I was meditating this afternoon.  As usual I closed my eyes but soon a far from usual sense of “flowing” came over me.  It felt like a tiny stream … and I was bobbing along.

Then I did something strange, at least for me.  I went to bed, fully equipped with sweater, shirt and pants.  I pulled the covers up to my chin … and fell asleep for an hour.

Upon waking I still felt the flow.  Something was leaving.  I was … emptying.  No – I was being emptied.  It felt like my fingers and toes were faucets, and some unknown presence had opened them all.

“Is that me leaving?” It didn’t feel that way. Somehow I felt full and empty at the same time.

I shushed my analytical self and let go into the dripping away. A smile showed up. Seconds later, it was a laugh: “Imagine that. I have a new weight loss program!”

Now I’m sitting on the couch and the … (I don’t know what to call it) continues. I’m not happy or sad. I’m just watching.

An hour ago, I knew I was going to write about this. I’ve learned in my blogging that a picture often entices people to read. So I Googled “emptying”. And voilà – images of stomachs, bladders, ponds, pill bottles, garbage cans … Clearly I was in another time zone.

Then I came across an article with a different perspective: Why You Feel Empty In Life and How To Fill It. No, not a good fit.

***

I wonder if you understand me

Maybe, maybe not

Oh well

Seems that I don’t understand me either

This is Nori in the Lord of the Rings prequel Rings of Power now showing on Amazon Video.

Nori’s people see a straight and narrow path ahead – no one diverts from there, no one sets off alone.

But Nori’s eyes are lifted to the sky, and to far off lands of the spirit. I love Nori.

Here is her song:

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=UYI1qkl81ZU&feature=share

This Wandering Day

The sun is fast fallin’ beneath trees of stone
The light in the tower, no longer my home
Past eyes of pale fire, black sand for my bed
I trade all I’ve known for the unknown ahead

Call to me, call to me lands far away
For I must now wander this wandering day
Away I must wander this wandering day

Of drink I have little, and food I have less
My strength tells me “No” but the path demands “Yes”
My legs are so short and the way is so long
I’ve no rest nor comfort, no comfort but song

Sing to me, sing to me lands far away
Oh rise up and guide me this wandering day
Please promise to find me this wandering day

At last comes their answer through cold and through frost
That not all who wonder or wander are lost
No matter the sorrow, no matter the cost
That not all who wonder or wander are lost

***

What is tomorrow and then after that?

Who wipes their feet on our welcoming mat?

Who will we be as we walk through the pines?

How will we be in the fullness of time?

They’re made of sheepskin … and so comfy. They’re created by human hands in a Canadian village appropriately named Mountain View. The store is only a few kilometres from a home of mine – Waterton Lakes National Park.

My slippers have graced all the homes I’ve had for the last twenty years. And now they’ve accompanied me to Belgium.

Many months ago, I noticed a hole growing in the right slipper, near the heel. I made a decision that feels unusual for me … to be careful. My thinking went something like this:

Well, Bruce, you’re going to a new country and you don’t know how often you’ll come back to Canada. Look at that hole! It would be wise to buy another pair of your beloved slippers so your feet will be happy for many European winters to come.

Basically, my small mind convinced my large mind to take a seat in the back row. It’s similar to the discussion that some Canadian friends had with me: “You can’t leave our health care!” That time I ignored worries about the future. This time I bought the slippers.

It’s felt strange in Ghent to look into my closet at the unused footwear, to sense that I’m prepared but that there’s something unnecessary here.

Then there was two days ago. I often get a text from my downstairs neighbour Dirk that offers a sweet invitation: “Coffee?” Sometimes I’m just waking up, so I say “Ten minutes”.

I pull on my red robe, slip into slippers and walk the two flights of stairs down to my friend.

“I love your …” Dirk was looking at my feet. He didn’t know the English word.

I don’t remember thinking. I noticed my bum lifting off the chair, my feet sliding towards his door, up the stairs, into my bedroom. My hand entered the closet. And then I returned …

***

I’m laughing at me

Careful is not a good fit

This afternoon my friend Marieke and I were having a coffee and a beer at The Rambler, a café near the Gent Sint-Pieters train station.

The sun was shining … above us and also at the table beside. Two men were engaged in a spirited discussion in Flemish. The older fellow began talking to us, and soon discovered that my Flemish is on the edge of reality. Marieke translated. And our neighbour sure laughed a lot.

Back in the world of two separate conversations, Marieke and I talked about our inspirations in painting and writing. There’s no planning. Something comes to us … and we’re off!

Eventually our friend’s companion bid adieu and he was happy to turn his smile towards us. We were happy too. It’s always great to welcome a bright spirit.

And included in Marieke’s welcome was her drawing pad and pencil.

Roland is 84. He has travelled the world with his business but he stopped all that “doing” six years ago. He has family (children and grandchildren?) in the USA. He misses them so. Roland’s doctors say his heart is not up to snuff and they’ve ordered him not to fly for longer than two hours.

(Sigh)

Weighing most heavily on this fine fellow is his wife of sixty years. She has Alzheimers, with little short-term memory. Thank God she still knows him. But the sadness lingered in his eyes even as he leaned towards us.

“Are you in love?” Roland asked.

I looked at Marieke and said “yes”. She smiled.

We were accompanied today by a lovely human being. Marieke’s drawing captured his grace.

It was three souls dancing

I came to the Sleepstraat over a year ago after realizing “I could live in Ghent!” I was staying with Lydia and Jo near Ronse and started taking the train into Ghent to explore.

The Sleepstraat is the centre of the Turkish community. Lots of pizza places.

I wandered upon a lovely old church – Sint-Salvator:

It had a boat outside! But the door was locked. I could tell that someday I would return.

I glanced across the street and swiftly translated the word “bakkerij” to “bakery”. I was hungry.

A bearded man behind the counter waved hello. Such a smile! Since there wasn’t a lineup, he had time to talk. I said that I planned to move to Ghent from Canada. My new friend’s face said it all: he was thrilled.

I sat down and ate a spinach wrap as new customers were greeted like brothers and sisters. I remember smiling.

And then I left … back to Ronse … back to Canada. In February, 2022 I began the process of getting a visa to live in Belgium. On January 28, 2023 I landed at Brussels Airport – my new visa securely attached to my passport. And I remembered the man behind the counter.

So … this morning I walked on the Oudburg to the Sleepstraat. And on to Sint-Salvator … on to Merkez.

There were lots of customers to serve and there was my friend serving them:

Once while waiting in line I caught his eye but he didn’t seem to recognize me. Oh well, a year is a long time.

I knew what I wanted to do – approach the owner and say “You are one of the reasons I moved to Ghent. You were so friendly to me a year ago.”

After I finished eating, and the customers were few, I went up to the guy with a smile on my face. I started talking. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t understand. Somehow, in the year between, his English had faded away. His two employees didn’t understand me either.

Finally a bilingual man came into the bakery and translated for me. The owner was polite but clearly “a guy from Canada” didn’t compute.

I was sad. This was not the moment I was hoping for. I really wanted him to get the difference he made in my life. So much for the value of expectations.

As I was putting on my backpack to leave, I thanked the generous translator.

Then I heard him say “Wait!” Another gentleman had come in the side door, and the translator was pointing at him and saying something in Flemish.

I looked up to see this:

There are two brothers

This one remembers me well

And I delivered my message of thanks

It’s a little park close by the Leie River.  I go there to be alone.  Today I go there to write.

I don’t even think it has a name.  Let’s check with Miss Google:

Oh!  I’m wrong.  I sit in the Willem de Beerpark.  It’s quiet here.  You’ll be happy to know that I saw a seagull over the river a few minutes ago.  Gulls know cool spots too.

As I left home, I thought of the easily missed street that takes me here.  I thought of the bench upon which I reside.  I didn’t even know of the plaque that my back rests on.  Here it is:

In Memory Of

Such fine words. We need to remember those who have touched us … and then departed. No doubt we smile in the remembering.

I won’t remember what you said

I won’t remember what you did

But I’ll always remember how I felt

When I was with you

Tanka had a short life. She is well remembered. I just know that

Thank you for the little sit, Tanka

I wonder.  Some things are obvious, such as love is better than hate.  Others are subtle.

Adults are taller than kids.  But would we say they’re more important?  I hope not.  A 12-year-old is simply on a different journey than a 40-year-old.  Well … the same journey but at a different stop along the way.

Then there’s the well-dressed socialite heading out to a party.  On the street outside, an old man leans against a fence, holding a paper cup.  Is the woman “larger”?

Someone has a Hollywood face and another’s is pockmarked, with a prominent mole.

There are beings who walk upright on two feet with upper limbs swinging freely.  And those who gallop down the beach on all fours.

Some of us live in the penthouse of the sky-high condo looking down on New York City’s Central Park.  Others look up through basement windows to a sliver of daylight.

Many have skin of white while some fellow inhabitants of planet Earth see brown in the mirror.

And what of the ants who crawl across our path?  Maybe we don’t even notice them underfoot.  Understandable since they’re awfully small.

Do you have a PhD?  Or did you need to leave school at 14 to provide for your family?

Are you light and airy or beaten down by the agonies of life?

***

Better … worse

Larger … smaller

Do we have eyes to see what’s really there?

It’s my living room, with my bedroom to the left, the hallway straight ahead, and way in the distance my bathroom – green walls and orange towels.

And … blue is in my kitchen!

I’m an unusual human being.  I want things bright.  I want contrast – red beside purple is pretty cool!

Sometimes I worry about the beigeing of my life.  When I’m older, will I be too tired to stand out?  Will I allow my soul to be muted, so I’ll fit together nicely with other people of the middle ground?

Will I be neither here nor there?  Neither up nor down?  Perhaps a “Nowhere Man”:

Sitting in his nowhere land

Making all his nowhere plans for nobody

No thanks

What if people in the time ahead don’t like my colours?  Thinking that I should tone it down in my geriatric years? What if I’m perceived as “too much” – now and always?

Well … that may be true for some people but not all of them.  I’m watching for the rainbow folks, within and without.

I know you’re there

It is sweetly ordinary here on the terrace of Le Pain Quotidien.  Four cobbled streets come together at odd angles.  Human beings have just started their daily journeys.

From some window behind and above come the strains of a wind instrument.  Is it a clarinet?  An accordion?  I smile as I realize that I don’t know … and I don’t care.  I am being lulled.

There is the clatter of occasional bicycles on the cobblestones.  I hear the approach, see the colours fly by, and off around the corner.

Here comes grandpa, pushing an infant in a stroller.  The little one is all bundled up against the cold, a wool hat snugged up just above the eyes.

And still the melody flows …

Lots of strolling couples, often sporting down jackets.  Sometimes the woman’s hand tucked into the man’s arm, sometimes hand warming hand, sometimes two parallel lines.

One tiny street, just out of the photo on the left, seems neglected.  No one has followed the curve towards me.  I wonder who lives there.

(I just finished tapping the word “there” … and here come six folks down that street.  Everything is included.)

Church bells begin their chiming at 10:44, covering us with the celebration.  The musician behind me must be taking a break.

Now it’s 10:50 and the wistful sound continues.  It feels like Europe, which it is.

It’s all cloudy here.  Pigeons twist and turn in the sky.  The muesli goes down easy, adorned with strawberry, banana and coconut.  My latté is still a little warm.  My nose runneth over. And the bells continue …

I am home