Bruce Barone

“In the past, I may have hidden my inner light, afraid to be myself. I may have tried to please others by conforming to someone else’s idea of who I should be. I may have shrunk from an aspiration, fearing that I would fail in pursuit of my goal. I may have doubted the divine perfection at the core of my spiritual self, identifying with my perceived flaws and feeling small and inadequate.

“Today I make a new choice. I choose to live fearlessly, drawing upon my faith to believe in myself, my imagination to envision my best life, and my understanding to know my divinity.

“Bold and brave, I am fearless as I live my life authentically, pursue my dreams, and express my divine nature.”

And then this verse:

Be strong and bold; have no fear or dread … because it is the Lord your God who goes with you; he will not fail you or forsake you.—Deuteronomy 31:6

I love the last sentence and the verse from Deuteronomy.

I had a test for Covid-19 this morning. I have no symptoms. I had the test because on Wednesday I have a routine colonoscopy scheduled. The last time I had one, and the first time, was about ten years ago. I find it interesting it is called routine. I picked up my gallon of fluid to prepare for the procedure after the having the Covid test. The nurse who administered the test told me her name was Joy. And she was a joy; I could see the love in her eyes. The test lasted 5-10 seconds and was ticklish.

So this morning’s Daily Word spoke to me. “Today…I choose to live fearlessly, drawing upon my faith…bold and brave…” And I did.

Something else; last night I read some old Blog/Journal entries and I was filled with a degree of sadness, if not regret. What happened? Something happened. I have had an online presence for nearly twenty years. I have made friends with people all around world. For example, I met Helena online fifteen years ago and featured her photographs in my art gallery. Susan and I housesat for her and her husband two Septembers ago. I think that is wonderful. And amazing.

But I wondered has my life become so routine, if not boring, that I have nothing to say. I don’t think so. Of course, I am no longer commuting to New York City and returning with stories like these:

“Daryl and I are on the road at 6:00 a.m. He listens to Nelly, Jay Z, and other rap artists on my cd player and I listen to NPR on the radio. When we arrive in New York City we first head to the bathrooms at the Four Seasons Hotel on West 57th Street. I’m early for my appointment at Playboy so we look at the Will Cotton paintings at Mary Boone and the Annette Lemieux show at Mckee. I have a very good appointment at Playboy (“Daryl put that magazine down please”); one of the most beautiful offices I’ve seen in the city. And then we played a game of pool at Bar Code on Broadway, listened to music at Virgin Records, had lunch at B.B. King and saw a movie–“Just Visiting,” which I thought was hilarious, but I must say I laughed all the way through “The Spy Who Shagged Me,” twice. We slept at my dad’s and had a wonderful dinner with him.”

“In my Dad’s apartment are four brown “Pilgrim” coffee mugs. He has had these for as long as I can remember. My Mom and I would sit at the kitchen table when I was home from college and drink coffee together before I drove her to work. I am drinking coffee from the mug with a turkey on it (the other three have pilgrims painted on them). A special friend once wrote “we are the only creatures with poetry. The things that exisit are the question……to learn is to question.” I like that. I wish I had written it. I am trying to remember this morning as my Dad still sleeps. And if to learn is to awaken, then if we practice the sacrament of the precious moment, we constantly experience a re-birth; I see this morning a garden with many steps and a waterfall; I step from stone to stone; moment to moment; and like a dog (that “animal mentality”), I hope, super-attunded, focused to that which is there, here. I woke this morning from a dream; it had happened but I was dreaming; Daryl and I are in an outdoor pool in winter in Maine, taking a break from skiing (me) and snowboarding (he). Mist is rising from the pool. Snow surrounds us; and the mountains rise like mythic creatures into the dark and misty sky. All is quiet. All in calm. He is the holy infant. And here is this pilgrim mug from which I drink. I am reading a wonderful article a friend wrote entitled “Focal Points Lead the Eye.”

“By midday I knew I would not be going to the ballet this evening; my feet were sore and swollen and I needed a good kick; a pick-me-up. His name was Bonsu Osei, taxi license number 048360. I called him Banzai. License number 007, license to kill. I feel as if I am surfing the Bonzai Pipeline as we head down the cavern of Fifth Avenue; I can see nothing except a flurry of color, heads seem to turn, cars and trucks and taxis are at a standstill; I wonder if and when I will wipeout. We come to a screeching halt at a red light and a cripple, oh, I mean a man in a wheelchair wheels himself over to Banzai’s window and says “spare some change?” and Banzai gives him change and I wonder if the man in the wheelchair is a man Banzai once ran over surfing the streets of New York City.”

So many more stories about trips to New York City with Daryl, Danielle and her friends, visits to my customers, art galleries and museums, dinners with my Dad. I am blessed to have these stories as wonderful memories.

There were photos and poems then. And stories. There are photos and poems now. I simply need to look for new stories and write them down.

And, of course, there is always God’s Palette.