beauty of the holes before having thoughts about the golf swing.  People who will pause in wonder on the tees before smacking the little white ball down the fairway.  Folks who love Tarandowah … and may the score rest where it does.

I yearn to be a member out there near Avon.  To come to the course as the sun rises.  To just sit near the 13th green, way out at the far end of Tarandowah, letting the beauty in.

There are over a hundred deep bunkers.  What if I wanted to spend time in each of them?  Was okay with my ball bouncing into the creek that pops its head up all over the place?  Smiled after my final scorecard count was 120?  Would that be golf?  I think so.

Perfect

Now that I’m back in London, I’m rediscovering my worldly life.  I found out on Saturday evening that I missed the St. Mary Choir School Christmas concert.  It was last Thursday.  But today from 11:00 till 1:00, the Chamber Orchestra and Grade 8 carolers were performing in St. Peter’s Basilica and I was going to see them, hoping to say Merry Christmas to the kids I know.

Sudden update:  On Saturday night in Worcester, Massachusetts, I looked at the St. Mary’s website and found this concert.  It said “St. Joseph’s”, not St. Peter’s!  (Sigh)  Sudden all right, because I just figured that out as I was typing.  Eighty-four days of almost complete silence and I forgot the name of the church.

You know the rest.  I showed up at St. Peter’s, expecting to see legions of uniformed students climbing the steps.  No one there.  And virtually no one inside.  Maybe ten folks praying.

I felt a twinge of sadness.  I wouldn’t be seeing these children before Christmas.  But only a twinge.  Peace descended.  I sat down and meditated to the strains of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”, sung through CD in the lofty heights of the sanctuary by a boy choir.  And then more lilting songs, given from far away to the warmth of my mind.  So quiet.

After the meditation retreat, I’m very quiet inside.  There seems to be space around each cell of my body.  The moment of the moment is entirely sufficient.  There’s virtually no leaning forward towards some “better” spot in time.  The choir sings.  I think of the kids and wish them well.

Just as it is
Fine by me

Day Thirty-Five … Bear’s Hump and the PW

We seven stood at the base of the trail up Bear’s Hump.  Ember was eager to go.  So were the Doram’s.  I wasn’t.  As they stepped purposefully upwards, I stood on the spot.  More remembering.  Forty-six years ago, Glen Reid and I had sat in the staff caf of the Prince of Wales Hotel.  It was after supper and we were bored.

“Glen, how about if we do something crazy?”

“Like what?”

“Let’s crawl up Bear’s Hump.”

(Unremembered response)  However, we did seek out carpet scraps and other padding for our hands and knees, and accompanied by several employee onlookers, we began our epic quest.  And yesterday I lingered at that spot.

As I began trudging upwards on the sometimes steep trail, I saw the exposed roots and lots of rocks sticking out.  After a few switchbacks, I found the little side trail that leads to a fairly level green meadow.  I spent about two weeks there in 1973, camping illegally in my little green tent (hoping I would be sufficiently camouflaged).  That was the summer I spent backpacking in Waterton, Banff and Glacier National Park in Montana.  I even tossed in a hitchhiking interlude to visit friends in Saskatchewan and Manitoba.

Back in the present, I wondered at how I had done the crawl.  How did I get around those rocks?  I remember Glen being faster than me and that I didn’t see him again till the top.  But some friends stayed with me, encouraging me upwards.  The knee pain grew.  Should I stop?  No.  I have no idea how long it took for me to summit but I sure remember the last thirty feet.  At that point, the trail was a slab of rock, and the pain was huge.  I was lost in some other area of consciousness.  As left hand replaced right, all I saw ahead was sky.  A little more up and still just sky.  A few more hand placings … and then … mountains!  The whole of Waterton Lake spread below me, surrounded by applauding peaks.  Such ecstasy flooded with such agony.

Yesterday, I stood at the lower end of that slab and remembered some more.  I heard myself talking to a young man, “Thank you, Bruce.”  And what came back to this current fellow was also “Thank you, Bruce.”  For the person I’ve become, I guess.

After sitting with my family for awhile, I went in search of a gravel spot that resided in my memory.  And there it was.  A few times as a PW employee, I slept there with my sleeping bag and foam pad, in the company of perhaps ten wonderful friends.  Such a view upon waking but more importantly such an unspoken love among us.

***

And then there was the Prince of Wales.  My home.  I worked there as a laundry boy (1969), dining room bus boy (1970), and laundry manager (1974, 1975 and 1976).  I can describe experiences I’ve had there, past and present, but words will totally fail to give you what I feel.  How can a large Swiss chalet hotel sitting on top of a windy hill do this to me?  I don’t know and I don’t care.  The Buddha talked about being home everywhere and sometimes I feel that.  Sometimes there is no yearning to stand anywhere else.  On another level of consciousness, however, the PW stands alone, a place where I learned to delight in the presence of many others, not just those who lived in the same city that I did – Toronto.

I walked up the highway and turned onto the access road to the PW dorms – three three-storey wooden buildings.  The gravel under my feet reminded me of a young man who once camped on this road after a rainstorm, next to the newly christened Dorm Lake.  Another memory was not so savoury.  For the last time in my life, I got thoroughly drunk at a party in someone’s room on the third floor.  I tottered to the end of the hallway, opened the fire exit door, stumbled down three sets of outside stairs to the ground, and ended up a few yards away under some bushes, where I vomited it all up.  I awoke in the morning covered with the stuff.  It was a pretty effective cure.

Monday, in a far more pleasant circumstance, I talked to a waitress from the Czech Republic about my history.  “You climbed that hill for five years!?”  The dorms are down by Waterton Lake while the hotel sits on the hill above.

As I climbed the path, I veered off towards the laundry, a separate building.  I walked in.  More storytelling, this time to Denny, the laundry manager.  I talked of things we did back then, such as taking a foot-long tube of grease, getting up on a chair and applying the stuff to big leather belts that were turning as fast as the eye could see.  He gaped and smiled.  We had a fine time, sharing common experiences that were separated by only 40 years.  I mentioned names that he had never heard of, naturally.

Next up was the staff caf, where Glen and I devised our crawling plan.  I had a momentary thought that I’m not a staff member anymore and therefore shouldn’t go through that door.  But I did.  “What the heck, I’m an alumnus!”  It was a lot smaller than I remembered.  The room must have been downsized, at least in my head.  I talked to a couple of smiling faces and then exited stage left.

Now into the lobby, with the huge dark wooden posts and the towering chandelier.  I just stood.  There were the comfy chairs and couches, the two-storey windows looking down the lake, and a harpist playing for folks enjoying afternoon tea.  Above me were four wooden balconies.  In the fall of 1974, Johnny Haslam, the hotel’s caretaker, invited me to stay on after the Labour Day closing, to drain the toilets and board the place up.  Sometimes Johnny was away from the hotel and I was alone in the PW.  I often leaned over the fourth floor balcony and sang.  Within the acoustics of the old girl, my voice was deep and rich.

I took the stairs down into the basement to look for my name.  Back in the 70’s, behind a closed door, there was a hallway filled with the signatures of former employees, some from the 40’s.  Way back when, I added mine, including the jobs I did each year.  Sometime in the 90’s, Jody and I visited the PW and I was shocked to find that the walls down there had been painted.  All that history … gone.  Such sadness.  In 2011, we returned with Lance and Nona, and magically names had reappeared, mostly from recent employees.  Again, I added mine, with a renewed appreciation of the human spirit.

On Monday, I looked at wall after wall for me.  Lots of big Sharpie displays but no Bruce.  I remembered doing my art work at about shoulder level but I just couldn’t locate that ancient laundry manager.  Until … I did.  Pretty indistinct but still seeable.  I sighed.  I was tempted to get a black marker and do it up right but then thought better of it.  Let my history at the PW be as it was.  No embellishment.  Good times and bad ones.  Mostly good.  I’m glad this grand old hotel has been a major part of my life.  She has coloured my spirit.

Renato and Me

I’m going to be doing a lot of travelling over the next year-and-a-half, and I’ve wanted to find someone to live in my house while I’m gone.  (Hmm.  I just noticed that I’m okay with calling it “my” house.  Oh, Jody.  It’s still our house, my dear.)

Renato is my man.  He’s an Italian chef who’s been living with his family in England for many years.  And he wants to come to Canada and open an authentic Italian restaurant in London.

This afternoon we sat in my family room and on the deck for three hours, talking about life.  Renato has an accent and I often didn’t get every word in his sentences.  It didn’t matter.  The soul of the man shone through.  In the military, he was a parachutist, and often jumped out of planes with a bazooka-type gun strapped to his side.  Then there were the times that he and his mates shoved jeeps out of the plane, jumped after them, and then drove away minutes later.  Renato fought in the war against terrorism in England and told me of being face-to-face with a man who had murdered many people.  I was terrified just listening to him.

Renato has been a skilled photographer and cinematographer and now he’s an elite chef.  He described being continually harassed by a pizza chef when he was a young employee, and how years later he bought the restaurant, and hired that pizza guy when he was down on his luck.  Forgiveness and reconciliation.

My new friend has had an exciting life.  And so have I.  He’s touched a lot of people.  Me too.  No better or worse in our discussion.

In July, Renato moves in.  Shortly thereafter, I head to Western Canada on a six-week road trip.  Then it’s home for a week before driving to Massachusetts for an 84-day meditation retreat.  Next, six months at home, followed by ten weeks of riding my bicycle across Canada.  After which I’m home for six weeks.  After which I’m back in Massachusetts for three more months of silence.  On January 20, 2017, I’m home again, most likely to stay.

Renato will care for my precious home, hopefully for all of this time.  I already trust him.  He’s a good guy.  And I’m a fortunate fellow.

White Mist

It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting in Jody’s room, watching her sleep.  Her breathing is slow and gentle.  The overhead lamp is off.  It’s a rainy day and soft light is coming through the window.  Quiet.

There’s another kind of breathing as well.  Yesterday I bought a small humidifier, since the house has been dry and Jody’s had a few nosebleeds. And there it sits on our computer desk, in all its white glory.  A fine mist is being propelled upwards, backlit by the outdoors.  The mist rises for about two feet and then seems to fall over itself as it drops to the sides.  Wisps dance on the edges and then reach down to cover the humidifier and the orchid beside.  All done with grace and a very low hum.

Is my life in that mist somewhere?  Jet-propelled at first, two bursts of fog out of the device’s top.  I’ve been there.  All piss and vinegar, pushing to have Bruceness take the world by storm.  Much later reaching up, hands afloat, sensing some vastness beyond the physical.  But starting to see that a formless nirvana is not for me.  I’m not on our planet to graduate from this place to one of eternal peace.  So now falling back to earth, letting my coolness land where it may, watering the realm of form where I can.

Just a humidifier, perhaps.  A way to stop nosebleeds.  But also a tool for breathing easy with you.

There’s a Lot In-Store

I was out doing errands this afternoon and two of the stores I visited hit me hard.  Jody needed a small piece of foam to provide cushioning between sores on her chin and chest.  Our VON nurse Henry suggested the dollar store.  So I walked into Dollar Tree shortly after noon.  It had been years since I’d been in such a place and I was eager to see what’s what.

The overhead lights were really bright.  Oh well.  Lots of stores are like that. Then I started down an aisle.  I intended to scan all the offerings on either side, looking for foam or sponge or something that would give my dear wife relief.  Instead I stopped halfway down.  I felt assaulted by neon bags everywhere, hanging on hooks to a height of seven feet or so, screaming their brilliant rainbow selves at me.  I expelled some air in a ghastly cloud of revulsion.  And any spiritual energy that was bubbling inside me leaked out too.

Shoulders slumped and soul depleted, I wandered down corridor after corridor, trying to see what was in those bags.  Eventually, eight sponges of the genus red, blue and yellow drew my eye, if nothing else.  “That’ll do,” I muttered.  And $1.25 plus tax later, I escaped.  Exhausted.

“Just a little sensitive are you, big boy?” a voice inside intoned. Well, I guess I am.

Farther along on my travels, I needed to go to OK Tire to have Scarlet’s lugnuts tightened after the switch to winter tires a couple of days ago.  I opened the door onto a lower light situation.  No shouting bags, just some tire posters plus a few stackable chairs beside a serviceable coffee table.  But then there was Brian standing behind the counter.  A huge smile lit his face, and it got even bigger when I shared “I’m here to have my nuts tightened.”

I first came into OK Tire a few months ago, with a nail problem. Brian greeted me like royalty.  Glad to see me, whether the bill ended up being $20.00 or 980.  Brian is just folks.  I had been a Costco Tire Centre customer up until then, and those service reps were fine, but none of them shone like Brian does.  It is so worth it to me to spend maybe 10% more at OK, as long as I get Brian’s chuckles and soul.

Sort of a yin and yang afternoon.  There’s certainly a place for both shops, but only one feels like home.

Homelessness

In 2011, I participated in a discussion board about spirituality.  A gentleman named Sam had a question:  What do people think about the relationship between home life and homelessness in Buddhism?

I replied.

Hi Sam,

My first thought is that homelessness has no tug on me, that I need a home, with my wife, and at the school where I teach.  Here is where I open myself to other human beings, and where I foster an opening in some of them.  I retire in four years, and I want to contribute for this time at school, to deepen with kids and adults.  And onward with Jody.

However, there is a tug … for two-and-a-half months to ride my bicycle across Canada with 25 other travellers, being with the land and being with Canadians.  Homelessness with a home at the end.

Bruce

***

My first thought is that I’m fascinated to see the words of a slightly younger man.  I wonder how I’ll feel at age 70 about what I’ve written in this blog. Hey, who knows, maybe I’ll still be writing it.

I have an affection for this 62-year-old.  I know that downstairs somewhere I have some notes that I wrote as a teenager.  No doubt I’ll feel the same love for that young guy.

Today I look at homelessness in a different light.  I have no interest in huddling under a blanket beneath some overpass.  Or wandering from village to village with a begging bowl.  And I realize that not having a warm place to sleep is a punch in the gut for thousands of Canadians, and for countless people worldwide.  I am sad for them.

My personal sense of homelessness is in not holding a place to be “mine”. On my very first day at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, a volunteer greeted me at the door.  Just about the first thing she said was “You need to go into the meditation hall and pick out your spot for the week.  Put a coat or a blanket down so other people will know this place is yours.”

Okay.

So I did, picking a chair on the side of the room.  After supper, it was time for a sitting and I walked into the hall, put the blanket under the seat, and sat down.  Immediately (as in that very instant!), it was wrong.  So wrong.  The teachers talked, we all sat still in an effort to meditate, and I didn’t get a darned thing out of it.  All I could think of was “Yuck”.

I’ve been to three silent meditation retreats.  That was the one and only time that I possessed a portion of the room.  Since then, I walk into the hall with this light curiosity … “I wonder where I’ll sit this time.”  Yes.

Only once did I come in and find all of the chairs full.  (I’ve never learned to sit upright on a cushion.)  That time, a few of the chairs were occupied by stuff rather than by human beings.  I just stood there for thirty seconds, not knowing what to do.  Not wanting to take someone else’s belongings and put them on the floor.  Finally, a young man stood up, moved towards me, bowed, and put his hand on a blanketed chair.  I returned his bow, removed the blanket, and sat.  Thank you, my friend.

May I continue to move lightly across the planet.