Monthly Archives: February 2023

Coming Home to the Music

Something is brewing inside.  I need to pull the bow across the strings of the cello.  I need to feel the notes vibrating.  I need to sit on a bench in Park Sluizeken and send my melodies to the Oudburg, a few metres away.

I received an e-mail yesterday from Arpeggio Music:

“Dear Bruce,

We have already a rental cello available for you. You can collect the instrument in our shop.”

So there we have it. I begin. I walked over to Arpeggio today and there was my instrument. I bought a stand to store the cello, a little light to hang on the music stand, and a wooden plate with a hole for the cello’s spike.

The cello was embraced by a fabric case. Sixty years ago such a case had a handle that allowed me to carry the cello on my hip. Today that handle was missing.

Instead there were straps for me to carry it like a backpack. I felt centered, balanced, with future melodies touching me from behind.

As I strolled home from Arpeggio, I felt young. Young enough for a cool fantasy trip. I imagined that all and sundry were looking my way, seeing a man with white hair. He was clearly a professional cellist, wise in the way of symphonies, probably walking to his concert. He was easy in the fingerings, at home in the riffs of notes and the soaring melodies.

Or … he was some Canadian guy who hadn’t played for a very long time, a fellow who has much to learn. The first story was more fun.

I picked my route home, allowing to pass by the marvelous jewelry shop called Garderobe, hosted by my friend Lucrece. She smiled to see the cello attached to my back. Lucrece cheered me on as I winged across the Atlantic from Canada to Belgium.

And now to home …

My cello and me. Perhaps I’ll name her. Tomorrow I will play her.

Facing the Roof

Perhaps I’m unusual. When I first joined my Belgian friends in Senegal in 2018, I heard about the white birds. Every day, as the sun declines, they return to a certain tree near Toubacouta, on an island in the middle of a river. We went there in a little boat.

As our host turned off the motor and we drifted a bit, all ten of us turned to the island. The birds started to come. Each probably had their favourite branch. It was time to sleep.

As the white mottled the green, I felt compelled to look behind me. I lifted my gaze to the treetops on the far shore. Wings burst over the branches and soared above my head. What a rush! But I was the only one looking the “wrong way”. And nobody joined me.

That really doesn’t mean anything. I just view things with a different slant than most people. Fine with me.

And now in Ghent, on the back terrace of my apartment on the Oudburg. The normal thing is to cast the eyes over the long view, to the glass of the Ghent River Hotel and the far away brown slate rooves. In the early hours of daylight, the seagulls fly left to right across the sky.

This morning, however, I took a chair and faced the roof to my left. I waited. And the explosions of birdness suddenly appearing over the spine left my mouth agape. Such raucous flight! For awhile I held my phone aloft, hoping for up close wings against the sky. Soon my arms got tired and I decided that you folks can see the image in your vivid imaginations.

Stunned to silence near Toubacouta
Stunned to silence in Ghent
It’s a small world

One … Two

Recently I’ve discovered a way of thinking that’s very helpful for me. But who knows if it will mean anything to other people? It represents a dilemma that any writer faces: Do you tailor your words to the expected audience or do you simply let loose with what’s in your mind? I don’t know. I want to reach people in my writing. That won’t happen if no one gets it. But then I shouldn’t assume that people won’t understand.

Okay. I’ll just say it.

I’ve asked myself if it’s possible to access whatever “a higher state of consciousness” is … instantly. For me the “higher” would be an experience of lightness, of spontaneous smiling, of profound connection with another person. I looked at the regular, usually boring moments of life and called them “Number One”. Things like shopping for groceries, walking across a busy street or doing my income taxes. There’s a focus on results, a pinpoint of time, a sense of cause-and-effect. It feels ordinary, necessary, the usual moments of our daily life. I know things.

Then there’s “Number Two”. These moments are broad, sparkling, often full of wonder and “not knowing”. Sometimes there’s disorientation, floating, a feeling of “Where am I?” I realize that last part doesn’t sound good but I’m coming to see that it is profoundly good. There are moments of meeting the eyes of another, of the mouth dropping open in communion with them, of being brought to a sacred silence, even as we keep speaking. Number Two.

As recent months have unfolded, I’m often finding that simply by saying “One … Two” my mind switches to the wide open sky, to the sweetness of “being with” another, to disintegration, subsiding, falling with the eyes closed. My experience passes through a gossamer curtain, from “small’ to “big”. I see this as neither good nor bad. It’s just here.

Many times, simply saying “One …Two” creates nothing – no new lightness. But then there are all those other times!

I’m sitting now with the mystery of it all

Something far bigger than me is at work

I’m along for the ride

Aerobie

An Aerobie is like a really large Frisbee. It has a huge hole in the centre and flies a very long way. A few months ago in Canada, I looked at my old red one and saw that a large piece had fallen off. Unflyable.

So a decision: Did I want to soar long and strong in Ghent? Or do I let that part of my life go? With no real thought, I went on Amazon and ordered a new one. The skies of Belgium also need to be visited.

Amid the grand unpacking of the last few days sat a brand new green disc. But where to fly it in the density of Ghent? I had heard that Citadel Park was the largest in town so Sarah and I set off to find an airborne home. After much meandering among the trails and trees, I realized that Citadel didn’t have any wide open spaces. I wanted Sarah to have the experience of long distance flying before she returned to the UK tomorrow but alas … that was not to be. Until we found a long and wide cemented place. Would this work?

I believe in huge spaces. When dancing, have enough room to throw the arms out every which way with no fear of hitting a wall. How can life be a flow if it keeps banging into things?

So Sarah and I entered the arena of flight. I had never thrown this disc. I reached back, my arm seeking to remember, and the air parted for a whirling green thing. The landing was nowhere near Sarah, but so what? For the next twenty minutes, the sky welcomed our efforts. And the space worked beautifully!

The sun was behind me as I threw and I saw sitting on a far off hill were four teenagers, shielding their eyes in my direction. They were watching. Finally they got up to leave and my path was clear. I walked over to two of them and silently extended my hand. The first guy smiled. “May we join?” I nodded.

Soon the two of them were testing the limits of distance and speed. Sarah and I smiled too.

Everyone needs to fly

Cello Again

Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?

***

Back in Ghent, I walked into Arpeggio Music. I talked to Harm, the store’s resident cellist. I told my story. He smiled. After a few minutes, he ushered me to a chair and placed a cello between my knees. So familiar. There followed coaching about proper position of the instrument so that the fingers of my left hand could easily press the strings.

I began, sweeping the bow across the strings, then placing my fingers in what they remembered was first position. The tone of notes was revealed, more or less in tune. Now adding the vibrato, the moving of a finger on a string to create a depth of sound, a pulsing of the note that is so sweet.

My eyes widened. There was a 16-year-old in that chair, sitting on the stage of Lawrence Park Collegiate with everyone else during an after-school rehearsal. I knew immediately that this was the right place for me in 2023. I will rent a cello from Arpeggio as soon as one is available, mostly likely within a month. Harm pointed out the front window to a building up the street, known as Kunstacademie De Poel, or in English the Academy of Music, Drama and Dance. “Your future could be there.” Their program starts again in September, and includes cello lessons plus classes in music theory and history.

Harm mentioned that there is an amateur string orchestra in Ghent called Da Capo. Someday, if I practice diligently, I may be able to play with them. They have a concert in nearby Merelbeke on March 11. I’m going … to hear the music and hopefully talk to orchestra members.

I walked into De Poel and talked to a fellow who co-ordinates the rental of instruments there. He said to come back at the end of May if I’m interested and register for the 2023-2024 academic session. I’m interested.

So what will become of my cellist life? Stay tuned.

How Much Is That Cello in the Window?

When I was twelve, a teacher asked me if I’d like to learn a musical instrument. The school was starting an orchestra. I said yes.

So began six years of playing the cello. Rides after school on Fridays to lessons with Mr. Sturm, who played cello in the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. High school concerts featuring symphonies, such as those written by Antonin Dvorak and Ludwig van Beethoven. Playing in the All-City Orchestra for the opening of Toronto’s New City Hall in 1967. And especially feeling a part of the high school orchestra family – strings, winds, brass and percussion.

My self-esteem, mired in the depths of wild acne, was saved by the music. Alas though, when high school graduation loomed and I thought about joining the University of Toronto Orchestra … I said no. “I’m not good enough.” And so the music died.

When I was about 35, someone who knew my history sat me in front of a cello. My heart wasn’t in it, and after ten minutes I stopped. Other than that moment, there was no cello playing or even reminiscing about the orchestra times for 56 years.

Then four months ago weird thoughts began intruding into my normal life. “I’d like to play again.” (Huh! Where’d that come from?) I found myself looking on YouTube for Yo Yo Ma’s playing of a cello classic – The Swan. I was back and forth between Canada and Belgium in the middle of visa challenges but the inklings towards playing still found their way into my soul.

Four weeks ago, the Belgian Government approved my visa! I had to return to Canada for twelve days as the Consulate in Montreal affixed the visa to my passport. I asked myself what I wanted to do with the time. One answer that bubbled up was seeing a Toronto Symphony Orchestra concert. Lo and behold, the only available one had a soloist – a cellist. I leaned over the balcony and felt into the sweet playing of a young man from the UK. Enthralling.

Back in Ghent, I walked into Arpeggio Music. I talked to …

***

Time Out

***

My friend Sarah is visiting from the UK. I got partway through my cello post when hunger drove us to Uncle Babe’s – a hamburger place. We hadn’t eaten for many hours. My hamburger was huge, adorned with mushrooms, and delicious. I made a mistake which has become all too familiar. My ravenous mouth took big bites. Something felt wedged in my throat. I reached for my glass of water and drew enough in to clear the problem. Except it didn’t. I vomited up the water and the blockage was still there. I couldn’t breathe. I made some gagging sound, verging on stunned silence. Without my brain attached, I threw myself up from the table and lurched towards the bar. An employee was yelling at me in Flemish. My hands were on the bar and I was leaning way forward. No air. And the thought: “I’m dying.”

I didn’t die. After I don’t know how long, I felt some air go through. I was drooling on the bar. Eventually a few words. The Flemish man said something in English. “I’m glad you’re alive.” What came out of my mouth was “It’s a really good burger.”

What terror. What embarrassment. I apologized to everyone, including two women sitting at the bar, for scaring them. Of course I had nothing to apologize for, other than a severe lack of judgment.

An hour later, here I am, shaken by it all. It was so clear that I was dying … and then I didn’t.

***

The cello can keep until tomorrow.

What Came Before

Be Here Now is a monumental spiritual book written in 1971 by Ram Dass. It was one of the first expressions in North America of living in the moment, feeling the all of it, whether that was beauty or agony or anything between. Don’t be caught in the woes of the past or the unknowns of the future.

All well and good, and valuable. But there is a place for flowing towards the evolving that is to come, and for allowing past events to wash over us. Tonight was a visit to the land of before.

I went on a nighttime tour of Ghent centrum with an historian named James and about fifteen learners. The darkness above the evening lights of the city showed me the way to long ago. What drove the people of centuries past? What dominated the culture? Tonight there was a lot of nasty stuff on display.

“When the people of Ghent refused to pay extra war taxes in 1540, Emperor Charles made the notables of Ghent go around with a noose around their neck, as a sign that they deserved the gallows. To this day, the noose is the symbol of proud resistance to any form of tyranny and misplaced authority.” What’s missing from this account is the fate of those seventeen civic leaders. Charles decided not to hang them. Instead he had their heads cut off.

We stood in Vrijdagmarkt, an ancient square with a long history of coronations … and executions. I felt long dead human beings, some no doubt waving flags of celebration, and others yelling “Off with his head!” The whole symphony of human behaviour. The most heinous crime back then was apparently circulating counterfeit coins.

We paused before the stone walls of the Old Meat Market Hall. The rich people of the past went inside to buy choice cuts of meat. The poor folks lined up before little shacks attached to the main building. Their dinner consisted of entrails … whatever was left after the good stuff was sold. For these people gossiping wasn’t a good idea. If you were caught, your ears were nailed to the market hall walls for 24 hours. People would wake up and head over to the market for their supplies, wondering who they’d see impaled. The job of decent folks was to throw rotting fruit at the transgressors.

James did a masterful job of painting pictures of the past – some of them inspiring but most deadly. I could give you many more examples but that’s enough revulsion for a day. All I can say is …

Thank God for evolution

May we learn from prior meanness and ignorance

A Young Man of the Mountains

Today it was time to unpack all the boxes that had crossed the ocean. My bed soon became a sea of flotsam and jetsam. At the bottom of one box were some old photos, including … this one.

This is a wayfarer brought back from time, from 1974 to be exact. The Toronto kid had discovered the Rocky Mountains of Alberta. He fell in love with the wildness of Waterton Lakes National Park. He led newbie employees of the Prince of Wales Hotel into the backcountry amid turquoise lakes, switchback trails, grand vistas and peace.

I know this guy. He still exists! Just a different flavour, more attuned to the beauty of an ancient city than to the sunset over the peaks. But in his heart he still wears the t-shirt saying “Get High On Mountains”. The slopes are different now. Music now is a stronger call than mountain passes but the joy of companionship within the adventure is still there.

“Let’s go there, wherever there is, together. Let’s peek past the edge of the world to see what is revealed. Let us be simple, feeling the rhythm of the legs and the notes. Let us be sweetly exhausted in the journey. Let us be free.”

Shall We Read A Play Together?

Marvels continue to visit my life. Gregor Samsa is a bookstore on the Oudburg, owned by Harry from the UK. Last night nine of us sat there in a circle and read the play Hedda Gabler, written by the Norwegian playright Henrik Ibsen in 1891. I’ve never done such a thing.

There were four acts. At the beginning of each, Harry asked us what part we wanted to play. I got to be a shallow husband, a conniving judge, and the person giving stage directions. So cool!

Here’s a sample of the characters, courtesy of Wikipedia:

“Newly married and bored with both her marriage and life” (Hedda)

“An academic who is as interested in research and travel as he is enamoured with his wife” [more actually] (George)

“Desperately wants Hedda and her nephew to have a child” (Aunt Julie)

“Nervous and shy, in an unhappy marriage” (Thea)

“An unscrupulous family friend” (Judge Brack)

“Destroyed his reputation in society by spending his money on depravity” (Eilert)

I had to read plays in high school. Even if I understood all the words, digesting these works was usually a tedious task. “Just tell me what I need to know for the exam.” As an adult, the number of plays I’ve read is approximately zero. Lots of novels, but the constant dialogue in plays wasn’t for me. (I said)

And then there was a circle of human beings, surrounded by tall bookshelves and accompanied by various beverages. I got to inhabit George, not just read his words. Inhabit someone I didn’t like. Spouting on and on about his oh so essential research into a tiny slice of life. Hardly a kind look over to Hedda. A world away from cuddling on the couch.

Oh … it was rock and roll! Stilted language grew in my mouth into a vacant tone of voice. Who cares if George was thoroughly not me? During Act 1, Bruce be damned! Bring on George. And so it was with my literary companions. I could feel each of us, page by page, growing into our parts. Sometimes the voice was strident, at other times a whisper. The stand-ins for Hedda and George often glanced across the room at their adversary. This was no longer Ghent. We were home in Oslo.

It took us nearly three hours to read Hedda Gabler. Time well spent. As the last words on the last page were spoken, we the people sitting in Gregor Samsa burst into applause.

A fine time was had by all.

Pillows

I often think that breakfast is a good idea and I have the perfect place for it about 50 metres from my home – Broodjeszaak Martens. Liva and her daughter Fran have been so welcoming to me whenever I show up.

Sometimes I’ve sat at the counter with my nose pressed up against the window, watching the flow of humanity stroll or ride by on the Oudburg. I love watching the infinite variety.

Today I took a table towards the back of the café, still facing the street. I like long views wherever I can find them. Please don’t make me face a wall.

As you can see, my view included a shelf festooned with red pillows. You may have to zoom in to see what each of them says: “I love you”. Isn’t that the sweetest interior decoration you can imagine? Far better than “Seating limit 20 minutes”.

I love those three words. I love when they’re said in their entirety. Somehow “Love,” at the end of a letter just doesn’t cut it. “Love you” is better but it leaves out who’s doing the loving.

We need more “I love you”s spoken from one soul to another. These are words that are so often withheld between loved ones. I think it’s the biggest “withhold” on the planet.

So … I promise you that the next time I’m in the presence of someone I love, they’ll hear about it.