Being Good, Being Happy

Travelling by train in the deep night. It evokes a sense of timelessness, and brings back memories, many of which aren’t even my own, but borrowed from classic books and old black and white movies starring Greta Garbo.

Our vacation begins. Ponczka is my perfect travelling partner, a happy baby, I call her. She thrills at every small triumph, like crossing the border on an expired passport, or smuggling our homemade wine in pop bottles. For her, the train awakens memories of travelling back and forth between Gubin, her hometown, and Poznan, where she escaped to Art High School when she was fourteen, and discovered her independence. For me, it’s travelling through Germany when I was a kid, following our show biz mom from Berlin to Leipzig to Frankfurt and back, eating dinners in the restaurants that stood in the atria of the glorious old stations. And too, my travels back and forth between Seattle and Chicago – two solid days each way – when I worked the summer sales circuit with Encyclopaedia Britannica in the early ninties.

Vacations are to dream about. We dream of what they will be in the preceding weeks or months. And we dream them again afterward, knitting together what actually happened with what might have, so that, in that wonderful freestyle replay of memory, even the ordinary, disappointing moments ultimately grow into our expectation of them, however long after the fact.

I wonder if what I experience is universal, this tug, as the vacation nears, to have it be a transformative experience, the expectation of returning a different man than when I left. I somehow anticipate that, during my vacation, I will rid myself of every vice and shed every excess pound. I’ll read a few books, pen a couple of short stories, and improve my French and tarot reading. I expect I will return home refreshed, enlightened and even galvanized, ready to make manifest whatever ambitions have lain dormant in the cradle of my spirit.

I never expect so much out of fourteen short days, as when I’m on vacation. But it’s a delicious expectation. There’s a vibrant tension between the desire to indulge and luxuriate in freedom and ease, and the desire to make the most of time that feels to be more wholly my own. A balanced tension between wanting to be happy and wanting to be good. And there’s a sought after sweet spot of comfortable exertion, of invigorating effort, that satisfies both wants.

When we exit the train in New York the balancing act will begin. To lounge over drinks with old friends, or hit up the exhibits at the Guggenheim. And when we’re aboard the cruise ship, heading to the warm Caribbean seas, will we be more diligent about visiting the onboard gym or the midnight buffets? And in Old San Juan, will we dutifully explore the historic Fort, attending to every anecdote of our tour guide, or will we stake out a spot on a beach and luxuriate as the sun works its magic?

Vacation time is upon us.

Beer & Buddhism

Spiritual practice? What does that even mean?

I’ve grown tired of spiritual pursuits. Bored with religious proselytizing. I no longer welcome the Mormon or Jehovah’s Witness that comes to the door. And I don’t engage the Black Muslim who calls me brother with a wave of his newsletter. I’ve about had it with true believers. I’m not even much interested any more in finding something upon which to hang the label “Truth”.

And yet....The spirit is hungry for something. Some thing that sorts sense from nonsense, that gives a direction to all this otherwise directionless living. Some thing to give meaning to passion and prayers.

Tonight, over beer in a Bloor Street pub, we spoke to this. People, sharing what we do, explaining our hungers and dreams, our indulgences and bad habits. It was an evening of personal time with allies from my working world, people who share with me the burdensome tragedy-comedy of lives gone askew. We laughed while we consumed chicken wings and gossiped about our three affiliated places of work. But mostly we spoke of other things: the music we love, social work jobs in Nunavit, club-hopping and the passion of dance, eating or not eating meat, growing corn and making wine, why people come out to a pub to watch Glee, the inequities in sick time benefits.

I was glum and worn down when the evening began. My colleagues cheered me with complaints of their own. “It’s all about the BMW,” I was told – bitching, moaning, whining. Like listening to the blues, it raised me up. Something about shared sorrows. Not so nice when your woman leaves you maybe, but a different thing to understand that leaving and getting left is in the nature of things. It connects you somehow, pulls you down into the deep whorl of being, doing, enduring; this tragic-comic life, the inevitability of things going wrong.

Beer, of course, is an ages old spiritual practice. No doubt lots older than Buddhism, or any other formal creed with its precepts, rituals or deities. Tonight, it feels like it’s all part of a whole. What my beer teaches me tonight is to be present to the chicken wings. The crack addict waiting for his rented room will be there tomorrow. There’s nothing to do for him tonight. And the kid who had the mental collapse and who needs to find the vet for his puppy, he will show up tomorrow or he will not. And the eviction notice that’s on the way for the guys letting all their street friends crash with them...well, it won’t come any faster or slower because of my worrying.

It’s a beautiful night. The rain isn’t rain, but drops of cool moisture falling from the sky. It isn’t the eve of December, but the graceful arc of the planet as it bends its way around the sun. Whatever is hurting in my life has no intention of punishing me. But darkness follows when the sun goes down, my strength wanes with every passing year, and the edge of the knife is sharp.

Ashbridges Bay to Cobourg...by Sea

Yes, by sea. We may be on Lake Ontario, but it feels like the sea to me.
As previously posted, Captain Ponczka and I have been dodging thunderheads...literally.
We're into our 4th day of sailing (a personal best for us!) and we've come 97 kilometers (another best!!!)
We're in the lovely Cobourg Marina, sheltered from the rain we came in just ahead of.
Port Hope, where we sheltered last night, is a sweet little town, with helpful, friendly people, but the marina was a pit last night. We made it in having waited out a lightning and thunder storm by dancing about in the lake, and got in just as it was getting dark.
We found outselves on an exposed wall in the mouth of the Ganaraska River, where our little boat was tossed and bounced and rocked all night. It got worse as the morning passed, and we finally decided - urged on by several of the good Port Hopers - to make a run for Cobourg. And here we are...safe, dry and happy, having had an adventure getting out of there, climbing over breaking waves, and with the wind menacing.
It's GREAT being sailors, being on the water hours every day, watching it's changing moods and faces, and adjusting, getting better as we go.
We may be here a couple of days. The forecasts promises heavy winds and more storms.
So we'll explore this little city - which looks very inviting from here.
Maybe we'll hole up in our boat's little cabin with some of our homemade wine later on.
A great week on the high seas.

Jammin with the Fellas

Last Saturday, I had maybe the most musical night of my entire life!

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We had a cookout at the boathouse where we keep our sailboat, and the planned entertainment was a jam session. Quite a few of the boaters play instruments. One of our number, Whitey, drummed professionally for years, and a couple of the others had brief periods when they toured as well.

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My own experience is much more limited, though in the last 5 years, as my confidence has grown with my sax playing, I’ve had half a dozen or so fun experiences jamming with others. I’ve also had a few humbling experiences, including the only other time I joined in with Whitey and some of his mates.

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But Whitey is a loving and open spirit. And he got it that the past disaster had as much to do with me not getting time to feel out the others, or even tune up properly, as it had to do with any lack of musicianship. So he’d been all over me the last two weeks, making sure I was gonna show up, and with my horn, and ready to play.

Well, what a night it turned into!

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We jammed and we grooved and we flowed! It was beautiful. The first couple of tunes started tentatively enough, each of us deferring to the others to choose a key or a rhythm, then building from there. But after awhile, spontaneity kicked in. Whoever got an inspiration just started in on something, and the others piled on. K.B. led the way, with a sweet, sensual guitar. Backing him was Vaughan, with his steel-string riding his lap, and Chris with an electric keyboard. Antii and Whitey took turns on the drum kit, but Antii also had an electric bass, the new instrument he’s learning, and both Vaughan and I took turns at that.

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Yes! I took a turn on the bass! I’ve always loved bass, and have dabbled at it before, but it was a complete surprise to find myself grooving along, laying down the bottom while we rocked the open garage and folks danced up a storm.

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My main turn was with the sax, and I wasn’t perfect, but I did pretty well. The biggest piece was getting over being self-conscious. And I was sooo conscious of the mike, which others kept coming over to adjust, moving it closer to my bell, to better pick up my sound. I was tightening up when blowing into the mike, thinking way too much about every note I aimed for. But each time I turned away – which I did a lot at first, to find a pocket to play out of – I immediately loosened up and began to play fluidly. Finally, I caught on, and was able to forget myself a little, and to bring out the sense of play that frees me, that finds the melody, the energy, the magic that brings any music alive.

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And we, as a group, we soared. When I was able to pull out of my head, and to listen to what we were cooking up...it was awesome. K.B. was a total revelation. It took him awhile to loosen up too, but when he did, he took charge. His riffs! His creativity! The ways he was bending his notes, adding pedal effects, creating harmonies and embellishments...a virtuoso! And when I or Vaughan or Chris was soloing, K.B. provided the perfect rhythmic accompaniment, accenting and enhancing all of our flourishes.

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But what made it such an expansive night for me was...I SANG!

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It was totally unplanned. But, we’d gotten loose and easy and high from our playing, and from how well we sounded together. And when Karen got up to grab the mike, and did a version of “Mercedes Benz” that had half the audience joining in, I was inspired to follow her up with “Dock of the Bay”. I got so into it, I even found myself improvising lyrics, and playing into the audience. And Ron even jumped in at the end to provide the whistle chorus!

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Ponczka was astonished. “My Kirb!” she kept exclaiming. “You sang! You sang so good!” And she urged me to sing more, which I didn’t plan to do. But a bit later, K.B. got going on a funky guitar riff, and Chris and Antii joined in on it. And next thing, I was grabbing the mike again and going into “Papa was a Rolling Stone”.

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I really surprised myself. I realized the next day that I’d never have sung, or likely even played the bass, if I’d thought about it ahead of time. Even the sax playing had to come about with some spontaneity. In fact, with the previous embarrassment in mind, I’d only been able to bring my sax by telling myself it wasn’t a commitment to play, that I’d “see what happened”, just let it go how it was gonna go. And by flowing with the moment, I was open to experiences that I never saw coming. And it was exhilarating!

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I want to do MORE!

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And imagine if I begin to WRITE like that!

Sailing the Good Ship Ponczka

Ponczka was born to captain her own ship.

On our first date, by way of introducing herself, alerting me that I was dealing with a woman of substance, and letting me know what I was in for, she announced how in the office of the architectural design company where she worked, she had all the guys trained. “They all know,” she declared, “that when it comes to working with me, it’s my way or the highway!” and she burst out with her characteristic, cartoony laugh.

Ponczka likes to steer her own course, and she has unlimited ideas about where she’d like to go and what she’d like to do. Which is what led to my role as First Mate and lackey on the Good Ship Ponczka, otherwise known as Bubbles, or Wannabe, or the Bathtub.

Let me tell you how I first learned that sailing was in my future.
Among other things, Ponczka is an artist, a painter of acrylic cityscapes which sell really well, and which her buyers tell her capture the spirit and energy of the city. She generally participates in two or three outdoor art shows a year, where she sits and drinks her red wine, with old friends who visit, and with the new friends she invariably makes, cajoling and laughing her way into the graces of both other artists and potential customers.

A few years ago, she was working the Queen West Art Crawl, and I, as always, was keeping her company and making coffee and food runs. Upon returning from one such errand, I found Ponczka excited and beaming.

“I just got us a sailboat!” she announced.

“I was gone about 45 minutes,” I said. “What happened?”

Well, you see, she’d done some painting, outdoors, en plein air, on the Toronto Islands. And some of the pieces featured boats in the small marina at Hanlan’s Point. Now, she was no sailor. She’d been sailing maybe three or four times in her life, twice the sailing I’d done. But she’d said, during the one sail we’d had together, that she always thought she’d like to have a boat someday. And she repeated this notion to a guy who stopped to admire her paintings. He focused on the boat paintings, and said how he admired them, as he was a passionate sailor. He had no money, but once she mentioned her longing, he let her know that he did have a couple of boats that had been sitting in cradles unused for a couple of years. And by the time I returned with fish and chips and club soda, the two of them had hatched a deal. For a bit of cash and three paintings, Ponczka would become the owner of a twenty foot sail boat.

I admit I wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect. I knew from sailing friends that the hobby is obsessive, labor intensive and expensive. Some hobbyists spend way more time on upkeep and maintenance than actually sailing. And didn’t we have enough hobbies and sidelines to keep us busy? But I kept my tongue bit down to a nub and the deal was finalized. After all, I wasn’t against the idea so much as ambivalent. There was lots that appealed about owning a sailboat: it was large enough to sleep on and would be like a miniature, mobile cottage; there seemed to be a community of interesting and friendly boaters ready to welcome us; it was both a green pursuit and a beautiful science, channelling the forces of wind and waves; and then there was simply the romance of blowing about on the vast lake, exploring an entirely other dimension of city life, one that echoed through the ages of human kind.

The hardest part for me has been feeling unnatural in the alien environment of the sea. And to me, any natural body of water larger than a pond might as well be the sea...or the ocean. The liquid part of the world operates differently than the solid part, and the laws of physics that I know and understand, don’t apply there as consistently as they should.

So we got the boat, and Ponczka was immediately won over. From the beginning, she’d have sailed every weekend if she could. She had her moments, sure. On one of our first sails, tutored by a sailing friend, she was like a kid bouncing with eagerness to get on board and out on the water, and five minutes later was bouncing with nervous upset and annoyance at the lapping and slapping light waves, and insisting we head for shore.

But all that’s in the past. Now Ponczka is the intrepid captain who wants to sail when she wants to sail. Phooey on those forecasts that say there’s a sixty percent chance of rain.

“Look at the sky. You can plainly see it’s not gonna rain. Besides, it’s perfect for sailing. If it starts to storm, we put down the engine and head back in.”

I’m the one reminding her that, well, we don’t really know what we’re doing. It can get hairy out here in a hurry...

I don’t feel safe.

So, like in everything else, we find a tolerable compromise, and we sail the edges of storm clouds, drink wine and have a hell of a time.