I go to Basic-Fit about four times a week. Some days I’m on the elliptical (called a cross-trainer here). Other times I rotate among thirteen strength training machines. (I’m sure you can imagine me spinning around!)
What I most enjoy is a half hour of stretching – fourteen different ones on or beside a yoga mat.
In my favourite stretch, I bend my knee so the outside of my leg is on the mat, foot pressed against the other thigh. Then I bend forward and … kiss my knee. It’s a marvelous symbol of self-love.
I wonder why this is so special to me.
Today I was walking near home and peered through the window of an art gallery:
The woman is so horizontal in the arms. The fingers stretch long. The back is arched. Such beauty. Such … length.
Oh, to feel the body becoming bigger. The world seems closer. More of my surface area is available to touch. All the pores are open.
Sometimes I feel that a presence is pulling my head upwards. As I extend, I am above the trees. New vistas invite me to adventure.
In other moments I’m flowing over the land, beckoned to new worlds around the curve of the Earth.
Float is a six-minute Pixar film on Disney Plus. Six of the best minutes of my life.
The boy has wide eyes that embrace life. He loves blowing the fluff off dandelions that have gone to seed. The trouble is that he follows the flow of the bits … through the air.
The first screenshot is an older version of the fascinated kid.
Years prior, dad is initially enthralled with his child’s superpower … but then there are the neighbours:
Dad rushes the boy back inside, buys a backpack and loads it with rocks. The person who has power shuts down the one who doesn’t.
Dad is ever watchful of society stepping on him. The heavy backpack goes on walks. One day father and son pause at a playground full of kids. Dad turns the wrong way just for a few seconds … and there’s a backpack lying on the sidewalk.
The young one hovers over the slide, mimics kids on the swings by tracing a curve in the air, soars high above the net to grab the basketball. He leaves a trail of disbelieving faces:
Dad hauls his son away by the shirt, with the kid trailing horizontally in the air.
Then father turns and screams …
Why can’t you just be normal!?
The boy stares. He cries. He sinks through the air to the ground.
And time stands still for me.
It was a moment of truth.
***
Dad feels the faces turned towards him
He sees the wet trails descending from his son’s eyes
Yesterday I went with my friend Larisa to the Poel school of music, drama and dance. Her nine-year-old son Philip was performing in a play. He’s dressed in grey and black. I wanted to be there to cheer him on. We sat in the front row.
The play began with each kid being pushed by the others to the front of the stage to say something. Though the words were in Dutch, and too much for this newbie, the light in the eyes and the wide open mouths were universal. Some of the kids were so “out there” – far beyond what most adults give in public. Whatever happened to us?
Later there was a scene where each actress and actor had an envelope in hand. One by one they opened it up and revealed to us what the message said. The occasional child was delicate in the opening but most of them ripped heartily, sending bits of paper every which way. Yes!
At one point, a girl forgot her line. An older girl, script in hand, said the line to the girl next to her, apparently wanting her to pass it further down the line to the actress who was stumped. That didn’t work, so finally the assistant walked across the stage and whispered the words into a waiting ear. We loved it, and even the girl who forgot had a smile.
The finale featured nine girls moving, grooving and speaking across the stage. But where was Philip? Soon the curtain parted and out came … Santa Claus! Larisa’s son beamed out joy. And he gave us some choice Dutch words to put a cap on the play.
If I look at my days, there’s magic in each one. It might be a lingering conversation in a bistro. Perhaps a walk through old streets in the sunshine. Or merely a moment in time … a stranger saying hello with their eyes.
Yesterday one of the magics spanned ten minutes. I sat in Izy Coffee watching a young girl and her younger sister. Beside my chair was a ramp for wheelchair users. The little kid would squeeze by me and then run down the ramp to the older one. What was timeless was the smile awaiting at the bottom … such joy in receiving the beloved in her arms.
I was enthralled as the scene played out again and again. Always the same adoring in those eyes. It’s what life should be about.
The older girl knew I was watching and would occasionally share her smile with me too. I wish I had been brave enough to take a photo of the moment of contact. The parents were right there and I gave in to some version of “appropriateness”.
I don’t know mom and dad. The only two moments that remain are he saying something to the kids in a raised voice, in a language I didn’t understand. And she straightening the older girl’s sweater.
Nothing can remove the joy I felt as I saw the connection between two children
We look at the ordinary, the daily hurrying, the intense focus. But what if we had super duper vision, and could see the shining that is around all of us and everything?
Perhaps we glisten … if only the eyes could take it in. As we look, do we have a built-in dimmer switch, a lessening of the majesty that has always been here?
I wonder if there’s someone standing behind each of us, holding a coat of many colours and inviting us to slip our arms into the sleeves.
I wonder if there’s the beauty of an opal lying on our skin and lightening our hair.
I wonder if we humans in northern climes look at an ice storm and see the icicles beyond the dangerous driving.
I wonder if the hallway shows us a door we’d never noticed before. And will we turn the knob?
I wonder if we can open to the sun shimmering the snow on our favourite tree.
I’m at AZ Sint-Lucas today for an ultrasound … a possible hernia.
Here I sit, watching humanity walk by. You see the young man with a backpack. He scans the parking lot. He holds a plastic bag full of medicines. He checks his phone a lot. I don’t know his story, but I bet large parts of it are my story too.
He just stood up. He walks towards the revolving door with a huge limp. His face is turned away so I can’t see the pain.
In the photo, you may be able to see two people passing each other – a woman pushing someone in a white wheelchair and a young man using a walker. When the legs don’t work well, we need help. I wonder what it’s like for the fellow. Perhaps he’s used to playing sports … and then one day a doctor says “This is your walker.”
Here comes an elderly woman wearing a red coat and a white scarf in a sea of black. It’s the colour of Santa’s suit. I wonder if she’s Mrs. Claus in her family … or maybe even the big guy herself.
Heads are adorned: Covid masks, hajibs, ball caps, berets. The world is here – being sick or caring for someone who is.
Some people hurry, some people shuffle. Some hold the arm of a loved one. Many are alone.
To my left is a restaurant. Lots of folks inside. I remember being a patient, and how comforting the warm food was, the sweet dessert, in the times when woe was me. Today I won’t be eating for awhile longer.
A young woman dressed in blue and red stares out the window. I can’t tell what’s in her eyes. And from my angle I can’t see what she holds to her chest. An infant? A dog? A full plastic bag? And then a wee human foot jiggles.
Some walk by holding coffee cups. Many are grasping little rectangles of paper that show their destinations. Purses, of course. And a broom wielded by a woman wearing a pale blue top.
The reception desk is just past the Christmas tree. A woman stands behind it, turning as folks come by. My eyes can’t tell but I sense she’s smiling at people. “Welcome.”
My friend Cara visited me yesterday. Our evening began on my back terrace, watching the seagulls fly home. It ended on the Sleepstraat as we walked past all the Turkish pizza places to her car.
We talked about it all … everything under the moon. It was easy. It was real.
I had made a dinner reservation for 7:00 at Dish. At 5:30 or so, I suggested we go exploring. And off we went.
We strolled. We meandered. I didn’t think. I just asked my feet to lead amid the twinkling lights and the darkening sky.
Those feet took us through the twisting cobblestone streets of the Patershol. The cobbles glistened. And then my favourite bench at the Lievekaai … watching the silence of the willow trees unfold.
As you may already know, I’ve declared that the next love of my life will be Elise. I haven’t met her yet.
Have I ever showed you where I’mgoing to ask Elise to marry me?
No
And so to the Academiebrug, a bridge over the Lieve. “I’ll have Elise stand right here. And then I’ll kneel down.” Cara smiled.
We ambled past the hugeness of the Augustinian monastery. Two turns and there was the entrance … the door was open. Cara was willing.
We sat in the dark at the back. A Mass was being held in the light at the front. I told Cara that I was happy to stay until she was ready to go. We lingered. The Dutch words of the priest and the singing of the faithful hung in the air.
We walked some more. “I want to show you my favourite window in Gent.” Soon we were standing in front of a huge expanse of glass in the shape of an upside down teardrop. I sighed.
I wanted Cara to experience the sweetness of Café Denizli on the Tolhuislaan but I wasn’t sure how to get there from here. I smiled as I knew that I wouldn’t use Google Maps this time.
“I thought we would have been there by now. Maybe I missed it, so focused on our conversation.” > “I don’t think so. We haven’t passed any café.”
Alrighty then …
Cara was right. Ten minutes later came the glow of Denizli. A few guys were outside, gesturing and talking loudly in Turkish. A table on the sidewalk invited us. “Here’s where I sat a few days ago, and the woman who owns the place sat right there!” The men paused and stared. I waved.
There were maybe fifteen folks inside. I scanned the faces … no one that I recognized.
Onwards. Now I really didn’t know how to get from the here of Denizli to the there of Dish. “Put that phone down, Bruce” came the words from inside my body.
Let’s turn here …
Let’s turn here …
Past the corner of a building rose a church. I followed the steeple. And voilà! I knew the entrance. I knew Merkez Bakery on the corner. We sat on a bench … facing Dish.
Two nights ago I sang in the open mic session at Minard (the café, not the concert hall).
As I waited for my time, the heart managed to climb up the throat. Pressure. Fear. As expected.
I so want to sing. I want to take soulful songs and add to their spirit with my voice. I don’t want to write songs. I want to share what’s already been written.
I was scared. Would I remember all the words? Would I sing in tune? But two things were far more important:
I will sing with passion
I will get the audience to sing along during the chorus
The song is called MTA. It tells the story of the metro in Boston. Long ago the company decided to raise the fare from ten cents to fifteen. 50%!
There was about to be an election, and a fellow named George O’Brien decided to base his campaign on fighting the fare increase. But how to get people’s attention? “I’ll have someone write a protest song, and tell people to vote for me!” And that’s what happened:
Well let me tell you the story Of a man named Charlie On a tragic and fateful day He put ten cents in his pocket Kissed his wife and family Went riding on the MTA
…
Charlie handed in his dime At the Kendall Square station And a changefor Jamaica Plain When he got there, the conductor told him one more nickel Charlie couldn’t get off of that train!
Before I started, I told the audience I wanted them to sing. “The chorus shows up five times. Sing with me!”
I sang the song well. That’s good. But my heart soared when I heard the words flow back to me:
Did he ever return? No, he never returned And his fate is still unlearned He may ride forever ‘Neath the streets of Boston He’s the man who never returned
During the last chorus, we sang strong. I stopped after the word “Boston” and held out my arms.
I was walking down Tolhuislaan yesterday, seeking eyes. Two tables were ahead, hosting three people. I smiled at a man and he smiled back. He gestured for me to take an empty chair. I did.
He didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Turkish but it was clear that coffee would be a good idea.
Inside, the hostess you see in the blue and pink moved past the languages to the pouring of coffee. I rejoined my friends on the sidewalk.
The fellow who welcomed me isn’t in the photo. On the left is the owner of Denizli. She speaks Bulgarian and Turkish only. On the right is Sari from Turkey – the only one who spoke English. His smile says it all.
No one cared that I wasn’t Turkish or Bulgarian. I was included. Sari asked about Canada. I asked about Turkey. Passersby stopped and lingered with my neighbours. At one point it felt like four languages were roaming around, including Dutch. All was so well.
I had a long view down Tolhuislaan as people favoured us with their words. Seagulls soared. Families strolled. Cars tootled along … quietly.
I was home.
Sari bought me another coffee. We talked about this, that and not much.
And then …
Everyone smiled, got up and left. Two of them into Café Denizli, two others down the street. The scene was just as lovely but the energy of companionship was gone. Oh well. Sounds like life.
Bruce's Blog 