On The Tracks

I love walking.  I love Belmont.  I love finding places to walk in Belmont.

Today I went ‘splorin’.  Many times I’ve crossed the railway tracks at the south end of town in Scarlet.  I knew from the map that they headed northeast, crossing two east-west roads – Avon Drive and Harrietsville Drive.  Once I reached that second road, I could walk west till I hit the T-intersection at Belmont Road.  I figured that the whole thing would take me two to three hours.  Adventure!

As I sauntered south from my condo, I talked to three people about my journey.  Every one said “Be careful” while all I wanted to hear was “Have fun”.  Oh well, I’d do both.

At the entrance to the Belmont Farm Supply yard, I turned sharp left, and stepped onto the tracks.  Yay!  My plan was to walk on the gravel beside the rails but I soon found that it sloped steeply down to the side, and my ankles said no to that nonsense.  So that left a path between the rails, maneuvering over the wooden ties.  Sometimes the gravel between the ties was a few inches below, and that took inspired footwork.  But who cares?  I was out and about and all the vestiges of civilization were fading behind me.

My first visitor was a bird – a kildeer.  I’m guessing that it was a she because it puffed itself up on the gravel and screeched unkindly at me.  The babies must have been in the tall grass nearby.  “It’s okay, mom.  I’m not going to hurt you or the little ones.”  I skirted way around her and passed by, whistling a happy tune.

It was hot today, maybe 28º Celsius.  For the first bit, my way was enclosed by trees and bushes, and the old forehead was dripping.  That’s all right.  Adventurers need to overcome lots of stuff.  Then the village park on the left came to an end and so did all the trees.  Fields of brown (to be planted) and green (winter wheat) beckoned.  And the breeze caressed my face.  Ahh.

I could see a long way in both directions.  Farmsteads were wee in the distance and I was alone in the world.  Sometimes I like that.  I thought of train trips I’ve been on and how wondrous it was to see the natural world, far from roads.  It was the same today.  Just me and my ties and my gravel.

Swallows swooped and I was entranced with their beauty.  Sometimes pampas grass accompanied me, waving in the wind from their eight-foot highness.  I crossed Kettle Creek on a short trestle bridge, letting the sweetness of the flow mix with my fear of a suddenly approaching train.  No train, just the water below.

Once the tracks curved and for awhile there were no signal lights to be seen way forward or way back.  Wilderness!  So I told myself.

Soon Avon Drive was behind me and I knew that Harrietsville Drive would meet my feet within half an hour.  I felt a touch sad, knowing that cars would soon be my companions.

And then they were.

Pavement home was still fun, if missing the aura of mystery.  I looked at houses passing by and wondered about the lives of the folks inside.  Up ahead was a fellow whippersnipping some weeds in front of his place.  I went over to talk and he smiled.  “I saw you in the paper.”  And indeed I had been, in an article about the tree that a landscaper planted for me in front of the post office … for Jody.  We had a good talk.

And then it was just a couple of kilometres back to orange brick.  Home.

***

I guess I’m a Belmontonian
Starting to know the land and the people
It makes me happy

Wandering Up and Down

I walked twelve kilometres yesterday, through the parkland by Toronto’s Humber River.  All was green.  I meandered past tennis courts and fire circles, wooded slopes and wide lawns, with benches a-plenty for sittin’.  And I went slow.

All sorts of folks came my way.  Unless they looked supremely grumpy, I said hi.  Only three people gave me a sincere hello back.  I wonder if I look dangerous.  Or maybe it’s just the big city mentality, perhaps “Someone who says hello wants something.”  Oh well.  I wasn’t going to let the prevailing responses besmirch my day.

Near the end of the journey, I parked my bod in the lounge of the Old Mill Inn.  Lots of nice stonework and comfy chairs.  I found myself facing the portrait of a severe young man.  I asked myself whether he ever smiled in his earlier life.  I sure hope so.  I sipped my glass of white wine and read sports articles on my phone.  Sort of a mixed metaphor but I don’t mind.

Off again, this time to the mysteries of Bloor Street.  The sidewalks were full of all and sundry, enjoying the spring sunshine.  But I was fading.  Was it the wine, or the long walk, or my continued movement away from sleeping pills?  My head beat out a nasty rhythm and my legs were declining towards the asphalt.  “It’s okay, Bruce.  You’re off these pills and there’s no going back.”

My walking plans fell apart and I stumbled towards a subway station.  Fifteen minutes later I was slurping coffee in a Tim Horton’s, watching outside folks scatter under a sudden thunderstorm.  I was happy to be dry and sad to be vacant.  Coffee completed, I continued to stare out at smashing raindrops.  How would I stay awake at the concert?  So … another twelve ounces of Dark Roast.

Koerner Hall was only a three-minute walk from Tim’s and the rain had faded when I poked my pounding head out the door.  Inside the gorgeous concert hall, I awaited the presence of Rosanne Cash.  Slowly my brain cleared and I was ready for tunes.

Rosanne’s voice filled the space with sweetness, accompanied by the guitar runs of her husband.  One song especially hit home:

We’re falling like the velvet petals
We’re bleeding and we’re torn
But God is in the roses
And the thorns

I left The Royal Conservatory of Music with “500 Miles” on my lips and a skip in my step.  All deficits were in the rear view mirror.  Until, that is, I got to my home bed-and-breakfast.  Head banging again and a troubled caffeine-laden sleep.

So it seems to me this morning that life is both A and B
Despite my efforts to call it A
I guess I can live with that

The Last Post (For Awhile)

Around 3:00 pm today, I enter into a month of silence at the Forest Refuge near Barre, Massachusetts.  Hey, maybe I should start right now, which would make this a very short post.  Naw.  I still have a few hours of yapping in me.  Barre is three hours away and no doubt there’ll be human beings on the way to whom I can say silly things.

These fingers really enjoy tapping on keys.  Well actually, just my two index fingers – the rest are just along for the ride.  And this brain enjoys looking at the world, finding a stimulus (Is that the right word?) and then going with it into a potpourri of tangents.

Okay, how about a stimulus?  A good-sized snowfall last night in Williamstown, Massachusetts.  Do I hope for dry roads today or the beauty of a winter wonderland?  Am I willing to embrace the losses and pains of life right alongside the gains and pleasures?  Oh, I could go on, but why bother?  All this writing stuff is about to come to an end.  The thinking stuff?  Not so much.

Over the next month, I expect to be sitting in meditation for perhaps eight hours a day.  Then there’ll be periods of walking meditation, work meditation (maybe potwashing!) and eating meditation.  Imagine thirty folks having lunch together in silence, with nary a clattering of silverware to be heard.  Sweet (although we’ll only get desserts twice a week).

I’m going on retreat to love people.  That’s it.  And that’s enough.

See you on the far side, with all due respect to Gary Larson.

With love,

Bruce

Paths Of The Soul

Tricycle is a spiritual magazine and website, offering the lens of Buddhism to our daily lives.  Included in the yearly membership of $40 US is their Film Club.  The November offering – Paths Of The Soul – was my companion a few nights ago.

My way is one way.  But there are so many others.  Start with an elderly Tibetan fellow who’s never travelled, instead serving family throughout his life.  Imagining death, he decides to go on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, the holy city.  It’s 1200 miles away.  Members of his family volunteer to accompany him, including an 8-year-old girl.  And others join in too.

They walk.  An animal skin covers their chest and legs.  They wear wooden paddles on their hands.  They clap the paddles above their heads, then twice at chest level.  And then they throw themselves forward onto the ground – a sliding prostration, a bow.  This happens every ten steps or so.

Oh my.  They’re really doing this.  All without griping.  Supporting each other through the pain.  Smiling.  It’s a spiritual journey far more than a spiritual destination.

I was transfixed by the young girl.  At one point, her hands hurt.  Adults encouraged her to stop bowing.  She didn’t … until they reached Lhasa.  She encouraged others.  She led.

One person drove a small tractor, which pulled a trailer full of tents and provisions.  Towards the end of the journey, a car sideswiped the tractor, breaking its axle.  No repair shops on the road to the holy city.  So the men pushed and pulled the trailer while the women continued to bow.  Once the men had completed a section of road, they left the trailer and went back to the beginning of that stretch.  They prostrated themselves while returning to the trailer.  And not a “poor me” to be heard.

Transport trucks roared by within feet of the travellers during the day, and kept them awake for much of the night.  So?  We carry on.

The group came to a flooded section of the road, with water about a foot deep.  They looked for a minute and then proceeded.  Paddle high, paddle middle, slide.

The patriarch died before reaching Lhasa.  The family mourned most tenderly, and finished the journey for him.

Another way.  A good way.  And I was privileged to see it all.

Saying Goodbye To Stuff

Yesterday Jeff and Rick from Shackelton Auctioneering came by to pick up items for their spring lawn/gardening sale.  It was the first step in getting rid of things that Jody and I shared for years but that I don’t want at my condo.  I thought the process would be sweatless.

Nope.

Even though they were just “things”, some of the objects held the love that Jody and I still share.  A round patio table inlaid with dark shiny squares accompanied by matching wicker chairs.  Jody and I sat there in a little alcove at the front of our home, enjoying a lemonade.  Just chatting.  A large rectangular table with ceramic squares on the deck out back … the site of many summer meals.  Two comfy loungers where we’d sit beside each other, reading our books and listening to the birds.  All vehicles for togetherness.  Goodbye vehicles.  The magic that you hold will stay in my heart, alongside my lovely wife Jodiette.

Then there was the Roper lawn tractor that breezed over the grass for many a year.  How marvelous to change the world from scruffiness to parkland in an hour.  And our snowblower.  I felt so accomplished in transforming impassible to a clear path for Hugo and Scarlet.

Later in the day, I struggled with weights in my strength training at Wellington Fitness.  Odd, I thought.  I didn’t have trouble with this amount of weight a few days ago.  Then I realized … not odd at all.  The emotional and the spiritual morph into the physical.  Such a journey we’re all on, of gain and loss.  May I embrace them both because both is what I will continue to receive.

Old chapter, new chapter.  Nice book.

Watching The Land

I drove from London towards Tarandowah this afternoon.  I was out in the country, on Scotland Drive.  And I looked around.

Lots of rolling farm fields interspersed with woodlots.  I love the curves of the land … no sharp angles or straight lines.  They mirror the flow I often feel inside me.  And there’s a sentinel tree on top of a rise, its bare branches reaching out in a gesture of grace.  Lovely.

But what’s this?  There’s a line of towers up ahead, crossing the road at right angles.  I know we need electricity but the huge man-made structures intrude in my head.  I thank the unknown powers that the towers aren’t paralleling Scotland Drive, accompanying me all the way.  Crossing their path, however, is okay.  I’m happy to wish them goodbye.

Here comes an old barn with its grey vertical boards.  Half of it has fallen down in a heap of wood.  And that too is okay.  I welcome the old and passing.  So impermanent, this life.

And then there’s a field, jam packed with solar panels, facing away from me.  My stomach turns.  It’s such a mass of flat angled surfaces.  The next field too.  How strange my mind wanders.  Solar energy is such a boon for mankind but I can’t get beyond my distaste for rectangles.  It reminds me of a subdivision in Calgary, Alberta – cookie cutter homes only a few feet from each other.

As Scotland climbs its last kilometre towards its T intersection with Belmont Road, I see living beings on the horizon … silhouettes of cows and horses.  I like that too.  Seems that I’m an old fashioned type of guy.

Creating A Day

 

Now that I’m firmly in place at the Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario, it’s time to compose a journey.  In my brain, I know that each day is one but I want that perception to become a deeper reality.  Centered on my days spent walking the fairways, I want to create a series of experiences that I can repeat many times.  Sort of an heroic quest … for breakfast … for sitting in a comfy chair, blogging or reading … for an evening meal and brew.

So I ventured forth this morning towards golfing heaven.  Where will breakie reside?  Avon doesn’t have any restaurants but the town of Belmont is nearby.  On a previous trip, I ‘d seen a sign for the Belmont Diner.  Just to be sure, I googled “Belmont restaurants” but no diner materialized.  Maybe the place is closed.  I remembered that there was a supermarket in the same building so I phoned there, and found out that the diner was alive and well and open till 2:00 each day.

I pulled into the parking lot and opened the door to a gaggle of conversation.  Six guys at one table, about twelve women at another.  Ahh … my kind of place.  I sat at the lunch counter and was greeted by a smiling waitress.  Later, she was there in a jiffy to refill my coffee when she saw the severe angle of my cup.  “It’s not my first day on the job, nor will it be my last.”  As I chowed down on my bacon and eggs, a conversation unfolded with a woman nearby, focused on our mutual love for Stephen King.  Very cool.

Next on my menu was that comfy chair.  I had discovered that Belmont has a library and that it was open today at 1:00.  And here I sit, tapping away.  Maria welcomed me and set me up with a library card.  Free Internet plus a space for me to enjoy Stephen or perhaps a book about the spiritual side of golf.  Oh … life is good.  It’s so quiet in here.  Just a customer or two.  And there’s a big old clock on the wall which reminds me of my grandpa’s farmhouse way back when.  Maria and I have chatted some about Belmont.  She’s even told me there’s a pub in town – The Barking Cat.  Hard to get my head around that name but sounds worth checking out.

I’m just about done here.  Even though it’s raining, I’m heading to Tarandowah.  Brought my umbrella.  I just might stroll the first fairway, with a song on my lips.

 

Day Forty-Three … The End of the Road

I got home at 2:30 this morning, after thirteen-and-a-half hours of driving from Eau Claire, Wisconsin.  There were trees.  There were fields.  But all I saw was home approaching.  Way after dark, the freeway narrowed to one lane each way, with miles of orange pylons showing the way for Scarlet and my tailgating semi-trailer friend.  I grabbed the wheel hard and then saw the futility of such behaviour.  Let go, Bruce.  Hold life lightly.

And I do hold my trip with tenderness.  All the astonishing people I met or remet.  All the cool conversations.  What does it all mean?  Well, one thing it means is that I’m meant to be around human beings, rather than retreating to a monastery for endless bliss.  I’m meant to learn from my fellow orbiters on the planet Earth.  To see their beauty and their pain and to accept it all.  And I’m meant to boldly go where I have not gone before, within both the interior and exterior landscapes.

In eleven days, I begin a long period of silence in Massachusetts.  I’ll be surrounded by 100 fellow retreatants.  What will I offer them, as we each reach towards the deeper meanings of life?  I don’t know.  The journey of connection will continue.  Last month’s mountains and prairie and next month’s fields and woodlots will be equally marvelous, but will pale in comparison to the human souls who will dance across my stage.

It’s such a privilege to be out and about.  Sadly, the second season of my travels will not be accompanied by nightly blog posts.  Just me and my body, me and my soul.  But I will reach you somehow.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my six-week road trip.  I couldn’t have done it without you.  Stay with me for part two, please.

Unknown Days

Twelve of them, right in front of me.  I’m starting to drive tomorrow to Massachusetts for a 9-day silent meditation retreat.  Silence begins on Friday evening for the 100 participants.  What a blessing, not needing to speak and make eye contact to have communion among us.  Although there are short times before and after the retreat for the “yogis” to talk to each other, it’s likely that I won’t meet most of them.  And yet I know we will touch each other in our hearts.

I don’t have any goals.  I’ll just let the next moment replace the previous one.  I don’t want to get better at anything.  Gosh, what an adventure this will be!

Since we’re not allowed to do any writing during the retreat, you won’t hear from me again until I get back.  I’ll create a post on Tuesday, April 14 to tell you all about it.

May you have great peace and satisfaction in the days between.

Walking in Port

Port Stanley is a cute village on the shores of Lake Erie, about four kilometres south of where I live in Union.  It was time to do a bit of strolling.  Pretty cold with a fair wind sweeping across the lake.  But the sun shone bright all day!  Toque and mitts well placed, I set off from the downtown.

Gosh, it felt good to move the legs.  I’ve done so little of that since Jody died.  I wanted to walk the long cement pier on the west side of Kettle Creek.  The snow had drifted high, and footprints stumbled unevenly along the way.  The flecks of diamond were in every drift.  I crunched along, trying to stay in the human holes, but I was jostled this way and that.  And I loved it.    Actually putting out some physical effort.  Yes.  Where oh where had my body gone?  Well, I know the answer to that.

When I stopped in the sun to look across the harbour, all was silent.  Even the wind was quiet.  Coming towards me on the path was a tiny human.  I thought I saw a dog beside, but a minute of walking towards each other proved that to be a mirage.  This was the only person I had seen so far … and I had an apparently strange thought.  “Make a contribution to his life, Bruce.”  When we reached each other, we both stopped and smiled.  And talked for five minutes – about the sketchy footing, the sun on our faces, the beauty of Port Stanley, and his home, Port Dover.  Just ordinary chat, but I knew that the contribution was made, in both directions.

When I got a clear view of the lake, I saw that the ice was all tumbled up, especially at the horizon.  Four little specks of humanity were way out there, frolicking on the white sculptures.  Now the wind was blasting hard.  Although I had thoughts of an heroic shoreline amble, my face turned itself onto a street that parallels the beach, where buildings would protect me from the breeze.  Ahh.  Heat those bones, Mr. Sun!

I walked by GT’s on the Beach, a roadhouse with a large patio facing the water.  Jody and I had sat on that patio many times over the years, watching the seagulls, watching the volleyball players, watching each other.  I was stopped by my sorrow.  A tree overhung the table where we often sat.  And Jody spoke.  “Yes, Bruce, I am this tree too, and I want you to sit under it again come the summer, hopefully with friends.  I’ll be there too, husband.”  I’m sure you will, my dear wife.  I’ll do as you ask.

At the end of the street was a dipsy doodle path that wound between tiny cottages before emerging onto another road, one with grand old homes.  And on I went.  After climbing an asphalt hill and turning right, I came upon a back alley that Jody and I had often enjoyed.  Some backyards faced me, and some front ones, as the alley led me on within the wonders of silence.  A wooded hill to my right showed me patterns of sun and shadow among the trees, where Jody welcomed me over and over again.

Eventually I emerged from my reverie into the moving cars of downtown.  Cold it was, which suggested the need for hot chocolate.  So I sat in a café as my hostess melted chocolate and added whipped cream and cinnamon.  What a worthy conclusion to an afternoon out in the world.

Silence, crunchy snow, wind in my face, sun in my soul.   I liked them all.