Tag Archives: Peace

Johanna

All I wanted to do was buy some sheets and pillows.  Sleep Country delivered my new bed today but I hadn’t acted on accessory purchases.  Actually, the bed’s not for me.  It’s for my guests Renato and Geraldine, who are coming to live in my home while I roam the continent on various adventures.

I had been thinking Walmart for the extras.  Gotta save a few bucks here and there.  But as I drove into London today, I realized that I wanted my visitors from England to have the good stuff.  So I opened the Sleep Country door and walked in.

From a distance, a woman in her 60’s said hello.  A real hello.  As we talked about bedding, I felt a great peace wash over me.  This wasn’t about sheets.  Johanna was just sitting there … being.  We talked about Vancouver, where she’s from, and where I’m heading to in August.  But this wasn’t about walking in Stanley Park or strolling down Robson St.  My goodness, what was happening here?  Her stillness became mine.  Lovely.

Johanna said that there’s nothing she wants to achieve.  She’s done that.  Her daughter urges her to get out into the community and attend events, meet people.  But Johanna feels no need to do that.  She wants to be with her family, loving them.

Johanna told me that many angry people walk into her store.  They want service, they want product, they want to pay and go.  I saw sadness in her eyes as she shared this with me.  After awhile, when we had discussed the different qualities of duvets and the merits of bamboo sheets, we didn’t have much to say to each other.  Words were necessary for the transaction but we didn’t need many to be with each other.  I asked her if she would like a copy of the book I wrote about Jody.  No, she didn’t want one.  And her choice to not receive our story was so very peaceful for me.  Johanna has written her own story in the many moments of her life.

I came
I bought
I melted

A Circle of Drums

Yesterday was sunny and warm in London … such a blessing.  I strolled into Victoria Park – ten acres of green grass and mature trees – and sat on a bench.  Just me and the birds, except for that group of people over there.  Actually a circle of folks sitting on the grass, most of them with a drum on their lap.  Even from a hundred yards away, the sound was hypnotic.  The rhythms moved deep within me.  I closed my eyes and opened my heart.

Then I looked more carefully at these people, about twenty of them, mostly young adults with a few kids sprinkled in.  Two of the women who weren’t drumming stood and danced in their long patterned skirts.  One of them picked up a hula hoop and whirled it around.

I was transported back to the 1970’s, to the Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island.  Lots of gentle movement there too.  Friendly faces.  Big smiles.  No problem, man.  In Victoria Park, the sun was falling between the trees, illuminating those flowing skirts and drumming hands.  I smiled.  How about if the whole world has a go with a drum on its lap?  We’d let the being emerge and the doing fade into the distance.

I closed my eyes again and began meditating.  The beat was strong, but over the minutes it lessened … and eventually stopped.  Excited voices for a bit.  And finally silence except for the breeze and the birdies.  Then I opened my eyes.  My friends were gone.  There was sadness in me.  May the good times never end.  But they do, of course, and that’s just the way life is.  Still, the beat goes on in the space where it had been.  The circle in the grass a hundred yards away still holds the joy of an hour before.  May I sense similar reminders of past glories as I walk through the day.

Speed Limit

Around here, it’s 80 kilometres per hour (50 mph) on the secondary highways and 50 or 60 in town.  In the 20 years that Jody and I drove to London for work, I varied from 85 to 90 on the 80 kph road, usually while being tailgated.

Last week, I decided to drive the speed limit, whatever it was.  It just felt right to do that, “appropriate”.  It allows me to flow, to feel Hugo moving smoothly up the road.  It allows for a big space in front of me, and a feeling of “spaciousness” within.  Someone has said that this is the maximum speed, and I’m going with it.  Not to be right and make someone else wrong.  Not to get people to slow down in life.  Just because it feels good.

Lots of people don’t like my new plan.  Many crowd my back bumper.  Some jerk to the left to see if there’s room to pass.  But happily, other folks just hang back at a respectful distance.  Maybe there’re lots of us who want to take it down a notch or two, who’d like to glance at the cows in the field, or at a particularly symmetrical tree.

I will continue my experiment – tomorrow, and especially in a week’s time, when I’ll take a leisurely day-and-a-half to get from home to Barre, Massachusetts.  May many congenial souls float along with me.

Meditating

I used to want to be a better meditator.  I was full of ideas about “good meditation” and bad.  But that seems to have faded away.  I remember decades ago hearing some martial arts master say “Just put yourself on the mat.”  So … I just sit, sometimes for a short time, sometimes longer, and take whatever comes my way.

Thoughts sure throw themselves at me, and I’ve learned to welcome them.  The idea of trying to eliminate them feels silly.   My brain is getting quieter but it still spews its output.  This morning, while sitting in my cozy chair, I thought about sex, about the wind that was whipping outside, about the sun that started breaking through my eyelids.  Later, I fantasized in detail about what will happen on the meditation retreat I’m going on in two weeks.  It was so lovely .. and then I noticed what I was doing.  My response was “Oops!”, rather than “Bad Bruce.”  Just more mind stuff, which is perfectly fine.

I settled back into a rhythm of very quiet breathing, in fact silent breathing.  Everything so slow.  The wind buffeted my home.  The sun peeked in and peeked out.  All was well.  Strangely, I had no aches and pains as I sat there.  And I wasn’t nodding off towards sleep, a usual tendency of mine.  I could feel pride settling in, and I smiled.  “Hello, pride.  Thanks for showing up.”  A bit later, it floated away, soon to be replaced by … nothing.  Just breathing.

I have a little Tibetan bowl which I hit with a wooden mallet at the end of my sitting.  How do I know it’s the end?  It just feels right to stop.  I tap the bowl three times, letting the sound hang in the air and completely disappear before I do it again.  That feels right too.

Today I meditated for 50 minutes – neither good nor bad.  I returned to my daily life slow and sweet.  Makes me happy.

Sweet Music in the Evening

Neal and I went into London tonight to listen to a Canadian folk music group, appropriately called “Eh?!”  Two fiddlers and a bass violinist.  All brilliant performers.  Their concert was held at The Cuckoo’s Nest, an intimate club that takes over Chaucer’s Pub on some Sunday evenings.  Chaucer’s seats about 50, and features a huge stone fireplace, dark wood, and beer steins on a high shelf.

We sat immediately to the right of the band, in the second row.  I was about eight feet from James fiddler’s right arm.  Joe bass violin was on the other side of James, and farther along was Anne fiddler.

Sitting right in front of me was a man of about my age with a very large head.  He kept that head extremely still throughout the concert.  There was no hint of grooving to the fiddle tunes.  I felt sadness and dryness coming off him, even a depression.  And so I felt sad.  I decided to simply be with him.  No beaming of positive energy his way.  Just let him be as he was, with my company.  But sometimes he would lean way to the left or right, trying to see beyond James.  The first couple of times, I was irritated, and then I let that go.  Actually, when he leaned right, I could see Joe playing haunting melodies on the bass, rather than just the top of his head.  So my neighbour was helping me out.

At the break between sets, I decided to talk to the gentleman, to see if I could make a contribution.  “Hard to see past the first fiddler from our angle, eh?”  Big smile in return.  I was happy.

The tops of Joe’s and Anne’s heads were just fine for me because I got to see three musical heads feeling the melody and making the harmony, swaying to the peaceful tunes and jerking wildly during the raucous ones.  Very cool.  Oh, and I also got to see Anne’s left hand on the neck of her fiddle, her fingers alternately caressing and smashing down on the strings.  Cool again.

During the love songs, Joe played his bass like a violin, moving his fingers way down the fretboard to draw out ethereal melodies, with his head bowed as in a trance.  Gone I was in those moments.  Tears came to my eyes as the distinct sound of incredibly high bass notes worked its way into my soul.  Jody came flooding into me.  She was happy I had brought her to the concert.  Always with me, my dear.

It was a lovely evening.  Virtuoso musicians.  Tunes that led me away.  And a bigheaded man who knows how to smile.

 

 

 

The Fire Burns and the Embers Glow

Last night I sat down to watch one of my favourite movies:  The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.  As Lucy Pevensie hid in a wardrobe during a game of hide-and-seek, and then emerged out the back into a world of fir trees laden with snow, of fawns and beavers and witches and lions, the wonder on her face said it all.  Since Jody has died, there have been many vivid moments for me as well, moments of incredible intensity … crying, laughing, dancing, despairing.  Last night was another.

Lucy was magical.  She welcomed every newcomer with a smile that could light the world.  As she wandered through Narnia, the fire grew in me, right beside her.  The pinched nerve exploded in my left arm, in spasms that rocked me big.  Lucy, shooting pain, Lucy, pain …

And then Jody, talking to me:

I am here with you, Bruce.  I am always here with you, whether you are crying or laughing.  We will be together always.

I felt my hands move over my heart.  The agonized crying of hours before was gone, replaced by a peaceful communion with my beloved.  And a sureness that indeed Jody is always right next to me, holding me, loving me.  The peace permeated the pain and Lucy’s marvelous innocence.  They all twirled together.

You don’t have to look for me, Brucio.  I am here.  I love you dearly.

Don’t worry about what other people think, Bruce.  Don’t worry about what you may think about life after death.  I am here.  Love them all, dear one.  Light the world.

I know that there will be many times of sobbing in the future.  I welcome them too.  But the peace is pretty special.  Always with me.  My lovely wife.

White Mist

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

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

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

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

Off to the Grocery Store

From Jack Kornfield, a Buddhist teacher:

We have within us an extraordinary capacity for love, for joy and unshakeable freedom.  Buddhist psychology describes this as optimal mental health.  I have seen this optimal well-being in many of my teachers.  Ajahn Jumnien describes his mind as completely steady, silent and free, throughout both his waking and sleeping hours.  He says, “I haven’t experienced a single moment of frustration or anger for over twenty years.”  I’ve also observed that he sleeps only one or two hours a night. 

 Ajahn Jumnien describes his inner life quite simply: “When I’m alone, my mind rests in pure awareness.  I am simply at peace.  Then, whenever I encounter people and experiences, the awareness automatically fills with lovingkindness or compassion.  This is the natural expression of pure awareness.”  All those around Ajahn Jumnien feel his free spirit and unshakeable joy.

Well.  I’m about to go out to the Real Canadian Superstore for some necessaries.  Will I live these words within the four walls, and as I drive to and from?  I’ll let you know.  (However, I’m not up for the part about one or two hours of sleep.)

***

Okay, I’m back.  Pretty uneventful, I guess.  No road rage or shopping cart rage to stress me out.  No need for anger.  I was quite peaceful and had some moments when people needed my love and compassion.  So I gave them what they needed.

Here are some people and moments I came upon:

1.  Driving on our home road, I passed an older gentleman I’ve met before, walking towards me.  He’s always been friendly but this time he didn’t wave back.  I felt sad and watched love burst through the windshield towards him. On some level, I know he received it.

2.  In front of our local psychiatric hospital, I saw a young man in a grey hoodie lighting a cigarette.  What is his life like, I wondered?  What demons assail him?  Does he have love in his life?

3.  Waiting behind another car at an intersection, expecting to turn left on this light.  But when the traffic suddenly thickened, a little nudge of frustration knocked me off centre.  Only a bit.  I was soon on track again.

4.  I noticed how slowly I was walking as I approached the store, and inside it. The rhythm was lovely.  It was like floating through the aisles.

5.  I made eye contact near the produce department with a fellow in his 30s. He returned the favour but I didn’t smile at him.  I felt disappointed about my contraction but quickly forgave myself for being human.

6.  I saw a pudgy middle-aged guy walking in front of me with his arms behind his back.  He had wrapped the fingers of one hand around the fingers of the other and was pulling hard.  I felt something very tight coming off him, and again I felt sad.

7.  I couldn’t find food colouring in the baking aisle and it was my turn for tightness.  I finally located the stuff – small bottles of blue, green and red. But the tag said there should have been a variety box sitting there as well – cheaper.  Nothing.  The compressing deepened a bit and then drifted away.

8.  A teenaged girl with what I guessed to be Down Syndrome was pushing a cart with her head down.  Her face was really puffy and her mother seemed to be urging her on to greater speed.  Compassion from me to her.

9.  I felt like talking in the checkout lineup and picked the woman behind me. I noticed that she had laid down two tall bottles of juice on the belt.  I mentioned to her that I’d never thought of doing that, despite having had tall objects fall over many times in the past.  Smiles all around.

Pretty ordinary stuff, I’d say.  Not in the league of Ajahn Jumnien.  But still a nice way to walk in the world.

Comforts

Especially now that Jody is sick, I grasp onto the little pleasures that come my way.  It’s almost like sucking my thumb when I was a kid.  I did that until Grade 5, accompanied by my teddy bear Teddy.  I remember the overwhelming sadness I felt when Teddy’s head fell off.  Soon after that, my thumb started morphing into other pursuits – showing appreciation, creative twiddling, and eventually hitchhiking.

Today, I still need my teddy.  The first one is the London Free Press sports section.  I start on the front page, looking for stories that show human beings being human.  Let’s say it’s an article about the London Knights Junior A hockey team (young guys between 16 and 20).  If the article continues on page 3, I go there to finish it.  Generally though, I start on the first page and proceed on from there in order.  A lovely ritual or a deviant rigidity?  Who cares?  It makes me feel cozy.

I also love rows of sports stats, usually printed in the tiniest of fonts.  Jody has always called this particular passion my idiotsyncrasy.  Hey, it’s okay if it is.

I have a favourite ceramic mug.  Actually, I’m looking at it right now.  It’s tall and blends from a dark blue glaze at the bottom to a delicate pink one at the top.  And it feels just perfect in my hand.  Once my coffee or tea cools down a bit, I like wrapping both hands around.  The warmth spreads through me.  Ahhh.

I’ve mentioned my man chair before in these posts.  It’s a green upholstered Lazy Boy.  (And I just remembered that it’s featured in my photo for WordPress.)  I love pulling the lever to get the footrest to push out and the head to go back.  I get my knees up and prop my book against them.  More bliss.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been sleeping on a foam pad next to Jody’s hospital bed.  I lay a flat sheet on the pad and cover myself with a second sheet and a blanket.  Then I arrange things by my neck just so.  The edge of the top sheet has to curl back over the blanket so the sheet is what I feel.  Since the sheet and blanket are loose at the bottom, I then throw my legs into the air, so the covers fall over my toes.  When I bring my legs back down, I’m snug as a bug in a rug.  Yum.

That’s all the symbols of soothing I can think of right now.  I’ll let you know if other ones float down upon me.

Lost and Found

Since bedtime last night, Jody has been crying a lot and angry a lot about what looks like oncoming death.  Such profound despair.  And such a natural reaction.

What can I do?  From way down inside comes “I don’t know”.  When Jody is lucid, I think my words make some difference.  When she’s not, all they seem to do is feed the flames of her anguish.  When I read to Jody, it seems that my voice soothes her.  And I brush her hair.  She softens then.  Last night, she didn’t want me to touch her, so I sadly withdrew my hand.  I tried to breathe in her pain and breathe out my love for her, but I was too lost to keep that up for long.  So I just sat beside.  I was in her presence.  She was in mine.

Often it feels like I’m being ripped apart, or disassembled.  What I’ve taken to be Bruce (happy, witty, determined, spontaneous) seems to be dissolving.  You know, that person, that separate entity walking the earth.  As Jody’s crying goes on for an hour or more, there’s a profound letting go in me.  Something remains after the personality fades.  I don’t know what it is.  I guess it’s okay to not know.

Do I need these moments of heartbreak to open to what’s next for me?  Perhaps.  It feels like a cleansing, maybe more like a violent dermal abrasion in that it hurts while it heals.

I love Jody so much.  At times like these, it doesn’t seem important what comes back from her.  It doesn’t seem like there’s much of a me for it to come back to.  Beneath my sadness is a big open space and immense quiet.  The intensity of my need for the usuals falls away: quality conversations, high self-esteem, physical comfort, getting enough good food, having alone time, breaking an hour for the time trial on my bike ta-pocketa, reading a good book.  Okay without that.

No movement away from the present moment
No deficiency
No needs