Tag Archives: Joy

I Get To Go

I’ve been on many silent retreats at the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts.  All of them have been at the Retreat Center, the facility at IMS which provides great support, and regular routines, for the yogis.  Basically, all one hundred of us would be doing sitting meditation at the same time – the same with walking meditation.  There’d be talks every evening to educate us about Buddhist principles and meditation.

There is another way at IMS … a second facility, called the Forest Refuge.  This is where you can work with a teacher in developing your own program.  Maybe really short walks and sits would be best.  Or a long sitting session of two hours (but for some yogis that would be far too long).  Fewer talks.

At the Forest Refuge, unlike the Retreat Center, yogis can read.  They can study some aspects of the Buddha’s wisdom in depth.  I’m especially interested in the Brahma Viharas: lovingkindness, compassion, empathetic joy and equanimity.  I’d like to deepen them in my life.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to apply for a month’s stay at the Forest Refuge.  I knew I could handle the independence.  So I did all the paperwork, including a detailed questionnaire … and waited.

One day stretched into two, four, seven.  I listened to what was inside.  “I’d love to have this opportunity.  I’m excited.  But IMS might say no.  I’d be sad.”  As time ran onwards, I watched my feelings ebb and flow.  And my thoughts would sometimes explode.  “What are they thinking?”  “Maybe I’m not good enough.”  “Of course I’m good enough.”

And yesterday, I just let go.  All is fine.

***

Lots of condo details to handle today.  Wrong toilet seats arrived – too big for the bowls.  Wanted to pick up the lights I’d ordered but some of them were still at the warehouse.  Kitchen counters won’t be ready until maybe September 26 but I can still move in on the 20th.

Take a break, Bruce.  See who’s e-mailed you.

And there it sat, titled “Your IMS Forest Refuge Acceptance”.  That last word barely registered.  Click and here was the letter:

“Dear Bruce,

Your application for retreat at IMS’s Forest Refuge has been approved, and I’m happy to say there is currently space available for your dates of February 1-28, 2017.” 

And lots of etcetera.

I stared.  I get to go.  I cried.  I get to go

Thank you

Day Eight: Saturday Notes

I sat in the lobby last night with many other folks, listening to Cuban musicians of the lovely guitar solos and sublime blendings of the voice.  It was the tender songs that moved me the most.  Those voices wafted over the couches and chairs, blessing us all.  I sat opposite a young family – mom, dad, and two kids.  During one of the fast numbers, mom stretched her arm out to ten-year-old daughter.  They found a clear space and proceeded to boogie, hand in hand.  Oh, the smiles!  Including a big one from dad, who was sending love from his seat.  I imagined him visualizing his daughter in a wedding dress, the two of them walking down the aisle.

***

Elisabeth is a young waitress in the lobby bar.  We laugh and she bubbles.  “All right, Bruce?”  As in “Do you want another drink?”  Always with a smile.  Yesterday she showed me her wedding pictures on her iPhone.  Hubby and wifer just glowed.  Elisabeth says she loves him the most because he’s kind.  A good way to be, young man.  She joys in her marriage and sorrows with me as I miss Jody.  Elisabeth knows very little about golf but looks thrilled when I talk about The Masters or the beauty of the swing.  She’s very smart … it’s just that golf isn’t part of her world.  I’m glad she’s part of mine, even if briefly.

***

I sat next to a skink yesterday, as least that’s what I’d call him if he was skittering across the boardwalk at Point Pelee in Ontario.  He’s a tiny lizard: body two inches and tail the same.  He clung to a nearby branch for at least fifteen minutes, making eye contact.  When he breathed, his throat expanded into a flag of orange.  Just Skinkie and Brudie hanging out.  Thanks, short one, for slowing me down.

***

It’s such a meditation to let the body do what it feels like doing, especially when the result is pain.  And a mystery.  I’m trying to take care of the physical form, with good nutrition and exercise as my energy allows, but well-being isn’t following at the moment.  “Let it be, Bruce.  You’re not going to die.  It’s just another square on the patchwork quilt of your life.”  Well said, whoever it is that’s talking.

***

I was sitting in a restaurant, minding my nutritional business, when a fellow approaches and asks “Are you Canadian?”  I didn’t answer him.  Instead, I sang “O Canada” as he gaped, I think amusedly.  How lovely to have my strategic brain turn off once in awhile and let the melody flow.  He laughed and applauded at the end.  I just laughed.

Day Three: Sunny

A tan’s the thing, is it not?  I figured my strategy was good … show up at the beach at 4:00 and stay a couple of hours, avoiding the most damaging rays of the sun.  Plus I slathered on SPF 30 and reapplied it halfway through.

My history of wanting a good tan goes way back to the teen years when I was sorely afraid of anyone seeing my white body.  But now I’m 67.  Does it really matter that I’m brown all over, that I return to friends in Canada with a bodily badge of honour?  I think not.

Still there I was yesterday on a sublime white sand beach, hauling a lounger out of its thatched shade so I could get the full meal deal.  I pulled off my t-shirt and shorts to reveal a sparkling lime green Speedo.  Last time here, I had little hesitation about prancing around in such skimpiness but this time I was afraid.

Maybe thirty posts ago, I talked about a physical problem I’ve developed.  I was sure scared to press “Enter” after that writing was done, but I did it, and then hoped that time would erase any record of the subject.  Well … here I go again.  I have benign cysts on my testicles such that the little guys have turned into big guys, two to three times their normal size.  Add that to the reality of wearing a Speedo and you can see my problem.  Before coming to Cuba, I’d decided that gym shorts would be my bathing suit.  Maybe I’d strip to my Speedo in the confines of my beach lounger but I sure wouldn’t walk around wearing it.

So there I lounged in the Speedo way, reading my book.  Yes, the urge came to get up and walk down the beach.  “No, Bruce!  People will … ”  Come on now – people will what?  “They’ll laugh, point, or maybe call security.”  Geez.  Just get up and stroll around.  So I did, first walking out to the shore and staring out at the infinite ocean.  Nobody tackled me.  So I turned right and dipsy doodled along the water’s edge.  Two or three folks did look at my central area but I kept going.  Then a young woman came up and asked me to take a picture of her family.  They were lined up looking at me as I fiddled with the camera.  I’m pretty sure I was blushing but I hoped they’d mistake it for sunburn.  I took too much time and the screen went blank.  So more time as she showed me how to get the camera going again.  Happily, no one stuck out their tongue or vomited, but I was dying inside.

I could have made a bee line back to my chair but instead, girding my loins, I meandered along the shore some more.  I climbed the steps up to the beach bar and ordered a pina colada, then walked in front of maybe fifty people back to my temporary home.  No bolt of lightning struck me down.  I was thrilled and astonished.  I did it.  And really it was just a couple of body parts that had gotten out of control.  I hummed a happy tune.

***

After supper, I sat in the lobby bar reading Birdie, the story of a Canadian aboriginal woman that almost won the Canada Reads competition on CBC Radio.  The heavens opened up before, during and after.  The bar is open to the elements, tempered by the translucent blinds that offered some protection from the rain.  What I experienced was delightful.  The lightest mist fell upon my face and arms … just like Niagara Falls.  The perfect end to a perfect day.  Or perhaps not.

I was in bed by 11:00 and up by 12:30.  The bod was on fire, not with a burn but with itching.  I turned on the light to see what was shaking.  What I saw was lots of tiny blisters adorning the newly tanning areas.  (Big sigh)  Sleep seemed impossible.  I knew that I had some hand lotion with me, so I rubbed that on.  More fire.  So into the shower I stumbled.  That helped a bit.  I took the second sleeping pill of the evening and lay down again.  The itching continued.  I resigned myself to a largely sleepless night.  That was about 1:30.  I woke up at 9:00.  The blisters were gone.  Thank you, Jodiette, and other beings who watch over me.

Bye bye, tan.  From now on, I’m staying in the shade – under the thatched huts on the beach and hanging loose in the lobby bar.  My cold is full speed ahead.  My energy is way down low.  But my soul is happy.  Quite the adventure, this life of ours.

My Golf … Yesterday

I couldn’t take it any longer.  I had to drive to Tarandowah and walk the fairways.  Since the temperature was 5 degrees Celsius, I didn’t think I’d have company.  But there were five cars gently reposing in the parking lot.  Golf is such an addiction.

I walked into the clubhouse and said hi to Dave, the pro.  I remembered him and he remembered me.  I told him how I loved the course, how I had given up on golf being a part of my future, and how I was going to turn that around.  Now that I’m strength training and doing yoga, why can’t I have a smooth and powerful swing?  What will help is the lesson I’m having on Tuesday with a golf pro in London, a session that may be the first of many.  I’m not letting my favourite sport go.

Something was bubbling up inside me.  It was love of the land that is Tarandowah.  I had to get out there and walk.  Dave said that would be fine.  Not many players today.  (No doubt.)  So outside I went to the first tee.  I must have stood there for five minutes.  I was home.

I walked slowly down the fairway, pausing here and veering there.  The top of a mound in the rough beckoned me so I lingered there as well, gazing out at the beloved hole, plus its neighbours.  And no exaggeration with the word “beloved”.  These holes are my friends.

I loved gazing into the deep bunkers.  I’m so glad that there are over a hundred of them on the course.  On the green, I revelled in the dips and dives and imagined my putter navigating them with ease.  Guess you could say I have a vivid imagination!

On I strolled, pretty much in heaven.  Behind a mound near the fifth green, I found a spot where I could put down a chair, nestle into my book while listening to the birds and the nearby golfers.  And no one would see me from there.  I figure I’ll leave that experience for the warmer months, but fear not – I will sit there.

I walked all eighteen holes, experiencing eighteen companions.  Often I was astonished by the beauty.  I knew that I wanted this in my life.  As I left the eighteenth green and meandered towards the clubhouse, I realized that I was going to become a member at Tarandowah, not in some vague future but before I leave for Cuba on Thursday.  Will my lesson(s) give me the confidence that I’ll find people willing to play with me on this difficult course?  Yes.  I’m going to walk these fairways for years and years.  Happiness is …

My Golf … The History

Why fight it?  I’m passionate about golf and have been ever since I was a teenager.  In terms of my current spiritual life, the tendency of Buddhists like me is to think in terms of “ascent” – opening to ever more rarified forms of consciousness.  But “descent” is another possibility – seeing the transcendent in worldly activities, in experiences of the body.  Both approaches contribute to my well-being.  So here I am once more descending into golf.

My passion for the game has been under wraps for a few years but I can feel it re-emerging.  For the past few days, I’ve been reminiscing about my past golfing life, and how I’ve seen the sport as symbolic of life’s journey.

As a kid, I spent a couple of weeks every summer on grandpa’s farm near Dunsford, Ontario.  I remember teeing it up near the lane and trying to reach a fence maybe 120 yards away with my drives.  I don’t think I ever succeeded but I sure had fun, even though I lost a lot of balls in the grain.

A few hundred yards down the road was a nine-hole course – the Dunsford Golf Club.  I spent so many hours walking those fairways alone, hitting the occasional shot that felt so pure, so effortless.  I was becoming a human being.

Back home in Toronto, I discovered the Don Valley Golf Course.  Juniors could play early in the morning.  Even earlier, as the sun rose, I usually was scouring the banks of the Don River in search of golf balls.  Once, I walked onto the 18th tee, a par four, having consumed 84 strokes in my round.  A bogey five and I would break 90 for the first time in my life.  The river crossed in front of the green.  After my drive landed fine in the fairway, I stood over the ball.  I was nervous.  Put the ball into the drink and there’d go the milestone achievement.  Instead I swung smoothly and watched the ball soar onto the green.  Two putts later, I had an 88.  Never since have I broken 90 … but the future beckons.

Even way back then, I loved watching the professionals play.  I’ve stood behind Jack Nicklaus on the tee in Toronto and Calgary, watching the ball continue to climb.  One time I stepped on Gary Player’s ball, happily in a practice round.  I’ve seen the majesty of St. George’s Golf and Country Club in Toronto.  More recently, I’ve followed women pros as they navigated the rolling fairways of my hometown London Hunt and Country Club.  Usually in a blissed-out frame of mind.

Golf is in my genes, I guess.  A resonating part of my life for so many years.  Yes, it’s been underground for awhile but you can’t keep a good sport down.  On I go into a journey of rediscovery.

Home In The Arena

I made it to Erie, Pennsylvania in just under five hours.  The US customs guy told me to enjoy the game.  Just what I was planning.

After a brewski and sandwich at the Erie Ale House, I walked towards the arena.  Just like in London, fans were streaming in from the side streets.  People were excited.  I sure was.  I couldn’t wait to sit beside Erie fanatics and tell them I was from London.

And that’s what happened.  I sat beside John and Sharon from Jamestown, New York.  Just in front of me was Sondra, a cowbell-ringing season ticket holder who was taking in the game with her husband.  All four of them were decked out in bright Erie Otters jerseys – red, yellow and white.

I told my cross-border friends about Canadians singing the American national anthem on Friday.  Her response?  “We always sing ‘O Canada’ at the games.”  (Almost all of the teams are Canadian.)  So I decided to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” two nights in a row.  An awesome quartet led us in the songs but we five gave ‘er too.  Great fun.

My companions razzed me about the London Knights always getting favorable calls from referees.  I told them I was deeply sorry that Erie would be relegated to second place after London whipped them.  Back and forth with the banter.  Most importantly, back and forth with the smiles.  When Erie was struggling in their own zone, Sondra would yell “Get it out!”  Naturally I countered with “Keep it in!”  Oh we laughed.

Erie scored the first goal.  All around me Erieites leapt to their feet and poured out the contents of their lungs.  I sat and gave a good pout and in return was offered a high five … which I accepted.

Then London scored!  I too was up like a shot, cheering and waving.  I looked around at my neighbours.  Most were smiling at me.  I didn’t want to be an ugly Canadian but I did want to celebrate.

Erie’s arena seats 6500, smaller than London but at least equal in energy.  How they love their team.  The Otters beat the Knights 4-2 last night, scoring an empty net goal in the last few seconds.  Erie Insurance Arena erupted in an orgasm of delight.  I just loved being there.  Human beings caught in the throes of joy, at least about 6480 of them.

This afternoon, I drive those same five hours back home.  Am I disappointed we lost the game?  Yes.  Does it matter?  No.  People matter and I met some great ones yesterday.

Adventure

I was driving into the big city yesterday to work out at the gym when I realized that our local junior hockey team, the London Knights, was playing in the evening.  These young players, ages 16 to 20, were battling the Erie Otters for all the marbles.  The two teams were tied at the top of the Ontario Hockey League standings with only two games left – last night in London and today in Erie, Pennsylvania.

“Go to the game, Bruce.”  Okay, who am I to argue?  Except that I figured all 9000 tickets would be gone.  I’m so glad that, even though my pessimistic voice has its time, I usually don’t agree.  So … I found a parking space within a block of Budweiser Gardens (Magic!) and strode towards the box office.  My hostess, after conferring with her computer screen, said, “We have one ticket left, sir.”  Oh my goodness!  I took it with considerable glee.

Hours later, there I sat in the arena heavens, not caring at all that I was miles from the action.  I was in the building and that was enough.  I wanted to experience  all those folks cheering for the home side.  I wanted to feel the energy, win or lose.

Before the opening faceoff, a gaggle of little kids trooped onto the ice for the national anthems.  As their leader swept into conducting, the children started “The Star-Spangled Banner.”  Off key and loveable.  And then … the voices stopped.  The young’uns either got too nervous, forgot the words, or something.  Silence.  But only for a few seconds.  What happened next will stay with me for the rest of my life.  I would say that a few thousand of us Canadians picked up the melody and ran with it.  We sang our neighbours’ song.  No Canada/US good/bad silliness.  Just kind people who didn’t want to leave the kids hanging.  Truly a wow.

The game was stunning.  And London won!  I sprang from my seat at every London goal.  Joy flooded the arena.  Ahh.

And now there’s one final game, tonight in Erie.  If the Knights win, we’re league champions.  If we lose in overtime, we’re still champions.  If Erie wins in regulation time, they’re the top of the hill.

As I drove back to Union, my mind exploded.  “Go to Erie tomorrow, Bruce.”  But there won’t be any tickets left.  (Sounds familiar.)  “Drive the five hours there.  Get a hotel.  Go to the game!”  I bet you can see where this is leading.  There were a few single tickets left.  Check.  The Albion Hotel, just a few blocks away from the Erie Insurance Arena, will welcome me.  Check.  I’m all gassed up.  Check.

Within half an hour, I’ll be on the road.  I love it.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll tell you more about my epic quest.  Much fun.

We Play On

Tonight was the night!  I dressed formal, vaguely remembering how to tie a Windsor knot.  Then Renato and I headed to the London airport.  Thirty white chairs sat in the concourse.  Slowly they filled … with musicians from the former Orchestra London.  When they lost their government funding, the organization went into bankruptcy, but many of the members continued playing as the We Play On Orchestra..

In front of the podium hung a red sign: “Conduct Us!”  So we did.  Young and old and medium.  Musicians and novices.  Those with confidence and those shaking in their boots.

When it was my turn, I took the baton from the concertmaster (the number one violinist), stepped onto the podium, tapped the music stand and raised my arms.  Smiles from many of the players.  Then we were off, into some fast Christmas piece whose name I can’t remember.  I swirled my arms during the loud parts and pulled in my limbs during the tender sections.  I was a conductor!  And I was enthralled.  A female violinist to my left kept grinning.  Actually she did so for every one of the conductors, maybe thirty in all.  Oh, bliss!  I had so looked forward to tapping that stand and directing such immensely talented musicians.  Dreams do come true.

Here are a few of my favourite moments:

  1. A little boy doesn’t want to take off his baseball cap off when conducting.  A helpful adult turned it around so we could see his face.  Then he gave ‘er.
  2. A young woman in a green down coat clearly had never done this before but soldiered on with a huge smile adorning her face throughout.  Wild applause from her friends standing at the back.
  3. A 2-year-old girl wearing a pink toque is carried by her mom and together they lead the orchestra.  Later, when another child was on the podium, the little one kept conducting in the wings, using a pink straw to great effect.
  4. A man in his twenties keeps a steady beat while his girlfriend films the whole thing.  When the piece was over, he sat down beside her.  They held hands and she leaned her head against his neck.
  5. As her young daughter conducts, mom holds her cell phone high and just beams love.  An eternal smile … ecstasy beyond words.
  6. An elderly man gives it his all.  His technique was muted, a little bit jerky, but the universe doesn’t care.  He led.  The musicians followed.  It was good.
  7. A 10-year-old girl grabs the baton and jerks it up and down with gusto, then starts dancing mid-performance.  The podium survived nicely.

Throughout, the concertmaster welcomed each conductor, encouraging the nervous ones, and letting the folks with more confidence do their thing.  Instruments came alive in the hands of professional Christmas celebrators.  Violin, cello, viola, double bass, trumpet, trombone, bassoon, clarinet, drums, and others not remembered – all were happy to be there.  So were the throngs coming in on the latest flight and their loved ones there to pick them up.  A fine time was had by all.

“God bless us, every one”

 

 

Twas

Twelve years ago my friend Carol, who was working at the library in Port Stanley, Ontario, came up to me with a request.  Would I “do something” at the Christmas talent show for the kids who attend library programs?

“Sure.”

Then Carol whips out the sheets of paper she was hiding behind her back.  Behold the words for “Twas The Night Before Christmas”.  Once I calmed down, and found out that I’d be wearing a nightgown and a stocking cap, and hoisting a candle onstage, I agreed.  “Okay, I’ll read the poem to the kids.”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“No reading.  Lots of memorizing.”

That was October.  After many visits to Sebastian’s restaurant in London, and much caffeine, and two months of cramming, I actually knew all the words.  And my performance at the show was a rousing success (or so I fantasize).

The next year I decided to take my act on the road.  I was an itinerant teacher of visually impaired students, and visited a lot of schools.  I asked my elementary teaching friends if they’d like me to recite in their classrooms, and many said yes.

So began years of Santa poem renditions.  Thousands of kids watched and listened. There was much happiness within me and, I think, in the hearts of the young’uns.

Which brings me to today.  My friend Heather had arranged for me to speak to ten classes, ranging from kindergarten to Grade 5.  I hadn’t done Twas last year, since my heart was heavy with Jody’s death.  But now I was eager.

The kids were so close to me, typically sitting on a carpet in front of my rocking chair.  Those young faces in the front row looked way up at me.  And I got on a roll.  Words tumbled out and so did audience smiles:

The children were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads

When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer

His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry

He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle

There was enthusiastic applause as I finished.  I was pleased.  But I knew that Part Two follows Part One.  I told the kids about a moment three years ago.  It was early December.  I had accompanied Jody to the doctor’s office and was sitting alone in the waiting room.  Alone except for the receptionist, that is.  I then did what any normal person would have done in this situation:

“Would you like me to recite ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas’?”

“Uhh … sure.”

Ignoring the woman’s somewhat muted enthusiasm, I launched into my shtick.  And I’d say she was much happier as I ended with “Merry Christmas to all … and to all a good night.”

And here came Jody out of the inner office, accompanied by a nurse.  Once more I offered my services.

“No, Bruce.  We don’t have time.  We need to get home, wrap those presents, and get them to the post office today, or they won’t get to Alberta by Christmas.”

I was scared, but decided to carry on.

“Well, what if I say it fast?”

“Do you know how to say it fast?”

“I’ve never tried, but let me give it a shot.”

“Okay, but hurry.”

And thus began my second “Night Before Christmas” career – “Speedy Twas”.

Oh my.  Kids laugh and laugh.  And so do I.  My record has been one minute and twenty-eight seconds.  Today, one class of small people challenged me to go low.  As the second hand closed in on 12, there was a hush.  And then bursts of excitement as I sallied forth.  Small cheers erupted as I blurted out “His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.”  One minute.  I heard “Go, go, go!” in my head.  It was 1:10 when Santa sprang to his sleigh.

I collapsed into “And to all a good night” while one young soul yelled out “1:19!”  Oh my goodness.  It’s a new world record.  And what a good boy am I.

I looked at all those upturned mouths, with several bodies lying flat on the carpet, in various stages of writhe.  And I knew … I was home.

May Christmas come every year
May the words always fill my head
And may children laugh

Ecstasy

I’m having appointments up the ying yang – fun lunches and suppers, maintenance for both of my cars, and yesterday a complete physical from my dear doctor Julie.

I was in the waiting room before being called into the inner sanctum when I decided to check e-mails on my Samsung phone.  It was just me and a young woman with her infant son.

Oh, look.  A message from the president of the Elgin Theatre Guild.

“I spoke with the director of Jake’s Women and he is coming to ETG on Monday at one o’clock to audition a child for the play.   He says if you want to be here too he will audition you too!!! 

As they say in short speak … OMG!  I’m bouncing up and down on my chair and my companion is checking me out, with a smile.  Seems to me that I had a pretty good one myself.

I had hoped that the director would give me an audition during the one week I’m home in September, between my Western Canada trip and my long meditation retreat in Massachusetts.  But now?  OMG again.

I was just beside myself.  Well, actually not, since the chair was empty, but you know what I mean.  “What’s true, Bruce?”  “I am Jake, in every sinew of my U-shaped body.”  Strangely, I’m not nervous.  I suppose the fellow will have me read a few paragraphs of something, make me stand on my head, sing a little number … Who knows?  It doesn’t matter.  In the words of a martial artist, “Just put yourself on the mat.”  So I will.  Pray for me please, if that’s your way.  If not, just close your eyes at 1:00 pm and chant “Bruce”.  Okay, you don’t have to do that either.