The fatigue has accumulated over the last week. This morning I was wondering why.
And the word came to me: performing. For five of the last six days, I’ve presented something to an audience.
Wednesday – Play and talk about the cello to my Music Theory class
Thursday – Play “Tango” for my teacher and fellow cello students
Friday – Sing “Song for a Winter’s Night” at an open mic evening
Sunday – Be a “darshan host” during an online Evolutionary Collective retreat. Darshan is a tender, largely silent practice of connection among seven participants. The host needs to do things in a sensitive way.
Monday – Be a Zoom host for an Evolutionary Collective meeting. Lots of tasks, sometimes coming at me quickly.
In each of these events, I experienced pressure. Fear. I put myself on the hot seat. I did some things well. I also made mistakes … and kept going.
It often seemed that I wasn’t getting better at these things. The disappointment came. After that, an “Oh well. I shall continue.”
As a teacher years ago, I was in some sense performing every day. But it was different than now. I was comfortable in my role, in my knowledge, in my skills.
Ten years ago I retired, and the sense of being in front of people in a public way disappeared. Very little stress. Very little asked of me. Was that the good life? Not really.
There’s a sweetness about experiencing the pressure of now, knowing that people are counting on me. Blowing it here and there … and lifting my head once more to face the next moment. Acknowledging when I’ve served the audience or participants well.
I make plans. Just like you, no doubt. There’s something beautiful about being committed to a project … and then following through, whether that’s for a year or a lifetime. Or even a day.
And then there are those other times.
Today was to be the day when I returned to the gym. It’s been five weeks since pneumonia said hello. However this weekend I was at an online retreat with the Evolutionary Collective, lasting each day from 5:00 pm to midnight my time.
I’m sitting in Izy Coffee letting myself be tired, since tired is what I am. The idea of spending time on the elliptical has retreated to the far recesses of my mind. My body is quietly saying “No”. And my body I shall obey.
Today was to be the day when I hit the Dutch studies hard. I had a three-hour class on Saturday morning and I ended up shaking my head a lot. “Right now I have no idea what my dear teacher is saying.”
So I need to dedicate myself to studying for next Saturday’s session. But the brain is currently fuzzy, despite copious sips of caffeine. The idea of focusing on grammar has retreated to the far recesses of my mind.
Today was to be the day when I wandered the back streets of Gent, discovering treasures around corners. Going where tourist feet rarely tred. Finding an old café where no one speaks English. Loving my fellow drinkers at nearby tables.
But my calf muscles are sore and my shoulders low. A lengthy route mostly not aided by Google Maps is a bridge too far for this Monday man.
However …
Today is to be the day when I take the tram to my favourite copy shop and print off sheet music from my phone. Last Thursday my cello teacher challenged me to tackle “Meditation”. In January I heard another cello student play it at our concert. Divine.
I want to work towards such divinity. Just not today. It’ll be fine to return home, place the sheets of paper on my music stand, and smile towards tomorrow.
The mouth curves up. The mouth curves down. Up is far more fun.
The change from predominantly down to predominantly up doesn’t have to take years. But what can I say to convince people of that?
I could pull out all the wise words in my vocabulary – too many of them, in fact – and drone on in lecture mode. But deaf ears would follow.
Sometimes I say good stuff but there are eight billion other humans with cool minds. I found one yesterday on the internet. So here he or she is.
Your job is to read these next words and feel into the being who said them.
And then …
Read the sentences from bottom to top. A different mind … joined by a heart.
Today was the absolute worst day ever And don't try to convince me that There's something good in every day Because, when you take a closer look This world is a pretty evil place Even if Some goodness does shine through once in awhile Satisfaction and happiness don't last And it's not true that It's all in the mind and heart Because True happiness can be attained Only if one's surroundings are good It's not true that good exists I'm sure you can agree that The reality Creates My attitude It's all beyond my control And you'll never in a million years hear me say that Today was a good day
Here we are yesterday afternoon … all seven of us. We are guests of the Pratershol, a community centre in my Gent neighbourhood of Patershol.
The seventh was a well-loved devotée of the centre. I’d walked into a community.
Marc is the fellow in the grey sweater. A few months ago he took me on a rambling walk through un-touristic Gent, much to my delight. He’s such a welcomer.
Yesterday the conversation, full of smiles, was naturally in Dutch. Marc took care to speak slowly so hopefully I could catch on. But mostly I didn’t.
I watched the faces as their words blew by me. There was animation in the stories but usually I didn’t know the situations. It didn’t matter. My newer and older friends were including me, happy that I was sitting at their table. What life is all about, I’d say.
The host volunteers were a couple from Ukraine. I made them smile with my vocabulary of four words. I welcomed them as I was being welcomed.
There will be a time when I will sit as this table speaking Dutch to my friends and enjoying their stories. Even though that time seems far away, I know it will come.
It was comfy in the Pratershol, even as I leaned forward to understand. Focus … dissolve … focus … over and over again.
I sat in The Cobbler this morning for breakfast … and also for looking around.
I had cool conversations with three staff members: Lie, Pascale and Yanisha. It’s precious to be known.
Out the window, far away, sat three birds – one on a roofline, one atop a stepped gable, and one perched on a chimney. I loved the winged ones.
There were lines of connection between my eyes and theirs. I celebrated their different shapes, sizes and sitting spots. The largest spread its wings at photo time. Later he or she held that openness for at least a minute. Such grace.
And you know about windows and birdies. I’m looking out into the world and suddenly there are wings on the right edge, swooping across the panes and disappearing on the left. So cool! It’s a symbol for me … of people and experiences appearing, lingering and then passing past my sight. A natural rhythm.
Another ecstasy for me is watching a bird swoop down and vanish beyond a roof. Ohh … I expect there are few people who share my passion here. C’est la vie. I will continue to wonder at the speed, the descent, the “goneness”.
I told my companions at The Cobbler that I would write about sitting in their midst this morning. Fait accompli!
“The fact that an opinion has been widely held is no evidence whatever that it is not utterly absurd; indeed in view of the silliness of the majority of mankind, a widespread belief is more likely to be foolish than sensible.“ (Bertrand Russell)
Oh, Bertrand. So well said.
Sometimes I let myself be hypnotized by casual truths – ideas I’ve grown up with and really not thought about. I bet many of them are subconscious – no exploring involved.
I don’t want to be hypnotized. I want to be awake … unhampered by what my neighbours think, by what my mother thought.
How about this one? Aboriginal Canadians are lazy, drunk and just plain bad. I love meeting new people of whatever race. I want to see what’s within their eyes. But has part of me been co-opted by the majority opinion? If so, I need to fight that seduction.
People with university degrees are intelligent. In their area of expertise, I guess that’s right. But what about intelligence in living, and in treating other human beings well? Some of them yes, some of them no.
Kids don’t know as much as adults. Well, they haven’t accumulated as much life experience. They haven’t learned all the intricacies of navigating the events of their days. But what about fresh thinking, outside of the boxes that older people create?
Being rich with material comforts creates happiness. If I believe stories about depressed millionaires … not so much. I think happiness comes from experiences of deep contact with other humans.
Men can’t do X. Women can’t do Y. Absurd. I rejoice with male nurses and female mechanics.
A friend of mine disappeared from my view months ago. We used to frequent the same coffee shop, and had many fine conversations. We never shared contact information … and one day he was no longer there.
I’ve been sad about his absence and scared that something had happened to him.
This morning I was walking past a restaurant in Gent centrum. I looked in the window. Sitting way at the back was a familiar jacket and a familiar face.
We both smiled on the approach. He invited me to sit down. As he started telling his story, something happened to me. I was flooded with a softness … something floating down from above and leaving me limp.
I was with him, falling into his words. They were spoken in English – not his mother tongue. He’d often search for how to say it and I searched to understand.
The letting go continued. It was no longer important to figure out the meaning, to ask clarifying questions. It didn’t matter that the conversation was one-sided – all about him.
Eventually I told him that I had to go. I had an appointment at the hospital. I offered a hug and he received it gladly. We both hoped that our reunion will continue.
Hour Two
When I was in the hospital a few weeks ago, the doctors found some blood in my urine, though I’ve never seen any while peeing. So today I met with Dr. Goedertier, a urologist. He was one more example of doctors in Belgium being thorough, exploring all the possibilities when there’s a problem. Thank you, doctors.
Dr. Goedertier wanted to put a camera into my bladder to see if everything was okay there. I said yes without getting the implications of that decision.
Soon it was pants down lying on a bed. Doctor and nurse were ready to go. He pointed to a narrow tube (maybe 45 centimetres) with a camera. “That’s what we’re using.”
Under my breath, I uttered a four-letter word that started with “s” and ended with “t”. Pain isn’t my best subject.
He placed a gob of anaesthetic at the entrance of my urethra, waited for a few seconds, and then started in.
Ouch! “That’s the worst part.” Oh good. As he explored, the pain came in waves. I was being invaded, all for a good cause. I grimaced and uttered stuff that was definitely not under my breath!
A minute later there was an exit. The nurse said “You did very well. Some men yell.” Guess I’m a discreet guy.
My response at the end?
I still have a penis!
Results will come later, as will an appointment for a CT scan down below. I am being cared for.
The penal pain continued as I left the office. The friendly nurse: “The anaesthetic needs to be peed out. Drink lots of water first.”
Okay. So I sat in the lobby for thirty minutes or so, downing two big water bottles full of the good stuff.
On Saturday I climbed the Kappelmuur on my feet just before 140 women cyclists climbed it on their bikes. I was not going to miss these precious moments.
And then there was the descent. My legs tightened up and my knees screamed on the downward cobbles. I had an hour before my train left. I needed most of that.
How amazing to be inching down the hills – wobbly … tentative … in pain. I imagined a little boy passing by saying to his parents “Look at that old man.”
I guess he was right. But only old in the body. There is so much more in life.
I slept nine hours on Saturday night, eleven on Sunday. Yesterday, before 9:00 pm, I felt myself slumping on the couch. “Go to bed, Bruce.” I obeyed orders.
And then there was 8:00 am. I smiled.
So what’s in my future? More climbs of the Kappelmuur in Geraardsbergen? Dancing my legs off at Tomorrowland? Being on the cross-trainer at Basic-Fit for an hour? Climbing the forty steps to my apartment till I’m 90?
Maybe
And maybe not!
What I will say is this:
I promise to be fully engaged with the future moments
I promise to be spiritually connected with whomever is willing to join me
Here I am again, after nine hours of sleep. My finger is ready to recommence.
***
I found a spot near the start line, ready for all those riders to roll out. A mass of motorcyclists, camera people and cars were part of the race staff. And then we the crowd yelled out the coundown from “10” to “Go!” The speed was incredible as the prime athletes started their pedals turning.
Wow! What a rush!
And I had a plan.
I began walking to the Gent Sint-Pieters train station. If I really stretched out the legs, I’d have time to catch the 2:05 bus to Geraardsbergen – the town that was home to one of the most fabled climbs in Belgian cycling – the Kappelmuur. “Muur” as in “wall” … 1.1 cobbled kilometres with an average gradient of 9.3% (maximum 19.8%). Ouch!
There was a problem. I had misinterpreted the tiny icon for the trip to Geraardsbergen. It meant “train” not “bus”. More brisk walking from one end of the station to the other. I climbed the steps to Platform 7, looked to my right and saw the word “Geraardsbergen” at the tail end of a train that was pulling away. (Sigh)
The next train was at 3:05. And so began the calculations. That train was scheduled to arrive at 3:55. Usually Belgian trains are on time, but sometimes not. Google Maps told me it was a 25-minute walk from the train station to the Muur but I’ve discovered that Google walks faster than me. And by definition those 25 minutes would be uphill – a challenge for my much-better-but-still-recovering body.
A cycling website estimated that the riders would be climbing the Muur at 4:50. That sounded like a half-hour buffer to me. But who knows? As I sat in Gent Sint-Pieters, a smile showed up on my face. There was a possibility I’d miss the whole darned thing.
One detail that escaped me in Gent was that my phone charge was wearing down. Oops. Flying blind in Geraardsbergen wouldn’t get the job done. And there were no outlets on the train.
I speeded off the train at my destination and searched for an outlet in the station. There was one, which was the perfect number for me. I plugged in at 4:00 and made the executive decision to charge until 4:10. Ahh … the tightness of time.
Then I started hustling through town, staring at a tiny screen all the way. A carnival was alive and well on the city streets. Lots of music, candy floss and games of skill. Here’s what the cyclists would see in a few minutes:
What you see is “moderately uphill”. Soon it would just be one of those words.
As I climbed the cobbles, I was joined by other cycling fans timing their journey to the top. The energy of expectation was brilliant!
The road narrowed, twisted and tilted up. There was only room for spectators on the right side.
I walked up to two young men on a curve. According to them, we were about a hundred metres from the summit. They said this curvy spot was the best. We’ll be able to see riders coming up from below and then watch them climb beyond us. Cool.
I stayed with the two guys. It was 4:40.
About 4:55 a marshal blows his whistle and starts waving a red flag. There’s a group murmur from below … growing.
And then the colours of cycling jerseys and the whirr of wheels:
I cheered my guts out. “Bravo! Allez! Magnifique!” A wall of yelling and clapping surrounded me.
Oh my God … I’m here!
I turned to my right. Some of the fittest athletes in the world were straining upwards. Their faces! Their legs! The wild calls of the crowd!
I will remember those moments for the rest of my life. My favourite cyclist, Puck Pieterse, flashed by me in sixth place or so. A mass of riders climbed together. And later there were the stragglers … urged on just as stridently.
Bruce's Blog 