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?

It was October, 1992, inside this big white building in Toronto.  Thousands of us approached the SkyDome stadium, our non-perishable food item in hand.  That was our ticket to enter.

Slowly the stands filled with eager human beings … 47,000 of us.  And what was happening on the playing field?

Nothing

No game … no concert … empty

Except for us devotées, our eyes glued to the Jumbotron screens.  Huge images met us.  Images from Atlanta in the USA.

A baseball game was showing on the world’s biggest TVs.  Game Six of the World Series – the championship of professional baseball in North America.  Toronto was leading Atlanta three games to two in the best-of-seven series.

SkyDome rocked with cheers, gasps and groans throughout the evening.  It was surreal.  And then … the ending.  Toronto was ahead.  It was Atlanta’s last chance to tie things up.  If their batter didn’t get on base, the game and the series were over.

Ground ball to the infield, throw to first base, caught by the first baseman before the batter touches the bag …

Yes!

The stadium erupts

Hugs, high fives, screams, bodies flying high and others collapsing …

Toronto had just won the first World Series Championship in their history.

Soon we thousands were streaming out of the SkyDome, many of us walking north together on Toronto’s iconic Yonge Street, which basically goes on forever.  No room for moving cars that night.  We were a flood of humanity.

We Blue Jays fans were lifted high above the asphalt.  Our joy reached the heavens.  Yes, there was drinking, stumbling, getting up again to continue the pilgrimage home.  And all was well.

The best news?  No looting.  No violence of any kind.  Slowly we flowed northward, folks leaving Yonge when their neighbourhood appeared.  My destination was mom’s home seven miles from SkyDome.

***

It was long ago

And in my heart right now

***

Last night was Game Seven of the 2025 World Series.  Toronto versus Los Angeles.  In the same building, but this time brimming with fans.  Now it’s called the Rogers Centre.

Final score:

Toronto Blue Jays  4

Lost Angeles Dodgers  5

(Sigh)

Over a month ago, I was short of money.  I needed to borrow a considerable number of euros for three weeks.

My bank said no, not because they’re unfeeling people, but because they have to abide by Belgian law.  I can’t get a loan until I’m a permanent resident, which will be in two years.

A dear friend said “Yes”.  (Thank you!)

Money would be coming from Canada in “six to ten business days” to repay her.  So it felt like a three-week loan.  She graciously gave me till the end of October to repay.

But then …

Someone at my Canadian financial institution made a big mistake, forgetting that the transaction required me to sign a form.  So I thought the process was flowing along.  Actually it was standing still.  (Sigh)

So I waited.  I had expected three weeks and now it was looking like at least four.  And … I had given my word that the funds would be in my friend’s hands by the end of October.

What mystery.  There was my word.  And there was my inability to control what a financial institution does (and when).  It was a somehow gracious limbo of letting go, contracting, letting go again …

Often a softness entered my face.  And a smile.  An overarching feeling of All Is Well.  I floated.

***

My friend received her money on October 29

It’s a simple photo beside the Lieve River in Gent.  Two boots … standing alone.  Unseen is a nearby wine bottle, empty.  Steps on the left, leading down to the water’s edge.  A tunnel on the far shore.  A boat.  And no one to be seen.

As with much of life, I don’t know.  There’s a story here.  Many possible beginnings and endings.  Joy?  Sorrow?  Neither?  Ordinary?  Extraordinary?  Heart-warming?  Heart-diminishing?

I’m getting better at being stopped by life.  Often pausing, even in mid-step or mid-thought … and wondering.

I don’t know

And I don’t care that I don’t know

The sky is so big

I wrote a couple of days ago about accompanying my friend and her cat to a nearby care home.  I made up names for the residents I especially enjoyed, but not for her.  So … she becomes Valerie.

I like that name.  Three syllables entice me.  They flow.

Valerie and I went for coffee yesterday.  I needed to talk about my experience, particularly being next to residents with dementia.

After our visit, I woke up the next morning sputtering out the words …

What was that?

What happened?

Yes, the twelve or so residents with dementia each sat in the lounge in apparent separation.  But there was some energy flowing in the room.

I was loving people, most of whom had no words to give.  I wanted to sit beside each and every one of them.  In silence.  Not physically touching unless they initiated that.  Just being there.  Together.  Not alone.

The head occupational therapist told me after the visit that I wouldn’t be able to volunteer in the home because I don’t speak Dutch.  The other OT, who visited residents with us, suggested I approach the volunteer manager in the sister building across the street, where older people who don’t require nursing care live.  (Gosh, I didn’t find a name for her either.  She was lovely.  So she becomes Daphné.)

The morning after, I was clear: I didn’t want to volunteer with the higher functioning folks.  I wanted to be in the dementia lounge.

I asked Valerie if she knew what level of Dutch was needed for people to volunteer at the care home.

“A2”

“I passed A2!”

It was sixteen months ago, but I have the paper that proves the level of competence that’s required.

Back then, I concluded “This is too hard.”  And “I don’t want all this homework and exams to learn a skill that I don’t care about.”  And “Most adults and teens in Gent speak English so why am I banging my head against the wall?”

Could it be?

That was then and this is now?

Am I about to scare up my notes from A1 and A2 and … study?  Plus renew my friendship with the Babble language app?

***

(Shaking my head in amazement)

Wonders never cease