Yesterday’s cyclocross race in Gavere was won by Fem van Empel from The Netherlands. Here she is:
She’s a pretty young woman. But beauty is far beyond youth and high cheek bones. What do the eyes say? Because I think true beauty resides there. There is determination in her gaze. “I will not give up.”
And what about perfect skin? Specks of mud do not diminish her. Nor the red spots where her cycling glasses were rubbing.
And now even more dirt:
The smile cannot be extinguished by exhaustion and cold and mud.
For the truest beauty, it takes two. Loving each other, celebrating each other. “We did it!”
And a cycling image from the road. Beauty in an 81-year-old:
It’s a little town near Gent which today was the centre of the cycling universe. I went.
Cyclocross is all about mud – uphill and downhill. I wasn’t going to miss it.
***
As I sat waiting for my second bus this morning, I decided to do a variation of loving the people I see. I simply looked straight ahead and wished well everyone who came into my field of vision.
I could drink in pedestrians on the far side of the street. People in cars over there were just momentary shapes, while close to me were blurred vehicles, each no doubt containing human beings. I loved them all … because it’s a nice thing to do.
***
A strange house blew by me on the bus. I saw the front wall and a side one. The only windows were long horizontal slits, no more than 30 centimetres high. What kind of world view does that give you? Not much, I’d say. I hoped that the other two sides of the building were open to the world … so the residents could have some mental health.
***
As I approached Gavere, I realized that my cell phone would soon be on life support. Google Maps kindly showed me that there weren’t any restaurants or pubs (cafés in Belgium) near the bus stop by the cyclocross course. So I got off earlier, in the town centre. Now to find an outlet for charging.
The café was already jam packed with cycling fans at 11:30 – two hours before the first race. I checked the walls, and there in the far corner I spied a lonely power bar. We were about to become friends.
I sat at a table with my beloved cappuccino and watched the display of humanity … all cyclocross fans, I guessed – 90% men, all ages, even a sprinkling of kids:
Almost everyone had a Jupiler in hand, sometimes one in each hand. It’s an “ordinary” Belgian beer, 5.2% alcohol, with a weaker taste than spectacular brews such as Westmalle Tripel. But Jupiler accounts for 40% of beer sales in this country.
I simply watched the friendships, the joy of about to be watching cyclocross, and the number of empty bottles that sat on tables. I was happy sipping my cappuccino.
***
Did I mention mud? At the admission gate, I checked out people’s footwear. Maybe a third of the folks wore high rubber boots. They’d been down this road before.
Lying on the grass to form a less oozy path were 3-metre long slabs of metal. Often I was slip-slidin’-away on them, and on the soaked grass.
No matter. I was there to see riders’ kits almost unrecognizable with the brown splatters. And any exposed skin was dotted with wet dirt. Plus the faces were studies in filth and exhaustion. The human determination to finish the race, to push a little harder, to pass the rider just ahead … was on display.
Here’s a pic of the men’s race beginning. At this point I’d moved from the world of ooze to the civility of reasonable sand:
***
Gosh it was fun!
Even though my legs tightened up with all the standing
In Belgium Christmas is celebrated on December 24. I went to Maarkedal yesterday to join eleven other human beings for the celebration. People such as my friend Lydia, her children Lore and Baziel, and her mother Marie-paule.
1. Christmas Dinner
Around the long table we grilled our meats, vegetables and eggs. Voices filled the air … mostly Dutch, some French and occasionally English. My Dutch and French are thoroughly basic, and virtually non-existent when folks talk fast.
So I listened to the music of unknown conversations. I watched faces brighten in joy at the punchline of a joke. I danced with the other dancers. I was included, and I felt it.
I had a long talk with Marie-paule about the troubles in life and how love is bigger than them all. We talked slowly (!) and mostly in French. Often I couldn’t find the right word but we still met.
2. Overnight
It’s a logical progression: too much food and too much champagne > nausea. Those six letters stayed with me for most of the night. Sitting on the side of the bed with my plastic barf bag (like Düsseldorf!) wondering if the explosions would begin. Unlike Düsseldorf, they didn’t. Thank God.
When, oh when, will I learn the error of my ways? I can’t eat like I used to, and alcohol is approaching the status of poison. This man needs his sleep and a calm tummy. Perhaps when I’m older I’ll wise up.
3. On the Train With Baziel
He’s a medical student and had to get back to Gent to study. Exams are looming.
Baziel visited me in Canada in 2019 as a young teen … and now he’s a young man, one who can absorb astonishing amounts of medical information.
We talked about family. We talked about cycling, including tomorrow’s cyclocross race in Gavere (I’m going!). And then I asked him to tell me about something he’s learning right now.
Baziel chose cancer. He spoke clearly, using basic terminology, to communicate with the old fellow sitting across from him. I learned about the complex mutating of genes, and how a tumour seems to have a consciousness as it tries to trick the body.
This was not the kid begging to go to McDonald’s every second day. This was the future Dr. Baziel.
4. A WhatsApp Call From Canada
Cam Clark is my oldest friend. We met when we were 15. Tonight he and his partner Ann Higgins phoned me from across the ocean. Their voices were sweet.
Cam and Ann live most of the year surrounded by the woods and lake of Lion’s Head, Canada. They love sitting outside in the morning and watching their tomato plants grow. They love going for a walk on their shady road, a trip that takes fifteen minutes back and forth “without talking” … and three hours when there’s life to share with neighbours. Lion’s Head is home.
We rambled through the years on the phone, and then towards April, when I’ll visit Canada – and them. It’ll be a blessed reunion.
***
Christmas 2024
I hope it was a blessing for you and your loved ones
It’s a 2004 animated film that Jody and I watched many times before she died in 2014. It was, and still is, magic for me at Christmas time.
Kids are invited onto a train heading to the North Pole, shepherded by a conductor who looks suspiciously like Tom Hanks.
The kids are asked to believe … in Santa, in goodness. After many adventures, we end up in a square full of elves, with a gigantic Christmas tree in the centre.
And here comes the big man … white beard and red suit. He’s wondering who should receive the first gift of Christmas. He chooses our hero, who is unnamed in the film:
Guess who Hero Boy is looking at.
And of course there is also Hero Girl – such a kind person:
The same someone has her attention.
Also pulling at our heartstrings is Lonely Boy. Love comes to him from Hero Girl and Hero Boy, as well as from two large men – one in red and one in blue:
Hero Boy is given a jingle bell by Santa but forgets it in his sleigh. After the train trip home, Hero Boy wakes up on Christmas morning to find his sister handing him a gift … “From Santa”. It’s the jingle bell. Both Hero Boy and his sister ring the bell, and both hear the clear tone. But mom and dad can’t hear it.
As the film closes, Hero Boy has become Hero Man:
At one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.
Many years ago, I worked at St. Mary’s Choir School in London, Ontario, Canada. One time, two classes of 12-year-olds watched The Polar Express with me.
As the credits were rolling at the end, I stood before the kids and held up three jingle bells on an orange cord.
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
Bruce's Blog 