Rita MacNeil was a Canadian singer-songwriter whose huge soul accompanied her large body.  She spoke to me in songs such as “Working Man” and “Home I’ll Be”.

One of her compositions has especially resonated within me for decades.  It speaks of something that won’t make sense for many young people: staying at home.

Yes, there is joy in getting out there in the world and seeing what’s there.  In wondering what’s around that corner.  Exploring.  Perhaps being “a stranger in a strange land” … not knowing where to go or how to be.

Rita sings about Cape Breton Island, on Canada’s Atlantic coast.  So many of her friends headed to the bright lights of Toronto, seeking more.

And I’ve seen you at the station
With your arms outstretched and waiting
To welcome home the travellers
Who went searching after dreams

And they never fail to mention
How your life’s been one dimension
And you smile at good intentions
Knowing well they’ll never see

Rita stayed.  Generations of Islanders spread before her.  Yes, she sang concerts in big cities but she still lived in Big Pond on Cape Breton.  She knew her friends and neighbours.

And you never left the old ties
When the changing winds came by
You walked beside the old mill
Turned your eyes upon the green hills

I have wandered from Canada to Belgium.  Gent is now home.  It’s no longer London, Ontario.  Rita and I are not the same.

Although I’ve chosen roaming, I deeply respect Rita’s choice to stay.

In the heart that never wanders
Lies a peace that comes with morning
It’s knowing when the day is done
You’ve realized your dreams

***

It’s time to sing again

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=hFp9KZV_3LE&si=2okdZyc0z2kxviVU

Bring love softly into the world

Show yourself at every turn

Give what you have to those who need

Bounce high and gently return to the earth

Smile till your face hurts … and then again

Feel the peaks and valleys deep in your heart

Lead those who want to come along

Follow those whose eyes are bright

Wonder about everything

Rest in the “not knowing” of life

Thank all the beings who come your way

Say “Yes” … whispered and clear

This time my friend and I (and her cat) didn’t visit the dementia unit.  I was disappointed, but there were other fine human beings to say “Hi” to.

What I remember in life are moments rather than long stretches of time.  And the residents of the home provide me with many.

One woman (I’ll call her Angelina) was delighted to see the kitty cat.  I watched as her eyes and smile went wide and her hand reached forward.  The again and again of skin on fur.

And Angelina’s radio was playing Toto’s “Africa” …

I bless the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had, ooh-hoo
Hurry boy, she’s waiting there for you

The eyes, the kitty, the tune

The words, the voices raised as one

It was magic.

Next it was “Monique” of the bright eyes.  She loved that I loved the plaque that stood  at her bedside … mother and child.

Monique’s glasses had disappeared a few days ago, and she couldn’t see the glorious display of family photos on the side wall.  I was sad for her.

On the wall behind another woman hung a portrait of a girl.  It looked like a very old photo.  “Is that you?” I asked.  Upon translation, she replied “No, that’s my grandson.”  Now he’s a young adult.

Oops.  Being wrong one more time.  And I can live with that quite nicely.

We ended our visit in the cafeteria.  It was full of residents and kids of 10 or so, playing bingo together.  The occupational therapist running the show gave lots of girls and boys the chance to call a number into the microphone.

How marvelous … the very young and the very old, enjoying each other’s presence.

I want to volunteer here

Here’s a picture of me on the Torso Rotation machine at Basic-Fit Korenmarkt.

Okay, I lied.  (About the me part)

It’s one of the thirteen exercises I do on my strength training days.  I have an app called Hevy which charts my progress about the weight I lift for each one.

Ah yes … that seductive word progress.  In the spirit of “More, better and different”. 

What do I want?  Simply to be healthy.  And to continue living in my apartment till I’m 90 (14 more years).  I’m about 50 steps up from street level and my building doesn’t have an elevator.  So I need to be strong.  Bulky muscles don’t interest me.  Instead I love my red living room walls.

Back to Torso Rotation.  Over the last month, alarm bells have been ringing but I only heard them yesterday.  I have been seduced.  Since July, I’ve watched with pride as the weight lifted rose from 40 to 130 pounds.  “Strong man”, my mind whispered.  “Getting close to the territory of the big guys!”  (Actually, that wasn’t true)

The alarm sounded because my movements were sudden jerks, not the smooth flow that my Canadian trainer taught me.  I was going too fast left and right.  And I was banging the weights!  Loud.  That’s a major no-no, disrespectful of other gym patrons.

So yesterday the epiphany:  Do it right, Bruce.  Proper form.  A natural rhythm.  Cut the weight in half and see what happens.

I chose 60 pounds.  And I flowed.  I felt the stretch in the obliques (muscles on the sides of the abdomen).  I was … home.

Hevy told me that the total weight I lifted yesterday for all exercises was about 2000 pounds less than a few days ago.  I smiled.  “So what?”  The rhythm was back, plus the slow contraction and expansion of muscle.

A tiny whispered “Yes”

My friend Prabigya and I were looking for a place to have coffee yesterday.  We decided to enjoy Music Mania, a very cool store on the Kraanlei, just steps from my home.  It’s a new arrival on the street, combining vinyl records and drinks.  Plus the red chairs!

Prabigya’s friend was going to join us, along with her young daughter.  All three are from Nepal. 

When they arrived, the tiny girl was shy … of course.  Here was a guy she didn’t know, sporting white skin instead of brown, plus the old grey hair.

The four of us sat at one of the round tables.  People flooded by on the cobbles.  There was a fake flowering plant in the centre of the table.

I took a long packet of sugar, ripped off the top, and poured the whiteness into my latté.  The young one was watching.

Her eyes were getting braver with mine.

The torn-off end was lying on the table.  I shoved it towards the girl.  She stared at it a bit, then picked it up and dropped it into the plant pot.  Now her eyes on me.

Choosing my first and second fingers, rather than my thumb and first finger, I plucked the paper from its sanctuary and plopped it onto the table.  A small hand returned it to its proper secluded spot.

And on and on … back and forth for at least fifteen minutes – two human beings of different ages (2 and 76) waging finger wars while mom and Prabigya chatted away.

My fingers took different routes to the destination, sometimes bouncing, sliding, leaping, circling …  All fun for both of us.

At one point Prabigya said “She’s calling you grandpa in Nepali.”  Cool.  I’ve never been a grandpa.

Sooner than I wanted, it was time for mom and daughter to set off into the world.

Short fingers waving goodbye

Long fingers smiling in reply

My gym has a rule that every member has to carry a towel when they’re working out, to clean off the sweat after using a machine.

I’ve chosen an itsy bitsy towel.  In Canada it would have been a facecloth.  In Belgium I’ll call it a face glove.

This morning I noticed that the gym glove was gone.  I’d been to Basic-Fit yesterday and no doubt left it hanging on the elliptical machine.  For the second time in ten days!  (Sigh)

So off I trudged gymward, my chin dragging on the asphalt.  I won’t tell you the words I chose for self-recrimination.

As I approached the Zuivelbrug (a bridge), I decided to shift gears.  I’ll get people to pray for the existence of my towel.  So … two guys I know at Soup Lounge, three female employees at Panos Langemunt, and the barista at Izy Coffee.  That’s six prayers!  Although more than one said “It’ll be gone.”  (No, no … I need praying, not the voice of doom)

Up the elevator to gym land.  ID card to get in.  Walking towards the bank of six ellipticals.

Yes?  No?

Yes!

There sat my face glove on the arm of a machine.  Thank you, honest members, for knowing I’d miss it if it was gone.

Smiling and planning, I walked towards Izy.  I shoved the lovely orange thing under my coat at the back.

Empty hands and a sad face as I approached the barista  >  “I told you so”  >  (Whipping the towel out from behind my back)  >  (Barista’s eyes wide, accompanied by a broad smile)

Lovely

I repeated my sleight-of-hand at the Press Shop, Panos and Soup Lounge … all to smiles and high fives.

Life is good

This feels like one of those “Don’t say that … people will think you’re crazy” posts.

Oh well.  Think away.

I sleep on my side.  Two nights ago I woke up in the wee hours and my mouth felt funny.  It was wide open.  I was drifting on the edge of sleep … and then I was gone again.  At the morning light, there was my mouth again.  It closed as I rose from bed.

Odd, but I let go of thoughts about it.

I was meditating yesterday afternoon.  A common experience for me is that, after a brief period of mind chatter, my consciousness settles into a gentle undulation.  Minutes later, the curving often becomes a straight horizontal line of peace.

Yesterday the period of undulating was long.  I wondered if the peace would be arriving this time.

And then …

Tiny bubbles began popping between my lips.  A loss of pressure.  A loss of contact.  And my mouth began opening … towards a huge oval.

The space around me was huge.  My head was a pillow.  Floating.  Personal problems disappeared.

After a few minutes of this, I got scared.  Was this a physical crisis or a spiritual experience?  And the openness lingered.

I shut down the meditation and ate some food in the living room.

What was that?

Then a decision: go back to the meditation.

Usually when I interrupt a session to pee or something, it takes ten minutes or more to return to the straight line.

This time I sat down and within ten seconds my mouth began to open.  Lost immediately.

I let it be.  And so my moments joined in the flow …

This morning I again woke with my mouth wide.  Minutes later it slowly closed, without me being involved.  After a time, it opened again.

Opened … closed …

***

Oh, the mystery of it all

No pain, no problem

Just the flow

We humans appear to be tethered to the Earth.  Our feet are designed to be in contact.  But is there something else?

I often fantasize about floating.  Not only are my fingers painting pictures in the air but my feet are a few centimetres off the ground, the toes free to wiggle.  Freedom.

I just thought of walking on the moon.  What must that be like?  I asked Google to give me quotes from some astronauts who did that.  Sadly, none of them talked of the physical and spiritual experience.  It seemed to be business as usual.  “There’s a lot to be done.”

So I asked AI …

You are six times lighter than on Earth, making movements feel bouncy and different from walking or even a trampoline, as the movement is not springy but more like slow-motion bouncing.

And then the surround …

The moon has no atmosphere, so the silence is complete.  The sky is a constant, deep black …

Next up in my brain was the high jump in athletics competitions:

Sometimes there are no words to help one’s courage.  Sometimes you just have to jump 

Rise up and touch the sky

Maybe it wasn’t meant for me to stand on my feet.  Maybe I’m one of those who were born with wings and the destiny to fly

***

Shall we soar?

Three years ago, before I’d moved to Belgium, I bought two white couches for my future Gent living room.  Some friends thought I was crazy.  “They’ll get dirty!”

Oh, well.  I’d cope with the cleaning.  I knew the white would be brilliant with my red walls.

I can now report that stains are alive and well on the fabric.  I found the manufacturer’s instructions.  Wash at 40° Celsius (or 30° if I was concerned about longevity).  I chose 30°.

Vanish is a cool product for stains.  I rubbed the liquid version into the stains and put the powder into the washing machine container.  The results were so-so.  Maybe I waited too long to freshen things up.

In the laundromat, I created two piles of cleanliness: back cushion covers and seat cushion covers.  Two days later, I decided it was time to re-attach.  Only one problem – I had five seat cushions and four covers!

Exhaustive research has demonstrated that someone in the laundromat stole one of the cushion covers.  (Sigh) 

Don’t worry, though.  I’ll keep trusting in the goodness of people.  Naïve?  Yeah, that sounds like me.

I thought it would be a simple matter to buy a replacement cover.  “Think on, Bruce, ’cause it twern’t so.”

The couch manufacturer appears to have gone out of business.  IKEA doesn’t sell the replacement cushion I need.  And no one else seems to either.

I thought my best move was to talk to IKEA Customer Service and get their advice.

The result?  I phoned three times and was on hold for about two hours total.  None of the three French reps who came online could speak English.  There was no English option.  (Sigh again)

***

My mind created a tsunami of a disaster.  “Poor me!” was seeping from my pores.  And I had a position, as in “a person’s point of view or attitude towards something”.  I had to have the cushion cover.  My couch cushions had to be uniform.  My couches had to be as perfect as possible.

So much for meditative spaciousness.  And for a deep connection with people.

How easily I forget

***

Eventually (such as two hours later) my body let go.  Of phoning IKEA again.  Of needing to find the elusive cover.  Of the angst.

I went on Amazon, bought a cheap white seat cushion cover in the size I needed … and smiled.  The unbidden upturn of the mouth is a sign for me … All is well.

I lost a few hours of my life yesterday

But there are many hours left to live

I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor this morning.  I glanced up, at the ancient artwork above the fireplace.

“Look at the beauty of the sculpture inset into the wall”

Then more looking …

The shadows.  The roundness of the tree trunk.

But could it be a painting, perfectly flat?  >  No, that’s impossible  >  I know my eyes  >  Or do I?

I stood up and came close.  Flat.  A painting.

I know

Or I don’t know

And how much of life do I really not know?