Usually I write for you.  Today I write for me.

This evening the cello players of my teacher Lieven are giving a concert.  We’ll go onstage individually to each play a piece or two.

It’s naked up there.  Everything is revealed.  All the soaring melodies, the sweetness of the tone, the vibrato of the left hand to bring richness to the note.

And …

The wrong notes, the wrong rhythms, the scratchy squeal of bow on string.

Am I willing for all of it to show up tonight?  Yes.  I’ll give ‘er the whole time but I’m thoroughly imperfect in certain moments.

I’ve practiced a lot but still some changes in finger position on the neck of the cello elude me.  Oh well.

Whatever the quality of sound coming from me today, I will play with passion.  Somewhere in the vicinity of “throwing caution to the wind”.  If all goes to hell, I’ll do my darndest to keep my head high, to still sway a bit in the body, to touch the audience.

What adventure!

***

There are risks and costs to action.  But they are far less than the long range risks of comfortable inaction

John F. Kennedy

He’s a young man who sits at a table in Izy Coffee Langemunt studying Mandarin.  He’s always friendly to me and has challenged me to speak in Dutch.

I didn’t notice him sitting there when I came into Izy yesterday.  But soon we were waving to each other from across the room.

Later he came over to ask me the meaning of an English word and I was happy to help.  I looked at Boaz and wondered if I should tell him the truth.  And the answer was “Yes”.

I’m been avoiding having a conversation with you, Boaz, because you’ll engage me in Dutch and I haven’t been studying for weeks now.  It feels like I’m losing the language.  My motivation has disappeared.

We laughed.  And so began a long talk … in English.

He talked about starting to learn Korean.  His heart wasn’t in it so he stopped.  I talked about letting go of being a Zoom host for Evolutionary Collective meetings after five years in the role.  And Boaz has also stopped being the projectionist for hymn lyrics at his church.

We agreed that once the task has sunk into being an obligation, there’s no sense in continuing.  It’s good to let go of things that no longer thrill our soul.  Other opportunities will come our way.

We wandered over the landscapes of other topics.  Right now I can’t remember what they were!  Doesn’t matter.  What is important is that a 21-year-old and a 75-year-old found common ground.  We connected.  Our differences paled before our common humanity.

There are so many fine people in the world

I’ve been afraid of a song.  It’s one that vibrates inside me as the lyrics unfold.  But I’ve struggled to memorize those words.

I planned to sing it a couple of months ago but I didn’t have the energy to study.  Was that Covid time or earlier?  I can’t remember.

My energy is back and I’ve decided to sing at the café of the Minard concert hall on Monday, December 9.  I was aiming to sing Annie’s Song, John Denver’s ode to love.  I started practicing and it was easy.  I used to sing it in Canada … forty years ago.  Back then I added a verse, adapting the Irish Blessing to John’s song.  I planned to do the same in December.  I wasn’t afraid.

On Sunday I was thumbing through my files of song lyrics and there sat my scary song: Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down.  I read through the words.  I listened to Kris Kristofferson sing it on YouTube Music.

And I knew

December 9: Kris and me.  A simple nod of the head.  Loving something I fear.  And so I continue to memorize.

A drug addict is speaking.  I know nothing about what that’s like.  But I will give that world to the audience in a couple of weeks.

Here are the words:

Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad
So I had one more for dessert
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt
And I shaved my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

I’d smoked my brain the night before
On cigarettes and songs that I’d been pickin’
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Cussin’ at a can that he was kickin’
Then I crossed the empty street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin’ chicken
And it took me back to something
That I’d lost somehow, somewhere along the way

On the Sunday morning sidewalk
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin’ city sidewalk
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down

In the park, I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl he was swingin’
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the song that they were singin’
Then I headed back for home
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin’
And it echoed through the canyons
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday

On the Sunday morning sidewalk
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there’s something in a Sunday
Makes a body feel alone
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin’ city sidewalk
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down

If you’re local, perhaps you’d like to hear me sing.  Minard’s café is at Romain Deconinckplein 2 in Gent. 

The concert on Monday, December 9 starts at 8:00 pm with scheduled acts.  The open mic session will start around 9:00.

Here I come

Here’s a sad story:

Lord Conway built a large castle in Portmore, County Antrim [in what is now Northern Ireland], close to Portmore Lough, in 1664.

The ancient oak, known as “the ornament tree”, was pushed over by a strong wind when standing on the grounds of Portmore’s Castle on the banks of Lugh Bege.  The tree was already well-known for its stance.  Oak was cut, and the timber was sold.  We may infer from the measurements that the trunk’s width was 13 meters.

Almost all the trees were chopped down and sold as lumber for shipbuilding, and the castle fell into ruin.

And so began the decimation of the oak forests of Ireland.  The picture is of an oak tree.  Perhaps the Ornament Tree was as magnificent.

Someone was moved in the 1800’s to write a song about this tragedy … Bonny Portmore.  And I was moved to listen … “Such a woeful destruction of your ornament tree”

Here are the lyrics:

Oh, Bonny Portmore, I am sorry to see
Such a woeful destruction of your ornament tree
For it stood on your shore for many’s the long day
‘Til the long boats from Antrim came to float it away

Oh, Bonny Portmore, you shine where you stand
And the more I think on you, the more I think long
If I had you now as I had once before
All the Lords in Old England would not purchase Portmore

All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep
Saying, “Where shall we shelter, where shall we sleep?”
For the Oak and the Ash, they are all cutten down
And the walls of Bonny Portmore are all down to the ground

Oh, Bonny Portmore, you shine where you stand
And the more I think on you the more I think long
If I had you now as I had once before
All the Lords of Old England would not purchase Portmore

I found a glorious version of Bonny Portmore on YouTube, sung by a member of Celtic Woman.  The song and singer have told me to learn the words … and sing them for people.

And so I will

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=k6vQZKNJ7Lw&si=WwCU2n5m3nMD9qpw

Long ago I was in a leadership program of an organization called est.  A weekend in Vancouver, Canada was scheduled for us participants.  And amongst our homework was this:

Clean your fridge

So odd, I thought.  Except it wasn’t.  If I was to fully engage in the training, I needed the rest of my life to work.

Actually, if I want my energy to be focused on what’s truly important to me – loving people – I need to rid myself of anything that draws that energy away.

There have been three people in my life who I have “unfinished business” with.  Things unsaid and undone.  This morning I told the truth to each of them.  I don’t know how they’ll respond, and their choices will have an impact on me.  The main thing, though, is what I put out there into the world.

Then there are the realms of life where I’ve stopped doing something.  Like continuing to learn Dutch.  And singing at open mic sessions.  I will begin again.

***

The other side of things is stuff I do that’s “extra” … not valuable for my well-being.  Essentially a waste of time.  Like watching action movies on Netflix where a whole bunch of people are getting killed while the hero does his or her heroic things.  Movies with little sense of human connection.  It’s a “something to do” that wears away my soul.

Or … reading the articles on the CNN app.  Being fascinated and horrified with the latest rising of Mr. Trump.  “Give me all the details, please.”  No.

***

This Bruce hereby commits to becoming leaner and kinder

And that kindness needs to waft over me too

A.  Problem

B.  Problem lingers

C.  Problem disappears

That’s me and my esophagus.  It might be as long as a year that I’ve had swallowing problems.  And lots of belching.  Certain foods seeming dangerous, such as popcorn and pizza.  Getting a stomach medication from my doctor and hearing him say to eat slowly and drink lots of water.

At one point I asked Dr. Lagae if I could choke in my sleep and die.  He assured me that the gag reflex would prevent that from happening.

It’s been a long journey … of discomfort and fear

Many months ago, a gastroenterologist put a “snake” down my throat and looked around.  He saw some constriction in the esophagus but no major problem.

But the problem got worse.

So Dr. Cesmeli did it again about four weeks ago, this time under general anaesthetic, thank God.  Lo and behold, he found a fungus growing on the tube.

“I have a medication that should fix you up in a week or two.”

No real change after a week and then I headed to London, armed with my Nilstat liquid.  I finished the meds on Thursday, November 14, just as the Rouleur Live cycling convention was starting.  The beauties of London life had taken over my soul.

***

I woke up this morning with assorted thoughts … but one was shining:

It’s gone!

No more trying to swallow every minute or so.  In London I hadn’t been eating particularly slowly or drinking a lot of water.  I can’t remember burping much.

I hadn’t noticed

My year-long struggle disappeared and I was too busy with other stuff to see.  But today I’m celebrating.  I want vibrant good health to be my normal, not some body upset. 

I guess my age has a lot to do with symptoms here and symptoms there.  Oh well.  Comes with the territory.  But it’s important that I cheer for the victories.  So …

Yay!

Recently I was mean to a dear friend of mine.  I spoke and acted unkindly.  “That’s not you, Bruce,” I thought.  Except this time it was.

Years ago, I vowed to Do No Harm.  And usually I keep my word.  So yesterday and today I’ve been sitting with having broken that agreement.  Feeling into the pain of it.  I’m an imperfect human being who wants to give to others and sometimes doesn’t.

Will the person forgive me?  I hope so.  And … will I forgive myself?  I’ve been working on it.  It used to be that when I screwed up, I lost weeks or even months in the angst of it all.  Let’s go for a few days this time.

***

This morning, I was chatting over the counter to one of the employees at Panos Langemunt while ordering my breakfast.

Off to the side were gasps and cries.  A young woman was stumbling against the drinks cooler, her eyes glazed.  She was muttering something in apparent delirium.

Two other women had her by the arms to prevent a fall.  A guy was already on his cell phone, calling 112.  A woman employee was rushing in with a chair.

There were at least fifteen of us focused on the disoriented woman.  I sent her all the love that resides in my heart.  All of us were an instant family.

Minutes later, as EMS were arriving and her eyes started to focus, she and I looked at each other.  I bowed with my palms together.  She smiled.

***

Separate beings … connected beings

This is Maddy Nutt.  She’s a British gravel bike racer.  And she spoke at last week’s Rouleur Live convention in London.  I was in the front row.

She’s pretty … and that’s nice.  But there’s a world beyond in this woman.  She glowed as she talked, and as she listened to others onstage.

Rouleur magazine wrote an article about Maddy recently:

When people told her that her dream of becoming a professional gravel racer was fanciful, and questioned her choice to wave goodbye to the career she had worked hard for [in finance], Nutt did it anyway.

…

Completing a stacked calendar of gravel events has taken Nutt all over the world – she’s raced in Australia, Mexico and Africa this season alone.  Nutt seems to thrive on tough terrain and come into her own when the limits of her endurance are tested.

Maddy:

“The race started pretty fast and I did crash quite hard, but I immediately got back up and was determined.  I knew my legs were good and I couldn’t lose this opportunity.  I was away with one of the Rwandan riders and on a key climb I knew I could push hard to get a gap, then try to keep everyone out of sight.  I paid for it later because my legs were so wrecked and I ended up getting cramps.  But because I was winning, I was too stubborn to get off the bike.  All I had to do was somehow keep the momentum going and not crash on slippy sand.  It was hard and I was panicking that someone was going to catch me.  I had a few hundred metres to go and I started crying because I was overwhelmed by winning the race, but also in so much pain.”

And here’s another photo … different than the first:

Dirt

Blood

Probably exhaustion

And ice cream

***

Thanks for inspiring me, Maddy

“Wait a minute … I do know music!”

So said the pouting voice inside my head.  I just came from my Music Theory class at the Poel school.  And often I was mixed up, stumbling around in my mind.

I realize that you the reader may find the tasks that I’ll describe easy.  If so, good for you.  We’re no less or more than each other.  Thank God we’re not all the same.

Here’s the first task:

A whole bunch of notes in the treble clef.  Most of the intervals are thirds, occasionally a fifth or seventh.  We read them aloud (do, re, mi etc.).  And we do it fast.  Oi!

If I fall behind the class rhythm, because I’m thinking rather than flowing, there’s no catching up.  I wonder if my struggles have something to do with having an older brain.  But who cares?  I’m pumping out the notes.  Good for me.

Here’s task two:

Hopefully you can enlarge the image. 

Today we focused on exercises 7 and 8.  First we tapped out the rhythm, saying “Bah” for each note.  Then we named each note (do, re, mi …) without a rhythm, and without saying any repeated note.  Oi again.  Finally we named the notes in the correct rhythm.  (Or at least the teacher and some of the students did!)

I’m laughing.  All is well in the humility of the moment.

Each of us in the class studies a musical instrument at Poel.  For me, it’s the triangle.  (Okay, I lied – it’s the cello.)  Patrick, our teacher, says these exercises will help us play with a greater flow, feeling a series of notes rather than one by one.

It’s like learning to read.  You start with B – O – O – K and eventually you sense a book.  Then a sentence, a paragraph … and a story.  And perhaps my cello playing will eventually emerge more like poetry than prose.

I remain hopeful

We went out to a Turkish restaurant for dinner last night – Christine, Abbas and me.  They’ve loved each other for decades, and you can tell … they’re quiet together.

The first story is the flavours.  Oh … the moussaka!  And even more so, a dessert called antoic kunefe.  My mouth sang but my brain couldn’t figure it out.  So the Internet to the rescue …

The künefe’s thin, string-like strands of crunchy semolina dough called tel kadafıy combined with its unsalted stretchy Hatay cheese provided an ideal contrast of textures, while the sherbet (a syrup made of water, sugar and lemon juice) that was poured on top lingered in our mouths.

The second story is Abbas.  He’s from Iran.  When he speaks, Christine describes him as “poetic”.  I agree.  The lilt of his voice soothed me.

I have a marvelous Iranian friend called Hana so I’m not stuck in a stereotype about the country.  Still, Abbas opened my eyes when he said that over half of Iran’s post-secondary students are women, and there are a lot fewer hijabs worn than I would have guessed.

A fine time was had by us three and our smiling server gentleman

***

Now it’s lunch at Heathrow Airport Terminal Five – yummy soft tacos.  I had bought a return bus ticket “Heathrow/Paddington train station”.  When I got to Paddington, I reasoned wisely that buses would be parked outside of the station.  So I went out and started circling the block.  No buses.

Where do they hide the buses!?

I approached a fellow wearing an orange uniform.

Where can I find the Heathrow Express bus?

It’s a train, not a bus.  It’ll be on Track 6 or 7 in the terminal

Oh.  So much for my memory of arriving in London.  The good news is that I came upon a marvelous sculpture when I was on the street at Paddington:

It’s called The Wild Table of Love.  And there’s room for all of us to sit down and share a meal.

I was boarding just now and came across another fine image.  I won’t add to it.  Just take a look …

Goodbye London …  Hello Gent