Sometimes I like to write in a stream of consciousness … tapping away without thinking and without stopping. No sentences, no rules – just flowing with the words.

My friend Dirk posted this amazing photo yesterday. I could create nice paragraphs about it, leading gradually to my insights. But not today.

I’ll just let go in a few minutes and see what comes. I’ll correct spelling mistakes later. There’s no good or bad, just words bubbling out of my mouth.

Why not?

***

Why am I doing this? Don’t care, font know don’t want to give nothing instead ho way inside these two

Who are you, dear men from the past and present? Who are you with your friends, with your sorrows? What has you fly into the air and dance around? And who do you dance with,?

Are you in Stone really long ago or are you hear now on my heart?

And fleshy one, where have you travelled? Who ate your companions? Have you seen the Roman ruins and tge skies of tomorrow?

Both of you! What have you learned here? Do you stay in your room or throw yourself into the world,,, what do you hunger for? What throws you sideways and dims uour mi d?

Are you me Are you a woman sometimes Will you ever grow old and feeble and slow and tired?

Is there eternity here in your faces or just a passing shower? Do you emergency from the rain with your head held high or is the umbrella your best friend?

Are we brothers? Some how do you know my joys and collapses in Belgium. Do we all speak foreign languages and yet see the truth in each other’s eyes?

What colour are here? You look bright, vivid, alive. Nio dull browns. No washed out half-assed efforts to fit in. Give me your red sobright give me your swathes of the brush on the canvas. No walls just flowing around f the circles of the world. Who is there in China? Do you see your friends sitting so far away?

Butni- not far away. Right here on the tip of your nose. Can you feel each other’s breath so warm on the cheek?

Will you stay for a vist or will you fly off home, never to be seen again? Is there a beginning here or so.e conclusion- so.e moving on from. This now to the next?

Willoughby be full of life or empties too easily? Will you k ow e erythi g or nothing?

Will we all die or is that just a mistake in judgment? Are you here u til time wi ds down? Will we laughed and cry forever?

Let’s findout.

***

I went non-stop. Just finished now. I can feel my head dipping down a bit with silliness such as “Was it any good?” And now that thought has flown.

There’s freedom here … floating up into the sky. A few spelling corrections and I’m on to the next.

Or … how about no spelling corrections? I guess that runs the risk of you not understanding me, but so what?

I just got it – I don’t need you to understand. And so I publish. Ah yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll publish without reading what I wrote.

Why not?

There is a fragile beauty in not being good at something, in not understanding, in having the world blow by you in a blur.

On the surface it’s all bad.  There’s always someone better at the task.  The head starts bowing in despair.  All is poop.

But there is indeed a light at the far end of the tunnel, if only I have eyes to see the glow.

“Really look at what you’re doing here, Bruce.  You’ve thrown yourself into a new country and a new language.  You’re returning to the cello, the piano and the guitar.  Well done.”

Thank you.  I needed that.

I’ve just returned from three hours of my Dutch language class.  Isabel, the teacher, speaks slowly and clearly.  And I don’t understand 80% of what she’s saying.  When we listen to audio conversations, the speakers are fast, and I get close to zero.  We get paired up for simple dialogues.  I need coaching from my partner.  We’re asked to write e-mails, such as responding to a wedding invitation.  And then I’m glued to Google Translate.

There … that’s enough moaning.  My friend Paula says that of course we get lost in class.  If we were good at Dutch we wouldn’t be taking the course.  She’s right.

What did I expect?  A walk in the park?  Not for this language learner.

This writing is helping.  The overwhelm is lessening.  My eyes are open again … and there’s a horizon out there.

I walk on

Thanks for listening

I often eat breakfast at the Hema cafeteria and I always take a spoon for my coffee.  For many months I would rummage through the spoon container until I found a perfect one (unbent).  Voilà:

It was simple, elegant, a stainless steel work of art.  I needed even a spoon to be an expression of me.  I wanted my life to be a work of art.

You have to admit … this is what a spoon should look like.  The best restaurants and dinner scenes in movies probably all have ones like this.

One day last week, as I searched for the right spoon, a voice inside simply said “Don’t.” That there was another way. It was a quiet voice, one I’ve come to trust. So … first spoon touched was mine.

Here’s what today’s spoon looks like:

Perfectly imperfect. Twisted a bit, weathered, used. Yes, that’s it. I have walked the streets of life for 74 years. Of course there’s wear and tear. My tummy seems to be growing, along with my nose hair. I have a delightful bag of skin hanging under my chin. My hip often hurts.

I look at the faces passing by the window of Izy Coffee. Hardly a Hollywood image to be seen. Ordinary bones, skin, hair. Showing the athletic or the sedentary. Just starting out in life, approaching the finish line or in between. Plain folks.

Not a perfect spoon in the bunch

But all ready to sip on the next delicious flavour

Here are three boats, each with two chairs. Which one do I love?

Oh, the red! The rounded wooden door. The house plants. How can I resist?

Those gears are so cool. And the chairs are perched at the stern of the boat, giving wide open views of the water. This must be the one.

The colours are more muted than Number One, the view more enclosed than Number Two. But this is my favourite. The coffee cup is nice but there’s something else happening here.

And so I am home

I love holding the moment to my chest and squeezing. Loving it. Do I do this all the time? No … but often. There is so much to be cherished in this life.

The Buddha talked about empathetic joy – being happy about other people being happy, about them expressing themselves, about them succeeding. Today five teens, boys and girls, passed me on their bicycles. They were chatting, smiling and gesturing as they easily navigated a twisting bike path. I smiled too. Their sweet energy came over and visited me.

Months ago, I found this story on Facebook, written by The Love Rabbi-Yisroel Bernath. Please ask yourself where your life is in all of this.

In Washington DC, at a Metro Station, on a cold January morning in 2007, a man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approximately 2000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

After about four minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.

About four minutes later, the violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.

At six minutes a young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

At ten minutes a three-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent – without exception – forced their children to move on quickly.

At forty-five minutes: The musician played continuously. Only six people stopped and listened for a short while. About twenty gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.

After one hour: He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.

I’m leaving Oberhausen today.  The city hasn’t touched me.  Not its fault … and not mine.  No doubt there are thousands of people happy to call it home.  As for me, my body hasn’t been well, and that colours everything.

Oberhausen feels dark, even during the day.  The brick buildings are more black than red:

Here’s some colour in the centrum.  I like that.  The photo also shows how rectangular the city is … fewer curves than I prefer:

The other word that comes to mind is empty.  This pic is in the morning but even the afternoon provides only a sprinkling of human beings:

More about emptiness:  Bike paths are everywhere – reddish brick beside the grey ones for pedestrians.  But in my two plus days here, only once did I see a cyclist use one.  And a mere five riders passed within a few metres of me during my visit.

I was the only one in this church:

I found this athletic field.  Very cool.  I was so focused on taking the photo that I don’t know if the keeper made the save:

Right beside was this 100-metre running track.  I resisted the temptation to show my stuff. It’s okay – wouldn’t have been inspiring. But when I was younger …!

There are lots of cultures in Oberhausen, including many folks from Africa I believe. And on a main shopping street, I found Lebanon and Syria side-by-side:

Everywhere I travel, I feel close to the people who live there. In Oberhausen, I came upon this tribute to German soldiers who died or went missing (vermisst) in World War I. I’m used to memorials for Allied soldiers. This German one is just as important. The fear of dying ran through both.

How many folks have sat on this bench, enjoying conversation with friends or family? Many.

Finally, here is a young guy who was with me for minutes on end. A privilege to share eyes …

This feels familiar.  I’m in a new place, eager to describe my travels.  But my body has something else to say.

I woke up feeling constipated, so typical for me after a train or plane.  No big deal.  I took my Restoralax and opened the door to a new city.

Google Maps told me about a cool breakfast place and I followed my screen along ordinary streets complete with ordinary people.  There is something sweet and real about the plain.  I walked slowly.

My destination appeared:

Café Bauer in Oberhausen centrum.  I went inside to the warm.  The server had a big smile and a bit of English.  I had no German.  I pointed to something on the menu and he smiled again.

Turns out that my choice was a small banquet – meats, cheeses, fruit, croissant, baguette, jam …  I dug in, washing things down with a cappuccino.

And then, after the meal …

Oww!  Pain down below struck with a vengeance.  I headed to the bathroom but couldn’t poop.

Out the door to the street and a frantic pumping of the legs back to the Airbnb.  The pain demanded release.

I opened the apartment building door and climbed the stairs.  The day before the host had told me that I needed to turn the key to my unit twice to the left to get access.  In the moment, I forgot.  I did it once.

And there I stood, with the door open two inches and the key stuck in the lock.  I could see the bathroom door inside.

I yelled “Peter!” and he came running from the next apartment.

Two results were produced.

***

Exhausted, I lay down on the bed.  I moaned.  My eyes were closing in the midday hour.

I needed a consolation.  I fumbled with my phone until I found a podcast from the Rouleur magazine.  The writers are usually brilliant, capturing the soul of cycling.  Through the bleariness, I heard two men talking about the union of art and the bicycle.  Their words caressed my troubled mind.  Sleep came and went and came again.  Hours passed.

Eventually I went out into the world again … saw this and that, did this and that.

But the call of my bed brought me home once more

Andrea, me … and all these folks:

We were eagerly anticipating. And the Bocelli smile didn’t disappoint. Still, the music was a mixed bag for me.

Andrea’s voice was so pure. His words often hung in the air … My mouth dropped open and my hands found each other.

Most of the pieces were operatic. The melodies didn’t move me and I didn’t understand the languages sung. My hero never sang in English. And so my experience wasn’t as deep as I’d hoped (until the last song!)

I yearned for the stories shining from the music, ones that will touch us human beings. I yearned for the melodies that would sweep me up in their grandeur. And I still loved the man and his voice.

A young woman in a sparkling red dress played passionate violin. Her body swayed. She rose up as the notes soared. And she smiled in the playing! Sometimes she smiled at the conductor – so full of joy. And sometimes she seemed to be smiling at her violin. They were companions on the journey.

I can’t remember her name. But maybe Google can tell me. I’ll search for “Andrea Bocelli World Tour”.

I found her! Rusanda Panfili. Magnifique.

Towards the end, Andrea spoke to us in English. He thanked us all for our “affection”. And I really got that he meant each and every one of us 12,000 music lovers. He also said that it is hard to sing, given “these difficult times”, which I took to be a reference to the tragic war that erupted a few days ago.

And then that beloved last song – Nessun Dorma. The melody is divine. It overwhelmed the fact that I didn’t know the words.

I was in awe as Andrea held the last high note for an eternity.

***

Here is Nessun Dorma at another concert. The setting is very similar to last night … orchestra and choir loving the man.

Please enjoy a gift from God

https://youtu.be/2SZsxTBCzoA?si=foBKsGg3XMbbcf9a

I’m on the train from Brussels to Cologne, Germany.  My eventual destination is Oberhausen.  Andrea Bocelli agreed to sing to me tonight.

Earlier, at Brussels Zuid train station, I took my suitcase on the down escalator.  A woman behind demanded that I let her get by.  There was no room to do so.  I said “No.  My balance isn’t good on escalators.” She tried unsuccessfully to climb over my suitcase.  (Sigh)

Scenes from my train window:

Kids zooming around a playground, way below my view

Eight satellite dishes hanging on the walls of a small apartment building

An ancient church spire with flashing lights at the top to warn planes

Speeding by a train fifty metres away, moving in the same direction

Mile after mile paralleling a freeway … so boring.  Cars are just not that interesting

Finally a broad expanse of green, hosting cows that may be wondering why we’re going so fast

So high above the streets of Liège, looking down on the heads of people walking by

At the station, a canopy above of yellow, red and transparent strips of glass

To reach Oberhausen, I’m taking four trains.  So there are three transfers, ranging between ten and eighteen minutes .  If the trains are on time, and I can speedily find the new platform, I’ll see Andrea.

I’m in Germany!  No sign.  The trees look the same.

Oh oh.  The train left Achen, Germany nine minutes late.  It’s expected to arrive in Cologne at 4:22.  My next train leaves there at 4:25.

Happily the gentleman sitting next to me got on his phone and discovered another train that leaves at 4:37.  It goes to Essen rather than Wuppertal but there’s a train from Essen to Oberhausen that will get me in at 6:44.  The concert starts at 8:00.

Life works

I’m on the train to Essen.  Four people have helped me.  Praise life.

The highest speed that I saw on the previous train to Cologne was 228 kph.  Now I’m on a really slow one – probably 60 kph.

The light is fading.  Far more compelling than the grey landscape are the passengers.  One young black woman with a huge smile is especially compelling.  And the languages soaring above our seats! German so dominant, unlike the Dutch of Belgium.  But also others that I can’t decipher.

Now the final train from Essen to Oberhausen.  More like a subway, and crammed with commuters.

I stood outside the Oberhausen train station, praying that Google Maps would be nice to me.  And it was.

Soon Peter was letting me into the apartment, showing me the lights and keys, giving me directions to the arena.

It was 7:15.  “How do I pay on the bus?”  “I have to charge my phone some or I’ll have no ticket to get in.”

Peter’s explanations were longer than I wanted.  Time was so short.  I hope I was polite (but maybe not).

I was finally on the street, walking fast to the bus stop.  This time Google Maps was wrong.  What I thought was the stop was just a widening of the pavement.  And Bus 957 floated by.

I found another bus at another location.  A woman speaking in French tried to help me navigate Oberhausen transit.  I didn’t understand.

However …

At 7:59 my eyes beheld this:

More tomorrow

Patricia Albere, founder of the Evolutionary Collective, recently talked about pressure.  It’s a good thing.  Life is richer when we have moments of essential performance.

Today two sources of pressure are living in me:

One

I’m often the Zoom host on EC calls.  It’s marvelous to have a wide open mind and heart but there comes a time when a job needs to be done.  The 30 or 40 people online need me to produce the result of a technically smooth meeting.  I don’t want to make any mistakes that would distract them from connecting with their partner.

Earlier this week, I was all set up on Zoom ten minutes before the session was to start.  Folks were arriving onscreen.  The teacher looked to be meditating.

And my screen froze …

I tried pressing Control-Alt-Delete to turn off the laptop.  No response.  Press and hold the power button > same.  The teacher had texted me that I seemed to have lost internet connection.  “Yes.  I’m trying to get back on.”

I wouldn’t call my reaction calm but it was … even.  Unlike the keys, my fingers and mind hadn’t frozen.

Finally (two minutes later?) things started working again.  With five minutes to go, I was back in the meeting.  I did the various tasks that were necessary.  And at the top of the hour I welcomed the participants.

Sometime during the session, I thought of the tennis champion Billie Jean King, and her marvelous quote:

Pressure is a Privilege

Indeed

Two

I want to sing for people.  Two nights ago, I enjoyed a concert at a small hall in Gent called Minard.  There were about five scheduled performers sprinkled throughout the evening.

The MC announced that after the break, there’d be some “open mic” time.  “Sign up for a spot.”  I didn’t.  I didn’t have a song ready.  Besides I was just plain scared.

However …

“The next open mic opportunity will be on Monday, November 13.”

I’m going to sing on the 13th.  You heard it here first.  The head will be held high – with the voice perfect or imperfect, the melody in tune or not, the words solid or unsure.

No matter the quality, I will sing Paint the Sky with Stars … passionately.  I will reach the audience.  I will fill the room.

I will be afraid.  And I will keep going.

Right now I know the melody.  I know the key to sing in – one that will allow me to hit some delicious low notes.  The pressure of the next month is to learn the words!  Some of them already live in my soul:

Suddenly before my eyes
Hues of indigo arise

Others have trouble finding their way from the phone to my lips:

Night has brought to those who sleep
Only dreams they cannot keep
I have legends in the deep

Hmm … much concentration needed.  Daily repetition.  And confidence that when the moment comes, so will these words.

Of course the pressure will be most pointed when I step onstage and bring my lips close to the microphone.

Bring it on