On Saturday evening, Sabrine and I went to a lovely restaurant for dinner – the Indian Curry House.  The two young servers smiled a lot.  So did the older hostess.  And she bowed to us as we were leaving.

I wanted to celebrate Sabrine’s and my friendship with a Belgian beer.  I chose Leffe Brune … brewed in an abbey, with an alcohol content of 6.5%

My dinner was mango chicken, immersed in a sauce that was adjacent to heaven.  And we had a sweet talk.

That’s the good stuff.

Soon after leaving the restaurant, I felt nauseous and I was having trouble swallowing.  (I won’t mention the burps)

Nearly all my adult life, when I’m hungry and the food is delicious, I’ve eaten too much and too fast.  On Saturday, I forgot Dr. Lahae’s advice to eat slowly and chew lots.  I also forgot about my earlier intuition that strong Belgian beer is bad for me.

More sauce!  Faster!  Such amnesia.

As Sabrine and I walked in the general direction of home, something bitter was climbing my throat.  I told her I had to sit down.  I reached into my backpack and pulled out a plastic bag.  Usually I use it for leftover restaurant food but this time I had another purpose in mind.

Wow.  Sitting on a bench with a slow flow of people passing by, wondering if I was about to vomit in front of a friend.  I’d never done that.  Just in the presence of Jody, my wife.

Sabrine was so kind.  She said it was fine no matter what happened.  She wasn’t going anywhere.

There we sat as the nausea rolled, me accessorizing with a plastic bag in my hand, looking so … unique.  Sabrine simply still and quiet.

***

I didn’t puke, and eventually found my bed.  I thought long about changes my body needs for me to continue being happy, and therefore for me to continue contributing to the lives of others.

Is it goodbye to Leffe?

And to large, rich meals?

Perhaps

Hmm … I wonder what I’ll say “Hello” to

My friend Sabrine is visiting me for two days.  She’s a friend of Lydia, who on a long ago hiking trail in the Canadian Rockies asked me to accompany her to Senegal.  Which led eventually to me … being … here!

I had made a dinner reservation for Friday night at an amazing Gent restaurant called Dish.  It’s my absolutely favourite place to celebrate life with my guests.  Before then, the afternoon beckoned with its glorious unknownness.

I usually led as we meandered through the streets of Gent centrum.  Sometimes I asked Sabrine to … and so it was – left, right or “keep going”.  No agenda.  No big tourist attractions.  We passed so many “ordinary” buildings that had a shine of their own.

And we sat on benches.  We watched people.  I told Sabrine that I was sending them love.  And then there were the long views, where I turned my eyes to the sky.  My friends the seagulls occasionally said hi.

Dish was a marvel – small portions of delicate flavours.  All the time in the world to savour.  And Doreen – the brilliant chef and smiling being.  Sabrine and I were welcome in Dish.

All that was Friday.  Today is Sunday.  Sabrine left this morning.  The Saturday between was pretty cool too.  The hours were full and laughing.  Strangely, given the rhythms of my life, they didn’t include writing.  Oh well.  Here I am now.

My neighbour Dirk invited us for breakfast yesterday.  He’s unique in the world, having immersed himself in theatre and the other arts, and having returned so much joie de vivre to those around him.  Like Sabrine and me.

Take a look at the breakfast table:

Where did that coffee go?  And do you recognize what’s in the little dish in the middle?  It’s a fig.  You may be aware of my hatred of raisins.  Many years ago, I expanded my list of distaste: currants and dates.  I had tasted them both and they were similarly yucky.

Later, in a spurt of dubious wisdom, I added figs.  The trouble was, I’d never tasted one.  At yesterday’s breakfast table there sat one – uncut.  I frowned.  “Just a raisin in disguise.”  Dirk cut it for me and placed it on the dish.  “Hmm … sure doesn’t look like a raisin.  Actually it looks pretty good.”

It was delicious!  So much for Bruce’s historical wisdom.

Our triad of discussion roamed over the tapestry of life.  Three people who really enjoyed expressing themselves.  Perfect.

I’m trying to remember.  We might have been talking about the magnificence of Firenze (Florence), a city in Italy.  Dirk mentioned a man named Stendhal, who wrote about being “overwhelmed by beauty”.  Dirk knows what that’s like.  So do I.  And most likely so does Sabrine.

Three lovers of life

Chatting aimlessly

Cozy together

This is New York City in 1932.  It’s a lunch break for the construction workers building the Rockefeller Center.

Look at those faces in conversation.  Digging into their lunch boxes, sharing a smoke, taking a swig of some magic liquid.  So normal.  So relaxed.

So terrifying!

This is so thoroughly not me.  I get a bit woozy looking down into the Leie River from a low bridge.  I’m astonished at the differences between us humans … even though we share the same joys and sorrows.

I can sing for an audience at an open mic session but put me on a log crossing a creek and I freeze.  Impending death in one situation but not in the other.

We all need to hold our heads high, to laugh in the rain, to do a wee little dance when the mood strikes.  We are miracles … together we’re all the colours of the rainbow.

Someone created a great painting

Something good is coming back into my life – spontaneity.

I walked into Panos on Langemunt this morning, spread my arms to the staff members I know, and said …

Ik ben dik!

Probably these marvelous serving people had never seen anyone celebrating fatness, face lifted to the sky and a smile filling the space.  They were confused and amused.  And I was having fun.

Minutes later, a 50-something English-looking woman was gazing across the Leie River towards ancient buildings.  I couldn’t help myself:

Someday all of this will be yours!

She whirled around with a huge smile and said “I doubt it!”

Okay, I was on a roll.  The Cobbler beckoned – one of my favourite breakfast places.  I know the server but I’ll protect the innocent with anonymity.

She talked about her boyfriend … and maybe someday he’ll give her a ring.

Give me his phone number.  I’ll set him on the right path

Soon thereafter, I was pretend-talking into my phone to the young man, suggesting a wedding next week, or maybe the one after.  And The Cobbler hosted more smiles.

***

Perhaps that’s enough being “out there” for one day

But you never know!

Her name was Elizabeth Eckford.  She wanted to go to school.  These people didn’t want her to.

It’s 1957 in Little Rock, Arkansas in the United States.  See the hate in the woman dead centre in the picture.  Elizabeth hears the taunts.  She keeps going.  There’s momentum in courage.

Usually people exclude each other quietly.  Not returning e-mails.  Averting the gaze.  Not continuing a conversation that the other one had started.  It’s just as violent as the crowd in 1957.

Too many of us look in the mirror, see a certain variety of human being and see the image as the “gold standard” for humanity.  “You should be like me.”  Except I’m often not.  I’m remarkably like me.

I wonder if Elizabeth is still alive.  I’ll look her up on Google.

…

She is!

Still a civil rights activist at age 82

Lots more walking in her future

As I sat in Izy Coffee, I watched people on the street.  Many of them turned this way.  Finally I realized that there was someone or something that they were looking at.  There’s a sheet of paper taped to the window, and behind that a pillar.  Behind that was … ?

There’s even a family gathering to have a photo taken next to …  I pondered.  What could draw such focus? 

So I imagined.  Was it Beyoncé?

Don’t we put famous people on a pedestal, seeing them as some type of God without ever having met them?  What strange behaviour, Mr. Kerr.

Or perhaps Michelangelo’s statue of David resides outside of Izy.

The human form coming into glorious being through the hands of the sculptor.  What could be more divine?  Millions have come to the Accademia Gallery in Florence, Italy to witness “what one man can do”.  Perhaps ten people on Gent’s Langemunt are doing the same.

How about a world where it could be any of us eight billion folks standing behind that pillar?  Someone ordinary, maybe down on their luck, sagging under the weight of the world.

It could be someone like the fellow that Gordon Lightfoot sang of in “Home From The Forest”.

His tears fell on the sidewalk
As he stumbled in the street
A dozen faces stopped to stare
But no one stopped to speak
For his castle was a hallway
And the bottle was his friend
And the old man stumbled in
From the forest

***

May we have the eyes to see

***

P.S.  Behind the pillar was a puppeteer pulling the strings for a young violinist

I’m experiencing a lot of stress in two areas of my life: learning to speak Dutch and Zoom hosting for meetings of the Evolutionary Collective.

Okay … that’s simply true.  Now what?

I’ve chosen to live in Belgium.  Most people in Gent speak English but the dominant language is Dutch.  I want to be able to speak to everyone.  One of my favourite words is “conversation”.

I’ve been going to Conversation Tables at Amal, an organization for newcomers.  Five or six of us who are at Level 1 or 2 of the language training sit with a native speaker for two hours.

Often I’m lost in the talking, making out certain words but not getting the sentences, and therefore the meaning.  Bad words show up in my head: hopeless, exhausted, giving up.  But I won’t.  I will keep going to these sessions “until the cows come home”, as grandpa was fond of saying.

I want to be deeply here … not a tourist rooted in Canada.  I shall persevere.

And then the other.  I’ve been Zoom hosting at EC meetings for about five years.  I’ve really struggled to master the skills and now I’d describe my Zoomie performance as “adequate”.

Over the past few months, my stress level in the role has climbed.  So many rapid-fire decisions need to be made … and my brain seems to be falling behind.  Many more mistakes than before.  And often great fear before getting on the call.

I know my Zoom hosting work is appreciated by the members of our community.  I have served with love.  Now to decide whether I need to offer a different expression of that love.

I’ve told two leaders of the EC that I’ll make my decision about whether to continue hosting by Wednesday, September 4.

***

A new chapter?

Extending this one?

It’s uncertain right now

Time will tell me

Two days ago I wrote about a snake – the kind that goes down your throat to your stomach.  My body shakes in anticipation.

Months ago, the snake showed that there was a small ring of flesh in my esophagus.  It was causing irritation but the doctor thought a medication called Pantoprazole would fix me up.

Yesterday my family doctor recommended a second visit by the snake.  “Irritation” is now far too small a word.  Based on my symptoms, he thinks the ring has grown.

My doctor gave me the phone number of the gastroenterologist I saw last time so I could make an appointment.  So I phoned – a consultation six weeks from now!

Oh well … the rich textures of a life lived.

In the spirit of a silver lining, Dr. Lagae had some good things to say:

1.  He expects that the stomach doctor would offer me the option of full anesthesia, sparing me the terror of last time.  Yes, please … especially since the next insertion is likely to be longer.  Not only looking around but also widening the esophagus so the good stuff can flow freely.  I vote for being knocked out!

2.  Essentially doc said “Do what I tell you to do.”  Drink at least two litres of water a day and eat very slowly – much chewing.

About the first, I bet that throughout my adult life I’ve averaged about half a litre of water a day.  Drinking a lot more has always been in the realm of “a good idea” … and never acted on.  “Okay, Bruce.  Now we’re in the realm of ‘essential’.  Get over it and put your lips to the water bottle!”

About the second, prolonged chewing has never lived in my universe.  Even though I’ve perceived myself as a slow eater, maybe that’s not true.

In general, I think Belgian folks eat quickly.  I see a funny moment in my future – actually Christmas Day dinner with my dear Maarkedal friends.  I’ll be chewing on my appetizer for the rest of time and they’ll be digging into dessert.  And so what?  Let’s laugh about it.  What we’ll most enjoy is each other’s company.

***

So the body keeps playing tricks on me

“Gotcha, Bruce!”

I bet yours does the same

Here are two American singer-songwriters:  Kris Kristofferson and John Denver.

I love their music.  They’re both poets of the melody.  Sadly John died in a plane crash but they’re both alive in my heart.

A few days ago, I wrote six Canadian friends whom I’d dropped away from.  Amongst my updates was this:

During the winter and spring I sang at about six open mic sessions but that’s also been absent in the summer.  So … back on the horse!  The next open mic is on Friday, September 6 – that’s two weeks and two days.  I promise you that I’ll sing Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down” that evening.

Promises, promises.  I’ve loved Kris’ song for decades.  He speaks of things I don’t know (being a heavy drug user) and things I do (being lonely).  Over the years I absorbed some of the lyrics but the process of learning the song is far from done.

Yesterday I tackled the task and soon realized that producing the result within two weeks is “a bridge too far”.  Sure, I usually live from “Go for it!” but I don’t have the energy or focus to perform this ballad at the Salvatore’s open mic.  I know this to be true.

So I choose to switch gears to Mr. Denver.  I had worked on putting two of John’s songs together – “Spring” and “Summer” –  and singing them on July 5 but I was in hospital then with a blood infection.  Too bad, because the seasonal timing would have been perfect.

September 6 is still technically summer but my heart is turning toward fall.  No matter.  They’re two great merged songs and the lyrics are in the back of my head somewhere.  I will bring them forward over the next two weeks, stand before the audience and sing …

Silently the morning mist is lying on the water
Captive moonlight waiting for the dawn
Softly like a baby’s breath, a breeze begins to whisper
The sun is coming.  Quick!  You must be gone

Smiling like a superstar, the morning comes in singing
The promise of another sunny day
And all the flowers open up to gather in the sunshine
I do believe that summer’s here to stay

This will be fine

When my body isn’t being nice, I get so scared.  Guess I have a really low “toughness” rating when it comes to physical stuff.  “Please, no pain … or at least not much.”

I don’t expect that I’m all that different from you.  Perhaps we share fragility and despair and terror when the body hurts.

Last night I ate pizza, and shortly thereafter I had trouble swallowing.  With endless burping.  And a scared mind.  All that continued in bed … until I eventually fell asleep.

I’ve been down this road before.  The lowlight was a gastroenterologist feeding a one-metre “snake” down my throat so he could look at my stomach.  “Gosh, that hurt.”  (Said he with a thoroughly wimpy voice)  The bottom line is I’m terrified to go through that again.

I see my family doctor tomorrow.  If he orders the snake procedure, so be it.  Finding out what’s wrong trumps avoiding physical pain.

Part of me is saying “You should have written about something else.”  Most of me disagrees.  My stomach is here and now.  I have no interest in “there and then”.