The Best

Here’s a photo of my friend Cara and her mom Petra. The family, including sister Tessy and dad Pascal, took me out to dinner a few nights ago to l’Heritage – a fancy and delightful restaurant only a one-minute walk from my home.

I’m not going to write about our fine evening. The picture reminds me of the most precious moments in my life.

Long ago I thought that sublime times immersed in nature were the best. I once scrambled up Mount Lineham in Alberta, Canada (i.e. no ropes needed). The vista revealed was a circle of snow-capped peaks. I was speechless, and lingered long at the top. Now there’s a sadness that I’m not strong enough to gaze upon that beauty again.

Or the best sometimes settled in my mind at a concert. Last August 50,000 of us witnessed a joyous Lady Gaga performance in Toronto. She gave ‘er and gave ‘er some more for over two hours. No breaks in the driving beat and soaring voice. Surely that was the top of the mountain in my life moments.

Another candidate is the epiphany often revealed when I’m alone. In October I spent twelve days in Quebec City. One evening I walked a narrow street, alone in the darkness. It was just Bruce, so simply me. A smile came easily.

Above the mountains, above Lady Gaga’s Edge of Glory, above just me in the quiet of the night … are times when I’m with one person. We connect in the eyes and share our world with each other. And it’s good.

The Best

Looking … Seeing

I enjoy the difference between those two words. We all look at things. Our eyes take in the colours and shapes before us. No big deal. The big deal is seeing … absorbing, making connections, feeling empathy with the people seen, going to the very centre of what is beheld and lingering there. I like seeing.

Take this street scene in Ghent. There is much to see and reflect upon. I’m tempted to not say a thing about the photo, and just let you discover. Hmm … good idea. You take a few minutes. I’ll get a coffee.

***

Okay, I’m back. I’ll tell you what I see. First of all, if you can enlarge this picture on your phone or laptop, that will be helpful. The discoveries will still be good if you can’t.

I love curves … also windows. So many of the windows in Ghent have a little curve on the top edge. Passageways as well. It’s also très cool to have brick walls, plus so many colours of brick. And how about windows that are set into the roof? Things that suggest an artistic flair.

When I think of buildings in Canada, everything seems horizontal meeting vertical. How amazing to have diamond shapes show up on a wall. And the roofline of that building isn’t straight. There’s an angle there.

Now for the cool semi-hidden stuff, which will be vivid if you can enlarge: Look near the right edge of the photo. One of the windows is stained glass – barely visible from the outside. But what must it be like to be sitting in there on a sunny day?! I say marvelous.

Finally (Now wait a minute – this isn’t final. Who knows what other mysteries may show up?)

Somewhat finally, gaze at the orange brick wall. Someone is happy to be seeing from above, perhaps blessing us who pass by. And I wonder what is hanging from her mouth.

Only a few homes on only one street in only one city

May we open our eyes wherever we are

Walk Right In … Sit Right Down

I decided to go a-wanderin’ last night.  On the surface I was in search of another fine Belgian beer.  Down deep, I wanted to be with people and see if a conversation might emerge, most likely with someone whose first language wasn’t English.

I live on a street called the Oudburg – action central for cool restaurants and bars in Ghent.  Despite lots of tourists strolling the street, the Oudburg feels genuine.  But it was time to roam more widely.  A café (i.e. pub) called Minor Swing wasn’t far away and previous glimpses in the windows were enticing.  So here I go!

It’s really old.  It’s really small.  And it’s packed with couples and friends and families.  There was even a girl of perhaps six years wearing a frilly layered dress.  She enjoyed her juice while mom and dad went for stronger stuff.  I wasn’t used to seeing a kid in a bar but I smiled at how inclusive Belgium feels.

The Flemish words were rolling from wall to wall – music to me.  So many eyes were wide.  So many hands were sweeping through the air.  Minor Swing was alive.  I smile some more.  Even though language lessons haven’t become part of my life, I feel at home here.

I hope you love the photo.  A violinist and guitarist poked their heads in the door and walked to the bar.  There were sweet melodies that I didn’t recognize, plus flurries of notes accompanied by flying fingers on the strings.  The buzz, the music and everyone close together felt so natural.  I do believe I’m in Europe.

My favourite folks in the café were two old fellows sitting at the bar.  You see one of them on the left.  The other guy had a very long and white beard.  Maybe he was a poet.  For over an hour their voices rose and fell, and fingers told stories – none of which I could understand. 

The place was so full and people kept coming in the front door and passing through a doorway to the right of the bar.  Perhaps Minor Swing isn’t so small after all.

Eventually I approached the bar to pay my bill.  The bartender seemed to be fixing six drinks at once and I was in no hurry.  A guy spoke to me in English and then translated for his Flemish friend.  “Canada!”  Our eyes met in mirth even though the vocabulary was unknown to the other.  All was well.  And I know that all will continue to be well.

Love Includes

So why are there stores? Well, we need stuff to survive and thrive, and somebody has to sell it to us. Plus the people who own and work in those stores need to feed their families, and go on the occasional vacation.

I wonder what the owners would say if we asked them “What is your company’s purpose?” Flowery phrasing in mission statements can’t hide the obvious: “Our purpose is to make money.”

Occasionally I’ve come across a business whose social responsibility is alive and well. And I honour those places with my dollars.

Since arriving in Belgium, I’ve become an IKEA devotée. I love their white furniture, the friendliness of the staff (in English) and the efficiency in helping me find, compare and buy things. Also I’ve had the vague feeling that they treat people well – employees and customers.

With such songs in my head, I was roaming through the aisles one day. I turned a corner and there hung the poster you see before you. I was stopped. I was stunned. Two men kissing. I thought “How lovely” and then “How unique”. A money-making corporation presenting its values for all to see. Maybe North American stores have the same photo displayed but I don’t remember seeing it. Plus I don’t live there anymore.

The words you see are in Flemish. I sure was curious about what they said. Thanks to Google Translate, I now know. Was it a spectacular manifesto of gender equality? No. It was this …

A gift card, always a nice surprise for Valentine’s Day.  An IKEA gift card is a gift that is always welcome.  Give it as a gift to your friends and family on birthdays, on special occasions or just … just like that!  Choose a suitable card and charge it at the cash register with the amount of your choice.

Ordinary. Friends and family. No big deal. They would enjoy a gift card from you.

Love in all its expressions should be ordinary in our world. Just the way life is. Thank you, IKEA.

Hugging Everything

It was a long time ago. My wife Jody and I were vacationing with her family in Kananaskis Country – a stunning part of the Rocky Mountains in Canada. Jody and I decided to stay at a bed and breakfast for a few days. Our hostess welcomed us so beautifully … lots of smiles and kindness.

The next morning I got up before Jody and headed down to the dining room for coffee. The hostess and I chatted about life for half an hour and then she needed to get started on breakfast. We both stood up. She moved towards me with open arms. We held each other for maybe a minute. That’s a very long hug. And it was such a sweet one – no patting, no crushing, just a gentle lingering.

The hug wasn’t sexual. It was sensual but also something way beyond that. I was transported to an unknown land that somehow I recognized. Time stopped.

Since that moment, I’ve never been hugged that way again. There have been some delightful slow ones, imbued with love, but the depth of that Rocky Mountain touch was unique. At least so far.

I love hugging. I love cuddling. When it’s quiet (physically and spiritually), something sublime has the space to come through.

***

About a month ago I started having a strange thought, one that each time has brought a smile to my face:

In my soul I could hug everything … and everyone

I could have a long slow hug with any of my emotions that I’ve called negative: fear, sadness, hurt, anger. I could draw them close rather than pushing them away. We could be friends. I could hug my mistakes, large and small. I could hug my body, which isn’t as fast or strong as it once was. I could hug my memory, which often forgets!

I could hug mean people, such as Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin. I won’t hug behaviour that is demeaning or violent, but what about the person who performs such acts?

I love sitting in a question, letting it roam around my insides for days or years. There’s so much that is mysterious. What are my possibilities? What are our possibilities?

Would you like to explore?

Coming Home to the Music

Something is brewing inside.  I need to pull the bow across the strings of the cello.  I need to feel the notes vibrating.  I need to sit on a bench in Park Sluizeken and send my melodies to the Oudburg, a few metres away.

I received an e-mail yesterday from Arpeggio Music:

“Dear Bruce,

We have already a rental cello available for you. You can collect the instrument in our shop.”

So there we have it. I begin. I walked over to Arpeggio today and there was my instrument. I bought a stand to store the cello, a little light to hang on the music stand, and a wooden plate with a hole for the cello’s spike.

The cello was embraced by a fabric case. Sixty years ago such a case had a handle that allowed me to carry the cello on my hip. Today that handle was missing.

Instead there were straps for me to carry it like a backpack. I felt centered, balanced, with future melodies touching me from behind.

As I strolled home from Arpeggio, I felt young. Young enough for a cool fantasy trip. I imagined that all and sundry were looking my way, seeing a man with white hair. He was clearly a professional cellist, wise in the way of symphonies, probably walking to his concert. He was easy in the fingerings, at home in the riffs of notes and the soaring melodies.

Or … he was some Canadian guy who hadn’t played for a very long time, a fellow who has much to learn. The first story was more fun.

I picked my route home, allowing to pass by the marvelous jewelry shop called Garderobe, hosted by my friend Lucrece. She smiled to see the cello attached to my back. Lucrece cheered me on as I winged across the Atlantic from Canada to Belgium.

And now to home …

My cello and me. Perhaps I’ll name her. Tomorrow I will play her.

Facing the Roof

Perhaps I’m unusual. When I first joined my Belgian friends in Senegal in 2018, I heard about the white birds. Every day, as the sun declines, they return to a certain tree near Toubacouta, on an island in the middle of a river. We went there in a little boat.

As our host turned off the motor and we drifted a bit, all ten of us turned to the island. The birds started to come. Each probably had their favourite branch. It was time to sleep.

As the white mottled the green, I felt compelled to look behind me. I lifted my gaze to the treetops on the far shore. Wings burst over the branches and soared above my head. What a rush! But I was the only one looking the “wrong way”. And nobody joined me.

That really doesn’t mean anything. I just view things with a different slant than most people. Fine with me.

And now in Ghent, on the back terrace of my apartment on the Oudburg. The normal thing is to cast the eyes over the long view, to the glass of the Ghent River Hotel and the far away brown slate rooves. In the early hours of daylight, the seagulls fly left to right across the sky.

This morning, however, I took a chair and faced the roof to my left. I waited. And the explosions of birdness suddenly appearing over the spine left my mouth agape. Such raucous flight! For awhile I held my phone aloft, hoping for up close wings against the sky. Soon my arms got tired and I decided that you folks can see the image in your vivid imaginations.

Stunned to silence near Toubacouta
Stunned to silence in Ghent
It’s a small world

One … Two

Recently I’ve discovered a way of thinking that’s very helpful for me. But who knows if it will mean anything to other people? It represents a dilemma that any writer faces: Do you tailor your words to the expected audience or do you simply let loose with what’s in your mind? I don’t know. I want to reach people in my writing. That won’t happen if no one gets it. But then I shouldn’t assume that people won’t understand.

Okay. I’ll just say it.

I’ve asked myself if it’s possible to access whatever “a higher state of consciousness” is … instantly. For me the “higher” would be an experience of lightness, of spontaneous smiling, of profound connection with another person. I looked at the regular, usually boring moments of life and called them “Number One”. Things like shopping for groceries, walking across a busy street or doing my income taxes. There’s a focus on results, a pinpoint of time, a sense of cause-and-effect. It feels ordinary, necessary, the usual moments of our daily life. I know things.

Then there’s “Number Two”. These moments are broad, sparkling, often full of wonder and “not knowing”. Sometimes there’s disorientation, floating, a feeling of “Where am I?” I realize that last part doesn’t sound good but I’m coming to see that it is profoundly good. There are moments of meeting the eyes of another, of the mouth dropping open in communion with them, of being brought to a sacred silence, even as we keep speaking. Number Two.

As recent months have unfolded, I’m often finding that simply by saying “One … Two” my mind switches to the wide open sky, to the sweetness of “being with” another, to disintegration, subsiding, falling with the eyes closed. My experience passes through a gossamer curtain, from “small’ to “big”. I see this as neither good nor bad. It’s just here.

Many times, simply saying “One …Two” creates nothing – no new lightness. But then there are all those other times!

I’m sitting now with the mystery of it all

Something far bigger than me is at work

I’m along for the ride

Aerobie

An Aerobie is like a really large Frisbee. It has a huge hole in the centre and flies a very long way. A few months ago in Canada, I looked at my old red one and saw that a large piece had fallen off. Unflyable.

So a decision: Did I want to soar long and strong in Ghent? Or do I let that part of my life go? With no real thought, I went on Amazon and ordered a new one. The skies of Belgium also need to be visited.

Amid the grand unpacking of the last few days sat a brand new green disc. But where to fly it in the density of Ghent? I had heard that Citadel Park was the largest in town so Sarah and I set off to find an airborne home. After much meandering among the trails and trees, I realized that Citadel didn’t have any wide open spaces. I wanted Sarah to have the experience of long distance flying before she returned to the UK tomorrow but alas … that was not to be. Until we found a long and wide cemented place. Would this work?

I believe in huge spaces. When dancing, have enough room to throw the arms out every which way with no fear of hitting a wall. How can life be a flow if it keeps banging into things?

So Sarah and I entered the arena of flight. I had never thrown this disc. I reached back, my arm seeking to remember, and the air parted for a whirling green thing. The landing was nowhere near Sarah, but so what? For the next twenty minutes, the sky welcomed our efforts. And the space worked beautifully!

The sun was behind me as I threw and I saw sitting on a far off hill were four teenagers, shielding their eyes in my direction. They were watching. Finally they got up to leave and my path was clear. I walked over to two of them and silently extended my hand. The first guy smiled. “May we join?” I nodded.

Soon the two of them were testing the limits of distance and speed. Sarah and I smiled too.

Everyone needs to fly

Cello Again

Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?

***

Back in Ghent, I walked into Arpeggio Music. I talked to Harm, the store’s resident cellist. I told my story. He smiled. After a few minutes, he ushered me to a chair and placed a cello between my knees. So familiar. There followed coaching about proper position of the instrument so that the fingers of my left hand could easily press the strings.

I began, sweeping the bow across the strings, then placing my fingers in what they remembered was first position. The tone of notes was revealed, more or less in tune. Now adding the vibrato, the moving of a finger on a string to create a depth of sound, a pulsing of the note that is so sweet.

My eyes widened. There was a 16-year-old in that chair, sitting on the stage of Lawrence Park Collegiate with everyone else during an after-school rehearsal. I knew immediately that this was the right place for me in 2023. I will rent a cello from Arpeggio as soon as one is available, mostly likely within a month. Harm pointed out the front window to a building up the street, known as Kunstacademie De Poel, or in English the Academy of Music, Drama and Dance. “Your future could be there.” Their program starts again in September, and includes cello lessons plus classes in music theory and history.

Harm mentioned that there is an amateur string orchestra in Ghent called Da Capo. Someday, if I practice diligently, I may be able to play with them. They have a concert in nearby Merelbeke on March 11. I’m going … to hear the music and hopefully talk to orchestra members.

I walked into De Poel and talked to a fellow who co-ordinates the rental of instruments there. He said to come back at the end of May if I’m interested and register for the 2023-2024 academic session. I’m interested.

So what will become of my cellist life? Stay tuned.