In our marriage, Jody and I usually held hands as we walked along. She died ten years ago and I miss the touch.
I was in a brief relationship a year ago, and I held hands with the woman some, but I felt she didn’t really want to. “Sort of” is no basis for a long-term love.
In the wee hours of this morning, I awoke from a lovely dream. An unknown beloved and I were holding hands during a long walk – sometimes the palms cupped together and sometimes the fingers interlaced.
We met people in the neighbourhood and stopped to talk, our arms dropping to our sides. And then we were off again, our hands finding each other.
It was lovely. It was real. It was for a long time. May it happen for me during the waking hours as well. Before I die, please.
I retired from teaching on June 19, 2014. I was finally free of my employer’s expectations. I decided that the next day I’d start writing a blog … on WordPress.
So on June 20 I started, and ten years later I’m still here. WordPress has become Jetpack. A few years in, I began copying the posts to Facebook.
But back to the first entry. Here’s a sample:
I retired yesterday and decided to declare 4:00 pm as the end point of my teaching career. My wife Jody and I have a lovely home on a deep lot. At the back of our lot are maybe 20 metres of trees, and then it’s on to a farmer’s field and beyond that a wide expanse of trees leading down into a ravine.
…
On the far side of the soybean field, the trees stretched in a wide arc. I wanted to know their names. I couldn’t remember many of the species I saw. And then … poof! The names meant nothing at all. Trees were there, just standing there, being trees.
…
I had brought a fancy watch that I received from my school board as a retirement present.At 3:55, I put my eight fingers inside the metal band. “Thank you” bubbled up, and it didn’t matter who it was aimed at.
At 3:59, I started watching the second hand count me down to a new life. And guess what? It arrived.I threw my arms into the air and smiled. Wherever I am now is very fine. I think I’ll write.
I was sitting innocently in my living room yesterday afternoon. A single word entered my mind: “flood”.
Huh? What does that mean?
Slowly an answer came to mind. “Flood the world with goodness.” Flood as in an overwhelming benign power. No one gets hurt. But many are shaken with the impact.
Perhaps that sounds like a flaring ego but it doesn’t feel that way to me. Right now there’s a surge outwards in my being, a flowing out. And it’s not a gentle touch. It’s closer to a slap on the face.
“But I thought you said nobody gets hurt” > “Yes, that’s true” > “Then what are you talking about?!” > “It feels like a demand that all of us wake up, really be with people, give.”
Another day, another couch. Still the blasting outwards is here. I ask myself if this can be my way of being for the rest of my life. If I look backwards, at my history, the answer would be no. “You can’t keep this up.” But what if I said no to history? My eyes point forward. So can the rest of me!
I just signed up for more Dutch courses, starting in September. I’ll be taking Level Three until January, 2025 … focusing on speaking rather than writing. Also a shorter course about how to pronounce Dutch words. I need both.
Geert is a friend of mine who told me his motivation for learning Turkish is basically the challenge of tackling something new, not to discover Turkish friends or visit the country.
That’s not me.
I don’t care about keeping my brain active on the edge of the new. I want to talk to people!
I’ve been told that Level Three is far harder than Level Two. And I found Two plenty hard. Have I bitten off too much? Should I “settle down”? (Ha!) I say no. I see my future as giving to people – my time, my singing, my cello, my conversation.
What is your life like?
Here’s mine …
The thoughts intrude: You’re too old. Just hang loose. Drink beer. Looseness and moderate alcohol consumption are fine things but my head is being gently turned in another direction.
May I have the eyes to see what’s over there … and to act accordingly
I was walking to Dutch class this morning when a poster said hello from an alley. I stopped and stared.
The words “Wij bereiken meer” mean “We achieve more” … but achieve feels too small. This girl is giving ‘er – no holding back, full self-expression.
Wow!
Yes, she’s in a choir, and her job is to blend, not dominate. I get that. But O my God … she’s alive.
There’s no self-reflection, as in “How am I doing?” or “I hope they like me.” There’s simply the melody and the lyrics. And reaching the audience.
***
Here’s one of my favourite YouTube videos. The choir is Johns’ Boys from Wales. The song is inspiring. But look at the open mouths, the smiles … and the faces of those who are receiving the gift.
A few nights ago, I sang in an open mic session at Minard. A woman named Lopke thanked me for singing. She took a selfie of us.
I looked Lopke up on Facebook. She’s 24. Then I found a post that she had pinned. Woh! In July, 2023 she walked the Camino del Norte on the northern edge of Spain. On her own, 33 days, 900 kilometres!
And she wrote melodically about her experience. Here’s a sample:
I (re)discovered different facets and skills of myself, saw myself in every person I met, talked and hugged with the animals and people on my path, cried because of sadness and happiness, sang and danced every time I had the chance to do it, screamed when I needed to … I finally learned how to ask for help without being ashamed.
It blew me away …
***
I thought about Lopke yesterday, and an old learning came to the surface. I’m guessing that my mother was the source.
When you’re young, go have an adventure or two. Then you’ll be ready to settle down … with a nice job, a nice wife, and a couple of children
I wonder. Is that the best sequence for living?
***
Jolanda is a friend of mine. She’s a lot older than Lopke. We’re classmates in the Music Theory class at the Poel music school. On Wednesday she showed up dressed all in orange – different shades and textures culminating in the brightest shoes!
I thought of Jolanda as I was writing about Lopke. And a new flavour of “settling down” came to mind:
To become quiet and calm, or to make someone become quiet and calm
I’m imagining someone saying to Jolanda: “Wouldn’t it be nice to try some softer tones? Maybe beige or light green?”
I know what Jolanda’s answer would be. Just as I know how Lopke would respond if someone suggested moderation. “Just a little walk around the pond is enough exercise for one day.”
The first was in the summer of 1959. The second was January 28, 2023.
***
I was ten. My parents in Toronto thought me spending a week at summer camp would be a good idea. In nature, on the shore of Lake Simcoe. I wasn’t so sure.
There was swimming. I couldn’t. There were hikes. I could. There was craft-making. I tried.
Maybe ten of us boys slept in a cabin. Some of them were noisy. “I want my bed.” But the truth was deeper than that. “I want my mommy.”
One night I tossed and turned, feeling so scared, so alone. Sometime in the wee hours, I got up, put on my clothes, left the cabin, walked to the lakeshore … and turned left.
I was going home. “Just follow the lake to Toronto.” Unfortunately the city was about 60 miles away.
The camp staff found me in the darkness, a few miles down the beach. Whatever happened next I don’t remember.
***
I was on the first of two flights that were taking me from Toronto to Brussels. I had checked three pieces of luggage. I was finally moving to Belgium, without a visa being confirmed … but I was going!
Several previous visits to Gent had showed me: Canadian cities were no longer home. Toronto, London, Lethbridge, Vancouver. Home was forward, beyond the clouds. Home was Ghent.
Although I didn’t know the song Long, Long Journey yet, the words were what I was feeling …
Long, long journey Through the darkness Long, long way to go But what are miles Across the ocean To the heart that’s coming home?
A few days ago, I told my friend Lies that I’d be singing at an open mic session on Monday evening. She said she’d like to come. “Cool!” I was thrilled that she’d be there to support me.
Yesterday was Monday.
I’m a member of an organization called the Evolutionary Collective. We’re dedicated to human beings connecting more deeply with each other. Within the EC is a smaller group of people, called the Core. We’ve taken on a heightened commitment.
The Core members have an agreement to attend one of two Zoom sessions on Mondays. In Central European Time, they are 5:00 to 6:00 pm or 2:00 to 3:00 am the next morning.
Hmm. I did the math. I’d invited Lies out to dinner and the concert started at 8:00 pm. Showing up for the 5:00 pm Zoom call would have been a squeeze … and conversation deserves time.
I felt a twinge of disappointment as I added things up: home by 11:30 > two hours sleep > onto the Zoom call.
And then …
The angst was gone!
The evening unfolded as I’d hoped. Lies and I had a good talk and good pizza. I sang well at Minard. The sleep was closer to an hour than two. And fifteen of us enjoyed each other’s presence on the EC call. Then back to snoozing …
2:00 am was simply what was needed. Yes, it’s unusual being in a meeting in the middle of the night. But then so much of life is unusual!
My Dutch teacher Jelle e-mailed me this morning. Here’s the translation from Dutch …
I corrected the exams today. Your exam was good. You did very well!
You scored well on all skills: listening, reading and writing.
Speaking too, but when speaking I notice that you need a lot of time to formulate sentences.
What!? I passed? I got so confused during the speaking exam. Often I couldn’t understand what Jelle was saying.
Miracles happen.
And now I will go regularly to conversation sessions at Amal, where a small group of us newbies will sit with a native Dutch speaker.
And on I thoroughly go.
***
For those of you whose first language isn’t English, the title refers to a printing press. After the editor made final decisions about what would be in the day’s newspaper, the press was ready to start. But last minute news meant the front page story would change.
I last wrote a post eight days ago. I told myself it was the right thing to do. “Study Dutch. Let everything else go.” So out of balance. So determined to pass yesterday’s exams.
I grunted. I sweated. I exhausted myself.
Today I rest. I watch a cycling race on TV: the Critérium du Dauphiné. And I write this post.
Yesterday I had three Dutch exams. Although I get the official results next Saturday, I’m virtually certain this is true:
I passed the writing and listening parts.
I failed the speaking part.
If this is true, my understanding is that I therefore fail the course. (Sigh)
I’ve never worked as hard at anything in my life. “I will pass!” … over and over in my head.
A day later, I’m reflecting on what my teacher Jelle said:
Why are you here? To pass courses or to learn how to speak Dutch?
She’s right. My ego speaks otherwise … but then it’s not dependable. I want to have conversations with folks who don’t speak English. I want to connect with people, not just English-speaking people.
On I go.
Last November I passed the Level One course (A1). I was told that I had to pass A2 to participate in conversation sessions at Amal, an organization that welcomes newcomers to Belgium.
Today I went to their website and read this:
For whom?Anyone who has obtained A1 and wants to practice Dutch
I was wrong.
So … I promise to attend one of these conversations before I leave for England on June 21.
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