Seems to make Sense.

There is a Big Difference

Between saying I am

Sorry, than

Saying

I was

Wrong.

 

Strangers in our family, Strangers inside ourselves

After almost 20 years together, my sister Mary and her husband decided to formalize and have my Uncle Father Lloyd bless their union. It was beautiful and special.

I don't like to travel but I went to the Dominican Republic to be with them on their special day. Sheila and my children, William and Sarah, went as well.

Duncan's family comes from the west coast of Canada and my family comes from the east coast and although some in the family had met each other most hadn't.

The trip included Mary & Duncan, their two children and 40 other people many of whom hadn't met. It was a wonderful spiritual experience to see two families separated by distance, blend so quickly and so firmly.

While I was there, I wrote this:



Stephen King recently wrote "inside every man is a stranger." I think that's true. There are parts of every man, woman and child's mind, experience and personality that remains a stranger, a mystery.

A funny thing happened, at least to me, on this wonderful wedding excursion. I found that I let my stranger that lives inside me experience this special place and these special people.

I let my stranger talk to Ruffie's stranger and I came away from that conversation not only knowing him a little better but knowing the stranger inside me a little better as well.

A little while before young Katie's third birthday party, I had a chat that I will remember for the rest of my life. I talked to Camille.

It was a beautiful moment.

I was sitting down on the grass and looking up into her beautiful eyes and beautiful face. I let the stranger inside me participate in our little "get to know each other" chat.

Camille said that she loved the way that my family got along so well together.

Instead of letting Peter E. O'Neill esq. comment on that, without full disclosure, I was honest.

I said, "it's not always like that."

The stranger inside me said "I come from a family with strong personalities."

When we love, we love fiercely.

When we battle, we battle fiercely, but when it's really important, we can put it aside; no matter what!

Camille paused before she said anything and lowered her head slightly and if I had not been sitting on the grass, looking up, I would have missed the mischievous glint in those beautiful eyes as she said softly,

"Sounds like my family."

Camille wheeled away from that conversation and I walked away, but I walked away knowing the stranger inside me a whole lot better.

Thank you very much Camille and thank you Mary, Duncan, Connor and Maggie for giving us a chance to meet the people that have been part of our family for almost two decades.

Family since then, strangers no longer.

In giving us this wonderful period of time, space and love, I think that we have all learned a little more about the strangers in ourselves.

May God Bless us and keep us well.

My First Real Kiss.

I don't know if I ever told this story to anyone but, I am at a point that I can reflect on my first real kiss without looking back at it in pain.

I was about 12 – 13 years old when I went to visit my relatives in my father's home town of Mulgrave.

I was a strange fellow, still am. Never did quite grow out of that. I don't think I ever will. At least I hope I don't.

I liked girls but I think I was too nervous and I think odd, so much so, that the girls in school never took much notice of me.

When I went to Mulgrave, I met a girl that seemed to like me for me. She had beautiful auburn hair and pale skin that I can see in my mind's eye even to this day.

We were just kids and I had played kissing games a little before, but this was different. Scarlet wanted to kiss me because she liked me. We were in a grove off of a path, my cousin was there and a couple of other people.

We kissed. It was the innocent, precious kiss of two kids that were becoming young adults. Nothing like the rutting of teenagers or young people exploring their sensuality or sexuality, it was sweet.

I was down the next summer, but didn't see her. Our paths didn't cross.

The next summer, my cousin came to stay in Miramichi for a couple of weeks. I was still sweet on this young lady and I asked about her.

In kind of an offhand, matter of fact way, my cousin told me that she had killed herself. She was probably 14 at the time.

According to my cousin, her parents were religious and didn't want her to go to dances or out with a crowd that included boys and wanted her to attend a particular church weekend with the family.

She didn't want to go and stayed home. When her parents returned home that weekend, she had taken her life. Why, I don't know and I won't ever know.

Some things are just above my pay grade.

What I do know is that, I would have loved to have seen her radiant face and hair one more time. Maybe even stolen another kiss? Time, space, distance and circumstances didn't allow that.

She was a pretty young lady and would have grown into a beautiful woman. That didn't happen but I know she is somewhere in the peace, love and thought of the Universe.

Dance with the Great Spirit Scarlet,

From now on, Scarlet, I'll look back with only fondness; when you dance with the Great Spirit and all my friends, say hello for me. They are all as nice as you.

The Day I saw Gitpo

Noah's soul burned inside him, yearning to be free.

I was there the day that Noah Augustine was acquitted of 2^nd degree murder. I was a relatively young lawyer who had only three jury trials to his credit but after the evidence and summations, I was sure of what the verdict would be.

We were outside on the courthouse steps, smoking, awaiting the verdict and there was a few of us.

Someone, maybe it was Noah, pointed to the sky and exclaimed a single word. "Gitpo".

There, almost due north of the courthouse, was an eagle. The eagle circled the courthouse a number of times and then flew off.

I sensed the total lack of inhibition from Noah and his friends when witnessing this signul. I knew absolutely, down to my very core, that these people around me were experiencing what they perceived to be the essence of "God". There was a reverence that I can't properly explain.

An omen or coincidence, I don't really know to this day exactly what it was, but since then I have come to believe that Gitpo was there for me.

My son was only 13 months old and Sheila was pregnant for Sarah during the trial, I had love surrounding me but I was living in darkness.

Noah and I both had our struggles and demons. We were bonded in that way. We understood how a false face could mask those struggles. We reached out to each other in the quiet desperate moments. Whatever our differences and arguments, we were friends.

I learned a great deal about spirituality from Noah and my many friends in the Mi'kmaq community. I was for many years an avowed agnostic, but have since accepted something different.

I choose to believe that what I saw that April day, over the courthouse, was a manifestation of the Great Spirit. It was a realization that faith, thought and belief has its own invisible mass.

This Faith, Thought and Belief gives cohesion and centre to that most human of concepts,

Hope.

Thank you Noah, for being a guide in that journey towards Hope. No matter the cost.

Dance with the Great Spirit my friend and may peace, hope, and comfort come to the people who cared for you.

Tonight is a period of space and time - A world in a grain of sand

Justice is a warm spirit born of tolerance and wisdom present everywhere. What of that justice for the people who have little to eat?

What of that justice for those whose eyes or souls see nothing but darkness?

The ignored, the silent population who are practically screaming for justice, what of them?
Who speaks for the quiet people? Is there not a voice that can be heard above the cacophony of the self important?

Will someone step forward and be that voice without being seduced by image, style and self indulgence.

Too often the passion of justice gets lost when looking in the mirror. Courage fails. The ability to stand in front of people with naked emotions and truth eludes most of us.

Courage to take a punch or an insult is sometimes insignificant compared to the courage needed to explain and show that truth.

Strength, courage and justice comes from something else. Bravery and courage are not scarce.

This bravery and courage can be seen in the eyes of the drug addicted baby; it is in the eyes of the street person, hungry, but too proud to beg, reaching into a dumpster for food.

Bravery and courage abounds, yet people with full bellies are sometimes too satisfied to see it. Bravery and courage abounds.

Blake wrote Some are born to sweet delight,/ Others are born to endless night.

The first stanza of the poem is:

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

                                                                        Auguries of Innocence – William Blake

Do we have the ability to perceive …….

He’s My Brother

Originally written for my brother's birthday, June 26, 2008

When the broken hearted people of the world agree, there will be an answer let it be. (The Beatles)
When the entire world pays attention there will be a miracle. In short form, my brother Donnie hopes that the miracle will be that his personal hero, Terry Fox, will come back to life to set the same example of sheer determination that went into every step that he ran. From this miracle and this mentor, the world could turn to the same goals as many have: feeding the poor; clothing the naked and curing cancers of the soul and body.

On any anniversary of Terry's magnificent run, how could anyone disagree with this?
I agree 100% with my brother, but my miracle might be different. I want the same thing as Donnie except I did the "math" differently.

There is more than one way to come up with the same solution, but much time is taken up by others talking about how they arrived at the same destination.
Metaphorically speaking, often, by the time they have explained their various routes, the train has left the station. They missed going to the next stop together.

Donnie and I and others like us took the road less traveled by, making all the difference in our lives and as a result those of the lives around us, yet we arrived at the same destination with the same solution.

This solution is to look out for one another as humans. We worked really hard but unfortunately took that "work" home.
I personally have described my miracle as the whole world getting together and in the words of Jesus "Feed the Poor" and Gandhi "teach India to spin". Donnie agrees with me on this. This has to be a first step; do what you can.

Donnie and his wife Barb, and son Alexander bought me a car in 2007 and my brother stayed six weeks with me so I would get my license, get off the couch, take a shower and generally start paying attention to the world around me. And most importantly, he quoted Winston Churchill "Never ever ever ever ever give up."

Sometimes, at cost to his own health, he with his love and intensity, told me to get up off the mat and start fighting harder than I have ever fought."Everyone likes a comeback," he said.

He turned my marathon of despair into a marathon of hope and for that I am forever grateful. Ross Pierce a law school friend of mine, gave me a hell of a compliment after the Globe and Mail article came out when he said the world could use more Peters.

The same could and should be said about my brother. He's a giant compared to me.

I told my story in public first to my brother Donnie at a self help meeting and things evolved from there and landed in the Globe.

Someone at the meeting heard it and asked me to speak somewhere else and now because of that you may be reading this. Funny how things happen? Carl Jung talked of synchronicity. For me, all I can say is:
He ain't heavy, he's my brother (the Hollies).

Lessons From Horses - Harry Walker

Lessons from Horses
By Harry Walker
Given in Handwritten form to
Peter, William and Sarah O’Neill
on August 29, 2006

When I was going to High School, I lived on a farm about four miles from the school which was located in the town of Stayner, ON.

Our farm was on a back road; and, in winter, such roads were not ploughed out – only the main roads were ploughed at that time (around 1940). The area where we lived was also considered to be somewhat of a snow belt.

However, about two miles away, was a railway line that ran into town that was always ploughed out. So, a neighbour boy, Leighton Grainger, and I, often rode horse back as far as this line, and then walked the rest of the way. At the tracks, we simply turned our horses loose.

These were farm work horses and of course, we had no saddles. We just rode bare back (such horseback riding is not really very comfortable, but it is better than tramping through deep snow.)

When we let our horses go, they always went back home. I have thought about this since then and now realize that these horses were choosing security and comfort ahead of freedom. Most tame or domestic animals will do the same thing.

Most people are also inclined to choose comfort and security ahead of freedom. I know that during my life, I have often made this choice myself.

But it is when we choose the other option that we make the most progress, and gain the most in understanding.

It is always easier to stay in familiar territory. It takes courage to try something new. We must take risks if we are to realize life’s potential; its possibilities.

Bob's Still Dancing

On July 11, 1995, my friend Bob and I had our last conversation. His two last words were “Hello” and “Respect.” Hello, he said with his mouth. Respect, he said with his eyes. I’ll never forget that last conversation. Like many things with Bob and I, it was private, not intended to be shared. After many years and millions of thoughts, I think that it should be shared.

I was honoured to be asked to say a few words at Bob’s funeral.

It was tough to say just a few words so I gathered up the notes that had been prepared for me by my best friend Sally and I spoke at the Church.

In the short time that Bob was with us, he gave us so much to talk about, to think about, to love about and to laugh about. For me, I think about him everyday.

Bob or Bobby as his family called him was a husband, son, brother, relative and most importantly a friend. Whether it was based on marriage or by blood or by acquaintance the solid basis behind all of these relationships was friendship.

Bob was Fred’s best friend, he was Katherine’s best friend, he was his family’s best friend and I guess the reason why I had so much to say that day on July 14, 1995 was that I felt he was my best friend too.

Why did so many people who gathered that day and thought about him since value the friendship they shared with Bob? I suppose that it would be appropriate to delve into who he was, why he was important and how he became important.

Bob never got to actively pursue a particular profession because soon after he went back to school to build a life for himself and his beautiful wife Katherine, he was dealt a little set back. He got cancer of the heart.

That’s all it was to him was a setback, a blip.

But Bob was an engineer, a woodsman, lawyer, political organizer, doctor, and most importantly to all of us who knew him, a comedian. Bob, simply, was one of the funniest people I ever met.

On Wednesday after the wake, a number of people gathered at the Melanson homestead at 245 George Street, Miramichi; to grieve to eat and try and make themselves feel better. Many people who viewed Bob as their best friend were there.

Many of the people that viewed Bob as their best friend weren’t there so for the benefit of those who weren’t I’ll describe the atmosphere. It was just as electric as if Bob had been there in body as opposed to spirit.

There were people in the basement; there were people in the kitchen; in the living room where the food was spread out and a couple of groups on the veranda.

As I wandered from group to group, as I passed by there was always someone repeating the same phrase…I remember the time that Bob…and a story would follow. Those stories were filled with laughter.

I knew that each of those groups weren’t telling the same stories. Each person there and all of us who knew him had their own Bob stories. Because Bob is not a physical presence in our lives, we have a grave responsibility. We are, as his best friends, guardians of the memories.

Fred, who Bob loved and respected fiercely, is and will be a guardian of the memories. He’ll tell you of the time that he went fishing with Bobby. Fred was in the militia and had brought along a number of left over ration packs from exercises he had been on.

He had packed enough for three days. So the story goes, they had been fishing for an hour and a half and Fred looked up to see that Bob eating. He was just finishing the third day’s food.

Bob was always good to eat. I personally was amazed and astounded as to what and how much he could put away and still be as handsome and fit as he was.

I was proud of the way that he could eat, but his sister’s were proud of his courage. We all were. Terry Smith was awfully proud of him too. He summed up Bob’s courage by saying “He died well.” His life was short by some standards but he died well. Courage like that doesn’t come along all the time.

I visited Bob in Halifax a few months before he passed away and I asked him how he could do it; be so brave in the face of the struggle.

He said “Pete, it’s no problem, it’s only me, if it was you, or Katherine or someone else in my family that had cancer, I couldn’t handle it. They’d have to lock me up somewhere, but it’s only me.” Courage and selflessness like that doesn’t come along all the time.

Somehow when you had Bob around, he made you better than you were. Funnier, happier and just proud to be his best friend.

Bob and Katherine were and are a wonderful love story. I was a witness to that love from the very beginning. Bob didn’t have a girlfriend before Katherine. He was waiting for her.

He always told me that the first girl that he was going to go out with was the girl he was going to marry. He was right and true to his word.

Katherine, Bob and I lived at 774 Reid Street in Fredericton, NB. It began there. I don’t know if anyone else knew but Bob had had his eye on Katherine for quite some time. Those conversations are personal and private and will remain so.

During most of their marriage, Bob had cancer. It was something that Bob and Katherine lived with. Instead of becoming bitter or any nonsense like that, their love which was strong, only strengthened. Some people would give everything that they had for just a moment in time, feeling what Bob and Katherine shared.

I personally thought I would never have that. Sheila, Bob’s sister and the mother of our two children, have loved each other since we were kids, but now I know what Bob and Katherine shared. Thanks Bob.

Bob had great faith in himself and his love for Katherine, his family and his friends. He also had great faith in god and was strong in his Catholic faith. It was always important to him and even more so near the end of this life.

But let this be understood, it was not a blind faith. It was a faith based on examination and questioning. Now many Catholics remember that it was a sin to eat meat on Fridays – then they changes the rules. Bob wondered……what happened to the people who ate a piece of bacon on Friday “are they down there shoveling coal or what?”

Belief is a funny thing. Wondering is the same. Bob wondered about all those good decent people who didn’t follow a particular directive and he questioned their fate. Importantly though, he didn’t question his own faith in an all loving deity. We had a couple of conversations that were personal and private.

Myself, I always considered myself a rational and logical person. Many people may beg to differ but that’s the case. Until the year 2008, I had dismissed God, close to the same time I dismissed the tooth fairy. I didn’t and could not find the faith that Bob had. That is not until recently.

Bravery and courage was what I had been lacking. I was searching for the courage that I had seen in Bob. I couldn’t find the strength that he had. I now have it. Bob knew exactly who he was and what he was facing. He was facing the possibility of light. He is and always will be, at least for me, a flame that will show me the way, if only in the terms of courage and the possibility of self.

Bravery like Bob showed, most people will never have the privilege of seeing. Whether he admitted or not, he never stopped believing.

He never stopped believing, even when he started getting into holistic medicine. A few months before he died, he said to me “Well Pete, I’m down to witch doctoring.” He just never gave up. It was a lesson that stayed with me, like a beacon.

It was a beacon that, for many years, I just couldn’t fathom. My brother Donnie made the comment a couple of years ago that made a lot of sense to me. “We kinda lost our compass when we lost Bob.”

People pass from this life to another all the time, but, for myself, Bob’s passing was an emptiness and a void that just couldn’t be filled. It didn’t make any sense to me and in many ways still doesn’t. It’s above my pay grade.

I just have to accept that. Coming to terms with my lack of understanding was a very difficult process but one that was necessary.

Since Bob’s death, in my quest to understand life and our role in others lives, I encountered many people and did many things. Some of them good, some of them not so.

Every event, every person, every thought was and will be an experience. It is a moment in time that will not happen again. We see patterns, signs and signals in our lives but everything is unique. Bob’s courage is that way for me. It is something I will never see again in the same manner.

On July 16, 1995, Chief Roger Augustine called and asked me to get involved in the Big Hole Tract fishing dispute. It was the first time that we had really talked and we established a relationship from that point. Two days later, I was there when Bob passed away.

I didn’t know at that time that Roger was father to RJ O’Neill a little red headed fellow who just lived around the corner from me and who used to play in the Melanson’s yard with the next door neighbour Brad.

Since Bob, there have been other losses in our circle. James Smith, Mark Savoie among them. Each of them felt like a body blow. James who was diabetic was in the hospital with Bob in Halifax. James was getting a new kidney and was almost blind and Bob was getting cancer treatment.

We were quite a sight when we dragged ourselves to a movie theatre. You’d have thought we didn’t have a care in the world. Truth be told, we didn’t. We were together and it was just like when we were kids. The laughter came easy to us.

Of that trio that spent a night in a tent in Jamie’s yard and spent that day in the theatre I’m the only one still here. That makes me a guardian of those memories. There is an obligation for remembrance.

On June 1, 2008, I lost another best friend. One was Greg Savoie’s, brother. Mark and I had over the past couple of years become really very close. We shared thoughts and ideas and friendship. Although I didn’t have a replacement, I had discovered a best friend again. Then, in an instant, he was no longer around to talk to.

The circle of being was missing another flame. I went into my head to try and make some type of sense of these so called “losses”. Where did they go? What were they doing?

With Mark, we had a number of conversations about Math and Physics and his theories of the universe. James Smith and I were avid Star Trek Fans and would discuss the possibilities of space travel and the like. Space and time seemed to be concepts that were malleable, bending, curving and folding into and onto themselves.

The mysteries of the universe and the soul are bound to go on forever. If that’s not the case, I think I missed the point. Faith in eternal light and life involve that greatest of mysteries. Why are we here?

It has been my experience that each person’s journey towards faith and self concept is different. There is no singular path and the only true destination is that of self discovery. Bob Melanson, James Smith and Mark Savoie have helped me on that journey.

In January, 2009, I had called Roger Augustine to tell him about a speaker that I wanted to bring to the Miramichi. He told me that his son RJ O’Neill had passed away suddenly in British Columbia. Again, I was a little shook.

Just in our little circle of people that used to gather at the Melanson’s or around the NBTel building we were missing some important parts to our puzzle. It was and is a mystery as to where these people went. I don’t know for certain but I choose to carry them in my mind and my heart.

They live as strong in me as if they were standing right beside me. They’re not losses but merely new beginnings. Their spirits are full and complete and as much alive now as they were on this plane of existence. We are until we depart this plane of existence, guardians of their memories. Their goodness and strength live in us; that energy fills us, in the same way that faith and spirituality can fill our lives.

When RJ left us, I didn’t feel that I could go to his funeral so I stopped in to see his Mother, Janice and RJ’s sister Shannon. I then wrote something that I hoped would convey what I felt. It made me feel better and captured the mood I was feeling.

At Bob’s wedding and his funeral I told the story of our first Liberal Leadership convention in Fredericton. We were both in High School and supporting Doug Young. Bob had bought himself a new sports jacket from Lounsbury’s that had shoulders so sharp I feared that he would cut someone if he turned too quickly.

They were having a dance at the Aitken Centre and there was a large group of people dancing in a circle. They were playing the unofficial anthem of our high school and we were having a ball.

One person went to the middle of the large circle and started to dance. People took turns strutting their stuff in the middle. It came to Bob’s turn and he was quite a dancer. He had his ridiculous red top hat and his razor sharp sports coat.

All of a sudden, the music stopped but Bob didn’t notice and he’s still dancing in the middle of the circle of about a hundred people, just bopping along.

That’s what it was like that day in the church….

The music stopped, but Bob’s still dancing…

That day, I said something that I hoped would heal, but I was not quite finished. I needed to say something else but it wasn't time.

Here is the rest: … that's what it's like today, the music stopped but Bob's still dancing.

For a long time I couldn’t hear the music and I felt lost. I wondered why the music had died?

But there was a problem; I just wasn’t listening closely enough.

You don't hear the music until you add RJ and Mark and Jamie and my little friend Bert.

Then you start to hear the music. It is beautiful and passionate and powerful. The music starts to grow, keep adding souls, let the souls soar and the music lives.

Keep adding goodness and memories and let the souls dance and sing.

Fill the Spirit with music and dancing; fill the Spirit with all souls and let them soar, hear the music and add all the souls, past present and future and let them soar, music and dancing filling the Great Spirit.

Look, Bob’s dancing with Mark and RJ and Bert and there’s James, watching and laughing and dancing.

Enjoy the show.

God Bless you and keep you well.

Tip O'Neill, the Dalai Lama and Picking up Hitchhikers.

My father always said that you could tell a lot about a person by whether or not they picked up hitchhikers. I think it’s true. 

One choice or the other is neither good nor bad but it has been my experience that I learned a great deal from the people that have rescued me from the side of the road and vice versa.

An interesting event happened on my way to meet the Dalai Lama in Fredericton, NB.

I believe it was just around my 16^th birthday and my mother, who was the deputy mayor at the time, was representing the Town of Newcastle at a luncheon for the Dalai Lama.
He was receiving an Honourary Degree from Saint Thomas University.

Mum had asked me to go with her to Fredericton and attend the luncheon. Dad gave us a drive over and spent the day looking for the perfect wood stove.

I got a new suit for the occasion. I had a choice between a grey corduroy suit and a brown one. I chose the brown one and feel I looked pretty impressive in my first brand new suit.

On the way to Fredericton, we picked up a mother and daughter who were hitchhiking to Fredericton. They were from Zealand Station and had recently been “burnt out.” The mother did all of the talking and explaining and the daughter, who was pregnant, sat mostly in silence beside me.

I listened to the mother as she recounted a number of stories, plans and in many ways, hopes and dreams. They had a few parcels and I forget why they had to go to Fredericton, but I know it was important that they get there.

It may have been that they were carrying all that they now owned.

There was a sense of determination in the mother’s voice as she spoke. There was a matter of fact way she had of speaking that was in its own way full of pride. She had some interesting stories and I listened intently.

Somewhere along our route, the daughter indicated that she was going to be sick. She was sitting beside me and barely got out before she vomited, luckily not on my brand new suit. Those two ladies made an impression on me to this very day.

I didn’t know what to expect when meeting the Dalai Lama, but when I looked in his eyes I could see kindness. That day at the Lord Beaverbook, I had lunch with the Dalai Lama. There were a few hundred people there and I sat beside Doug Young’s wife.

We had a meal of beef Wellington and I remember the shrimp cocktail, but my mind went back to the two people that we had picked up hitchhiking. I thought to myself, that they would probably never have the opportunity to partake in this type of meal and, in terms the expense of our lavish feast, they probably could have replaced the burnt remains of their dwelling.

There was a certain sadness that came with that realization.

The previous year, 1979, near my 15^th birthday, I had the opportunity to meet a couple of other people who had a profound impact on my social and political philosophy. They were Pierre Trudeau and Andy Scott.

I merely nodded to Trudeau and listened to him speak. He was in retirement at the time and I remember that a few of the young liberals had grown a beard to reflect that our former Prime Minister was canoeing and had grown one as well.

Trudeau showed up at the Young Liberal Convention in Fredericton without a beard and didn’t look like someone who was in retirement. A few months later, he said. “Welcome to the 1980’s.” 

His vision of a “just society” had never left him and he continued on his journey.

It was a vision that I share. Justice, equality and the balance to be found between collective and individual rights pervade my thoughts and I think that the dream of a just society is one that is within the grasp of human experience.

According to B. W. Powe in his book the Mystic Trudeau, the sometimes enigmatic Prime Minister stated in 1972, “Justice to me is a warm spirit, born of tolerance and wisdom, present everywhere.”

If justice is everywhere, how does it manifest itself? Is that “warm spirit” all around us waiting to be acted upon?

Justice, at least to me, involves human direction and choices in order to manifest itself.

A couple of days before my son was born I was traveling to Fredericton for some meetings. Sheila was being admitted the next day to the hospital and labour was going to be induced.

For some reason, we had been expecting a girl and didn’t have a name picked for a boy.

I picked up a hitchhiker in Renous. He was from the Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia and was on his way to Ontario to find work. 

We stopped in Doaktown to get some sandwiches and continued on our way.

As it is in a bus station, or train or hitchhiking we got into personal conversations and shared personal experiences that we probably wouldn’t have otherwise.

It’s easy to do that with someone you don’t know and will never see again.

I had been dreading going to Fredericton, but the trip passed in almost an instant because of my new found confidant.

My sisters once joked that “Pete used to be an atheist but we got him knocked down to agnostic.” 

At that time, I never entertained the spiritual nature of things.

I felt so relieved and comfortable with that particular man that I asked him something that for me was extremely strange and totally out of character.

“Are you an angel?” I asked.

His answer struck me in a fashion that I can’t fully describe.

“You never know when you are being entertained by angels.” He replied, lapsing into silence and contemplation.

As he gathered up his things to get out of the car and continue on his journey, I noticed the name Bill on his work gloves.

That day, after my meetings, I was driving back to the Miramichi and was on the winding Kilarney road and phoned Sheila and simply said, “William Robert Melanson-O’Neill.”

“Perfect”, she replied.  

William arrived two days later. Our son is named after a hitchhiker, or an angel. 

Maybe both.

In 1971, when I was looking for something to read, I found out JFK had been shot.

One summer day, I was tired of playing with all the kids in the neighbourhood, I wanted to be alone and was looking for something to read.

Sometimes it was a little kids village around the neighbourhood and there was a bunch of us, just next door, at the Morrisons, they had 14 or 15 children in the family, we had six in ours, another set of O'Neills, the Comeaus, the Barrys had four, there were the Roys I could go on but I have pictures in my mind with the names and the faces and if I need to be reminded, we have lots of photos.

There sometimes were almost too many to count, but the ball field next to 270 Station Street and the playground behind Morrison's drew them from all over town.

In any event, I needed some alone time and I was, as usual, looking for something to read. I came across a bunch of folded up newspapers in a little room off the kitchen that we sometimes used as a fort.

They started November 23, 1963.

I thought to myself, who left these yellowed old newspapers around, but they had been read a few times, I could tell that. Now, I'm interested.

With a supply of peanut butter sandwiches and some kool aid, I never left that room for three days, coming out only to eat, sleep and go the bathroom.

Some guy named JFK had been shot and I wanted to know why it was important enough that someone would save reading material that usually goes in the garbage within minutes of being read.

Besides, it didn't really matter to me because, by that time I was reading ingredient labels on cans. I just wanted something to read.

I found out all about that day in Dallas, November 22, 1963.

I started to read everything I could get my hands on about him, trying to find out why it was important, why he was important.

I needed to know this because I wanted to be important too. We all do.

I had a picture book biography to start and that gave me the base. I read until I learned why he was important and how he became important.

Among the things I read were, johnny we hardly knew ye and joshua son of none.

In joshua son of none, I found the answer. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was important because he was part of a family. I knew someday I would be important too because I was part of station street and we had the best family going.

By the way, I was a normal kid, my favourite books of all time are about Pippi Longstockings, I used to sometimes try to sleep under the covers, with my feet sticking out, but I found it too hard to breathe so I stopped trying.


dion


Abraham, Martin & John


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Ki_osW5RsA

I'm just a piece of the puzzle

When we think about the world, we sometimes wonder about the nature of the universe. In that wonderment we have to keep in mind that it is, after all, still a puzzle.

It's a puzzle; they're not hard. Puzzles are only hard if you put rules on them. Take away the rules and the puzzle becomes clear.

On the night of December 21, 22, I was thinking about a number of things and coming to a conclusion on one of them. I needed room so that I could gather and sort my thoughts. I needed a place I could call home for the night.

I went to a motel with a $100 bill and an assortment of other bills; I asked for the price of a room for 3 nights and the price for one night. I didn't have enough for both the room and the deposit. I held out the money, all I had, and asked if we could do it.

She took a chance on me and I checked in with just my driver’s license. She knew I was only a few blocks from home and needed a place to lay my head for the night. Instead of a $100 deposit she laid aside only $60.

It wasn’t money that got me a room for the night, it was the kindness in her eyes that gave me a temporary home. I really needed room so that I could sort out my thoughts. I was trying to figure something out and needed to be alone to do it.
When I’m thinking about something, I like to pace. That’s what I did. Good thing I had my Crocs. During this time, I put the finishing touches on part of my website. I met some wonderful people and had a couple of cups of Sanka.

To my dismay, I had run out of cigarettes and the motel didn’t have any. I had an appointment with Dr. Mahfoudi at 10:00 am and I had promised myself and my family that I would be there. Nevermind that there was a storm.

I would have stayed at the motel but, alas, I was out of smokes. I went to Scholten’s and they were closed. I spied a Leo’s taxi and went to ask for a lift. The driver said the cabs weren’t running but I sat with him and we reminisced over our past encounters. While I sat, he did give me a couple of smokes. I left him with his last cigarette and headed to the Irving.

It was closed as well, so onward to the hospital where I knew that some one would have a smoke.

The appointment was secondary at this point. I needed a smoke! Period, full stop!
As I ventured into the worst blizzard I had seen in 35 years, I remembered another on Saint Patrick’s day that Kevin Barry and I had played in as a child. It was during that storm that I saw Herbie Whalen’s aunt climb over a four foot snow bank to get to the church. She was about 60 or 70 and made the statement that she would “ never miss church on Saint Paddy’s day.”

It was this image that gave me comfort as I walked through the storm. I crossed the Morrissy Bridge on foot and made it to the hospital with one minute to spare. There, I was greeted with both welcome and concern.

Needless to say, I was covered with snow and there was frost in my beard. One person after another gave me everything I needed after a cold foray into a blizzard. Somebody looked after my clothes and another looked after me.

Each one contributed in their own special way to my mind, body and spirit. I was toasty warm inside and out within minutes. My socks went into the dryer and a new found friend put a hot towel over my head and gave me some flavoured hot tea to sip.
The Dr. wasn’t at the hospital. I didn’t think he would be. If the cabs weren’t running, he wouldn’t be either. The Dr. was informed that I had come through the storm for the appointment.

Being in that blizzard was a picnic compared to some of the nights I had endured in the relative warmth and comfort of a heated room.

The Dr. was concerned and wanted me to stay until after the storm. That had been my plan all along but “wanting me to stay” was code for involuntary admission. I almost blew my stack.

Instead of a welcome guest, I was now a prisoner. I decided then and there that no one would any longer control me. My thoughts would be mine and mine alone; I drew a line in the sand.

I decided to make a stand, not only for myself but for others that didn’t posses some of the gifts of communication that my parents and my childhood had given me.
Everybody has their own special gift. Mine happens to be the gift of communication. My gift is no better than anyone else’s, it’s just different. It is these differences that makes the world such a special place.

After a number of antics over a cigarette, I was put down with a needle and thrown into isolation. When I woke up, I found two cups of water beside the bed. After the first sip, I decided to make the best of my stay.

This was a place to stay and sort out my thoughts and although I couldn't smoke, it did have the attraction of being free.

I created a home for myself in that small space. I had a shower and waited for food. When the food came, I rationed it, recalling a tv show and conversations with inmates at the Renous maximum security institution that taught me how to live in a cell.

I kept it neat and tidy. I had a place for food, a clothes rack for my towels, a place for refuse and an exercise space. I settled in nicely. I was content and prepared to outlast anything that came my way.

I kept track of time with the clock outside the room and had the calendar changed to reflect the correct date. I was in it for the long haul. I looked up during my stay and was startled to find someone looking back at me.

I could see, just past the curtain, into the other isolation cell. He could see me and I could see him. We didn't let on that we could see each other so over the period of the next number of hours we hashed out some form of a basic language that only we could understand.

I looked at the camera inside the cell and realized that they couldn't see me in the shower portion of my new home; it was there that I communicated with basic sign language and while pacing around the cell communicated with song and verse.

The next day, my new found friend and I were placed in the general population. We had found each other in our most vulnerable of times. We were the only people in the world that spoke the language that we had created. We shared something special. We shared a past, present and a future. His name was Joshua.

When we were in the general population, we still used this rudimentary form of communication that we had created to solidify that special bond we had founded. In that isolation chamber, I found what I needed the most, a friend.

I left the psych ward on December 29, 2008 with the knowledge that each and every person on that floor was feeling the same thing. It was hope and the fulfillment of something that had been lacking in each and everyone of us.

We had over the past number of days been experimenting with a new mental health delivery system that I have dubbed the "Miramichi Model." It is loosely based on the Tidal Model, pioneered by Phil Baker and Poppy Buchanan and incorporates some cutting edge science from Australia and New Zealand.

The Miramichi Model is based on the premise that each person is endowed with a number of particular talents. No talent is better than the other, it is merely different. We are created with the same beautiful way of thinking.

Each person when they close their eyes sees things in swirls and pictures. This is our common denominator and we have only ourselves and our interaction with others to unlock the power of our own perspective.

We cannot, as people who reside on this planet, work in isolation.

On the ward our common denominator came down to one basic tenet. What would happen if each and every one of us made choices from a common base? This base was creating a better world for our children.

Each choice would be governed by this and this alone; therefore we had a common goal.

This seemed to unleash talents in each of us that had lain dormant. We were a team and unlocking the potential of our God given talents.

Our talents were different but each, in our own way, were bent on creating something of value for "the kids". We were no longer alone in that purpose. We started the rebuilding process with ourselves.

Today, December 29, 2008 I saw the birth of a functioning mental health model that the staff and patients of Region 7 hospital had created through a spirit of cooperation. It was a wonderful experience and I feel grateful to those who shared in it.

I walked out of the psych ward at Region 7 with a new found hope and purpose that will guide my life. I hope that same guide will help the others that remained and give them the peace that they so richly deserve.

God Bless us everyone.

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

Station St. in Favour of Santa Claus

In the summer of 2006, some kids in the Queen Elizabeth Park once asked me if I was Santa Claus; they were sincere; they were also 14 – 15 years old.

“No,” I answered honestly and quickly, "are you?"

Do we, should we, believe and still wonder?

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus is simply one of the finest pieces of English prose there is. 
  
Eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York's Sun, and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1897. The work of veteran newsman Francis Pharcellus Church has since become history's most reprinted newspaper editorial.

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun: "Dear Editor--I am 8 years old. "Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. "Papa says, 'If you see it in The Sun, it's so.' "Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus? Virginia O'Hanlon 115 West Ninety-fifth Street Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the scepticism of a sceptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.  Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no child-like faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.  No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yErhglOXIxM  (Bruce Springsteen, Santa Claus is Coming) This post is for William and Sarah and the rest of the cousins.