Philly Dips

It’s not news that the Flyers went out in six games after the regular season. The second round of the playoffs is now underway and my lads are watching on their smartphones at the golf course. I could stomp and scream and make generous contributions to the swear jar, but even if the visually-impaired ref had made the appalling “I-can’t-believe-it-was-missed” call on Kris Letang kicking the skates from beneath Sean Couturier in the third period, the boys likely wouldn’t have survived a game 7 in the first round. Not against Pittsburgh. Not this year.

This isn’t news either, but a hockey team needs more than one scoring line, otherwise it’s too easy for the opposing team to shut you down, and that’s exactly what the Penguins did to the Flyers. Mind you, Captain Claude was invisible, and Jake Voracek wasn’t worth much, either. The two top point-getters in the regular season did nothing in the post unless you count letting the kids do all the work, in which case you might be inclined to commend them for creating what public servants refer to as “learning opportunities”.

I learned that the next generation has all kinds of potential if Ron Hextall can afford to keep the current roster in place. Nolan Patrick in particular, but there’s a handful of other twenty-somethings who will make Philadelphia a force to be reckoned with in the next few years. And they should give Couturier the captaincy. He more than earned it in games 5 and 6. He was a horse through those two games, and only when it was over did we hear that he’d been playing on a torn ligament and will need surgery this summer. I love Claude Giroux, but come on. It was Coots who played like a captain.

More not-news: I harbour fantasies about the Flyers going the distance each time they make the playoffs; what hockey fan doesn’t? And the same fantasy was harboured this year, though I had no illusions against Pittsburgh, who has three scoring lines and way more experience than the fledgling Flyers. Plus, Sid Crosby is on a mission from God every time he plays his Pennsylvania state rivals. Honestly, his stats against Philly alone are astonishing … and nauseating to a gal who bleeds black and orange. I knew if we could get past him, we’d be all right – but he knew it too, and he used the negative energy of the home crowd to kill the home team in all three of their home games.

Following the non-call on Letang, when the fragile Flyer lead was lost with two quick Penguin goals and my boys were eliminated in the first round, Ter said to me, “I don’t think I can support the Pens after that crappy non-call on Letang.”

“Agreed,” I replied. “I’m going for the western conference team in the final (unless it’s San Jose), and in the east, it’s ‘go, Leafs, go’.”

Well, that was short-lived, too. The Leafs pushed it to game seven, but the Bruins are, well, the Bruins. ʼNuff said about that. And I must admit, I loosed a silent cheer on hearing that the Pens beat Washington in their first game of round 2, so …

$*^&#%

Parallel Lives

I know what you’re thinking. How could she have lived in Vietnam at the time of the war, when the war began after she was born in 1961?

Good question. If time runs in a straight line, it’s natural to assume that multiple lives occur in a similar format, i.e., one after the other. But what if they don’t? Time is cyclical, not linear, therefore it’s entirely plausible for multiple lives to follow the same principle. I mentioned this in an earlier post: if you picture Time as a big wheel, then you can stand in the twenty-first century on one side and look straight across the circle at a life in the tenth century. Or the thirtieth century, since who knows the wheel’s circumference?

You might say, that doesn’t explain overlapping lives. And you could be right. My “previous life in Vietnam” scenario may well have been a simple imagining inspired by a piece of music. It could also be a hint of a life in an alternate Vietnam, situated in another world in another dimension that mirrors this one. I’m just playing with possibilities here; I am not a physicist. I don’t even play one on TV! I do, however, believe there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

Like the one about parallel dimensions. If we live in the third dimension, what do the first two look like, and how many more are there? (Personally, I think the first two must be flat and boring, as indicated by the terms “one-dimensional thinking” and “two-dimensional character”.) Some theories suggest a whole whack of dimensions, co-existing at the same time on various planes, occurring in no particular order and housing who knows what sort of sapient energies.

Then there’s the “big Ru, little Ru” theory; the one that suggests the Ru in this life is a single facet of a multi-faceted Ru situated elsewhere, and that other facets of the greater Ru presently exist in a handful of other dimensions, living different lives in different conditions, all at the same time.

Blows your mind a little bit, eh? It sure blew mine. It took a while to get my head around it, and I’m still unsure exactly how I feel about being one of a bunch of Rus all connected to a mother Ru. It seems Type A-ish for a single entity to be so eager for experience that it divides itself into splinters and sends them out to grab all the gusto at once. First, if Time is infinite, then what’s the rush? Second, despite its glossy brochure, the multi-function device at the office can’t perform more than one task at a time (and neither can the human brain, by the way), so I question the ability of a greater Ru to live multiple lives at once through a squad of smaller Rus ... except it could explain how I lived in both Vietnam and Canada in the same span of years!

“The River”

I stand on a riverbank. Tall grass grows on the far shore, a line of spears in silhouette against the predawn gloom. The sky is dark with cloud, though the clouds are lanced with vivid streaks of orange and pink. The water is smeared with the same colours, slow moving, winding its way toward an ocean I have never seen and cannot name. I am looking toward the horizon, waiting for the first bright rays of sun.

It’s too early for birdsong, but I hear the whine of mosquitoes on the tranquil morning air. The sound makes my skin itch, and I slide my hand up my sleeve to scratch absent-mindedly at the remains of a recent bite. Grasshoppers hum in the deep grass on both sides of the river, and something is cooing softly in the distance. It’s a peaceful moment, one worth cherishing before the world awakens.

The sunrise is precious. I anticipate it with religious dedication. That first golden wink heralds a new day, full of possibility and proof that yesterday is done. I don’t even look over my shoulder to see which way I came. It is enough to know my past is there. I may revisit at any time, with the understanding that it cannot be changed. The future will also have its way, but not until this moment is over.

I wonder where I am.

The distant cooing thickens with the deepening dawn sky. Though the cloud remains a dark, dense gray, the pink within it becomes coral and the orange turns the colour of flame. It is ever this way, the intensifying colour as sunrise draws near. It doesn’t matter where or when I am; this is the moment when daydream meets daylight.

If you don’t know where you are, I have been told, look at your shoes. I drop my gaze and see my feet in sandals, my ankles thin and bare beneath the hem of trousers as shapeless as my shirt. The ground is muddy, and I have the odd sense that the fingers spanning the width of my soles have sunk a bit. I think I am in Asia ... but where?

As I lift my head, I note the first spark of sun is not golden but white, bright white, and the thickening coo is now the thrumming of rotors on a monstrous flying machine.

I am in Vietnam.

* * *

Music is a powerful stimulant for the imagination—but is everything we picture in our mind’s eye imagined? Or is it a fragment of a life so long past we don’t remember it? A composition called “First Light” by Michael DeMaria never fails to conjure the scene described above, though the helicopter did not appear until I delved further into my initial vision. Kinda sucks, really. The serenity originally inspired by the music (and doubtless intended by the composer) is probably ruined forever because I pressed myself for something beyond that precious moment when a glorious new day is born, and foreboding answered the call.

Adjö

I remember when a pair of bobble-headed brothers were drafted second and third by the Vancouver Canucks. It was 1999. The wheeling and dealing done overnight by then-GM Brian Burke that enabled the team to nab both Daniel and Henrik Sedin in the first round was Herculean in hockey scope, and for the first few years appeared to have not been worth the effort. The wonder twins of the Swedish junior league took some time to find their rhythm in the NHL, but once they found it, stardom—if not the Stanley Cup—was inevitable.

Living on the west coast makes me a Vancouver fan by proximity. My feelings for the team have waxed and waned over the years. I really disliked them when Markus Naslund, Todd Bertuzzi and Brendan Morrison made up the top line, back when the Twedes, as Ter has called them, were still growing into their potential. The adulation press and populace showered on Roberto Luongo drove me nuts because whatever they saw in him completely eluded me. Yet while I made jokes about many of the players at any given time, I had personal favourites. I loved Ryan Kesler, for instance. And Kevin Bieksa. Alex Burrows was fun to watch, Mason Raymond was yummy, I adored Jarkko Ruutu, and none dares dispute St Trevor of Linden’s greatness. I can honestly say there have been stretches when I’ve wanted the team to do well (except against Philadelphia, of course) and times when I have been equally hostile toward them.

During those amusing and bemusing years, the Sedins quietly matured into superstars. They did it so quietly, in fact, that I can’t say precisely when they became notable. They were simply, suddenly, there. And they were doing magical things on the ice, things so magical that the term “Sedinery” was coined by one of the announcers. Despite their Swedishness and her Finnishness, Ter liked them early on, favouring Henrik over his younger brother, though how someone can prefer one identical twin over the other is a mystery.

They’ve traded scoring titles back and forth for years. Each has played 1000 games and racked up over 1000 points apiece. Between them, only a handful of games were missed due to injury, otherwise, they were present and accounted for on a stunningly regular basis. They made scoring stars out of so-so players. “Just stand by the net with your stick on the ice and wait for the pass,” was how one wit put it. The Hockey Hall of Fame awaits for sure. But:

Superior stats are one thing. Being a class act off the ice is more impressive, and these young men are classy in the truest sense of the word. They have grown into fine upstanding citizens, loyal to the team and the city they have made their home, to the families they started and the legacy they will leave behind—for they have played their final game in the NHL. Yup, the Sedins retired last night.

I might not have written this post, but their final home game was worth writing about for a number (pun intended—keep reading) of reasons. The Arizona Coyotes were in town. Neither team made it to the playoffs this year, so the game was worthless before last Monday. After the twins announced their retirement at the end of this season, ticket prices soared. On game night, the Rog was jammed to the rafters with fans determined to thank the Sedins for seventeen years of dedicated service to the team, to the game, and to the community. I imagine almost every TV in BC was tuned to Sportsnet Pacific. Ours certainly was.

And Arizona scored the first goal. Geez Louise. Their goalie looked to be on a mission from God. He made some dandy saves before Vancouver got on the board.

And how they got there is wild. Get this: Daniel Sedin wears number 22. Henrik wears 33. Half a minute into the second period, Henrik’s pass is tipped by Alex Edler onto Daniel’s stick and Daniel scores his 22^nd goal of the season. 22 at :33. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t have written it and hoped to have anyone believe it. The crowd goes wild—

—and Arizona scores again. And again. At the end of the second, the Coyotes are up 3 to 1.

Then the young ’Nucks go to work. Two more goals are scored and the game is tied going into overtime. Five minutes of 4 on 4. Arizona takes a penalty a minute in and on the power play, Daniel takes a pass from Henrik and scores the winner ... at 2:33. Honestly. The numerology was numbing. I suppose you could claim it was coincidental or of imagined significance, but I choose to believe that the energy of so many people wishing the Twedes so much goodwill created a weird synergy that resulted in those oddball occurrences. It was astonishing and uplifting and just plain fun.

And now it’s over ... for now. I’m sure their careers will continue in other forms. Their influence will continue in coaching or management or scouting or something hockey-related, so last night’s game in Edmonton was not good-bye to the Sedins. It was simply adjö.

* * *

On a sombre note, it was extremely saddening to learn that the final night of the Sedins on-ice careers was overshadowed by the tragedy of a crash involving a semi-truck and a bus transporting a junior B team to a game in Saskatchewan. Fifteen members of the Humboldt Broncos hockey organization were killed outright and fourteen remain in hospital, some in critical condition. At the time of this writing, the most poignant image from the national league games happened in Winnipeg, when the players on both teams—Jets and Chicago Black Hawks—stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle, alternating jerseys, at centre ice for a moment of silence on behalf of the victims and their families. Similar scenes were played in arenas throughout the league.

The hockey world is smaller, and the people involved in it are bigger, than you think.

With love,

Jesus is My Guy

When you collect spiritual teachers as if they’re butterflies or stamps, it’s easy to be considered a bit of an addict. Take Wayne Dyer. Add Eckhart Tolle. Discover Thich Nhat Hanh. Around and in between are Denise Linn, Brian Weiss, Deepak Chopra, Gregg Braden, Louise Hay, and a heavenly host of others, including – believe it or not – Albert Einstein. There are others whose names are lost to me now, though what nuggets of wisdom they dispensed at the time have likely become part of my present day vernacular. But it started with Jesus.

He was the first of my spiritual teachers, though what I learned in church wasn’t so much about him as it was about following the rules in order to be worthy of his sacrifice. He was not presented as a teacher. He was the Son of God and I was the sinning scum whose hopeless imperfection doomed me to eternal darkness, except he gave his life to ensure my ticket to heaven. He was a remote figure, an icon used to keep me humble, obedient, and paying my tithe. I was told that Jesus loved me ... but only if I behaved. Did I resent that message? Sometimes. Did I blame Jesus?

Doesn’t matter. Compared to Ter, I was a Philistine. She actually knew the gospel. You couldn’t fool her with doctrine. She embraced the religion, but she didn’t really need it because she is a naturally spiritual person. Despite being from a distinctly non-religious family, she has felt close to Jesus since she was tiny. She is fascinated by the time in which he lived, by the historic and archaeological evidence of his existence, and by the lost gospels conveniently kept out of the Bible. She’s read lots of books and watched countless documentaries. She speaks of him with familiarity and genuine affection, but never, ever, with disrespect. His position in her spiritual pantheon is unshakeably secure. Her regard for him is wonderful and amazing and inspiring. It also borders on the comical when she happily announces that her Jesus package is on its way from Amazon and she hopes it arrives by the Easter weekend. “Your ‘Jesus package’?” I ask, arching a sardonic eyebrow.

She’s sparkling in her seat. “Yep! The 40^th anniversary edition of Jesus of Nazareth, and (three other films).” The titles escape me at this writing, and the package, alas, did not make it by the Easter weekend.

Let me be clear. There is absolutely nothing wrong with what Jesus taught. In fact, everyone on the planet throughout history, now, and in the future should follow what he taught because what he taught pretty much aligns with what Mohammed and the Buddah taught, which is to practice the higher virtues of honesty, kindness, tolerance and charity. These virtues were on the spiritual Hit Parade long before Jesus was born. He didn’t invent them. He practiced them. He lived them to the best of his ability in a world as chaotic then as it is crazy now, and his hope was –I believe – to impress upon his disciples the importance of carrying them forward after he was gone. It’s not his fault that things went seriously sideways within a generation of his death, or that the religion spawned in his name has fragmented and festered over centuries. The message is still out there, but Jesus’ association with it is no longer so prevalent.

During one of our spontaneous Philosophy Quests, Ter and I fell into a discussion of what I call our “guru collection”. I occasionally wonder about the vast cast of principals in our pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, and Ter had clearly been pondering the same thing when she said, “At the end of the day, which one do I choose?”

“Do you have to choose one?” I asked. “Their philosophies are almost identical. Every day has a new spin, so what’s wrong with having a guru du jour?”

We talked about common elements and different points of view. After all, every philosopher has a unique perspective compared to other philosophers, though the subject is always the same. We pick out the pertinent info and apply it to our own philosophies. In the end, we hope we make the world a better place by practicing what we learn.

A lot of what we learn, no matter who we learn it from, is the same. Honesty, kindness, love, forgiveness and compassion. “So,” Ter concluded when we had talked ourselves full circle, “it’s okay if I quote Dr Wayne today and Jesus is my guy tomorrow.”

I laughed, but I think she’s right. Jesus is her guy. Her reverence for him has lasted her entire lifetime. She has shown me to appreciate him, to respect and revere him, by making him real. I suppose some might see it as a demotion for the Son of God to be made human, but referring to him in the familiar hardly negates his historical importance. He was a hugely influential figure with a massive destiny and daunting purpose to his short time on earth. I think of him a lot and I think a lot of him—certainly more than I did when I went to church. Without Ter’s example, such would not be the case.

I’m glad of it. I guess he’s kind of my guy, too. I hope he’s okay with that.

No Foolin’

I have never, ever appreciated practical jokes. Admittedly, I laugh at those played between characters on a sitcom, but gags unleashed on innocent people for the amusement of others is cruel. I am enraged when my alarm clock goes off; the adrenaline jolt from being the butt of a practical joke might turn me homicidal if it doesn’t give me a heart attack first. I can’t imagine anyone likes being the subject of someone else’s prank—unless the prank turns on the prankster and then who looks the idiot?

So April Fools’ is my least favourite calendar occasion. I hold Valentine’s Day in higher esteem, and how little I feel about February 14 is no secret. I do, however, enjoy the irony of April 1 being the first day of the government’s new fiscal year; it seems appropriate, given the unbridled shenanigans we all endure as public servants and/or good taxpaying citizens.

Personal feelings aside, I recognize some folks have a softer view of April Fools’ Day and might enjoy being duped. They may also expect it, which would negate the tone of a more serious piece should such an individual happen on this blog. Which is why I decided to post my (sort of) Easter-themed Sunday piece tomorrow instead.

Oscar Wilde said that life is too important to be taken seriously. Stephen Hawking said life would be tragic if it wasn’t so funny. I won’t deny that (insert deity here) has a sense of humour since if the Creator of All There Is didn’t have one, neither would we. I’m grateful for my ability to laugh at myself, to laugh at life’s absurdities, and to laugh at other people’s perceptions of same. I hope I have never laughed at someone else’s unsuspecting expense, and the best (or worst) practical joke I can think of it is to forward my work phone to the Premier’s office. I won’t do it, though. After all, the Premier doesn’t answer his own phone. A harried and unsuspecting civil servant does, and would probably not appreciate the joke.

Happy Fiscal New Year, folks.