...but you can't go back.

The morning I was leaving the Zendo at Haiku in 1978, a senior student advised me to say goodbye to our roshi.

I surprised him in his quarters, while he was putting on his robes and he did a magnificent kind of bullfighter’s twist to swirl the robe around him and tie the sash, dismissing my embarrassment at catching him in his underwear.

“I hear you are leaving today,” he said, “what are your plans?”

I was completely broke and had nothing other than my backpack, my guitar and a return ticket to Honolulu but I didn’t reveal my predicament.

“I guess I am going to continue playing my guitar,” I replied. I had been in this kind of a position more than a few times; I was young and full of energy and avoided my uncertain future by not trying to look into it.

His parting words to me were: “Remember…you can surf to the left, and you can surf to the right…180 degrees…but you can’t go back.”

Dream Dancing & Healing

I had another beautiful healing dream in the wee hours.

Karen and I were living in a big, old wood frame house and Paul Reps had come to visit us. For some reason, I didn’t come to meet him right away, as I was dressed in a business suit and at the same time still in bed in another room. I hoped he would not be offended when I finally appeared, but when I did, I saw that he too had been sleeping.

He came out of the room where he had been resting into a spacious living room where about a dozen people had already gathered to meet him. I didn’t recognize any of them, and in the next few minutes, the waiting group grew in size to a small crowd. Reps commented that these were his brothers and sisters of the various faiths and religions, but it seemed that the greater majority were of the Jewish faith as I could tell by the turn of the clothing they wore.

Many were dressed in the garb of religious students, like in the Barbara Streisand movie "Yentl".

No sooner had Reps started speaking than a great swell of emotion rose in the group and they began to move into a circle to begin singing and dancing. It happened so suddenly that at first it seemed awkward or out place but as the group formed into two concentric circles, dancing in opposite directions and I was swept into the movement it seemed the most natural and beautiful thing. Then all the dancing gradually stopped and the crowd went silent.

It became apparent that another type of dancing was now taking place, an erotic one, danced by rotund, nearly nude pink cartoon women. There were some cries of outrage and many in the group seemed offended. Others countered with “No, this is not pornography, it is art.” But the women in the group were not buying it.

Then a young woman, very plain and proper looking dressed in almost Amish garb, came over to me and took my hand, asking me to dance. I was confused but accepted and we were the only two dancing in the now deserted circle that had been filled moments before. And what a dancer she was!

She let me lead but spun and twirled and made me look as though I knew what I was doing. I began to lose my self-consciousness and started to experience a kind of euphoria to be in the presence of this way of praising and celebrating life.

I woke feeling relaxed, healed, joyful and completely at peace.

Thanks to the Angels

The angels continue to watch over me.

Yesterday on my usual visit to IGA for lunch, I was waiting to cross the street at Burrard and Robson. The folks in the curbside crowd were chatting and not paying attention so when I saw the walk sign and nobody moved, I stepped out into the street.

There was an enormous, deafening screech of brakes to my left, and a collective “oooohhh” from the crowd behind me. The car had stopped a couple of inches from me, and a harried and very nervous looking woman sat behind the wheel, her hand to her head, avoiding my eyes.

I felt a strange instant mixture of indignation and anger, and I could feel the heat of the crowd focused on her as well. She had run a red light in her rush to get across before the crowd. But instead of giving her the finger or swearing, (and I was surely feeling the urge to react in some way), I gave her a thumbs up and proceeded.

As I walked away still shaken, I was not sure what confused mix of emotions prompted me to do that.

In retrospect, I guess her hitting the brakes in an exquisitely timely fashion deserved that. I don’t think she was looking though.

I could have been a dead man in seconds. I immediately thanked my angels, and said a short prayer as I walked on.

This kind of close call has happened to me far too many times to count. It was another wake up call for me to be more mindful and alert, and not to take anything for granted.

One never knows what's waiting just around the corner.

Thanks yet again, angels!

A Peaceful Sunday Morning

It is a peaceful Sunday morning, and I am almost ready to leave for work.

I have been getting up about an hour earlier in the mornings, so that I have more time to do my own thing before heading off to my day job.

I began this morning with a prayer of thanks for the quiet silence that surrounds me today, after a hectic two or three weeks of domestic roller coaster riding.

Family problems . . . they sometimes seem never ending!

But a couple of days ago the penny dropped (as it has on other occasions and at other times) and I asked myself, "What about you? What is your relationship with yourself these days? Never mind everybody else's problems. Are you happy?"

The answer at that moment was "No, I am not happy. I am stressed."

"Well then, get happy", I told myself! (Somewhere in the far distance, Stevie Wonder's singing "Have a little talk with God...")

I guess I must have listened.

My thoughts are clear this morning.

I can hear my computer breathing, the click of the keyboard as I key in these words, and there is no peripheral background noise distracting me physically or mentally.

I love days like this!

Here's to many more!

Just Call Me Ulysses...

The July long weekend is over, the sun has found its way through the rainforest cloud cover and we seem to be getting our first real taste of summer.

My two days off were fairly relaxing. I visited a family member who is recuperating in St. Paul’s Hospital and who seems to be doing nicely.

I tried to visit my own doctor too, but wound up waiting nearly an hour in front of a locked office door, along with a horde of other confused patients.

As pre-arranged, my son Ky showed up there to meet me and through the technical wizardry of a cell phone solved the problem for us all. There had been some scheduling mess up, and now we all knew that the doctor would not be in that day.

On my 2nd day off, I was luckier. My doctor was there and after checking blood pressure advised, “It’s almost normal, I can live with it for now.” And he wrote out another mysterious pink Sanskrit message to the Pharmacist, re-ordering 50 more 10mg Plendil tablets for me and telling me that I could wait a month this time until my next visit.

He also removed a huge blockage from my right ear using what appeared to be miniature inquisition torture instruments, which had me squirming in pain for a few moments until he extracted the wax logjam. Then out came the familiar metal syringe filled with tepid water and he flushed out even more stuff from both ears.

I have had to have this done once every couple of years for quite a few now…but until now, never the tongs!

My hearing now restored to pristine levels of clarity, I made my way down to the seawall to enjoy the blistering sun and the play of diamond light over the water. I wasn't wearing sunscreen though, and the unfiltered rays on my skin at the back of my neck soon cut my walk short.

Afterwards I wandered into the computer shop at London Drugs and imagined myself purchasing a new DVD burner, a 19” flat screen monitor, a new suite of MS Office, a new keyboard, and a 7 mega pixel digital camera.

Then I shuffled back out into the street, empty handed but very satisfied with my imaginary purchases.

Now . . . what's next?

Just call me Ulysses . . . (a nod to James Joyce)!

for Nika

I love you
for who you are
not for this, that
or the other thing.

You are my 2nd born
daughter, the one
with the rebel yell.

You never liked
to be scared, not like
your sister who screamed
with delight, when daddy
turned into a cartoon ogre.

You kept seeing ghosts
in the hallway of our house
on Allenby Road
so we placed garlic
behind the pictures there.

You pushed fear away
from you, sometimes
violently . . . threatening
the clear and gentle
blossoming of your aura.

Now it's your turn
to learn . . .
to let down your guard,
to breathe in the Sun

to let that radiant light
nurture and and protect

you, my darling
Lotus blossom.

Wild Mind

This morning I am dealing with my “wild mind” after a night of recurring bad dreams.

Wild mind is my metaphor for the mind that runs away from me, dreaming up possibilities that will probably never exist.

There have recently been several crises in a row in my family and my immediate family, and my tendency is to expect the worst, to begin to worry.

Worry, as I know all too well, despite being the worst thing I could do for high blood pressure, is a tendency I fall into with a stunning and deliberate ease.

And then I double the anxiety by planning avenues of attack and/or escape from the still un-manifested scenarios arising in thought, by dealing with them mentally and exhausting myself in the process.

Confusing? Yes!

This morning was one such morning and it was only when I reached the part of my morning routine that is exercise and prayer that I realized what I was doing. These disciplines, aside from being crucial to my physical wellness help me focus.

The focus is then not on the thoughts, but on the physical movement, the words of the prayers and the breath.

Breathing is the one touchstone that is common in the prayers and meditations of every world religion, just as it is in music.

By breathing, I don’t mean some sort of artificial pattern imposed on the breath like 7-in, 4-out but rather the awareness of the rising and the falling of the breath, the natural in and out flow of it.

Keeping the attention on this is at the heart of Zen meditation.

As my friend Paul Reps used to say, “Don’t breathe...be breathed”.

If I do this mindfully, there is no time to follow my wild mind into the flowery canyons of fantasy, euphoria or horror.

I am so very thankful for this teaching. It has helped keep me sane.

A Few Notes

Those who read my blog may wonder what happened to me this month!

It's not that I haven't wanted to post something, but I like to be upbeat and this month I have been dealing with the health and mental health issues of a dear family member who is recovering from a serious surgery in St. Paul's Hospital.

This has put a serious dent in my "up-beatness" and left me feeling depleted.

A couple of my co-workers have teased me good-naturedly, asking if I am grumpy today or mimicking my facial expressions.

So those of you at work, if you sometimes see a rather grim faced co-worker sitting there staring off into space, know that this is not vacant staring but me trying to gather the strength and energy I need through a form of simple breathing meditation.

I have practised this for over 40 years now, but in times of stress, the focus is sometimes a little more obvious.

Enough said about this for now!

I am so very grateful for the return of the warmer weather, and have been lucky to have sunshine on my recent days off.

It is Saturday morning, mid-week for me, and as I sit at my computer, sip my self-alloted cup and half of brewed coffee and chew on my walnut-halves and banana daily energy snack, I give thanks for the prayers, comments and support of my family and friends.

I also give thanks for the staff and support at St. Paul's Hospital...what a loss to this neighborhood it would be if that hospital were to close.

Just the other day now, they saved the life of someone I love.

Two Healing Dreams

I have been in the habit of watching late night TV after my work shifts but have noticed the past few nights, I've been more tired than usual. Last night, just after midnight, I decided to turn in early and was rewarded for this by two healing dreams.

Most of my dreams in the past year have been far from pleasant and so this is a pleasant shift in visual imagery from many of the others.

In the first dream I was a child in a large playground and across the lot I could see a young, blond girl who I once knew in my youth and to whom I was attracted but in the dream I was too shy to go over and talk to her.

There was a thin rail, not a fence but more like one of those skateboarders rails which went all the way across the playground and I began walking along it. I was thinking "I am too old to do this", as I was also me and my own age at the same time.

I was wearing sneakers in the dream, very lightweight, white low rise ones and was able to balance all the way across the field toward the young girl who stood waiting. I was surprised that I didn't fall off and more surprised that I didn't have to initiate any conversation as we were suddenly talking in the most natural way.

After a bit, I saw a 6 or 7 year old Kadir who seemed to be not my son, but my younger brother. He was standing at the other end of the rail watching us.

I asked the girl to invite him over, as I thought he might not come if I did. She called to him, and he too hopped up on the rail and balanced over. By the time he arrived, he had become a playful cute young puppy who stood up and put his paws on my leg so that I could pet him.

In a second dream I seem to be involved in a pursuit. I was a knight but had no armour, and was being chased by more knights who then morphed into modern day soldiers in full battle dress.

I and two others with me jumped into a compact yellow sports vehicle with black trim and tried to speed away but the car was trapped from behind in some sort of mechanical jaws that began to crush and eat the metal, threatening to crush us with it. I saw that if I didn’t open the door now, I would not be able to and so I got out just in the nick of time and raised my hands in surrender.

The two others in the car were doing the same thing on the opposite side, where it seems the pursuers had also gathered. I was alone on my side of the car. Where the car had been there was now a kind of covered open space into which a young woman whirled like a dervish.

Her hair was short, curly and reddish brown, she was very pretty and she was wearing a rust-colored costume on the breast of which was emblazoned a swirling sun-like crest. She spun face to face with me and put her upraised palms against the palms of my surrendering hands in a kind of salute.

Then to her left, a young blond haired girl of maybe 8 years old appeared and the two of them began to dance for me, bringing me to tears. I felt like my heart was breaking with joy and sadness at the same time. After all, I was expecting to be shot!

This morning, in the aftermath of these positive dream images, I am feeling full of life and energy.

Low Powered Adjustments

Paul Reps once told me, “Watch a cat or a child make low power adjustments to conserve and boost energy.”

This morning, the second of my days off I woke to face the litany of tasks that I had promised myself to finish and after several trips out and back home, I was starting to feel pretty tired.

I had already walked several miles, slowly, methodically doing my self-appointed errands and finally, walked back up to Shopper’s to check my blood pressure. Yep! There it was again, despite almost completing the course of my current meds, still over the top and in the red zone.

I had been feeling very shaky and tired all morning and just wanted to go home and lie down, but once there, dragging myself in the door, I recalled that line by Reps.

It was not a beautiful sunshiny summery day, but it was pleasantly cool and slightly cloudy and it was only just coming up to 3 p.m.

So I put on my jacket and headed back down to the seawall, intent on one more walk but it would not be a leisurely stroll today. I needed a boost and so I was going to pick up the pace. Just slightly!

The moment I walked outside I consciously put that extra ounce of oomph into my step and posture, swinging my arms and walking just close to quickly, but not really quickly.

The first 10 minutes was rough going, as I wanted to turn around and go back home but I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and within 20 minutes, I was headed east along the seawall, then back again under the Burrard Street Bridge to 2nd Beach, half way there, and with a pleasant tingling sensation in my body and a smile lighting up my face.

There is a local resident I pass on a regular basis who usually has a scowl on his face when I say hello, and grudgingly returns my greeting. (He returns a kind of grunt, giving me the impression that he is fed up with my greetings.)

But today, I saw him coming my way and instead of avoiding eye contact I threw out a hearty, “How are ya?” from a fair distance and to my shock, he looked at me, our eyes met briefly and the beginnings of a smile flickered over his face as he responded, “Fine, and you?”

“Good”, I replied and felt good as I passed him thinking wonders will never cease.

By the time I got home, my jacket was around my waist and I was sweating a bit and feeling lots of energy.

The intent, or so it seems, is everything!

The Book of Knowledge

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
I sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley,

Of thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
Amd half a hundred bridges....

And out again, I curve and flow,
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

Mom told me that dad bought an encyclopedia
called The Book of Knowledge (circa 1946)
and that while I was still a babe
in my crib, he would sit by my bedside,
and while I fell asleep,
would read to me from this book
such things as this poem by Tennyson,
along with other more scientific passages.

This story, was one of the things I can remember,
which helped me heal my relationship with my dad...

For as I got older , I can still remember him
sitting at the kitchen table
with more than a few beers under his belt reciting:

I come from hooten scooten skern...

Never realising the hours he spent by my bedside,
years earlier, after a long day at work,
in an effort to help his son become a wiser,
more knowledgeable human being.

This is one of the things being a parent,
gives some perspective on.

A few years ago, at a yard sale,
I stumbled on a copy of the encyclopedia,
Volume I (Copyright 1926-1931 by The Grolier Society, The Amalgamated Press [Ltd] 1922.)
Maybe the only volume dad acquired
as a perk to purchase the entire set of volumes...

But what a host of memories it brought back to me. I recalled many of the passages and chapters in intimate detail, as the book remained in our house as we grew older, and I would dip into it from time to time.

Dad wanted me to become a successful business man, and he was also a World War II Veteran and had a perspective on the trials that I might have to face growing up. I don't believe he wanted me to become a musician given his prior knowledge, but wanted me to have an income, some security, sentiments I now advocate for my own children, knowing what I know now.

He was a gifted musician/violinist recognised by many of his family members. We as children were never told how the family respected him, though he played at home often until I was about 12 years old, at which time he sold his violin for good.

I learned more of the details in later years.

Although he had a terrible temper and disavowed anything other than hard physical or mental labor to me, he would cry at the drop of a hat at any beautiful music, poetry or words.

Is it any wonder he fathered an aspiring poet?

The Blood Pressure Blues

I got them...
blood pressure blues...
from my head...
down to my shoes....

It was back to the doctor this afternoon to see if the new meds were working and as I already knew, just from the feeling in my body, they were not.

A lot of the time it feels like I am plugged into a high tension voltage circuit and even breathing doesn't do much to ease the feeling.

If I wake in the middle of the night, it is an uncomfortable feeling to know you are out of sync with something as basic as your own pulse.

I have been practising a lot of prayer and meditation and a shift in diet but these remedies are not doing the trick.

So the doc says it's out with the Ramipril and in with maximum dosage of Plendil, this one shrink-wrapped by AstraZeneca pharmeceuticals in Canada.

"What happens if I don't take them?" I asked.

"You could have a stroke", he bluntly responded.

He explained that the drug expands the blood vessels thus increasing the blood flow.

"I don't like getting old", I complained.

"It has nothing to do with age", he said, "it's hypertension and it's a disease."

Me: "What causes it, a virus?"

He: "It's not a virus. We don't know what causes it, but it could be inherited."

But the doctors don't know everything and my jury is still out as to whether I will start on the new meds, when I finish the Ramipril, as he suggested.

"How long do I have to take them?"

"For good", he said.

With my medical coverage, they cost $15 but if I don't have work in a few years the same 30 pills cost nearly $50 and how am I gonna pay that?

So for today...I'm singing...

...them BP blues...
from my head...
down to my shoes...

A Simple Dream

Last night I dreamed a very vivid simple dream.

I was walking towards a plain looking two-story adobe building without any windows lit up by bright sunlight. There was a flight of stairs leading up to a door, quite high up which seemed to be the only entrance. Half way up the stairs stood a man and at the bottom another man. They both appeared to be East Indian but dressed in Western clothing.

I had a strong premonition they might be looking for my Sufi teacher. So I asked if they were looking for him. They didn’t reply directly but the man at the bottom of the stairs motioned for me to follow him.

We proceeded into an adjacent building, again nondescript and while walking I felt impelled to tell him I had been to the dargah. He looked at me blankly as though not understanding. “In Delhi…” I continued but he didn’t respond.

We walked through a door into the building and then through another door into a smaller room, pushing the door open as we entered. “Look behind the door,” the man instructed.

I pushed it open wider so that I could see behind it.

I was looking at sunlight and shadow playing on a blank wall. There was a feeling of complete silence though I thought I could hear the wind blowing lightly outside.

The man accompanying me was standing to my left and facing what appeared to be a closet door, slightly ajar, his back to me. “What do you see?” he asked.

“Nothing”, I replied and as I turned back to look him, I saw his body fading into nothingness against the closet door.

I put up both hands to touch the apparition, my fingers coming up against the door, the contours of the vanishing body surrounding my hands.

Postscript: I guess it was not too surprising to receive an email forwarded by a friend this morning with the subject line "Unconditional Love". But when I opened what I thought was a powerpoint attachment, guess what?

Nothing!

Victory Music (the days before the name...)

Last night I checked email and there was a great comment from my friend Jim Page on my Dorothy blog page, which bought tears to my eyes. And he invited me to go down to a Victory Music “Old Timers” open mike in Tacoma in June. It will also be a late celebration of founder Chris Lunn’s 70th birthday! Jim said that it would blow Chris’ mind if I showed. After all, it all started with the open mike at The Tangent coffee house on University Avenue in Palo Alto in the late 60’s, and we were there!

I think it was the summer of 1968 and I remember being stranded in San Francisco with no money and being rescued from a night on the street by two young gals from Santa Barbara who let me sleep on the floor of their hotel room, smuggling me past the front desk.

The next day I was wandering through the downtown streets wondering what I was going to do to survive, and stumbled into Union Square where a stage and sound system had been set up and performers were playing guitars and singing.

I was carrying my guitar of course, as I always did in those days, and perhaps it was this that attracted the attention of a couple of the musicians who came over to talk to me.

After learning that I was from Canada and had come south of the border to find my fortune in music, they introduced me to Chris Lunn. He was tall (well over 6 feet), lean and handsome with an angular face topped by a bushy mass of ash blond hair (clean cut by the days’ standards) and a winning, infectious grin. He was the organizer of this event and many others like it and the founder/big brother of a musician’s collective in Palo Alto, where he worked in a small office by day, and played music by night.

I was told that if I came down to Palo Alto that I could perform at the local open mike and that might lead to some gigs in the area.

That same afternoon as they were tearing down the stage, I hit the city limits, stuck out my thumb and headed for Palo Alto.

Before long I was haunting the open stage at the Tangent coffee house, which was just a couple of blocks from Stanford University. I might have been impressed to learn that Jerry Garcia also played here, if I’d had any idea who he was.

There is an old saying that when the student is ready the teacher appears. I guess for many of us younger musicians, Chris was that teacher and guide. He himself was a singer guitarist and a devotee of the blues, and had a staggering record collection of blues greats like Bessie Smith, Lightin’ Hopkins, Robert Johnson, and Billie Holiday. I had never even heard of Bessie Smith until Chris introduced me to her on an old heavy-weight disc recorded in the 40's, which he played for me on a visit to his spartan digs in the Palo Alto highlands. If memory serves, and it tends to be a wee bit hazy these days, he told me he had inherited these records and much of his musical education from his parents. I remember thinking something like the 60's version of "How cool is that!"

But he always put himself in the background, and made the foreground available for the young players he was mentoring. He taught us by not teaching, but by befriending us, inviting us to spend time with him, getting us gigs in local coffee houses, restaurants and by boosting us into the spaces to practise performing what we said we wanted to do. This is what he continued to do all of his life in the Pacific Northwest once he moved up here.

I began the first serious attempts at writing my own songs during this California period and Chris published one of the first of mine titled Another Land in a little newspaper musical review that he compiled and distributed called The Kept Press. What a confidence booster that was for an aspiring young songwriter!

Those were the days (my friends, we thought they'd never end) and this is a tiny sampling of the seeds that informed us, shaped us, and took us into our future incarnations.

And Chris if you are reading this, thanks for the enormous and invaluable gifts of your friendship and of your life that you have given us.

For a more fleshed out version of the early days and some pics check out Jim Page's article What Victory Music Means to Me in the March 2006 edition of the Victory Review (page 6 in the downloadable PDF version) at: http://www.victorymusic.org/pdfs/2005-6/vr_mar06.pdf

Dorothy

Yesterday at work I got a nice surprise. (Before I go into this, let me preface that these days I fall in love on a daily basis, with almost everyone I meet, but don't always write about it).

I was sitting at my terminal taking calls and noticed Danny and Tracy talking with a tall slender dark haired girl dressed in black. I didn’t look too closely but thought she seemed familiar.

After a while, Danny brought her over to my terminal, hit my meeting button so we wouldn’t be interrupted and I looked up to see the woman who was with him.

“Is it Dorothy?” I hesitated. I was not sure, but indeed it was Dorothy, the same girl who crafted the white origami roses that grace my bookshelf and accompany my Tibetan bell. She worked with us in CRES last year.

When she left CRES, we exchanged a few emails for a while, and then there wasn’t much left to talk about and so the communication dropped off.

What is it about Dorothy? She is tall, very slim, and not really pretty, but she is absolutely lovely in a way that I can barely explain. It is as though she is a shrouded in mystery and nobility, perhaps a princess in disguise who has stepped out of the Hidden Dragons world and is on some secret mission that she can tell no one about.

Our eyes met briefly but we didn’t really connect on the physical plane, yet I could feel her embrace in my spirit.

Her black dress, slim body and long hair pulled straight back into a ponytail made her look almost severe.

Because of the formal nature of our meeting at my terminal, and my penchant to not hear things clearly when I have my headset on, I missed the few clues that led up to the revelation that she has now passed the bar (learned later that the bar exam is upcoming in September) and is working in a law office across the street from us, in the old Mac-Blo building which now houses Coast Capital Savings.

I was stunned, as I had asked her if she was manning the phones there, completely forgetful of the fact that she had been studying law and with no idea she was so close to graduating to begin practice.

I joked, “You are a martial arts black belt, and now a lawyer? There will be no beating you in court!”

I suggested she might help me draft my will. “I have to think about these things now,” I said sotto voce.

“You’re not going anywhere for a long time,” she said, and touched my shoulder warmly. “I’m going to hold you to that!” I joked and all three of us laughed.

We both seemed at a loss for words. I think we said, “It's nice to see you again” at least 3 times each.

But she hesitated before leaving and seemed to step towards me. I realized that I had been sitting the whole time and so stood, and we embraced briefly. Once again, I felt that strange and beautiful sensation of the bodies barely touching, but the spirits embracing.

And as she left, and walked across the office, stumbling slightly in her stiletto heels and grabbing Danny’s arm for support, I felt myself missing her presence already.

There but for the Grace of God...

Ah, the first cup of morning coffee! There’s nothing like it. And then, sitting down to my journal after checking the spate of spam in my email inbox! That’s even better!

I mean, if I don’t receive anything inspiring or any love from friends or family first thing in the morning, then what better gift than to be able to sit down and produce some love.

If I do some creative writing each day, I feel I have fulfilled a need in myself that is a healthy one.

I have said many times before that writing is my therapy. I get to talk to myself, be real about the happenings in my life, the people who love and who challenge me daily, the tasks and obstacles before me that I need to address.

I feel especially lucky when I realize that there are people who pay a psychiatrist an ongoing hefty fee for just such an exercise in self expression, believing it will help heal them of their doubts, fears, insecurities and all other ills that stem from the mind, whose roots go down into a broken heart, a shattered spirit. Counseling is of course a valid way of dealing with pain, but so is self expression in whatever forms it may manifest.

And then there are those you meet on the street everyday, who are a walking breathing example of such ills left to fester untreated.

Of course the spirit cannot be broken, but what can be broken is our connection to it within us.

Every morning I pray that my connection to Spirit not be lost, that I maintain vigilance in the delicate balance between living in the world and dancing in the spirit. And I pray for the same for all my family, friends and relations. Relations include all with whom I have a relationship, co-workers, store clerks, people passing on the street sharing a friendly smile, and of course, those in desperate need huddled in blankets on the streets.

If I can’t give them anything tangible, then I say a silent prayer for them and don’t allow myself the luxury of judging their plight.

As the old saying goes, There but for the Grace of God go I.

Why not laugh?

Yesterday morning, as planned I walked up to Davie Street for a haircut. I was cropped by a lovely platinum blond with a husky Russian accent who always flirts playfully with me and makes me feel like I am 22 again.

That being done I came home, did laundry and then went back up to the Clinic to get my latest BP results, bracing myself for yet another lab slip for a cholesterol test.

My doctor called me in, and to my surprise and relief had ordered the test from my previous blood sample and he informed me, “It’s very high”. This was what I had expected as the blood pressure too is still very high. He asked me if anyone in the family had heart problems, as these things can be hereditary. I said not that I know of, but it occurred to me later that mom died of a stroke, which is a kind of heart attack I guess.

I expressed my astonishment that my cholesterol could be so high given the shift in my diet over the past year but he told me it could be the body manufacturing it, a hereditary thing.

Then, in his inimitable fashion (he was present at the birth of Chaya 26 years ago and so we have got to know each other fairly well) he told me that the high cholesterol could be medically treated but that my health insurance would not cover it and what was the point if the Lymphoma was going to kill me anyway.

He said this with one of his sly, impish smiles and we both laughed at the comment. I don’t care what the prognosis is, that is good medicine from my perspective.

He has doubled my daily dose of Ramipril (from 5 to 10 mg), but other than that there were no further tests ordered, thank God. Also, I have a few weeks before my next visit as he re-proscribed the higher dose for me.

Back home, I decided to take advantage of the sunny afternoon, which had come as a surprise after the muggy cold morning and so strolled down to Sunset Beach for a seawall walk.

There, paused beside a park bench was a familiar figure in plaid jacket, plaid pants and Mao cap, adjusting his digital camera. It was my friend David, out on one of his photo shoots gathering clips for another video I guessed.

So that he couldn’t spot me (I knew he had buzzed my apartment earlier, as he always does when in the area) I made my way down the grassy slope out of his view, and stalked up behind him.

He had already started to walk westward and so I fell into step behind and spoke loudly, “The carver, armed with the tools of his trade, proceeds westward along the seawall.” I could see him momentarily stiffen and then turn to see what manner of tormenting creature had stumbled into his wake. I think he was expecting the worst.

Later he told me when he heard the voice he said to himself, “David, that’s what you get for coming to the West End.”

When he saw me, his frown lightened into a wide smile.

So we had a great slow walk and philosophical talk as we always do, all the way to 2nd Beach and back. It was one of those pristine and serene afternoons where there is barely a breath of wind and the water is like rippled glass.

We admired and commented on the beauty of the scenery surrounding us, and like the 2 old rogues that we are (I can hear him saying, “Speak for yourself Baba”), the beauty of the beauties walking and jogging past with their non-stop motion dancers bodies.

I told him what the doctor had told me earlier and we laughed about that too. Why not laugh? We are all on the same journey, with it’s ultimate destination and portal into who knows what! And for me the trip has been so amazing that I can’t help but be grateful and thankful.

In many ways I feel that my journey is only just beginning.

My Lord of the Rings

Yesterday I went to see my enchanting hematologist to receive the results of my tests.

I was bracing myself for possible bad news as the ultra sound probing especially had been more painful than usual and had seemed incredibly invasive this time.

She asked if there was anything that I needed to report, recent swellings, fevers, etc and I told her only that I had finally gone to see my doctor about the high blood pressure and she agreed that it was “good medicine” to try to bring the BP Level down.

When it came time for the physical however, and she took out her kit to test me, I knew it was still high, as I could “feel it” in my body. So when she laughed out loud and said, “I guess I make you nervous”, I was not surprised. It wasn’t the nervousness that increased my blood pressure, although I do get edgy in such close proximity to a beautiful woman.

However her expert probing fingers soon took the edge off my edginess and replaced that with a few painful exclamations from me as they homed in on the trouble spots.

This was not my fantasy of an intimate moment and I was relieved when the physical was over.

Back in her office we discussed the recent test details. Everything was about the same as last time and there was no evidence of a sudden surge of aggressive behaviour in the cancer, which is what they are monitoring me for.

To make a long story short, I guess the hobbit and the wizard are still on my side, the ring in safekeeping and the dragon still a-snooze.

P.S. And what was up with the Canucks offence last night? Maybe the march on ice of the US Marine Color Guard intimidated them. And what was up with that anyway?

The Good Ol' Hockey Game

Stompin’ Tom hit the bull’s eye with this one!

When I was growing up in Winnipeg, the fire department flooded the local park baseball diamond every winter and the kids would play hockey after supper. They eventually put up lights, so that we could play later and even maintained the ice through the winter.

One Christmas when I was about 8 or 9 years old, my dad enlisted the help of our next door neighbor who had a woodworking shop in his garage, and manufactured what looked to be regulation style hockey stocks for me and my brother. Never mind that they broke after a couple of games; I can still remember the thrill of holding that new stick in my hands.

I was not a good hockey player by any stretch, as I could never master the art of skating backwards, which some friends seemed born to. Also it was too easy to crush a skinny guy like me along the boards.

When we weren’t skating, we were playing those great hockey board games (a new one every second or third Christmas) with the little flat players in our favorite team colors that swiveled on their posts. This was before the Winnipeg Jets and so the players were usually the Leafs and the Canadiennes.

Hockey is to Canadians what apple is to pie, and though I am not a real hockey fan, I jump on the bandwagon with everyone else when the home team is in the game.

And I am looking forward to my evening as tonight is the Canucks/Ducks first playoff game, and I plan to order some pizza and enjoy. What a relief for fans that Linden scored in the 7th game with Dallas and brought it for Vancouver!

That night as I left work it was wall-to-wall traffic, non-stop horn blasting and the savage wail of victory-intoxicated fans counting coup.

As I passed the little square at Bute and Haro a young Asian traveler stopped me. He looked thoroughly confused and even worried. In halting English he asked, “What is this happening?” The cheers and shouts were also resounding from apartment balconies in every direction.

I replied evenly, “The Vancouver Canucks have beaten the Dallas Stars and are still in the playoffs.”

He looked at me blankly, as though briefly attempting a translation and walked away without a hint that he understood what I had just said!

On reflection, I think “hockey game,” might have been a better answer!

Sufi Healing Prayers

Ya Shafi - Ya Kafi, Ya Shafi - Ya Kafi, Ya Shafi - Ya Kafi...

O Thou who art the Healer of our bodies, hearts and souls,
by Thy mercy,
may she / he / they be healed
by Thy all-sufficient Power of Healing.

Ya Shafi - Ya Kafi, Ya Shafi - Ya Kafi, Ya Shafi - Ya Kafi ...

Three Prayers for the Sufi Healing Ceremony:

Oh Thou, whose nature is mercy and compassion
and who’s Being is all peace.
Father, Creator and Sustainer of our lives,
send on the whole humanity Thy peace
and unite us all in Thy Divine Harmony.

Amen.

Oh Thou, the Spirit of our souls,
the Master of our minds
and the Controller of our bodies,
we humbly offer ourself to be used as the channels
of Thy Love, Light and Life
that we may be more able to serve Thee and Humanity.

Amen.

Oh Thou, the Light of all souls,
the Life of all beings,
the Healer of hearts.
All-Sufficient and All-Powerful God,
the Forgiver of our shortcomings,
free us from all pain and suffering
and make us Thy instruments,
that we may in our turn free others from pain and suffering
and that we may impart to them:
Thy Light, Thy Life, Thy Joy and Thy Peace.

Amen.

...Ya Shafi Ya Kafi healing prayers
courtesy of my dear friend Paul Reps in 1976
and again given by my dear friend April in 2007.