Tag Archives: Sadness

Eighty-Four Days … Part Two

As the weeks of silence rolled on, music came into my head … and stayed.  I was awake 18 hours a day and I’d guess that towards the end of the retreat the songs were alive and well for 16 of those hours.  First it was recognizable tunes, such as “All Through The Night” and “Pachelbel Canon”.   But then the words and known melodies faded away, in favour of unknown music.  I went for a three mile walk every day and one particular melody stayed with me for the whole time.  It was vibrant and danceable, and my body often responded with a jig and a jag.  That one song went on for an hour or more.

During periods of sitting meditation, the melodies were usually slow and sweet but occasionally the orchestra inside my head would swell to ecstatic highs – great runs of fast notes.  My head and the rest of my body rose up.  I was still sitting but my spine was erect.  It felt like I was reaching for heaven.  I worried that my fellow yogis could hear my silent singing.  One of my teachers commented, “Bruce, have you ever heard music that’s inside people?  No?  Neither have I.  They can’t hear you!”

For the first few days back at home, the melodies kept coming.  Now, two weeks from the end of the retreat, I don’t hear the songs anymore.  And I miss them.  Sometimes in the meditation hall, I tried to stop them.  I scrunched my forehead.  I lowered my head between my legs.  And still the music flowed.  I eventually let go and let it all wash over me.  Now I want it to come back.  And I can’t control that either.  Ten days ago, I sat at the piano and felt the music in my fingers.  I want to do that again.

I haven’t meditated much since I got home.  Tomorrow, I’m going to sit for an hour or so and see what emerges.  Not an act of will.  A letting be.  But I feel my attachment to the music.  Like I did with Ginette, I need to let that go.  By grace do we receive.

I might even go for a walk.

 

 

 

Not Jake

The dear old Messiah will have to wait for another day.  I found out half an hour ago that I didn’t get the part of Jake in the play Jake’s Women.  I got off the phone and sat down in my man chair.  I’d been sorting through some papers and felt the pull to get back at it.  No.  How about grab the sports section?  No.  So I sat.  My friend Renato came into the room and I told him the news.  He wanted to talk.  No.  And I sat some more.

I’ve been so light lately but now the sadness weighed me down.  I wasn’t slumping exactly but I felt … compressed.  And then … there was quiet inside me.

I realized how hungry I was and decided to have some breakfast.  I didn’t want distractions from how I was in the moment but I needed to eat.  So I did.  Quietly, with virtually no thoughts about the director’s decision.  I committed to sit down with my laptop as soon as I was done eating.  And here I am, alone in my bedroom.

So, what’s true?  My mind flits to the upside – not having to memorize over an hour of dialogue, no rigorous rehearsal schedule, don’t have to worry about stage fright, there’ll be another play …  I let those thoughts do their thing and now they’ve floated away.  Sitting some more, this time with fingers moving over the keys.

What does it mean when I say to myself “I am Jake”?  I don’t know, but I am.  In my heart, I celebrate the humanity of Jake.  He’s happy, sad, angry, loving and momentarily crazy.  He’s all that each of us is.  How about if I don’t nix any of that out of my life, if I let in the fact that we all hurt?  And if my neighbour is suffering, can I allow their pain and simply sit with them?

This doesn’t seem to be sadness now.  I’m very slow and quiet.  The experience of “not chosen” is common to all of us.  I feel my energy moving towards all the human beings I know and all the ones I’m just meeting.  This doesn’t feel like suppression.  Maybe I’ll cry later.  Hey, maybe I’ll laugh later.  (Oops.  I just laughed!)

Here I am, alone in my bedroom.  That’s fine for the moment but my place is out there in the world, loving and having other people laugh with me.  Time to go.

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 Nine … Resonating In My Heart

My day began with slight miscalculations.  I’m staying near Kamloops, BC on August 1 and 2.  Since Kamloops is directly west of Edmonton, I figured I’d spend the night of July 31 in Alberta’s capital.  I could sit in the West Edmonton Mall for a few hours and drink in the aura of rampant commercialism.  However, truth be told, Kamloops is directly west of Calgary.  So skip the mall and revel in the beauty of the Icefield Parkway between Banff and Jasper … gorgeous mountains on all sides, complete with a few glaciers.  I can’t wait.

Laundry time yesterday morning.  Real showed me the washer and everything looked straightforward.  So around went the clothes.  Then the drier.  As I reached for a Bounce sheet, I had the niggly feeling that I hadn’t put anything of a similar nature into the washer, such as detergent.  Sadly, I was correct.  My T-shirts  and shorts were very wet and still stinky.  So back into the washer they went.

I like my brain, even when I forget stuff, like standing in the basement wondering why I’m there.  I mean, who wants a totally efficient mind?  If I was focused all the time, there wouldn’t be any room to contemplate life, death and the universe.

In the afternoon, I went to see Taiko drummers at the Japanese Garden in Lethbridge – eleven women and one man who smashed the heck out of the skins atop two-foot-high wooden drums which looked like giant teacups without the handles.  The fellow especially gave it his all.  His whole body moved to the rhythms of his sticks.  Wide stance, trance-like facial expressions, small Japanese words slipping out of his mouth.  I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  The women were in their 40’s to 60’s, I’d say, and you could see the exhaustion on their faces at the end of a piece.  All sorts of rhythms from the different drummers.  Quiet tappings that grew into thrusts of power and back again.  I was gone into the music.  Thank you, Taiko folks.

And then there was the peace of the garden.  Gently curving paths. Gently curving grassy slopes.  A reflection pond hosting pagoda statues.  A four-foot-high copper gong that I rang with an oiled horizontal post.  Then I held the gong for a couple of minutes until the vibration died.  Sweet.

A family of five came towards me on the path.  I’d guess they were from India.  I asked them If they’d like me to take their picture.  “Of course.  Thank you.”  After I had done the deed, the girl of about ten smiled at me .. so fully, so lovingly, so much beyond the usual contact we have with each other.  Like the drumming, the outside flooded the inside.  Thank you, young lady.

I had a nice talk with the hostess at the visitor centre.  When I was about to leave, she asked if she could hug me.  So we did … for a long time.  Just holding – no tapping or crushing.  Lovely.

Veronica, Real and I went out to dinner at Luigi’s Pizza and Steak House in Lethbridge.  Our server was a nervous young man.  He tried describing the daily special but all he could manage was “chicken filet”.  Veronica told him, “Luigi’s has such a big menu.  It must be hard to keep track of it all.”  When he walked away from the table, I gave her the thumbs up.  That’s just what the world needs: compassion.

Back home again, Veronica and I sat for a bit on the deck.  We talked of the last hours of her mom Joan and my Jody.  Of letting go.  Of telling them that it was okay to go.  Wanting to be alone with our loved one as she died.  Four moist eyes embraced our loves in the dark of the evening.

Then it was time with Real and Veronica’s two dogs.  Luigi, a furry little white thing, lay in my lap, purring with my petting.  Riggs, a British bulldog, occupied my other hand with rubs.  So here and so now.

Today, I’m visiting my sister-in-law Nona’s dad Gordon in a nursing home before Scarlet guides me to Calgary.  I’m staying with my friend Isabelle and her husband … Bruce.  I don’t know.  Two Bruces in one house?  Could be trouble.

How I met Isabelle is another story.  Tomorrow.

Love Floats By

In the late 80’s, I was a waiter at a fancy restaurant in Lethbridge, Alberta.  I was engaged to Jody and loved her very much.  But I loved another woman as well, not sexually but as friends.  Marianne worked at the restaurant too.  One night a group of us went out dancing after our shift.  And I got to dance to “The Lady In Red” with Marianne.  We were quiet together, just holding each other.  It was tender.

It’s been at least ten years since I’ve seen Marianne.  She’s married and happy in Lethbridge.  I phoned her a few months ago to tell her that I’m coming west this summer and that I’d love to see her.  Answering machine.  And in the weeks that stretched away … no response.  So I phoned again.  Answering machine.  No response.  And that scenario has repeated itself several times.

Do I let Marianne go or show up at her door?  The Buddhist in me says to let her go.  She’s on her path and it looks like it’s not going to intersect with mine again.  But then there’s the part of me that wants to thank her for being kind to me all those years ago, and wants to hang out again.  I don’t know what to do.  I’ll be in her neighbourhood for four days.  How strange it would feel to not even try.

There won’t be a resolution in my mind tonight.  I’ll just let the discomfort and uncertainty sit there … all the way to Lethbridge.  There’s no right answer to this.  My love for Marianne is still there.  Maybe her response is not important.  Maybe what goes out from me is all that matters.  What comes back is through the grace of God.

Disconnect

This afternoon, the Grade 8 students at St. Mary Choir School (graduating tomorrow) put on a cabaret for family, friends and younger kids.  All those sweet voices.  All those smooth dance moves.  And tons of smiles from the performers.

However, I was stunned by one reality of the gathering.  As I looked around at the adults and high school students nearby, I saw six people spending a fair slice of the concert on their smart phones – texting, I guess, and cruising the Internet.  Oh my.  Here we have lots of performing 14-year-olds, and as they’re giving it their all, they look out at the audience and see many heads down.  When a loved one was singing, I saw phones pointed at the stage, videoing the performance, but most of the tech use was not that.  How sad.

Why is there so often a huge gap between the present moment and what people are focusing on?  The here and now is precious – often joyous and sometimes painful, but all of it life.  And we need to experience it.

I remember a few years ago, sitting in an airport lounge, waiting for the boarding call.  A family of four took the seats directly across from me … mom, dad, a boy (about 12) and a girl (about 10).  With nary a word, they each pulled out their handheld thingies and started tapping away.  It could have been 20 minutes of silence and knitted brows.  (Sigh)  No eye contact either.

May we find a better way.

Symbol of Life

Just so you know, groundhogs are members in good standing of the rodent family.  They average about 20 inches long and live throughout much of North America in grassy lowlands.  They’re mostly vegetarian (smart critters, I’d say) but sometimes they have insects for dessert.

Jody and I moved from Lethbridge, Alberta to London, Ontario in 1990.  After three years of Occupational Therapy studies at Western University, Jody was hired by Parkwood Hospital.  In 1994, we moved to Union, creating a 35-minute drive to work.  Our route took us past a huge grassy area near Parkwood, grounds that belonged to Victoria Hospital.

So began my love affair with groundhogs.  They were all over that meadow, poking their hairy little heads out of their burrows.  It wasn’t just an empty field full of long grass … there was life!  Every morning, I looked forward to waddling brown beings.  And most times they obliged, putting in an appearance before their adoring public.  I was happy.

And then one day, one year, they were gone.  And they never came back.  Not in 1998.  Not in 2008.  Never.  I was sad about losing my friends without even a goodbye.  The rumour was that they were poisoned.  I suppose the rumour was true.

Not once have I seen a groundhog since the disappearance.  Until today.  And it wasn’t at Parkwood.  I was driving along Highbury Avenue north of London, on my way to St. Patrick’s School near Lucan.  Off to my right was a rough lawn, with some bumps on it.  And a groundhog was skittering along from one burrow to the next!  Oh my.  Thank you, Lord.  Soon I was past the scene but I held that brown guy in my heart all the way to St. Pat’s, a little smile on my face.

Life wins.

The Concert!

I’ve never looked forward to a concert so much.  I drove to Toronto yesterday to hear Jackie Evancho, a 14-year-old girl with a celestial voice.  During Jody’s funeral luncheon, and at her Celebration of Life, I showed the video of Jackie singing “In The Arms Of An Angel”, which is where Jody is.  And to hear Jackie sing “Nessum Dorma”, an operatic piece usually performed by men, is to be transported into a heavenly realm.  This girl is far more than her voice, though.  She has an astonishing presence on stage.  I think she’s an old soul, reborn on Earth to bring joy and spread love.

I lived in Toronto for the first 21 years of my life.  Yesterday, I had a vague memory of a cheap parking garage near the Sony Centre downtown.  I knew what exit to take off the freeway, and after a few twists and turns, there was the garage.  Plus it was only $5.00 to park for hours and hours.  Yay!

An hour-and-a-half before showtime.  I thought a beer would be in order.  Right outside the garage, on a street called The Esplanade, sat an Irish pub.  Inside was dark wood, a seat at the bar, large screen TV sports, and a Barking Squirrel lager.  Oh, bliss is mine!  I talked to two of the servers, and they were both genuinely happy that I was about to hear one of the most beautiful voices in the world.  My soul was flying high, not to mention the rest of me with the beer.

7:15.  The show would start at 8:00 so it was time to mosey.  As I was walking out of the pub, one of my new friends smiled and said, “Enjoy the concert.”  Indeed.  It was only two blocks to the Sony Centre and my cells were singing.  As I rounded the corner, I wondered if the doors would be open yet.  Then I saw a fellow going inside.  Good.  I’ll just hang out in my seat (only ten rows from the stage!) and drink in the theatre.

Off the sidewalk now and approaching all those glass doors.  A corner of my mind noticed five 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of paper on the windows, but who cares?  Hand reaching for the door.  Eyes lifting to check out the sign.

JACKIE EVANCHO
IS CANCELLED

(Standing still)  (Staring)  (Gulping)

Gently, Gently

The Buddha taught about three big problems people have: attachment, aversion and delusion.  Over the nine days of the meditation retreat I just experienced, I learned how to be with these obstacles.  Easier said than done, however.  The teachers asked us to observe the eruptions of the mind as they emerged.  And to hold them gently, as you would cradle a baby bird, rather than getting all ramped up with an issue, creating a big story about the topic, filled with distress.  I found that if I was being quietly aware of, say, an attachment I was watching unfold, a telltale sign would be a tiny smile at the corners of my mouth.

I came to the retreat attached to a particular walking meditation route at the centre.  On previous retreats, I did a big loop, walking the long, curving driveway and then on the lawn, next to the hedge that borders the road.  When I arrived on Easter weekend, there were drifts of snow by the hedge, the temperature was about 5 degrees Celsius, and I was sick.  Still, I had to walk my route, every day.  Lips tight, leaning forward, I trudged on.  Sometimes my boot would break through the crust and sink down 8 inches or so, and sometimes my foot would stay on top.  I tried to convince myself that this just duplicated the ups and downs of life, and that it was therefore a good meditation.  But it didn’t work.  Mostly, it was just a pain in the ass.

Where, oh where, had vacated my meditative mind?  I was covered in a blanket of “have to”, determined to do as I had done before.  But the pressing doesn’t work.

By day three my cough had gotten worse, it was cold out, and I abandoned the great out-of-doors.  I found a rectangular walking room in the centre and stepped on out, marginally at peace.  The truth was though, at least to my addled brain, the smooth wooden floorboards were not good enough.  I lusted for my hedge, lawn and driveway.

As the teachers continued their daily lessons about simply observing our attachments – our greed to have life turn out just the way we want it – I got to see the huge tension I had created for myself.  I was sad, and tried to just let that be there.  Glimpses of that tiny smile broke through for a moment here and a moment there, quickly to be replaced by a pout.  That Buddha!  What does he know?

More about that tomorrow.

Another Celebration

Two weeks from now,  Jody’s Celebration of Life will be held at Bellamere Winery in London.  This afternoon, I went to another one, honouring Kathy, an occupational therapist colleague of Jody’s.

I didn’t know how hard it would be for me.  As I walked in, I recognized person after person.  First of all, Jody’s former boss from many years ago.  Last January, she had dropped off gifts at our house, but I hadn’t seen her.  The best of the lot was a sculpted fabric seat to give me some lower back support as I sat with Jody.  I’ve used it many times but never found out the woman’s address to thank her.  Today I did, mixed with sorrow and embarrassment.  She wasn’t fazed at all.  Just me.

I started talking to a friend of Jody’s who retired from Parkwood last month.  Soon, though, I was pulled away to say hello to another workmate of Jody’s.  A dangling conversation.  Made me sad.

As I bounced from person to person, I got scared.  We were here for Kathy, not Jody.  Except that I’m always here for Jody.  And people wanted to give me a hug.  So let them, Bruce.

A few minutes into Kathy’s Celebration of Life, it was time for the first musical number, sung and played by a mellow male guitarist.  Oh, no.  It was “Annie’s Song” by John Denver, a piece I had sung to Jody for years.  I tried to stop the tears but they pooled in my eyes.  “It’s not about you, Bruce.  It’s about Kathy.”   I thought about staring into Jody’s eyes all those times as I’d sung “Come let me love you.  Let me give my life to you.”  Oh, Jodiette.  How I miss you, my dear wife.

Later, the musician favoured us with “Bridge Over Troubled Water”.

When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all

Oh, Jody.  Will you dry my tears, dear one?  They seem to go on forever.

Family and friends came to the front and talked about Kathy’s life, and how kind she was to everyone.  She was truly a wonderful person who had always treated me royally.  My focus moved to Kathy from Jody.  And I could breathe again.  But near the end of the ceremony, the master of ceremonies mentioned the good people who Parkwood had recently lost … “Kathy, Jody and Rob.”  And my tears came once more.

How will I ever cope two weeks from now, when maybe 200 loved ones will show up at Bellamere, and I’m the master of ceremonies?  I don’t know.  Jody, please be with me then.  Help me draw forth the love that’s already in the room.

I’m always with you, Bruce
I will shelter you
I will protect you
Love them all