Tag Archives: Sadness

Haida Gwaii … Whales

On a wilderness shore sits the remains of a whaling station which operated in the early 1900’s.  Our group landed at Rose Harbour in the Zodiac and explored the beach, including intertidal life.  Perched above us were two rusting boilers, huge sentries of the whaling industry.  I got to poke my head inside and imagine the carcasses dropped into the top hole, the oil that was saved at the side, and the bones which filled the floor.

I thought of the whales, fifty feet and more, who gave their lives to feed man’s desire for lamps and soap.  And I was sad.  But I also thought about the families on Haida Gwaii who depended on these animals for their livelihood.  Scratching out an existence so far from civilization must have been a monumental task.  So little in life seems to be black and white.

I saw the ancient ramp that served as the resting place for these beings, and the spot where their flesh was carved up in preparation for the boilers.  And I felt back in time … to the whales and human beings of a century ago.

Later that same day, Captain Greg told us about a whale who had died last October.  It was washed up on a beach and was decomposing there.  Did we want to go?  There would be a horrible stink to the place …  We all wanted to be there.

As we came ashore and walked towards the big brown shape, the wind at our backs meant the experience was just visual … so far.  But then we were ten feet away and I’ll never forget the smell.  Part of me wanted to run away but the bigger part wanted to be in the presence of death.

My late friend was probably eighty feet long.  Its flesh was falling off its bones and puddling in the hollows.  Huge vertebrae were bleaching in the sun.  And we were transfixed.  I moved closer.  I could have reached out and touched him or her.  It was a communion.

Some of us talked.  Many of us didn’t.  There was really nothing to say in the presence of such grandeur and sadness.

Hundreds of whales near Haida Gwaii remain free, lifting their tails high as they feed on herring.  May it ever be so.  And may we humans continue to receive the nourishment we need.

Homeless

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

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

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

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

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

Day Nine: Saying Goodbye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Three: Sunny

A tan’s the thing, is it not?  I figured my strategy was good … show up at the beach at 4:00 and stay a couple of hours, avoiding the most damaging rays of the sun.  Plus I slathered on SPF 30 and reapplied it halfway through.

My history of wanting a good tan goes way back to the teen years when I was sorely afraid of anyone seeing my white body.  But now I’m 67.  Does it really matter that I’m brown all over, that I return to friends in Canada with a bodily badge of honour?  I think not.

Still there I was yesterday on a sublime white sand beach, hauling a lounger out of its thatched shade so I could get the full meal deal.  I pulled off my t-shirt and shorts to reveal a sparkling lime green Speedo.  Last time here, I had little hesitation about prancing around in such skimpiness but this time I was afraid.

Maybe thirty posts ago, I talked about a physical problem I’ve developed.  I was sure scared to press “Enter” after that writing was done, but I did it, and then hoped that time would erase any record of the subject.  Well … here I go again.  I have benign cysts on my testicles such that the little guys have turned into big guys, two to three times their normal size.  Add that to the reality of wearing a Speedo and you can see my problem.  Before coming to Cuba, I’d decided that gym shorts would be my bathing suit.  Maybe I’d strip to my Speedo in the confines of my beach lounger but I sure wouldn’t walk around wearing it.

So there I lounged in the Speedo way, reading my book.  Yes, the urge came to get up and walk down the beach.  “No, Bruce!  People will … ”  Come on now – people will what?  “They’ll laugh, point, or maybe call security.”  Geez.  Just get up and stroll around.  So I did, first walking out to the shore and staring out at the infinite ocean.  Nobody tackled me.  So I turned right and dipsy doodled along the water’s edge.  Two or three folks did look at my central area but I kept going.  Then a young woman came up and asked me to take a picture of her family.  They were lined up looking at me as I fiddled with the camera.  I’m pretty sure I was blushing but I hoped they’d mistake it for sunburn.  I took too much time and the screen went blank.  So more time as she showed me how to get the camera going again.  Happily, no one stuck out their tongue or vomited, but I was dying inside.

I could have made a bee line back to my chair but instead, girding my loins, I meandered along the shore some more.  I climbed the steps up to the beach bar and ordered a pina colada, then walked in front of maybe fifty people back to my temporary home.  No bolt of lightning struck me down.  I was thrilled and astonished.  I did it.  And really it was just a couple of body parts that had gotten out of control.  I hummed a happy tune.

***

After supper, I sat in the lobby bar reading Birdie, the story of a Canadian aboriginal woman that almost won the Canada Reads competition on CBC Radio.  The heavens opened up before, during and after.  The bar is open to the elements, tempered by the translucent blinds that offered some protection from the rain.  What I experienced was delightful.  The lightest mist fell upon my face and arms … just like Niagara Falls.  The perfect end to a perfect day.  Or perhaps not.

I was in bed by 11:00 and up by 12:30.  The bod was on fire, not with a burn but with itching.  I turned on the light to see what was shaking.  What I saw was lots of tiny blisters adorning the newly tanning areas.  (Big sigh)  Sleep seemed impossible.  I knew that I had some hand lotion with me, so I rubbed that on.  More fire.  So into the shower I stumbled.  That helped a bit.  I took the second sleeping pill of the evening and lay down again.  The itching continued.  I resigned myself to a largely sleepless night.  That was about 1:30.  I woke up at 9:00.  The blisters were gone.  Thank you, Jodiette, and other beings who watch over me.

Bye bye, tan.  From now on, I’m staying in the shade – under the thatched huts on the beach and hanging loose in the lobby bar.  My cold is full speed ahead.  My energy is way down low.  But my soul is happy.  Quite the adventure, this life of ours.

A Toronto Day

I’m living in an exquisite hotel room, all white and maroon, with a rain shower (square 7×7″ head) that I love standing under.  I’m sitting on the comfy couch, tapping out the words while the downtown sun splashes through the sheers behind me.  I have a sanctuary.

Yesterday I had fish.  I went to Ripley’s Aquarium to see a lot of swimming life.  The best scenes for me were:

  1.  A huge cylindrical tank of small fish, all hovering in mid-water until some unknown leader suggested a course change and the school responded
  2. One little fishy person who seemed to tread water, sitting vertically in place, its mouth doing deep breathing exercises
  3. A gaggle of blue eels, wrapped around each other, with each head looking shockingly like a human face, complete with a variety of expressions
  4. Standing in a tube with sea creatures meandering by to my left, my right and above.  For a long while, I stood in place, waiting for a toothy shark or the flat mass of a manta ray to pass right over my head
  5. The “Ray Bay”, a huge aquarium full of rays.  Some would approach the wall of glass and climb straight up, their undersides apparently revealing a big smiling mouth

I rode the subway here and there, remembering my daily trips from home to the downtown campus of the University of Toronto.  90% of my fellow passengers were connected – that certainly wasn’t part of my memory cells.  I reminisced about how I used to watch people by gazing at their reflection in the window beside me, and I followed suit.  Such stealth!

I was also jolted by the speed at which most people walked … definitely a sprint.  Oh yes, and then there’s escalator etiquette.  Stay on the right side if you want to stand, and watch the flow of humanity beat you to the destination.  A fellow told me yesterday about climbing a narrow escalator in a Toronto mall, just room for one person at a time.  He had chosen to stay still.  The woman behind would have none of it, apparently.  It must have been an effective body check as she squeezed past him.  (Sigh … and no thanks)

One subway station had two large posters that saddened me:

Don’t want to make eye contact?  Read a subway poster

Thinking of suicide?  There is help.  Let’s talk

My second concert in two days was a pretty loud affair, featuring four brilliant musicians: lead guitar, bass guitar, piano and drums.  I enjoyed seeing them express their craft.  But I wanted more quiet stories about life … my definition of folk music.  The highlight for me was when a woman joined them on stage and sang of a place – Aille, I think – and the love that happened there.  The song and the voice were haunting.  It was far and away the highlight of the concert for me.

I wanted to tell the artist how her performance had moved me.  At the break, I looked for her and saw that she was engaged in conversation with the pianist the whole time.  After the whole shebang was done, I sought her out again.  She was talking at the bar to a woman who had sung a song with the band during the second half.  And they kept talking.  I kept standing in the background.  I wanted to thank the Aille inspirer but I didn’t want to share my appreciation with the other person being there, because that woman’s performance didn’t reach me.  How strange.  I was determined to contribute to the first lady without diminishing the second.  How much of my desired contact was the ego speaking?  I don’t know.  Finally, as they continued chatting, the voice inside me said “Let her go, Bruce.”  So I did.  And off into the night …

Being Hated

There was an article in The London Free Press this morning about an actor who’s rehearsing the title role in a local play about the life of Martin Luther King.  Twice in our mostly fair city, E.B. Smith has been taunted with “nigger” out in public.

I don’t understand.  Sure, I know the history of racial discrimination, especially in the United States, but I can’t get my mind around the consciousness that would do such a thing.  It’s just skin.  I guess that even for us of the white tone, there’s some prejudice against old skin (wrinkled and dotted with age spots) as compared to young skin (smooth and firm).

“Different than and therefore inferior” could be applied to anything, if one really wanted to be small about it.  Being lefthanded.  Being 6’2″ and a woman.  Being 4’10” and a woman.  Being fat.  Being anorexic.  Hardly ever smiling.  Needing a walker.  Having a facial tic.  And one humungous etcetera.

The article today mentioned another shameful moment in London’s recent history.  At an NHL pre-season game, a black hockey player saw an object thrown at him from the stands … a banana.  I wonder what the reaction of the fans was that night.  Stunned silence, I hope.  Outrage, I hope.  Surely no laughter, I hope.

It’s a tough job each of us has, living this life.  Existence on our planet seems to come with gobs of suffering, even for people like me – white and privileged.  Please, no extra and totally unnecessary pain.  It hurts too much.

Nothing In My Fingers

I’m written 380 posts in Bruce’s Blog but it feels like I’ve dried up.  Here I am right now creating a post about not being able to write a post.  And that’s not what I want to do.  I don’t want to delve into whatever’s happened to my writing … I want to write – about stuff that’s important to me.

This can’t be the end, can it?  Have I exhausted all topics that interest me?  I sure hope not.  But all writers hit the wall sometimes, don’t they?  And sitting with my silent laptop on my knees for an hour just isn’t it.  Maybe I should watch TV (but I don’t want to).

The voice inside is saying that 380 is a pretty good number, that within all those posts is enough food for thought to please anyone.  But what about the future?  Maybe I’ll go somewhere tomorrow that moves me to communicate, or someone will say something that I just have to share with the world.  But apparently not tonight.

No apologies.  But some regret.  I’ll say goodnight.  I hope we get to talk soon.

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.

Loving Still

Jody and I still talk a lot, 14 months after her death.  A lot of love passes between us.

My dear wife tells me, “We will be together again in this physical life.”  And I sit open to this possibility, even when my rational brain is poo-pooing the idea.  I so much want to hold Jodiette again.

I heard Jane Lewis in concert a couple of nights ago.  She wrote a song called “Tend Me Like A Garden” and I’ve cried every time I’ve played it in the car.

Tend me, tend me like a garden
Love me, love me like the rain
I will give you all that you can harvest
‘Til the first frost steals me away

The coldness of death has indeed stolen my love away.  I’m lonely without my wife.  She loved me like the rain, and still does.

I will love you through all of the seasons
I’ll weather what the fall and summer bring
I may lay fallow in the winter
But I swear that I’ll remember you in spring

“Remember me, Jodiette, until we meet again.”

“I certainly will, Brucio … with great love.”

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.