Julie’s House

Here’s a skill-testing question for you:

Under what circumstances would I write a positive post about a restaurant that I walked into an hour ago and walked out of ten minutes later?

Julie’s House opened at 9:00 am.  People were already flooding in – people with reservations.  Soon Julie’s would be full with folks who had reserved ahead.  Except for a counter … and I didn’t want to sit there.

The cool thing is that two women employees did their darndest to find a solution for me, but full is full.  I smiled at both of them as I went in search of another source of breakfast.

A few days ago, I sat in this lovely spot in Julie’s, sipping my latté and watching Peter cut a cake into slices.  My croissant had just come out of the oven and the raspberry (strawberry?) jam sunk into the hidden places.  An earlier smile.

There is the brick arch, sunlight flooding in, families walking by on the street.  All was well.  And Peter made me feel welcome, as did a female employee whose name I didn’t learn.

I lingered, soaking in the song “Martha” by Tom Waits, feeling the slow … feeling at home.

I looked down at my napkin.  I decided to follow instructions:

The sign on Julie’s window said it all: You are welcome here.  Please join us.

I will … again and again

Kids

Children have usually been a big part of my adult life … but not now. I miss them.

I taught blind and low vision children. I got to know a lot of fully sighted kids as well. My favourite moments in school were when the child and I were in conversation. It didn’t matter what the topic was, as long as there was connection.

I’m sure you know when you and another human being are connected. It’s mysterious – beyond words, beyond eye contact – but you know it’s real.

Last night I went to the Celebration of Life for my dear friend Wim. First there was a Mass (in Flemish). The words escaped me but I could feel the love in the room. Three young kids read something. I smiled to see them play a part.

Afterwards, Lydia, Baziel, Lore and I were invited to join the family for drinks and snacks. I had a couple of cool 1-1 conversations in English. Often though, I was on the outside of a small group discussion in Flemish.

I decided to go find the kids. I walked into the TV room and there they were – five of them stretched out on a huge ottoman watching some show and a few others gathered around cell phones. Someone at the party had told me that children in Belgium start learning English at age 12, and all of these folks looked younger than that.

Some of the viewers noticed me sitting off to the side. Only one girl connected with the eyes. She came over to sit with me for a minute.

So … ten young speakers of Flemish and one adult speaker of English. Still worth a smile. Clearly “the conversation” was not going to happen. So I just sat there, happy to be in their presence. It was enough.

…

A task awaits in my Belgian future:

How to make an impact on young people in my new home

I’ll find a way

Baziel

He is my friend, a mere 56 years younger.  I met his mom five years ago on a hiking trail in the Canadian Rockies, and today I feel part of the family.

In October Baziel’s dad Jo died.  How does a teenager deal with such a tragedy?  Same with Lore who is 20.

One way that Baziel copes is with basketball.  Here he’s number 11, shielding the ball and driving for the basket.  It was a few nights ago.  I cheered “Baziel!” a lot.  He certainly has offensive skills but even better was his willingness to pass the ball to a teammate who was more open than him.

If you enlarge player 7 on the opposition, you’ll see that he plays for “Geografica”.  It was Geography vs. Medicine in the University of Gent league.  Medicine squeaked out a win.

Baziel entered medical school in September.  He’s determined to put in the time and energy to be an excellent physician … and so far he’s doing both.  My friend expects to be fully qualified by the time he’s 30.

Here’s a picture of Baziel exercising his brain cells in my apartment.  Can you see the focus?

Last night Baziel took me out to eat burgers at Uncle Babe’s – a favourite of mine only steps from home. We laughed. He paid. Then he was off for an evening with his friends.

Baziel Nachtergaele is already leading a full life. Who knows what heights he’ll scale in the decades to come? I dearly hope to see some marvelous landscapes with him.

Ordinary and Sublime

Being hungry is ordinary.  It happens every day to all of us.  Going to McDonalds for supper is also ordinary.  Hopefully it doesn’t happen every day for any of us!

We wash the dishes, brush our teeth, ride the bus or drive the car, talk to our family members.  I see a danger that our whole life be swallowed up by the “usual”.  The routines and the schedules take over … and we don’t notice the brightness of life anymore.

No thanks.

I was in a McDonalds mood a few nights ago.  I got my food and sat at a counter, looking out a window.  And this is what I saw:

My burger and fries were animated by the glow of St. Nicholas Church. I was sipping far more than Diet Coke. The air shook. My view transformed from 2D to 3D.

What are the textures that may be revealed right now? Who am I connected to as I gaze out at the life on the street? When will I wake up to the beauty that is always here? To the majesty of the moment?

I choose “Now”

Frailty

It’s one of my unfavourite words … and sometimes I see it in the mirror.

Here’s another one: “careful”.  Also yucky but increasingly necessary.

(Sigh)

But on we go.  Yesterday I did laundry in a building only fifty metres from my home.  I took my shirts out of the drier while they were some wet so the wrinkles would fall out.  As my underwear and jeans continued their drying journey, I grabbed my ten shirts and ten hangers and headed home.

There are fifty-two steps from the street to my apartment.  No elevator.  Clutching my moist shirts to my breast, I started climbing.  Partway up something jolted in my left hip.  It’s called bursitis, and it thought that yesterday was a fine time to say hello.

A second climb to the heights involved an IKEA bag in my right hand while the left clung to the railing and hauled the body upwards.  In the uncareful department, I was still putting only one foot on each riser.

Hours later I hobbled down the stairs and towards a dinner restaurant.  I chose a route sweetly but unconsciously, one that involved climbing twenty steps towards the end.  Imagine more hauling up with left hand, still stepping “normally”, but this time publicly.

As I ate, I thought of my decision to rent an apartment way up high.  I knew that someday I wouldn’t be able to do those stairs … but I thought that moment would be years away – not TODAY!

There were two exit doors from the restaurant. One involved climbing two steps. It was very clear that I’d have to put two feet on each riser to deal with the pain. I felt the angst of not wanting people to see my plight. I chose the other exit.

The whole other discussion is that I haven’t stretched for months. At the end of June, I sold my home in Belmont, Canada and shipped my belongings across the ocean. It felt “convenient” to place my yoga mat in one of those boxes. Convenient and dumb. No yoga mat, no stretching. “Oh well,” said my deluded mind.

Today I start again to extend my body parts in various directions … now smiling at my foibles.

And all will be well.

Wim

Wim was a family man.  And he still is.  His spirit shines beyond death.  As much as he revered his wife Marie-Anne and his children and his grandchildren, Wim’s sense of “family” was bigger than these sixteen human beings.  It included all who came his way.

I was one of those lucky ones.

You’d never forget a Wim hug.  He encircled me and held me close.  He laughed big.  When I heard he was an engineer and built bridges, I thought of my favourite one in Ghent: the Kongostraat.  I tried to convince him that he built that one.  But he shyly shook his head.

Lydia had us over for dinner a couple of months ago.  She presented an hors d’oeuvre that I didn’t know.  It was sitting on a tiny puff pastry (or so I thought!).  Turns out it was a shell, and I broke it apart with my teeth.  I was laughed at … with love.  Later, as plates were passed around for the main course, Wim noticed there was a chip out of my plate.  “Still hungry, Bruce?”  Totally Wim.

I don’t know when Wim gave this framed calligraphy to Lydia, Jo, Lore and Baziel. Perhaps he knew he was dying and wanted these words to touch their hearts. It sits in “Wim’s place” in the living room. It enters all who come close and are willing to read.

I decided to choose to focus my attention on the “beautiful” rather than the “ugly”

I decided to choose to listen to beautiful music rather than confuse my ears with anxiety-provoking news

I decided to fill my mind and my heart with gratitude for all the great opportunities that life brings me

It’s all just a matter of choice

Christophe André

Christophe and Wim. Perhaps they’re sharing a bottle of wine right now.

Salut

Both Sides Now

I love long views.  Lydia’s dining room qualifies.  Way in the distance, in front of a long hedge, cars go left and right.  I wonder about the people in those vehicles.  Are they happy?  I hope so.

Weeks ago, I felt the pull of walking on roads to reach that hedge.  One day I did that.  I got confused and never did find the home when looking back.

Two days ago, I set off again.  First of all I took a photo from the backyard of the living room (left) and the dining room (right).  Sometimes confusion is a blessing but this time I wanted clarity.

Soon enough the hedge came close. Why was my heart beating so fast? What was the thrill that my body knew but my mind did not?

And then the moment …

I was looking back at me … at Lydia, Lore and Baziel. At the life of a family. I smiled.

There’s no need for analysis

It’s not “A and therefore B”

It’s just A in all its glory … sufficient

Into France

My friend Lydia and I wanted to go for a walk today. “Let’s go to France!” she said. “Huh?” I replied. It wasn’t the only jolting moment of the day. Turns out that the French border is only a 40-minute drive from her home in Nukerke, Belgium.

We roamed the French roads, which felt like Belgian roads, except there were subtle differences in the architecture. Soon before our eyes was the Château de l’Hermitage, a UNESCO World Heritage Site built in the 1780s. No subtlety there.

Two many bathrooms.

We wandered onto a trail through the woods. Soon it widened and became cement. It parted around a large circle of grass. As we approached, Lydia asked “Shall we go left or right?” I smiled without thought. I led her arm-in-arm right down the middle. My path is clear.

As you look at the photo of my friend with arms wide, do you see anything potentially strange in the background? I didn’t.

As we strolled on, my eyes didn’t believe what they were seeing.

“What?!”

Ahead was a huge tree … a sequoia tree. They live in the United States, in California. How did this giant find its way to France? Did someone bring a seed across the ocean in 1903? I was stunned.

I wrapped my arms around the ancient tree and felt my fingers press into the outer bark … so red, so old. I craned my neck through the branches to the sky. A new friend.

The sign said that the sequoia was 120 years old, 144 metres tall (472 feet) and 5.26 metres in circumference (17 feet). Immensity beyond measurements.

How mysterious this life is

How glad I am to be here

On the Bike

Cycling is a long story for me … pretty much the ecstasy and the agony. I remember the wind in my hair, the flowing on the level, the grunts on the ups and the “Whee!” on the downs.

If you were with me in 2018, you heard about another down: I started the Tour du Canada – a cross-country bicycle ride. I lasted four days. I fell three times, I was terrified of the trucks passing three metres to my left, I went deep into a Post Trauma Stress Disorder (PTSD). And the fear is still with me.

I had my bike shipped across the ocean. Today Betty stands in my bedroom, far above any road. “What were you thinking, Bruce, bringing your bike to Ghent? You’ll never ride Betty again.” So negative.

I now live in a cycling city. Witness this lot near the Gent Sint-Pieters train station:

If all these people get on their bikes, why not me? I’ve overcome many things in my life. Why call this one insurmountable?

Which brings me to today. I’m visiting my friend Lydia and her family near Ronse, Belgium. Lydia is off seeing a friend today. I wanted to sit in a pub and she recommended De Harmonie in the main square of Ronse. So I walked.

And here I am. I ambled up to the bar and sat down. The couple next to me and the bartender welcomed … in English. Above me was a TV screen, happily showing live the first cycling race of the season: the Omloop het Niewsblad – 207.3 kilometres. As I started enjoying an Orval beer and a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, the riders had 50 k to go.

O my God … I was back in my Canadian living room of long ago, enjoying the European cycling classics: Paris-Roubaix, Liège-Bastogne-Liège, the Tour of Flanders.

Behind me and around me were cheering Belgian beer drinkers. And when I looked up the race on Google, I found that Omloop finishes in Ninove – a town 36 k from De Harmonie!. I can go see these races, not just stare at the screen. Ohhh …

Here I am returning to the cello, to the keyboard, to the guitar, to batik.

Why not cycling?

Crashing Down … Soaring Up

This week Baziel has filled my guest bedroom.  Last week it was Sarah.  She weighs …  not much.  I asked Baziel about his weight.  Converted from kilograms, he’s 187 pounds.

Why, you ask, have I ventured into this heavy topic?  Yesterday morning Baziel asked me to look in his bedroom.  One side of the mattress was almost on the floor.  (Sigh)

It’s been such a challenge to marry an old bed with a new mattress and support structure.  So far in Belgium, I haven’t seen any boxsprings.  Instead there’s a wooden frame below the mattress that looks like Venetian blinds.

As my deflation deepened, suddenly there was a pause … and an inexplicable smile.  The prevailing wisdom in my head is that I don’t do home repairs.  Just not smart enough in that realm of life.

The smile was followed by investigation.  After Baziel and I pulled off the covers, the mattress and the Venetian blinds, what was clear was that one of the corner metal brackets on the bedframe had separated from the wood.  Lying on the floor were three screws that clearly weren’t up for the job. They were so short!

My angst was short-lived. I headed to the kitchen, where I had a bag of metal pieces ready for recycling. And my memory was right! Sitting in the bottom were four huge wood screws, well rusted in time. I had found them in a drawer.

The screws had a Phillips head … and so had my screwdriver. At first they went in easily but then I really had to crank them into the wood. I gave it all I had and then passed the screwdriver to Baziel. He had a little more oomph than me.

After we were finished, the thought came: we did it. Actually it was mostly me who did it. Bruce the Handyman, totally ready to host his own home repair TV show!

So … I have thoughts about me. That’s nice. What if some of them are absolutely inaccurate? And what does that say about my future?

Stay Tuned