Two hours ago I left my Dutch classroom after a long morning session.  The intense concentration was wearing on my body and soul.  I felt barraged by the new and sometimes incomprehensible.

And then to Izy Coffee to recover.  I read lots of stuff on my phone about the Ronde van Vlaanderen, tomorrow’s epic bicycle race near here.

I love writing but today I knew I had nothing to give.  The body was depressed – not the heart but the body.

My ego was treading water, knowing that I had written a blog post for 45 straight days.  “Oh well.  I’ll start again tomorrow.”  Still, I kept searching for a topic and the energy to write about it.  Nothing.

Without any thought of “Do this to produce that” I looked over to the woman sitting at the other end of the couch and asked her if she was visiting Ghent.  She smiled and we talked … about her being an American living in Switzerland, me having moved to Ghent from Canada, the spiritual energy in this city, American and Canadian accents, and a certain bicycle race!

Her boyfriend walked in and he and I compared notes about the magnificent Canadian city of Vancouver. 

The three of us chatted away about this, that and the other thing … and then it was time for them to be tourists again – off to Gravensteen, Ghent’s castle.

***

And guess what I’m doing?

Writing

The mind … one of life’s mysteries

The street is called Schoenlapperstraat.  It’s a tiny little thing, off the Langemunt, which is a shopping street in Gent.

I like wandering its few metres to the edge of the Leie River.  Here’s a delightful out-of-the-way spot.  Squeeze under the railing and you’ll find steps for sitting and wondering.

As I looked down today, a chalk design caught my eye.  It was drawn on one of the steps, but not in the direction I expected.

Here’s a close-up:

I looked and I pondered.  And then it came to me.  Some kind person had created flowers pointed towards the tourist boats that ply the Leie.  I say it was a message of welcome to Gent.

Sweet

This is the contraption that I wear over my right thumb.  Without it, the arthritis there means that I can only hold the cello bow for a few minutes.

Yesterday I went to the gym … stretching first.  One particular stretch requires me to take off the splint.  Otherwise the metal presses in.  Too much pain.

I reached to remove my “jewelry” … and it wasn’t there! 

I stared

“Damn!  Where?”  Having no splint would mean a few things: Much reduced cello playing until I could get it replaced.  And everything seems to happen slowly in Belgium.  How many weeks will I wait?  Plus it would cost me about 275 euros ($400 CAD).

(Sigh)

“Where did I go today?”

1.  Breakfast at Pain Quotidien.  I headed there.  A pleasant male employee searched the Lost and Found.  Nothing.  I searched all around my table.  Nothing.

2.  Music Theory class at Poel, my music school.  The receptionist volunteered to leave his post and go across the small campus with me to my classroom.  We burst in on a bagpipe class!  So cool.  Searching … everywhere … no splint.

3.  Izy Coffee, writing yesterday’s blog post.  My favourite black couch.  The floor.  Niet.

Then a thought: Maybe I forgot the splint at home.  I leave it on a favourite white couch.  Homeward …

Shuffling through papers on the couch.  Removing cushions.  Staring at the floor.  Same result.

***

Many hours later, it was time for sleep.  I drifted off with visions of “275” in my head.  Oh well … I shall survive.

Now today.  Feeling my naked thumbness.  I knew that Pain Quotidien opens at 8:00.  Why not a second (and final) try?  Maybe one of yesterday’s employees would be there again and would remember something.

Talking to a fellow at the counter.  Actually he had heard my story from another staff member.  I asked him to check Lost and Found again.  He was thorough.  No splint.  (More sighing)

I wandered over to the table.  Peered under the radiator beside.  I started lowering myself to crawl around.  And then I heard …

Sir.  Is this it?

And dangling from his fingers was you-know-what.  Nobody stole my shiny device yesterday.  An employee had simply put it on the wrong shelf, partially hidden behind some take-out bags.

***

Yes … my saviour was indeed thorough

Thank you, kind sir

The cello continues

And I get to retire thoughts of 275

Many moons ago I was a university student in Toronto.  I loved music … going to the Mariposa Folk Festival every summer, singing with the University of Toronto Chorus, playing my LPs of Buddy Holly endlessly in my bedroom.

I had a tradition on Thursday evenings, before I headed to choir practice – having a burger and fries at Harvey’s, then walking along Bloor Street till I reached the gate of Philosopher’s Walk, which you can see in the picture.  The building on the right is the Royal Conservatory of Music, where many careers were launched.

If my heart was sad, walking under those windows (so often open) cheered me up.  Because sweet tones of the voice or the instrument greeted me as I passed by.

It was a blessing.

Fifty some years later, I’m a student at the Poel music school in Gent.  Also on Thursdays, I have my cello lesson.  Before the teacher arrives, I usually sit on a bench in the courtyard.  And look up …

More windows, also with music sometimes spilling out.  Plus small studios on the ground floor, favouring my ears with guitar, drums, piano …

***

From there to here

From then to now

The same upturned face

The same wonder

The Classics are the brilliant one-day cycling races held each spring, mostly in Belgium.  This Sunday, one of the most famous ones is happening … the Ronde van Vlaanderen, whose history goes back to 1913.  It features brutal cobblestone climbs for the women and men racers.

The Paterberg is 360 metres long, with an average gradient of 13% and a maximum of 20!

I will be there on Sunday

The men do the climb twice, at approximately 3:30 and 4:30, while the women pass by once, at about 5:30.  Am I really willing to do what it takes to get there … all for three experiences of a few minutes each?  YES!

I’ve been making copious notes about how I’ll make this happen.  Here’s one page of four:

#11 is the eleventh climb in the men’s race – the Paterberg.  The organizers give approximate arrival times, depending on whether the average speed is 40, 42 or 44 kph.  They’re starting in Antwerp, rather than Oudenaarde, since their race is a lot longer than the women’s.

I have a dilemma.  Do I take the train from Gent to Oudenaarde in time to see the women’s team presentation at 11:45 and then the beginning of the race at 1:25?  Or do I skip all those festivities and take the shuttle bus to the Paterberg climb once I arrive at Oudenaarde train station at around 10:00?

The second choice gets me to the Paterberg four to five hours before the men come by the first time (!)  However, that would likely guarantee a great viewing spot, right up against the barrier, as the cyclists come sweating by.

The first choice has me see the beginning of the race, and feel the energy of more than a hundred riders and thousands of spectators.  Cool!  It also eliminates the shuttle bus as a way to get to the Paterberg.  The last outward bus leaves at 1:15.

I’ve figured the timing for the regular paid bus and a half-hour of walking.  I’d need to be speedy quick after sending off the riders in order to catch that bus.  If I miss it, I’ll have a very long walk to the Paterberg.  But I’m willing.

Trouble is, if you look at the first photo, you see all those cheering people.  If I see the opening celebrations in Oudenaarde, I could have twenty people standing in front of me on the Paterberg.

(Thinking)

Okay … I’ve made an executive decision.  I want it all.  I’ll be in Oudenaarde for the team presentation and the liftoff.  And somehow I’ll find a spot on the Paterberg to cheer my lungs out for my favourite riders.

***

Playing big feels great

And here comes Sunday

I was sitting this morning with my friend Larisa.  She has trips coming up – one to Paris to meet with suppliers for the company she owns with husband Bart.  A second somewhere else for the same purpose.  And a third with the family to Bonn, Germany to celebrate her son Philip’s tenth birthday.

There was no doubt which one made her smile … precious time with Seba, Philip and Bart.

A few months ago, Larisa figured out what makes her happiest in life: being a good mother to her children.  Feeling the love flow.  Seeing them grow into marvelous human beings.

I asked Larisa if she ever imagines her sons as 40-year-old men.  Her answer was “Yes” – with them taller than her, muscular and hairy.  I told her about one of my favourite books, a story for kids called Love You Forever.  It was written by Robert Munsch.

The illustrations run the gamut of human life.  Earlier you saw the first one.  Here is the last.  They say it all:

***

Larisa is on a lovely journey

Some of it in the past

And much to come

There I was in Dutch class yesterday, in my usual Saturday morning state of mind – not understanding the learnings communicated in a language new to me.  Jelle, the teacher, is good at seeing my confused facial expressions.  She gave me a short explanation in English.  Still not absorbed.

I asked Jelle to continue the lesson, so the apparently faster learners wouldn’t be inconvenienced.  That was nice of me … but I just kept sinking into the “not knowing”.

At the break, Jelle told a small group of us that in her last Level Two class only 24% of the students passed.

!

Oh my.  What do I do with that?  There’s my perception (probably inaccurate) that I’m the slowest learner in the class.  So how is the me called Bruce going to pass this thing?!

I don’t know.  If I fail the exam in June, I’ll start Level Two again in September.  Not the end of the world.  And for the next twelve weeks, I’ll give ‘er all I’ve got.

I want to have simple conversations with Belgians who don’t speak English.  That’s the light that shines before me.

***

There’s a strange beauty in not being good at something

In quivering on the edge of pass or fail

May the vibration continue

As a young adult, one of my favourite novels was Narcissus and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse.

I didn’t know where to go in life but I knew my life had to be big.  Books pointed the way … many ways.  This particular paperback novel grew to be well thumbed in my hands, worn and folded.

Here’s the gist of the story:

“In Narcissus and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse, we journey into the contrasting lives and philosophies of two medieval men.  Our story begins in a monastery, where Narcissus, a gifted academic and ascetic monk, recognizes the restless spirit and individualistic drive in his pupil Goldmund.  While Narcissus devotes himself to studying and spiritual pursuits, he recognizes that Goldmund has a contrasting destiny and encourages him to leave the monastery in pursuit of artistic and sensual pleasure.

With Narcissus’ encouragement, Goldmund embarks on an exploration of the outside world, a realm teeming with sensuality, art and the fleeting beauty of life.  Through these experiences, he revels in the pleasures of the flesh and discovers his talent as a gifted sculptor, crafting artistic renditions of the human form.  Goldmund’s world becomes one deeply rooted in senses, emotions and capturing the transient beauty of life through his craft.”

Ah yes.  My mind was vibrant even way back then, and my fingers yearned to be.

Many decades later, I have expressed my divinity in voice, piano, guitar and cello, with a small dabble of batik.  All this as the spirit climbed … alone and in connection with beloveds.  The two views remain friends.

I’ve forgotten the flow of dialogue between Goldmund and Narcissus but I smile when their moments return to me softly.  A few minutes ago, I wanted to share with you something that Goldmund said, something that would shine on our faces.

And I found what I was looking for:

I believe . . . that the petal of a flower or a tiny worm on the path says far more, contains far more than all the books in the library.  One cannot say very much with mere letters and words.  Sometimes I’ll be writing a Greek letter, a theta or an omega, and tilt my pen just the slightest bit.  Suddenly the letter has a tail and becomes a fish.  In a second it evokes all the streams and rivers of the world, all that is cool and humid, Homer’s sea and the waters on which Saint Peter wandered.  Or becomes a bird, flaps its tail, shakes out its feathers, puffs itself up, laughs, flies away. You probably don’t appreciate letters like that very much, do you, Narcissus?  But I say: with them God wrote the world.

***

Thank you, book companions of the past

Welcome to the present

And what of the future?

As opposed to “in here”.  Throwing myself into life, arms splayed, tongue out.  Rather than all contracted, tight into a ball, blocking the outflow.

What you see is one of the iconic photos in Canadian history.  Our Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau has just finished meeting with Queen Elizabeth of the United Kingdom.  As she and her entourage turn to leave, Pierre does a pirouette behind them.  Protocol be damned!

I love Pierre, even now so many years after his death.  He lived large.

I want to do the same.

A few weeks ago, a writer friend of mine asked if I wanted to hear about the novel she was working on.  I smiled and said “No”.  And then I proceeded to listen.  But where did that word come from?  It just bubbled up my throat.  Is that you, Pierre?

And then the day before yesterday, a conversation about seagulls turned into a lap of the restaurant, me flapping my wings all the while.  I passed a few coffee drinkers looking up to me … and kept flying.  Why not?

Just so you don’t see me as a totally free spirit, please know there is one potential that I’ve so far closed down.  My dream has been to sing from my balcony over the Oudburg, serenading the folks strolling below.  That dream is over a year old now, and not a single note has flowed from my mouth.  (Sigh)

***

Surely Pierre too had his moments of contraction

But I know he returned to the dance

My cello lesson is this afternoon.  My newest piece “Meditation” presents challenges – new positions for my left hand on the neck of the instrument.  As a teenager, I played in First Position and Fourth Position.  That was it.  “Meditation” introduces me to two versions of Second Position and to Third Position.

Here’s a diagram showing some of it:

You see the four strings of the cello running vertically.  Look at the string on the right (A) and follow it down until you see “Re”.  In First Position, I put my fourth finger down to hit that note.  Easy.  But in Upper Second Position, I shift my hand and play the note with my second finger.  In Third Position I use my first finger.

Before last week’s lesson, I studied this a lot, which led to an exploding brain.  I got so mixed up … and that was clear as I tried to play the piece during the lesson.  It was embarrassing to play poorly.

At which point my teacher Lieven stopped me.  I was invited to feel the melody on a piano, see what finger was written on the sheet music for a certain note, and then slide the finger on the string till the sound matched what the piano said.  “Forget the positions!”

Woh!

I was being asked to dismantle the scaffolding, lean into my cello and fall into melody.  Inside my head was a message: “Let go, Bruce … and now some more.”

***

I moved my cello into the bedroom, where my keyboard lives.  For the past few days, I bounced back and forth between the two instruments so my body could absorb a bar or two of the melody.

And then yesterday in Music Theory class, Jan (a friend and classmate) showed me an app called “Perfect Piano”.  Now I can set my phone on the music stand.  As I sit with my cello and read the sheet music, I can play a short of stretch of melody on the phone keyboard.  Much better!

***

I’ll practice some this afternoon before my lesson.  And then I’ll sway into “Meditation” with Lieven and my classmates, moving through the good notes and bad, “positionless”.

Hopefully with a wee smile on my face