Yes, I need to sing.  Yes, I’m being drawn to memorize many songs.  I want to spill the words out into the world.  I want people to receive the messages that the songwriters intended.  I want the listeners to see their lives in the music.

Here are five of those songs:

1.  Paint the Sky with Stars

May I be the artist and invite others to do the same.  May I be wistful and give that sweetness to the hearers of the song.

Suddenly before my eyes
Hues of indigo arise
With them how my spirit sighs
Paint the sky with stars

Only night will ever know
Why the heavens never show
All the dreams there are to know
Paint the sky with stars

2.  How Can I Keep From Singing?

A song that fleshes out my need to share melody and words.  “Here’s who I am, folks.  I hope you’ll join me in the music.”

Though the tempest loudly roars
I hear the truth … it liveth
And though the darkness ’round me close
Songs in the night it giveth

No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

3.  True Colors

I see you. Not just your personality and your life story. I see your essence, your unique flavour of spirit … and I love you for it.

You with the sad eyes
Don’t be discouraged
Oh … I realize
It’s hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small

But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you
So don’t be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
True colors are beautiful
Like a rainbow

4. Angel

There is a place called heaven on earth, where we are deeply connected to each other. The human beings who hurt us and the human emotions which assail us fade in the presence of such brilliance.

So tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there’s vultures and thieves at your back

The storm keeps on twisting
Keep on building the lies
that you make up for all that you lack

Don’t make no difference
to escape one last time
It’s easier to believe in this sweet madness
Oh, this glorious sadness
that brings me to my knees

In the arms of the angel
fly away from here
from this dark, cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear

5. Remember When The Music

In some cultures, singing is natural. Folks gather in kitchens or in circles on the lawn … to make music. May that be part of my life too.

Remember when the music
Was a glow on the horizon of every newborn day
And as we sang, the sun came up to chase the dark away
And life was good, for we knew we could

Remember when the music
Brought the night across the valley as the day went down
And as we’d hum the melody, we’d be safe inside the sound
And so we’d sleep, we had dreams to keep

***

There is a purity in the voice

As life stories are told

“Okay, Bruce. What do you want to do with the rest of your life?” > “I want to sing.”

I sat yesterday and scrolled through my playlists on YouTube Music. I was sensing into songs I want to learn or relearn. Four decades ago, I sang my favourites and accompanied myself on guitar.

I created a new playlist called “Learn”. Right now it holds 61 songs, 7 of which I memorized long ago. I see a path ahead. Study those seven, plus a new one that I worked on a few months ago – “Song For A Winter’s Night”. Eight songs that I will perform on the street (and perhaps from my balcony!)

I will go to Ghent City Hall and get a permit to sing in public. I don’t want money. I want people to listen.

This morning I went to a tiny park beside the Leie River and waited till I was alone. “I’ll start with a classic Gordon Lightfoot love song.”

I stared at the lyrics on my phone and began to sing. I remembered … some of it.

I adjusted the pitch so the lowest note would be comfortable for me. I looked at the words of the five stanzas and remembered patterns that I knew long ago. I found the phrases that had disappeared from my mind and focused on them:

“And when the morning came”

“Is the old roof still leaking”

“And looking at the rain”

My voice wavered. Even though alone, I was nervous. Slowly I increased the volume. I hit the low notes with ease. I was approaching the last phrase (“Did she mention my name?”) in which the pitch of the notes is higher, requiring more air. I gazed across the river and a woman was looking at me as she walked by the white van.

I went self-conscious and my voice trailed away …

Ahh yes … part of the process

I will continue

***

Did She Mention My Name?

It’s so nice to meet an old friend and pass the time of day
And talk about the hometown a million miles away
Is the ice still on the river? Are the old folks still the same?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Did she mention my name just in passing?
And when the morning came, do you remember if she dropped a name or two?
Is the home team still on fire? Do they still win all their games?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Is the landlord still a loser? Do his signs hang in the hall?
Are the young girls still as pretty in the city in the fall?
Does the laughter on their faces still put the sun to shame?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Did she mention my name just in passing?
And when the talk ran high, did the look in her eyes seem far away?
Is the old roof still leaking when the late snow turns to rain?
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Did she mention my name just in passing?
And looking at the rain, do you remember if she dropped a name or two?
Won’t you say hello from someone? There‘ll be no need to explain
And by the way, did she mention my name?

Where does this thought come from?  And now another one.  My mind fascinates me.  Is it joined to other minds, ones from the present or from the past?  Or … from the future?

I went to HEMA for breakfast this morning.  It’s a department store and cafeteria in Ghent centrum.  There’s a gorgeous terrace overlooking Korenmarkt.

As I looked up from my croissant, here came two men carrying their trays.  I’d guess they were in their sixties – one black, one white.  Then the explosion in my head:

The black man is less than the white man!

What?!  I’m not prejudiced.  I am kind.  The jolt of my instant thought came from … movies?  My parents?  White culture?

I sat there appalled by what I somehow created.  “Down deep, am I really that way?”  No.

***

Then a mom and her teenaged daughter sat down in front of me.  A middle-aged fellow was approaching their table.  “Of course he’ll join them,” I reasoned.  Except he kept walking – by them and by me.

Inexplicably I felt sad.  I wanted a joining, not a distance.  I wanted smiles, not strangers.  “This makes no sense,” I said to myself, wondering why I was so attached to a certain reality.  And again I muse about the contents of my head.

***

An older fellow walked out of the restaurant, leaned over the railing and lit a cigarette.  I’ve often waved to him.  His job is to collect fifty cents (half a euro) from anyone who wants to use the bathroom.  He sits on his stool outside the male and female doors for maybe eight hours a day.

What is his life like?  What impact does his job have on him?  Does it wear him down?  Or does he see each person who comes his way as needing something, and he provides it for them?  A burden or a service?

***

I expect my mind will continue to spill out its contents for quite some time

I can’t wait to see what’s next

For years I’ve been fascinated with who’s behind all those windows.  Are they looking out and seeing me?  Are they wondering about us passersby? Are there secrets hidden away?

Ghent is full of mysterious windows, ripe to be included in a novel of intrigue.  The shapes are many: circles, semi-circles, ovals, triangles, sweeps of modernity, and of course rectangles.  Even a few teardrops.  Tiny to immense. Eye level to way up high. 

A few windows are open … someone is in there now.

***

Who do you see behind these panes of glass? 

If you move here, you could be the one gazing out at me

Wondering who I am

I live in a human city.  Usually, when I’m sitting in a café, and I say something to the folks at the table beside, they smile and respond.  Lovely.  That’s where I want to call home.

In my travels, I’ve discovered another clue:

Are there lots of places to sit?

Public spots, unattached to a café or restaurant.  Vantage points from which to see the world and its inhabitants, and feel into their lives.

Ghent is such a city

Here are twelve photos for human beings … like you and me. Perhaps you’ll join me someday on one of these chairs. Or maybe not. We’ll talk. Or maybe not.

Or perhaps it’ll just be me, living these words that I love:

Sometimes I sits and thinks

And sometimes I just sits

In May I told you about my obsession with analyzing the ongoing quality of my life – daily if not hourly checking how well or poorly I’m doing in the moment.  Yuck!

I said that I would let go of two examples of seeking continuous improvement:

How well I slept, as measured by my Polar watch

How many views I get for these posts, as measured by WordPress stats

You’ll be happy to know that not once since returning from Senegal have I poured over daily sleep stats.  Before then it was hit and miss.  There were four variables that I tracked … and I can’t remember three of them! See how important they were?

That’s the easy part.  Now for the number of views I get on WordPress.  Over these years of writing, has my self-esteem been so fragile that 50 views means I’m good and 10 views means I’m bad?  Since I’ve been well programmed by decades of society to keep things hidden, I’ll now refuse to answer the question.

…

All right – I can’t stand this.  The answer to the question is too often yes.  So much for whatever maturity is.

I’ve written on here about me glimpsing a new realm where it doesn’t matter what comes back from the world … only what I put into it.  Sadly, that hasn’t been my history.

My recent experiment of not viewing WordPress statistics has been difficult.  The groove of needing others’ approval has been worn deep. My experiment since May had been a failure up until about a week ago.

“Come hell or high water, I’m not looking at those numbers.” And I didn’t, even though my right index finger was twitching! Such an ordeal to let my writing stand on its own, unaffected by public participation.

Then there was two nights ago. Sometime during the ordeal of hospital – home – hospital, the fear of dying in my sleep took me. I needed something to gladden my fragile heart.

I chose WordPress views. Somewhere far away, a voice told me not to give in to bad moments, to keep my word. But that voice was a whisper. I clicked and clicked.

It was a consolation … a tepid source of happiness that is really no happiness at all.

***

The pull of seeking approval is so strong

But I am strong too

Okay … here I am in my 70s.  The body doesn’t always work right.  No “Poor Me”.  It’s just what’s so.

Two nights ago, an hour after supper, I felt something I didn’t recognize – my throat was tightening.  Then I’d belch a few times and it loosened, gradually followed by a retightening.  I took two antacid pills and eventually fell asleep.

Yesterday evening I was watching the third Mission Impossible movie, fantasizing about being Tom Cruise.  I heard my voice say “Why not have an Avocat?”  It’s a thick yellow and delicious liqueur.  A few sips later my throat again.  My esophagus was being coated.  More antacids, more burping, needing to swallow every ten seconds.

I often get scared when my body reacts.  A few months ago, I was choking in a Ghent restaurant – no air, probable death I unreasoned.  Many years ago in Canada I twice had a procedure where a balloon is inserted in the esophagus and inflated.  Both times it opened things up nicely.

I lay down on my bed, wondering what Tom Cruise would do.  No sleep.  I panicked.  “What happens if the saliva keeps building up when I’m asleep?  Do I die?”  (Oh, Bruce … please grow up sometime)

12:30.  “Go to Emergency”  >  “It’s not an emergency”  >  “Go!  You’re not a doctor”

There’s a hospital a 15-minute walk from home – AZ Sint-Lucas.  I thought they had an Emergency Department.  But I didn’t know the Flemish word.  I was navigating Google Maps with a crazy mind.

Spoed!  I created the route you see, starting on the Oudburg at the grey dot and ending at Emergency.  The blue route was fastest.  “Why isn’t there a direct route?  What’s wrong with Google Maps?”

Nothing.  I needed to do what was being asked.

The world was quiet and dark as I walked, swallowing all the while.  Next was a kind receptionist, a kind nurse and a kind doctor – all women.  They calmed me down.  The doctor gave me the phone number of a gastrointestinal specialist and told me to come back if the swallowing effort became more intense.  I’ll make an appointment on Wednesday since Tuesday (today) is a holiday. 

3:30 … to bed.  A very active throat for three hours, no sleep.

Clothes back on.  Again through the streets – now lightening.

Lying in a hospital bed awaiting the doctor.  Here comes Pedro, and I immediately got it: he’ll do everything in his power to help me.  As I told him my story, the blossoming of saliva was accompanied by nausea, dizziness and a loose selection of words.

I asked Pedro about my fear of dying if I fell asleep with growing saliva in my mouth.  No judgment from him, just knowledge: the body’s gag reflex will prevent that from happening.  And such empathy from the young man.  Human beings are good.

Now for the tests: four blood samples, ECG, scans of my lungs and throat.  An IV drip, something for the nausea.

And two hours to wait for the results.  I asked for a blanket and did my best imitation of a fetus.  Cozy, covered to the chin, SAFE.

First I lay on my back.  At least ten times I nodded off and then sprang alert seconds (?) later.  On my side was far better and soon I was off to uninterrupted dreamland.

Pedro came to visit and didn’t wake me as I slept.  A good man.  The second time I was awake and he told me that all my test results were good.  Yay!  But something is going on with the gastrointestinal system and hence the specialist appointment.

***

It’s hours later now.  I’m sad that I’m old now, and that my night was a mess.  And I’m happy to be Bruce in the universe.

Today I’ve eaten sole for lunch and sushi for dinner.  No saliva building.  No constant swallowing.  A deep sleep hopefully awaits …

Someone other than me took this photo two days ago … but I was there! This is my neighbourhood street festival that was loud and strong all weekend. If you look at the top right corner of the blue-black sky, you’ll see the black railing of my balcony.

You’re right … there’s not much space to move, but O my God I loved the crowds. Thousands of smiles flowing by – families, friends, strangers – celebrating life.

The restaurants and cafés were as packed as the streets. Three times I just sat with my beer or coffee and watched the infinite expressions of peoplehood. So cool.

And then there was last night, on a so-called “quiet” street a few hundred metres from the Oudburg. Voilà:

I sat with brand new friends, Flemish to the bone with a touch of English. I cradled my Duvel beer and Belgian hot dog. We laughed. Hundreds of us were crammed into the little square, welcoming the music of a local ragtime group.

Those musicians were brilliant players of the trumpet, trombone, clarinet, piano, drums and double bass. Each solo was followed by generous applause from we the audience. My favourite was the bass player. How can a hand move so deftly on that long, long fingerboard?

In front of the stage and to the side, couples danced their rear ends off, including two guys who had no fear. The music lifted us all.

I sat with a man, a woman and a man. No romance … they were friends. I tried getting them to snuggle some, which led to raucous laughter. The Canadian/Gentian was being included.

I petted the doggie at my feet. All was well

What if I had a pure day, not with respect to what comes my way, but how I react to it all?  What if I was committed to having every minute be an expression of my essence?  What if I let go of anything “extra” to how I want to be in life?

My small mind says that’s impossible, offering a host of “What if’s”.  But often the large mind is resident in my head, and stays open to the infinite.

Last night I walked across the street and sat on the terrace of Yo’s Place.  Settling in with my Maredsous beer, I began talking to a couple who moved from Wales to Ghent two years ago.  And then here comes another couple, from Quebec in Canada.

As the conversation began flowing, I said a few things but something seemed off.  The topics came fast, and centered on government and culture in the two countries.  That was okay but the words seemed wrapped in an attitude.  “I know things.  I know a lot of things.”  The man of one couple and the woman of the other looked to be competing, dancing on the edge of “I’m right.”

So tiresome.

I went silent and turned my chair slightly away from the flurry of words and towards the flow of humanity on the Oudburg.  It didn’t serve my soul to participate in this discussion, or to pretend I was involved.  I meant no ill will to the four but I needed to detach from this world of opinion.

Half-an-hour later, having spent good time feeling into the women, men and children of the street, I wondered if my “sort of” companions were thinking badly of me.  As in “He sure turned unfriendly.”  If that’s what they were thinking, I accept that.  It wasn’t true, however.  I simply needed to protect myself from a toxin.

When I felt it was time to go, I turned towards my neighbours, smiled and said that I was glad we met.  I invited them to come to a guitar concert that started in an hour further down the street.  They all smiled back and extended their hands.  We ended well.

***

I sat down in the Gregor Samsa bookshop, awaiting the arrival of the guitarist.  My friend Anouk and I talked of real things, such as how it was for her a few days ago singing solo rather than with her band.  And how it was for me to sign up yesterday for an in-person Dutch language class starting in September.  Then we wondered how life would be for each of us in ten years.  It was real.  I was home.

The electric guitarist began. His instrument pierced me … so loud! I had been to the Core techno festival armed with earplugs and in a park. Last night was in a small room with no earplugs.

At the end of the first (painful) piece, I asked him to turn the amp down a little. “It’s hurting my ears.”

He did an adjustment.

“How’s that?” > Still way too loud

And then a moment of truth …

(Shaking my head) “I’ll go.”

The performer thanked me for coming. I smiled at him. I said goodnight to Anouk and Harry, the owner of Gregor Samsa.

And truly off into the night

Something is happening with my appreciation of tennis.  One perspective is leaving … another is deepening.

For years I’ve picked my favourite players, usually based on whether they’re a nice person, or whether they’re Canadian.  I elevate them to heights unseen, needing them to win.  In the process I turn their opponent into a “thing”, some solid object that’s getting in the way of my hero.

How sad.  How myopic of me.  We’re all marvelous sources of life.  “Where have your eyes been, Bruce?”

A few days ago, I was following the scores of Leylah Fernandez’s match on my phone.  The tournament in Montreal, Canada was not shown on Belgian TV.  There I was, staring at the tiny screen, waiting for the numbers to change.  Hypnotized.

During the hour of glazed eyes, I never woke up to the sadness of my action.  A day later, I did.

I thought once again about a sweet book: The Inner Game of Tennis, written by Timothy Gallwey. A fresh perspective revisited.

Here’s my favourite quote from Timothy:

Once one recognizes the value of having difficult obstacles to overcome, it is a simple matter to see the true benefit that can be gained from competitive sports.

In tennis who is it that provides a person with the obstacles he needs in order to experience his highest limits? His opponent, of course!

Then is your opponent a friend or an enemy? He is a friend to the extent that he does his best to make things difficult for you. Only by playing the role of your enemy does he become your true friend. Only by competing with you does he in fact cooperate!

In this use of competition, it is the duty of your opponent to create the greatest possible difficulties for you, just as it is yours to try to create obstacles for him. Only by doing this do you give each other the opportunity to find out to what heights each can rise.

Thank you, Timothy. What if it doesn’t matter who wins the match? What if a 6-0, 6-0 win (or loss) puts the fans to sleep? What if my opponent stretches me beyond what I’ve known by the brilliance of his strokes? What if I discover something “beyond” while watching an epic struggle between two evenly matched players?

That makes me smile