Looking out at the wideness
From the smallness inside
Yearning for the dance
Of space that caresses

Surrounded by the sweetness of smile
One which rotates to all
No one left out of the expanse 
Each brought forth into life

Welcomed by something so grand
Circle upon circle around
Threads of glow come to the centre
Seeping into us all

No fences here
No corral for our wild horses
We dance in the air
Toes wiggling, fingers flying

Our words come so slow
The gaze from beyond breathes
Into what we want to give
And the message lilts from our lips

He hug and are hugged
By a presence so vast
Emcompassing us all
Cheering us on

Two days ago I wrote about the poet Walt Whitman. I’m in awe of how he could express beauty in so few words. I want to do that too.

Words now come into my head:

I don’t know how

It feels like that’s the wrong conversation. I don’t want to dive into a book called “How To Write Great Poetry”, or any other resource. I don’t want to consult experts from academia. Strangely, I don’t even want to talk to poets.

Well, well … it seems that I don’t know what I want. All right. I can live with that.

Do I need my poetry to be “good”? No. And I don’t even know what that means.

***

After a pause that refreshes, I’m back.

It feels simple, really. I want to express. Pick a venue, a medium … that might be me. I want the energy to flow from my heart and find its way into the air through the pores of my body, from my mouth, from my hands.

In my better moments, I don’t care what comes back. I want to go forward to. I want to love.

In the spirit of truth, however, I want to be loved while I love. But if that doesn’t happen, I will still love.

***

Oops. Love talk is so distracting. I’m pretty sure I was talking about writing poetry (which is love).

Tomorrow in this space I will write a poem. So there. There will be a new collection of words in the universe, one without punctuation, perhaps one without premeditated thought. I pray that at least one person out there in the WordPress and Facebook worlds will be touched. That will be enough.

Please note: This post is about my friend Chris but he didn’t want me to take his picture. So I included one of his brother instead.

***

It’s no small thing changing countries. I’ve needed generous people to help me. Such as my immigration lawyer Amira. Without her I’d be talking to you from Toronto, Canada.

And then there’s Chris. In December, 2022 he and I were at the same Christmas party near Oudenaarde. I knew him a bit.

I had been back and forth between Canada and Belgium, doing what was needed to set up my apartment in Gent. My visa had been approved! Soon I had to return to Canada, surrender my passport and wait until the visa had been attached and the passport mailed back to me in Canada. Then I could fly to Europe … no longer a tourist.

IKEA furniture had arrived but I couldn’t figure out some of the instructions for assembly. More crucially, I had bought an old bed for my guest room that had a bowed wire mesh structure holding the mattress. Unsleepable. I’d bought a modern support system that looked like Venetian blinds but the old and young looked incompatible to my virgin eyes.

As we sat in the living room at the party, I asked “Does anyone know someone who can help me fix things in my apartment?”

Chris spoke up immediately:

“I do. Me.”

I stared for a few seconds. “Thank you.”

And so it began. Someone I barely knew invested hours of visits to help me. Such a big soul. He was a YES … untouched by being busy, having future complications, or becoming tired of helping. Just a soft nod of the head. A “you can count on me” commitment.

And so I am blessed. Others have also stepped forward in kindness … supporting me when I’m weak, celebrating when I’m strong.

Thank you, Chris

Thank you, everyone

Sometimes when I write, I take a lot of words to reach what I want to say. That’s okay … at least I express what’s true for me, rather than simply being in the neighbourhood.

I admire people who can get to the spiritual point in just a few seconds, people who can touch me deeply in an instant.

Take my friend, Walt, for instance. Walt Whitman was an American poet and journalist living in the 1800s. He was a free spirit, licking his lips in a sensual explosion of life.

Here are seven words:

We were together … I forget the rest

O my God. Waydago, Walt. You nailed it

Please let those words wash over you. I could wax poetic about “the meaning” but no thanks. Your spirit will respond.

Long ago, some forgotten human being of my past gave me nourishment for the rest of my life with only two words:

Welcome everything

Well, my unknown benefactor, you gave me an immense gift

***

And now back to Walt. Let these gems seep inside:

Re-examine all that you have been told … dismiss that which insults your soul

Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes

Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes

What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life

Your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body

***

Okay, Walt, answer me this:

Why were you born in 1819 and me in 1949?

How come you’re dead and I’m old?

I would have loved to know you

At 5:30 yesterday, the kids played their concert – five girls ranging from about 7 to 13. I know three of them because their Thursday lesson starts after mine ends. Liara always gives me riddles, most of which I have no idea how to solve.

I loved watching them play, and applauding them at the end of each piece. I started the cello when I was 12. Makes me smile.

Liara, Luna and Ana played “Latin Nights” – the same as I would an hour later. I watched them move to fourth position, extend the first finger back to make the sound a half-tone lower, soar in volume and speed as the piece rushed to the end. I was proud of them, imagining myself as grandpa.

As the kids and their family members left, I gulped. Soon my friend Rani would be arriving to cheer me on. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Cellists kept opening the door, with their instrument sturdy on their back. More gulping. Then it hit me … the audience would mostly be made up of cello players, people who could see my every little mistake. Sweat insisted on covering my forehead.

Rani arrived. I admitted that I was far more nervous than excited. Hadn’t expected the volume of terror. She was with me.

A half-hour before concert time, players took turns coming up onstage to rehearse with Frederick, the piano accompanist.

Lieven, my teacher, kept saying things to us in Dutch, which I didn’t understand. Finally I asked Rani what he was saying. “He’s asking who wants to rehearse.” Oh. I thought he was calling certain people to the stage.

I put up my hand before the dread completely took over. Soon I was dipsy doodling (a technical term) between bodies, chairs and cellos. The stage was getting closer.

And there I was, facing a small sea of professional musicians. Yes … that was completely inaccurate – we’re all cello students. But my rattled mind couldn’t tell the difference.

Frederick started his piano introduction and my left index finger was poised to extend backwards on the A string. My heart was similarly poised – in my throat. If you had asked at that moment, I probably couldn’t have remembered my name.

I played badly. Wrong notes, squeaky on the strings, the timing off. But mostly I kept the passion I had promised. Keep your word, Bruce! And I survived. As I worked my way towards the back of the room, I noticed I was still alive. The musical Gods had not struck me down.

Rani was kind. She heard “musicality”in my playing. But I barely heard her. I was overwhelmed. I so wanted my playing to reach the audience, in a tender and expansive way. And it hadn’t.

At some point in the proceedings, as I tried to get my head and heart together, my right hand started shaking.

Don’t let Rani see that!

But she did, and apparently didn’t consider it a problem.

And then the concert. My two cello classmates and I were invited up onto the stage. Brend and Sarah are my buddies. We want the best for each other.

Brend played. I (and all of us) applauded. Sarah played. Thumbs up to you, my friend. And then … moi!

I looked out at the audience with a wee smile. I saw cellists willing me on. I saw Rani at the back, sending me support. I heard Frederick starting his intro …

I played pretty well – far better than the rehearsal. My notes were mostly right. I let vibrato appear in my left hand. I went soft and very slow when that’s what the music wanted. I let the crescendo come and I matched Frederick pretty well as we sped up to the finish.

And the passion was there. Also the smile that showed up about ten bars from the end.

The audience applauded. Inside, so did I. I had kept my word.

I told Rani this:

Just that I’m doing it may inspire people. If I can be brave enough to do my thing, maybe they can be brave enough to do theirs

***

I did it

We twenty cellists did it

We got a glimpse of the stage as our friend

Well, here I am … about five hours away from playing “Latin Nights” in a cello concert performed by the students of Lieven Baert.  Both kids and adults will grace the stage tonight.  May we all be cheered on.

I’m nervous.  I told people yesterday that I was more excited than nervous but now it’s the opposite.  Oh well.  I’ll just celebrate my shaking.  It’s a part of me, as deserving of love as my kindness.

I said to a friend yesterday that I promise to play with passion tonight.  I’ll try to make a nice sound, hit the right notes … but that’s secondary.

It would be a huge triumph if I smile while the cello soars through “Latin Nights”.  The joy of playing is the thing.  Reaching people within our shared love of music is a second cool thing.  Being meekly accurate with the notes doesn’t appeal.  My mistakes tonight will be with gusto!  An exclamation mark or five.

What if I smile while I’m bowing a wrong note, or while there’s a screech rather than a rich tone?  That would be awesome (not that I’ll go seeking such mistakes).

There’s a wide open sky available to me tonight … so far beyond “playing well”.

I want to go there

I see myself as a spiritual person … but sometimes I blow it.

As I walked into a coffee shop yesterday, I recognized the barista. Last time I was in, he played this awful rap song. The driving beat intruded on my sipping. I asked him to change the music and he did.

More rap as I approached the counter this time. Perhaps an evolved person would let the music wash over him like a spring rain. That wasn’t me. I started ranting about creating a calm atmosphere. (Hmm … that’s quite the contrast.)

He said he was willing to put on new music but I wasn’t listening. I wanted to make him wrong. I wanted to amp up my rant.

Oh, Bruce, this isn’t you. Where did you go?

Except at that moment it was me. I wasn’t such a nice guy after all.

I was educated that the rap song was the only one on a playlist that the coffee place used. My timing on the two visits had been horrible.

Not willing to learn, or even listen, I grabbed my still-to-be-filled reusable mug and stormed out of the shop.

I had walked maybe thirty metres down the street when Spirit hit me between the eyes:

“Stop.”

I did.

“Think.”

I did.

“Go back and apologize.”

(Sigh) I did.

***

“I’m sorry. I apologize. I was scared that it would be rap song after rap song. I wouldn’t listen to you when you said that there was only one of them on the playlist.”

“I was wrong.”

***

Thank God for the truth

And so I am free

The sale for Tomorrowland travel packages began at 5:00 pm yesterday.  My trigger finger was poised over my laptop.  I had a page of notes about what I intended to buy: four nights at a hostel in Brussels, bus to and from the event in Boom each day, a basic Tomorrowland ticket for the weekend. 

Times two.  I decided to buy two packages and pray that someone would join me in July.  I did my internet research about the Meininger Brussels City Center hostel.  Within the comments was the info I needed: there is a mixed gender dorm available.  Since I didn’t know if a man or woman would join me (hopefully), that’s the accommodation I’d go for.

I was staring at the little circle going around and reading the message again and again:

Do not refresh this page.  You will be automatically redirected once you can enter the shop

And then other words:

It might take some time before you get access to the shop due to the high number of visitors.  To encourage fair access, opening multiple links will result in delayed access to the ticket shop

5:20.  Still the circle.  I was to be the Zoom host for an Evolutionary Collective course running from 6:00 till 8:15 but surely I’d get tickets (or know I’m not successful) before then.

5:35.  That circle seems to be hypnotizing me …

5:45.  A yucky message appears:

Please be patient.  There are some technical  issues due to the high demand.  The shop is currently closed.  You will be notified here when the shop will reopen

5:50.  I have to get ready for the meeting.  “Guess I’m toast. All the tickets will be gone well before 8:15.”

8:45.  I’d been reflecting on our marvelous EC course, especially the sweetness of the brand new folks being introduced to Mutual Awakening.  Then it hit me …

Tomorrowland!

To the website …

The sign said my hostel package was “On Hold”, which meant currently not available. 

A few hours later, the message had changed to what you see at the top of the page.

***

I’m sad … but somehow I’m smiling.  I kept my word.  I was the EC Zoom host, despite my yearning to be at Tomorrowland.

Next Saturday general admission tickets go on sale at 5:00.  I’ll be there on my computer.

May the lottery Gods be with me

These are my friends Rani, Witold and Lola. We’re regulars at Gregor Samsa playreading evenings. As in last night …

Thank God for Harry Glockler, the owner of Gregor Samsa. Usually four evenings a week, this spiritual space hosts concerts, and sometimes playreadings. He’s created a marvel in Ghent centrum.

Yesterday the journey was An Inspector Calls by J.B. Priestley. For Act One Harry asked me to be Arthur Birling, a British factory owner, described as “a heavy-looking, rather portentous man in his middle fifties”.

“I can do that!” I thought.

I just looked at the word “portentous” and thought it meant “fat”. I can do that! But Mr. Google tells me the meaning is “puffed up with vanity”. I can also do that!

I loved playing Arthur. I have no problem puffing myself. Here he’s lecturing his son Eric:

Just let me finish, Eric. You’ve a lot to learn yet. And I’m talking as a hard-headed, practical man of business. And I say there isn’t a chance of war … Why a friend of mine went over this new liner last week – the Titanic – she sails next week – forty-six thousand eight hundred tons – New York in five days – and every luxury – and unsinkable, absolutely unsinkable. That’s what you’ve got to keep your eye on, facts like that, progress like that – and not a few German officers talking nonsense and a few scaremongers here making a fuss about nothing.

Yes! I love being absolutely wrong (or at least my character being wrong).

Twelve of us showed up, and everyone who wanted to got to read. In Act Two, I said goodbye to Mr. Birling and switched to stage directions.

Everybody was so into their parts. For all of us, I think, we’d never seen the play. We created our characters moment-to-moment, putting our unique spin on the person. Vive les différences! Three different Birlings.

The guy had a wife, a son, a daughter, and a potential son-in-law. Each became real before my eyes, and then real again in the next act. There was also the police inspector … who might not have been legit.

The best for me was Act Three. I didn’t have a part to play, so no concentrating on lines and entrances. I just drank it all in – friends and newbies flowing in the story; voices loud and soft, raucous and soothing; feeling the dark green walls; watching the inspector utter his measured words while his face glowed in the light of a lamp.

I was in Wonderland

Twelve human beings together in the mystery

Sweet

I love watching tennis. When I lived in Canada, I often went to the National Bank Open in Toronto. Twice I was in the crowd at the US Open in New York City.

Last June, having set down roots in Ghent, I took the train to Eastbourne, UK for a week of watching the women and men play at the Rothesay International tournament.

The sport is in my blood. I love the mano-a-mano or womano-a-womano moments, the ball zooming back and forth across the net. Each player draws the best from her opponent.

And now it’s the Australian Open. I follow the scores on my phone and catch a few matches on TV.

Now the question:

Who do I cheer for?

In my more sublime moments, it doesn’t matter who wins. I simply want to see great tennis – the power, the artistry, the deft touch.

In all those other moments, I pick the player that I want to win. As Canada loosens in me, so does my loyalty to Canadian players such as Leylah Fernandez. Something else is drawing me … the person who’s not expected to win, or the person who stands tall in her courage, or the one who makes me smile.

I lean towards someone young, not as strong or experienced as adult players. Someone like 16-year-old Brenda Fruhvirtova from the Czech Republic. (In Melbourne, she was overwhelmed 6-3 6-2 by Aryna Sabalenka, ranked second in the world.)

I lean towards someone who is open about her mental health struggles, and perhaps has left the game for awhile to regain her emotional balance. Someone like Amanda Anisimova from the United States. (Earlier today she beat Paula Badosa from Spain 7-5 6-4 in the third round. Paula was formerly number two in the world.)

I lean towards someone returning from a serious injury, a player who has watched her world ranking plummet during the period of rehabilitation. Someone like Emma Raducanu from the UK, who won the US Open in 2021 and then succumbed to a series of ankle and wrist surgeries. (Emma won her first match in Australia over Shelby Rogers 6-3, 6-2, and then was bounced from the tournament 6-4 4-6 6-4 by China’s Yafan Wang.)

I lean towards someone who stands up for her country in times of crisis, no matter the criticism she receives for being so outspoken. Someone like Ukraine’s Elina Svitolina, who, while treating her Russian opponents with respect during the match, refuses to shake their hand at the end. (Elina defeated Viktoriya Tomova from Bulgaria 6-1 6-3 in the second round.)

***

I lean towards those who hold their head high

And keep playing