Tag Archives: Relationship

Waiting with You

Jody had a hankering for Chinese food yesterday and one of our PSWs recommended a restaurant in London.  So off I went to gather in some breaded shrimp, Oriental noodles, chicken fried rice and lemon chicken.  Other than my bike rides every second day, I don’t leave our home very often, usually just to get groceries and meds and then scurry back.  I used to like writing about my adventures out in the world that day, but it hasn’t happened much lately.

After I gave my order to a most delightful hostess, I plopped down in a chair, and saw that I had company in the takeout department.  Near me sat a woman in her 50s, deeply tanned and sporting an exotic hairstyle – lots of curls here and there.  In the other direction, a grandma and her perhaps six-year-old grandson faced each other across a small glass-topped table.

“What should we do while we wait, grandma?”

“Let’s play hockey.”

“Okay.”

With that, the woman pulled a quarter out of her purse and instructed the young man about the rules of the game.  Finger on the coin at the near edge of the table.  Brush it forward towards the far side, where the other person is waiting, holding two fingers up as goalposts.  Either you score or you don’t.  Then it’s the other person’s turn.  The woman suggested that the boy be Canada and she’d be the USA.  The fellow heartily agreed.

So back and forth they went.  Lots of cheers and groans.  And I didn’t have to pay for a front row seat!  At one point, grandson said, “Isn’t it time for the Zamboni to clean the ice?”  (For those of you unfamiliar with hockey games, the Zamboni is a vehicle that melts the surface of the ice, making it smooth for the next period’s play.)  Grandma sighed, and told the boy that unfortunately the restaurant didn’t come equipped with a Zamboni.  “Let’s keep playing.”  And they did … until a brown paper bag and a smiling hostess appeared in front of them.  Game over.

As they headed towards the door, I asked grandma what the final score was.  She smiled with her whole body and said “5-2 Canada”.  Well done, young man.

Basking in the glow of this lovely encounter with professional athletes, I said hello to the woman with the tan.  She smiled back and mentioned the sunny fall weather we were having.  I agreed.  She talked about the tough winter we’d had.  My response?  “I like weather.”  Seeing an opportunity for storytelling, I told my new friend about the time I’d spent Christmas in Honolulu, and how seeing wizened little Christmas trees, and Santa in shorts, just seemed … wrong.  I had asked one Hawaiian gentleman what the weather was like in March or August, and he had replied, “Oh, about the same”.  And that had made me sad, leaving me longing for snow, blasting winds and tingling fingers (but not quite freezing rain).

The lady asked me about Hawaii, what I enjoyed about it. “Waikiki Beach was cool, although it was very crowded.  The best, though, was Hanauma Bay, where I walked knee deep into the water and found myself surrounded by all sorts of colourful fish.”

And then … another bag.  Another moment with the gracious hostess.  It was my turn.  Story over.  My weather companion and I smiled at each other and said goodbye.  Truly, a good time.

 

Light Under Their Wings

It was 6:59 and my alarm hadn’t gone off as scheduled.  Today is garbage and recycling day and I hopped to it.  Everything out to the curb before the trucks roll by at 7:30 or so.  Focus … empty small garbage baskets into the big can, yank the clear bag full of fine white paper out of its holder (Heavy!), newspapers into a plastic bag, search for any recyclables and plop them into their appropriate bin, huge garbage bag out of the can, replace bag, empty small bag in garage into the big one, replace bag, slap on a sticker showing that I’m a legitimate taxpayer, one blue box inside the other and carry them out to the road, heave ho the fine paper bag out to the same location, try to be quiet as I roll our grey plastic garbage can (with the raccoon-proof lid) to join the others … There!  Done.

What’s next?  Well, pick up the morning paper from our mailbox, of course.  And while you’re out here, why not get the backyard feeders out of the shed and hang them for the birdies?  Okay, oriole one is up.  Walking with the hummer one towards its hook, thinking of coffee (Tea is for expansive days).

And then … I looked up.  The sky was full of seagulls flying right over our house, from the front yard to the back, coming from their overnight sojourn on Port Stanley beach to eat I don’t know what in the fields around St. Thomas.  I glanced up for a few moments and then dropped my eyes to the task at hand.  Until the voice inside said “Stop.  Put down the feeder.  Watch the birds.”  So I did.

The morning sun hadn’t touched our backyard grass, but it was animating the bellies and wings of my silent friends.  And it was silent.  Nary a flapping sound among the bunch of them.  Inside, I stopped as well, letting the flow of hundreds of birds wash over me.

I looked to the south to some big old deciduous trees on the horizon.  Seagulls kept appearing from behind those trees.  I saw one arrow shape of ten birds.  How cool.  Then there were lots of folks floating along in twos and threes.  But also the occasional one flying alone.  I wondered about them.  Did they want the freedom of a solitary flight, not having to make conversation?  Or did they pine for companionship, wishing that somebody would say “Hi”?  I don’t know.  They didn’t say.

I wanted there to be a minute when the sky was empty, so that I could anticipate the next convoy, but it never came.  Always there were birds, revealing themselves over the southern trees, showing me their colours, and then disappearing to the north, over the maple in our backyard.  I thought of an individual seagull – first they weren’t there, then they were, then they weren’t again.  But even if I could no longer see a certain feathered one, their bird essence was imprinted on my sky.  Nobody can ever take that away.

After five or ten minutes of being aloft, I picked up the hummer feeder and walked to its hook.  Slowly.

Touching

I’ve just spent an hour sitting beside Jody’s bed, holding her head and shoulder.  She’s crying a lot about her cancer and her life.  As Jody’s hair has been coming back over the past few weeks, I’ve enjoyed rubbing her head, letting my fingers flow through her hair.  Not this morning, though.  Just holding feels right.

Often in the past, I’ve sent loving thoughts to Jody as I’ve held her.  A personal beam of energy aimed from one being to another.  Not this morning.  Sometimes I’ve practiced tonglen as I touch her, consciously taking in her pain on my inbreath and sending out love on the outbreath.  But again, not this morning.  Instead it’s just the contact, unmediated by thought or intention.  It’s like walking on a coarse sand beach and coming upon a pocket of the finest grains.  Not really better, I guess, just different, and what I’m drawn towards today.

I think of human touch, and the difference between the hand being still and the hand moving.  I’ve received a lot of hugs in my life, and the ones I’ve loved have been still, rather than feeling that the other person was rubbing the skin off my back, or pounding me to a pulp.

On the other hand, Jody has enjoyed me scratching her back, getting all the itches out.  She’s often marvelled at how I can find the spots that are driving her nuts.  And one of our favourite activities has been Jody lying on the couch while I rub her feet.  So movement of my hand can be pretty special too.

Then there’s the amount of pressure applied.  Some of the hugs I’ve received have been crushing.  This morning it’s been a gentle holding.  No thought about how much is too much, just me wanting to touch my wife, and the details falling into place.

Holding hands is such a comfort, with the touch being just firm enough for communion.  Jody and I have wandered many of life’s paths hand-in-hand.  Such a blessing to have a life partner for silent strolling.

As Jody likely continues to decline, what can I give her?  Some words of love, yes.  The meeting of our eyes, yes.  And holding her close, yes.

 

 

Francis

St. Francis of Assisi wrote this lovely poem, which was later paired with a soaring melody.  Sometime in the 1970s, I attended a Catholic retreat in Lethbridge, Alberta, sleeping in a high school gym.  We were awakened each morning by a choir of angel volunteers, giving us the sweetest daybreak songs.  Later in the day, retreatants and volunteers would channel Francis in singing these words.  It was sublime.  Spirit filled the room.

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me bring Your love,
Where there is injury, Your pardon Lord,
And where there’s doubt, true faith in You

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there’s despair in life let me bring hope,
Where there is darkness – only light,
And where there’s sadness, ever joy

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek,
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood, as to understand,
To be loved, as to love with all my soul

Make me a channel of your peace,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
In giving to all men that we receive,
And in dying that we’re born to eternal life

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek,
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood, as to understand,
To be loved, as to love with all my soul

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me bring Your love,
Where there is injury, Your pardon Lord,
And where there’s doubt, true faith in You

I would like to sit with Francis in Tim Horton’s, enjoying tea and a muffin.  Having it be okay if no words were shared for a time.  Listening when he speaks.  Letting my own words spill out unrehearsed.  Just being together.  No one the better, no one the worse.  One wiser, I’m sure, but that’s okay.  Both of us tapping into the world’s wisdom, indeed being channels for it.  Not smart or clever or special or renowned.

Just tea for two
And two for tea
Just me for you
And you for me

No One Left Out

When I’m driving on the west edge of St. Thomas, I come upon a meadow that borders Kettle Creek.  For many years, four horses have graced that field, and they like hanging out close to each other.  There’s a tall black fellow, a mid-sized black one, a medium one with dark brown patches on white, and a honey-coloured Shetland pony.  I look forward to seeing them every morning I’m on the road.

Once in awhile there are only three horses enjoying each other’s company. And that hurts me.  I get scared.  Has the fourth one died?  Maybe they’re sick inside the barn.  Maybe their owner has taken them to some wide open pasture, and my friend is getting to run and frolic.  Whatever’s happened, the fourth one always returns in a couple of days.  And I breathe easy again.

It’s just not right when one of the group is missing.  The circle is not complete, and I feel sad.

It seems that this is a recurring theme in my life.  I remember how much it hurt one time in my teenage years when I was hanging out with two friends, Mary and Brian. We were sitting at a round table.  I’d say things to Mary, but mostly she’d direct her comments to Brian.  It was such a vivid experience of being third wheel, and that sorrow has never entirely left me.  So my heart breaks when I see others live through exclusion or absence.

I’m thinking now of a Grade 6 girl.  Bonnie was enthralled with a certain boy band, especially its lead singer.  Many a time when she spoke to the class, she would work in a comment about her heroes.  The rest of the students quickly tired of her obsession … and she was ostracized, subtly at times, blatantly at others.  And I was sad.  Once again our circle was broken.

And then there was the gentleman in the meditation hall, a very large guy who brought with him a rubber cushion, which he placed on his chair.  Any slight movement and we heard the squeak.  Also he moved fast, stepped heavily and plunked his glasses down loudly on the window sill next to him.  The looks from some other retreatants held a clear message – you’re not welcome here.  More sadness.

The theme continues inside me.  Jody and I have been watching lots of episodes from “Star Trek: The Next Generation” on our laptop, her from the hospital bed, me from a chair.  I’d missed the last three or four, and when I started watching again I noticed that the young ensign Wesley Crusher was nowhere to be seen.  He wasn’t on the bridge.  He wasn’t in Ten Forward, the ship’s lounge.  He wasn’t even in the credits.  And the same reaction from me: I miss him and I’m worried about him.  All for a TV character from 1990.

I smile at myself sometimes.  Hopelessly sentimental?  Overly sensitive?  Naw … just me.

 

 

Just Folks

Two guys, one Canadian and one Tibetan.  Both well known in their fields.  Both just like you and me.  Both kind.

I read in the London Free Press this morning about George Canyon, a country singer from High River, Alberta.  London has one of its big annual events on right now – the Western Fair.  George was supposed to sing outdoors last night but the heavens opened up and the show was cancelled.  Many fans had been waiting in the rain for George to begin.

Fair organizers then set up a session for George and his fans at a comedy club in one of the fair buildings.  He would shake hands with a few people, for a few minutes.  And then bye bye.  Except the officials didn’t really get what type of person George was.

Mr. Canyon picked up his guitar and started playing for the wet but drying out faithful.  He took requests.  He chatted at length with the crowd.  “After about 20 songs, Canyon put the guitar down and stayed until he met everyone who wanted to have their picture taken with him, or an autograph.”

***

Years ago, the Dalai Lama was staying at a San Francisco hotel while he participated in a conference.  On the day he was leaving, he asked the manager to have all the on-duty employees gather in the hotel parking lot.

“The Dalai Lama walked down the line, greeting each person, smiling, looking in their eyes, thanking them for their service.  Many people wept.  Many looked at him completely enraptured.  At no time did I get the impression that his attention was wandering or that he would rather have been somewhere else.  Without exception, he was fully attentive to each person as he met them.  The effect of this wholehearted presence was remarkable.”

 ***

There’s nothing I can think of to add
Our actions say it all

 

The Tour du Canada

Yesterday afternoon 25 cyclists slogged up the two kilometres of Signal Hill in St. John’s, Newfoundland, completing their journey of 7550 kilometres (about 4700 miles) across Canada.  They had started mid-June in Vancouver, BC, and averaged around 130 kilometres per day.  My goodness.

For at least ten years, I’ve dreamed of joining them.  It’s an adventure which I will experience before I die.  I can feel that deep inside.  My plan was to do the ride this summer, right after retiring, but Jody’s illness prevented that from happening.  I need to be at her side.

Let’s say I cross my country in 2016.  I’ll be 67 then, not exactly the oldest rider to do the deed, but getting up there.  As a 50-year-old, I defined myself as a slow cyclist, so what about 17 years later?  The bottom line question: Would anyone in the group be willing to ride with me on the daily spin, or would my time on the bike be spent alone?  I like to think they’ll be a few takers.  Speaking most stereotypically, I don’t expect my companions on the road to include any 20-year-old men.  I bet they’d be busting their buns to be the first ones into the next campground.  Oh well.  Sometimes I dream of speed, but not much.  I want to see the world passing by, not be gazing at the rear tire of the rider ahead, only six inches from my front one.

Here’s some more wants:

1.  To become friends with my fellow riders, perhaps at a level that I’ve never experienced before.  After all, we’ll be fighting the wind, the rain, the hills, injuries, illness and our own emotions.  Each of us will have off-days, times when our self-esteem hangs by a thread, times when someone else’s personality will be oil to my water.  We have to take care of each other.  The possible overwhelm could easily lead to tears, even male tears.  I need to be kind, and graciously receive others’ kindness in return.

2.  To meet Canadians all across this fair land.  If I’m riding through a Saskatchewan town, past the general store, and spy an elderly gentleman sitting on the porch, pulling on his pipe … I’m going to stop and say hi.  Have a nice chat about the Prairies and about riding (assuming that he’s fine with talking).  I know that many communities, ones who welcome Tour du Canada folks year after year, put on breakfasts or dinners for the riders.  Truly a golden opportunity to blab at length to every Mary and Bob that I can find – young, old and anywhere in the middle.  I like to think that my spirit will flow into them, and theirs into me.

3.  To blog my fingers off from Vancouver Island to the Maritimes.  The organizer of the tour told me that most campgrounds which they use are wireless, so I can cozy up to my laptop for half an hour each evening and wax poetic about the events of the day.  I’ll be sure to mention lots about the peanut butter and jam sandwiches that are a lunchtime staple.

As is the case with the blog you’re reading right now, I won’t know if I’m reaching a lot of people or just a few.  Now and in the future, both results are fine.  As long as someone is out there, I’m good!

As wise people often say when thinking about a life experience, there’s the anticipation of the event, the event itself, and the memories.  I know that all three will be mine.  As for now, Part A is a lot of fun.