It’s a word I’ve mused over for years:

Ethno – classifications of people

Centric – in the centre

As I sit in Gent places, I often feel at home with people who come by.  Cozy and warm. And then there are those other times:

… when I have the experience of being seen as other: a visitor, not a resident; Canadian, not Belgian; English-speaking, not Flemish;  male, not female; old, not young.

I too have a touch of ethnocentrism.  It feels light, porous, flowing.  It’s true that I love my friends far more than the man and woman in the street.  But there’s a different colour of love when I look into public eyes … the beloveds arm-in-arm, big families laughing and strolling, the beggar sheltering from the rain, the well-dressed business person in a big hurry.

I feel the humanity of us all, we of the vastly different life situations but also holding the same joys and sorrows.  There is love in my including.

I meet many people, and some of them are so solid in their living.  Some version of “Us / Them” shouts from every fibre.  I don’t know what it’s like to live in a cloud of “I’m right / You’re wrong”, in “We’re better / You’re worse” … but these are alive in every street, in every café, in many homes.

I choose not to despair.  I choose to live my life as an example of something else.  To include.  To feel our vivid particularities and hold them all.  To embrace my loved ones and smile at the folks I’ve never met (and perhaps am about to).

I like another word …

Worldcentric

Let’s try this one on

I was wandering in Gent centrum yesterday, in the Prinsenhof neighbourhood.

Down one street, I saw two glittering walls ahead.  I was drawn to the beauty …

O my God, I love living here!  Sometimes the art around me is ancient, and sometimes from today.  I am blessed.

I sat down at a pink circle of metal seats around a tree.  And gazed down the street:

Far in the distance was a steeple.  I recognized it … and I couldn’t remember where or what it was.  A smile came.  I fell into a far-off loveliness beyond labels.  Any “should” in the space floated away.

Then more meandering, taking me to one of my favourite hometown bridges.  (Hmm … I just said “hometown”)

A tourist boat, with about twenty open-air human beings, was approaching.  I leaned over, smiled and waved at the visitors, and said “Welcome to Gent!”  Ten or so smiled back.

I took the photo you see about five minutes later, as the boat was returning.

***

I have an idea.  And I will turn it into reality.  A huge part of my life is finding ways to contribute to other people.  How about if I regularly do what I did yesterday – wave to aquatic tourists from bridges?

It will make a difference to some of them.  Five seconds of a friendly face passing overhead.

I’ll do it

It will make me happy

And others as well

On January 28, 2023, my plane from Canada landed in Brussels.  This was it.  I was not coming to visit.  I was coming to live.

I had five pieces of luggage.  My friends Lydia and Lore were meeting me to help with all that stuff.

That day I changed countries.  I didn’t know the journey ahead.

***

On January 28, 2024 I decided to write about my one-year anniversary.  But I was writing a poem that day.  “Tomorrow.”

That night I vomited twice.  Writing anything was a universe away.  “Another tomorrow.”

The second night I vomited ten times.  And then the hospital for three nights.  And then no writing for twelve more days.

On Wednesday (Valentine’s) I had the energy to start again.

And now today.  “What about all those anniversary tomorrows?”

***

You see my apartment on the Oudburg.  My balcony is dead centre in the picture.  I have red, purple, yellow, orange, green and blue walls.  I have a terrace at the back where I watch the seagulls fly above the river that I can’t see.  A few doors down my street is Gregor Samsa – my resting place for playreading with friends, and for concerts.

It’s all here … especially me.  I wonder how this is possible – that I can feel so deeply home here in Gent.  It’s been such a short time compared to my life in Canada.  And yet the new belonging wells up in me.  It’s true and wise.

I drink cappuccinos and watch people, often feeling their joys and sorrows.  I talk to people, look into their eyes, feel their stories.  I walk the streets and find my favourite benches – sometimes perfect for more seagull watching.

I make music … singing, playing the cello, playing the piano.  The melodies live.

I’ve started Level Two of learning Dutch.  It’s so hard for me.  Oh well.  I shall persevere.

I’m no longer searching for Elise (the next love of my life, already named).  She will come into my life when she’s ready, perhaps around some corner in Gent centrum.

I’ve jumped through so many government and company hoops to have my Belgian life work.  Right now I’m impatiently waiting for the news that my visa has been renewed for another year.  Maybe in a week I’ll have good news!

There are jolts, sadnesses, disappointments.  But they are all held within the comfort of my couch, my wonderings about who lives behind far-off windows, and the sweetness of being at home.

As a kid, I knew something was wrong … with my name.  Even though I felt good about there not being a lot of “Bruce”s around, something was missing – syllables!

I complained to my mom:

You only gave me two syllables – “Bruce Kerr”

Looking back, I’m in awe of my ten-year-old brain.  Your normal person doesn’t care about syllables.  Even back then, I was seeping through the walls of “the box” … the expected square life.

Mom wasn’t concerned about my plight.  “It’s a perfectly good name.”

Flash forward forty years.  I had become enamoured with watching European professional cycling on TV.  I had created heroes, and I let myself rise and fall with their successes and failures.

One day an Italian cyclist came into my view.  And there was his name:

Francesco Casagrande

From the ancient recesses of my mind erupted “Seven syllables!”  I was in love.

At this moment, I’m smiling as I think of Francesco and me.  Let his name roll off your tongue.  Doesn’t it give you a thrill?  Or maybe I’m just weird.

I love three-syllable first names.  They undulate.  They flow.  I met my friend Genevieve six years ago.  She introduced herself as “Gen” but I couldn’t say it.  She was immediately “Genevieve” to me.  Today I’ve mellowed.  She still wants to be called “Gen” and I now abide by her request (while whispering “Genevieve” under my breath).

There’s another name I’m partial to: Elise.  She may look like two syllables but there really are three.  There’s an “uh” at the end.  I wonder why I love that name so much. 

Hmm …

***

I have a request of you.  If your first name has one syllable or two, get it legally changed to three.  Please.

And … feel free to ignore me

In my Canadian home, several of my lights had a dimmer switch.  Turn the knob to subdue the brightness, to soften.

In my Belgian home, I had an electrician install globe lights in four ceilings.  When the question of dimmers came to my mind, the immediate answer was No.  “If I want a romantic glow, I’ll use candles.”

The image of dimming is useful to me.  I don’t want it.  Right now, though, I’m physically dim.  My doctor says I’ll be back to full strength in two or three weeks.  I patiently wait for the dancing and the cross-trainer to return.  Spiritually I’m soaring. 

And now the thoughts of others:

David Francey said this in song …

That storm overtook us
And it fell like the night
And the Point and the Island
They passed out of sight

But we sailed on rock steady
Set course through the storm
As the sky fell upon us
And the wind drove us on

And I thought to myself
I’d be just like this ship
If I kept my light burning
On every trip

The watch it was ended
With the turn of the night
And I wrote in that log book
All lights burning bright

***

Jack Kornfield said this in speech …

In the end, these things matter most:

How well did you love?

How fully did you live?

How deeply did you let go?

***

Full … shining … alive

All of us, please

It’s time to write again.

My friend Noreen is a nun in The Sisters of Charity of Jesus and Mary.  We’re taking the Social Integration Course, which teaches us about Belgian society.  And she invited me to lunch.  She’s the one dressed in blue and white.

A few sisters spoke some English but mostly we smiled at each other.  I was invited to sit on the honoured guest chair at the dining table.  A welcome sign sat with me.

It was quiet and sweetly vibrating in the convent.  A place of rest, of contemplation, of prayer.  Like home.

The meal was delicious, especially the traditional Belgian stew – stoofvlees.  A marvelous sweet sauce.

Noreen showed me the sisters’ two chapels:

The first was grand and silent.  The second would be my place of meditation.  Comfy.

When Noreen and I approached a doorway, she paused and extended her arm, inviting me to go ahead.  I have been well schooled in “Ladies first” so Noreen’s gesture took a few seconds for me to absorb.  But then it was “of course” … a request is made and that request is honoured.

In the bathroom, I discovered another reality: the toilet seat wouldn’t stay up.  I smiled.  Very few men grace the convent.

***

I was deeply included

I felt cared for

“Thank you for being here” roamed through my mind

Dear friends,

I was in hospital last week for three nights with pneumonia. And thus my silence online.

Right now I don’t have the energy to write blog posts. C’est la vie.

I shall return,

Bruce