Zoom is a marvel. In our Evolutionary Collective meetings, I can see 49 of us on one screen. When someone says something cool, lots of us are nodding. And the us includes folks from many parts of the world, people who know how to connect deeply with other human beings.

On Wednesday and Friday, I had a problem. After the breakout groups ended (we’re randomly paired with another person) my video disappeared. And the “Start Video” button didn’t respond. (Sigh)

I have some computer knowledge but it’s closer to none than lots. Both times I left the meeting, turned my laptop off and back on, unplugged and replugged my webcam, and returned. On Wednesday I had video, on Friday I didn’t.

And then there’s this weekend. Over Saturday and Sunday the Core group of the EC are meeting for a total of 12 hours. I had reached out to a techy friend in the group for help but so far he hadn’t found a solution.

Towards the end of our first breakout session yesterday, I was holding my breath. “Please, may my face appear when we get back to the large group!”

No such luck. My little rectangle was black – just “Bruce Kerr” showing. (Sigh again)

I left the meeting. I tried the previous strategies, plus rebooting my router. I pressed the F10 key. Still black.

I tried coming back on my phone. The “Start Video” button wouldn’t respond.

Three people in the meeting were searching for solutions. In the background of my head there was a touch of despair. I knew that late in Sunday’s meeting (today), I was to lead a small group of us in an exercise. No video … no leadership. And I had given my word to lead. (A lot more sighing)

Our job as EC participants is to update Zoom to the latest version before a meeting starts. I had done this. I noticed the screen had looked a little different. There was a “Leave Meeting” button at the top, beside one that said “OK”. I didn’t pay attention.

It was looking like all I could do for the weekend was listen and see people. I couldn’t speak, participate in the practices, or be seen. Then Mimi, one of the participants, mentioned in the group that Zoom had updated and there was now an “OK” button on the screen. She thought it had some importance.

I pressed the “OK” button.

And there was my face!

It turns out that there was a short message beside the button that said the session is being recorded. Oops. Hadn’t seen it.

So … it appears that my problem has been solved. I would like to be a totally alert human being but clearly that’s not the case.

I give myself credit. I’ve worked very hard since Wednesday to find a solution. I delved into issues that are definitely not my strong suit. And I didn’t give up.

***

It’s humbling

But it’s “OK”

Thank you, Mimi

Friends at the café Yo’s Place told me about an open mic session to take place last night. So why not go and open my vocal cords?

The venue was Salvatore’s on Sint-Salavatorstraat in Gent. As I walked in the door, the two fellows you see were hanging the painting you see. Big smiles of welcome came my way.

Pat (on the left) and I got talking about life and his painting. He asked me to name it and I chose “Onward”, because of horses and people moving to the left. Too bad that part doesn’t show up in the photo.

Pat was so so easy to talk to. English was a bit difficult for him but he wanted me to feel included. So did the host, a young man named Kobe. He was glad I found his place.

Then there were Damian (wearing a cool fur hat with ear flaps), Muhannad (a black fellow whose name has n’s rather than m’s) and Omar, a drama student. They all were happy that this newbie showed up.

That was it! Six of us. Kobe said that last time about fifteen folks showed up. I was happy with six.

I volunteered to go first. As I walked to the front of the room, I could feel how calm I was. Unexpected and delightful. Something is moving in me.

I sang a song I’d never shared in public – Loving Arms. It’s a wistful tale of love let go of … and later longed for. My eyes stayed open, and roamed among five faces. I believe I reached all of them

I asked Kobe if I could sing another song. He smiled and said yes. A surge of pleasure burst through me. Clearly my need to sing, to reach out, was larger than my fear of performing.

It was Pat’s turn. He wondered if it was okay if he spoke in Dutch, and of course I agreed. I was touched by him asking permission. Pat’s words flowed as he gestured towards his creation. He was one with his art. Later he told me that the painting was about what refugees faced – physically and emotionally.

Kobe performed a short play for us, playing all the characters. A police officer stood above a seated guy who was being accused of a crime. Kobe moved from standing, to sitting, to standing again as the conversation unfurled. It was a hilarious story of each person asked the other for ID, to prove they really were who they said they were.

***

A lovely evening

Why not wander into the night and see who’s there?

Not the entire store, just its cafeteria. Except it’s not a just for me. I’ve loved having my croissant with raspberry jam, my hard-boiled egg, my ham and cheese mini-sandwich, my yogurt with peach and strawberry bits, and my cappuccino. But there’s so much more …

I love the big windows looking out on the Korenmarkt square. So many people walking below, and the rhythm of the trams passing by.

I love saying hi to my regular neighbours at the next tables. They’re all French-speaking mid-to-old guys. One is constantly on his computer. I’ve never asked him what he’s doing. The other two hold court with their français friends … voices frequently rising and falling. My French is a little better than my Dutch but still I’m only picking out isolated words.

This morning my sadness passed through the window to the street below. After savouring the flavours of breakfast, I picked up my tray and began to leave. I stopped at both tables.

“À demain?” (Tomorrow?)

“Oui” came from every pair of lips.

“Moi aussi.” (Me too)

Parting will be such sweet sorrow

I had a guest bedroom in Canada and I have one in Belgium. The trouble is that I rarely go in there, and when I do I don’t linger.

In Belmont the walls were a gorgeous deep purple. In Gent I used the exact same colour in my bedroom so I can let it enter me every day.

The same goes for my art. The photograph you see was in my laundry room in Canada, on a side wall. No lingering there … just focusing on the task at hand. And now it hangs in my guest bedroom.

I hereby commit to sitting on a chair in that room and feeling into the image for minutes on end. Because it deserves that. The picture was created to move people so I need to let it do its job.

Look at the shaft of light. How does it get inside? What is being illuminated? How come there are so many caves that are totally black?

What I need to express isn’t an essay about the depths of geology and spirituality. Just the few words in the paragraph above will do nicely.

I simply need to stay put for awhile and let the wonder of the scene wash over me. No “and therefore …” Just the experience.

The receiving is enough

I’ve taken Level One of Dutch, and Level Two will welcome me in February.  But registration hasn’t been open.

Yesterday I decided to act.  I went to the website of CVO Gent – my school.  But there was no English translation for the massive amount of information.  Google Translate would have taken approximately forever. Clearly Level One has only provided me with the basics.  There’s a long road ahead … one that I am happy to embrace.

I should have written down exactly how I would register for the next course, but I didn’t.  That’s okay.  As I get older (somewhere in the vicinity of 55) I’ve become far more gentle with myself.  Mistakes are held lightly.

My phone calls to the school yesterday were met with a minute of ringing and then a dead line.  “Odd.  They must be really busy.  I’ll walk down there tomorrow.”

So this morning I set off on the half-hour stroll, armed with questions.  As I turned the corner of the CVO building, I was greeted with approximately what you see in the picture – a locked gate.  All the windows were dark.

Hmm …

And then I got it – all the schools were closed for two weeks – kids, teens, adults.  That’s why no one answered the phone.  I smiled in wonder.  There’s so much I don’t know in my new home. Perhaps this will be so for months, or years. That’s all right. I signed up for Belgium … all of it.

I’m here to stay

I love hearing people sing. And so I go to concerts in big halls: Bruce Springsteen, Andrea Bocelli and Lady Gaga in the last two years. Plus tiny spaces: the sweet voices of Fourchette in Gregor Samsa.

At Christmas I was singing karaoke with friends. Others at the party offered us songs they loved.

And I’ve sung at two open mic sessions recently. Another one on Friday night.

All this is well and good. What I miss is singing together. Not a choir, just a blending of voice among friends. In a living room, maybe under a tree. Not performance … just expressing with each other.

Harry Chapin wrote one of my favourite songs. Harry knew about the joy of together. And he shared his lyrics with us all:

Remember when the music
Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire
And as we sang the words, it would set our minds on fire
For we believed in things, and so we’d sing

Remember when the music
Brought us all together to stand inside the rain
And as we’d join our hands, we’d meet in the refrain
For we had dreams to live, we had hopes to give

Remember when the music
Was the best of what we dreamed of for our children’s time
And as we sang we worked, for time was just a line
It was a gift we saved, a gift the future gave

Remember when the music
Was a rock that we could cling to so we’d not despair
And as we sang we knew we’d hear an echo fill the air
We’d be smiling then, we would smile again

Remember when the music
Was a glow on the horizon of every newborn day
And as we sang, the sun came up to chase the dark away
And life was good, for we knew we could

Remember when the music
Brought the night across the valley as the day went down
And as we’d hum the melody, we’d be safe inside the sound
And so we’d sleep, we had dreams to keep

Remember when the music
Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire
And as we sang the words, it would set our minds on fire
For we believed in things, and so we’d sing

***

Well done, Harry. You opened my eyes to a time when our singing was one way we knew each other … and loved each other.

Why not again?

What changes and what doesn’t?

The answer to the first is pretty clear – the whole aging thing: kid, teen, young adult, mid-life, senior. Different tasks in each phase, different challenges and joys.

But what of Bruce has stayed the same?

***

I still need comfort, to be held lovingly by life. Today it often comes in the presence of a friend. Or in meditation. Or the covers pulled up to my chin at 3:00 pm.

When I was young, it was my teddy bear. I’d hold it to my heart and suck my thumb. I kept Teddy until its head fell off. I sucked my thumb until I was 11. I remember the groove that my teeth made.

Woh! As I wrote the last two paragraphs, I realized that I still have a teddy bear – Turner Brown. I wrote about hugging him a few days ago.

***

I still need adventure. Back then, I roamed the back alleys of my neighbourhood in Toronto, wearing my toy guns, searching for “bad guys”.

Today the adventures are still alive …

Writing this blog (feeling the words come unbidden)

Conversations with dear ones about what’s real (times of immense contact with human beings)

Being overwhelmed with the beauty of the moment (seeing the hearts of people walking in the street)

***

I still need to make music. In the early 1960s, I bought my first record album – The Buddy Holly Story. My parents bought me a little turntable. I stole a wooden spoon from the kitchen and rushed upstairs to my bedroom. Out of my mouth and onto the spoon came the song …

If you knew Peggy Sue

Then you’d know why I feel blue

About Peggy, ’bout Peggy Sue

Well, I love you gal

Yes, I love you Peggy Sue

Today I sing at open mic sessions in a little café. The words still have to flow from my mouth.

***

The kid is still here