Topless

Who’d think that going topless could be a spiritual epiphany and a holy metaphor?

In early October, five women were at a lakeside retreat centre, some of us friends, others strangers. We luxuriated in the sprawling modern building filled with comfy furniture, attractive art pieces and golden autumn light from dozens of windows. The outdoor setting was golden too, as sunshine backlit yellow trees and warmed forest carpets of caramel oak leaves and pine-needle straw. Placid blue water was visible from the screened porch and our hosts served up the best of home cooking. Instead of a chockfull agenda, the retreat leader left us hours of empty space between sessions to loll on our beds, read or hike.

For two days we learned and practiced the theatre art of improvisation as it relates to spirituality. The goal was story telling, not Second City wisecracks. As a professional performer and spiritual director, our leader explained a structure of safety and acceptance, gradually easing any performance anxiety. She urged us to say “anything” and to be “dull” and “ordinary” as we played along with improv exercises. How those boring words freed us into wild creativity!

 We laughed ourselves silly when we pretended to move invisible canoes and to open imaginary boxes. One evening, without instructions or words, we found ourselves playing every recess game we could remember, even without skipping ropes or hopscotch chalk.

As we used some of the techniques to act out bible stories and give spontaneous homilies there was more laughter alongside deep truths. Picture one person simultaneously playing Lazarus’ corpse and Jesus arriving at the graveside! Her antics made us giggle but when two of us, as Martha and Mary, lamented loudly over our dead brother, tears sprang to my eyes. Where was Jesus when we needed him!

There were breathtaking worship times when we stood in a tight circle taking turns to speak one word each as we created a communal prayer or hymn. Dancing and running broke out. The familiarity and freedom of creative play moved us quickly into intimacy.

On our last morning, again without discussion, we cooperatively drew a strange picture on a white board. Each person took turns sketching one line in mindful randomness. We ended up with a peculiar water creature and a woman with huge bare breasts, a bow in her curly hair, and only one foot. We finished by jointly making up the story of the picture, “Once upon a time…”

 The retreat was ending and after lunch we would leave. During our last solitary reflection time I sat on a log looking at the water and remembered our funny drawing. I imagined taking my top off to become the bare-breasted woman by the lake, but of course decided not to shock passers-by. I am, after all, 64 years old and very round. Still, the idea percolated.

 At the buffet lunch where we five were the only guests, I caught the eye of the inn’s talented chef and signaled to her. In a private corner I told her that I was going to take my top off if she could warn the two male hosts to disappear for a minute. 

Just out of sight of my new playmates, I took off sweatshirt and bra, and then stepped into sight wearing only my jeans and shoes, calmly opening my arms to display my full, drooping breasts and bulging belly. The women screamed and bent over with laughter. Each one hugged me before I scurried to recover my clothes.

 What on earth? Never in all my years have I done such a thing! I felt fine…and then a little self-conscious. But it was good. Since then my moment of madness/wholeness is morphing into some spiritual insights.

What if we all felt so accepted and free that we could bare ourselves, even the imperfect parts? Our improv retreat leader 
(http://monica-romig-green.com) 
had functioned as pastor, therapist, and coach in teaching us the boundaries and urging us to “be brave”. Gently and wisely she had eased us into mutual trust.

 What if there were so much playing in Parliaments and churches and classrooms that even strangers laughed themselves into friendship? The improv games we played built community fast.

 Another improvisation principle is that mistakes are expected. Whoever made the mistake takes a second to acknowledge their error but carries on as other players rally to redeem it. How could we not think of Christ's great redemption story?

 I like the improv ideas of “offering” and “accepting offers” so that the group’s story or game can continue. For example, if you offer another player an imaginary hat, she might accept your offer by pretending to put it on and saying it was her favourite colour. You could then tell her that when you had seen it at the store you’d thought of her. You offered; she accepted; you "endowed". In improv the concept of “endowment” doesn’t imply that you need a bigger bra but means adding to someone else’s offer so that the story is enriched.

 In God’s endless story we’re all invited to play a part and our daily lives are filled with offers both appealing and scary. We can resist life’s offers or say, “Yes! I’ll go along with that” and see how even the worst surprise can be accepted and endowed.

Without quite realizing it, in my topless moment I had manifested another improv feature, “reincorporation”, by impersonating the main character in our group’s drawing and subsequent story. As the bible says, “Remember, remember.” This was one adventure with God I'm sure I'll never forget.

Despite the Hair in My Hummus

Our wedding anniversary plan for June 6 had been rained out, so on one sunny September day we  headed for the Toronto Islands. I was pleased to see the bronze memorial sculpture for Jack Layton near the ferry docks, and especially touched when I watched two people reach out toward it, one fondly stroking Jack’s arm, the second patting his shoulder.

On the boat packed with excited tourists, I noticed a young Japanese woman. Her t-shirt read, “Hug Me”. Old women like me can get away with just about anything, and I asked her, “So should I hug you?” She looked confused and was apparently not a native English speaker. I pointed to her shirt. She looked down, read the words on her shirt and grinned at me. I spread my arms out. She giggled and reached toward me. It was a heart-warming hug between generations and cultures.

While we were still crossing the harbour, a student from a large group wearing back-packs and matching tees,  approached and asked me to go to a club with him that night. Before I could do anything more than grin he said, “You don’t have to come, I just have to invite you.” He was a foreign student attending the U. de Quebec in Montreal. He and his fellow students were part of an unofficial “Amazing Race”  that would take them to Niagara Falls and Chicago as well as Toronto. 

As we talked, his friend filmed the evidence so that they could check off another task on their list. We chatted about their home countries and which Toronto club they were going to that evening. 

Although I knew he had just been playing and wasn't sincerely inviting me to appear at their evening party, it took me until later to understand that the prescribed task had  been a disrespectful poke at old age. It was meant to embarrass the students as they ridiculously pretended to invite some unattractive, doddery oldster on a date to a dance club.
Grrr. 

Nevertheless, their sweet, polite approach and my willing participation produced another moment of friendly connection. 
And by “participation” I don’t mean that I showed up that night at "Cube". But I might have.

After the ferry ride we ate lunch on the treed patio of The Rectory, just off the boardwalk on Ward’s Island. The server was not only efficient but playful, telling us that we had chosen the “ghost table”. Somehow the table where we sat keeps sending orders and bills to the cash register computer program. We laughed with her and ordered a luxurious meal, celebrating our 40 odd (and I do mean odd) years of marriage. 

Imagine the Maitre D’s chagrin when I motioned her over to show her the black hair I’d found in my hummus. She gasped with apologies, snatching away my plate and asking if I’d like a replacement. Since I’d already eaten about as much of the appetizer as I wanted, I thanked her but refused. Our server came to ask if I’d like some apple-squash soup instead. Oh well, now… YUM. As we lingered in the lake's breeze, my husband with his beer and I with my thrifty one glass of House white, the Maitre D’ arrived with a bottle to refill my wine. Bonus.

After lunch we wandered around the leafy lanes between charming cottages until the ferry arrived to take us back to the city.

It was one of those days when all you can do is sigh with delight, smile blissfully, and whisper “Thankyou!” 

Billy Bishop and Me

Toronto City Council is deciding whether to allow Porter Airlines to expand Billy Bishop Airport for the use of bigger jet planes. Bishop is a small airport at one end of a cherished island park and a charming community near downtown Toronto. Our huge Pearson International Airport is on the city’s outskirts.

For those of you who don’t know Toronto, the city fronts on the shore of magnificent Lake Ontario at the place where two great rivers empty, the Don and the Humber. 

Just across from the downtown lakefront is an arc of treed islands accessible by ferry. Many decades ago a small airport was built on these islands amidst much controversy. Now Porter is fighting to make a yet bigger intrusion into this idyllic  lakeside space.

Needless to say, there is opposition from those who care more about environmental improvement and human wellbeing than about travel speed and increasing wealth.

I filled in the City’s survey here http://cityoftoronto.fluidsurveys.com/s/BBTCA/

Please consider doing the same.

When I read the survey’s page about possible health effects of the airport expansion it struck me that while there was mention of increased noise, air pollution and traffic injuries, nothing was said about an even deeper impact.

Our current definition of health includes what we call “wholeness” or, in spiritual language, “holiness”, an encompassing state of well-being. We want political decisions that will encourage healthy bodies, healthy minds and healthy relationships with both our human kin and with the natural world on which our lives depend.

As I have commented on the survey, the downtown airport's noise already interrupts and taints our refreshing enjoyment of Toronto's lakeshore parks. Whether we're on the islands or using any of the boardwalks and parks near the water, it is impossible to ignore the roar of landings and takeoffs. The air traffic imposes mental distraction and adds stress, aside from its pollution of air and water.

Many of us would be willing to pay more taxes and/or reduce our consumerist demands in order that our governments not be tempted to prioritize economic growth and excessive accumulation of corporate wealth.

We who are glad to have learned that there are more important things in life than increasing our possessions need to speak out. Let us encourage our civil servants to grow the contentment quotient in our neighbourhoods instead of just the tax base.

In a time of violent confrontations and many suicides, maybe city planners and political advisors should ask citizens “What could be done to increase peace and joy for you and your family?”

Music Video Awards and a Weird Word.

One simple word can raise a flurry of thoughts and emotions. Recently I happily referred to myself as “old” and a friend reacted strongly. She is a physical trainer in her 70’s and often hears clients moan that they’re too old to …   From experience she knows that our bodies are capable of more than we think, if, barring illness, we keep active even into old age and stop thinking of ourselves as past our prime.

I understand her negative response, but because my focus is not on physical fitness, the word “old” has different connotations for me. Now that I’m an elder, I think of the phrase, “wise old owl”, and fight against our culture’s fixation on youth. Same word, different connotations.

I write this post after watching news about the pornographic performances at the 2013 Music Video Awards and reading this rhetorical question from Psalm 119:9,

“How can a young person stay on the path of purity?” 

Now there’s a problematic word: “purity”. 

Where does your mind go when you hear it? Imagine the reactions if we asked  the MVA audience how they try to “stay on the path of purity”. Ours is a culture where even opera advertisers use come-ons like “lies, murders, lust and betrayal!” assuming that such language will draw audiences, not turn them away.

Can you imagine a politician during a campaign saying that they try to live purely? Purity used to be an admirable goal; now it’s an archaic value.

At the rare times we hear the word, it’s usually in discussion of sexual abstinence outside of marriage.  Such a limited meaning for purity truncates a magnificent ideal.  What if we expand the word’s meaning to suggest these characteristics: integrated, authentic, consistent, and uncontaminated? What if we think of “pure gold” or “pure drinking water”? 

It was disappointing to hear a Christian minister base a sermon on a vulgar, crude musical (her words) that she had seen. Even as she joked about the congregation not telling their friends that their minister had said they should buy tickets, it was clear that she had no regret or shame about enjoying the performance. She valued the strengths of the production despite its impurity. True, sometimes we have no choice but to search through life's garbage for meaning, but why choose it for entertainment?  It sounded as if she were dismissing the wise biblical advice to fill our minds with excellence, beauty, joy, kindness and goodness 

(ex. Galatians 5 and Philippians 4). Long before modern psychology, spiritual teachers were recommending cognitive behavioural therapy: change your thoughts and you will change your feelings and behaviours.

Maybe the preacher, like others, was over-reacting to Puritanism, that uptight, “holier than thou” rigidity that looks down its nose at others. They assume that a steady commitment to high values always breeds snobbish disapproval of anyone who doesn’t measure up to those values. To the contrary, Jesus himself criticized such pharisaic attitudes. He befriended swindlers and adulterers, calling them to God’s love.  He would definitely have befriended all of the performers at the MVA’s.

However, he clearly did not chuckle at people’s self-destructive sin or follow their example. He urged them (us) to change direction toward the path of wholeness or purity. A desire for Christ-like integrity  (what the bible calls “righteousness”) need not imply an unhealthy wish to be better than other people. 

The question we started with above was written centuries before Jesus, part of the Jewish tradition he followed. 

How can a person stay on the path of purity, the path of humility, confidence, service and courage, the path where one aligns with humanity’s best and trusts God to do what we cannot? The poet’s own answer to his rhetorical question is that, young or old, we “stay on the path of purity by living according to God’s word”.  We listen for God’s wisdom in sacred books, in human experience, in Nature’s wonders and within us. 

Pure brilliance.

Men: alien encounters

On my way across a parking lot, I noticed a car idling as I carried on into the store. After talking to three polite and earnest salesmen who couldn’t sell me the radio I wanted, I returned toward my little white Honda Fit and heard the black SUV’s engine still running. Through its tinted windows I could see that the driver was male and I hesitated before approaching. Maybe the sultry August weather increased my motivation. I stood at his closed window until he opened it. “Hi. I don’t want to be a pest but you’re idling the car and polluting the air that we all breathe.” He was polite but protested that he was charging his computer. 

“Oh, is that the only place you can do it?” I asked innocently. 

He mumbled, “ Well, sort of”.

I said “Thanks”, for what I’m not sure – maybe for not cursing me - and I drove off. I thought of how much I, myself, was contributing to air pollution by driving from store to store looking for an emergency radio. I wonder what he was left thinking.

Approaching another mall I noticed seven men standing in a circle outside. They were dressed for business, mostly in dark suits, all younger and taller than I. I recognised a faint fear response in my gut – “The enemy! En garde”. I could hear that one guy was conducting a meeting, but since I had to walk right by them to enter the mall, I stopped with a big smile and said, “Ooh, scaaary - Suits!” The leader grinned back, friendly, and patient with my interruption, “What?” 

I teased, “Where are all the women?” 

Laughing, he replied, “Oh, they’re on their way”. He understood my issue and didn’t respond to my comment with irritation.

Driving again, I merged into an exit lane and let two roaring dump trucks go ahead of me. I thought of all the men who work in the rough and tough occupations, dirty, noisy, dangerous, and tiring. Although I’m glad not to have their jobs, I hope for equality’s sake that more women are choosing such work. When I was writing this I googled “trucks women drivers”. I didn’t find any stats but was encouraged to read an announcement on the “Truckers Support” website, promoting awareness of of sex- trafficking, its connection to truck stops, and urging professional drivers to help stop the crime.

Speaking of "men's work", near our house there’s an intriguing construction site with deep holes, a large crane, modular buildings and lots of men in hard hats. When several neighbours stood watching, the supervisor (tall and muscular, with steel toes and dusty clothes) joined us to chat. He cheerfully answered our questions and said how excited he was to see the modules arrive so that the job could keep going - not the gruff and silent type at all. 

A couple of days later I was walking by the site and he gave a friendly wave, just as if I were a fellow human being instead of an invisible old woman.

This summer it’s been charming to watch two young fathers interact with their children in nurturing ways. Both were affectionate with their sons as well as their daughters, both were patient and instructive, both gave full attention to specific parenting moments the way mothers traditionally do.

Another surprising alien male encounter happened during a walk along my local main street. I saw a rough looking, long-haired guy riding his rusty bike toward me on the sidewalk. He looked to be about 40, wore a sleeveless t-shirt (are they still called "muscle" shirts?) and was helmetless. He seemed out of place in our by-law compliant part of town. As he passed me, he called, “Your white hair is gorgeous!” 
Alright then. Welcome to the neighbourhood, man.

When I finally found the right store for buying a transistor radio, a middle-aged man (never my first choice for clerks) expertly advised me on exactly the right product. I was grateful. Okay, they’re not all condescending to women.

I hope that one day it will become automatic for me to expect the best of men, instead of the worst.

Dancing at Dusk

Each summer in Toronto parks a group called "Dusk Dances" produces a festival. These creative events are, for the audience, completely unpredictable. The dances range from crump through flamenco and jazz to acts like this year’s “1981 FM” by Throwdown Collective. During the latter, the audience laughed and cheered as three dancers moved athletically and comically through a car’s doors and over its roof and hood. The choreography was so clever that I hardly worried about a car door slamming on tender fingers. It didn’t happen.

All of the acts were entertaining, but one performance turned out to be epiphanal. The sun had set and there was just a pink glow left high above us. The audience sat on the grass under a huge maple whose branches were hung with white paper globes lit from within. As ethereal music began, two dancers, dressed in fantastical white costumes slowly moved into the centre of our circle. Their pas de deux was languorous. As they approached and retreated, bent and stretched within the dim evening shadows, a night breeze rustled thousands of dark leaves, adding a gentle percussion, making the moon lanterns sway, and cooling our skin. I looked away from the luminous performers, up at the moving branches, higher to the pink sky, around at the awed crowd, and back again. I shivered with grateful joy. The dancers finished by melting onto the ground, lying still while the audience sighed, and then applauded.

Two days later, in early evening, I heard a cardinal’s song through my open window. Toronto’s major bird population of sparrows, Canada geese, and seagulls don’t add much colour to city life, so even though it’s not unusual to see cardinals, it’s always a pleasure to catch a glimpse of their scarlet feathers. I stepped outside to see if I could spy the cheery singer and there he was on my neighbour’s roof antenna, bright red against the blue summer sky. As I watched, a gold finch darted past him, flashing her yellow in the glowing sunset. Sometimes you have to be quick to notice a pas de deux before it's over, but everyday life is full of dances.

"May the tunes of angels echo in your brain,

May heaven's rhythms tap your twitching feet"

With gratitude to, and in memory of,

poet-priest, Andrew Greeley, 1928-2013

Grinches

Maybe we’re all grinches by nature, not in our grouchiness, but in our discomfort with too much noise. Every December when I read Seuss’ book, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, I empathize with these lines about the Grinch: 

“ Oh the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! That’s one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!” 

For most of us, every day of the year is as noisy as Who Town’s Christmas. The majority of us now live in cities or suburbs where we constantly hear engines revving, people shouting into their phones, sirens wailing and electronics beeping. The decibel count for normal conversation is 60dB whereas trucks, power drills and rock concerts emit between 85 – 115dB, not to mention a baby’s loudest cries that can reach 120dB! Even during night’s relative quiet we may hear a rushing sound from the nearest highway and the hum of household appliances. 

Too much noise causes our body’s stress-reactor, cortisol, to flow at such excess that, for example, a friend had a breakdown at work the other day, yelling at a customer to “Shut that child up!” Her system simply couldn’t cope with trying to help people at a public information booth while her ears were being battered by a nearby child’s screaming. 

One of the benefits of my youth as a fundamentalist Christian was being urged to have a daily “Quiet Time”. In that context a “Quiet Time” meant reading the bible and praying, and unfortunately many of us felt burdened by the expectation, feeling guilty when we skipped the daily practice. The benefit, however, was the wise teaching that each day should include a time out from our daily responsibilities and addictive distractions (Twitter, TV, music). We need a chance to sit alone to collect our wits and think about life. Although it's impossible to escape all external sound, we can learn to quiet down our thoughts and emotions.

Despite post-modern Western culture’s widespread rejection of traditional Christian prayer, spiritual hunger has prompted a rediscovery of this ancient idea, via New Age beliefs and Buddhist tourism. Many have learned the value of silent meditation and prayer. In Toronto there are new public labyrinths in parks and hospitals where any passerby can take the opportunity to follow the circling path in silence. Some schools have introduced regular quiet moments for students to calm themselves, and most health practitioners now recommend non-medical techniques for stilling our minds and slowing our heartbeats. 

As with other life experiences, until you try a quiet time yourself it is hard to imagine the treasures that may manifest. I promise that if you close your mouth and sit or pace silently for long enough, you will be pleasantly surprised, perhaps by a memory of a friend you had forgotten, or a new activity to explore, or a sudden feeling of compassion for an annoying neighbour. If we include a willingness to connect with God, this too has happened for thousands during their solitary silences.

Maybe if we all start informing our bosses, clergy, and politicians that quiet times are beneficial, even productive, our whole world would edge closer to healing. I will if you will.

 “Be still and know that I am God...In quietness and trust is your strength” 

(Psalm 46 & Isaiah 3)