In my days, I look for people with light in their eyes, people with “juice”.   Those who are alive in their lives.

Sadly, I also meet folks who seem drained, dry, with mouths that just won’t curl upward at the corners.  I’m sad for them.  Has life merely become a list of events, as simple as eating and showering, leading slowly to death?

(Sigh)

Intermission

As I tap this screen in Izy Coffee, a small dog bounded up on the couch and nestled on my chest.  Now it’s licking!  I let doggie moisten my face a bit before turning away.

And now we settle, Moxy warm against my side.  For a bit I pet his head.  And now my hand is resting on his back.  He seems happy.  Me too.

Then Moxy’s master Tommy calls him … and the couch is mine alone again.  Coming … going.  Such is life.  I need to feel the moments between.

End of Intermission

Now, where was I?

I’ve just finished a novel – “The Subtle Knife” by Philip Pullman.  He’s a fine storyteller and creator of characters.

He’s introduced me to Spectres:

Spectres came from the void between worlds in the multiverse.

[They’re] attacking post-pubescent humans and eating their soul, leaving them as a mindless shell.

It’s similar to a vampire feasting on blood.

I wonder if there are Spectres on Earth, taking the essence from some fine human beings.

Here are some quotes from the book:

1.  In some lights they were hardly there at all, just visible as a drifting quality in the light, a rhythmic evanescence, like veils of transparency turning before a mirror.

2.  She felt a nausea of the soul, a hideous and sickening despair, a melancholy weariness so profound that she was going to die of it.  Her last conscious thought was disgust at life: her senses had lied to her.  The world was not made of energy and delight but of foulness, betrayal and lassitude.  Living was hateful and death was no better, and from end to end of the universe, this was the first and last and only truth.

Thus she stood, bow in hand, indifferent, dead in life.

3.  One or two blank-eyed soldiers glanced up briefly, but found what they saw too hard to remember, and looked away again.

“Lassitude”.  I feel like looking it up in the dictionary.

A condition characterized by lack of interest, energy or spirit

May that condition gently float away from those of us who have it

So we may give

Number One

The Soup Lounge by the Zuivelbrug bridge is full of deliciousness.  And the coolest thing about it is an employee named Glenn.  We’re both philosophers and usually have something silly to say to each other.  And occasionally deep.

I was walking by and there was Glenn inside, eating a sandwich.  I pulled an imaginary sandwich out of my pocket and started chomping down.  He laughed.  He put his sandwich behind his back and out front again.  I followed suit.

I can’t remember the next thing he did but I know I copied it perfectly.

Then he pretended to throw the sandwich into the air.  Me too.  I winged mine way up high and there I stood on the cobbles, hand out, waiting for it to come down.  When I finally caught the see-through nourishment, I noticed a woman standing near, smiling at my athletic achievement.  Glenn inside was also grinning.  So we were three.

***

Number Two

A new restaurant has just moved in, two floors down from my apartment … Bento House.  Husband and wife plus father and mother have worked so hard for the last two months to get ready for the grand opening.  Two glass doors installed at the entrance – so lovely.  Plush chairs at brown tables with sweet reddish-brown placemats.

In the early evening, as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I looked through the doors and saw emptiness.  Everything neat and tidy and vacant.

Sitting at a corner table was dad, his head bowed.  His face was a mask of pain.  And my heart ached for the sadness I witnessed in the face of a human being.  My body had stopped and so had time. 

***

And there we have it … the full span of experiences

We are lifted.  We are crushed

We laugh.  We despair

Hugs please

On Monday, March 17, it looks like I’ll have the opportunity to sing three songs in the café of Minard in Ghent.  The not-sureness is since Hanna, the MC, is on vacation and not accessing her e-mails.  Fingers crossed.

I want to exude love onstage.  Sure, I’d like to hit all the right notes and words, but that’s secondary.  If I touch the audience in song number one, can there be a cumulative effect as I sing two and three?  I wonder.

Yesterday three songs exploded nicely in my head.  They’ve resided there for months and years.  The first is love of a place, the second love of a person, the third love of an activity.  Different destinations … all love.

I don’t know any of these.  And I’m fine with that.  A lot can be accomplished in eight weeks.

The first one is Bonny Portmore.  It’s a castle surrounded by trees, especially one – the ornament tree.  And it all disappears.  A song of lost love.

All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep
Saying “Where shall we shelter, where shall we sleep?”
For the Oak and the Ash, they are all cutten down
And the walls of Bonny Portmore are all down to the ground

Number two is You Can Close Your Eyes.  Love as gentle and sweet, an adoration of the beloved one.  Time stands still in the presence of the other.

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it’s all right
I don’t know no love songs
And I can’t sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song when I’m gone

And then there’s If It Be Your Will, a prayer to the Divine.  Something you love doing … Will it continue or will it end?  There will eventually be a last time when I sing.  Please, may it be a long way off.

If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you

From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing

***

I have a lot to look forward to

A friend of mine was having a bad day yesterday … not sleeping, some people being mean to her, laptop woes.  I said I’d pray for her.

I was heading to the gym, and a brand new thought entered my mind:  “I can pray for her while I’m on the cross-trainer machine.” (Also called an elliptical)

Huh?!

In words I have come to love … “Why not?”  I usually ride the elliptical for thirty minutes.  It’s good for my heart and my knees.  And so I began.

The machine has all sorts of stats I can refer to during the ride, such as speed and calories burned.  For the very first time in my athletic life I didn’t look at them.  So strange. 

For the first ten minutes or so my mind was a jumble, flitting between an image of my friend’s face and the unseen numbers.

Then my whole body started to loosen.  My mind too.  And who knows what else.  My prayers began seeping out.  The urge to look down at tiny screens melted away, ever so slowly.  The arms still pumped back and forth.  The legs rotated as my feet sat on their pads.  But my energy output was … softening.

After twenty minutes, with my heart rate climbing (I could feel it.  I didn’t look!), the prayer for my friend was as wide as the sky.  I saw us hugging for a long time.  I could feel her heart beating against mine.

I was physically very tired at the end.  And … my heart was both thumping and soaring.

***

Hours later I was meditating at home.  I figured my friend could use some more praying.  It was a long and sweet session in my dear meditation chair.  I heard her name and blessed her. 

There came the moment when the slowly undulating stillness moved into unwavering stillness.  I could feel love flowing unimpeded from me to her.

So far pretty normal in my meditative life

And then …

!

My friend disappeared.

I disappeared.

The stillness was of a nature that I’ve never experienced before.  It was shining.  It was stretched out beyond the beginning and ending edges of life.  All had stopped.

And then the words:

Love loving Love

No longer two human beings.  Nor longer on the surface of this planet.  No longer with language and purpose and quick thinking.

Love loving Love

***

I’m asking myself if I should be saying this stuff.  I imagine that many of you have never meditated.  Maybe some folks are saying “What is this guy talking about?”

Well, so be it.  But who would I be if I didn’t talk about what is real and true?  If I let the shoulds of life guide me?

I know …

Just a shell of Bruce

I prefer the bigger fellow

I didn’t write this.  Thank God someone did.  I was lifted in the words … and I still am.  Thank you, dear writer, dear Tina and dear Edwin, for inspiring me.

Parts of the message stay with me, shining a light on what life can be if we commit to going there.

Bold print mine …

When Tina Turner left her first husband – who was also her boss, captor, and brutal tormentor – she snuck out of their Dallas hotel room with a single thought in her mind: “The way out is through the door.”

From there she fled across the midnight freeway, semi-trucks careening past her, with 36 cents and a Mobil gas card in her pocket.  As soon as she decided to walk out that door, she owned nothing else.

When she filed for divorce, she made an unusual request.  She didn’t want anything: not the song rights, not the cars, not the houses, not the money.  All she wanted was the stage name he gave her – Tina – and her married name – Turner.  This was the name by which the world had come to know her, and keeping it was her only chance to salvage her career.

Things could have gone a lot of ways from there.  She could have labored in obscurity for decades, maybe making records on small labels to be prized by vinyl connoisseurs in Portland.  She could have stayed in Vegas, where she first went to get her chops back up, and worked as a nostalgia act.  And, of course, given what she had been through, she might have … not made it.

What happened instead is that Tina Turner became the biggest global rock star of the 80s.  I’m old enough to barely remember this, but if you aren’t, it was like this: The Rolling Stones would headline a stadium one day, and the next day it would be Tina Turner.  A middle-aged Black woman – she became a rock star at 42! – sitting atop the 1980s like it was her throne. 

She managed this because of whatever rare stuff she was made of (this is a woman whose label gave her two weeks to record her solo debut, Private Dancer, which went five times platinum).  Because she decided to speak publicly about her abusive marriage and forge her own identity, and in doing so give hope and courage to countless women.  And also because – in a perhaps unlikely twist for a girl from Nutbush, Tennessee – she had her practice of Soka Gakkai Nichiren Buddhism, to which she credited her survival.  She remained devout until the end.

Tina’s second marriage – to her, her only marriage – was to Edwin Bach, a Swiss music executive 16 years her junior.  Of him, she said, “Erwin, who is a force of nature in his own right, has never been the least bit intimidated by my career, my talents, or my fame.”

In 2016, after a barrage of health problems, Tina’s kidneys began to fail.  A Swiss citizen by then, she had started preparing for assisted suicide when her husband stepped in.  According to Tina, he said, “I don’t want another woman, or another life.”  He gave her one of his kidneys, buying her the remainder of her time on this earth and perhaps closing a cycle which took her from a man who inflicted injury upon her to a man willing to inflict injury upon himself to save her from harm.

Born into a share-cropping family as Anna Mae Bullock in 1939, she died Tina Turner in a palatial Swiss estate: the queen of rock ‘n’ roll; a storm of a performer with a wildcat-fierce voice; a dancer of visceral, spine-tingling potency and ability; a beauty for the ages; a survivor of terrible abuse and an advocate for others in similar situations; an author and actress; a devout Buddhist; a wife and mother; a human being of rare talent and perseverance who, through her transcendent brilliance, became a legend.

***

Amen

I believe we are all made of stuff that isn’t so rare

I celebrate us

Before I get into symbols, I have news.  My grief of yesterday is gone!  I’m so happy to say goodbye, even knowing that the future may bring it back to me.

I looked up “old” in the dictionary: “having lived for a long time”.  Well, yes, that’s me.  Not as old as someone of 90 years, but the shoe still fits.

My choice is whether to say “I am old!” or “I am old.”  The second one, please.

I lost about a day in my sorrow.  As a younger man, I remember donating many days or even weeks to the woes I was creating in my mind.  I don’t want to do that anymore.  If I linger submerged in the swamp, I’m not available to other human beings.  I can’t love them from the goo.

And love is who I am

***

Now … the symbols.  Here’s the first one:

For years, I’ve seen the arrow as me.  I pour my energy into people, one at a time as the moments of the day unfold.  When I’m in a 1-1 conversation, life in the background disappears.  I see only her or him.

Of course the arrow is really two-pointed.  I receive so much beauty from other human beings.  Still, from my end, I’m immersed in one other person.

I meditated for a long time yesterday.  I checked my watch as I returned to “normal life” … one hour and forty-three minutes.

*Pause*

Hmm.  Why did I include the length of time?  Is that just pure ego speaking?  >  Oh, Bruce, be quiet.  Forget the analysis.  Let it go.  >  Okay.

*Return*

During the time in my meditation chair, images came and went, including the arrow.  At one point it began morphing into a circle, with many arrows flowing outwards:

And then the quiet voice … “This one, Bruce.”  Plus another word: “Radiate”.

And there I was, in the unwavering stillness, letting the circle fill me.  “This one.”  Even when I’m with one person.  Fill the room.  Fill the world.  Have love float from the centre in all directions, reaching souls everywhere, even as I’m physically only with you.  And allow me to see the far wider you that stretches to infinity.

Even during the peace of this meditation moment, my eyes, closed as they were, opened wide beneath the lids.

I am shown, day after day, the bigness of life.  There is a rolling wonder that carries me.  Sometimes I see it, sometimes not.  Symbols such as the circle with arrows help a lot.

What does “radiate” mean?  I have a good idea, but perhaps Webster has a finer one …

Clearly emanating a strong feeling or quality through their expression or bearing

Yes … I’ll do that

I woke up this morning overwhelmed with grief … at being old.  Hours later, I’m in Izy Coffee and Bryan Adams is singing “Cuts Like A Knife”.  Yes, that fits.

In bed I felt into the aspects of my life that are touched by this despair, by being 76.  I won’t go there with my words.  I will face the sadness and walk towards it.  In its own time, it will leave.

I’ve mentioned my grief face-to-face with four people this morning.  They’re kind folks.  Each of them searched for something to say that would make me feel better.  I understand, but that’s not what I need right now.  I need to express what is true.  I need to feel the flood inundating me, and in some strange way to welcome it.  The journey is long … we humans get to experience it all.

A wise woman named Barbara Marx Hubbard asked us before her death to reframe “becoming old” as “becoming new”.  My mind senses the truth of that but the recommendation feels so far away right now.

A few minutes back, I asked myself if I was swimming in “Poor Me”.  The answer came back “No”.  Something deeper, something universal, has taken me.

Three hours ago, my Music Theory class started at the Poel school.  I dreaded going.  And the amazing thing was that I was able to focus into the precise thinking of rhythms, the intervals between notes in both the treble and bass clef, and the major and minor key signatures.  “How is this possible?” I uttered to myself as the black continued to descend.  I don’t know the answer to that question.

All these rapid-fire tasks were expressed in Dutch, where the key of Ab Major is known to my mind but “la mol groot” is in the realm of “Huh?”

Now it’s cappuccino time, and there are specks of white in the black.  I have no idea why I’m smiling.

And so I am immersed in the Mystery

I’ve just spent an hour sitting with Leslie and John from Colorado in the USA.  They live on a mountain surrounded by forest, with their nearest neighbour a kilometre away.  So far from my home on the Oudburg, with its flurry of restaurants and bars.

We’re all in our 70s … and all loving life.  Our conversation flowed among the peaks and valleys of living in the world.  It was a delight.

John’s American football career brought me back to a skinny, 115-pound, acne-covered teen.  I know him well.

It was Grade 9 in 1962, the first year of high school.  I wanted to play football, and was accepted onto the Bantam team.  The Junior team was Grade 10s and 11s, the Senior was Grade 12s and 13s.

During one practice after school, the coach (in his dubious wisdom) decided to have the Bantams scrimmage against the Seniors.  For those of you who know the sport, we young-uns were on defense.  I was middle linebacker. The quarterback across the line of scrimmage called a draw play.  This massive fullback got the ball and ran straight ahead.  Our defensive linemen were brushed aside, and the giant was sprinting right at  …

Me!

Oh, God.

What happened, you ask?  Did I make an heroic tackle, à la David and Goliath?  Was I crushed underfoot?  Did a teammate rush to my rescue?

No

I ran away

(Sigh)

I don’t remember what happened next, how people reacted to me.  Thank God.

***

Isn’t it lovely how one image flows to the next?  Step back only a few months … June of Grade 8, the last year of my time at Bedford Park Public School.

It was Track and Field Day, a celebration of the body (at least for some of us).  Still in the realm of dubious wisdom, the teachers decided it would be fun to have a 100-yard race featuring all of the Grade 7 and 8 students.  If there were three classes of kids in each grade, with 30 of us per class, that would have been 180 would-be-athletes in a long line.  (We had a very large schoolyard.)

The gun went off.  I sprinted, at least my version of the word.  I gave everything.

And I came …

Last

Once again, the mercies of memory have erased what followed.  I can imagine …

Every Grade 7 girl beat you, Bruce!

Yuck.

John, Louise and I laughed at my foibles

They have a few themselves

We human beings are so … human

Here you see the meditation hall at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, USA.

Since 2010 it’s been a home for me, offering the teachings of the Buddha.  I’ve been to several week-long silent retreats, and two that were for three months.

In the fall of 2022, I attended what I thought was my last IMS retreat, since I was about to move to Belgium.  I said goodbye to all my favourite spots, inside the building and out in the open air.

A few days ago, I felt the pull to return.

I looked at the IMS schedule and found this for August, 2025: The Sure Heart’s Release: Insight and Metta Retreat.  “Metta” means lovingkindness, also a lovely word.

We’ll explore the steps laid out by the Buddha that lead to the sure heart’s release: the purification of conduct, the purification of mind through concentration and insight, the understanding of absolute and conventional reality, and the stages of insight that lead to nibbana (liberation).

Held in Noble Silence, the course will include instructions for sitting and walking meditations, teacher talks and guided lovingkindness meditations, Q&A, and group and individual practice discussions with the teachers.  Instructions will include the four foundations of mindfulness, with emphasis on the relaxed practice of mindfulness of mind.

I want to go home. 

I want to silently love the other 50 or 80 participants, although I won’t be talking to them (except for the very beginning and end of the retreat).

And I want to stand in a particular spot.  The IMS building is a former Catholic monastery.  There’s a stained-glass window that long ago entered my soul.  The disciple John is gazing lovingly at Jesus, and touching him.

So many times I’ve stood in front of this image and bowed to the love.  During all my retreats except the last one I chose to not take a photo of the window.  But when I was experiencing last time in 2022, I gave in.

During the summer of 2023, I took the train from Belgium to London.  In a pub a fellow stole my phone … and all my pictures.  I hadn’t backed them up.

John and Jesus disappeared

I want them back

***

In the Evolutionary Collective, we touch each other with eyes and words.  Both will be missing at IMS.  But the touching will continue …

If I go

I sat in Izy Coffee yesterday morning and watched a dad with his 12-year-old daughter.  They were both on their phones but there was a tiny line of light joining their faces.

At one point, the girl rushed over to dad to show him an image on her screen.  She leaned over with a hand on his shoulder.  His was on her waist.  I smiled … and sighed.

Jody and I decided long, long ago to not have any kids.  We would travel instead.  It’s one of the few things I regret.

I have a friend who’s in her mid-twenties … Lopke Bruylandt.  The only challenge I have with Lopke is pronouncing her last name.  Her first name is easier (Lōp-kuh).

We talk easily, roaming around topics of the heart.  When I meet someone, I want them to say what’s important to them, and to tell me stories from their life.  Lopke does that, and she’s curious about what moves me.  Our conversations are curved – no straight lines, no sharp edges.

We met months ago at a “Talking Donkeys” open mic session at Minard.  I had sung and Lopke came up to me with words of appreciation.

A week ago I said to Lopke “Oh, I wish I had a daughter!”

She replied “I’ll be your daughter.”

My mind wouldn’t let those words land … and we drifted on to the next exploration of life.

But later, maybe days later, Lopke’s words were scattering my brain cells, splattering me on the sidewalk of my mind.  I was stopped.  I was stunned.  Me?  A father?  At 76?

Lopke is young and pretty.  Thoughts of sexuality come easily to me.  But those thoughts are outshined by other words:

My daughter

My child

Father

Dad

Oh … the immensity of this.  Revering a woman who somehow “comes from me”.  Wanting her to be supremely happy.  Cheering her on as she creates her life.  Knowing I would fall under a bus to prevent her from doing so.

I tried out these words with Lopke:

“You are my daughter”

I started shaking.  My eyes were flooded with something growing.  It was an unknown and blessed world.

And as for the sexuality?  Next lifetime.

***

I have an image of Lopke’s wedding day, if she chooses to marry.  I get to walk her down the aisle towards her beloved.  The thing is, Lopke has a real dad whom she loves very much.  If the day comes, that walk will be his pleasure.

I just reread the last paragraph.  Perhaps Lopke’s father and I are both “real” dads.

Love is love