“The name Amal is primarily a female name of Arabic origin that means hope, expectation.”

Perfect for what my morning has been about.  Weeks ago I received a letter from “Amal”, including an English version.  Was this an organization?  A company?  They were welcoming me to Ghent and Belgium, offering Dutch language classes and an integration course.

England and Senegal intervened and my curiosity faded away.

But now I’m back.  Googling Amal gave me a raft of rave reviews.  Amal is an organization funded by the Flanders Government that offers free services to newcomers.  Wow!

After breakfast at nearby Franz Gustav, I sauntered down the Kongostraat and soon came to an open gate … and this entrance:

A lovely green welcome, complete with flowers, old brick and cobblestones. And then a sweet smile from the receptionist.

Wonder of wonders, one of the counsellors just had a cancelled appointment and I could walk right into her office. Samra treated me like her best friend.

Part of the requirement for my visa continuing past February, 2024 is that I take steps to integrate into Belgian society. Amal is going to help me do that.

From late September to early November, I’ll be taking an in-person Dutch course. For six hours a week, I’ll grapple with Level One of the language. Finally I’ll get a glimpse of what all these Flemish folks are saying! The welcome program requires me to complete Level Two as well in order to stay registered with them. There are ten levels. I wonder how far this old fart will go?

Starting in January, I’m in another course: being introduced to the nuances of integrating into Belgium. Three three-hour sessions a week for five weeks. How the government works all the way to how garbage collection works. These lessons will take place right in the Amal office, in this room:

It’ll become familiar.

The other orientation stream is doing forty hours of volunteer work. I wonder where. I vote for some place with kids.

I’m being given a support person to help me wade through these various waters. And the best news? I’m getting wet!

Sitting beside all these “becoming Belgian” experiences is my enrollment in the Kunstacademie Gent de Poel for September. It’s my music school! Every week I’ll have a one-hour group cello lesson and a two-hour music theory class. That last one will be taught in Dutch. So bring on the Amal language lessons!

***

There’s a huge potential bonus here. The next love of my life may be hanging out at Amal or Poel

My eyes are open

The rhythms of my life in Ghent are returning.  I’m falling into my home once again.

Here I am sitting on the terrace of T’Kanon café by the Leie River yesterday.  For two hours.  A small part of me says that’s too long, that I should be out and about doing useful things.  But I don’t want to be useful.  I want to watch the world flow by and talk to lovely people.

You may have heard about my seagull fetish.  I love watching them fly.  I sat down beside the river and waited.  For fifteen minutes there wasn’t a bird in sight – seagull, pigeon, mourning dove or duck.

The frantic part of my mind woke up, imagining a future of total bird absence.  “The gulls are gone and they’ll never come back!”  Silly mind, but actually fun to watch when it’s full speed ahead.

At about the 20-minute point, white wings zoomed low from behind.  A friend of mine.  During my stay I only saw ten gulls or so but that was enough.  My life is richer within the soaring.

There were faces everywhere.  My St. Bernardus beer and goose paté were enjoyed under the gaze of a green post on the railing – a post that was curious about me.  And as the terrace filled, couples chatted and held hands, groups of friends were silly together … and there were so many cigarettes being inhaled through so many lips.

In the photo, but hidden from view, is a wooden path by the river, stretching from the grey building to well past the weeping willow.  Celebrating humans eat and drink there with their friends, enjoying the tiny birds who float by.

Above the grey building to the left of the willow is my apartment, set back so there’s no river view, but I can feel the flow. UPDATE: I got the wrong grey building. My apartment is beyond the tree.

***

Here I am … Belgium instead of Canada, Ghent instead of Belmont, London (Ontario) and Toronto.  Lucky me.  Ghent will be the centre of my universe until I say goodbye to this world.

About thirty years from now

This is one of my favourite songs, written and sung by Enya.  It lulls me.  It enters my pores.  It takes me …

City lights shine on the harbour
Night has fallen down
Through the darkness
And the shadow
I will still go on

Long, long journey
Through the darkness
Long, long way to go
But what are miles
Across the ocean
To the heart that’s coming home?

Where the road
Runs through the valley
Where the river flows
I will follow every highway
To the place I know

Long, long journey
Through the darkness,
Long, long way to go
But what are miles
Across the ocean
To the heart that’s coming home?

Long, long journey
Out of nowhere
Long, long way to go
But what are sighs
And what is sadness
To the heart that’s coming home?

Long, long journey
Through the darkness
Long, long way to go
But what are miles
Across the ocean
To the heart that’s coming home?

Long, long journey
Out of nowhere
Long, long way to go
But what are sighs
And what is sadness
To the heart that’s coming home?

It has been a long journey and hopefully it will continue for many years.  So many chapters when I was here and there, doing this and that, gradually opening my heart to the world.

Probably like you, I’ve had great loves and great sorrows.  I’ve triumphed and failed.  I’ve had immense power and debilitating weakness.  I’ve touched the lives of hundreds of kids.  Many of them likely smile when they think of me.

Like the song, I feel my heart coming home. It includes a sense of place in Ghent but it’s also far more. It’s moments of connection with anyone willing to look into my eyes. It’s living within the melodies of cello and voice. It’s caressing the lyrics of precious songs … like this one.

And …

I will still go on

To the place I know

It’s such a mysterious knowing

Listen now to Enya giving us “Long, Long Journey”:

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=nTdVrx6HRRg&feature=share

It’s time.  I joined the Basic-Fit health club a few months ago and then trips to England and Senegal had me disappear.

Since returning from the heat of Senegal a week ago, my favourite word has been “sleep” … many horizontal hours.

In Senegal I felt so weak, so old. I couldn’t imagine climbing onto an elliptical machine again. “Perhaps when I get back to Belgium,” I un-reasoned, “I’ll visit a medical supplies store and pick me up a multi-coloured walker.” (Sigh)

Now I’m sitting with my cappuccino feeling physically unfit. I am, however, spiritually fit. There’s great love inside me that needs to ooze out into the world.

And now for the physical …

I have everything I need in my Basic-Fit backpack. Once I finish writing, I’ll head over there, with no expectations of “performance”. I don’t need to perform to some standard. I just need to show up.

Two years ago in Canada, my trainer Tony showed me an awesome stretching program. There were fourteen stretches, most of which won’t come to mind right now. No worries … I brought the sheet.

I love the elliptical. In Belgium most folks don’t know the term – it’s a cross-trainer. Any way you spell it, the machine is smooth. My knees say thank you. My feet are on pads that do a circular motion. My hands are on bars that go back and forth. Sweet.

So what if I last ten minutes on the elliptical today? Who cares if I’m “slow”? I am returning.

My body is different than I remember. More fat, frequent aches, laboured breathing on the stairs. (I just wrote this … and now I’m smiling) Smiling is good, especially since I’m living in the marvelous city of Ghent, and enrolled with my cello in the Poel music school starting in September, and blessed by the presence of new friends.

***

Just about done writing

Just about to start stretching my soul

For years I’ve seen myself as a Buddhist.  These days that label is fraying at the edges.  Perhaps I’m no longer a Buddhist, and that would be fine.

The Buddha said many marvelous things.  Here are four expressions of kindness:

May you be free from danger

May you be happy

May you be healthy

May you live with ease

Yesterday and today, I’ve sent these wishes to the folks who have come close to my life.  First at Café Come Back:

Older men watching a football game on TV … a young woman busy with her phone … a 30-something fellow with eyes only for his video terminal … and on the edge a man thinking, accompanied by his glass of water.  They’re all deserving of my care.  I spoke silently the four phrases to each person in turn.

No one noticed.

***

This morning at Izy Coffee the outside world presented itself.  I welcomed them as the Buddha would:

Did the guy looking at me feel the wave of energy breaking on his shore?  Probably not.

The fellow on the tram wearing a light green sweater is disappearing down the road.  Was there a twinge in his soul for an instant?

Many more people sauntered by Izy’s window as I sat pondering and sipping.  They were all bathed by me in safety, happiness, health and comfort.

***

And now my landing spot is the terrace of Planet Pasta. Here they all come:

Young families; arm-in-arm couples, solitary couples, hand-holding couples; a driver backing towards Herbacos with stuff to unload; wee kids checking out the evening action; black, white and brown beings; bodybuilders; stooped old women and men; Uber moto drivers; speakers of Spanish, Dutch and French; a fat man overflowing his bicycle; pink hair, grey hair, no hair; smiles, frowns, vacant faces; clothes of orange, white, red and of course black; cyclists zooming by or tenderly easing past pedestrians; fast and slow folks; tall and tiny …

Human beings all

I’m glad you’re on the planet, dear ones

How do we make each other happy?

Number one, I think, is to spend time with the other person – good time, with no cell phones in the way.  Just you and me … talking a bit, talking a lot, talking about things that are important to us.

And we can smile – real ones that ooze appreciation of the other. Smiles that Stephen King was fond of saying in his novels reach the eyes of the smiler.

We can touch each other – a hug, a hand on the shoulder. Simple human warmth, so far beyond the comfy temperature in the room.

Or … we can be this man:

It doesn’t take much equipment to light up the eyes of children, and sometimes adults: a bucket of soapy water, two long sticks, a rope attached to both sticks with tied loops in the middle, and lots of open space. Korenmarkt in Ghent does nicely.

The bubbles shine as they fly high, sometimes breaking on the face of a little one. The kids bounce in delight. The adults smile. All is right with the world. Sure, the gentleman has a tiny metal bowl for receiving euros, and tips are important for his survival, but there is so much more.

He sees the eyes wide open along with the mouths. He knows he has created miracle soap bubbles that soar by the ancient buildings and finally pop into disappearance. He invites little kids to hold the sticks and share in the creation. He too smiles.

***

And now …

How will you curve other mouths upward?

One thing I’ve learned in life is simple: when I’m with people, say something.

Today I was enjoying my cappuccino on a sofa in Izy Coffee.  At the other end was a young man.  Another young fellow and an older man sat on chairs nearby.  They were speaking a language I didn’t know.

“What language are you speaking?”

I didn’t know if they spoke English or if they’d ignore my question.  They smiled!

“Spanish” from one of the young ones. 

And so it began …

I wanted to know about their lives and they wanted to know about mine. Perfect. Con and Juan are the sons of William, who lives in Argentina. The two boys grew up there but now Juan lives in Australia and Con in Italy. They were on a multi-month worldwide reunion.

They had spent several weeks in Marrakesh, Morocco, immersing themselves in a culture where bartering was the way to get things done.

They had spent time in Spain, the origin of their mother tongue, visiting friends and family.

Closer to me, my new friends went to Tomorrowland, the techno music festival in eastern Belgium. “We danced our asses off!” Good for them.

Last weekend, they indulged their passion for the speed and noise of Formula One racing at a track near Brussels.

And there was other stuff that I can’t remember. Wow.

The three guys were so open with me. We all laughed easily. In maybe forty minutes together, we were friends.

I told them that I was Canada’s first astronaut. When I saw wide eyes coming back at me, I swiftly added “I lied.” More smiles.

And then the moment of reveal. One by one they showed me their identical tattoos:

The Evangelistis off on an adventure. Three pointed individuals united within the circle of family. The image is so simple and so profound.

***

I grew today in the presence of three other human beings

I’m happy for all of us

On Monday we eleven Belgians were flying from Dakar, Senegal to Brussels, Belgium.  We had a six-hour layover in Casablanca, Morocco – 7:00 am till 1:00 pm.

I started the journey weak from the accumulated African heat, and the four-hour bus ride from Toubacouta to Dakar sent me sliding further downhill.  When our plane landed in Casablanca, I was desperate for sleep.

What we faced in the terminal were rows of chairs with metal armrests between each seat.  I saw Camille adjust her body to lie down without armrest pain but I wasn’t able to duplicate her feat.  My hip bones refused to get comfy.

Lore lay down on the floor but I immediately said no when I saw her.

I needed to do something so I wandered the airport looking for more pleasant seating.  None was to be found.  (Sigh)

At the very end I saw a sign: “VIP Lounge”.  That looked promising.  The fellow at the desk pointed to the armchairs inside but no place to sleep.  He mentioned, however, that there was a free lounge in Terminal Two with lots of beds!

I went back to my friends and told them I was setting off to find the beds for us.  They were dozing.

I followed what I thought were the directions but a ten-minute walk led to no beds.

Back to my VIP friend who seemed upset that I hadn’t found the Oasis Lounge.  “Ask people!”

Back to Terminal Two and Gate 25 with tweaked directions.  Seeing no oasis, I did ask an employee.  I had taken the wrong stairs before.  Finally there I was, entering the lounge.  I found two big rooms, full of sleeping humans.  The beds were more like individual sofas but they would do nicely.  There were at least eleven empty ones.

Back to my uncomfortable friends.  Four came with me and four others joined later.  At first not everyone had a bed.  Three folks went for some food but I found a spot and adjusted my physical life to approach sleep.  By now it was about 9:45.

As I laid down my weary head, the darkness around was a blessing.  My mind wavered, slowly taking in the symphony of sound that came and went:

A baby crying on and on with an exhausted mom doing her best to quiet him

The far-off beating of a drum

Feeding padding on the floor, back and forth

Kids talking in fast bursts, being mellowed by mom

Cell phones ringing, most with the usual series of tones

I came and went in consciousness for an hour or two. There was some sleep. My alarm roused me at 11:45 since our boarding time was 12:15. Soon we nine were gathered near the entrance of the lounge, still off-kilter but thankful for a bit of stretched-out slumber.

***

We dozed with other citizens of the world

We were together with them

And off we flew to our many destinations

What an amazing thing.  I cherish it.  And I’ve had lots lately.

On our 24-hour trip from Toubacouta, Senegal to Maarkedal, Belgium, I got maybe an hour.  And I was already dealing with an immense deficit of energy as a result of the intense heat.

That’s just the way it was.  The physical demise was there and I was determined not to add “Ain’t it awful?”  Except for the time I was lost in space, delirious.

I hit the Maarkedal pillow at 10:00 pm on Monday night.  I woke up at noon on Tuesday.  Late that afternoon I succumbed to slumber once again, for maybe two hours.

Tuesday night was ten hours of sleep, plus another two during the daytime Wednesday.  Last night … ten more hours.

What to make of this prolonged unconsciousness?  Not much, I’d say.  Just the basics: I’m 74, my body couldn’t handle the heat, I wasn’t able to sleep on the planes.

My recovery to energy will take as long as it does.  Already there’s more of me to give to life.

For the last year or so, I’ve sensed the events of my life (“positive” and “negative”) being embraced by something soft above – the feeling that all is well.  This knowing has mostly come easily, and pretty much immediately when brought to mind.

Not now.  The wellness is farther away and not effortlessly accessible.  Oh well.  I trust that the easy flow will return.

***

It felt strange to not write for three days but it was necessary

I had little to give

But here I go again