All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances; ¹

Shakespeare famously said that “all the world’s a stage.” I sat near the front of the theatre today and watched as players made their appearances and spoke their lines. I made a few observations about the actors and the audience.

A high school strings ensemble visited the health care facility in which I regularly volunteer. They came and performed for the patients, most of whom are seriously ill and have limited mobility. Sitting among the wheelchairs, I thought about my experience as a performer as music vibrated countless air molecules around me. Although even my untrained ears could tell that the group had much room to improve, I found their reactions to their own errors quite interesting. Take one instance, for example. The group became less than cohesive towards the end of a piece and finished with an unintended staggered ending. Had they not looked at one another and chuckled self-consciously, most of the audience would have accepted and appreciated the piece’s musical ending.

Sitting beside me was an elderly woman whom I spoke with before the musical performance. Since all residents have severe neurological disease, it is often difficult to verbally communicate with them. Although I had no difficultly understanding what this woman said, I had a difficult time distinguishing the real from the imaginary, separating the factual from the delusional. When she told me about realistic-sounding plans for the future followed by the great tragedy of being the last survivor of the Titanic, only silence and a nod of acknowledgement seemed appropriate.

It’s one thing learning about memory loss from a course, but when a human being repeatedly responds to the same question with “I don’t know” and a blank expression, it somehow feels very different. Or when you picture these people as mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, sons, daughters… they become more than sites of biological pathology. Every time after finishing my shift at this facility, I emerge outside, pause for a second on my very own legs, and feel the cold air rushing through my nostrils, thinking… I’m so fortunate to walk, to breathe on my own, to interact with this world, and to remember, and possibly even share, these stories.

Of late, I’ve had meaningful conversations with friends and strangers, alike, about the meaning of happiness. So far, being happy includes making points of connections with others, treating others with love and as we would like to be treated, seeing the growth of our loved ones, spending time with people who are important to us, and making others happy through helping them for nothing in return.

Earlier tonight, I had the privilege of hearing another person’s perspective on what happiness means to him, a historian-turned-custodian. Happiness to him means being free and having the freedom, the human right, of living without persecution. Being exactly half a century young, he reflects on death as humanity’s great equaliser and the intangible aspects of himself which he can keep forever. I asked him what his advice would be for young persons who face life ahead of them in a sometimes uncertain world. His answer: recognising that we are all one; finding the middle ground; being well-read on all perspectives; and using knowledge for good. He also told me this:

Don’t ever stop running. Always keep going. Then, you might become knowledgeable of something.

Ultimately, life is a theatrical negotiation. Perhaps it is through finding the middle ground that we arrive at an agreeable destination. And the audience and actors are not always dichotomies. Maybe they are one.

“I had a better life back home,” he told me. “I owned a house, and I earned more as a nurse in the Philippines. After I arrived in Canada, I worked as part of a cleaning crew for a fast food restaurant. During that year, I really wanted to go home.”

“I stayed because of my son. I want him to study in Canada one day and I want to give him a better future. Some people had worked on that crew for five years or more. They told me that I will never find a proper job in Canada, let alone be a nurse again.”

“But I refuse to believe them. Now, I am cleaning apartment buildings by day and sweeping classrooms by night. It is hard work. With flexibility, persistence, and diligence, nothing will stop you from reaching your goal.”

“We all need to work in a field that is right for us. It is a good feeling when we are able to do that. I want to become a nurse in Canada. I am improving my English now, and hope to begin my training in two years.”

“Keep up the good job and continue to study hard, okay?” And with those departing words, he left me and went to brighten other places. For a moment, I felt unworthy of such encouragement, undeserving of such clean, bright facilities.

The above was the wisdom of a building service worker as he swept the floor and wiped the tables and uplifted the spirit of an empty classroom. True philosophers in life are ordinary people who share their stories. Those who listen carefully find them easily.

Sometimes, small points of connection between ordinary people can turn a minute into an experience which lasts a lifetime. And maybe this is what happiness is about: creating points of connection with others, whether with a smile, with seeing oneself from the perspective of the other, or with wanting to learn about another human being.

“I shall pass this way but once; any good, therefore, that I can do or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.” ¹

Sometimes, missing the bus creates new possibilities.

Take last Wednesday, for example. After a day on campus, I rushed home in the afternoon to pick up my saxophone and music before flying out the door to attend band rehearsal on time. Even before my door was fully closed, I heard the characteristic 52 kilometres-per-hour whistle of a trolleybus as it left without me.

An infinite wait at the bus stop ensued, during which I replied to a half-dozen emails and indulged in reading the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. When the bus arrived, night had fallen. After a short journey, just as I stepped off the trolley, the traffic light changed, my connecting bus fled, and I was left, momentarily, disappointed. Life is humorous sometimes, isn’t it?

When one door closes, another often opens.

A fellow passenger from the first bus also waited for the second one with me. This elderly gentleman had a thin layer of silver beard and hair. Together with his metallic, delicately framed glasses, he almost carried an Oliver Sacks look.

He spoke, I listened, and for some reason, our conversation drifted onto the topic of religion and medicine. Let’s call our friend Mr. Sacks. Specifically, Mr. Sacks talked about how Buddhism and medicine share a common pathway of witnessing a problem, defining the nature of the program, seeking a solution, and solving the problem. Unavoidably, this led to a discussion on the soteriological nature of both medicine and religion, which pertains to suffering and salvation, and the moral and redemptive nature of all health care.

Mr. Sacks shared the following parable with me:

“Suppose someone was hit by a poisoned arrow and his friends and relatives found a doctor able to remove the arrow. If this man were to say, ‘I will not have this arrow taken out until I know whether the person who had shot it was a priest, a prince or a merchant, his name and his family. I will not have it taken out until I know what kind of bow was used and whether the arrowhead was an ordinary one or an iron one.’ That person would die before all these things are ever known to him.”

“The Buddha did not answer these questions because they are not relevant to the problems of suffering, nor do they lead to happiness, peace and Enlightenment. Whether one believes that the world is eternal or not, or that it is infinite or not, one has to face the reality of birth, old age, sickness, death and suffering. The Buddha explained suffering, the cause of suffering, the end of suffering and the path leading to the end of suffering here and now. The Buddha taught the Four Noble Truths because He knew that they lead to happiness, peace and Enlightenment.” ¹

Soon, I found myself mesmerised as I sat next to him on the bus. We talked about healing the person and seeing the patient as a site for stories in the context of Buddhism in ancient times. It turned out that Mr. Sacks had worked for many years, before retirement, as a research professor in Psychiatry, and had spoken from his first-hand experience in working with patients.

Shortly before arriving at his stop, Mr. Sacks told me that treating an individual with unconditional love is a source of healing, which equates, as he put it, to a form of energy and a path to revitalisation for those afflicted by illness.

As soon as Mr. Sacks got off the bus, the woman who sat to my left asked me whether Mr. Sacks is a professor and said that she liked his ideas. She told me about her brother’s Schizophrenia, how his condition seemed to improve when she and her family surrounds him with love, and how she saw his symptoms deteriorate in love’s absence.

This reminds me of a passage by Sherwin Nuland from The Art of Aging ²:

“The single word that best incorporates what I am trying to communicate here is ‘caring.’ Caring arises from an inner sense of relatedness to one or more individuals and to all humankind, and the recognition that humankind’s ultimate good is bound up with one’s own. Caring has about it something of the nature of wonder, that one’s own strivings can be transcended in the name of a greater principle, one that ultimately benefits everyone.”

“This is precisely what Saint Paul must have meant by the ringing words of chapter 13 in I Corinthians, when he said that agapé, in the original Greek, is greater even than faith and hope. Agapé refers to a kind of wondrous love, which the authors of the Vulgate properly translated into the Latin caritas, best defined as a ‘caring love’ that puts aside petty self-interest. Saint Paul’s magnificent words epitomize much of what has already appeared in the present and earlier chapters of this book: ‘And now abideth faith, hope and caritas, these three; but the greatest of these is caritas.’”

I missed the bus and found caritas.

Insite: the most “hotly contested piece of cultural real estate in North America.” — Dan Small

In just six hours from now, the Supreme Court of Canada will make its final and unexpectly early ruling on the legality of Insite, the only safe-injection site in North America.

Based on two arguments, the continued presence of Insite has previously been ruled in favour by the British Columbia Provicial Court:

1. The provincial jurisdiction argument: that the federal government does not have a say in the way in which health care is provided by the provinces. I may be mistaken here, but I think this argument was not ruled in favour.

2. The human rights argument was, however, ruled in favour (which surprised those representing Insite, including my Medical Anthropology professor): that, when effective means of harm-reduction are available and provided through the health care system, the inaction (or termination of Insite) would result in the harm of individuals with addictions and would violate their human right. For example, in a similar light, if care were withheld from those who live a lifestyle which results in their own heart disease, the human right of these individuals would be violated.

Fundamentally, this ruling will decide, once and for all (since there are no appeals remaining), whether 1) Insite will remain open, 2) whether Insite would pave the way for more safe-injection sites in North America, 3) whether addictions in Canada will be treated as a health care responsibility, or one for the legal-justice system (which is the case in the United States).

The above is my novice understanding of the situation based on a short introduction from a lecture. My interpretation could be entirely wrong, especially since this post is written on my phone at a rather late hour. Feel free to share your thoughts on this issue.

I’m hopeful that the numerous peer-reviewed papers will convince the Supreme Court judges about the true nature and efficacy of Insite. I’m hopeful that evidence will triumph ideology.

It has been a long time since I last had so much fun learning. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt the lightbulb switch on as quickly and as brightly. In most cases, scholarly articles tend to be slightly dry, but tonight – tonight! – was an exception. Each re-reading became more enlightening until, by the fourth time through, I burst out laughing as I read the article again from start to finish. If there is one example of seeing in black and white one moment and immediately in vivid colours the next, this was it. I might have come across something interesting!

“The Northwind and the Sun”
Aesop

A dispute arose between the North Wind and the Sun, each claiming that he was stronger than the other. At last they agreed to try their powers upon a traveller, to see which could soonest strip him of his cloak.

The North Wind had the first try; and, gathering up all his force for the attack, he came whirling furiously down upon the man, and caught up his cloak as though he would wrest it from him by one single effort: but the harder he blew, the more closely the man wrapped it round himself.

Then came the turn of the Sun. At first he beamed gently upon the traveller, who soon unclasped his cloak and walked on with it hanging loosely about his shoulders: then he shone forth in his full strength, and the man, before he had gone many steps, was glad to throw his cloak right off and complete his journey more lightly clad.

“Father Forgets”
W. Livingston Larned

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave yourface merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There wereholes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive – and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later,when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding – this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bed-side in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy – a little boy!”

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.