Tag Archives: Love

Strings Of The Heart

I’ve rediscovered tennis over the last week, first in person at the men’s Rogers Cup tournament in Toronto, and then on TV as the men and the women (in Montreal) battled for the championship.

I played tennis long ago and, just like golf, would occasionally hit a great shot that kept my spirits high.  But eventually the knees said no to the quick movements needed on the court.  My love went underground.

Sitting in the stands a few days ago, I was enthralled with the brilliant strokes … a zooming serve that just caught the line, a thirty-shot rally that exhausted both players, a sweet drop shot that just ticked over the net, and a high lob over the opponent’s head.  So cool.  It was mano à mano, and womano à womano on TV, each one drawing the best from the other.

Last Monday night, I watched Denis Shapovalov, a 17-year-old Canadian, best Nick Kyrgios, one of the top-20 players in the world.  On match point, the energy in the Aviva Centre was astonishing.  Transformational.

As stirring as the competition was, another factor emerged for me – the personality of the athlete.  Some stoic and strong and tough, almost machine-like.  But one player’s humanity caught my attention.  I watched a match on TV between Canada’s darling Eugenie Bouchard and Kristina Kucova from Slovakia.  Genie was supposed to win but Kristina was tenacious.  And as the last stroke was struck, the winning Kristina went down on her knees, overwhelmed with joy.  She was ranked 121st in the world and wasn’t supposed to be doing what she was doing.

On Saturday, Kristina played Madison Keys, a hard-hitting American, in the semi-finals.  Madison’s serve was so fast, and smacked into corners that Kristina couldn’t touch.  Late in the match, as the players rested in their chairs between points, TV showed us a tear rolling down Kristina’s cheek.  My heart and soul stopped.  I was lost in the beauty of the moment.

In 50 minutes, the contest was over.  Madison completely dominated.  Kristina walked off the court crying.  She later told the press she was sorry that she hadn’t given Madison a better battle, and that she had let down the fans.  Not this fan.  Give me a full human being any day.

Next summer, the women come to Toronto for the Rogers Cup.  I’ll be there … in Kristina’s court.

Haida Gwaii … The Best Ten Minutes

From June 12 to the 19th, I was a passenger on a 90-foot wooden ship which was built in 1904.  The Maple Leaf took us to wondrous spots amid the islands of Haida Gwaii (formerly the Queen Charlotte Islands).  We were an hour-and-a-half north of Vancouver by plane.

There is much to say, so why don’t I start at the end?

The last evening on board, Captain Greg invited us into the wheelhouse for a slide show of our trip.  That’s why he and First Mate Ashley were taking all those photos!  We cozied up and watched our moments together .. so many smiles and cheers!

As the last slide showed its face, Greg asked us to think of our favourite ten minutes on board or on shore.  Someone next to me started.  I wasn’t a good human being right then.  Instead of listening, I prepared my oration.  I would talk about a time when we were in our Zodiac inflatable boat and Greg took us into a cave opening.  It was sublimely green and quiet.  And so were we (the quiet part, I mean).  Okay, I’m ready.

“Why don’t we go in this direction.  Bruce?”

Inside, the voice said “No”.  No to the cave.  Yes to … the log.  I protested to myself a bit.  “Nobody wants to hear that.”  >  “The log.”

And so I began.  “My favourite ten minutes was a time when I was terrified.  We were walking through the forest.  I was last in line.”  As we rounded a luxuriant corner, there sat a log across a creek.  It was a big log, with a one foot flat part shaved off the top for walking.  I gulped inconspicuously.  I’m afraid of heights.  Whether the drop is six feet or six hundred, my brain puts me in trouble.

“It’s okay, Bruce.  Just walk assertively.”  The journey was maybe thirty feet.  I was about ten feet on when our mother-daughter duo (Jenny and Miranda), made a joyful decision to sit down amidships for a photo op.  Trudy, our naturalist, was ready on the far shore with a camera.  The three of them were all giggly.  Such happiness in the face of disaster.

There I was, nowhere to go.  My muscles tightened.  I froze.  I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and walk off the way I came.  “Say something, Bruce.  You need help.”  >  “But what will they think of me?”  >  “Speak.”

“Trudy, I have big balance issues.”

In a shot, Trudy put down the camera and splashed across the creek.

In a shot, Miranda leapt up from the log and was walking towards me.

Miranda reached out for my right hand.  Trudy reached out for the left.  We held tight.  And there was the union I long for in life.  Timeless.  The three of us walked back to the safety of the trail.  And then we crossed the creek on a few stones.

Caves?  Eagles?  Humpback whales?  All marvelous.  But none of them was the best.

 

Homeless

Jody and I bought our home on Bostwick Road in 1994.  It’s been the scene of our joys and some sorrows.  Cuddling on the couch in the family room.  Enjoying evening fires on the patio.  Being together during my dear wife’s illness, including a day when Jodiette took 400 steps with her walker on the driveway.  Home.

Except it’s not that anymore.  The energy of Jody and Bruce is everywhere I look.  All those moments together, tied to the house and the yard.  Spots inside and out are no longer magic … they’re flat.  How can that be?  Well, it doesn’t matter how.  It just is.

Jody and I planted three magnolia bushes on our front lawn when we moved in.  Today they’re trees 20 feet tall.  Last week they were in full glorious bloom, white flowers with a touch of pink and the sweetest scent.  Absolute beauty in the world.  In previous Mays I plunked a folding chair amid them and drank in the glory.  But in 2016 I didn’t want to do that.  I should want to, said my brain.  I decided to follow my heart and stay away.  How fascinating to be in paradise but not feeling it.  Wow.  I need to be somewhere else (such as a lovely-to-be condo in Belmont).

I don’t want to sit on my patio and listen to the birds.  I don’t want to sink deep into my couch.  I don’t want to sit in my man chair, eating breakfast and reading the paper.

Jody understands.  “Create a new life, Bruce, in a new home.  It’s not that you’re forgetting me.  You’ll be flying again, and I’ll be there with you.”  Thank you, my love.  Fly I will.

Home With The Kids

I went to a musical last week at the Palace Theatre in London. The stars were all 13- or 14-years-old.  For six years I taught at St. Mary Choir School and these kids were in Grade 5 during my last year there.  Now they’re in Grade 8, ready to graduate.

What I witnessed was the wonder of The Lion King Junior.  As the show opened, a shaman walked onto the stage, dressed in flaming red, adorned with fierce makeup, and holding a walking stick.  She sang “The Circle Of Life” with a deeply vibrant voice and amazing stage presence.  Fourteen became ageless.

I watched Simba and Mufasa and Zazu and all their friends.  I heard “Hakuna Matata” and “Can You Feel The Love Tonight?”.  All with my mouth slightly ajar.  How music and soul can reach us.

My best moments of the evening were not about what was happening on the stage.  In front of me sat a dad and his young daughter.  She found his lap more comfy than her seat.  There they sat, with the love between them so obvious.  At one point, she reached her arms back and clasped her hands at the back of his neck.  Truly lovely.

Before the show, I talked to one of my favourite students from my St. Mary’s days.  I’ll call her Holly.  She’s in Grade 10 now.  Such a glowing spirit from back then … and still.  Holly is looking at law as a career.  I told her that she speaks so well, and that it would be a good fit for her.  Actually, it didn’t matter what we talked about.  Our love for each other was in the air.

After the show, another former student, now in Grade 9, hugged me.  She’ll be Amanda in this story.  When she was in Grade 5, she gave me the DVD Elf as a Christmas present.  Such a cool thing to do.  Our few minutes of talking were timeless.  Caring for each other doesn’t stop just because we’re not in the same setting anymore.

All these wonders make me want to have kids but I guess that’ll have to wait for my next lifetime.  For the time being, I’ll revel in the moments.

Day Nine: Saying Goodbye

Is saying goodbye to dear ones different for me in Cuba, since I’ve only known these folks for days?  Yes and no.  The moment of meaning can be just as deep here as with someone I’ve known for years.  The time shines … or it doesn’t.

Hector is one of the attendants at the gym in the village beside my hotel.  He’s a young guy, very enthusiastic, without much English.  He’s let me know, however, that he’s impressed with me working out in my 60’s.  He figures that most Cuban men don’t lift a finger past 40.  Hector has helped me understand some of the strength training machines, such as how to adjust the torso twist.  All done with a huge smile.

Yesterday, he played American songs on his iPhone as I was doing yoga.  While lying on my back, I was singing Elvis’ “Jailhouse Rock”, with all four feet and hands dancing in the air.  Hector laughed.  And I’m pretty partial to anyone who laughs at me.

I had money in my pocket for a tip and something inside told me I needed to give it to him right then.  He was so happy to receive the gift, and then told me he was about to leave for a week’s vacation.  Thank goodness I followed my inner guidance.  I’ll miss him.

Last night, Elisabeth was serving me in the lobby bar.  What a sweet person, endlessly animated in the eyes.  She told me she was about to go on a week’s vacation.  Oh, the sadness.  I asked her where she lived.  She said Santa Clara, a three-hour bus ride away.  Six hours of commuting a day!  She talked again about her husband, and of Jody.  We both love our spouses so much.  Now she gets to spend a week with him.  We said how much we’ll miss each other.  We held hands.  We hugged.  We said goodbye.

Now it’s a day later, and I’m back in the lobby bar.  Celida, a waitress who’s served me several times, comes up and asks “Do you miss Elisabeth?”  “Yes.”  (So much)  Celida then said “She talked about you.  She loves you.”  I started crying.  How can a 20-year-old Caribbean woman move me so much?

Two young Cubans whose lives are very different from mine.  And just the same.

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 …

Jody’s Clothes

My dear wife died in November, 2014.  That December, I walked into our closet with the finest intention of getting her clothes out of the house.  I lasted half an hour.  I kept finding articles of clothing that I loved seeing Jody wear, many tops and pants that I’d washed with tender loving care.  So I walked out of that closet.

Then there were fifteen months of co-existing with Jody’s clothes, trying to block their presence from my mind.  That didn’t work.  A glimpse here, a glimpse there … a memory here, a memory there.

A few days ago, and again today, I began again.  Still a few tears but it was easier.  I slowly folded each of Jody’s things and laid them in large transparent bags.  They gazed at me from within.

Jody loved colour.  Right now I’m looking at a pair of funky pants in a jungle motif.  The greenest of leaves and the reddest of orchids interspersed with lions, tigers and leopards – all looking quite fierce.  Jodiette was in her element wearing this explosion of energy.  And here are soft flannel jammies, adorned with sheep brimming with wool against a pastel blue background.  Even when she was sleeping my beloved was a fashion statement!  Finally for your inspection is a vibrant top that looks like a patchwork quilt.  No pastels here.  Instead there are deep shades of purple, pink and green, with strands of material standing up beyond the surface of the garment, highlighting gay flowers.  Oh my wife.  That’s so you.

This afternoon I took five full bags to Goodwill.  It makes me smile to imagine the expressions on women’s faces when they find Jody’s treasures.  They’ll wear them well.  My dear one is happy.

Jodiette Fifteen Months Later

My dear wife Jody died in November, 2014 and here we are in February, 2016.  How I still miss her.  I remember our walks, our talks and our cuddling.  I remember her wonderful smile.

I’m alone in our home now.  And I’m just getting comfortable with the words “my home”.   Every morning and every night, I stand in front of a photo of Jody that I took in Quebec City in 2008.  We’re in a restaurant and she’s looking at me with love.  Now I moisten the index finger of my right hand and press it to her lips.  “I love you, Jodiette.”  And the answer comes, “I love you, Bruce … very much.”

We still talk  every day and no doubt some people wonder when I tell them that.  It’s okay.  We all have our own perspective on what’s real.  “I’m here, husband.  I want you to be happy.  It’s time to find a new love.  I’m cheering you on.”  With my wife’s urging, I’ve signed up for the dating website Zoosk.  I’ve had one date with a happy woman and we’re going out to dinner next week.  Time will tell.

I don’t cry for Jody every day.  I’d say it’s about two out of three.  My eyes fill with tears when the moment beckons.  The timing is unpredictable.  Many times, instead of getting choked up, a little smile crosses my face as I think of my dear one.  We had our joys, we had our problems, and always we had our love.   Thank you, Jodiette, for staying with me, for continuing to love me.

New chapters will reveal themselves and Jody will journey through them with me.  I’ll be able to give myself fully to whomever emerges as my future love without Jody looming over the new relationship.  But my wife will be with me always.

I was in Wimpy’s Diner a couple of days ago for breakfast.  Kelly is a waitress there and we had a good talk.  I had given her a copy of Jody’s book.  She told me that her young daughter saw Jody’s picture on the cover.

“Mommy, her very beautiful.”

After Kelly told the girl our story, the wise one said, “Her more pretty now that her an angel.”

Thank you, little girl.  You’re so right.

 

 

Jane Siberry

I listened to Jane Siberry at the Aeolian Hall in London last night.  She’s a Canadian singer-songwriter who goes her own way.  She has refused to adjust her songs so they’ll be more commercially acceptable.  She’s raised money for her own record label instead of bowing down to the profit-first demands of corporations.  It’s quite the breath of fresh air just reading this.  More so when she walked onto the stage.

Jane sings of love and Spirit:

I love you, yes I do
I love everything about you
I love how you laugh in your sleep
How you smell of roses when you weep
I love your style
your wide-open prairie smile
Hide not your light under a bushel

***

Marjorie works the diner
At the five and dime
Making sure that no one feels alone
She’s famous for her kindness
And her Solomon’s advice
But if you saw her on the bus
You’d not look twice

***

Oh darlin, only touch the things that turn you on
Let whatever makes you dark and dull and drained be gone
Even if people criticize you and say you’re wrong

***

The heart is worn on her sleeve.  Sometimes, the midst of a gorgeous tune and lyrics, Jane started talking to us, in a stream-of-consciousness fashion.  She laughed a lot.  At one point she said, “I guess you’re used to a break.”  She usually pushes on through to the end.  A woman who’s totally herself … no apologies, no arrogance, no pretense.  It was lovely to see.

Jane was embarrassed to talk about us buying a CD at intermission.  Still, she offered us an “ambassador CD”.  “Give it to someone who might be interested in my music.”  Buy one, give one.  So cool.

There was no announcement of the last number.  Jane just said something like “That’s it.”  After we absorbed this message, almost all of us rose for a standing O.  It was well deserved.  Once the applause had settled, she simply said “I’d like to do an encore.  None of this going offstage and then coming back on.”  So she sat down at her piano and gave us more of her soul.  Easily remembered, this Jane Siberry.

Zoosk

I never would have thunk it … I’ve spent most of my evening on a dating website.  Who, me?  First of all, I haven’t dated for 30 years and that was with my lovely pre-wife Jodiette.  Gasp … I don’t know what to do!  Well, I suppose being an ordinary human being would be a good place to start.

It’s now 14 months since Jody died.  And I can feel it: I’m ready for a relationship, one that could be love for the rest of my life.  My goodness, how thrilling … and terrifying.  I don’t want to be alone.  I want to love and be loved.  I’m going to Cuba in April and somehow I want to go with a fine woman.  Maybe the timing is unrealistic but it’s sure fun being in the ballgame.

Yesterday and today, I’ve looked at the profiles of hundreds of women: divorced, separated, widowed.  All of us reaching out for love.  I hope all of us being truthful about the person we are.  Human beings wanting to be happy.

I’ve sent messages to six women who appeal to me.  They all seem kind and alive and independent.  So far no one has replied, and that’s a good healthy jolt to the ego.  I’m no perfect person but I am a good person.  Someone out there in Zooskland will see that.  Sometime in the weeks ahead, I’ll be in a coffee shop with a woman.  We’ll discover each other some.  Maybe there’ll be a second date, maybe not.  But love definitely looms ahead for me.  It’s what both Jody and I want.

Me on a dating site.  Makes me smile.