I think it’s one of the loveliest things you can do.  Palm against palm … warming each other.

I often sit in IZY on the lovely black couch by the window.  Out there is the flow of humanity.  Many people walk alone but my eyes go to the couples and groups – the lovers, the families, the friends.

I watch hands.

Where do they go?  Are they full of stuff or open to the world?  Are they stuffed into pockets?  Does left join right behind the back … so contorted? 

And arms.  Do they hang limply?  Or is there an angle at the elbow?  Perhaps a crossing over the chest.

But here’s my big question:

Do people hold hands?

See the photo.  Grandma and grandpa are running with granddaughter.  And their hands are joined.  Lovely.

Yesterday I was on a mission: look out the window and find couples holding hands.  I saw lots of folks arm-in-arm, and that was cool.  Others walked with no contact, of the bodies or eyes.  I felt sad when I saw them.  We human beings are made for touch.

And then there were the lovers, where the word is so alive.  Hands cuddled, hearts as well.  Lots of them strolling through their lives, right in front of me.  Young, old and medium.  I smiled.

The world needs hands that find each other

That fit perfectly

Softly

I watched my first two cyclocross races on TV today – women and men.  O my God!  This is not the Tour de France, not on the roads and in the villages, not vista after vista appearing.

Some devilish minds took a piece of rolling land and created a circuit that’s repeated several times.  Think grass, mud, sand, asphalt, narrow trails, jumps, tight turns, straight up hills, dizzy descents.

Some of the slopes are so steep, or so oozy, that the cyclists leap off their bikes and carry them on their shoulders:

Even on sunny days, there’s mud.  And when it rains!  You can barely make out the faces:

A typical race is an hour, and the exhaustion builds.  Fine cycling technique goes out the window.  Trying to pass someone on a trail requires more than the rider usually has.  Control on the handlebars can be a lost cause.

It was so exciting!  And guess what?  Today’s race was in Hulst, a city of 30,000 in the Netherlands. That’s 39 kilometres from Ghent.  I can go!

The riders inspired me today.  They gave everything.  One guy fell in the first two hundred metres.  His gears were wrecked.  His team (and a replacement bike) couldn’t get to where he was on the course.  So he shouldered the wounded bicycle and ran up, down and sideways for several minutes to the team area. Tom Pidcock – thank you.

Here’s a final photo. Of course no smile. But this man is doing what he’s meant to do. May the same be true for you and me.

I dreamed of ice cream last night. Actually I dreamed of being a student teacher again, and teaching an art lesson about painting ice cream.

And where did that come from?

There sat my supervisor at the back of the room, taking notes on my every move. I had to discuss the rubric with the students – a description of the quality standards for this assignment that would produce an A, B, C or less.

I was sad in my dream, sad about the focus on evaluation, on someone else’s standards of quality.

As I described the assignment, the students’ eyes were glazed. I could feel their attitude – just do the thing, figure out what the teacher wants and give him that. Nobody wanted to discuss what possibilities there were for depicting ice cream on paper. Even before I’d finished my instructions, kids were getting up from their seats and getting a piece of art paper from the supply room.

And the guy at the back of the room was still writing furiously.

I wanted conversation, an exploring of “What if … ?” I wanted to see the glow of light in the eyes. I wanted the art to exude the sweetness of Vanilla, the crunch of Rocky Road, the wonder of Crème Brulée. I wanted the tip of the tongue to find its way to the paper.

I didn’t get what I wanted

I sat in IZY Coffee yesterday morning.  I asked Arjen, the barista, if Bart and Larisa were back yet from Munich.  They own IZY.

Arjen said they got back a few days ago and that Bart was working at the store in Brugge today.

As I sat there working on yesterday’s blog, I startled.  “I could surprise him!”

And so I did.  A thirty-minute train ride later from Ghent, there I was in the Brugge station.  Google Maps told me how to get to centrum and IZY.

I was fourth in line.  When Bart’s eyes met mine, he startled too.  And smiled.

He would finish his shift at 5:00 pm, four hours down the road.  I told him I wanted to take him out to dinner.  And off I went, into the world of ancient buildings and rampaging tourists.

I decided to just wander – no destination, no purpose … turn left, turn right, and why not turn right again?

I sat at the end of a bench in front of the Belfort – the bell tower with its carillon melodies.  I saw a couple, maybe in their 60s, approaching.  I sidled over, right against the handrail of the bench.  She said “Thank you”. And we began talking. I smiled to think that the simplest action can start a conversation.

Jane and Michael were from Cambridge in the U.K. I can’t remember what we talked about but we sure laughed a lot.

Now I remember something. They were on a cruise – Amsterdam yesterday and Paris tomorrow. They’d picked Brugge since it was famous. They’d heard of Ghent but thought Brugge was a better choice. I tried to correct their understanding of reality … and we laughed some more.

Nice people. I gave them my contact info, and my wish that they stay with me on a future trip. Bye.

There followed a lingering beer in Bar des Amis, full of people easily watched. Then more meandering, more benches, more searching for tiny side streets.

At some point a text from the USA:

In my excitement to surprise Bart, I forgot that I had scheduled a Zoom meeting with a friend in the United States for 4:00. Randy was going to coach me about subtle details of being a Zoom host for big meetings.

Oh no! I blew it. My friend had been counting on me. It wasn’t an error of intent, it was an error of omission. But it still impacted him. I texted him right away, falling over myself in apology.

Now I had a decision to make. Would I let my sadness and embarrassment affect my dinner with Bart? How long would I hold onto this? It turned out to be minutes. And tomorrow (now today) I would set things right with Randy.

(Sigh)

Bart suggested Otomat for pizza. I suggested a photo. He’s so easy to talk to. We traded stories. I gave him a piece of my chicory and ham pizza.

“Let me tell you of Larisa’s favourite travel memory.” I was all ears. It was a long story, only some of which my brain has retained.

Here’s a snapshot:

Bart and Larisa, last minute vacation to Venezuela, Christmas time – everything closed, no trains or buses, no access to money, friendly local folks offered them a ride across the country, very hungry, somehow Bart finds a big bag of potato chips, presents them to Larisa, she’s the happiest, decides that Bart is her forever man. Voilà.

It was a fine afternoon and evening

Bart is très cool

Maybe I am too

I adore the word “Beloved”.  I aim it at people, places and events.

But it’s time to break new ground.

Over the past year, I’ve noticed myself going towards the ups and downs of life rather than backing away.  It feels strange and lovely.

However … there’s one notable exception:

FEAR

I’m afraid of fear. I run away. I get busy. I eat dessert. I find ways to cover the poop with ice cream.

Yesterday I tried something new. I picked up my teddy bear Turner Brown, sat in my meditation chair, hugged my friend and said “Beloved Fear”.

I sat there for two hours, feeling the softness of Turner’s fur (fear’s fur), rubbing my fingers down Turner’s cheek (fear’s cheek), looking into Turner’s eyes (fear’s eyes).

Two hours is a long time. The hug lasted long and long. Our eyes stayed together.

***

I wrote a few days ago about doing stretching exercises, kissing my knee as I leaned forward. Fear is just as much a part of me as are my knees. I don’t want them to go away. I want to love them.

A work in progress

Ernest Hemingway was an American novelist and journalist.  He only lived for 61 years.  In that time, he had many fine things to say.

Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt use it – don’t cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist – but don’t think anything is of any importance because it happens to you or anyone belonging to you.

To be with the hurt, not to will it away.  “Let’s be friends, you and me.  Let’s be cozy.”

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

My sorrows gently nudge my eyes open.  They’re then able to take in the entire painting … the bright reds and the dull browns.  In my better moments I am home in all of it.

The way to make people trustworthy is to trust them.

Yes.  I can’t change you.  I can show you me.  And perhaps you’ll follow.

The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.

Once I failed an entire university year.  Once I was fired.  Once I lay dying on a downtown Vancouver bench, only to be rescued by a taxi driver.  Wounded again and again.  (But I’m still here!)

As a writer, you should not judge, you should understand.

I see your foibles. They look a lot like mine.

The real reason for not committing suicide is because you always know how swell life gets again after the hell is over.

On we roll … cut by the brambles and swept into the melody.

***

Thanks, Ernest, for the reminders

Wish I had known you

There were ten of us at Marie-paule’s place: her daughter Lydia, Luc, Baziel, Lore, Florian, Frans, Els, Willem … et moi.

Different ages, personalities, life experiences.  All stirred together to make a delicious, thick soup.  Yummy!

Frans brought a microphone and speaker.  Many of us took turns with mic in hand, giving ‘er as the next song came on.  Often we didn’t know the words, or we didn’t get the tune right.  But what was important was singing! Frans and I performed a passionate duet of Andrea Bocelli’s Time To Say Goodbye, with our noses nearly touching. One thing for sure – we were loud!

Then there was the dancing, largely instigated by Marie-paule. She kept hauling people out of their seats to wiggle with her. There wasn’t much space in the living room, what with the coffee table loaded with treats, but our bodies found a way. Hips gyrated, hands ended up above heads, and smiles abounded.

Two gentlemen, who shall remain anonymous, had a reputation of “not dancing” but that perception soon floated away. They moved and grooved.

Eventually I was pooped, and I said no to Lydia and Marie-paule’s efforts to get me aloft. That felt strange. One of my hearts wanted to keep boogieing but the physical one told me to rest. I need to listen when the body speaks.

After an inspired main course of various meats, cheeses and veggies, we returned to the living room to open presents. Wrapping paper flew and eyes opened wide. Lydia gave me a tie with a cello on it! Perfect Bruceness. With hopes of getting the Windsor knot just right, I put it on. The mirror, however, revealed an amateur effort. Not to be defeated, my fingers tried again … and this time they remembered the triangular symmetry. Voilà. I’m pretty sure I looked a lot like George Clooney all dressed up.

I had a goal for the evening: that I would recite Twas The Night Before Christmas to the gathered human beings. As the microphone songs continued, I fretted that there might not be an opportunity for poetry. But now the presents were opened, the admirers were admiring, and a quiet settled over us.

Do it, Bruce! bubbled up inside.

I stood up at the end of the room.

“I would like to recite a Christmas poem.” And I did.

***

Now here I am on Christmas Day. My body is sagging. Going for a walk is in the realm of “pie in the sky”. The shaking and shimmying of last night is with me still. So be it.

I’m happy

I strolled in the world alone yesterday afternoon.  I needed to breathe in the Flemish air.  I needed to see the sun dance on the earth.

We had been driving earlier and I saw two vehicles turn off the road into a driveway.  “That’s a cemetery,” said Lydia.  Oh.  I’d walked by many times and thought it was someone’s fancy estate.

So when the walking drew forth my body from the couch, I had tombstones on my mind.  From Lydia’s dining room, there’s a long view over the hills to another cemetery, on the horizon.  I had walked in there before but now I couldn’t remember something essential.  Are there benches for me to sit?

I judge the humaneness of a spot by the number of places available for people to sit down – free public places, not tied to buying a beer or coffee. 

My feet suggested a reconsideration … away from the somewhat known cemetery to the brand new one.  So I walked downhill towards the wrought iron fence and the gap that beckoned me down the long driveway.

And voilà.  There I was among the gravestones and the trees.  Faces in oval photographs looked up at me.  Virtually none were smiling.  I guess being dead is a solemn affair.

My meanderings took me past two benches.  Neither had a long view, another fetish of mine.  Finally my big circle led me back to the gate again. 

Nearby was a green trailer – your basic industrial rectangle.  Must be the centre of operations for the cemetery.  Nobody was home.  Through the window, I saw a businesslike interior.  Behind was a far more interesting building – a little shed with moss growing amid the red tiles of the roof.  No windows … so no sensing of the inside soul of the place.

A bench faced the front of the office.  I sat there, uninspired.  It was time to go.

Back down the driveway, then climbing up the street, turning right at the intersection.  I had to be careful.  There were no sidewalks on my way to the other cemetery.  Cars came and went.

There were long views to be loved.  And sunshine sparkling the grass.

And now … Dead Place Number Two.  It was quite orderly for the first part, thoroughly rectangular.  And not a bum resting spot to be seen. 

Off to my right was a wide expanse of grass, bordered by deep woods.  “That’ll do nicely.”  I climbed up, I wove around, I dipped down.  Through the trees I saw a Belgian flag centred on a circular lawn.  “Hmm … didn’t the other place have a similar setup?  Must be a common feature of cemeteries in Belgium.”

I stepped around gravestones set in a grid.  I curved down a hill.  Far in the distance I glimpsed something rectangular, something green.  As I got closer, I saw that it was a trailer that looked similar to the other place.

And there was something behind – a shed with moss growing on the roof!

Both my mind and body stopped.  This is all one big cemetery – two entrances!

I stood, limp in the arms.  My mouth dropped.  My brain cells were scrambled.  The possibility of “one big one” had never come to mind.  I sat once again on the bench facing the office and marvelled at the strangeness of life.

***

I wandered down little roads some more

I saw beauty on the land some more

And then I lay on the couch some more

I’m staying with my friends Lydia, Lore and Baziel until Christmas.  Oh … and one more friend – Henri.  They live among rolling hills near the village of Maarkedal.

Henri is a big guy, a Rhodesian ridgeback doggie.  When I visit, I sleep in a separate building and in the morning use a key to get into the home.  Guess who greets me at the door?  He knows my patterns, that I’m usually the first person up, and that jingle of keys is me.

This morning I moved to the living room couch to take off my outdoor shoes, and Henri moved with me.  He started off with his usual bouncing … and licking.  My face was an inviting target.  In years past, I would let the dog tongue migrate all the way to my glasses but now I’ve dematured, only revealing my chin and neck.  Still, I’m well lubricated.

And then Henri presented the side of his body to me and stood there. I took both hands and rubbed his flanks – over and over. Occasionally he brought his head close and my hands knew what to do there as well. Then his side again, this time facing the other way.

For at least ten minutes.

The rhythm of the touch, the softness of the fur, and Henri gratefully receiving. Time lost all meaning.

And then he walked out of the room …

I smile as I remember

I was talking to a friend this morning. She told me a marvelous story. Her son was travelling somewhere and had bought a seat. I can’t remember if it was plane or train. As he sat there, an Arabic man appeared above him and started yelling. Neither person spoke the language of the other.

The young fellow spoke softly as the other one continued to rant. He was offering to change seats. The first tried different languages but none were understood. Still he stayed calm, hoping his example would rub off.

What marvelous presence, to stay centred in the midst of a hurricane. I wondered if I could have had such a broad view in the moment.

An older Arabic man appeared and congratulated the gracious man for his meditative being. Then he spoke in Arabic to his still “foaming at the mouth” compatriot.

And the fury fell away …

Examples of kindness are everywhere, if only I have the eyes to see. The older Arabic fellow could have aligned with his countryman … in a knee jerk way. But he decided to help. My friend’s son could have escalated the situation but his mission was to defuse.

Thank God for human beings