As I lay on the pillow with the morning light, these were the words which came.
“What tree?”
There was no need for my brain to answer. My heart knew. There is a deciduous tree on a roundabout in south Ghent. Six streets radiate. I had walked there once and today was the time to return.
Over the past few months there has been a surging outward from the centre … ever stronger and furious. I am being exploded out into the world – everywhere.
And so the streets call. I had to answer.
I know this voice. It is to be trusted. It’s quiet and smiling (unlike the other voice!) The quiet one is leading me to parts unknown, into the mist where I can only grope.
Approaching … It matters not that my new friend is not yet in its full glory. It still shines. And it asks me to come close.
I yearn to sit in a pub nearby, to just look into what the tree is. There are two – both closed in the early afternoon. So I sit on a low wall and watch life whirl around.
Cats swoop past the dear tree, with their drivers concentrating on the curve, not feeling the grace of a middle point flooding out into the arteries of life.
For most of my life I have loved golf. But what I’ve really loved is golf courses.
I became a member of Tarandowah Golfers’ Club in Canada. It was designed by the British architect Martin Hawtree to resemble the seaside links courses in Scotland.
I love Tarandowah … the sweep of the fairways, the deep pot bunkers, the severe slopes beside some of the greens. Take a look:
On a misty morning, alone in the rolling world, I was at peace.
Back in the clubhouse, I waxed poetic about the beauties of the land to my fellow members. I sighed …
And no one cared. No one noticed the love in my eyes. They wanted to talk about scores and the nuances of the golf swing.
I was alone … while surrounded by people.
***
And now in Ghent, far from the world of golf. Instead I have the Leie River and the seagulls who ply their trade there. How they soar!
Do you see the widespread wings? Do you feel the tilt of feathers as the dive begins? Are you there above it all with your brothers and sisters?
Usually the answer is “No”. Seagulls poop on us and squawk a lot.
(Sigh)
My friend Michel is the only one whose eyes widen in contemplation of flight, who marvels at the still wings aloft.
***
It’s a bittersweet aloneness, yearning for people to join my life, and knowing that most of them never will. And yet closing my eyes on the pillow with scenes of the twelfth green and the Zuivelbrug Bridge inviting me to sleep.
We went … and we opened. So many young lives that ended in 1917. The time gap seems wide but it’s not. Soldiers of all countries lived like me: happy and sad, together and lonely, healthy and sick. They had dreams. I have dreams. I get to live mine.
We visited the memorial to Canadian soldiers. A man with head bowed mourns the loss:
A sign told us that the soldier faces the wind that brought chlorine gas into the lungs of Canadians. Such a horrible way to die, clutching your throat for air.
And today? It felt so ordinary. A pretty park. This patch of grass could be anywhere, hosting a single dandelion:
But the Battle of Passchendaele was fought in oozing mud and driving rain. How easy it is to sense only our usual world of 2023.
A British writer spoke for his compatriots but he could have been French … or German:
There is not a single half-acre in Ypres that is not sacred. There is not a single stone which has not sheltered scores of loyal young hearts, whose one impulse and desire was to fight and, if need be, to die for England. Their blood has drenched its cloisters and its cellars, but if never a drop had been spilt, if never a life had been lost in defence of Ypres still would Ypres have been hallowed, if only for the hopes and the courage it has inspired and the scenes of valour and sacrifice it has witnessed.
The German Air Force bombed Ypres until there was virtually nothing left, including the Cloth Hall. It was “built in the 13th century. Also during this time cats, then the symbol of the devil and witchcraft, were thrown off Cloth Hall, possibly because of the belief that this would get rid of evil demons.”
Yesterday I sat in front of the Cloth Hall, pondering mankind’s beauty and depravity. My head dropped without my mind in the picture.
Here are two photos:
We also visited the resting place of many young men.
“There are now 11,961 Commonwealth servicemen of the First World War buried or commemorated in Tyne Cot Cemetery. 8,373 of the burials are unidentified.”
Such an expanse of death.
Sonetime in my future I want to visit the nearby cemetery for German soldiers. They too need to be honoured.
For all the dead, there is this tombstone:
And at the end of the day, there is life … in front of the Cloth Hall:
Today I accompany Lydia and other friends to the city of Ypres in western Belgium, near the North Sea. Tonight we will stand and hear a trumpeter play “The Last Post” in honour of all who died there in World War I.
In 1917, after three months of fighting, the Allied forces captured a ridge east of Ypres in the Battle of Passchendaele. Nearly 500,000 young men – German, Belgian, French, British, Australian, New Zealander and Canadian – died.
As a teenager in Eastern Canada, all I really knew was Toronto. The glorious Rocky Mountains to the west were merely shiny photos. And Europe? It was across the ocean somewhere.
***
In high school, a little old lady was our librarian. Sometimes in class an air raid siren would go off (practicing for Armageddon).
Suddenly the librarian would throw herself out of her chair and dive under her desk. We laughed. And so the legend of “Mad Mary” was born. It was so convenient for us of low self-esteem to have a new target.
Years later I learned that Mary was a survivor of the Blitz, the Nazi bombing of London. I lowered my head and apologized. And I’m still sorry I hurt you, Mary.
***
In 2018 I took the train east from Toronto to see more of my country. I was heading to our most easterly province. I stayed overnight in Sydney, Nova Scotia. My eyes were wide in bed as I imagined tomorrow’s six-hour ferry ride on the Atlantic Ocean to Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland.
On landing, I was enthralled with the view. Voilà:
The peace of God streaming from the sky, glowing the horizon.
I noticed a small sign near the ferry dock. Surely it was worth a glance or two. It said approximately this:
In World War II, a ferry that preceded the one you just took from Sydney was sunk by a German submarine, with a great loss of life
In Canada …
***
Before Belgium became my home, it was a place for me to visit my friends Lydia, Jo, Lore and Baziel. Right now I’m on the same journey, riding the train from Ghent to Ronse. Just before Ronse, the train will enter a tunnel. While walking on the country roads, I’ve paused near the entrance to that tunnel … and pondered.
You see, one of my dear friends told me that Hitler and his train hid from the Allied forces there.
As life wanes into darkness Lovers come to Rococo Feeling the warmth of forty candles Feeling the warmth of each other's hands
Soft words fly from one side of the table Embraced and returned by the other The circle is wide as young ones Are sparkled by smiles between
Do they glimpse the soft skin across the room? The glow filling the walls and the ceiling high? Do they feel other hearts Entwining in the lightness above?
Betty has created here, all natural and giving Her fingers know the sangria Her heart dwells with the light And we sit in a miracle
My favourite part of a woman’s body … are her eyes. I love the ones that soften and slide down into mine. The ones that open to the mystery, to the not knowing. The ones that are eternal.
Some eyes are tight slits. How can the light enter through such narrowness? Some eyes burn holes in mine … and it hurts. And some are nowhere to be found …
The eyes I love look all around in fascination. They see the shapes in the clouds. They notice the tender squeeze of hands in the street. They drink inwards and bless outwards.
There is much to see. Take this water fountain, for example:
It sits on the Kraanlei in Ghent. Thousands pass by every day. I wonder how many stop to ponder.
What this means to you may be different than what it means to me. Cool. As long as it means something beyond our usual sight.
What if this simple sculpture speaks more eloquently than all the sacred books? What if the beauty herein migrates down our faces to our mouths? What if the world’s secrets lie in the flow of the springtime water?
Later today, I’m going to walk around Ghent centrum to see what’s there. It’s a stunning city, full of surprises, full of majesties to write about.
Right now I’m sitting on the terrace of Jaggers, awaiting breakfast. In front is the Vrijdagmarkt – a lovely public square. In English it’s “Friday Market” and since this is Friday, vendors, displays and visitors fill the space.
Near me I see clothes hanging. Look how bright! Look how lovely!
It would be easy to write about this explosion of energy. “Oh! You’re so beautiful. I will write about you.” But in this moment the writing would not be true. The dresses are not calling me.
I need to be beckoned. “Bruce, please come here and write about me.” Whoever is calling needs to be known. My blog will do nicely.
I trust that I will be approached and asked to express … today.
I’m smiling.
***
Wandering … listening … looking up
***
There! Do you see it? Do you feel it? Is it coming towards us?
“Show the three of us together, Bruce. Have people see. We’re side by side. All lofty. All shining. Ghent, Belgium, the European Union. We belong to each other. We are strong, with our arms over each others’ shoulders. In union, we can do great things. Look at us please. And come close.”
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