Years ago an unimportant and diffident man was giving a tour of a homeless shelter—of which he was manager. Requests for tours were not overly frequent and they could be pleasant, and the guests were often interesting—which always made the man question his own credibility and worth. Still, his tendency toward introversion and his perpetual hope for a day on his own terms often caused him to feel ambivalent about the tours.

On this particular occasion, as he was walking down the hall leading his guests through the shelter’s medical dorms, explaining, as he always did, the dimensions of the work, the problems of poverty and mental illness and addictions and abuse associated with those living in the dorms, Mr. Fond came shuffling down the hall. As usual his pants were gathered at the front, held up by and one clutching arthritic fist, and his shoes were loose with laces dragging. For a moment Mr. Fond’s eyes searched the tour guide’s eyes—who knew what was wanted. But time taken to lace up his shoes would be a waste; he would soon have them untied, sloppy-loose and would return to shuffling. And so the tour-leader, who was conscious of appearance and wary of spectacle, and able to define the nuances between the two, resolved to smile, greet Mr. Fond, and politely yet efficiently continue his tour without interruption.

But as these two minor bodies closed distance, our man of moral lassitude was nevertheless unable to pass by. And so he stopped. And as he knelt before Mr. Fond, catching the miasma of blotched and liniment-chafed flesh; and as he raised the crusted cuffs of the pants, taking the flat-frayed and soiled laces in his hands, crossing and looping the ends into a double knot; and while feeling the sting of embarrassment from what he thought must be the indulgent glances of the dignitaries standing off to the side, he felt within his solar-plexus a small warm growing thing. It was like a malleable ball of desire deep in the centre of his nervous system that continually changed shape from Mr. Fond, to himself, to the well-appointed noblesse, and back again.

Now he liked this himself-but-not-exactly-himself feeling, and being the selfish sort he wondered how to keep it, own it perhaps—this “it” that now, sitting back at his desk and staring into the glass-brick window, still felt sweet and pleasant, like mulled wine pooling at the pit of his stomach.

And as he stared, seeing dimly through the clouded glass, thinking he saw that bright yellow ball of desire—within or without he didn’t know—his teetering mind fell to reflect upon the occurrences carried out daily by heart-filled workers and volunteers at shelters and hospices and homes and streets around the world—habits of millions of ordinary humans. And he opened to the thought that this “it” was the natural, renewable, waiting-to-be-discovered desire at the centre of every-body and so could hardly be something kept, held or owned, but was always moving, shifting and weaving. Always and everywhere stopping and stooping and kneeling in the name of Jesus, in the name of Allah, in the name of Nothingness, in the name of human kindness, in the name of the Creator, in the name of Kookoomis Manitou Muskwa, in the name of the one Spirit, which is of one genus, which is love.

As our kids grew, she celebrated every small milestone, and every little achievement—which of course in the scheme of life, are never little. That our kids have not only turned-out, but feel free to teach us who they are, is for me proof and vindication of their mother’s early intuition.

Deb kept learning—learned the language of the village, and was sought out by the neighbourhood. She came to teach other children. Children with unique learning abilities—for she never saw differences in abilities, and difficulties with so-called normal ways of learning, as disabilities.

And she took people in, cared for other mothers, single mothers and their children. Our house was not a sedentary house.

In the mean time she blended our families. And so before ever reading Margaret Wheatley, she learned chaos theory first hand. Learned somehow, to trust love’s process and to wait for things to unfold. 

Deb is someone who is driven to learn, and with a knack to bookmark bits of time (a motherly trait no doubt) she completed a Master’s degree in counselling with an emphasis on narrative therapy—the very human notion that we are the experts on our lives and through sharing stories with someone we trust, we can come to a self-awareness that will open up choices for our healing and flourishing.

Narrative, for her, is not merely a technique among others. Finding the truth within conversation, the importance of anecdote, the value of a timely question, earning of a right to speak through listening, all these she has embraced as a way of life.

To my reckoning, she has fathomed the depths and plumbed the limits of self-awareness. And this she freely brings to her counselling and life-coaching.

Of course a keen and accepting self-awareness brings with it a greater holistic awareness and therefore a natural questioning of prevailing systems. It happens that she has found a fuller voice in wisdom’s daughter, the feminine divine, and so has become something of a dissident. Well, it’s a path that chose her as much as a path she chose. These are not easy paths, although they are essential, not only for the one on the journey but for the community.

Like others on this road she has been misunderstood and castigated. She has gotten under skin, infuriated some, simply by standing up.

In my estimation, she has become less Christian, but more Christ-like. She has seen unhappy paradox of the Christian church. With its message of freedom, it still harbours elements of institution, hierarchical adherence, a paternal hangover. These she encountered first hand, and has learned to live beyond them.

In a continuing search she learned the Enneagram and has became an instructor in the ancient art of understanding personality types. It’s a method that gives tools and language for the foibles and sometimes the impasse of human interaction. With it she has mentored many.

And she has learned avenues for emotional freedom, a necessity in her work, and a way to unburden from those things that need releasing. This knowledge she gives away.

Over the years she has never let herself become distant to growing things. Her connection to woods and green gardens and herbs and rock and water is what nourishes her.

Today she cares for a team of people who care for the very forgotten. Those who some would like swept off the street. In this she does not remove herself, instead she learns from them, befriends and calls them by their first name.

She continues to learn out of curiosity. A mother at heart, she freely gives the best of what she receives. She has become, she is, a wise woman. Happy Mother’s Day Deb.

Jack is a few years older than me and a lifetime wiser.

A few months ago I spent an hour laughing with him and a couple of his brothers, we were going over 45 year-old memories.

A friend recently wrote an interesting post on why bloggers blog. Guess I’m writing this to dispel the passing of time. Like the way we take pictures sometimes, a silent and unconscious prayer to slow the earth’s turning—seal off, for a moment, our own inevitable slowing.

Jack, as far as I can tell, doesn’t entertain these ghosts. Takes aging and everything else in stride.

As a kid, summer holidays at my cousins was like living in an episode of the Darling Buds of May. Jack (second eldest of nine) showed me the questionable joys of milking cows by hand—how to satisfy and drive cats mad with a wavering stream of hot milk. He showed me, although I never did have the knack, how to get a last mile out of of a 54 Chevy. Showed me how to drive up a river hill flat out, how to spin out and ease down without rolling over.

Jack showed me what it meant to stack green hay bales until your muscles were hard and your back brown from the sun. Showed me how to spit and split wood. How to get yellow and scratched from rogueing mustard and thistle in an oat field. How to swim in a muddy river; how to swim out beyond a shore choked by algae; how to go through a summer without shoes. How to skin beaver, snare weasels—things that didn’t take, but fascinated me. Jack—an ageless, tumble-down-a-hill, fleshed out Huck Finn.

I was there when he played the clown at an auction sale, walking into machinery, rolling in the grass, making me roll with laughter. He was finally told to stop because the auctioneer couldn’t keep the crowd.

He has had rough patches in his life. He gives away much. Sometimes too much. Knowingly, he’s been taken advantage of. Has that kind of heart.

He’s someone no one will write about, he’s never thought to make a mark, write a blog, never desired more than a simple quiet happiness. Never concerned himself with grand ideas or schemes, never wanted anything more than an unencumbered faith.

Jack is not sophisticated. Fact is, he scoffs at sophistication. Not with words, but by living without our culture’s blinding self-consciousness.

It was Paul Ricoeur who talked about a second naiveté, a spiritual progression from face-value thinking, through critical reflection, to a kind of conscious simplicity—a certain reengaged child-like approach to the world. But Ricoeur didn’t know Jack. In my eyes, Jack was born into it; or maybe, for him, the first and second were one in the same.

With any justice, Jack will pull through this. Pull through like he pulled me through one winter morning after a Saskatchewan blizzard.

There were chores that needed doing. Dad was cautious, the chickens could wait for the snow plow. But Jack had no qualms. And I was in for the ride.

The farm was four miles from town. We made it three—stalled and stuck and in a fender high drift. We’d smacked through a dozen drifts—white waves hitting the hull of the one-ton Ford. Jack made up speed between drifts, but we were slowing with each one, the snow coming higher, flying over the windshield.

The last drift was mean. Crusted hard. And we stopped like a nail hitting a knot. Jack looked surprised. Jumped out and started shovelling—the big grain shovel moving with rock-a-billy rhythm—and I thought the truck might just keep moving on its own with all that momentum. He worked the packed snow out from under the truck, out from around the engine, then made a trail through the drifts ahead. Jack in the distance was a dervish of snow covered steam. Crystals hung in the air around him.

I stood watching, freezing in the minus 30. My hands were going numb, arms hanging down, thumbs folded in palms inside my leather mitts. Jack was back at the truck, grinning, "Lets give her a go." Then noticed, and said, "Your freezing, give me your hands." He took them both into his and we stood there in front of the truck grille, his hands radiating hot, thawing mine.

The truck kicked to life, he rocked it back and forth, a few runs and we were free.

Jack is settling into a marriage and a life that is bringing him joy. Three months ago I asked him how he was doing. He said, "If I was any happier they’d have to put me away."

Here’s to you Jack. Get well.

Jack on the left with two brothers, Stan and Mel

Kokura, Japan, in the middle of April,
there are cherry blossoms, like faces,
eddying in alleys, swirling on pavement
and in tight spiral trails behind bicycle tires.

The faces fall sad, their time, too soon.
The wind, greedy, plucks them off branches,
and sails them out over the water.
The Purple river is covered, calmed by blossoms,

You can walk on this river,
your small face held above the current,
until you reach the delta,
and your thin time of standing ends.

Blossoms part, undone by wide water.
Then a day comes when all the faces,
gathered in by moons of tides,
are thrown up by waves that break and slide.

And the sea’s purple rivers run backward,
in the secret fullness of night, carrying thoughts
that roll up roots and are pressed out, pearled
and bright, waiting, and made for the sun.

Which comes in time, stronger than wind,
to all the resurrected faces, not one missed.

The man with sleigh bells and teddy bears
tied to the top of his walking staff,
his striding dance and crimson coat
flare up over the dark-faced city.

The woman bent over bunches of bags
beside the galvanized can with chained lid,
her bare head and grey-string hair and open coat,
a sinkhole secretly waiting for love.

And you, bright blend of Tiny Tim and Zappa,
your rainbow tights, broomstick and bindle bag,
your white knee-socks and chimney-sweep hat,
clogging along sidewalks wet with light,

so full of love, spilling it all out like nard
at the feet of Christ—Christ how I love you.

Dusk on the Cornwall coast, close to Ronald Duncan’s hut

The impulse toward spirit surrounds us, its mystery is open to us daily. But sometimes it takes something more to prime our capacity for mindfulness—a dangerous capacity that needs constant tending.

Sixty years ago, when Ronald Duncan sat composing The Mongrel, in his stone hut, high on the Cornwall cliffs, he wasn’t thinking of hikers coming in from the trail reading his words and leaving changed, or at least momentarily arrested and marked for later. He was inscribing his own transformative arch, a kind of seeing, an experience coming to him from beyond his own fulcrum.

The slippery illusion that there’s no slow magic left—which is too easy to do in our methamphetamine culture—burned out, as we are, by just keeping up to the headlines. Burned out by food that comes from too far away, by fast medicine, speedy solutions, all forms of exhaust, and lack of things green and growing. Burned out by believing that everything has already been explained, and anything unexplained will be explained tomorrow because of the parameters established yesterday—which leaves us so starved for mystery that crop circles seem worthy of our singular devotion.

There is an inexorable Spirit moving below the crust, mercifully breaking up our categories and controls, working with us when we choose love, and working around us, leaving us to our isolations, when we choose envy and indifference. But never leaving us alone for long.

A few days ago we yawned over news of Vladimir Putin’s win. All that graft and corruption. Putin obviously the puppet master of his own victory. Pah!

Things are different in the west. In America, the candidates are innocent. There is no collusion between them and the independent super PACs or advocacy groups who buy all those negative ads.

Americans know this because Justice Anthony Kennedy, speaking for the majority after the Supreme Court ruling in Citizens United v. FEC (Fed Election Committee) that corporations as well as individuals could give unlimited amounts of cash to “independent expenditure entities," said, "Independent corporate expenditures in elections, even in secret, do not give rise to corruption or the appearance of corruption. So there you have it. It’s simply a matter of trusting corporations.

Well, as one Washington Post writer put it, "What we’ve seen here (the run up to Super Tuesday) is merely the first glass before the bender, the blowout that will come this fall."

It’s estimated that the USA’s fall election will feature $3 billion in negative ads. These will be sponsored by super PACs and advocacy groups.

Thankfully I live in Canada where all we do is tinker with ways of moving money around during elections, in and out of constituencies, you know, as needed; and then we have robots make prank calls leading us to phantom polling stations. Oh the fun we have.