Yesterday one of the leaders of the Evolutionary Collective invited me to be the Zoom host for a new weekly practice session.

My body sighed as I read the e-mail.  I don’t remember thinking, just the body slumping.  I told my friend that I’d sleep on it.

For the rest of the day, the decision to be made occasionally came into my mind … and then floated away.  I had no interest in analyzing the pro’s and cons.

I had fun watching a mountain bike race on TV.  I continued memorizing the words of “Angel” – a song I intend to sing at an open mic on May 3.  And I dabbled on the piano, seeking the chords for another song – “Reason to Believe”.

And then sleep beckoned …

***

Dozing in bed as the sun continued its rising, I heard a single word: No.

I just e-mailed my friend and told her what is so.  A smile is here.  I don’t have much experience in saying no.  But here I am. 

Am I worried about disappointing my friend?  No

Am I a “bad person” for not helping out?  Certainly not

I never want my motivation for doing something to be obligation.  What a withering away of life force that is.  And my life force is precious to me. 

***

My “No” feels soft …

Also powerful …

And lovely

It’s in calligraphy

My nephew Jagger is 20.  He lives at the foot of the Rocky Mountains in Alberta, Canada.  As far as travelling goes, I know he’s been to Hawaii.  But anything resembling Europe?  No.

And here he comes … on May 8!  Visiting me in Gent, Belgium.  And where else?  Most places I could take him would be new to me too … and that’s a good thing.  I want both of us to be amazed, to be brought to silence with the beauty.

I asked my friends.  Where would they go?  Paris is only a three-hour train ride but it doesn’t draw me.

One word was the most common on others’ lips – Barcelona.  In my mind was the city of Utrecht in the Netherlands, perhaps as beautiful as Ghent.  But I was outvoted.

One name came to the fore: Antonio Gaudi.  He was a Spanish architect who made Barcelona his mode of expression.  Four Canadian eyes will be lifted to the heights.

Antonio was a big soul.  As one commentator said:

Each of his characteristic mediums – wood, wrought iron, ceramics and stained glass – are seamlessly intertwined to tell a story of life, death and the faith in between.

Oh.  I wish I could have had coffee with Antoni.

He lived from 1852 to 1926, being on this planet for two years fewer than my current life.

As I understand it, Gaudi was in his 40’s when a vision of a church came into his mind.  He started working on it just before the turn of the century.  And (Are you ready for this?) the completion date is expected to be 2026.

Here is the Sagrada Familia:

And inside …

Jagger and I have tickets for May 12.  Wowsers!

***

And now another wonder – La Pedrera:

A woman had Gaudi create her dream home.  When it was completed in 1912, the good residents of Barcelona mocked the lady.  “Ridiculous!” 

Gaudi was so far ahead of his time.  He had created a building with no straight lines.  I think of the song “Vincent”, written about the artist Vincent van Gogh:

Now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they’ll listen now

***

Then a third explosion for the heart – Casa Batllo …

The mosaic exterior, the inner atrium lined with blue tiles.  Once a house, now a museum.  A feast for the eyes.

***

Bring on the new–to-me

Every day, please

I’m visiting my friend Lydia and her family in Maarkedal.  She was working at her business yesterday and suggested I come into the office in the afternoon and do a loop walk among the green fields.  Sounded good to me.

As we drove there, the twists and turns of the narrow roads confused me and I asked her to draw me a map.  She did.  Describing the route, she came to this point:

“Right here [a Y-shaped intersection], turn left.  On the right is the Taaienberg.  It’s all cobbles.”

As Lydia kept going with the directions, my mind wandered to the recent Ronde van Vlaanderen cycling race. 

Taaienberg … that was one of the climbs during the Ronde!  You mean I’m there?

Indeed I was … about to be.  I saw the future.  I wouldn’t make it back to the business at our appointed time.  We agreed that if need be, she’d pick me up on the road.  I knew need it would be, for there was a hill to climb.

After my walk, Lydia told me she knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the Taaienberg.

***

Here are the bare facts.  The Taaienberg is 800 metres long.  Its average gradient is 7.2 %, with a maximum of 18%.  For the uninitiated, those are just numbers.  For the cyclist doing the climb, the body is screaming.  The riders have already ridden 233 kilometres and have done 13 major ascents.

I had walked about 45 minutes when the asphalt road started climbing and ahead loomed a certain Y-intersection.  Oh my God … I’m almost there!

And now the cobbles.  I stared at the upness.  Here’s a view from near the bottom:

And looking back down:

Imagine the roadside packed with cheering fans.

Looking up from farther along:

And down:

The view from the top.  I wonder if exhausted bodies spared a glance to the right.

Here’s just a little sign.  But what an immense achievement.  From the riders, and actually … from me.

On April 5, 2025 I may very well be standing on the Taaienberg during the Ronde van Vlaanderen, watching my heroes gasp and strain and prevail. 

I’ll be home

Probably the most revered one-day bicycle race was held last weekend – Paris-Roubaix.  The women on Saturday, the men on Sunday.  Many kilometres of vicious cobblestones define this epic, which for the men began in 1896.

I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the TV.  There were clouds of dust, crashes, exhaustion … and all the hours of riding pointed towards the finish: one-and-a-half laps of the ancient Vélodrome André-Pétrieux in Roubaix.

Today an article appeared on the GCN website about another iconic building – the nearby shower block for the weary cyclists.  The structure, built in 1936, looks ordinary but the athletes who want to breathe Paris-Roubaix history wash away the mud and sweat there, rather than in their fancy buses.

I was merrily reading along when one of the writer’s sentences stopped me:

Here, even the rainbow stripes of the world champion give way to the bare skin of the mortal man beneath

I thought of my body, of all bodies.  Male/female, young/old, fat/thin, healthy or not.  We each have one.  Hopefully we do our best to take care of it.  And hopefully Hollywood images of beauty don’t persuade us of any inadequacy.

Parts of my life have been misinformed with a tanning fetish – not too brown, but just the right coffee cream tone … revealing a happy outdoorsy life.

Silly me, and my many efforts to look culturally good.  A week ago, the lingering traces of needing mid-brownness took a hit.  I was watching a Netflix series about the men’s cycling team Jumbo Visma and there were moments in their bus where riders were stripping off their jerseys.  And guess what was underneath …

Lily white chests and upper arms

Dark brown forearms

Just like me in summer

If it’s good enough for Jonas Vingegaard, it’s good enough for me.  No strategies that lead to possible public approval.  Just me enjoying my white-y life.

I was late for my appointment at the hospital yesterday.  I had misread the instructions.  The receptionist pointed down the hallway to a waiting room.

I walked perturbed … at myself.  A silly mistake.  I should have been more focused.

And then the room.  Ordinary except for the chairs.  There they sat: orange, red, blue and lime green.  And I sat with them, smiling at their bright hello.  Things weren’t so bad.

Thank you, dear colours.  How they’ve touched my eyes down the years.  I love how sometimes they blend together, how gracefully yellow becomes green.

I love writing … such as right now.  Usually I don’t plan as I write.  Things just emerge.  And it seems that my sentences have colour – different ones show up on my phone screen.  Sometimes I’m boldly red, at other times it’s robin’s egg blue … so gentle in the wondering.

And also in the speaking.  May there be a lilt in my voice, feathered at the edges so the breeze can blow through.  Whether it’s assertion or wondrous beholding, may the hues speak volumes.

***

Thank God I’m not blind

There is so much beauty to be seen

And to be reflected upon

I sang last night during the open mic session at Minard.  My friend Rani came along to cheer … so kind of her.

Each time I’ve been there, an artist sits off to the side, drawing each performer.  And we the audience get to see the creations unfolding on a screen.  So cool.

The fellow with the pencil took care to draw the first presenter of the evening – a poet with a shine in her eyes and a smile that wouldn’t go away.  But the artist drew her as if he was standing behind.  “Strange,” I thought, but a fun new interpretation.

There followed a cavalcade of poets, singers, comedians and a guitarist.  And later … me!  I often glanced at the screen but no new human beings appeared.  Instead what emerged is what you see in the photo:

A scary audience!

Those teeth … ripping to shreds anyone brave enough to step on the stage.  And those eyes … burning holes into flesh.

Huh?

As I stood before about fifty folks, the drawing was nowhere near what I experienced.  I felt them leaning into the words of the song, soft eyes lingering with mine.  Even though I was some nervous, I felt buoyed up by the human beings accompanying me.

Of course there are tyrants here on Earth, and the occasional person who hopes I fall on my face, but almost all of the people I meet have a goodness that breaks through the surface to see the light of day.

Like them, I will lift the world

This morning I noticed something that I’ve probably been doing unconsciously for years.  When I sit down at a restaurant and there’s a menu card on the table, I get rid of it.  As in putting it on the floor or on another table.

I want space.

At that same restaurant, I always pick a chair that gives me a long view, out into the room, rather than facing the wall – even a gorgeous wall.

I’ve gone on many meditation retreats at a centre in Massachusetts.  And there’s a walk among fields and forest that I’ve done many times.  At one point the road stretches forward in a straight line that goes on forever.  That always gave me a thrill.  I would stop and gaze … “the long road”.

A version of hell that has lived in my mind for decades is being inside one of those huge refrigerator boxes – my arms tight against the sides, the top brushing my hair.  No room to dance.

In my better dancing moments, I whirl and throw my arms around.  Freedom is knowing that my fingers won’t bump into a wall, that my flowing will continue to express unimpeded.

Speaking of fingers, they are certainly wise.  They know both the joy of being nestled together and of bursting out into the world, with great spaces between.

Room to roam

Now I consider my remaining time on this Earth.  As the poet Mary Oliver said:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Good question, Mary.

Many things come to mind.  At the top of the mountain stands singing.  I want to sing.  I want to sing for people.

I don’t want to write songs.  I want to sing ones that have already been written, ones that have already touched hearts.

I’ve composed a list of my favourite songs – 70 of them.  Actually, there are a few other ones that also reach me, but they require a vocal range beyond what I can currently express.  So I doubt if I’ll ever learn them.

Seventy is a very large number.  I’ve already learned five of them.  Only 65 to go!  My ability to memorize has declined over the years but that doesn’t mean it’s stopped.  And just think of all the exercise my senior brain will get!

***

Yesterday the song that’s the next for me to learn entered my mind – Angel.  It’s sung so wondrously by Sarah McLachlan.

Here it is:

Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay
There’s always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it’s hard at the end of the day

I need some distraction
Oh … a beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
Let me be empty
And weightless … and maybe
I’ll find some peace tonight

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

So tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There’s vultures and thieves at your back
And the storm keeps on twisting
You keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack

It don’t make no difference
Escaping one last time
It’s easier to believe
In this sweet madness
Oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

I get the song.  It says such a sweet “Hi” to me.  I don’t want to analyze why I like it so much, other than mentioning a few phrases that have me quiver …

And it’s hard at the end of the day

From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear

You keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack

Oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees

Yes.  These words are for me.  And I trust they’ll be for some of the folks listening to me.

I begin

I was sitting last night with some young people before a concert started.  About five of them, in their early 20’s I’d say.

It was easy, which made me so happy.  We were separated by age but not by spirit.

Our conversation roamed around our lives.  For awhile the topic was Ghent, about how our city is a pocket of delight within Belgium, about so many residents being open to each other, to life.

I asked them a skill-testing question: “When I took my first computer course in 1968, how big was the computer?”  Guesses included the size of a car, of a fridge …  Truth was that the beast took up most of a very large room.  Their eyes opened wide.

At one point, our words ventured into the mysterious process of peeing and pooping. I think that was a first for me.  Clearly my young friends knew and enjoyed each other.  I was thrilled to be included.

And then …

A quiet moment in my head led to …

My eyes opening wide

“We’ve been speaking English” 

(Spoken silently)

All this time, these women and men had let go of Dutch in favour of English.  Because I was in their midst.  Such quiet kindness.  Thank you, young ones.

I was watching a Netflix movie on Wednesday evening.  Suddenly the image froze and “0%” appeared onscreen and stayed there.

And so it remains … no Netflix, Disney Plus or Prime Video.  I’m sad.  I enjoy watching cool stories.

In the larger scheme of things, there are far deeper losses: a loved one dies, friendships end, health declines, self-esteem withers away.

But still …

I’m attached.

Here’s a sign promoting the elimination of television from our lives:

I’m not strong enough to say goodbye.  Or wise enough?  I’ve often had a thought bubble up: “I’m free.”  Maybe not.

The problem of my smart TV no longer being connected to the Internet will no doubt be solved.  The problem of needing TV in my life will take longer to fix.

I wonder if I’ll ever get there