We look at the ordinary, the daily hurrying, the intense focus. But what if we had super duper vision, and could see the shining that is around all of us and everything?
Perhaps we glisten … if only the eyes could take it in. As we look, do we have a built-in dimmer switch, a lessening of the majesty that has always been here?
I wonder if there’s someone standing behind each of us, holding a coat of many colours and inviting us to slip our arms into the sleeves.
I wonder if there’s the beauty of an opal lying on our skin and lightening our hair.
I wonder if we humans in northern climes look at an ice storm and see the icicles beyond the dangerous driving.
I wonder if the hallway shows us a door we’d never noticed before. And will we turn the knob?
I wonder if we can open to the sun shimmering the snow on our favourite tree.
I’m at AZ Sint-Lucas today for an ultrasound … a possible hernia.
Here I sit, watching humanity walk by. You see the young man with a backpack. He scans the parking lot. He holds a plastic bag full of medicines. He checks his phone a lot. I don’t know his story, but I bet large parts of it are my story too.
He just stood up. He walks towards the revolving door with a huge limp. His face is turned away so I can’t see the pain.
In the photo, you may be able to see two people passing each other – a woman pushing someone in a white wheelchair and a young man using a walker. When the legs don’t work well, we need help. I wonder what it’s like for the fellow. Perhaps he’s used to playing sports … and then one day a doctor says “This is your walker.”
Here comes an elderly woman wearing a red coat and a white scarf in a sea of black. It’s the colour of Santa’s suit. I wonder if she’s Mrs. Claus in her family … or maybe even the big guy herself.
Heads are adorned: Covid masks, hajibs, ball caps, berets. The world is here – being sick or caring for someone who is.
Some people hurry, some people shuffle. Some hold the arm of a loved one. Many are alone.
To my left is a restaurant. Lots of folks inside. I remember being a patient, and how comforting the warm food was, the sweet dessert, in the times when woe was me. Today I won’t be eating for awhile longer.
A young woman dressed in blue and red stares out the window. I can’t tell what’s in her eyes. And from my angle I can’t see what she holds to her chest. An infant? A dog? A full plastic bag? And then a wee human foot jiggles.
Some walk by holding coffee cups. Many are grasping little rectangles of paper that show their destinations. Purses, of course. And a broom wielded by a woman wearing a pale blue top.
The reception desk is just past the Christmas tree. A woman stands behind it, turning as folks come by. My eyes can’t tell but I sense she’s smiling at people. “Welcome.”
My friend Cara visited me yesterday. Our evening began on my back terrace, watching the seagulls fly home. It ended on the Sleepstraat as we walked past all the Turkish pizza places to her car.
We talked about it all … everything under the moon. It was easy. It was real.
I had made a dinner reservation for 7:00 at Dish. At 5:30 or so, I suggested we go exploring. And off we went.
We strolled. We meandered. I didn’t think. I just asked my feet to lead amid the twinkling lights and the darkening sky.
Those feet took us through the twisting cobblestone streets of the Patershol. The cobbles glistened. And then my favourite bench at the Lievekaai … watching the silence of the willow trees unfold.
As you may already know, I’ve declared that the next love of my life will be Elise. I haven’t met her yet.
Have I ever showed you where I’mgoing to ask Elise to marry me?
No
And so to the Academiebrug, a bridge over the Lieve. “I’ll have Elise stand right here. And then I’ll kneel down.” Cara smiled.
We ambled past the hugeness of the Augustinian monastery. Two turns and there was the entrance … the door was open. Cara was willing.
We sat in the dark at the back. A Mass was being held in the light at the front. I told Cara that I was happy to stay until she was ready to go. We lingered. The Dutch words of the priest and the singing of the faithful hung in the air.
We walked some more. “I want to show you my favourite window in Gent.” Soon we were standing in front of a huge expanse of glass in the shape of an upside down teardrop. I sighed.
I wanted Cara to experience the sweetness of Café Denizli on the Tolhuislaan but I wasn’t sure how to get there from here. I smiled as I knew that I wouldn’t use Google Maps this time.
“I thought we would have been there by now. Maybe I missed it, so focused on our conversation.” > “I don’t think so. We haven’t passed any café.”
Alrighty then …
Cara was right. Ten minutes later came the glow of Denizli. A few guys were outside, gesturing and talking loudly in Turkish. A table on the sidewalk invited us. “Here’s where I sat a few days ago, and the woman who owns the place sat right there!” The men paused and stared. I waved.
There were maybe fifteen folks inside. I scanned the faces … no one that I recognized.
Onwards. Now I really didn’t know how to get from the here of Denizli to the there of Dish. “Put that phone down, Bruce” came the words from inside my body.
Let’s turn here …
Let’s turn here …
Past the corner of a building rose a church. I followed the steeple. And voilà! I knew the entrance. I knew Merkez Bakery on the corner. We sat on a bench … facing Dish.
Two nights ago I sang in the open mic session at Minard (the café, not the concert hall).
As I waited for my time, the heart managed to climb up the throat. Pressure. Fear. As expected.
I so want to sing. I want to take soulful songs and add to their spirit with my voice. I don’t want to write songs. I want to share what’s already been written.
I was scared. Would I remember all the words? Would I sing in tune? But two things were far more important:
I will sing with passion
I will get the audience to sing along during the chorus
The song is called MTA. It tells the story of the metro in Boston. Long ago the company decided to raise the fare from ten cents to fifteen. 50%!
There was about to be an election, and a fellow named George O’Brien decided to base his campaign on fighting the fare increase. But how to get people’s attention? “I’ll have someone write a protest song, and tell people to vote for me!” And that’s what happened:
Well let me tell you the story Of a man named Charlie On a tragic and fateful day He put ten cents in his pocket Kissed his wife and family Went riding on the MTA
…
Charlie handed in his dime At the Kendall Square station And a changefor Jamaica Plain When he got there, the conductor told him one more nickel Charlie couldn’t get off of that train!
Before I started, I told the audience I wanted them to sing. “The chorus shows up five times. Sing with me!”
I sang the song well. That’s good. But my heart soared when I heard the words flow back to me:
Did he ever return? No, he never returned And his fate is still unlearned He may ride forever ‘Neath the streets of Boston He’s the man who never returned
During the last chorus, we sang strong. I stopped after the word “Boston” and held out my arms.
I was walking down Tolhuislaan yesterday, seeking eyes. Two tables were ahead, hosting three people. I smiled at a man and he smiled back. He gestured for me to take an empty chair. I did.
He didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Turkish but it was clear that coffee would be a good idea.
Inside, the hostess you see in the blue and pink moved past the languages to the pouring of coffee. I rejoined my friends on the sidewalk.
The fellow who welcomed me isn’t in the photo. On the left is the owner of Denizli. She speaks Bulgarian and Turkish only. On the right is Sari from Turkey – the only one who spoke English. His smile says it all.
No one cared that I wasn’t Turkish or Bulgarian. I was included. Sari asked about Canada. I asked about Turkey. Passersby stopped and lingered with my neighbours. At one point it felt like four languages were roaming around, including Dutch. All was so well.
I had a long view down Tolhuislaan as people favoured us with their words. Seagulls soared. Families strolled. Cars tootled along … quietly.
I was home.
Sari bought me another coffee. We talked about this, that and not much.
And then …
Everyone smiled, got up and left. Two of them into Café Denizli, two others down the street. The scene was just as lovely but the energy of companionship was gone. Oh well. Sounds like life.
Here are two screenshots of the same moment in the Netflix series Outlander – the first one taken during the day and the second in the evening.
For months I’ve grappled with my internet service provider and TV repair company to fix the problem. So many phone conversations, so many technician visits. Many evenings the images are far better now. Sometimes not.
I lay in bed this morning and decided I’ve wasted enough energy on this. So much focus on an issue for so long. I’ve talked to the very highest level of technician in my internet company. I’ve done various tests meant to show faults in the TV. There are none.
So I hereby let the issue go.
I’m tired of holding my breath rather than breathing deeply. I’m tired of having a creased forehead. Enough.
I guess that sometime in my younger life I decided that things in my space must work perfectly. The screen resolution on my TV must be sharp. Well … maybe not! Seems to me I’m not the boss of the universe.
Since January I’ve been an adept problem solver … except that the problem is still there. Now it’s time for a rethink. Who says that softer images on TV aren’t beautiful? An impressionist painting is different from a photograph. Vive la différence!
In a movie I love the story. I love the characters. That’s what opens my eyes. That’s what inspires me to be good to people.
He’s a friend who also enjoys the flow of conversation in Izy Coffee. We talk of the mysteries of the mind. I tell him things that I expect few would understand, such as the times I see everyone on the street “shining like the sun”. Samuel gets it.
“Here’s a quote that I think you’ll enjoy,” he says:
Where does the power of a word come from? It does not come from the spoken word itself, but from the energy, the quintessence with which it is impregnated. This quintessence is found in the aura of all beings. The power of a maguscomes from his ability to impregnate the words he pronounces with light, with the light of his aura which is rich, intense and pure. The word is the repository of a force, and the more the word is impregnated with this creative element – the light – the greater its power. It is not just anyone who can pronounce magical words that will produce great effects. Only a true magus, by the power of his aura alone, without straining his voice or gesturing, is able to pronounce a few words which can command the forces of nature and attract higher beings. It is not the spoken word which created the world, but the Divine Word. Speech is the means used by the Divine Word to implement the work of creation. The Divine Word is the first element God put into action, and it is by means of the spoken word that this Divine Word is able to express itself.
Very cool. I don’t know what a “magus” is, and I don’t need to. What I do know is if I want my words to reach people, my heart needs to be open in the speaking. Or in the singing.
I want to sing beautiful songs that already have magic in them. And I want my voice to enhance the beauty so that people will let them come inside.
When I write, I trust that my words have an underlying sweetness that will contribute to lives. I don’t think much when I write. Something kind usually just comes.
Samuel told me about a moment in Thailand. At a red light he made eye contact with a few fellows who were riding in the back of a truck. There was such peace in their gaze as they joined with his. Even though no words were spoken, the silent connection was “impregnated with the light”. There was a blessed transmission.
And then there was me, 35 years ago, walking across a parking lot in Lethbridge, Canada. A woman, perhaps from India, smiled at me and said “Hello.” That was it … and I’m still affected by the moment.
It is by means of the spoken word that this Divine Word is able to express itself
So … will my future (and Samuel’s) be resplendent with Divine Words?
I was sitting yesterday in Café Come Back, my favourite pub in Gent. I nestled close to my friend Westmalle Tripel – my favourite Belgian beer so far. Two euros gave me seven songs in the jukebox … and I was a happy hummer.
To my right were four locals, talking brightly in Dutch. One of them gave me a little smile, another tilted his head and looked sharply into the eyes of this stranger, and the other two didn’t seem to notice my existence.
On the left, three more regulars talked quietly in Dutch, less intense than the others but no doubt just as lovely a conversation.
I was alone … and yet not. As Adele told me about Someone Like You, I sang along softly. Later, as Lady Gaga blasted out Poker Face, I played inspired table piano, never missing a note. I felt enquiring eyes on me, but who cares?
I love the taste of Westmalle. Even one was leaving me with a sweet buzz. But here comes the server with a message: “That fellow over there is buying everyone another drink.” I looked over at a gentleman sitting alone and smiled. He returned it, along with a thumbs up.
I knew in my head that two beers are one too many. I also knew that Westmalle was more expensive than some, so I chose a cheap Belgian beer. If my mind had been clear, I would have opted for Coke Zero, but it was not. So I ventured down a path sadly taken before …
Eventually I decided to leave, wobbly in the mind and body. I walked over to my generous friend, bowed and said “Thank you” again. He said a few words in Flemish, which the server translated:
Until you return
Indeed. I’ll be back.
My feet were especially careful on the cobblestones as I meandered homeward. It was 5:25 when my bed found me. I was looking forward to being on the Evolutionary Collective Zoom call at 6:00. I love doing the Mutual Awakening Practice (MAP) with another person.
I sent my alarm for 5:50. “Twenty minutes will be enough.” My wrist vibrated at the appointed time. And every part of me said “No.” Clearly having two beers was a connection killer. I awoke again at 6:36.
A very long time ago, I managed volunteers at Lethbridge Regional Hospital in Canada. It was especially challenging when some of these folks were on the Alzheimers nursing unit. The person suffering from dementia needed someone who would flow with a conversation that may have no basis in fact.
I remember one of the patients. The staff called her Mrs. Please Come Here, because that’s what she said throughout the day. Her words have entered me. I carry them with me.
When I open my eyes after meditating, the first thing I see is my local version of Gent’s bumpy skyline. The second thing I see is Jesus. He stands on the windowsill.
I’m not Christian but I revere spiritual teachers such as Jesus. He looks at me … beckoning. His arms are wide, gathering in all of us. “Come close. I want to know you.”
And so it is with me.
Think of any adjective that you could use to describe a human being. I enclose every word, in my mind (and sometimes my body) drawing people to my chest. In my better moments this includes everyone, even those who are mean or distant.
It’s a simple thing within Canada – sending Christmas cards. Not so simple with the international flow of language, postal services and currency.
But really … all of that isn’t important. I knew life would be different in Belgium. I will jump through the hoops in order to make life work. I signed up for Europe, with all its beauties and challenges.
First step: find five Christmas cards for five fine human beings: Lance, Nona, Jaxon, Jagger and Jace. Easy peasy. In the first store, an employee showed me a tiny display of Christmas cards. The only thing on offer were packages of maybe ten identical cards. My five loved ones aren’t generic. So that won’t do.
Second store … same result. But the woman serving me suggested the Standaard Boekhandel store. “They’ll have what you need.”
Indeed they did. Before you is one of the cards I found … in Dutch. I smiled to think of my English-speaking relatives opening their cards, to be greeted by incomprehensible words.
Happily, Google Lens lets me take an image and translates into English. Here you go:
Time for one Christmas party
Play your best Christmas hits on “Repeat”
Buy a tree up on the ceiling
Fill the glasses and enjoy
Cool. Inside the card, I translated for the dear Canadians. Hallmark’s words were different on each one. So were mine. Except for three little ones: “I love you.” Jody’s brother, his wife, and their three boys each needed to receive the direct message.
In Canada a quick trip to the bank machine would have given me the cash I wanted to tape to each card. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy internationally. Friends advised me that currency exchange stores charged big fees. “Go to your bank.”
Sabine, my advisor at Beobank, is marvelous. But it took a few days for the bills to arrive. In the long run, who cares? I will produce the result.
Friends also said that I shouldn’t send cash in the mail. “Big chance that it’ll get stolen.” Do bank transfers. I understood. But I wanted my loved ones to feel the texture of real money. I vowed that a post office employee would advise me how to send cash pretty safely in the mail. And she did.
Then there was yesterday. Messages translated, mine added, funds attached, envelopes sealed … and I was off to my local postal outlet in a variety store.
The woman serving me was dedicated to my success: five cards in their envelopes tucked inside a padded one, a sending method that provided speed and very unlikely to be opened by postal officials.
She attached stickers. I paid. We smiled. And I sauntered off into the world … happy like a cat with milk on her lips.
Bruce's Blog 