Not the entire store, just its cafeteria. Except it’s not a just for me. I’ve loved having my croissant with raspberry jam, my hard-boiled egg, my ham and cheese mini-sandwich, my yogurt with peach and strawberry bits, and my cappuccino. But there’s so much more …
I love the big windows looking out on the Korenmarkt square. So many people walking below, and the rhythm of the trams passing by.
I love saying hi to my regular neighbours at the next tables. They’re all French-speaking mid-to-old guys. One is constantly on his computer. I’ve never asked him what he’s doing. The other two hold court with their français friends … voices frequently rising and falling. My French is a little better than my Dutch but still I’m only picking out isolated words.
This morning my sadness passed through the window to the street below. After savouring the flavours of breakfast, I picked up my tray and began to leave. I stopped at both tables.
I had a guest bedroom in Canada and I have one in Belgium. The trouble is that I rarely go in there, and when I do I don’t linger.
In Belmont the walls were a gorgeous deep purple. In Gent I used the exact same colour in my bedroom so I can let it enter me every day.
The same goes for my art. The photograph you see was in my laundry room in Canada, on a side wall. No lingering there … just focusing on the task at hand. And now it hangs in my guest bedroom.
I hereby commit to sitting on a chair in that room and feeling into the image for minutes on end. Because it deserves that. The picture was created to move people so I need to let it do its job.
Look at the shaft of light. How does it get inside? What is being illuminated? How come there are so many caves that are totally black?
What I need to express isn’t an essay about the depths of geology and spirituality. Just the few words in the paragraph above will do nicely.
I simply need to stay put for awhile and let the wonder of the scene wash over me. No “and therefore …” Just the experience.
I’ve taken Level One of Dutch, and Level Two will welcome me in February. But registration hasn’t been open.
Yesterday I decided to act. I went to the website of CVO Gent – my school. But there was no English translation for the massive amount of information. Google Translate would have taken approximately forever. Clearly Level One has only provided me with the basics. There’s a long road ahead … one that I am happy to embrace.
I should have written down exactly how I would register for the next course, but I didn’t. That’s okay. As I get older (somewhere in the vicinity of 55) I’ve become far more gentle with myself. Mistakes are held lightly.
My phone calls to the school yesterday were met with a minute of ringing and then a dead line. “Odd. They must be really busy. I’ll walk down there tomorrow.”
So this morning I set off on the half-hour stroll, armed with questions. As I turned the corner of the CVO building, I was greeted with approximately what you see in the picture – a locked gate. All the windows were dark.
Hmm …
And then I got it – all the schools were closed for two weeks – kids, teens, adults. That’s why no one answered the phone. I smiled in wonder. There’s so much I don’t know in my new home. Perhaps this will be so for months, or years. That’s all right. I signed up for Belgium … all of it.
I love hearing people sing. And so I go to concerts in big halls: Bruce Springsteen, Andrea Bocelli and Lady Gaga in the last two years. Plus tiny spaces: the sweet voices of Fourchette in Gregor Samsa.
At Christmas I was singing karaoke with friends. Others at the party offered us songs they loved.
And I’ve sung at two open mic sessions recently. Another one on Friday night.
All this is well and good. What I miss is singing together. Not a choir, just a blending of voice among friends. In a living room, maybe under a tree. Not performance … just expressing with each other.
Harry Chapin wrote one of my favourite songs. Harry knew about the joy of together. And he shared his lyrics with us all:
Remember when the music Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire And as we sang the words, it would set our minds on fire For we believed in things, and so we’d sing
Remember when the music Brought us all together to stand inside the rain And as we’d join our hands, we’d meet in the refrain For we had dreams to live, we had hopes to give
Remember when the music Was the best of what we dreamed of for our children’s time And as we sang we worked, for time was just a line It was a gift we saved, a gift the future gave
Remember when the music Was a rock that we could cling to so we’d not despair And as we sang we knew we’d hear an echo fill the air We’d be smiling then, we would smile again
Remember when the music Was a glow on the horizon of every newborn day And as we sang, the sun came up to chase the dark away And life was good, for we knew we could
Remember when the music Brought the night across the valley as the day went down And as we’d hum the melody, we’d be safe inside the sound And so we’d sleep, we had dreams to keep
Remember when the music Came from wooden boxes strung with silver wire And as we sang the words, it would set our minds on fire For we believed in things, and so we’d sing
***
Well done, Harry. You opened my eyes to a time when our singing was one way we knew each other … and loved each other.
The answer to the first is pretty clear – the whole aging thing: kid, teen, young adult, mid-life, senior. Different tasks in each phase, different challenges and joys.
But what of Bruce has stayed the same?
***
I still need comfort, to be held lovingly by life. Today it often comes in the presence of a friend. Or in meditation. Or the covers pulled up to my chin at 3:00 pm.
When I was young, it was my teddy bear. I’d hold it to my heart and suck my thumb. I kept Teddy until its head fell off. I sucked my thumb until I was 11. I remember the groove that my teeth made.
Woh! As I wrote the last two paragraphs, I realized that I still have a teddy bear – Turner Brown. I wrote about hugging him a few days ago.
***
I still need adventure. Back then, I roamed the back alleys of my neighbourhood in Toronto, wearing my toy guns, searching for “bad guys”.
Today the adventures are still alive …
Writing this blog (feeling the words come unbidden)
Conversations with dear ones about what’s real (times of immense contact with human beings)
Being overwhelmed with the beauty of the moment (seeing the hearts of people walking in the street)
***
I still need to make music. In the early 1960s, I bought my first record album – The Buddy Holly Story. My parents bought me a little turntable. I stole a wooden spoon from the kitchen and rushed upstairs to my bedroom. Out of my mouth and onto the spoon came the song …
If you knew Peggy Sue
Then you’d know why I feel blue
About Peggy, ’bout Peggy Sue
Well, I love you gal
Yes, I love you Peggy Sue
Today I sing at open mic sessions in a little café. The words still have to flow from my mouth.
I think it’s one of the loveliest things you can do. Palm against palm … warming each other.
I often sit in IZY on the lovely black couch by the window. Out there is the flow of humanity. Many people walk alone but my eyes go to the couples and groups – the lovers, the families, the friends.
I watch hands.
Where do they go? Are they full of stuff or open to the world? Are they stuffed into pockets? Does left join right behind the back … so contorted?
And arms. Do they hang limply? Or is there an angle at the elbow? Perhaps a crossing over the chest.
But here’s my big question:
Do people hold hands?
See the photo. Grandma and grandpa are running with granddaughter. And their hands are joined. Lovely.
Yesterday I was on a mission: look out the window and find couples holding hands. I saw lots of folks arm-in-arm, and that was cool. Others walked with no contact, of the bodies or eyes. I felt sad when I saw them. We human beings are made for touch.
And then there were the lovers, where the word is so alive. Hands cuddled, hearts as well. Lots of them strolling through their lives, right in front of me. Young, old and medium. I smiled.
I watched my first two cyclocross races on TV today – women and men. O my God! This is not the Tour de France, not on the roads and in the villages, not vista after vista appearing.
Some devilish minds took a piece of rolling land and created a circuit that’s repeated several times. Think grass, mud, sand, asphalt, narrow trails, jumps, tight turns, straight up hills, dizzy descents.
Some of the slopes are so steep, or so oozy, that the cyclists leap off their bikes and carry them on their shoulders:
Even on sunny days, there’s mud. And when it rains! You can barely make out the faces:
A typical race is an hour, and the exhaustion builds. Fine cycling technique goes out the window. Trying to pass someone on a trail requires more than the rider usually has. Control on the handlebars can be a lost cause.
It was so exciting! And guess what? Today’s race was in Hulst, a city of 30,000 in the Netherlands. That’s 39 kilometres from Ghent. I can go!
The riders inspired me today. They gave everything. One guy fell in the first two hundred metres. His gears were wrecked. His team (and a replacement bike) couldn’t get to where he was on the course. So he shouldered the wounded bicycle and ran up, down and sideways for several minutes to the team area. Tom Pidcock – thank you.
Here’s a final photo. Of course no smile. But this man is doing what he’s meant to do. May the same be true for you and me.
I dreamed of ice cream last night. Actually I dreamed of being a student teacher again, and teaching an art lesson about painting ice cream.
And where did that come from?
There sat my supervisor at the back of the room, taking notes on my every move. I had to discuss the rubric with the students – a description of the quality standards for this assignment that would produce an A, B, C or less.
I was sad in my dream, sad about the focus on evaluation, on someone else’s standards of quality.
As I described the assignment, the students’ eyes were glazed. I could feel their attitude – just do the thing, figure out what the teacher wants and give him that. Nobody wanted to discuss what possibilities there were for depicting ice cream on paper. Even before I’d finished my instructions, kids were getting up from their seats and getting a piece of art paper from the supply room.
And the guy at the back of the room was still writing furiously.
I wanted conversation, an exploring of “What if … ?” I wanted to see the glow of light in the eyes. I wanted the art to exude the sweetness of Vanilla, the crunch of Rocky Road, the wonder of Crème Brulée. I wanted the tip of the tongue to find its way to the paper.
I sat in IZY Coffee yesterday morning. I asked Arjen, the barista, if Bart and Larisa were back yet from Munich. They own IZY.
Arjen said they got back a few days ago and that Bart was working at the store in Brugge today.
As I sat there working on yesterday’s blog, I startled. “I could surprise him!”
And so I did. A thirty-minute train ride later from Ghent, there I was in the Brugge station. Google Maps told me how to get to centrum and IZY.
I was fourth in line. When Bart’s eyes met mine, he startled too. And smiled.
He would finish his shift at 5:00 pm, four hours down the road. I told him I wanted to take him out to dinner. And off I went, into the world of ancient buildings and rampaging tourists.
I decided to just wander – no destination, no purpose … turn left, turn right, and why not turn right again?
I sat at the end of a bench in front of the Belfort – the bell tower with its carillon melodies. I saw a couple, maybe in their 60s, approaching. I sidled over, right against the handrail of the bench. She said “Thank you”. And we began talking. I smiled to think that the simplest action can start a conversation.
Jane and Michael were from Cambridge in the U.K. I can’t remember what we talked about but we sure laughed a lot.
Now I remember something. They were on a cruise – Amsterdam yesterday and Paris tomorrow. They’d picked Brugge since it was famous. They’d heard of Ghent but thought Brugge was a better choice. I tried to correct their understanding of reality … and we laughed some more.
Nice people. I gave them my contact info, and my wish that they stay with me on a future trip. Bye.
There followed a lingering beer in Bar des Amis, full of people easily watched. Then more meandering, more benches, more searching for tiny side streets.
At some point a text from the USA:
In my excitement to surprise Bart, I forgot that I had scheduled a Zoom meeting with a friend in the United States for 4:00. Randy was going to coach me about subtle details of being a Zoom host for big meetings.
Oh no! I blew it. My friend had been counting on me. It wasn’t an error of intent, it was an error of omission. But it still impacted him. I texted him right away, falling over myself in apology.
Now I had a decision to make. Would I let my sadness and embarrassment affect my dinner with Bart? How long would I hold onto this? It turned out to be minutes. And tomorrow (now today) I would set things right with Randy.
(Sigh)
Bart suggested Otomat for pizza. I suggested a photo. He’s so easy to talk to. We traded stories. I gave him a piece of my chicory and ham pizza.
“Let me tell you of Larisa’s favourite travel memory.” I was all ears. It was a long story, only some of which my brain has retained.
Here’s a snapshot:
Bart and Larisa, last minute vacation to Venezuela, Christmas time – everything closed, no trains or buses, no access to money, friendly local folks offered them a ride across the country, very hungry, somehow Bart finds a big bag of potato chips, presents them to Larisa, she’s the happiest, decides that Bart is her forever man. Voilà.
I adore the word “Beloved”. I aim it at people, places and events.
But it’s time to break new ground.
Over the past year, I’ve noticed myself going towards the ups and downs of life rather than backing away. It feels strange and lovely.
However … there’s one notable exception:
FEAR
I’m afraid of fear. I run away. I get busy. I eat dessert. I find ways to cover the poop with ice cream.
Yesterday I tried something new. I picked up my teddy bear Turner Brown, sat in my meditation chair, hugged my friend and said “Beloved Fear”.
I sat there for two hours, feeling the softness of Turner’s fur (fear’s fur), rubbing my fingers down Turner’s cheek (fear’s cheek), looking into Turner’s eyes (fear’s eyes).
Two hours is a long time. The hug lasted long and long. Our eyes stayed together.
***
I wrote a few days ago about doing stretching exercises, kissing my knee as I leaned forward. Fear is just as much a part of me as are my knees. I don’t want them to go away. I want to love them.
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