I’m going to a playreading tonight. Maybe eight of us will divide up the parts and launch into “Long Day’s Journey Into Night”. We’ll have fun, inhabiting roles that show all sorts of lives.
As Christmas approaches, I’m remembering a blessed tradition of mine: reciting the poem “Twas The Night Before Chridtmas” to kids. Thousands of them have sat before me to hear the story of Santa Claus.
Now there are virtually no children in my life, but why not say the poem to adults? They’re just big kids! So at our intermission tonight I’ll ask my dramatic colleagues if I can tell them about Santa. I think they’ll say yes. And perhaps the light in my eyes will join with light in theirs.
I learned “Twas” in 1985 or so. Virtually forty years of loving the old man with a red suit and a big white beard. More than half my life making kids and beyond laugh.
I’m smiling as I think of two lines:
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly
It took me forever to memorize that one!
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle
Such poetry … how I’ve loved uttering those words over the years.
Yes, that’s it … open your mouth wide. Let what’s inside come out. Fill the room with the spirit of the song.
I did all that last night, singing “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” in the café at Minard. For the first time in my singing life, I was more excited than scared. Excited to share the sorrow of the person speaking … to empathize with another human being and hopefully have the forty people listening feel it too.
Before I sang, here’s about what I said:
I like singing songs about people whose lives are very different from mine. This song is about a drug addict. I knownothing about this life. I’ve taken marijuanatwice – that’s the sum of my drug experience.
And I don’t know depression. I’ve often been sad, but not the lingeringdespair, the hopelessness, the dreams that have disappeared.
I want to feel these things and Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” helps me do that.
And so I opened my mouth and sent the words to the back of the room. Lyrics that stab, such as “The beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had one more for dessert.”
I met people’s eyes. Many of them met mine. A young woman laid her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder. The bartender near the back watched me.
Halfway through the song, I forgot the next words. And then came my favourite moment … I smiled. It thrilled my soul to feel the lightness. My singing was contact far more than performance.
Ten seconds later, the lyrics returned to my mind, and I returned to the emptiness of addiction.
Before I get into the topic that’s swimming in my mind, I thank the woman who was sitting at the next table in Bakkerij Aernoudt this morning. I’d just been to the pharmacy to pick up a jar of Pantaprazol … and I couldn’t get the lid off.
My ego was well engaged! I looked for a trick, a subtle little twist that maybe I’d missed. Nothing. I cranked ‘er hard with all the muscles my right hand could create. Solid. An early grave appeared in my sagging head.
I looked over to my unknown friend and asked her to help. Her hands turned. The lid came off. Easy … except when it isn’t.
It’s okay: older body, younger heart. I thanked her with a smile.
***
My most precious moments are when I connect with another human being. Two pairs of soft eyes finding each other. I usually experience this when I’m paired with someone in Evolutionary Collective meetings on Zoom. And often in my Gent life.
Sometimes I’m lost in my own thoughts, far from a union with anyone, oblivious to the spirit of the people around me.
Frequently, though, I’m seeing the human beings passing by. I’m loving them in the eyes. In those moments, rarely does anyone look at me. They’re busy in their world.
And so the connection is one way.
That’s better than “no way” but part of me wonders whether I’m doing any good. Is the other person sensing any well-wishes flowing from me to her or him? My guess is they don’t. At least consciously. But is it possible that I’m reaching them in some realm beyond our minds? Yes … it is possible.
I’ll keep throwing love into the street without any evidence that I’m contributing to other lives. Maybe I’ll toss the word “evidence” to the winds and watch it drift away. Bye, bye.
***
Tonight I’m singing in the open mic session at Minard. There’ll probably be fifty souls in the audience. For the first time in my singing life, I’m more excited than scared. Wow! That’s so cool.
May the words and the melody and my voice touch those present. Perhaps it will be “Connection Two Ways” this evening.
Before I get to Mr. Nelson, this morning deserves attention. I sat in Jaggers on the Vrijdagmarkt square in Gent, enjoying my croissant, yogurt and granola. I talked to Sabrina, another regular, and watched her French bulldog Diva visit newcomers for a nuzzle. I smiled a lot because the doggie knew how to connect!
As I sipped my latté on the terrace, a young police officer rolled by on her bicycle. She raised a hand and a smile to the employee setting up tables in the restaurant beside us. And then she was gone. Only a moment of contact, but contact nonetheless.
Both experiences lifted me.
***
I love Willie Nelson. His baritone voice has a unique vibration that floods my insides. Couple that with tender lyrics and I am touched. The songwriter’s words seep unimpeded into my soul, helping me truly know the humanity of the person sung about.
And that’s what I want in life, to know the other person, to feel their joys and sorrows. To have them get that I am with them. Not an opponent or a ghost passing on the street … but a brother.
When I sing, I want the audience members to feel other lives. Willie helps me here. And he helps me choose what songs I will learn and share.
And so we come to “Always On My Mind”. I feel the sadness of loving less than fully, of being inattentive to the beloved, of falling way short of my intention.
Thanks largely to your rendition, Willie, I will learn the song, and sing it at open mic sessions in February … God willing.
1. The first is this morning. I was having breakfast at Lunchroom Martens on the Oudburg. I lifted my latté cup from its saucer and revealed this beauty:
The elegance of the arms … the flow of the dance.
2. I wrote a text to my friends in the Evolutionary Collective a few days ago, saying that I’d been discharged from the Düsseldorf hospital and I was coming home.
It’s a four-bus trip. Easy
Minutes later I re-read. Oops. I corrected:
It’s a four-hour bus trip. Easy
Much more understandable.
3. I was walking on the Veldstraat yesterday. Here come four people wearing purple jackets. Previously I’d made the mistake of thinking such folks were Proximus employees (Internet) because they wear jackets that are the same shade of purple.
This time I walked up to the four and asked who they were. “We’re Community Guards” is how they answered, translating from the Dutch. They answer questions about Ghent. So I asked “What is the meaning of life?”
It’s different for each person, responded one of the women
So true.
4. I was strolling by Mister Minit, also on the Veldstraat. The owner has helped me several times with key cutting and shoe repair. I looked at him through the window and couldn’t remember his name. And I wanted to know his name. So I went in.
He was busy with a customer and the interaction kept on going – maybe five minutes. A small part of me turned to leave but a bigger part stayed put. “My time will come.” And his name was “Steven”.
5. I was sending Christmas cards to my brother-in-law Lance and his family in Canada. I sat in Izy Coffee with the cards and Google Lens, getting the translations of the Dutch greetings. For each of my five loved ones, I took the card I had chosen, copied the message in English, wrote a personal note, sealed the envelope and wrote the name on the front. Easy and fun.
Five cards later, I was proud of myself. Now to the postal outlet to buy a big envelope and get my greetings sent off to Canada, in plenty of time for Christmas.
I sorted through the envelopes. Three had names and two were blank. (Sigh) So who was who?
Then a smile. “Oh, Bruce.” I tore open one of the blank envelopes, saw who it was for, and labelled the other one with the correct name. Before me sat one mangled rectangle of paper.
Oh well. I walked the twenty minutes to the bookstore where I bought the cards. The clerk kindly gave me another envelope and soon my postal service was complete.
It seems like half a lifetime ago that I walked into Mitsubishi Electric Halle in Düsseldorf to hear Jacob Collier. Sadly, I had a “tripus interruptus”.
I was excited. I had watched two stunning YouTube videos of Jacob performing magic with the audience. Here I am in front of the hall, with a song in my heart and a delicious pizza in my tummy:
This was going to be amazing. Jacob would be directing us as a choir, pulling four or more harmonies from us as he sang the melody. We were ready.
I enjoyed talking to the couple beside me before Jacob came onstage. They were from the northern part of Germany. The conversation was easy and lilting. After awhile, a message appeared in my head: “Ask them how German people today feel about Hitler and the Nazis.”
Ouch. That was too dangerous, said I. But another I asked the question, admitting to them that I was scared. They were so open in their replies, reflecting on the sadness and a lingering guilt in the background, even though neither of them were alive during World War II.
And then Jacob. As his heart opened and invited ours to join, I drank in the sea of humanity before me:
Marvelous. They’re singing. They’re together … along with me. What can be created in the world with such union?
There were many magic moments for me during the two hours. And much disappointment as well. Some of the music was too loud, more noise than melody, with multi-coloured strobe lights on the edge of assault. And sometimes far too much ego from Mr. Collier in my opinion.
Usually concerts are not a complete field of bliss for me. There are moments that linger in my soul. As it was with Jacob.
He gave us an exquisite rendering of “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You”. We sang. I videoed it but so far Jetpack tells me that it won’t play. (Sigh)
The last note stays in my heart. Seven thousand of us singing “You”. I pray that you get to hear the moment. If the video doesn’t play for you, I’ll try sending it again later in the day.
The postscript to all this was a nausea that grew during the latter part of Jacob’s concert. Food poisoning later took me over. I thank God that it exploded well after the concert, well after we sang “You”.
After being discharged from hospital on Tuesday, I had three hours of daylight left to explore Düsseldorf centrum. How strange to have been in the city for three days and to hardly know it at all.
It was Christmas market time. So many lights, food stalls and rosy-cheeked people enjoying their family and friends. I stared at the true life around me.
Google Maps showed me Hofgarten, a city park with a meandering lake. It looked marvelous and my feet led me onward.
Once by the water, I found a bench for enjoyment. A huge heron was wading in the shallows, watching to see if I was dangerous. (He’s hidden behind the tree.) Seagulls soared and landed and soared again. The lights twinkled. Folks strolled. Finally … the real Düsseldorf!
I lingered. After all, I was on vacation.
Across the way, a daddy pretended to race his young daughter. She was too fast for him, and squealed in delight at her victory. Marvelous.
Deeper into the park, I came upon this statue and pool. Three kids hugging each other, and looking down at … what?
I looked more closely at the direction of their gaze. At the edge of the pool sat three frogs, hugging each other, looking up. So much fun.
I wandered down holiday streets towards the Düsseldorf central station. Thought I’d scout out a place for the next day’s breakfast, before taking the Flixbus home to Gent.
I underestimated two things:
1. The size of the station. It was huge.
2. How exhausted I was. The walk wasn’t really long but I wasn’t really able. The final fifteen minutes back to the Airbnb were s…l…o…w.
***
Wednesday was the four-hour bus trip. I saw lots of stuff in Germany, The Netherlands and Belgium through my big window but those sights were nothing compared to the star of the journey:
Yesterday the doctor said “Go home. You had food poisoning … nothing more.”
I smiled and followed orders. I put on my well used street clothes again, gathered my meagre belongings, thanked the nurses and asked for directions to the business office. “Be thorough, Bruce. You’ll don’t know how your Belgian health insurance will co-exist with a German hospital.” I got my answer from a compassionate woman … and then walked out the front door to breathe real air and see actual human beings filling the sidewalk.
Oh, bliss!
I went back to the agonizing intersection of early Saturday morning, where the supposed door to the Emergency department was locked. I just stood there, reliving the sorrow, the nausea, the dizziness. “Go towards it, Bruce. Don’t back away.” The few minutes being there yesterday were good therapy for me.
In the previous days, I had looked out my window at life on the street below. I vowed to stand on the sidewalk and look up after being discharged.
And so I did:
I had left the blinds open when I left. How marvelous the reflection in my window.
I started walking back to the Airbnb, knowing that my next stop would be the restaurant where I got the food poisoning. I walked in and recognized the manager from Friday. I told him what happened, and there was peace in my heart as I spoke. I wanted them to be aware of a problem so that it doesn’t happen to someone else. He responded with sadness, and with a genuine thank you. We met.
The manager offered to buy me something. I said “No beer, and certainly no pizza! How about a cappuccino?” And so I sat on their terrace and watched people moving every which way … and a flock of birds creating ovals in the sky.
I was happy. And I thought of a quote that I’ve tried to follow for maybe twenty years:
Never throw anyone out of your heart
(Neem Karoli Baba)
No one – not a restaurant manager, not someone who did something mean to me, not even Donald Trump. They also deserve my respect, my empathy … my love.
***
Jeez, I’m tired. There isn’t the oomph to tell you about the rest of my yesterday. So I’ll just say this:
Hell employment for me would be sitting in a cubicle with a computer, contributing to the profit of my corporation.
Now I’m alone in a hospital room built for two. Staff members in their masks and gowns attend to my needs, kindly and politely. Very few of them make real contact with me as I search for the soul in the eyes above the mask.
How easily alone can become lonely.
Friends have sent me marvelous messages on Facebook and I’ve received one phone call … a loving human voice! But I’m sagging in spirit. I want to go home.
My doctor made one brief visit yesterday, standing at the door so she wouldn’t have to don the extra clothes. “Home likely tomorrow” … and then she was gone. The way I read it is that my problem has solely been food poisoning, rather than some extra infection. May it be so. May I walk out of Evangelical Hospital this afternoon to my Airbnb and tomorrow ride the Flixbus for four hours back to Gent.
How strange that my continued dullness of mind has me preferring the horizontal to the vertical. “Guess I’ll just go back to sleep.” Or “It’s too much work to shower and shave.”
I’ve thought of sitting in a chair and meditating (something I’ve loved doing since 2007 or so) but the mind says no. As quiet as things are here, my mind bounces, twists and turns. Thank God for writing this blog to you. It comforts me.
***
Here’s some abstract art for you:
Do you see the ghost in the picture? How symbolic … that would be me.
What you see are large tiles on my floor. Yesterday I sat on the bed, taking the last pills I had brought from home. I expected the hospital was going to follow through and provide me with more of my meds but they hadn’t shown up yet.
Anyway, I was taking the Candesartan when it slipped from my fingers, hit the edge of the bed, and zoomed off onto the floor. A tiny orange pill on a grey floor of orange and white dots.
I couldn’t find it. Ten minutes later, after pushing the bedside table far away to create a large search radius – still no pill. Okay, I wasn’t going to die but my fragility was now emotional rather than physical, and I despaired.
So I gave up the search. I pulled the table back to the bedside. And voilà … the pill was revealed, standing on its wee edge. If you can enlarge the photo, you’ll find it.
***
If indeed the answer is food poisoning, I will return to the scene of the crime and tell the restaurant staff what happened. I won’t do it with antagonism, but rather in the spirit of service. They need to know that something was wrong with Friday’s Farmer Pizza. I’ve looked to see if I’m angry with the restaurant. I can’t find any anger, and I don’t think I’m suppressing it. I feel sad.
Bruce's Blog 