I sat in Nostalgie this morning. It’s a new breakfast place on the Sleepstraat.
Behind the counter was a nice lady who knew no English, and my Dutch wasn’t up to the task. Two women enjoying their paninis helped me with the menu.
Nostalgie especially serves the Turkish community in Gent but clearly welcomes everyone. A young Turkish man sat near me. He was served a marvelous-looking egg dish in a little iron pan. As I lusted over his food, I asked him about it. He was so friendly in reply.
So … I’d say Nostalgie is a good place. I shall return.
And now the wall:
I got up to look at each image. I figure all the people are Turkish, as is the writing. Many of the big cards looked old.
I wondered if the folks depicted are dead now. And that took my mind to the impact we make on the human beings we encounter in life. Does our contribution linger after we die? Does it end completely once those we knew die? Maybe not.
Panos on the Langemunt and Izy Coffee on the Langemunt are two of my favourite places. I know many staff members at each one. I can be myself in their presence.
This morning I said the same thing in both restaurants …
I was up most of the night, working on a problem in mathematics. It’s tough. I need help. I hope you’re good in math.
(Response: I’m not!)
Let’s give it a try anyway … What’s 1 + 1?
(Staring faces)
I often wonder what people think when I say silly things. Here are some guesses:
Huh?
What’s wrong with this guy?
Is he stupid?
Is he messing with my brain?
As for the last question, the answer is “Yes!”
I’m so willing to be considered strange, mentally unbalanced, even a touch of dangerous. I’m not any of those things. But I secretly hope that my words will be a jolt, an gateway for the other person into a new realm. And I secretly hope that they get it … and smile.
For so many years I’ve loved the word “silly”. And for so many more years, I will continue the love … and the speaking.
This painting by Alex Grey is entitled Oversoul. I have four reproductions of Alex’s work in my apartment.
Today, do I write six paragraphs of what Oversoul “means”. No. My meaning is likely different from yours. And actually … why do I need it to have a meaning? I don’t.
Perhaps I should compare Oversoul to other Alex Grey paintings, showing my keen skills of analysis. No.
Okay … how about Grey and other contemporary artists? Revealing distinctions here should enhance you readers’ appreciation of art. No.
Or a lesson in the span of art history, leading to today? No.
Please let Oversoul leap off the screen and enter your heart. Your mind need not apply.
Look at those eyes. Look at that smile. And look at “all together now”.
May this be our world of the future. Eyes wide open in wonder, waking up to welcome the day.
The young ones are new, and not just their age. Despite what now shouts in our countries and cities, the we is coming … moving the I to the periphery. I can feel it.
We have separate bodies. Therefore it’s easy to conclude that we are separate people. Not so. Many of us hear the call of a lingering embrace, a call to enter the light in the other’s eyes.
It’s been so long that I’ve loved the song. It sings to me. In all those years, I’ve vaguely thought about learning the words and singing it in public. But there was no “oomph” to perform. I didn’t know if I was good enough to do that … and I didn’t care.
Now I do. During the last year, a mysterious pull has drawn me to the stage, urging me to open my mouth and let flow what wants to.
And so … here is “The Rose”. I see it as one of the finest songs ever written, evoking all the nuances of loving someone, of embracing life, of trusting that goodness is on its way. I am in awe when I read the words. I hope others will be in awe as I sing them …
Some say, “Love. It is a river That drowns the tender reed” Some say, “Love. It is a razor That leaves your soul to bleed” Some say, “Love. It is a hunger An endless aching need” I say, “Love. It is a flower And you its only seed”
It’s the heart afraid of breaking That never learns to dance It’s the dream afraid of waking That never takes the chance It’s the one who won’t be taken Who cannot seem to give And the soul afraid of dyin’ That never learns to live
When the night has been too lonely And the road has been too long And you think that love is only For the lucky and the strong Just remember in the winter Far beneath the bitter snows Lies a seed that with the sun’s love In the spring becomes the rose
I found this video on YouTube. Please receive the face of the first woman you see – Suzan Erens. There is so much beyond physical beauty.
This is not a picture of Mr. Chick but it seems right to me. He was my Grade 10 Geography teacher in 1964 … a huge muscular man with a deep voice. We kids were told he was a British commando in World War II. He sure struck fear into the heart of this scrawny, pimply 15-year-old.
On some days, one of us students had to give a speech, but we never knew whose turn it would be.
Imagine a baritone voice saying these words, ever so slowly:
Today’s speech will be given by …
(Then an incredibly long pause, during which my internal organs turned themselves into knots)
It’s 61 years later and the sweat is starting to come. If I fumbled my talk about the Rocky Mountains, I could see Mr. Chick reaching out and snapping my neck. Easy.
This teacher became the image of all my fears.
***
Today was my Music Theory class. It was test day. Each of us would be tested orally about our abilities in rhythm and sequences of musical note names. We’d be giving our answers as we read the sheet music of a short piece. Ten minutes each in the spotlight.
The teacher was naturally speaking in Dutch. Then a pause … and the word “Ben”. Student number one of ten.
I sat there loving Ben, praying for him. My prayers continued for Lamia, Melike, Bruce (!), Jérome, Veronique, Isabelle, Jan, Katinka and Gudrun. I held them all, one by one.
Our teacher is nothing like Oliver Chick, but 2025 was blending with 1964.
Today I could feel everyone cheering on each human being in turn. I hope my teenaged classmates were doing the same so many years ago.
I curl up on the couch in the evenings and read Pan’s Labyrinth, an entrancing novel of love and hate.
Last night I came upon a passage that brought me back to a moment earlier in my day.
Ofelia is a young girl. Mercedes is a middle-aged woman. They love each other.
“Do you know a lullaby?” Ofelia murmured.
Did she? Yes …
“Only one. But I don’t remember the words.”
“I don’t care. I still want to hear it.” Ofelia looked up at her pleadingly.
So Mercedes closed her eyes and while she was gently rocking another woman’s child in her arms, she began to hum the lullaby her mother had once sung to her and her brother. The wordless tune filled both her and the girl with the sweetness of love, like the first song ever sung on earth to the first child born. It sang of love and the pain it brings. And of the strength, even in the profoundest darkness.
So sweetly written, Cornelia Funke.
***
And earlier …
I love sitting in Sint-Salvatorkerk, the Ukrainian church in Gent. I was there yesterday morning.
Katarina welcomes people to her church. Most times, as I sit in meditation, I hear her singing … an echo in the sanctuary. It makes me smile.
Yesterday she walked up to me as I was getting ready to leave. We hugged. There’s a connection, so beyond her minimal English and my minimal Dutch.
I said “Wij zingen?” A request that we sing together. And so from her mouth came the first words of “Ave Maria”. They rose to the blue ceiling.
I didn’t know the lyrics and the melody was iffy in my mind …
She’s 13-years-old. She stands on the stage and starts playing her trumpet. The audience stills. Time stops.
And all is well
I’ve had the thought that consciousness shows up two ways in my life:
The first I call number one – daily tasks; conversations about the weather, politics or sports; the dimmer switch on my lamp is on.
The second is number two – eyes wide open, stunned by the beauty of another soul, a sunset, a song. So bright!
The girl gave me number two. She caressed the melody with her instrument. Audience members and musicians in the orchestra just sat there, letting the waves of softness waft over them.
Patricia Albere is the founder of the Evolutionary Collective. About 150 souls from different parts of the world have entered and stabilized in this work: being spiritually connected with each other as we participate in the evolution of consciousness on Earth.
Last week Patricia hosted fifty or so of us on Zoom, in session one of her Evolutionary Eyes course. She had fine things to say. Here are a few of them, with my comments on each:
1. Something is covering over our humanity … What are they looking through?
My job is to look at my filters, usually ones of ego, that diminish my moment-to-moment experience of love.
2. There is much more that can happen here.
“There are things you don’t know that you don’t know.” May my eyes open to that which I’ve never encountered.
3. What kind of world do you want to live in?
One where I see an old friend on the street and my eyes explode in joy. “It’s you!” Or … even with a stranger. May I be “delighting in your company”.
4. What are you longing for?
To be seen. To be invited into another person’s life.
5. How do you handle the insanity of the world?
(It’s funny … I can’t remember if what I wrote next came from Patricia’s mouth or mine. Oh well, it came from us.)
Connect with the Divine. Open it up. Don’t work on the level of the world.
6. Who knows what will be released?
I don’t.
7. Where we put our energy matters.
So in this moment, as I tap the screen, do I worry about being understood by you readers or do I let my finger flow into an embrace?
8. Is this the whole thing?… What is your “Something Else”?
What am I evolving into? What are we evolving into? Am I willing to let the “not knowing” sit quietly with me, or do I rush to filling the empty space with analysis and busy-ness?
***
On the road again I just can’t wait to get on the road again The life I love is making music with my friends And I can’t wait to get on the road again
Bruce's Blog 