These are two words that didn’t show up yesterday in my one-syllable journey. They too are fine examples of simplicity and directness.
I love it when someone asks a question and the response is simply “Yes”. No elaboration, no fanciful descriptions. No “but” or “mostly” at the end. No “Today it’s that way. Not sure about tomorrow”.
A lovely example from my current life:
Are you at home in Gent?
Yes
My mind doesn’t feel involved in the response. All of me speaks.
The same for “No”. I read an interview with Ben O’Connor, an Australian cyclist who finished second in the recent Vuelta a España (Tour of Spain), a three-week race.
“There was never a moment when I completely exploded. But Primoz was a deserving winner and he deserves to win this Vuelta a España.“
O’Connor may be looking to fight for a Grand Tour victory in the future but he remains with his feet on the ground. Asked if he thought he could ever beat Tadej Pogačar or Jonas Vingegaard or indeed Roglič, he answered simply – “No”.
Some words shine for me. There’s an extra oomph in them, a touch of Spirit. And most of those words are short. They’re a laser beam that seeks out my heart.
Of course my words may not be your words. Perhaps you have your own list. Or maybe this seems rather unimportant. Either way … all is well.
These words shimmer inside me. I offer no explanations, just the letters that have found each other …
I love this curve of the Leie River. It used to be that a white duck mingled with his or her friends. But not yesterday. A twinge of disappointment wove through me. And then a thought came:
The others have just as much “duckness” as the white one. They each have their big talent (maybe deep diving) and they share the same duck joys and sorrows. They just don’t have white feathers. Look inside, Bruce.
***
I watched a woman and man talking outside of Izy Coffee. They stood there for at least five minutes, clearly enjoying each other’s presence.
It was time to say goodbye. They touched. And then she whirled away from him, starting up the street. I watched her face. The smile lingered. And how lovely is that.
***
I often have deep thoughts. Such as …
Why do people swing their arms back and forth when they walk? (Left forward, right back > Right forward, left back, etc.)
Why don’t they throw both arms forward at the same time, and then back?
Of course the legs take turns too. Or maybe they don’t have to. We don’t have to walk. We can hop. (Legs forward, arms forward > Legs forward, arms back, etc.)
Okay … some of my thoughts aren’t particularly deep
It’s hard to write this title. I keep my word. But not this time.
A week or so ago, I told you I’d be singing at an open mic last night. I didn’t go.
I could have written about something else today. You probably wouldn’t have remembered my promise. I could have silently let yesterday fall into the past. But I would have known. “When in doubt, Bruce, communicate … tell the truth.”
I could list a whole bunch of reasons why I didn’t show up … but I don’t want to do that. If I did go down that path, I can imagine two general responses from you, my readers:
Those are reasonable reasons. It’s good that you didn’t keep your word.
Those areunreasonable reasons. It’s bad that you didn’t keep your word.
Instead of all that analysis, I choose to sit quietly with the fact that I didn’t do what I said I’d do. As well, I see that I need to be careful about promising things. If the promise is tied to a certain date, I need to anticipate what life will be like then, and whether it works to promise that I’ll do something.
I love the expression “On we go”
After all the good stuff and all the bad stuff, I continue
So much happens at breakfast when I’m out and about. Yesterday a woman probably in her 60’s sat with a younger man. I’m guessing they were mother and son. As they talk, she whips out a pack of cigarettes and offers him one. And off they continue chatting, puffing away together.
I was shaken. Huh? It didn’t fit my picture of modern days. Was the behaviour bad? No, just unhealthy.
And now today. I was sitting in a breakfast spot that I’ve frequented for over a year. As yogurt presented its glories to me, I had a thought: the two owners have never called me by name. I always say “Hi, _____” to them.
When I was paying, I decided to be brave. “Do you know my name?” > “Bruce.” > “I’ve noticed you never call me by name. In fact that’s true of a lot of Belgian people who know me.”
The owner gave me a confused look and said something like “I’ve never thought about it. I never call people by name unless I want them to listen to what I’m saying.”
I love this photo. Neighbours … such a narrow street … touching.
Not being able to get rid of the extra stuff around the photo dims within the brilliance of the message.
We build houses, complete with walls and rooms. We build cars that compress us into separateness on our highways. And some eyes mostly see better than / worse than, differences in any variable you can think of, and words such as Do I know you? in response to a hello.
I want a world of connection where I’ll know enough Dutch to speak to the old man in Lunchroom Martens who knows no English.
I want to laugh with a fifteen-year-old (sixty years younger) because we’re both human beings.
I want to sit easy with someone who’s immensely shy, with me doing most of the talking … and showing that I am with them.
It’s been a challenge for me, looking at what’s essential moment-to-moment and what’s “extra”. My responses have changed over time.
Yesterday I said goodbye to structured Dutch courses, with their timetables, assignments and exams. Yes, I want to have conversations with folks who don’t speak English … and No, I don’t want the stress of going to school.
Today is Part Two of that journey. I love being a member of the Evolutionary Collective and I’m letting go of one way that I’ve expressed myself there. I’ve told the EC leaders that I will stop being a Zoom host for online meetings as of the end of September.
Zoom hosts are responsible for having the sessions run smoothly. There are a lot of tasks that require rapid-fire decisions, and my proficiency there has waned. I’m experienced more stress in the role than a few months ago.
The worst is that the dreaded word “obligation” has crept into my mind. I don’t want it there. I think I’ve been a Zoomie for five years (maybe four) and it’s time for other chapters to be written.
And so I end … responsibly, with sufficient notice. Making the change is what works in my life.
I’ve had the thought “You can’t keep dropping stuff, Bruce. Soon there’ll be nothing left!” Silly me. What remains will be loving and wide open.
I’m drinking cappuccino and sighing. I’m feeling tender and slow, knowing the first person on Earth I have to love is me.
An hour ago, I came out of a Dutch class … overwhelmed with speaking and understanding the language. Most of what the teacher said I didn’t understand. (Did I mention the sighing?)
I surprised myself by studying over the summer. And by going to eight conversation sessions at Amal. But this morning I felt like such a newbie. It was the first session of Dutch Level Three. Two three-hour classes a week until January.
Do I really want this stress?
My purpose is simple. I want to talk to people who don’t speak English. The road of academic study is not the only path home.
And so I’ve decided … I end this. It’s what the body and soul need. I have another plan:
1. Go to Amal Conversation Tables once or twice a week.
2. Proceed slowly through the lessons on the Babbel app.
3. Have simple Dutch conversations in restaurants and stores, and with friends who expect English from me.
4. Keep reviewing my notes from Levels One and Two, taking lots of time to let the vocabulary and grammar sink in.
The course doesn’t give me time. So I’ll give it to myself.
I met several very cool people in class today, including the teacher Ineke. So I’m saying goodbye to them just after saying hello. So be it. Other fine human beings will come my way.
I want to sing. I want to play cello. I want to be on Zoom calls of the Evolutionary Collective. I want to have coffee with dear ones.
On Saturday evening, Sabrine and I went to a lovely restaurant for dinner – the Indian Curry House. The two young servers smiled a lot. So did the older hostess. And she bowed to us as we were leaving.
I wanted to celebrate Sabrine’s and my friendship with a Belgian beer. I chose Leffe Brune … brewed in an abbey, with an alcohol content of 6.5%
My dinner was mango chicken, immersed in a sauce that was adjacent to heaven. And we had a sweet talk.
That’s the good stuff.
Soon after leaving the restaurant, I felt nauseous and I was having trouble swallowing. (I won’t mention the burps)
Nearly all my adult life, when I’m hungry and the food is delicious, I’ve eaten too much and too fast. On Saturday, I forgot Dr. Lahae’s advice to eat slowly and chew lots. I also forgot about my earlier intuition that strong Belgian beer is bad for me.
More sauce! Faster! Such amnesia.
As Sabrine and I walked in the general direction of home, something bitter was climbing my throat. I told her I had to sit down. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a plastic bag. Usually I use it for leftover restaurant food but this time I had another purpose in mind.
Wow. Sitting on a bench with a slow flow of people passing by, wondering if I was about to vomit in front of a friend. I’d never done that. Just in the presence of Jody, my wife.
Sabrine was so kind. She said it was fine no matter what happened. She wasn’t going anywhere.
There we sat as the nausea rolled, me accessorizing with a plastic bag in my hand, looking so … unique. Sabrine simply still and quiet.
***
I didn’t puke, and eventually found my bed. I thought long about changes my body needs for me to continue being happy, and therefore for me to continue contributing to the lives of others.
My friend Sabrine is visiting me for two days. She’s a friend of Lydia, who on a long ago hiking trail in the Canadian Rockies asked me to accompany her to Senegal. Which led eventually to me … being … here!
I had made a dinner reservation for Friday night at an amazing Gent restaurant called Dish. It’s my absolutely favourite place to celebrate life with my guests. Before then, the afternoon beckoned with its glorious unknownness.
I usually led as we meandered through the streets of Gent centrum. Sometimes I asked Sabrine to … and so it was – left, right or “keep going”. No agenda. No big tourist attractions. We passed so many “ordinary” buildings that had a shine of their own.
And we sat on benches. We watched people. I told Sabrine that I was sending them love. And then there were the long views, where I turned my eyes to the sky. My friends the seagulls occasionally said hi.
Dish was a marvel – small portions of delicate flavours. All the time in the world to savour. And Doreen – the brilliant chef and smiling being. Sabrine and I were welcome in Dish.
All that was Friday. Today is Sunday. Sabrine left this morning. The Saturday between was pretty cool too. The hours were full and laughing. Strangely, given the rhythms of my life, they didn’t include writing. Oh well. Here I am now.
My neighbour Dirk invited us for breakfast yesterday. He’s unique in the world, having immersed himself in theatre and the other arts, and having returned so much joie de vivre to those around him. Like Sabrine and me.
Take a look at the breakfast table:
Where did that coffee go? And do you recognize what’s in the little dish in the middle? It’s a fig. You may be aware of my hatred of raisins. Many years ago, I expanded my list of distaste: currants and dates. I had tasted them both and they were similarly yucky.
Later, in a spurt of dubious wisdom, I added figs. The trouble was, I’d never tasted one. At yesterday’s breakfast table there sat one – uncut. I frowned. “Just a raisin in disguise.” Dirk cut it for me and placed it on the dish. “Hmm … sure doesn’t look like a raisin. Actually it looks pretty good.”
It was delicious! So much for Bruce’s historical wisdom.
Our triad of discussion roamed over the tapestry of life. Three people who really enjoyed expressing themselves. Perfect.
I’m trying to remember. We might have been talking about the magnificence of Firenze (Florence), a city in Italy. Dirk mentioned a man named Stendhal, who wrote about being “overwhelmed by beauty”. Dirk knows what that’s like. So do I. And most likely so does Sabrine.
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