Someday, I would like to go home. The exact location of this place, I don’t know, but someday I would like to go. There would be a pleasing feeling of familiarity and a sense of welcome in everything I saw. People would greet me warmly. They would remind me of the length of my absence and the thousands of miles I had travelled in those restless years, but mostly they would tell me that I had been missed, and that things were better now I had returned.
Autumn would come to this place of welcome, this place I would know to be home. Autumn would come and the air would grow cool, dry and magic, as it does that time of the year. At night, I would walk the streets but not feel lonely, for these are the streets of my hometown. These are the streets that I had thought about while far away, and now I was back, and all was as it should be.
The trees and the falling leaves would welcome me. I would look up at the moon, and remember seeing it in countries all over the world as I had restlessly journeyed for decades, never remembering it looking the same as when viewed from my hometown.
Henry Rollins
Leslie knows that I’ll be visiting Canada in April. The words she shared are a blessing.
“Visiting Canada” – what a strange expression for me. I lived there for seventy-four years. My return has virtually nothing to do with the geography and everything to do with the people. Yes, I’ll walk those autumn streets at night and feel comfy. But it’s the sofas and the window tables that draw me, where I will be accompanied by dear ones. They will no doubt tell me that I’ve been missed. We’ll become unwound together.
Home is people in Gent, in Toronto, and in London, Ontario. I’ll be staying in Canada for sixteen nights. Each one will be in the home of folks whom I love, and who love me. Such a lucky me!
The “someday” is every day, as long as I connect with at least one human being in the twenty-four hours. And why not go for ten?
I find it hard to memorize things. Too bad. I want to memorize things.
Bruce 1: “Okay, go ahead and memorize short songs, Bruce. You want to sing … so short ones will do nicely.”
Bruce 2: “But you don’t understand, Bruce. I also want to memorize long songs.”
Bruce 1: “Look, Bruce – at your age, with your declining brain, that’s pretty risky. What if you get three minutes into a seven-minute song and forget what’s next?”
Bruce 2: “Declining brain! Who do you think you are?”
Bruce 1: “I’m you!”
Bruce 2: “Well, so am I!”
(And then … We/me declared a truce)
Which brings me to Patti Smith. In 2016, Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Patti was asked to sing one of Bob’s songs at the award ceremony in Stockholm, Sweden. She chose “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”.
Partway through, Patti stopped. The words wouldn’t come …
“I’m sorry. I’m so nervous”
Humanity was fully on display for the audience and the TV. Many wrapped their hearts around her. It was magic.
Patti began again, hesitating a bit more but giving her soul to the song, and to the audience, and to Bob.
The music video is my favourite of all time.
Here are the words:
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered withwater
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets thedamp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
And here’s Patti afterwards …
The opening chords of the song were introduced, and I heard myself singing. The first verse was passable, a bit shaky, but I was certain I would settle. But instead I was struck with a plethora of emotions, avalanching with such intensity that I was unable to negotiate them. From the corner of my eye, I could see the huge boom stand of the television camera, and all the dignitaries upon the stage and the people beyond. Unaccustomed to such an overwhelming case of nerves, I was unable to continue. I hadn’t forgotten the words that were now a part of me. I was simply unable to draw them out.
This strange phenomenon did not diminish or pass but stayed cruelly with me. I was obliged to stop and ask pardon and then attempt again while in this state and sang with all my being, yet still stumbling. It was not lost on me that the narrative of the song begins with the words “I stumbled alongside of twelve misty mountains,” and ends with the line “And I’ll know my song well before I start singing.” As I took my seat, I felt the humiliating sting of failure, but also the strange realization that I had somehow entered and truly lived the world of the lyrics.
I watched two amazing cycling races on TV yesterday – Strade Bianche women’s and men’s in Italy. “White Roads” … as in gravel.
I love one of the riders – Puck Pieterse from the Netherlands. She’s brimming with life, friendly and pretty. If I had a daughter, I hope she’d be like Puck.
Near the end of the race, the riders climb an incredibly steep street – Via Santa Caterina. Before I turned on the TV, I had this vision of Puck fighting for the lead on this slope.
Now I realize, one more time, that I create sporting heroes and I cheer them so loudly that it dominates my experience of the event. Such as yesterday.
The truth was that Puck wasn’t near the lead. Instead it was head-to-head between Demi Vollering and Anna van der Breggen. Puck finished seventh, nearly two minutes down.
Thus morning I felt a lingering sadness that Puck wasn’t at the front. How silly of me. Wake up, Bruce.
***
All of this brings me back about twenty-five years. My idol of the decade was Canadian golfer Mike Weir. Just like with Puck, I had moments when my happiness rose and fell with the successes and failures of Mike. So much for evolving, at least in my relationship to beloved athletes.
And now the sadness …
Jody and I were on vacation in Montreal, a vibrant international city. On a Sunday, Mike was playing the last round of one of the biggest golf tournaments – the PGA Championship.
What did this immature Bruce do? He insisted on staying in the hotel for hours and hours so he could watch a Canadian hit a little white ball over green lawns. Arghh! I was so unkind to my dear wife.
I sang two songs at Salvatore’s on Sint-Salvatorstraat last night. My usual goals were full in my mind:
1. Sing with passion … fill the room.
2. Sing in tune.
3. Remember all the words.
1. (check) 2. (check) 3. (check)
Ahh … and there was a Number 4. > Get the audience to sing the choruses with me.
It’s been a dream of mine to bring a choir into being. And it happened!
First I taught the thirty folks the chorus to “Day Is Done”, famously sung by Peter, Paul and Mary, an American folk music trio.
And if you take my hand, my son All will be well when the day is done And if you take my hand, my son All will be well when the day is done
Day is done, day is done Day is done, day is done
Simple words. But would they do it? The first chorus opportunity gave me a soft response. But it was fuller the second time. And it filled the room on the third.
I gave my audience a huge smile as the last note hung in the air. I put my palms together and bowed. I was thrilled.
The second song was a classic – Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind”. And the chorus …
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind The answer is blowin’ in the wind
As for the second, sometimes I find myself walking in a mist, with the solidity of life obscured. Or I’m standing at an intersection in some unknown town and there aren’t any names on the street signs.
Something is opening in me … and it’s not a psychotic breakdown. It’s big and grand.
Speaking of big, I often think of the universe. Solar systems and galaxies are cool but they’re not the universe. Consider the Milky Way for instance. There’s a border between MW and no MW. Just like the human skin. Just like a town sign.
However …
Here’s a question for you:
Where does the universe end?
And another:
If it ends, what the heck is outside of it?
***
My brain is trembling. My structured world is being threatened. “I know” is floating away into the ether of “I don’t know”.
And the word “Bruce” is beckoning. It too is morphing …
I was eager to go to lunch with my friend Lola today. I’d picked a surprise restaurant and was looking forward to a long talk.
Mid-morning Lola texted me to say she was sick. (Sigh) I was sad … for her, for me, for us.
Moping in my apartment was not the answer. So I strolled over to Izy Coffee on the Langemunt for a cappuccino and to write something in my blog. I opened the door, looked to my left towards my beloved black couch, and there sat Filip – a friend I haven’t seen for six months.
Delight!
On both our faces
Someone large in the universe must have known that I needed a real conversation today … and provided Filip.
I bought him a coffee. An hour later, he bought me one. And the words flowed.
I never thought to ask him where he’d been. I knew he’d bring forth that which was animating him … so would I. And that’s what happened.
I can’t remember much of what he said over our two hours – or much of what I said! But I knew as we parted that we had spent our time within “the good, the true and the beautiful”. We drew forth the essence of each other so it could see the light of day.
Two hours felt like two minutes
This morning and afternoon’s talk with Filip brought to my mind one of my favourite quotes, spoken by Maya Angelou:
I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel
First, from yesterday’s “Jigsaw” post. I forgot something.
As the unclaimed pieces got fewer, I stared at one that was so intricate. I memorized the twists and turns of the shape and obsessed to find its companion amid the others. Not to be revealed! My brain cells began leaking out of my head …
Closer to the end, I looked at the holes in the design and the remaining pieces and came to a conclusion:
There are missing pieces!
When I first saw the puzzle pieces in their plastic bag, I spotted a white token which said “Inspected by 026”. Hours later I started berating 026 for doing a sloppy job.
Many minutes on, the design was nearly complete – just a few spaces, just a few pieces. And then … the last piece settled into its home. Fini!
I’m sorry, 026. I misjudged you. Good job.
As for you, Bruce, you were thoroughly wrong. And not for the first time, I may add.
***
On to the next …
During last night’s Evolutionary Collective meeting on Zoom, Patricia Albere talked about the 1-1 practice we do, called Mutual Awakening. She asked us to “draw forth” the best of our partner when we were practicing, to evoke their beauty.
There are two main alternatives to this perspective. We can let our partner be in however they express themselves, sending them our unconditional love. Or we can judge them.
It’s so different to think “Give me all of you!” I like it better than unconditional love. And the word “evoke” fascinates me.
To cause something to be remembered or expressed
As in having my partner remember who she or he deeply is. And calling them to express their very best … their loves, their inspirations, their “yes” to life.
I evoke with my loved ones. I’m curious about their lives. “What’s important to you? … Tell me more.”
Very few people in my daily life want to evoke the best of me. Most folks just aren’t very interested in my joys and sorrows.
I’m thinking of one Ghentian woman who consistently celebrates what I bring to the world. She’s so curious about her life, and mine. She sees us as spiritual companions on the journey. We’re both healers, I believe.
Thank you, Patricia, for planting the seed of “calling forth” yesterday. I will continue to do so with my loved ones.
I was probably a teen the last time I did a jigsaw puzzle. In recent times it was “Why would I waste my time doing that? So boring.”
About a month ago, I saw an advertisement on the Internet that stopped my brain. Wooden jigsaw puzzles of animals … and they glowed. Such glory.
All thoughts of “boring” drifted away, replaced by “beauty”. On the spot I bought an elephant, a fox, a cat and a sea turtle. No thought … just magnetism.
The puzzles arrived last week, and there they sat in their lovely blue boxes, unopened.
Yesterday was the beginning – maybe a hundred tiny shapes (each one in an aquatic theme) were spread across my table. My sea turtle. “I’m actually doing this!”
My skills were low, as was my ability to find distinctions between one piece and the next. But so what? “I’m a re-newbie.”
And then the moment: the first two pieces found each other like lovers … perfectly joined. My heart soared.
My strategies improved. Look at the accompanying photo and see the little lines and subtleties of colour. Find pieces that are smoothly curved on one side > they’re probably on the edge of the design. Really see the shapes of bumps and holes and find their partners.
“I see the head!” Oh, joy. I was in the middle of creation. Something grand was becoming and eventually would be.
How long did it take for the entire turtle to be revealed, you ask? Four hours. Fatigue growing, hunger ignoring – I was on a mission of emergence. I was Michelangelo facing a huge lump of clay and seeing David inside. Oh, bliss!
There was one piece that thrilled and scared me – Neptune’s pitchfork. There’s no doubt a better word but I don’t what it is. “How can I find Neptune’s home?” I sighed. But in time all was revealed. My fingers finally knew what to do.
***
And at the end of it all …
Voilà!
I also bought a mounting kit so my new friend will grace one of my walls
I went to ‘t Kuipke (The Tub) yesterday morning. So did 15,000 other cycling fans. It’s an iconic velodrome in Gent that opened in 1965. On Saturday it hosted the team presentations for the bike race Omloop Het Nieuwsblad. I watched men and women riding in, standing there beaming onstage, and riding out again.
I was in love.
In love with the thrills of cycling, with incredibly fit young people, with the stories behind the athletes.
In love with the colours, the music and the smiles.
As each team rode in, young kids who had climbed up the barriers leaned over for a high-five, and most riders obliged. Such fun!
I have my favourite cyclists … most of them women. (Imagine that) I looked into their faces from my spot in front of the stage. Behind the eyes were the joys and sorrows that all of us share. Plus the immense ups and downs of being an elite athlete – the highest of wins, the deepest of losses, the public adoration, the injuries that silence the bicycle.
***
And then it was time to race. The women 138 kilometres, the men 197. Why the difference? I don’t know.
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