Tag Archives: Peace

Day Seven: The Masters

As my body was saying no to me yesterday, I retreated to something I love … golf.  Specifically to the pro tournament I love the best – The Masters – at the Augusta National Golf Club in Augusta, Georgia.  For decades, I’ve wanted to be there, but tickets only seem available to the privileged few.

So it’s been me and my TV.  And I’ve become friends with some of the holes I’ve gazed upon over the years.  Friends with the greenest of fairways, the vibrant azalea bushes, the par 3 12th over Rae’s Creek, the par 5 15th with its second shot offering the invitation to fly your ball onto the green from far away.  I don’t know how it can feel like home, but it does.  The spirits of long gone golfers still walk the fairways … Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazen and Byron Nelson, as do the heroes I grew up with, thankfully still with us … Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player.

Yesterday I pulled up a chair in front of the lobby bar TV and watched the drama for three hours.  I was happy.  Yes, the beach is out there somewhere but I was in my spot, reliving the joys of yesteryear, except now it’s Jordan Spieth, Rory McIlroy and Jason Day addressing the ball.

On this vacation, I’ve not only reread my favourite golf novel – Golf In The Kingdom – I’m now re-rereading it.  Such an obsessed young man.  Here’s a passage:

One day he shot a ninety, yes a ninety, my friends, and laughed and complimented me all the way.  Had a grand time, he did, never looking back at par, never panickin’ or cursin’, just steady through it a’, the same as he always is.  And that I say is the mark o’ a brave and holy man, that he can retreat like that from par without a whimper.

I don’t know if I saw any holy men on TV yesterday.  I did notice a lot of angst, wild gesturing and talking to oneself.  No one broke 70, the first time that’s happened since 2007.  Sterling golfers such as Phil Mickelson missed the cut.  He double bogeyed both the 15th and 16th holes, including a wayward launch into the pond guarding the par 3.

Golf is such a seductive and oft punishing game, mixed in with the moments where club and ball unite on the sweet spot.  To regularly bring forth sweetness during a round on the links is truly the gift of a great spirit.  I want to be a man like that.

I found myself cheering for par while watching the action unfold, hoping that nobody would end the day with a sub-par score.  Let the huge obstacles wash over you and may you revel in walking the fine earth.  It turned out that seven players finished round two under par, with the total number of strokes they were under adding up to only 14.  Today, I hope this number diminishes to zero.  The game is bigger than all of us.  May the lessons inherent in stumbling, hooking, slicing and missing three-foot putts flow into the rest of our lives.

At 3:00 today, I’ll be back in the lobby, continuing my unusual vacation.  Following my bliss.  Watching life.

Day Four: Triangle

I was looking for a quiet spot yesterday and I found one.  On the other side of a walkway beside the lobby bar is a little sitting area, shaded by a canopy of big green leaves over a trellis.  It was full of wicker chairs, with comfy cushions for the back and bum.  No waiters coming by with an offer of drinks.  Just peace.  As well as exploring the pages of Birdie, I watched the flow of humanity across the way.  Since I was well to the side of their field of vision, nobody seemed to detect me.  But I detected them.  Couples holding hands, young kids scampering ahead of their parents.  Folks with canes.  Most of the guys had facial hair, unlike a certain observer I know.

Twelve wooden posts supported the trellis.  The hard branches of the plants wound their way around half of them.  On the ceiling’s edges, green leaves waved in the wind.  And such a sublime breeze.  The fairies tickling my face.

I needed this.  To be alone, without conversation.  To reflect on life, on my love of golf, on what it means to be an aboriginal woman in Canada.  Some of me was here and now, watching the high-pitched black birds hop from chair to chair and then hoist themselves into the nest of branches above.  Another part was there and then, imagining myself on the practice tee at Tarandowah, actually hitting shots high in the air.  I’m fine with both ways of being.

I have a favourite spot in the lobby bar.  I’m sitting here right now.  It’s where I tap on my laptop and go on the Internet to obsess about Brooke Henderson.  From my chair under the birdie trellis, I could just see my place in the bar.  That felt good.  Bruce saying hi to Bruce.  I was also looking at the tall windows of the Italiano à la carte restaurant.  Later in the day, I would be enjoying a meal in there.  The exterior was decorated in white and pale green.  It looked very Mediterranean.  I saw my future me and wondered if I’d get a window table, so I could look back at my chair under the trellis.  Bar, trellis, restaurant … all Bruce.  I don’t have words for the peace I felt, for the love I felt for me.

At 6:00 pm, a smiling waiter ushered me to a window table in Italiano.  And there was my wicker chair, with the cushion supporting the back of an earlier visitor.  And over yonder was my blogging spot in the lobby bar.  Bruce hangs out there too.

All is right with the world.

Day Two:  Not Me … Or Me?

My head is fuzzy and stuffed up.  I’m weak.  And I don’t want to get out there and do things, such as dancing and chatting.  So I sit in the lobby bar with a morning coffee and reflect upon Bruceness.  Gosh, I guess it can mean a lot of different things.  Skilled and not skilled.  Vibrant and almost comatose.  Making meaning with other people and staying away from them.  It’s all me.

How can I not want to dance?  Go to tonight’s evening show?  Pump iron at the gym?  Well, actually it’s easy.  I just want to write blog posts, read Golf In The Kingdom and lie on the beach towards sunset, when it’s cooler.  All perfectly fine.

At breakfast, I watched a couple and their two young boys.  Mom and dad took turns getting food.  Dad made funny faces at the tiny kid in the high chair.  Mom cut up his papaya and swished away the flies when they came too close.  It was lovely to behold.

Last night, I watched a performance of Grease in the theatre.  Sixteen months ago, I was enthralled in the same room, with probably the same songs and singers.  This time I was pretty flat about it all, despite an inspiring performance from the two leads.  A strange conversation entered my head:  “Bruce, you seem to be devolving, not evolving.  What’s happened to your spirit?”  The answer is simple – I’m sick.  I need to allow myself to be so.  Sleep most of the day if that seems right.  Stick to fruit and other non-greasy things at mealtime.  Let go of creamy alcoholic drinks for a bit.

To be present in the moment rather than leaning forward to a “better” future – quite the trick, I’d say.  This headache, for instance.  “Hello.”  Eyes that want to close.  “How ya doin’?”  Nothing to say to anyone.  “Works for me.”

A light brown cat just walked through the bar.  Someone made a purring sound.  Ahh … maybe that’s it.  As slow as I am, I can just watch life passing in front of me, look into some tourist and Cuban faces as they walk by, and watch the palm fronds wave in the breeze.

See you tomorrow.

 

 

Birthday

Yesterday was my 67th birthday.  Mom told me decades ago that I was born at 10:00 am Eastern Time.  So there I sat in Wimpy’s Diner, my cell phone on the table, watching 9:57, and reflecting on 66.  Finally the number flipped to 10:00, and a little smile crossed my face.  “You’re young at heart, Bruce.”  Yes I am.

This may have been the first birthday where no one I’m in face-to-face contact with knows about it.  What a strange feeling.  I knew that I wouldn’t bring it up in conversation.  I’ll just have a quiet celebration … a Boy’s Day Out.  So I did.

I enjoyed being at Wimpy’s for the first time in six months.  And having a real bacon and eggs, homefries and coffee breakfast.  Plus talking to my waitress friend Angie.  And reading the sports and entertainment sections of The London Free Press.  In the realm of “Pleasant, unpleasant or neutral”, it was a pleasant time.

At one point, I heard singing from the next table.  An elderly gentleman was beaming to the strains of “Happy Birthday”.  I smiled at him, borrowing a bit of his celebration.

I was alone, a bit sad, but mostly enjoying the pleasure of my company.  I knew that around some corner of my future,  there’ll be a new loved one, a woman who will be happy to celebrate my birthdays.  But she hasn’t shown up yet, and that’s fine.  The timing of life is unknown.

I decided to go to a movie at my favourite little independent cinema.  It was a love story between a young mom and her five-year-old son.  So beautiful in the many moments of contact.  Both heartrending and ecstatic, vibrant and tender.  Pleasant.

After a quick bite to eat, and further consumption of the newspaper, I just had enough time to drive across London to a cinema complex.  I was off to see a blockbuster that came out while I was on the meditation retreat in Massachusetts.  It was a shoot ’em up and blow ’em up type film, the latest in a series.  Previously I had been engaged with the characters but not this time.  Hmm … unpleasant.  But underneath the surface evaluation was the sweetness of just being there.

In the evening, I went to a concert – about 50 of us in a comfy old home.  Two singer-songwriters were on the bill.  I wasn’t liking the music of the fellow who performed the first set.  I couldn’t locate a good melody and therefore I didn’t listen to the words.  That’s all right.  His family and friends were there, and they were cheering him on.  That was cool.

For set two, you can pretty much reread the paragraph above.  Another guy.  Another family.  Cool again.  Overall … unpleasant music.  But I did have a lovely conversation with the couple who shared my table.

So no fireworks on this 67th birthday.  I was with myself and we had a good time.  Just being out in the world is a privilege.  Someone will be smiling back at me on a birthday some day soon.  That will be fun too.

 

Asking For More

This afternoon I picked up three tickets for the London Lightning basketball game next Thursday at Budweiser Gardens.  The woman at the box office found me some good seats.

The three of us had the opportunity to get better seats than I’ve ever had in my life – probably first row courtside.  Some player leaping for a loose ball would likely have ended up in my lap!  To secure these gems, all it would have taken was a request to a powerful person that one of us knows.  We decided not to do that.

Would I have accepted front row if the gentleman in question had given it to us with no prompting on our part?  Yes.  But the idea of asking for what hasn’t been freely offered makes my stomach turn.

For me, happiness doesn’t come from the accumulation of pleasant experiences, even though I love pleasant experiences.  Happiness shows up when I know I’ve shown integrity, and when I’m present as I enjoy the people who show up in my life.  I’ve discovered that happiness can even be there during times of sadness, as contradictory as that sounds.  When I touch something immense, no matter what the surface emotion, something sweet bubbles up.  It’s a vastness.  Holy.  And infinitely more rewarding than pushing to get courtside seats.

Next Thursday, we’ll be many rows from the action, and yet we’ll feel the ebb and flow of the game.  We’ll come out of our seats at a slam dunk and groan over a missed layup.  We’ll have a great time with each other.  And that’s certainly enough to put a smile on my face.

The Messiah … Part Two

I went to hear The Messiah on Wednesday evening and wrote about the first half of it the next day.  Now it’s Saturday [and now it’s Sunday] and I wonder if it’s “old news” and maybe I should write about something else.  The answer is no.  First of all, I said to myself and to you that I would comment about the rest of the words sung.  As well, I can bring freshness to it three days later.  So here we go:

 He was despised and rejected, rejected of men
A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief

Who amongst us hasn’t been rejected, tossed aside, treated like a thing?  We all hurt.  I remember being fired from a management job.  I knew I had done the best job that I could muster.  My self-esteem as I cleared out my desk was teetering on an edge.  “Bad person, good person, bad …”  And then there was losing my dear wife Jody to lung cancer.  How the grief came in waves, subsided, and then rolled again.  And it still comes.  Blame and loss … let them just be there, Bruce, when they appear.

Surely he has born our griefs and carried our sorrows

Something holds me in a tender embrace, especially when the world seems black.  There is an inner knowing beyond reason.  “All is well.”  Even amidst the storms.  Maybe my job is to just sit quietly and let the essence reveal itself … in its own time.

And with his stripes we are healed

The First Noble Truth of the Buddha: there is suffering.  Unlike angels and other heavenly folk, our lives are a mixture of pleasant and unpleasant.  The Buddha talked about our “precious human birth”.  We get to experience it all.  The pain teaches compassion, because we all have that pain.  We become more fully human.

All we like sheep have gone astray

I hurt a few people on the meditation retreat.  I tried to make them laugh, which is what I usually do in life.  But in the silence of a retreat, emotions are heightened.  Life issues appear right in front of the eyes, in surround sound.  And some guy playfully hiding your water glass at the dining room table may be an assault of great magnitude.  (Sigh)   So imperfect am I.  Don’t smash yourself in the head about this, Bruce.  Just notice and look for a better way.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates
And be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors
And the King of glory shall come in

To what shall we lift our heads, so that the sun meets our eyes?  Whatever it is, it’s inside us already.  No need to go out and find the King of glory.  It’s found us.  No need to trek in the Himalayas or go on long meditation retreats in Massachusetts.  It all resides at our home address.

How beautiful are the feet
Of them that preach the gospel of peace

No preaching needed.  Just be peace.  Get out of the way.  Peace will emerge.  People will know.

Their sound is gone out into all lands
And their words unto the ends of the world

Peace radiates beyond the assumed boundaries of time and space.  That oil worker in Kuwait.  That business leader in New York’s One World Trade Center.  That astronaut circling Earth in a space station.  They feel your peace.

Let us break their bonds asunder
And cast away their yokes from us

How do we help people free themselves from greed, hatred and delusion?  Not by lecturing, cajoling and in general giving the message that I’m right and you’re wrong.  Instead I gradually purify myself.  I stand and speak and act as one who is following the path to freedom.  Either others will see something curious and valuable in me or they won’t.  And I won’t drown myself in their suffering.  I will be with it, let it wash over me and then fall away.  “I care about your suffering.  Your happiness depends on the decisions you make.  I will stay with you on that journey.”

Hallelujah
For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth

Happiness is when the love flows.  When compassion and equanimity follow me throughout the day.  Love wins.

And though worms destroy this body
Yet in my flesh shall I see God

Bruce doesn’t last forever.  Nothing does.  Impermanence.  While I live, every moment beckons me to contact the inner glow.  It’s not going anywhere.  I often don’t see it.  May I uncover, again and again.

The trumpet shall sound
And the dead shall be raised incorruptible
And we shall be changed

Do I have the ears to hear?  Will I allow the flatness to fall away and animate the moments left to me until I die?

Forever and ever
Amen

Now, now and now
May all men and all women be happy

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

Sweet Sadness

I got home from my long meditation retreat last night and there are many stories to tell. But I’ll start with what is most pressing on my brain … I fell in love.

A hundred of us meditated in the hall for about seven hours a day.  No talking.  No touching.  No eye contact.  So how is it possible to feel this depth of love for someone in that environment?  Well, it is.

For the first two days of the retreat, we were allowed to talk, and I enjoyed saying things to this woman, whom I’ll call Ginette.  She’s pretty, and that’s nice, but it was her smile that made her shine.  And later, for weeks in the meditation hall, as she sat right behind me, I felt this loving energy from back there.  I do believe that at least some of it was aimed at me.

I created scenarios to fill my future – our wedding day, vacationing in the Caribbean, just sitting on the couch, cuddling.  Sometimes I was fully aware of my thoughts and feelings of the moment.  At other times, I was lost in longing.

I thought of Jody, and how it’s only been a year since my beloved died.  “It’s too early, Bruce.”  “She’s probably happily married.”  “You don’t know anything about her.”  And still I loved.

I brought a Buddha Board with me to the retreat.  It’s a little soft inclined surface within a plastic frame.  If you dip a brush in water, you can create fanciful designs and lovely words.  Slowly and surely, those images disappear as the water evaporates.  Day after day, I wrote “Ginette and Bruce”.  And then watched the impermanence of it all.

I looked for any sign that she liked, perhaps loved, me.  Outside on the driveway, Ginette sometimes walked near me during our periods of walking meditation.  In the hall, she would occasionally make little sounds as we meditated.  All evidence of love, I reasoned.

Should I move to where she lives or should she come to me?  Decisions, decisions.  Oh, what a lovestruck boy am I.

About a week ago, the last three days of the retreat allowed for some talking.  Ginette and I went for a walk and sat on a rock at the edge of a large pond.  I told her that I loved her.  I believe she was taken aback.  And then I gathered all my courage and said what I’d been yearning to say, not knowing if I would be welcomed or rejected:

“If ever you don’t have a husband, I’d like to be your boyfriend.”

To say what is true with no intention of hurting the other person is a blessing.  Ginette said she didn’t know what to say.  “You don’t have to say anything.”  We talked for forty-five more minutes, not about what I’d said but about important things.  She uncovered parts of her soul and I did the same.

And this … Ginette is happily married.

And this from me … “I need to let you go.”  Smiles and a hug.  And great sadness when I was alone.

Weeks ago, I imagined Ginette and I dancing the waltz, with great tenderness and joy.  A day or two after the rock, I was sitting quietly when another image showed itself – Ginette and her husband dancing with the same joy.  I cried.  I see clearly that I want Ginette to be happy, and I want her husband to be happy.  If they’re happy together, then I want them to be together and watch their love grow.  Do no harm.  Their happiness, and my happiness – far beyond my longing to be with Ginette.  Yes.

Ginette’s husband’s name is Bruce.  I thought of my Buddha Board, and watched the phrase “Ginette and Bruce” become ever more beautiful.

Love wins.

 

Day Thirty-Nine … Back to Longview

Two nights ago, we were staying at the Sleepy Hollow Campground in Pincher Creek, Alberta.  The creek after which the town was named flowed lazily between long grasses as Jaxon and I sat on the shore.  An Aerobie (like a Frisbee) sat marooned on the far bank.  Jaxon and I rescued a plastic glass that had dropped from a human hand into the water.  Mostly though, we just sat, enjoying being with each other.  I wondered if he would start talking about “chicks” or some other teen topic.  No.  We just were Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer watching the world float by.

That evening, we had a campfire.  The campground in Waterton didn’t allow those.  It was fun, seeing the family faces in the orange light.  And then Daddio started telling stories.  Lance is just awesomely good at it.  I looked on, marvelling at his creativity, spontaneity and any other -ity I could think of.  The boys were glued to his words.  My fave had Jagger, Jaxon and Jace sitting around, worrying about the impending start of school.  Their spirits merged and, in a flash of celestial light, time reversed itself.  It was no longer Thursday, August 27 moving towards Thursday, September 3.  Homework and tests faded away, to be replaced by endless ice cream cones, dirt bike trips, and sleeping in.  Ecstasy!  At least for awhile.  After many calories expended and consumed, the dreaded b-o-r-e-d-o-m set in.  Could it be possible that s-c-h-o-o-l was a good plan after all?  The young men decided it was.  Circular again, the power of youthful oomph brought the world forward once more.  And it was good.

Waydago, Lance.  I applauded.  The 3 J’s smiled.

Yesterday morning, we packed up in the smoke and headed home before the winds picked up.  The camper is a big one and the westerly hurricanes often rushing across Highway 22 have been known to flip semi-trailers.

I sat beside Ember and petted her.  We were quiet.  Then she laid her head on her paws, about eighteen inches from my left hand.  I wanted her to come closer for more loves but that’s not the way life works.  Let them all go, Bruce.  Let them do what they need to do.  They may come back or they may not.

I watched fence posts.  Several hawks stood on guard during our journey.  I wanted there to be more hawks than there were.  There weren’t.  Winding down towards home, I am.  I’ll sure miss my family in Alberta.

I thought of my three marathon days of driving to get back to Union, Ontario.  That’s okay … Sunday, Monday and Tuesday – piece of cake.  Get good sleeps and be alert for those tipping semis.

We sat around last night and watched a bit of “Stand By Me” until the language got too bad for 8-, 12- and 14-year-olds.  And so to snooze.

Day Six … Scenes From The Plains

I wound my way from Weyburn, Saskatchewan to Lethbridge, Alberta yesterday … and so did Scarlet.  We saw magical things, and some less so.

1.  A line of power poles stretching to the horizon, unobstructed by trees, the wires dipping gracefully between each

2.  Oxbow creeks, where the stream winds back and forth in tight curves, like a ribbon lying on a table.  No hurry to get anywhere.

3.  Coming over a rise and looking deep down into the river valley, enjoying at least 200 brown cows spread over the meadow beyond and the hills above

4.  Passing old weathered barns and homes of grey boards, some listing to the left or right and others with rooves about to collapse in the middle

5.  Newly painted yellow lines down the middle of my two-lane roads, often smeared by drivers of questionable consciousness.  Sadly, I thought weeks ago that such displays were the marks of inconsiderate Ontarians only, to discover that Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta have their share of people wanting to be noticed.

6.  Being lulled by the straight roads only to snap alert when a lake to my right seemed to rise up in gentle folds.  Huh?  Turns out it was a blue field of flax.  For a moment there I thought I’d been transported into an alternative universe.

7.  Seeking out the traditional wooden grain elevators that I used to know and love.  They’re tall rectangles, usually with what looks like a small house growing out of the top.  And always the name of the community proudly displayed on the side.  Now it’s mostly vertical cylinders of cement stuck together with some lattice work of metal on top, reaching for the sky.  (Sigh)  I love tradition.

8.  Bugs splattered all day on my windshield, effectively neutralizing the quality cleaning job I had done in Weyburn.  Just part of the landscape.

9.  Fingers of grey reaching down from the background blue, tempting the earth with rain

10.  Giant shredded wheats scattered  far and wide in the fields, making me long for a late breakfast

And then … after Medicine Hat I started scouring the horizon for my beloved mountains.  “But, Bruce, you can’t see mountains from this far away.”  Well, hope springs eternal.  I used to be good at telling the difference between mountains and clouds, but I seemed to have lost my touch yesterday.  Closer to Lethbridge, I gazed at the downward progression of the sun slightly to my right.  I was so looking forward to the sunset.  Go, sun, go!  Near Taber, I glanced to the left, and there they were … I even recognized Mount Cleveland and Chief Mountain!  “Hello, dear ones.  I’m back.”

I rolled into the yard of Ray and Joy Doram around 9:00.  Ray is Jody’s uncle and he showed my lovely wife great kindness when she was younger.  Another reunion.  I’ll tell you about our cozy conversations tomorrow.