The Lesson is Love

Pope Francis is in a precarious position. He is a spiritual man in charge of a monster institution—and apparently he’s considered by some within the Catholic Church to be a bit of a rebel. A radical thinker. A threat, perhaps, to the centuries’ old dogma that, like the American citizens’ “right to bear arms” no longer applies. Society has evolved. The power balance has shifted, and for a long time now, the Church—all religion, really—has been losing respect, credibility, and members.

I was taught in Sunday school that the truth never changes. If that statement originated in a time when the earth was flat and the sun revolved around it, then that particular truth was not true at all … until you consider that truth is not necessarily true in the bigger picture or will remain true in the future, but is most definitely true in the moment.

Perception is everything.

One truth remains eternal:

It’s all about love.

And Pope Francis gets it.

This could be why there are rumblings among the masses. Francis is not out there passing judgment or heaping fire and brimstone on the heads of sinners. He is healing through love and service, teaching both by example, and he seems unconcerned that neither of these principles was copyrighted by the Vatican. In fact, he’s publicly allowed that someone can be of a different faith, race, sexual orientation, you name it, and still be a good person.

Radical thinking, indeed.

I am not a Catholic. I’m unsure that I am even a Christian anymore. Though I accept that Christ lived among us and was a great spiritual teacher, I’ve long grown suspicious of any religion associated with his name—but I believe implicitly in his message.

I believe in love.

I believe in being a good person, and that most of us are good people.

I believe that we are all connected to each other and to the infinite power that created us.

I believe that Pope Francis is not only what the Church needs now. The whole world needs him. He is helping to revive the message that was somehow lost in the struggle for dominance, for power and wealth and influence over kings and peasants alike.

It’s a message of love. Of compassion. Of patience and forgiveness. It’s the same message that Dr Wayne conveyed, and both he and Pope Francis have reminded me of something that’s almost as important as the message itself:

There are great spiritual teachers among us now, in this day and this age. There are also charlatans and wannabes, as there were in the past, but rest assured, if someone is speaking from his heart, your heart will know it.

The Rainbow Connection

September 20, 2015

It’s a natural phenomenon, a scientific given: shoot sunlight through vapour and a rainbow appears.

An ordinary miracle. Ordinary because it happens all the time. Miraculous because the timing is often … curious.

A photo was posted of the rainbow that appeared in Florida over the facility where the celebration of Dr. Wayne’s life had just occurred. I was doing the dishes that night, pondering the symbolism of it, when Ter called me from the Ocean Room:

“Ru, you’ve got to come and see this rainbow!”

The day had been rainy and dark, and fraught with frustration at the ongoing renovation of the suite downstairs—I am so frigging sick of construction that I already hated our new neighbours and I had yet to meet them. Not their fault; I’ve been subjected to construction/reconstruction racket since the lunchroom next to my office was built last March. There has been no escape, no sanctuary, all summer. Work on building the elevator shaft at home (what we jokingly refer to as “the Trump Tower”) began in June, and at the office, the eighth floor was reconfigured to accommodate new staff in July/August. At least weekends had been quiet, until the place downstairs sold in September. Now the weekends are shot because the new folks are doing it themselves—and guess what? They have day jobs too!

So that rainy Sunday had me perilously close to the end of my rope.

Dr. Wayne’s rainbow seemed significant, hence my pondering when Ter called. Rainbows may be the mandatory adherence to physical law, but they mean so much on a spiritual level: Hope. Joy. Love. A promise that all will be well if it isn’t already—and when I joined Ter in the OR, I saw the most incredible display of glowing colour arcing over our house and plunging into the sea. I almost wept.

Instead, I grabbed the Canon and ran outdoors to capture the moment. The pictures do little justice, and once I admitted defeat, I merely stood in the misty breeze and admired the incandescent, hard candy colour, all the while marveling that it had come to me at all.

“It’s going to be all right,” a quiet voice whispered.

And it will be.

I promise.

With love,

Love and Service

An unusual thing happened to me the other day. Riding the elevator to my office, I suddenly, gleefully, thought, I want to be evil. I wanted to be bad, mean, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, über-critical, unhelpful; in general, the direct opposite of the way I was brought up and, incidentally, against my nature.

I got to the eighth floor, put my lunch in the fridge, cleaned out the dish drainer, switched on the kettle, replenished the snack bowls, and lit up my “doctor is in” sign.

Sigh.

Life at present has gotten beyond my control. Too much is happening that affects me, yet I can do nothing but cope—and coping is getting harder by the day. I’ve been haranguing my angels and doing the self-talk, fighting the good fight, resisting the impulse to flush myself into the Vortex of Doom, and pursued the positive attitude to the ends of the earth. On the elevator that day, I admitted defeat.

And that’s okay. I can’t do it all. I can’t always be optimistic. I’m human, after all, not superhuman. It’s not my job to rejig the misaligned energy fields. All I have to do is take my hands off the wheel and be patient. Be kind with others, and with myself. Take small steps. Find joy in the present moment—or admit when joy ain’t happening. It’s okay if my outlook is bleak. It won’t stay that way. It never does. And no matter how rough my life is, someone else’s is always rougher. Knowing so does not lessen my angst, but it puts things in perspective.

So did the entry on the Zen desk calendar for my “wanna be evil” day. It’s a piece called the Bodhisatta Vows, and I like it better than I ever liked the Lord’s Prayer:

May I be a guard for those who need protection

A guide for those on the path

A boat, a raft, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood

May I be a lamp in the darkness

A resting place for the weary

A healing medicine for all who are sick

A vase of plenty, a tree of miracles

And for the boundless multitude of living beings

May I bring sustenance and awakening

Enduring like the earth and sky

Until all beings are freed from sorrow

And all are awakened

With love,

The Three-Ring Night Circus

Falling so in love with The Night Circus means that it deserves to be a hardcover addition to my library. I dropped the hint for my birthday in 2014 and no one picked it up. Then I forgot about it until Christmas, when I re-read the paperback. I dropped the hardcover hint again and, again, no one picked it up. I suspect this was because my presents had already been procured. I got some neat books in lieu and forgot once more about TNC in hardcover.

Earlier this year, I searched online and discovered that new hardcovers no longer exist. Used ones, however, are available from various sellers in various conditions for various prices. I didn’t order one because online options can be boggling and I still have my paperback. A hardcover is a nice to have, but certainly not mandatory.

My tea fairy, Treena, usually coordinates her birthday/Christmas prezzie shopping with Ter; they compare notes and such to ensure that no duplications occur. Only this year, they didn’t consult on my birthday until it was too late. Each of them had remembered my request, and each of them had gone ahead on the assumption that the other would never think of it. Once they consulted, they realized that, uh oh, a duplication was in progress. Ter’s had already arrived when Treena came by for tea—a celebration which included my acquiring season three of Orphan Black, thanks to Treena, who shares my hope that one day Ter will become equally addicted to the series and we can all be addicts together. Ter certainly knows the series’ premise, well enough to coin a clone joke when referring to the duplicate prezzie gaffe. She and Treena decided to give me both “clones” of the gift and let me choose which one to keep.

Meanwhile, bearing in mind that I had no idea what they were up to, I quietly decided to pursue my own hardcover edition of TNC. There’s a great used bookshop on SSI called Black Sheep Books, and if there was a hardcover edition to be had, surely it would be had there. Ter dropped me after lunch one day and I went over the store from floor to ceiling in search of my treasure.

No luck.

No luck at Salt Spring Books, either—though I did score a copy of Plague by CC Humphreys (murder and mayhem in Restoration England).

When we got home, Treena’s clone had arrived, so she and Ter contrived to present me with two wrapped packages on Sunday afternoon. I was a little concerned about them being wrapped. Since they were the same item, where was the element of surprise on the second package? Oh, the thing about clones, I was reminded, is that they aren’t exactly identical.

True enough. The book pictured on the right is the North American release, courtesy of Ter, and the book on the left is the UK release, by way of Treena. They’re each so beautiful that I’m keeping them both.

And I’m keeping the books, too.

A Tight Fit

Home from the holidays. Blerg. How does a spirit that’s flown free, and even spent a few days disembodied, cram itself back into the daily grind?

Not easily.

I’m all about attitude, and I know that I have the power to make every situation a positive one no matter how challenging the circumstances, but I could use another week of vacation. On the other hand, my resolve to change my work situation has not wavered. I even got a little astrological advice on SSI. At the café by the beach, I was sipping my chai and Ter was flipping through a local publication when she found the horoscope pictured above. I read mine, burst out laughing, and attracted the attention of the guy behind the counter, who sauntered over and observed that people don’t usually laugh at their horoscope. “We take those things seriously,” he said, faking a reproving frown.

“No kidding,” I replied cheerfully, handing over the magazine. “I’m a Virgo and having problems at work. Is this a hint, or what?”

A copy of the Chinese Horoscope for 2015 was lying on the table in the Stonehouse living room. On the morning of our departure, Ter was taking pictures and caught one of me perusing the book. I love these things. Without taking them too seriously, I find them interesting. I was born in 1961, the Year of the Ox. My element is metal. 2015 is the Year of the Goat, and if I had read the predictions before they became a semi-annual report, I might have stopped the world and gotten off for good. Changes abound. Frustrations lie ahead. I want to change my job but opportunities will be rare. Disruption is everywhere. The Goat is a mercurial critter, throwing things in the air just to see where the pieces land.

Gee, you think?

As with all things, the cycle will come full circle. The chaos that is life right now will find its balance and smooth out. The elevator at home will be installed and construction ended. Our downstairs neighbours will settle in after October 1. I’ll either find a new job or the one I have will change, whichever is in my best interest. Patience and perseverance are probably my best weapons at this point. They’re certainly less likely to land me in jail.

Paradise Found

How do I even begin to describe our Salt Spring retreat? First, I’ll say that my fifty-fourth birthday was absolutely painless, and blessed with a thunderstorm that seems to be an annual event given that the same thing occurred in 2014, when I was awakened from my birthday nap by a flicker of lightning and subsequent boom! This year, the sun showed its face at dawn, then promptly ducked behind a glowering thunderhead. The sky was a more ominous colour each time I looked at it, and then came the rain. Ter and I stood on our little patio with our Motos set to “video” and each recorded a full minute of solid rain. Nature at its finest. Beautiful, majestic and inspiring.

That pretty well describes our short visit to the Island, too. I spent three whole days disinclined to do much more than explore the local bookshops and wait for the deer to show up every evening. Though I’d brought my blog log, I wrote not a word. I’d brought a novel, yet read nothing more than the Stonehouse welcome brochure. I’d packed my pencils and sketchbook, and they remained packed the whole time. The cameras got a lot of use, though—Mr. Moto on the road to/from, and the Canon for day trips. If not for the pictures, I might have dreamed the whole experience.

There’s not much to report on the outside, beyond trying to relate the grandeur of living in a palatial home overlooking Ganges Harbour and the smaller Gulf Islands. Honestly, the Stonehouse looks like a movie set, but it never felt cold or aloof. We arrived to find our host, Michael, in the midst of prepping for afternoon tea. The scent of baking shortbread met us at the door, and a citrus almond torte awaited to accommodate my gluten sensitivity. While Ter dealt with the formalities, I walked into the vaulted living room, hauled my jaw up off the floor, and thought, Julian would own a place like this (and probably does).

I realize now that any trouble I had relaxing into it was all my own doing. Not having been there before, neither Ter nor I had any idea what to expect or how to behave. It felt naughty to sneak out and use the kettle, as if we were breaking the rules and trespassing beyond the threshold of our room. By the end of our stay, however, we had surrendered to the house’s embrace and were roaming both house and grounds with impunity. I felt truly liberated for the first time in maybe forever. The routine was simple: wake up, make tea, watch the sun, get dressed, eat breakfast, watch the rain, go exploring, return for tea, go for dinner, watch the deer, take a bath, have tea, go to bed. No TV, no radio. The house is rigged for ambient music in every room, so we had tuneage, but no media except for updating our FB pages courtesy of free WiFi. There is a TV in the living room, but we didn’t bother.

Our daily outings took us to the northern tip of the island one day, and across it on another day (the lateral trip took maybe a half hour). Best word to apply to Salt Spring is “funky”. The bookshops are great, though – I actually bought myself a birthday present by a local author (local in that he’s from Toronto but lives on SSI) at Salt Spring Books, and had hoped to score a specific rarity at Black Sheep Books; otherwise my highlight of our exploration was discovery of a little café at the north end of the island. We walked the beach, collected a couple of oyster shells, then dropped in for tea and a phenomenally good slice of chocolate-orange olive oil cake. Maybe half a dozen other folks were sprinkled around the room, but a conversation in progress involved a heated debate between two locals on the grammatical breakdown of a single sentence: “Sean is passionately in love with Katherine.” Ter had to drag me away before I threw in my two cents. I may lead a sheltered life, for nowhere else have I encountered an argument on where the verb belongs.

Now that we’ve done it once, I think we’ve found our home away from home. Gone are the days when Vancouver revived us; the energy there is waaaaaaaay too crazy. It’s a little nutty in Ganges village, too, but for a different reason: we drove SSI from tip to tail and never met a traffic light!

Lighten Up

Life happens. As part of life happening, death happens. My philosophy recognizes death as a transition, a shift from one phase of existence to the next. A shedding of the mortal coil, if you will, that frees the eternal essence of an individual from its compostable container and returns it to the great beyond—wherever that is and whatever that looks like. Death is part of life.

I have spent the last number of years learning about—and testing the principles of—universal physics, the energy of spirit, the power of intention, the strength in love and liberty in forgiveness, about the collective consciousness, our connection to each other, and to the greater source known as, well, whatever name one chooses to give it. My education may have started in Sunday school with Jesus Christ, but my adult post-secondary education was renewed by Dr. Wayne Dyer.

The late Dr. Wayne Dyer. I came home last Sunday afternoon to meet a stricken Ter in the hallway. “What is it?” I asked, instantly on edge.

“Dr. Wayne passed away last night.”

“What? What?” I followed her to the Ocean Room, repeating in disbelief. “What? What?”

She had checked into his F***book page and seen the message, posted by his family a mere forty-five minutes earlier. Once rated as the third most spiritual person in the world, he had quite simply and without warning, gone out—taking a gazillion-watt light with him.

The sense of loss was expected. The disorientation, however, was alarming. That odd sense of being cast adrift, as if he was the force that kept my world balanced and my spirit in alignment, was disconcerting. My faith in the Universe and the natural order of things, in his teachings and advice and humour, were forgotten in the immediate, terribly mortal panic of what do we do now?

I thought about it for a couple of days, between shedding tears and prepping for Saltspring Island. Dr. Wayne was religious, but not a religion. He was a light being who shared the lessons he learned, just like the other great teachers throughout history—the Buddah, Mohammed, Ghandi, and yes, the original guru himself, Jesus Christ. Whatever else these men may have been, they were teachers above all, healing broken souls through the universal message of love.

And make no mistake. Wisdom is not restricted to what’s in the vault. Great teachers live among us now. Through Dr. Wayne, Ter and I were led to others like him—Thich Nhat Hanh, Mira Kelley, Professor Ekkles, Denise Linn. We’ve learned about intention and attitude, feng shui and past lives, the interplay of mind/body/spirit, the singularity of present moment, the importance of gratitude—principles preached by the ancient masters that are more relevant today than they were back then.

When a teacher dies, it’s time for the students to quit learning and start applying. What do we do without Dr. Wayne? We remember what he taught us, we go forward, we continue to seek knowledge and change ourselves for the better, to grow strong and lend support, to Throw Our Beams in a world of jagged contrast.

Just as he did.

With love,

The Musician Speaks

Today is my birthday. I have the luxury of two every year, though this has not always been the case. On September 3, 1666, a man in his thirtieth year died and was reborn. The account has already been recorded in hyperbolic detail, thanks to my scribe’s obsession with adjectives, and is of no significance here except to note that, while it defines me as an immortal in a mortal world, it does little to define me as a sentient being.

I assure you, I am a sentient being.

My name is Julian. If you know me, you know me as a vampire, since none are left who knew me as a man. I might have resented this in ordinary circumstances, but my life is nothing close to ordinary. Even among vampires, I am unusual.

You see, I like people. I live among you as a predator, but I regard you with neither the disdain nor the disrespect developed by those of my kind who would preserve their sanity. I genuinely enjoy your company. I admire your accomplishments. I also fear for your (indeed, our) future in light of climate change and global warming. That being said, I have no aspirations to reclaim my mortality. I like what I am. Ironically, had I not been what I am, I would not have discovered my true passion.

I am a vampire, yes. I am also—perhaps more so—a musician. A pianist, to be specific; deliriously, passionately devoted to an instrument that would not have existed in my lifetime had I been doomed to the requisite threescore and ten years. Almost two centuries after my conversion, I was on the cusp of becoming just another blood hunter when I heard a sublime melody twinkling over the street where I was stalking that night’s prey. The sound was so arresting that I promptly forgot my purpose.

I believe I experienced what is currently referred to as an “a-ha moment.” At the time, it was a spontaneous rekindling of something deeper and more pure than the primal instinct that had lately been my constant companion. I was literally stopped in my tracks. What was that sound? Music, yes; I remembered music, but the instrument; what was crafting that incredible aural jewel?

Something tugged at the fringe of my awareness. A pianoforte? Impossible. Precisely translated as “soft/loud”, it is a harp turned on its side, played as a harpsichord is played, by hands on a keyboard, but the strings are struck rather than plucked. More marvelous yet, the volume on a pianoforte can be controlled as a harpsichord’s cannot—though few composers at that time bothered to coax the keys into making music when pounding them more effectively produced the appropriate romantic angst. This elegant string of sonic pearls, this was something different; the tone, the resonance, the pitch of each luminous note was enough to drive me to the door of the building and demand an audience with the master.

A fellow named Frédéric was responsible. Reluctant at first, he was eventually persuaded to instruct me, and I proved an exceptional student. I was so eager for my lessons that I often went without hunting. I practiced incessantly on a Steinway purchased for the purpose, annoying my neighbours so much that I was forced to find a residence better suited to the grandeur of my obsession. My thirst for blood had been surpassed by a thirst for music, for his music. He considered me a prodigy, and when I told him that my skill was merely to replicate a piece after one hearing, he argued that skill is one thing. Soul is another entirely. If the player is the lover and the piano his beloved, he assured me with a smile, I was destined for fame and an ardent female following.

He presented me to his compatriots, a gang of half-mad geniuses who churned out masterpieces at a furious pace and gaped in dumbstruck disbelief as I lifted each work to unimagined heights on the first try. Was I proud of my ability? Indeed I was. Was I cheating? Indeed I was not. What talent is not honed with practice? I was in love with my art. I was a diligent pupil. What propensity I had could only be improved over time. My advantage was in having more time than most.

Frédéric’s prediction was prophetic. I did become famous. For a year or two, I was the celebrated darling of the Continent and toured extensively before I drew the attention of my own kind and it became too dangerous to continue. As for women …

There was one. That, too, is recounted in the hyperbolic record, but let me say here that my love for music went unmatched by anyone or anything until I met my Thérèse. The scope of that love kept me from sacrificing it to make her immortal; had I loved her less, I might have granted her request—a request made in equal measures of sincerity and ignorance, given the inevitable fate of immortal couples to uncouple. Good God, in this day and age, you mortals mate and separate more than once in a puny lifetime! Imagine the imbalance if a vampire was made from every failed relationship!

No, it is better—wiser—to love for the moment and let it pass in due course. If it lasts, by all means, cherish it, but do not think to make it last forever. In its perfect form, love is already eternal.

Music has been my saving grace. My piano is my mistress, my old friend Frédéric my muse. I play all sorts of things nowadays. Classical predominantly, and jazz when I feel particularly inventive. Idle tinkering when the mood strikes, glimmers of starlight that I hope my old mentor would have approved. Occasionally, I will play the soundtrack of a Broadway musical from start to finish. I do not sing. The Steinway sings for me and my heart sings along with it.

Content as I am, however, I have one secret longing.

It would be pleasant to fall in love again.

They Say It's Your Birthday

Wow! I get to contribute to Ru’s blog for her birthday post, what an honour. I was wracking my brain to try to figure out what I could write given my tiny talent in this area amongst the literary giants who have posted on this page. *clears throat*

Then I remembered that I had posted something on my own blog page for her birthday a couple of years ago. It’s an excerpt but it is still relevant, and I still love this picture of her taken circa 1984 at fab birthday bash with a bunch of our crazy friends.

We are currently on Salt Spring Island taking a few days to retreat from the world and celebrate this birthday in a more subdued fashion with a glass of Prosecco in hand and some fine hand crafted chocolates from Chocolat.

Join me in celebrating our wonderful Ruthie! You are so loved by SO many Dear One.

Cheers!

- Ter

* * *

It’s Ruth’s birthday today. I was not sure how to express exactly how I feel about her, so I’m going to challenge my limited writing skill by describing her in a paragraph or two…

She is strong, courageous, beautiful, loving, stubborn, opinionated, funny, inspiring, talented and “scary smart”. She is a big sister extraordinaire, an awesome sibling, loving daughter and is sometimes referred to as Dad’s favourite. She is the best kind of friend you could ever have and she is loved and respected by many. Sometimes she is a philosopher, an engineer, a scientist, an artist and on occasion, a drama queen. She loves tea, chocolate, music, hockey, cars and tall dark handsome men. Oh, and did I mention potatoes? You could feed her some form of potatoes with every meal and she would be ecstatic!

And last but certainly not least, she IS a WRITER. It is her single passion and it is engrained in her soul. Those of us who have had the good fortune to be able to read her writing know that she has a brilliant and exceptional talent. I think she is a creative genius. Her Mum thinks she should be famous. Maybe she should be. She certainly deserves to be paid for the level of skill and talent she has. If she was she would be filthy stinking rich by now. But she no longer aspires to fame and fortune. She says that she is happy just being a writer every day.

Happy Birthday my Ruthums, it has been an honour to spend a good chunk of my life with you. I love you “Bigger than the Universe”!

Sunday Mornings

I love Sunday mornings. The quiet, the venerable peace I take from quietude, a full cup, the written word in any incarnation and the sound of my own breathing. Sunday mornings for me is one of many versions of comfortable rebellion: the weekend isn’t quite over but there’s just enough of it left to be languid, to be solaced, to count blessings and be grateful.

It is September 1^st, 2015. A new month, a new dawn officially not called summer. It’s back to school, a clean slate, sweater weather, and almost pumpkin spice time (for those who partake: blech). For me, it is my day to guest blog. To prepare, I spent a quiet Sunday morning musing on what I’d write. I did this with my kitchen table littered with pen and paper and the contents of a birthday package waiting to be assembled and the sound of my Mama and niece in the other room talking quietly and laughing with the TV on in the background and a warm morning breeze coming in through open windows. For all of the troubles that weigh on me of late, the staying sorrows of loss and pressures of work and responsibility accepted the invitation and the deadline to write something for Ru while she was away on holiday. The feeling and the love I feel for Sunday mornings seemed like a fitting subject. So, I threw on my headphones to block out the chatter and white noise, set my favorite playlist to inspire and started to write.

This is what I came up with:

Sunday Mornings

I get my news from long languorous poems

miraculously observant and mimetic verses

brimming with wise blood, skill and honesty &

scrupulous particulars that denote many things.

I derive my concord from the brevity and intensity

of chain-smoking slim cigarillos with Lucille Ball

an act full of division and finality on the surface

her company is startling yet serene down deep.

I take my time reading Raymond Carver stories

to feel soothingly more like my old cheerful self

to escape the haunting of an old handsome lover

to remember that life & art are never separate.

Sunday mornings harmonize with a deep peace

a sound meeting place of imagination and time

sparing with its metaphors generous in comfort.

It sounds ceremonious.

It is.

Sunday mornings save my soul.

**

I am grateful to have been asked to guest blog. It put me back in the creative mind-set. I’ve been barren in that department a long time and appreciate any kick in the pants to get the mind moving, the heart feeling and the fingers typing.

It is also an honour to be asked by someone I admire greatly. When I grow up I hope I will be able to manipulate words as beautifully as Ru does. We are lucky beans to have her creations to enrich us.

Until the next guest blog (provided she’ll have me back) …

In propinquity,

Nic