Timothy

I’m sitting on the floor of the high school gym, yawning at the monotone promises of Student Council candidates. Picking the neon-pink polish from my nails, I glance up to see a young man dressed in white robes stepping up to the podium. Suddenly, I’ve forgotten my nails. The hubbub in the audience goes up a notch as this bearded presidential hopeful announces that his campaign speech will be a reading from John Lennon: In His Own Write.

That was Timothy. In 1969. And that was me, rolling on the floor with laughter as he read Lennon’s nonsense story. On that day I found a kindred spirit, a brother in outrageous expression, a compatriot in authentic living.

I voted for him, of course, but he did not become president of Centennial Senior High School in the sleepy suburban land of Coquitlam, B.C. Jocks and preppy kids were not ready for his long hair, flowing robes, peacenik ideals and innovative ideas. He was too outside the box for them, but for me, every box he busted open was an act of pure inspiration.

The day after his speech I introduced myself to him in the cafeteria. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and I was in my favourite (and only) poorboy sweater and green velvet bellbottoms.

Noting the greasy limp fries that I was eating, he invited me over to his place for some real food after school. When I entered his pad in the basement of a house, I was convinced he was the coolest cat in the whole universe. He had his own apartment - something I could only dream about as a teenager. But what I loved and responded to most was that his cool wasn’t an act. Timothy was the real deal.

He cooked brown rice and vegetables on a hot plate in the dim light of his almost windowless digs. He told me that out of respect for the earth and those who grew and harvested the rice I should eat every last grain in my bowl. I’ve never forgotten that lesson (even if I don’t always abide by it), just as I’ve never forgotten my friend.

At age sixteen, I didn’t have the words to tell him just how much his completely original approach to life meant to me, how absolutely affirming his existence was for this skinny little flower child.

After we ate, he lit a stick of sandalwood incense and put Astral Weeks on his turntable. I’d never heard Van Morrison’s first solo album before. Now, as Van the Man growled and whispered and cajoled out the title cut, I sat in silence, my eyes closed. I was floating “in another time, in another place” and Van’s sensual swirling utterances were taking me there. And Timothy was taking me there.

“Got a hormone high,” I heard Morrison sing, but years later I'd discover the lyrics are “got home on high”. In keeping with the musician’s recurring theme of transcendence, “home on high” connotes a place above the throng: “We are goin’ to heaven.” 

Hormones or homes, I was goin' to heaven. The song reaches ever so sweetly for climax, then upon arrival sustains the mystical moment with a shimmering instrumentation that's wrapped in soft vocals.

Everything Timothy introduced me to back then was wrapped in shimmering revelation: music, literature, friendship, brown rice. We went to peace marches and sit-ins together where we shared wine and bread and camaraderie with other protesters.

I wrote rebellious missives for the school newspaper and Tim booked Big Brother and the Holding Company for a lunchtime concert. The whole school was blown away by that, even if Janis wasn't there. That was my soul brother, always stepping beyond the designated limits, always inviting others to come with him.

“I’m nothing but a stranger in this world,” Van croons in Astral Weeks. Those lyrics cut deepest for me, floundering in a sea of adolescent insecurity as I was. But the day Tim walked into my life, reading comical stories in his bleached-cotton djellaba, I understood that some people shrink your world while others expand it. Tim did the latter as he confirmed for me that rolling on the gym floor laughing was better than staying in my room crying.

I never saw him after that school year ended. I suspect now that he was moving in universes I’d only had the tiniest glimpses into. I bumped my way into the seventies, went from ragged patched jeans to corduroy hot pants, from Van to Bowie, from school to university.

When I heard Timothy had become a golf pro I remembered that he'd once lent me a book called Golf in the Kingdom, a fantastical tale that takes place on a Scottish golf course. Featuring an esoteric philosopher named Shivas Irons, the story delves into the deep mysteries of the ancient game - and life. I pictured my friend, a mystic duffer on the thirteenth fairway, bringing transcendence and light, even while swinging a nine iron.

My 60s compatriot who taught me so much is an elusive man these days, as any good mystic should be. Recently I heard from his family that he lives on the Sunshine Coast in B.C. But of course, where else? He was the embodiment of sunshine back in the day. Even in the shadows of his basement pad, he beamed light. My visit there so long ago heralded a new dawn for me. I was stepping out into the world, gently urged on by a sage before his time, and it was to a soundtrack by Van Morrison. Now, every time I hear Van sing “We are goin’ to heaven” I’m reminded of the man in the white robes.

Timothy gave me permission to fly, and I am so grateful.