When I got off the bus today I remembered to thank the driver. I was exiting through the third door and wasn't sure that he heard me and I didn't want to shout too loud for fear of drawing attention to myself. I always thank the driver when I get off, like many people in Vancouver. This has become a local habit, or should I say custom. I would even go so far as to say that this has become a cultural peculiarity in my city. Well, I just asked Uncle Google and he (she? maybe I should say Aunt Google) has confirmed to me that this is, not necessarily a uniquely Vancouver phenomenon, but pretty darn close. I love this tradition. It does create an atmosphere of gratitude and good will, regardless of what some cynics, naysayers and other miserable folk might say.
It has been my day off today. My quiet day. My nothing day. I slept about two hours later than usual and it was already almost eight when I dragged myself out of bed. I celebrated my normal morning routine: brushed my teeth, shaved, trimmed my hair, made my bed, weighed myself, showered, cleaned the apartment, poured a glass of orange juice, completed my morning devotions and readings, made coffee (decaf today), had breakfast, went online, read a bit and listened to interesting news items on the radio. There is for me a certain poetic rhythm to this morning routine and for me there is something sustaining and nourishing about it. I dragged myself outside just before eleven, waited fifteen minutes for the bus and instead of complaining about having to wait in the cold air (nothing like the sub-zero temperatures that are the norm in the rest of the country), I smiled and bade the driver good morning. He smiled back.
This is Saturday, my day of contemplation and stillness, my day of walking, thinking, praying, of sitting inside a nice café for an hour or two to work on a drawing, perhaps chat with the staff or a friendly patron, then more walking and perhaps a bit of shopping. It is like a day of vacation and retreat. A day of rest and reflection. A day of restoration.
On one of these Saturday outings I saw the Dalai Lama. I know it was him because he was in town at that time to speak at a youth conference. He was standing in the driveway, having just got out of a car, with other monks, all wearing the signature robes. The house was nothing outstanding and certainly bore none at all of the elegance typical of the beautiful mansions in this neighbourhood. Try to imagine a Vancouver Special http://www.vancouverspecial.com/, but on steroids and you'll get the idea. There must have been a hundred Buddhist prayer flags fluttering in the wind. I knew him right away though I didn't quite see his face. I wondered if I should say something but surely he had other things to do as did I, so I simply thought, wow, is that all there is to a Dalai Lama?
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