“I’m singing at Minard tonight”

“Woh” is often the spoken or unspoken response.  “You are?”

The person is suitably impressed, with an image like this in their mind:

The Minard concert hall in Gent

Their praise dampens some when I admit that I’m actually singing in the café attached to the concert hall.  Still a lovely space … but much smaller.

I love the oval bar in the centre of the room, and the chandelier.  I love walking up onstage and letting the sounds come.

Last night I sang “The Snows of New York”, with lines such as …

You have always been such a good friend to me
Through the thunder and the rain
And when you’re feeling lost in the snows of New York
Lift your heart and think of me

When I think of Minard yesterday, I’m proud of two things:

1.  There’s a chorus, and I told the audience that I’d teach them the words.  Voilà:

Lah, lah, lah, lah, lah, lah …

People laughed.

2.  My two biggest challenges in singing are remembering the first line and remembering the first note.  The second provided me with a moment of revelation last night.

If my first note is too high, I won’t be able to hit later notes that are a lot higher.  Too low, and the really deep notes later will be beyond me.

So … the revelation:

I sang the first two notes and something in my unconscious brain said No!  No analysis, just an urge to stop.  In my mind, I went up a whole tone and let the first line spill out …

I can see you now by the light of the dawn

And all was well

I sang well, and that was nice.  The applause was warm.  But the thrill was somehow feeling the “too low” and then rising, unaccompanied by my conscious mind.

Such a mystery, this life

Many moons ago, I managed the laundry of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Alberta, Canada.  I coached several teenagers in doing an excellent job on sheets and towels.

One young man, whom I’ll call Bill, was tall, handsome and strong.  Just what a typical girl wants.  Or maybe not.   I saw Bill as emotionally flat.  His voice didn’t vibrate.  His mouth didn’t curl up at the corners.

So young, so dead … such a shame.  I hope that Bill’s future showed him a wiser way, where words like sunshine, giggle and Wow! made an appearance.

I remember being sad.  Bill worked hard.  His performance was never a problem.  But …

***

And then there was “Beatrice”, a woman probably in her 80’s.  It seemed like her mouth was perpetually open – in wonder.  Life showed wide for her, and she embraced it tenderly, passionately.  She knew yes and not much no, good and not much bad.  “Ain’t it wonderful!?”

When I think of Beatrice, two other women come to mind:

Helen Keller

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing

Mary Oliver

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement

(from her poem “When Death Comes”)

***

Bill and Beatrice.  A mystery. 

Now I’m remembering a poster from my youth: on the left a wide-eyed young kid, smiling.  On the right a down-and-out old man.  And the words …

What happened?

***

I get confused so easily

In the company of some people, I have lots of energy.  Whatever they’re doing, it nourishes me.  It gives.

And then there are the other folks, where conversation feels like a contest, even a battle.  Makes me long for my bed.

In the first group are soft, flowing voices … a soothing vibration.  In the other are staccato sounds, rat-a-tat, piercing.

I don’t want to be invaded.  I want to be embraced.  Please don’t try to win every time we’re together.  I’m right and you’re wrong is a pain in the rear end.

And please don’t interrupt me.  Let my thought continue to its natural end.  Don’t jump in with your better wisdom.

I would like to soak in a warm bath rather than cringe under the spray of a cold shower.

I want to be like the guy I read about yesterday:

He just has this quality of being completely present to whomever is speaking.  He doesn’t reach for his next sentence while yours is still in the air.  He doesn’t sharpen his rebuttal while you’re making your point.  He just listens.

I’m no perfect person.  I have my lapses.  Sometimes I need reminders to be spacious in the heart.  Reading the poem Desiderata by Max Ehrmann helps me …

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence

…

Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant.  They too have their story.

…

Be gentle with yourself.  You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars.  You have a right to be here.

***

Slowly … sweetly … with empathy

I admire people who are kind to everyone they meet, who first see the good in others, and who are assertive when the world needs the truth spoken.  Such as Pope Leo.

Speaking truth to power, without antagonism …

I have no fear of neither the Trump administration nor of speaking out loudly about the message of the Gospel.

No euphemisms about people who use their power unwisely.  Being specific, not vague.  His name is Trump.

I would like this greeting of peace to enter your hearts, reach your families, to all people, wherever they may be, to all peoples, to all the earth.

Inclusive.  No one left out.  If someone is sitting alone in a dark corner at a party, go say “Hi.”  Yes, they may want to be alone, but just as likely they’ll embrace your welcome. 

And before Leo became the pope:

The bishop is not supposed to be a little prince sitting in his kingdom, but rather called authentically to be humble, to be close to the people he serves, to walk with them, to suffer with them, and to look for ways that he can better live the Gospel message in the midst of his people.

Level.  Beyond better and worse.  Together.

Religious experience is an essential dimension of the human person.  Without it, it is difficult, if not impossible, to bring about the purification of the heart necessary for building peaceful relationships.

I love words.  What is essential in this life?  What does purification look like, sound like, feel like?  Are my relationships truly you and me?

***

People are noticing this new man in the Vatican.  There’s something different here.

In the words of a writer whose name I didn’t write down:

When he raises his voice, it is not to condemn persons, but to challenge actions – especially those that lead to suffering, injustice and war.  In the tradition of the prophets, his words may sound uncomfortable, even unsettling, but they are born from love: love for humanity, and especially for the most vulnerable.  For every war, every act of violence, every unjust decision always has a face – the face of a child who cries, a mother who mourns, a family that is broken.  This is what the Holy Father sees.  This is what moves his heart.

***

You and me and all of us, Pope Leo

Lloyd Coffee Eatery in Gent has become a home-away-from-home for me.  And what makes a home?  People.

As servers start recognizing me as a regular, they learn my name.  And their “Hi” is beyond the usual employee/customer interaction.

Gilian is one of those.  He’s around 20, I’d guess.  When he’s not super busy, he approaches me to talk.  A gift right there … initiating contact.

And Gilian has questions:

Do you know how to escape from an alligator?

Okay … I wasn’t expecting that.

The answer was no.  So Gilian enlightened me …

Alligators don’t see movement well, so walk away from them in a zig zag pattern and you’ll be fine.

Good to know.  I’ll be in fine shape the next time I encounter an alligator on the Korenmarkt.

More recently, the subject was lobsters.  I’m pretty sure they don’t move as fast as alligators.

Do you know the colour of lobsters’ blood?

I had to admit my ignorance on the subject.

Blue

Huh?  Gilian was continuing to scatter my brain cells.

One more time … with feeling:

Do you know that snakes can predict earthquakes?

Uh … no

Sadly, I didn’t find out exactly how these slithering reptiles do that.  And I’m heroically resisting the pull of AI.

Fill me in next time, Gilian

Thanks for the engagement

A friend of mine sent a message on Facebook yesterday, inviting me for coffee.  I replied:

Yes, Veronique.  I’m happy.  My mind is spacious.  Pick a couple of days that work for you and lets have lunch.

Hours later, I looked at what I’d written.

Hmm.  “My mind is spacious.”  What a strange thing to write.  People don’t talk that way.  Will the person on the other end figure out what the words mean?

I think she will.  I feel it right now … a clear blue sky.  Roaming high above the trees, embracing the horizon and wondering what’s beyond. 

And it’s my body too.  Every muscle and bone has lots of room.  They can wiggle.

More and more, I’m sharing what’s true for me in the moment, even with strangers.  It feels good.  Nothing hidden in dark corners. 

Some folks will be happy to receive my truth.  Some won’t.  That’s okay.

***

And there’s something else within the words I sent to Veronique …

Lets

Another “Hmm”. 

It’s fair to say that in my adult life I have been obsessive about spelling and grammar.  Someone told me long ago to be meticulous here, so that the reader isn’t distracted from the message I want them to get.

Let’s is a contraction for let us.  I know that.  Probably you do as well.  I remember yesterday looking at lets after tapping the words to Veronique.  Something was niggling in my brain, but then I said “That looks right.”

So … is my mind starting to fade away from spelling perfection?  Said more dramatically:

Is this the beginning of some sad end?

Or should I just laugh!?

I vote for Door Number Two

There is a task at hand.  It requires concentration, narrowing the broad world to a point to get the job done.  Fair enough.  These moments are a big part of my day.

And they tire me out.

One such precision happens to me most Wednesday mornings.  I go for breakfast in The Cobbler, an exquisite space in Gent’s Post Hotel.  The dining room is reached by a circular staircase of fifty steps.  Although there’s an elevator, it’s not as much fun as climbing.

I need to concentrate on each curving riser so my feet find their proper home.  My goal is to reach the top without touching a handrail, and usually I’m successful – plus tired.

However …

I realized this morning that I’m missing something, that I’m denying myself an expanse of beauty.  Halfway down the stairs, I stopped.  I looked up.  And let it all in:

Silly me

Consider the albatross.  With a wingspan of three metres.  Able to travel nine hundred kilometres in a day.

And now the poem The Albatross …

Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew
Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds
That indolently follow a ship
As it glides over the deep, briny sea

Scarcely have they placed them on the deck
Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed
Pathetically let their great white wings
Drag beside them like oars
That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is
So beautiful before, now comic and ugly

One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe
Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew

The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky
Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman
When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers
His giant wings prevent him from walking

Charles Baudelaire shows us another side, far from the majesty of the great bird.

How we bring each other down to earth, not feeling the heights, mocking the weirdness of those who see beyond.

Settle down

Don’t be great beyond measure

Just fit in

Or not

It’s a marble sculpture of Jesus and his mother Mary after he died on the cross.  Michelangelo created this masterpiece at the age of 24.  It resides in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

Fifty years ago, I took a Philosophy of Education course where the only assignment was to submit something in writing each week about teaching.  I spent part of one afternoon in the University of Lethbridge Library, gazing at a photo of La Pietà ([The Lady of] Pity) … and writing.

Fifty years later, I’m doing it again …

***

What a wonder in the downturned eyes and the soft fingers of the left hand.  Mary’s grief flows to her son, and out into the world.  To outlive your child.  To see him rejected and spat upon.  Knowing that the man you gave birth to was speaking something brand new: Love your neighbour.  And that so few heard.

The body in your lap is still warm.  It still shines with Divinity.  And yet the lips will open no more.  At least the pain of nails in the hands and feet is gone … but the pain of humanity remains.

My son spoke of “something else”

Who will have ears to hear?

The moments can be so quiet, and yet so full.  Seeing mother and son can reawaken us to the bigness of life, the grandness of true human connection.

The sculpture shows an aura of goodness, inviting us to give in to the majesty of life and death.  We are brought to silence when in the presence of love.

1499 … 2026.  All the same.

***

May St. Peter’s Basilica grace my path before I die

I have an old friend to see

It’s almost as though we live two lives at once, the first of these the life spent in conventional ways, playing our roles and following the script.  But each of us also has a counterlife, the one we live in those moments when we see through the fabric of conventionality to that unbroken sky of enlightened mind.  Until we’re buddhas, we will always live both lives, but sometimes we see through so unforgettably that we can’t fall completely back.

So said Kurt Spellmeyer.

I’ve never enjoyed the word “enlightenment”.  It speaks to me of striving towards a goal, with determination.  A furrowed brow.  More of a closed fist than an open hand.  I prefer “awakening” … to something brand new, beyond the expected, beyond history, beyond the known.

Also, I don’t care about becoming a buddha.  It’s a nice spiritual label of attainment, but so what?  Having a cool name tag doesn’t enhance goodness in the world.

I think of my heart.  I want it to be open.  I want to be available to everyone I meet.  I want to give, even in the moments when there doesn’t appear to be any receiving.

I want to go towards other hearts, rather than backing away.  I want to look into a person’s eyes, not past their ear.  I want to linger with them, rather than rushing away to “the next”.

I don’t want a noun attached to me, or an adjective to augment Bruce.  May I instead live in verbs …

Joining

Smiling

Loving