could be right might be wrong.

i lived way up on chemin rockhurst several years ago, in a big old house with a big old cat.

one late night after basketball, after a hot bath, i wanted to open a window. it was too hot and i just needed a little air. i didn't need a lot, just a little. however, the big old front window of that big old house was stuck. it really shouldn't have taken a moment to open, but it was stuck. eventually, frustrated, i jumped onto the sofa for better leverage. well, i was buck naked standing under a hanging lamp on that big old sofa pounding that big old front window to loosen it up when a neighbour just happened to be on a late-night jog. how could i have known? of course, he may have thought i was knocking on that big old window to get his attention. i will never forget the look on his face as he turned to see me and my big old, well, you get the picture. suffice it to say, things are not always how they seem.

dr. arnold toynbee, a respected british historian, (1889-1975), once said that the modern problems begun in the west will need an eastern solution. the ancient eastern sages knew our ideas were wrong. they realized long ago that a lasting peace would not come from wealth and power, sense gratification or even relations. they knew a lasting peace would never come from a mistaken 'us and them' mentality. rather, the ancient sages talked about simple living and higher thinking. they talked about oneness. and more and more westerners are looking east and considering that advice. those ancient sages went further. they determined a system whereby that idea and way of living becomes a practical reality, in a moment and for the life.

meditation is simply the practice of stopping for a while, of stopping our grasping, striving, hoping, desiring. but, that's not eastern or western. that's just life experienced in its pure formless being-ness. i would venture to say that the problem is a basic universal mis-understanding: we are so sure that we're separate and different from each other, but maybe we're not. there is one string needed to connect each bead of a necklace. one sap courses its way through thousands of leaves on a tree. all the individual ocean waves are nothing other than the water. ancient saints and sages, from east and west, have tried to tell us that there is essentially one life, irregardless of the much more apparent differences.

my neighbour may have mis-concluded, but who could blame the guy. it was not a pretty picture and perhaps a terrible example, but i kinda like it. still, it's a big old fatal flaw, whether by one of us or by all human-kind, to believe completely in ones conclusion. there is always a chance we got it wrong, so let's get it right. one life. one love. peace.

our last argument.

basically, i had to drive to toronto every two or three weeks so dad had somebody to complain to. it wasn't quite the same over the phone. he liked when i would collect him from the retirement home, take him to his favourite restaurant and just let him rip.

dad had issues with pretty much everybody and everything, from the prime minister to the old lady in the next apartment, from all the immigrants clogging the health care system to rock music. one of the last times we went out, over our soup i remarked: "you know what your problem is?" "no," he said petulantly. "why don't you tell me?" "your problem is that you're not senile." "what the hell is that supposed to mean?" "well," i continued. "if you just had a bit of dementia happening, stuff wouldn't bother you so much." not seeing the humour, dad dismissed my remarks in his usual way: "oh yeah, you think you're so smart."

he ended up in a north toronto hospital not long after that where he continued to terrorize everyone around. he complained about everything from the ridiculously young chinese doctor to the tasteless food. i walked into his room one afternoon to find two nurses, a social worker, the doctor and a chaplain all around his bed. he was belligerent, tearing a strip out of everyone collectively and individually. i sat on his bed and suggested he try to not ruin everyones' day. the chaplain asked: "what can we do judge vanek to help you? is there anything at all we can bring you?" dad thought about that a moment before answering: "yes, you can bring me an apple." for some reason, that made everyone howl with laughter and, i guess since i was there, they filtered out of the room.

about fifteen minutes later, one of the nurses came back in carrying a bowl. she looked nervous. no, she looked terrified. dad took one look at the bowl and barked: "what's that?" tentatively, the nurse told him it was a bowl of apple-sauce. i saw the anger flash in his eyes and knew we were all in trouble. "did i ask for goddamn apple-sauce?," he hollered. somehow, the nurse managed to squeak out: "you can't eat an apple, judge vanek." immediately, the old guy shot back: "how do you know I want to eat it!? maybe i just want to lick it. maybe i just want to sniff it." the nurse scuttled out and he winked over at me: "cute isn't she? why don't you ask her for a date? i think she's from india."

dad slipped into a coma next day and we all assumed that was that. but, that wasn't quite that as it turned out. sitting in his darkened room, all of a sudden i heard: "nathan is that you?" shocked, i sat straight up. i spluttered: "yeah, dad, i'm still here." "well why the hell am i still here?," he shot back with an immediate hint of his customary crankiness. "i don't know, dad." "well who the hell knows?" by then he was beginning to sit up, holding onto a railing on one side of his bed, eyes flashing. i stood beside his bed and put a hand on his chest. trying to be positive, i offered: "well, maybe it's just not your time to go." he didn't like that at all. "don't you tell me it's not my time to go!" to which i replied: "dad, do you really think we should be arguing about whether you're dying or not?"

his last words were: "oh yeah, you think you're so smart." he lay down, closed his eyes and passed away about five or so minutes later. 

maybe they only had one.

there's nothing quite like a five-hour wait at the hospital to make me appreciate that my legs were not the problem. as compared to some others there, i had the option and ability to eventually stand up and walk out. i was quite aware of how hard the staff was working. i was quite humbled by their patience and empathetic attitude in general. i was also quite certain that my problem must have seemed rather low-priority. so i left. i watched too many folks who had arrived much later be called in much earlier. my problem was minor and also, i might add, a little embarrassing.

one reads about the lives of great yogis and sages who remain the picture of health well into their hundreds and who eventually shake off their mortal coils with an almost otherworldly flourish. sri yukteswar gathered his disciples in the great hall and commanded: "now you watch. this is what it's all about." he then proceeded to meditate in full lotus posture for hours until everyone finally realized he had, in fact, died. after paramahansa yogananda died, his body apparently did not even begin to decompose for nearly two weeks. one might wonder why they left his carcass lying around, but that's beside the point. in sharp contrast to those examples, my demise will likely not be profound or elegant. actually, it'll probably be weird and comical. but, of course, i aint no sri yukteswar and, come to think of it, maybe weird and comical is alright.

one of the reasons for my leaving india in 1998 was because i had not been feeling well, for a long while. the fact that the white-washed walls of my place there turned black regularly during the rains may have had something to do with my general malaise, but i had never even heard of mould. once over here, i was able to arrange a full medical check-up. after some poking, prodding and blood tests, the doctor decided i needed an ultrasound specifically on my liver. it made sense considering i had malaria twice, jaundice, severe bronchitis a few times and years of eating some of the richest, hottest foods ever concocted by humans. but, it certainly got me thinkin.

during the procedure, the rather severe prussian technician at the hospital in hull kept muttering: "hmmm. hmmm." when i asked what she was hmmming about, all she'd say was that the doctor would have to talk to me. not being at all used to the protocal, i simply concluded she didn't want to be the one to tell me the bad news. i was completely convinced i had liver cancer. i was freaked. i drove my old tercel back to wakefield quietly winching and wailing, bemoaning my fate, until something interesting happened. i gave up.

i gave up all hope. so i immediately decided to quit my job at 'ryan's famous garage and towing company.' i would scrape together what pesos i could muster and move to mexico, body surf until the waves of time washed me away. i came up with some other ideas as well: one or three jumps off the covered bridge into the river, buying a new silverado from hamilton's chev/olds on credit, leaving my rock album collection to my dad who hated all music other than classical, but my mind kept returning to mexico. i was really warming to the whole situation. i spent the next few days eating whatever i felt like and writing a semi-amusing essay that i called: 'my last will and testosterone.'

a few short days later, i was watching the doctor look long and hard at the report and all the images. he muttered: "hmmm," a few times until i blurted out: "it's liver cancer isn't it?" startled, his head jerked up and he exclaimed: "why the hell would you say that?" then he burst out laughing. apparently, i was fine. he said i probably shouldn't become an organ donor, but i certainly had no cancer.

lawrence beeter was a british ww2 soldier. after his bunker was hit by a rocket, which he survived, his last words were: "maybe they only had one."