I’ve lived in the Patershol area of Gent for coming on two years. My apartment is fifty metres from what I see as the most beautiful building in the city.
My fascination with the sculptures on the walls has faded as I’ve morphed from tourist to resident. How sad. I’ve never wanted to get “used to” anything or anyone. My eyes need to see the freshness of each moment.
So I lingered this morning …
I joked with a couple that I was the architect “about ten years ago. I designed it so it would look really old.” They smiled and wished me a Merry Christmas.
Together we gazed at the images: the woman, the eagle and the flame; the player of the lute; and sitting with “man’s best friend”. Gentle on the wall … timeless.
And then above:
So many faces. And mom with her little ones, blessing all below.
1. Around forty years ago I met another Bruce Kerr. He was the husband of one of my co-workers. And I remember being dizzy as I looked at him.
I want to meet another one. How would this Bruce react now to seeing a compatriot? Perhaps I’ll never find out.
2. Number One came to mind because of a conversation I just had with Sabrina at Jaggers, a lovely breakfast place. She was waiting for her brother to arrive.
“He turns 76 in January.”
“So do I! What’s the date?”
“January 11.”
“January 9 for me.”
And I waited, hoping I’d get to meet someone so close to my birthday. But he didn’t show up. After I went inside to pay, I said “Salut” to Sabrina and started walking away.
“Here he comes!”
Across the Vrijdagmarkt square was a man with a white beard. I approached him and said:
“January 11, 1949.”
His eyes widened. We talked for a minute and then smiled our goodbyes.
And so my search continues for another January 9, 1949 baby.
3. Also this morning I met a fellow from New Zealand who’s lived in The Netherlands for the past thirty years. I asked Herman what’s a typical phrase that one Kiwi would say to another. He smiled and out came words unknown to me:
“She’ll be right, mate?” (Basically “How’s it going?”) Thank you, Herman. I’ll use it the next time a Kiwi comes my way.
4. For many years I’ve enjoyed going into a business where I know the staff and saying:
“I’d like to speak to someone more intelligent than me.”
My memory says that only once, long ago in Canada, has someone replied “Yes. May I help you?”
I yearn for a second time. Watch out – Jaggers, Izy Coffee, Panos and other establishments where Bruce Kerr is known.
A Canadian writer named Robert Munsch wrote “Love You Forever”, supposedly a children’s book … really a human being book.
Mom holds her infant son, and sings …
I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be
And decades later, mom is nearing death. The son holds her, and sings …
I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be
Yes … a circle.
I like circles. So does the songwriter Joni Mitchell:
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
…
In the circle game
Someone invented a square. I don’t like them. They’re pointy and angled … and rigid. Not what I want for my life.
My friend Glenn showed me a marvelous transformation – a square decides that enough is enough: “I want to flow!” Here it is. I hope you have Instagram. (And I don’t know how to get rid of all the words beneath the video)
I love Philip Pullman. In the His Dark Materials trilogy, he creates marvelous characters (Lyra!) and breathes life into their humanity.
Philip is a writer. I am a writer. Philip’s books have been embraced by millions of human beings and have won many awards. I write on Facebook nearly every day to an unknown group of readers.
And … we are writers
Teens and grandparents know Philip. And so do literary critics:
Through his strong characters, he stands firmly on the side of young people, ruthlessly questioning authority and proclaiming humanism and the power of love whilst maintaining an optimistic belief in the child even in the darkest of situations.
Well said, my friend. I stand with you
Here’s a passage from Dæmon Voices, Philip’s book about writing:
And there is a joy too in responsibility itself – in the knowledge that what we’re doing on earth, while we live, is being done to the best of our ability, and in the light of everything we know about what is good and true. Art, whatever kind of art it is, is like the mysterious music described in the words of the greatest writer of all, the “sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not”. To bear the responsibility of giving delight and hurting not is one of the greatest privileges a human being can have, and I ask nothing more than the chance to go on being responsible for it till the end of my days.
I was sitting in Izy Coffee this morning with my friend Prabigya when in walked Larisa, the co-owner of Izy with her husband Bart.
Larisa is pregnant. She knows her child will be a girl, and she’s thrilled about that. The young one will be making her appearance on this earth around the beginning of April.
As Larisa talked about the differences between her two boys, I thought about the lives of women, historically and now. Having half of the planet’s human beings considered “less than” by some members of the other half is tragic. The pain of centuries.
And the physical pain of bringing a new life into the world.
Although I see myself as empathetic, I haven’t felt into what it’s really like to be pregnant, to be sick a lot, and to experience contractions. I just haven’t paid attention. But I wanted today to be different.
I wanted to know how much pain Larisa experienced during the births of her sons. She told us that the contractions, lasting maybe thirty seconds, were spurts of pain upwards of seven on the pain scale (out of ten). And they just kept on coming. Plus there were definitely some moments of ten.
And what about the length of labour? Larisa said that a short one would be about four hours. Maybe ten hours would be average. What?! Hours of pain way up high on the scale!
Every human being has been born through the pain of a woman. I’d heard the statement but before today I never got it.
I’m surrounded by heroines … those who have given birth and those who have not. The glass ceilings have been real. Not being allowed to vote has been real. Being beaten up, ignored, treated like a thing …
Here I am, a white male – the epitome of dominance in this skewed society. A man who is only beginning to wake up to what women have faced, and still do.
The first two words used to be a problem for me. If there was a deficit in me, I was bad because of it. What a sad way to lead a life. Happily I’ve woken up from that. Oh, I still have twinges of “not good enough” but they don’t last.
Actually I just had a thought as I sat here tapping:
I don’t care if my writing is any good
How about that! I’ll do my best to express myself well, to touch you dear readers, but maybe that won’t happen today. Oh well.
This morning I had opportunities to test this muscle. I was in Music Theory class at the Poel school with five classmates. The teacher was having us do dictation. He says a rhythm and our job is to transcribe it. The measures, the beat, the number of notes and whether each one is longer or shorter.
The truth is I’m not good at this. In fact, I’m usually lost during the exercise. I tried so hard this morning and I just wasn’t getting it. A spurt of despair came when I saw my neighbour Jan writing down all these notes in their subtle rhythms. But soon a smile showed up within the fragility. Despite “the poor performance” all was well. There was a sweetness residing within the lack of skill.
I’ll improve … maybe.
***
At the break, Jan talked about training to run a half-marathon in March (21 kilometres). Ben joined the conversation. He runs a full marathon every year.
I smiled some more. These men were so fit and so determined to reach a stunning endurance goal. I heard myself think “Good for them!”
I ran in my 30’s and 40’s and I remember the joy of breathing hard, of slowly climbing a hill, of often running with hundreds of other athletes. Hmm … that word. Yes, I was an athlete.
No longer. My running days are in the rear view mirror. And that’s truly okay. I am unable to perform the activity. But I’m totally able to look in the mirror and appreciate the one I see there.
***
Life is good
My skills and capacities are simply different than long ago
After I sold my home in Canada, I stayed in Toronto for a few months with my friends Anne and Ihor. They are Ukrainian Canadians who have hosted many refugees in their bed-and-breakfast. I enjoyed conversations with lots of these folks.
Before I flew across the ocean to Belgium, I bought a traditional Ukrainian shirt. It hung in my closet till last night.
Katarina, the welcomer at the Ukrainian church in Gent, had invited me to a Christmas concert. Yesterday I put on my embroidered white shirt and walked towards the realm of music.
I saw the priest, with whom I had talked a few times. I had a question:
What do I call you? “Father”? “Ivan”?
Those are fine. So is “Father Ivan”
Good. I asked. He answered … with a smile.
A group of musical men came to the stage, with instruments that I called lutes.
They began to sing … mouths wide open, some moving to the music. The glory of the choral! I was transported.
Each song was introduced by a member of the choir, different each time. They held their heads high, the words easily heard without a microphone.
One young man had a long solo. A resonant voice and a wide open soul. I told him later that he filled the church. Such was his spirit.
Here’s one of the songs. I hope you enjoy the soaring.
At the end, the choir director spoke to us, and a woman translated into English. Sadly, nine members of the choir were not onstage. They were on the front lines in Ukraine.
After the concert, my Ukrainian shirt was there for all to see. I received smiles. And I gave a few as well …
I took two trains yesterday to Namur, in the east of Belgium. I was going to my first live cyclocross race! It’s cycling in the mud, with lots of hills – some so steep that the riders have to carry or walk their bikes. It’s a big wow on TV and I was thrilled to be seeing it in person.
I sat on a bench outside the Namur train station and let a message sink in:
Nino is immortalized. Was his carving a defacement or simply his expression? Like so much of life, it wasn’t black-and-white for me. I thought of the time it must have taken to create the words … and I thought of the efforts of city leaders to provide a pristine wooden bench for everybody to sit on.
***
The cyclocross race was basically a loop through the sloping meadows, with countless twists and turns. And it was way up high above the Meuse River, at La Citadelle – an ancient fortress.
I climbed from the river … many steps, and eventually a cobblestoned road. On the stairs, I hauled myself up by the handrail, breathing hard, resting, beginning again, while apparently everyone else in the world was bounding by. No matter. I was doing it.
I found a spot at the barriers on a steep uphill section and watched the Junior Men (under 19) come by five times.
Hardly anyone was strong enough to ride this slope. On the last few laps, it was no one. Tongues hung out, eyes were wide, and everything was touched by mud. I was in awe. These young men were supremely fit, heroic in their exhaustion. It was a privilege to be in their presence.
And the same words fit for my neighbours on the hill: Yentl and Raoul … grandson and opa:
Two marvelous human beings. We talked for two hours as the athletes climbed before our eyes.
Yentl is 16-years-old, plays football and loves motor racing. (Maybe he said Formula One) And what he especially loves is his opa. Often Yentl’s hand would migrate to Raoul’s cap … and stay there.
Yentl wants to work for Raoul someday, in the insulation company he owns. Far cooler than school.
Raoul was a professional cyclist. Not one of the top talents but he did ride with people such as Eddy Merckx. He smiled as he mentioned holding the one-lap record at the Gent velodrome (‘t Kuipke) for years. Now he’s my age but nothing could keep him off the slopes of La Citadelle yesterday.
Yentl and Raoul were delightful companions. We also watched the Women’s Elite race. I’m enamoured with the Dutch rider Puck Pieterse, who’s such a happy and spontaneous person. I saw her struggle up the hill six times.
I started watching virtually all of the women’s faces as they climbed – fierce determination fighting the fatigue, the cold and the wet. All heroes.
***
My knees shouted as I stood in one spot for a long time. And they cried a bit as I descended all those steps. My eyes often closed on the two-hours home by train, train and tram.
And they closed for good a second before my head reached the pillow.
Marieke Janssen is a fine artist … and my friend. We went out for lunch in Oostende and talked about this, that and the other thing. It was easy.
Marieke’s exhibition was her first as a solo artist. Her smile filled the body, not just the face.
The gallery was small but Marieke’s creations blessed the rooms:
People came to chat with the artist and admire her work. The Dutch speaking was fast. I had no idea what they were saying. But there was pleasure and raised eyebrows … and purchases.
I loved this one:
The man’s arm becomes the woman’s hair. And her eyes speak volumes.
I went searching for my favourite painting. I found it. And bought it:
They’re looking at someone or something. The destination has them. And the sun is happy to accompany. An honoured spot on one of my walls awaits.
I was waiting for my friend Marieke at the Oostende train station this morning. Looking at people. And watching pigeons scurry by my feet. I bet they were happy to be out of the cold.
One visitor seemed to be moving funny so I looked closer. At first glance, she was standing on one foot. I was impressed with her athleticism. Then she touched her other foot down, but only briefly … and the landing was strange. If you thought of her foot as a hand, it was resting on the knuckles rather than the palm.
Then my new friend moved away from me, along the floor. The second foot made a swimming motion, and the balance was way off.
The bird is injured
She wasn’t to be denied, however, and roamed around, pecking for bits of food. “This woman is my new hero,” I thought.
I stared in admiration as Miss Pigeon crossed the room on the floor. Braver than most. The humans didn’t notice the journey, except for one woman who came close.
I knew I was about to get up, saunter over to the bird and take a picture. Plus talk to the woman.
All that disappeared when the pigeon took off and landed on a high windowsill. And the woman walked away.
You see the result of my remaining photo op. “It’s just a bird,” you may say. No, it’s far more.
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