Tag Archives: Relationship

Love Entrancing

I went to a movie last night … The Danish Girl.  It’s the story of a young man in Copenhagen who knows that in his soul he is a woman.  He becomes Lili – emotionally, spiritually, and then physically.  The critics are raving about Eddie Redmayne in the title role but I was overwhelmed with Alicia Vikander as his wife.

Here’s what the Palm Springs International Film Festival had to say:

“In The Danish Girl, Alicia Vikander delivers a superb performance as Gerda Wegener, the wife of transgender pioneer Lili Elbe,” said Film Festival Chairman Harold Matzner.  “She projects so much love and pain as she goes on a journey with Lili during an era when there was no precedent for it.  Gerda’s own transformation as a character speaks to the story’s themes of courage and self-acceptance.  For her astonishing screen presence and masterful performance, we are delighted to present Alicia Vikander with the 2016 Rising Star Award.”

Like you, I’ve seen love masterfully presented in many films, but nothing like this.  And for me it’s not about how good an actress Alicia is.  She so thoroughly becomes Gerda that it’s her love doing the speaking.  She continues to treasure her husband as Einar becomes Lili.  She sees their sexual intimacy floating away but doesn’t stop adoring another human being.  Gerda calls her partner “Lili” as she kisses her cheek.  Her face is magical.

I’m going to buy the DVD when it comes out so I can play four or five scenes over and over, to remind myself what loving is.  Many are the times when I felt the same reverence coming from my dear wife Jody to me.  I just need to be reminded … often.

May I again experience the astonishing caring that Gerda gave to her loved one.

Wounded

For many years, Jody and I frequented a grocery store in St. Thomas.  I loved goofing around with the staff.  My favourite trick was grabbing a big tub of margarine as Jody was heading towards the cash.  Here’s our script:

“Oh, Bruce.  Put it back.”

“But Jodiette, it’s one of Canada’s four major food groups and we’re running short.”

Sometimes I even put the tub on the cashier’s belt before succumbing to my dear wife’s wise counsel.

Occasionally, I’d be shopping alone, but why omit margarine pleasure?  Staff members, especially a woman named “Jessica”, would almost yell across the store, “Put it back!”

One time, I was heading to the pile of yellow goodness and was greeted by a big white sign, authored by Jessica, which said something like “Bruce, leave our margarine alone.”  Great fun.

Eventually, Jessica moved on to another job, and when Jody got sick we left the grocery store too.

Six years later is today.  I walked into a gift shop in a London mall.  And there behind the counter was Jessica.  We knew each other’s names and our hug was a natural one.  We had a good talk for a few minutes and then I said this:

“I have some sad news to tell you.  Jody died a year ago.”

Jessica laughed.

“No, Jody died last November.”

More laughing.

“Jessica – stop.  Jody really died.”

More of the same.

I was lost in space.  I thought there’d be tears but there weren’t.  There was anger.  After coming back from the meditation retreat, it felt like there was no antagonism left in me.  I was wrong.  I guess Jessica couldn’t move past the kidding relationship we’d had years ago.

“Jody has died.  Stop it!”

She didn’t.

I walked out.

“Oh, Bruce.  This is so not you.  You can’t leave it like this.  Go back.”

I went back.  Big smile from Jessica.  “Let’s hug.”  I backed away.  (“So not you.”)  I left.

I came back.  We hugged.  I believe Jessica still thought I was kidding.  But who on our fair planet would ever kid about your life partner dying?  I said goodbye and left again.

“You can’t leave it like this, Bruce.  It’s too damaging for both of you.  Go back and forgive her.”

So I came back again.  “I forgive you, Jessica.”  And now a real hug.  “I wrote a book about Jody and I’d like to give you a copy.  When are you working before Christmas?”

Tomorrow I’ll walk into that gift shop once more, Jodiette:  My Lovely Wife in hand.  More forgiveness.  Friendship renewed.  Completion.

I don’t have the luxury of living any other way.

Now I’m crying.

 

 

 

Day Thirty-Four … Old Rooms, Old Friend

We arrived in Waterton on Sunday.  Despite the smoke from forest fires, I was home.  While Lance was setting up the camper, I gazed at the peaks.  Way down there beyond the head of Waterton Lake, there was Mount Cleveland.  A group of us almost got to the top in the early 70s, turned back by slippery slopes in the rain.  At the other end of things, on our approach to the park I saw the silhouette of Chief Mountain.  It stands separate from the other peaks at the edge of the prairie.  I came within fifty feet of reaching its summit.  My friends got there. The short cliff between them and me ended my mission.  I was so scared as I looked up.  And that is as it was.  Decades later, the experience makes me smile, and has me reflect on life as a little bit of everything … gain and loss, pleasure and pain.

Standing in the campground, I also saw Bear’s Hump, a shoulder of Mount Crandell.  It was the scene of my crawling up it on hands and knees.  Such a silly goose I was.  Tomorrow we’re hiking up to the speechless summit view and I’ll tell you all about the past and present.

Nona, Lance, Jaxon, Jagger, Jace and I went for a walk downtown.  Approaching me was the Waterton movie theatre, or so I hoped.  The door was open.  I walked in, and found not rows of plush chairs but instead a bunch of tables.  The building was now a restaurant and a venue for concerts.  Tonight was an open mike event.  These were fine new uses but I wanted the old days … sitting with friends munching popcorn, laughing at “If It’s Tuesday It Must Be Belgium.”  I lingered in the space and remembered.  I was a young man, ages 20 to 25, discovering what life was really like, discovering people.  Now I’m an older man, age 66, and I’m happy.  I have friends.  I love them and I love me.  And I’m very thankful for that that young guy who came west to see the mountains.

We walked along Main Street and just happened to find an ice cream shop.  I didn’t remember it but my tongue sure remembered the taste of a chocolate chip cookie dough waffle cone from a few weeks ago.  Gosh, I’m even getting nostalgic about 2015.

Farther along, we entered a gift shop.  The building felt familiar.  I asked our hostess if she knew where the old Waterton pharmacy had been.  She didn’t, but a fellow looking at the displays said “Right here.”  And so I stood in the room where I had many fine conversations with Dave Cruickshank, a young pharmacist.  I remembered the little books on rotating racks, the aisles of health aids, but mostly Dave.  Young Bruce and older Bruce stood in the same spot.  Silence.  I saw Dave four years ago in Waterton.  He had bought a gift shop (not this one) and was managing it.  I wondered if he was still there.

I asked my resource person if he knew where the Tourist Café had stood.  He did.  Long ago, as a long hike neared the townsite, I would start dreaming of rhubarb pie at the Tourist, with a dollop of ice cream.  And then we would bring the dream to life.  What incredible pie.  I remembered watching an old fellow doing the baking.  He always wore a white chef’s hat and white clothes.  And my memory told me that he was always dangling a cigarette from his mouth, the ashes of which often dropped into the pie.  More flavour.

So I walked into the scene of baked yumminess.  Now it was a steak house and I told the young host my story.  He smiled a lot.  And he let me stand there, breathing in the aroma of rhubarb and youth.  Ahh.

Eventually I found Dave’s gift shop and I found Dave.  We talked for fifteen minutes about the old times and the new times.  I was right back there with the young pharmacist who was now 74.  He’s been in Waterton for 48 summers.  He was sad that Jody died.  He happily remembered the 1976 production of “You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown”, with me as Snoopy and my former wife Rita as Lucy.  He said we were good.  Thanks, Dave.  You’re pretty good yourself.

Onward and backward
Happy now and happy then
With a touch of angst for flavour

Day Eighteen … String Bikinis and the Sky Train

Well, what can I do?  Today is Sunday and I haven’t even written about Friday yet.  And memory is not my best subject.  Oh well, I’ll give you an approximation of my life.  Because it’s uncertain business at the best of times.

The front desk clerk at the hotel in Delta (maybe 2o km south of Vancouver) told me how to get to a Sky Train station that would take me downtown.  I got lost, which actually I enjoy doing.  It gives me more chances to talk to people.  Scarlet and I wandered around until we came upon a FedEx office.  In I went, with no valid FedEx purpose.  And the two employees – a man and a woman – were perfectly helpful.  In no time at all, I was zipping along towards the Vancouver skyline in search of some of my favourite haunts.

As I emerged from the underground on Georgia St., there stood the classic Hotel Vancouver looming above me.  I found the row of big windows at the top of the building and remembered.  The winter of 1970-71, bartender’s assistant in the Grand Ballroom (or some such lofty name).  The band playing “Tiny Bubbles” every night as the older crowd danced the fox trot.  Trying to keep my face pleasant, or at least neutral, as the Lawrence Welk tune dampened my soul.  Plus the main bartender was plain mean.  A slave I was.

Next I strolled down Robson St.  I looked up at a second floor restaurant that Jody and I enjoyed when we came for Expo 86.  Farther along was the Landmark Hotel, a very tall fellow.  I had walked Jody up the same side of Robson as the hotel so she didn’t know what was coming up.  “Let’s go in here.”  As so began a breakfast in the revolving restaurant at the top of the Landmark.  We both loved surprises.

On Friday, I hurried towards the front door of the Pacific Palisades Hotel, where I worked as a bellman during the winter of 1973-74.  Reminiscing, please.  I grabbed the handle and pulled.  Locked.  A fellow walking by told me that there is no hotel anymore – just apartments.  (Sigh)

Then it was down the street to the tiny house I lived in, at Bidwell and Alberni.  I already knew that the cutesy one was gone, replaced by layered condo units.  Still, I just had to stand there near the intersection, looking up at the unique deciduous trees that still lined the street.  The trunk went straight up for eight feet and then spread into four or five thick branches.  Cool.

I used to get off my shift at midnight and walk down to the McDonald’s at Robson and Bidwell and enjoy their smallest cheeseburger, smallest fries and a tiny drink.  I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about Friday’s luncheon choice.

And then there was English Bay Beach.  In the middle of September, 1986, Jody and I walked onto the beach at sunset and sat down, propped against one of the huge logs lying there.  The freighter lights were twinkling out in the harbour.  We huddled together.  A ring was burning a hole in my pocket.  I got up.  I knelt down.  “Jody, will you marry me?”  “Yes.”  (Pause)  “Wow, you sure answered quickly.”  (Smile)

On Friday, I sat against what I guessed was that very log, ate my chocolate peanut butter waffle cone, and thought of my dear wife.  Glistening eyes.  Beside me, in front of the next log, three young women were sunbathing, two of them in string bikinis.  Naturally, I averted my eyes.  As I got up to leave, something inside moved me to say to the covered up one, “I have to tell somebody.  Twenty-nine years ago, I asked my wife to marry me in just about this same spot.”  Their eyes softened.  After I painted the picture a bit more, one of the skimpily clad girls said, “You should bring your wife back here.”  Choking up some, I told them that Jody died in November.  Tears flowed from two of the girls.  “May I give you a hug?” one of them asked.  “Yes.”  And I held a sweaty, barely clothed 20-year-old.  Two more hugs followed.  Was it exciting, hugging those young women?  Yes.  Far more importantly, it was a communion.  They each gladly took one of Jody’s books.  And then we were gone from each other.

On the Sky Train heading back to my car, I faced a full house.  That’s fine … I’ll stand.  After the car emptied some at a station, there was one empty seat.  A young woman motioned with her hand for me to sit down.  I did the same to her.  “I’m getting off at the next stop,” she replied.  I smiled and sat … next to another young woman.  She looked at me and said, “I love your T-shirt.  I want to get one.”  “Well, it’s one of a kind.  It’s poetry that my sister-in-law wrote.”  Shine a light upon my day  We talked.  I told her about Jodiette.  “Would you like a copy of our book?  I just gave away the ones I had in my backpack, but I can mail you one, if you like.”  “No thanks.  I’ll just remember the moment.”  “Okay.”  As the train rolled along, we were getting close to my station, and I didn’t know where my friend was exiting.  I don’t remember what she said next but the gist of it was “May I have a book?”  So she wrote down her name and address and will be receiving a package once I get back to Ontario.

How can all this be happening to me?  From which woodwork are these folks emerging?  Actually, it doesn’t matter.  I’m just glad they’re coming to see me.

I’m Glad I Did It

My life has been a flurry of activity the last few days.  Not exactly in tune with the meditative fellow that I see myself as.  But it’s good.

First there was SunFest.  I wanted to dance.  There were times after my tendon transfer surgery in 2003 that I thought I’d never dance again.  Last Sunday, though, I threw my body around for three hours, spaced out over the afternoon and evening.  Fast dancing, usually surrounded by more than a hundred other revellers.  I occasionally thought of my right foot.  “Bruce, you’re putting too much pressure on it with all your gyrating!  There’s a screw in that foot, you know.  If you don’t stop, you won’t be able to walk in five years.”  Or … “Bruce, you’re going golfing tomorrow.  You’d better forget dancing at the 10:00 pm show, and rest up.  Otherwise you won’t survive eighteen holes of walking.”  Such a small, squeaky voice.

I danced at the last show, once more to the group “Five Alarm Funk”.  Go ankle, go!  I gave ‘er, joyously, and then limped to Hugo, my Honda CRV.  The next day was hot and humid on the links and the whole body suffered.  As for my golf swing, it was a thing of … (something).  But I love Tarandowah – the rolling fairways, the deep bunkers, the tall fescue grass in the rough.  Despite my pain, I knew I was home.

Yesterday I limped, but I still went out to lunch with a friend, and to dinner with another.  Weeks ago, I had e-mailed all sorts of folks, asking them out for a meal, since I wouldn’t see them again until January.  I’m now in the home stretch of social engagements, with my estimated time of liftoff for the west being next Tuesday.  I’ve loved the conversations.  I’m certainly not tired of people, but I’m tired.

All good things, these dancings and golfings and yappings.  They make me happy.  Even my feet are singing a wee little bit.

Transcending Time

I just left messages with two old friends … an e-mail for Joel and an answering machine for Lynne.  I was nervous.  I haven’t seen Joel for 30 years and Lynne for 20.  They both lead seminars that help people discover the depths of themselves – Joel in Vancouver and Lynne in Kamloops, B.C.  Back in the day, I assisted each of them as they taught.

In a few weeks, I’m heading to Western Canada in Scarlet, my Toyota, with my bicycle ta-pocketa hanging from the rear bumper.  Six weeks of travelling the highways and biways, visiting friends and Jody’s relatives.  I’m sure that many adventures await, including two weeks with Jody’s brother Lance and his family in the lee of the Rockies.  But 50 years of absence?  Oh my.

It would be easy for me to bow down to the spiritual and psychological guidance that Lynne and Joel have given their seminar participants.  Bowing down in the sense of seeing myself as less.  But I won’t do that, because it’s not true.  There’s no rating here.  Just three human beings who want to touch people.  We can compare paths if we like but our hearts beat as one.

If I spend time with Lynne and Joel, our contact will unfold in its own sweet way.  I want to talk about Jody.  I want to talk about what Buddhism has meant to me.  And they’ll talk about what vibrates inside them.  It will be fine.

Or … we don’t get to see each other this time.  That will be fine too.  Communion doesn’t fade away.

The Lives Within The Lamp

I wake up each morning, lean to the right, and pull the two cords to turn on my stained glass table lamp.  My friend has a semi-circular shade and a dark grey metal base.  It looks like a tree, with the most exquisite branches – little panels of coloured glass, ranging from a vibrant red to dark brown to a lighter brown, to cream, and then white at the tip.  I like trees.  I like light.

A few days ago, I pulled the metal cords and just sat there.  I watched the little globes at the ends of the cords moving back and forth.  And then it came to me … What if those two balls were really two lives, doing what humans do – loving, working, eating, laughing …?

One ball was moving slower than the other one.  I watched its speed gradually lessen.  And I thought about Jody, being at home for the last seven months of her life.  Slowly winding down.  I kept watching.  And I guessed what the time had been when I pulled the cords – 8:31.  As the swings became shorter, the movements more subtle, I cried for my wife.  Soon the vibrations were really minute.  I wanted to see the moment when the globe became still but it was taking so much effort to focus on it.  Jody was dying.  At 8:43, she stopped.

The other ball was winding down.  It was me.  I watched myself dying.  Would I be reunited with my beloved wife?  Yes I would.  When will I die?  Tomorrow?  When I’m 75?  Thirty years from now?  At 8:53, I stopped.  Jody was still.  I was still.  We were hanging there, seemingly separated by the trunk of the tree.  We couldn’t see each other.  But we could feel each other.  After all, we’re both part of a spreading maple giant.  “I am here, Bruce.”

Who Is Bruce Kerr?

I Googled myself yesterday, but sadly I didn’t exist, at least not within the first 20 pages of “Bruce Kerr” listings.  Oh well.  I’m pretty sure that I do exist.  Guess you’ll have to take my word for it.

I did, however, find many versions of me on the Internet.  So many different lives.  Occasionally, I had pangs of jealousy, but really not much.  I like my rendition of the BK melody.

Here are some folks worth meeting:

***

Bringing more than 20 years of executive-level experience to his role as SVP & President, Bruce applies his expertise in customer management, analytics, loyalty marketing and international markets to build successful corporate and brand partnerships.

***

Bruce Kerr has been a familiar face of Australian film, television and theatre for more than thirty-five years.  His film credits include The Man From Snowy River and Compo (1989 AFI Awards entry).  He has appeared in almost every major Australian television drama including Blue Heelers, Corelli, Neighbours, Prisoner, The Sullivans, Cop Shop and Homicide, and the miniseries The Anzacs and I Can Jump Puddles.  Bruce has also worked extensively in theatre and radio serials.

***

Whether it is the unique light of a winter sunrise across a frozen Midwest pond, the color of a fall leaf against a cobalt sky or the inner workings of the atom, all are subjects for Bruce Kerr’s keen eye.  He has been designing, painting or drawing for most of his life.

***

Loose Bruce Kerr is a songwriter, performer, and music producer living in Northern California.  A native of Waukesha, Wisconsin, Bruce took 20 years off from his legal career to tour the country and the Caribbean, performing as a solo, in a duo with Steve Hoeft, or in his band in New England, “Spud City.”

Following that 20 year span, Bruce resumed his legal career and now is a lawyer working for Oracle in Silicon Valley.  His songs & videos can be heard & viewed on YouTube and here on loosebrucekerr.com.

***

Bruce Kerr, of Monewden, near Framlingham, one of 2,000 UK growers, produces early crops for processing and loose skin Maris Peer for supermarkets on soils ranging from sandy to heavy clay.  He says the council’s research work is important to his business and others in the region.

“Potatoes are an extremely valuable crop to our region,” he said.  “The industry is a large employer locally, so there’s great importance to the wider economy in having a robust and sustainable industry producing potatoes.”

***

Bruce joined the ambulance service in 1972 before working with ARHT, firstly as a rostered ambulance service paramedic in 1993 and then permanently in 1997.  He has participated in over two thousand ARHT rescues and was recognised for this achievement in 2010.

***

Bruce was a humble man who would always lend a helping hand whenever he could.  He was very proud of the students he had taught and in turn they openly expressed he was a great role model.  He was a loving husband and father who will be greatly missed.

***

 Who, me?

Toronto – Part 2: Fish Up and Fish Down

After depositing our belongings in the hotel room on Thursday, Neal and I braved the icy blasts and walked four blocks to Ripley’s Aquarium.  I was fully decked out in sweater, toque, parka and mitts, plus Jody’s white scarf wrapped tightly over my nose and mouth.  Oh my God!  I was just so cold.  My mind started heading to “I’m bad” but I nipped that in the bud.  Not bad, just sick.

Inside the building, I revelled for a minute in my senior reality.  I saved $10.00 off the adult price.  But the glee faded quickly when I saw the first tank just down the hall, populated with wild splotches of colour.  What came through was the warmth of peace.  I was somewhere special.

The upper tank was a tall cylinder full of large fish of every hue.  Actually, some seemed to have no hue, but all of the residents moved with such grace.  A lower and wider tank was teeming with small fishies, just as glorious as the big guys.

I just stared at all this flowing life.  Soon, I saw us human beings inside that aquarium too.  We’re so different from each other in how we colour our lives.  Some of us show the world a bigness of spirit, and some of us keep that part well hidden.  But we all can swim.

I didn’t know the names of any of these fish, although I could have studied the nearby signs.  I didn’t want to.  No labels please.  I just wanted to drink in the beauty.

Further down the hallway, I came upon a giant cylindrical tank that stretched way above my head.  It was crammed with silver fish, each about six inches long.  They were in a “school”, and seemed to hover in place … all these parallel lines of beings.  And again I saw us, this time how we are identical in our hearts, in wanting to be happy, in wanting to love and be loved.  I stared some more.

Many more tanks of fish beckoned me along the way.  A long pedestrian tunnel showed sting rays and sharks above, accompanied by far smaller swimmers.  The world was full of movement.  The curved glass distorted the size of the fish.  And soon it was my head that was swimming.  Dizzy.  Nauseous.  All I could do was sit down on a bench and wait for Neal’s return.  He came and went and came back again.  I sat and reeled.  I closed my eyes.  Families passed by in bubbles of excited chatter.  I faded.  My stomach rolled.  Both the happy variety of fish/human beings and their exquisite school of sameness were long gone.  I was sad.

I decided to follow the path of overhead fish to its end, and emerged to sit in front of a blessedly flat tank full of sting rays.  The huge ones rested on the sand floor, occasionally rousing themselves to float over the rock outcroppings.  The small ones pressed their bellies near the glass and climbed.  Although I was looking at their breathing apparatus, it sure looked like a lot of smiling faces to me.  And I had to smile back, despite the pain.  Messengers had come to tell me it would be all right.

And life is definitely fine, thank you.  I’ll just keep swimming through all the waters of the world.  Sights abound.

Words from Jody’s Mouth

Dear kindhearted ones,

In four hours, I’m driving to London, then getting on a bus to Toronto, and then a plane to Cuba.  I’m so excited!  And Jody’s going with me.

I remember my dear wife in many ways.  One of my favorites is reading what she has written.  The human being, in all her glory and pain, shines from the page.  Here are some snippets that I hope you’ll enjoy:

***

On June 25, 2014, we celebrated our 26th anniversary:

Dear Bruce:

I love you completely, without reservation, and my heart sings with happiness when you are with me.

***

And to a dear friend in April, 2014:

I hope you enjoy this pouch that was made to help you carry both jewelry, money and important papers when you are travelling … I hope you find it extremely useful.

We love you dearly,

Jody and Bruce

 ***

In the midst of great sickness:

I don’t want to be alone.

(To Bruce)   Fuzz top

Oh, Bruce. I’m so glad you’re here.

 ***

Bruce: May I go outside and get the paper first?

Jody:  No.  You have to sit here and smile … Of course you can get the paper.

 ***

A letter to herself at the end of a meditation course:

I need to pay attention to ME!  Everything else will naturally get better … I am naturally a happy person … I don’t have to get sucked into the situation or stay that way for long.  I do have the ability to create distance from the issues.

***

Bruce: Hello, loved wife.

Jody: Hello, loved husband.  I love you so dearly.

 ***

Bruce: I wish we’d had kids.

Jody: I’m sorry that we didn’t.

Bruce: You would have been a good mother.

Jody: You would have been a fantastic father.

 ***

And as Jody got weaker:

Jody: I need to have somebody help blow my nose.

Bruce: Pick me.

 ***

A letter to her grandmother on October 31, 2014 shows the soul beyond the limitations of time:

It’s been a long time.  I realize that it’s been a long time since we’ve said hello so saying goodbye seems like a funny thing to do.

***

 A couple of weeks before Jody died:

I’m more than happy to comply with your wishes, kind sir.

***

 Two days after Jody died:

I am with you, husband, in a way you can’t comprehend from your side.

 ***

Lovely phrases all.  I’m so glad that I get to hold onto many of Jody’s words.  And I’m sure we’ll talk lots in Cuba.

On Saturday, December 6, 2014, there’ll be an announcement about Jody’s Celebration of Life in the London Free Press and in the St. Thomas Times-Journal.  It will be held at 11:00 am on Saturday, January 31, 2015 at Bellamere Winery in London.  I thought long and hard about whether to include in the ad something funny Jody said to me.  Well, heck, it’s a celebration isn’t it?  So the funny stuff now sits there, waiting for your laughter on Saturday morning.  I’ll be on the beach at the time, reading The Book Thief.  I dearly hope that I’ll see you in January.  Jody deserves a big crowd.

I love you all,

Bruce