We are together … you and me and so many others. As human beings, we are joined. Sometimes the lines are visible, such as two kids having fun on the ends of a skipping rope. Or when two arms reach for hands.
Often, though, the lines are hidden from normal ways of being. The physical eye doesn’t notice the connection but it’s alive nonetheless.
Alex Grey is my favourite artist. See mom kissing away the child’s owwie. See their eyes. The line is real. May it always be so between them.
I remember another line. Decades ago I had a gall bladder attack and ended up in the hospital. My former wife Rita contacted my then girlfriend Jody to see if I was all right. The line joining us told Rita I was in trouble. What mystery!
I have friends living in Toronto, Belmont, New York City, California, Alberta, England, Maarkedal … and Ghent. The lines are there, bringing us close, creating a glistening spider web of human intersections. All with nothing needed to be said.
Ahh … I’m sensing the world wide web now. The eyes of people from the countries of the world are with me. I haven’t met them, and I know them.
The big going was completed on January 28 … I left Canada and arrived in Belgium to live.
Four months later, it’s time for another going. On Monday I’m taking the train to Amsterdam for four nights and then to Brussels for three more. Just me – splorin’.
I hope that my future holds “I’ve never been to _______ and I’m heading there.” And how about “I’ve never done ________ and I’m going to?” Yes.
Staring me in the face is Amsterdam and the world between here and there. Why not? Why not Monday?
All I have are stereotypes about the city, such as it being overun by tourists and having the biggest “red light district” in Europe. And art! Some fellow named Rembrandt. Plus there was Anne Frank and Hitler’s war machine.
Will I go visit some of the famous stuff? Probably … but I want to be unpredictable. Who knows what will beckon me in the moment?
I’ll roam some tiny curving streets, walk into some “sketchy” cafés and see who I can talk to there. I want to reach people whose lives are way different than mine. If a Canadian comes by that’s fine but I’d prefer conversations with Iranians and Italians, Muslims and Sikhs, and folks with dark skin.
I’m familiar with “I know” but that gets boring after awhile. It’s time for more “I don’t know”s – more mystery.
What do Dutch people have for breakfast? No idea. Hopefully I’ll sample things far from my morning routine.
Will there be dancing in the street? Weird and wonderful animals strolling by? All the clothes of the rainbow? Let’s say yes.
But (wait for it) there’s Thursday! Bruce Springsteen and me. I’m pretty sure he’s arranged a backstage pass for me. If he hasn’t, he should.
50,000 of us will be in Johan Cruijff Arena to hear “The Boss” rock the night with the E Street Band. And I know that he’ll sing Badlands just for me. We the crowd will blast out the chorus … no problem.
I’ve seen Bruce twice, many years ago. But I’m leaning into a fresh 73-year-old, giving the classics delightful twists.
Okay, enough about Amsterdam. I travel from there to Brussels on Friday, May 26. Up ahead on the weekend is the Core Festival – techno music, awesome light shows and breakthrough dancing in Osseghem Park. I wonder if there’ll be 50,000 more human beings to grace my life. Peut être.
My body will be sore. My soul will be soaring. And my feet will fly!
Who will I meet in two Airbnb’s, on the sidewalks, in the park, on the terraces, at street corners? May they be weird and wonderful, “out there” folks who want to grab onto life for all they’re worth. Pistachio please, only a bit of vanilla.
***
I’m revvin’ up
I’m painting pictures in my head … all of which could be wrong!
Who cares if they are?
P.S. For those of you who have been reading me lately, tonight I’m going back to Kompass Klub
P.P.S. Okay, I lied. I’m too tired to go dancing tonight. A woman just told me that the moving and grooving only really gets going at 2:00 and lasts till at least 7:00. It’s so beyond my previouslife. I was planning on going alone tonight but I need companions to inspire me for this to work. (Sigh)
My friend Lydia has come from Maarkedal to visit me for two days. Nearly six years ago, on a hiking trail in Alberta, Canada, Lydia told me about the children that she and her friends sponsor in Senegal. They visit the kids most Christmases.
“Would you like to come with us?”
And the rest is life turned upside down. I would be sitting in Belmont, Canada today rather than in Ghent, Belgium were it not for my friend.
Lydia and I love each other. We want each other to be supremely happy, to have outrageous adventures, to smile all the way to the end.
I met her late yesterday afternoon as she got off the train at the Gent Sint-Pieters station. I tried to hide but she was too fast for me. “Welcome to my city.” She’d always been the one welcoming me.
And then my street … the Oudburg. Up the stairs to my apartment. “Welcome to my home.”
We sat on my white couch talking about life – her kids and my new friends, the joys of really being in a new country. I’m a resident, immersed in the flow of humanity strolling the streets of Ghent centrum.
We had dinner at Petit Comité, only a three-minute walk from me but around the corner from the busy Oudburg. One of the owners welcomed us so genuinely and guided us through the menu possibilities. We had five little courses to share – small portions of eye-opening flavours.
We were nourished by warm Brie cheese, pork ribs, spicy corn-on-the-cob … as well as the tiramisu. The real sustenance, however, was in our friendship, in the gaps between the words, in the eyes.
It was quiet and slow. No phone calls. Room to breathe.
We went for a walk after dark. Meandering down the cobblestones in the oldest part of the city. After crossing a wee bridge we sat on a bench on the Lievekaai. Here is what we beheld:
Silence reigned. We said very little as night closed around us. We lingered in the stillness.
Lydia’s life is so busy: entrepreneur, mother and friend. Finally a time to rest, to fall into the slumber of the city, to sigh.
I’m not going to ride a bicycle anymore. My friend Baziel will soon be taking Betty on his commutes to university in Ghent.
I’ve had a strange cycling career. It didn’t exist until I was 47. Never had a bike as a kid. A decade or more later, I started leading short rides with the London Cycling Club in Canada.
In 2012, I had a blood clot in my left leg which I happily survived. But I started noticing my balance was off, and it’s remained so.
It had been my goal to ride the Tour du Canada – a bike ride across my country. In 2018 I was 69. “It’s now or never, Bruce!” I trained hard.
I lasted four days. The fitness was okay. The bike skills were not. I fell several times and couldn’t do the slow motion maneuvering in downtown Vancouver. And I was terrified of the semi-trailer trucks blasting by three metres to my left. I quit.
My right hand shook for weeks. The PTSD was alive in me … and it still lingers.
As I contemplated my move to Belgium, one task was clear: “What do I keep and what do I give away?” I felt into the question and my quiet voice said “Take Betty across the ocean.” So I did.
“How many times have you ridden in Ghent?” you ask. “Zero,” I answer. Right now I feel a twinge of embarrassment about that but it’s being magically overwhelmed by a smile.
I’ve watched cyclists ply their trade in Ghent centrum. Navigating the tram tracks, the approaching trams, and slow-moving pedestrians. I shake my head with wonder and really get that I no longer have what it takes to do that. Plus I don’t want to do that.
Did I mention “strange”? Especially with me smiling in the moment. Prevailing wisdom probably says that I should rise to the occasion, “gird my loins”, be a man.
David Attenborough, the British broadcaster and creator of nature documentaries such as Planet Earth, turned 97 a week ago.
One Facebook page is up to 74,000 likes and loves and 5,700 comments full of birthday wishes.
I ask myself “What would it be like to be so revered? Is that what I want in my life, to be showered with adulation? To be known far and wide for my good works?”
No … I don’t want that.
Yes … I want to be loved, but if it’s just a few folks that’s okay. I want to lead a loving life and the quantity of love returning is not important.
Still there’s a part of me that would like to hear things like this:
You are an inspiration to us all
You are so loved and admired and respected
You dear kind caring loving Sir
There will never be another you
The world could certainly use more like him
It’s seductive … these thoughts of being loved. Do I unconsciously adjust myself so that the praise will come? Do I tiptoe around difficult moments rather than just saying what’s true for me? Do I linger in the receiving too much and burst out in the giving too little?
Here comes a smile, which I always see as a good sign. “Just continue doing what you’re doing, Bruce. Fall into the moments of generosity. See who needs a hand on the shoulder.”
***
There will be no statue of me at the end of my days
I watch people. It’s a fine hobby. And many of the folks are old.
They may have a cane, or even a walker. Perhaps they’re stooped over. Unsteady on their feet. Wary of the cobblestone surprises.
They go on slowly. They find benches for rest. They allow far more walking time than Google Maps suggests.
Their skin sags. There are drooping lines beside the mouth. Under the eyes is a riot of folds and blemishes. Some, such as a certain Canadian I know, have a generous fold of skin beneath the chin, available for future cosmetic improvements.
For men, the V-shaped body of youth has graciously morphed into a U. The flat belly is now nicely rounded. For women, the perky breasts of yesteryear now fall gently towards the earth.
***
Of course there was a time when Hollywood beauty may have shone from the face. High cheekbones, unbroken expanses of soft skin, eyes that required no makeup.
Muscles were sleek and strong. Maybe the body was tanned … not too much, not too little. Movements were easy and flowing. Being young spoke clearly.
***
Now the questions are for me …
Do I have eyes to see beyond the decline of age?
Can my eyeslook deeply into theirs, showing me the eternal human being?
Three friends and I walked to Kompass Klub last night. Actually the fellow rode his bike … so slowly and skilfully to match our pace.
“Oh my God! I’m going to a techno club.”
I was warned about the incredible volume of the music but I had earplugs tucked into my coat pocket.
And I thought big EDM festivals like Tomorrowland or Core would be similar to last night. My friends smiled and shook their heads. They educated me about “beats per minute (BPM)”.
“Tomorrowland usually is about 120. Kompass Klub is 150 … sometimes way more. Get ready!”
I was ready. My friend the bartender had arranged for us to be guests = get in free. As so we were ushered through the gate.
Ahead of me were hundreds of tiny lockers. Two euros later my coat and valuables were safely stored away. I was light as a feather and ready to boogie.
Hanging plastic straps greeted us as we entered the dance floor …
Woh! More decibels than humanly possible smashed my ears. Strobe lights blasted. Red laser beams flew around the room.
My mouth dropped. And my hand dove into a pocket for earplugs. Finally inserted, the dampeners still left me with raucous sound.
My friends turned to assess my newbie face. “I love this!”
I looked around and maybe two hundred people were just standing there, jiggling a bit. “Where’s the dancing?” > “It’ll take awhile for them to warm up.”
Five minutes later, I was grooving to the music, my arms increasingly flailing. Let the others stand in place – I want to move!
Before showing up, I had a decision to make. My balance isn’t the greatest and I need really good footwear if I’ll be on my feet for awhile. I wear hiking boots every day. But can I dance in them?
Turns out, most of me sure could dance but my feet got stuck on the floor (those grippy soles!). So … down to my ankles I was free and easy. Well, not totally. I didn’t throw my hands over my head. They were doing their thing sideways. Guess I was worried about really standing out. Silly me.
When I thrust my feet out in random directions, I usually stumbled. Oh well.
I started dancing around midnight and pooped out at 1:30. Partway I took a five-minute break to walk my sweaty self outside – away from the noise, our mutual heat and my throbbing knees.
Gosh it was fun. There’ll definitely be a next time for this dancing fool. Maybe I’ll stay later so the “warming up” folks near me will eventually be in full flight.
I’ll bring running shoes and put my hiking boots in a locker. Then let’s see what my feet can do! If my ankles feel on the verge of collapse I’ll switch to the boots.
(Oh … I just realized that I didn’t think about taking pictures last night. All I could see was the dancing.)
I’m the guy whose left hip sometimes hurts so much that I have trouble climbing the forty steps to my apartment. I also love dancing.
Not the waltz and fox trot. The throw your arms all over the place and hope you don’t hit someone dancing. Techno! Electronic Dance Music (EDM)!
A few days ago I was having a beer in the Afsnis café and started talking to the bartender. I told her I’ve moved from Canada and I love Ghent. Then I said that I’m going to see Bruce Springsteen in Amsterdam in two weeks. From there I’m off to Brussels for the Core Festival.
Her eyes widened … and it wasn’t about Springsteen. Core is a techno event.
Next I mentioned how I’d love to go to the Kompass Klub, an EDM venue only a half-hour walk from home. Here’s a photo:
The bartender smiled. “I used to work there. I can get you a guest pass for Friday night.”
Now it was my turn for wide eyes.
Today is Friday. Tonight around 11 I’ll lighten the door of the club. I suppose I’ll be surrounded by teens and 20s. They’ll have more energy than me but it doesn’t matter. I’ll dance a bit less and rest a bit more. But when I’m dancing! Watch out, world.
I guess there’ll be a lot of drugs. I’m not interested. I guess there’ll be a lot of decibels. I’m buying earplugs today. I guess there’ll be an incredible light show. Yes!
I’m here in a new world
New friends
New joys
Why not go fearless into the night and shake everything I’ve got?
Today I wanted to visit the loveliest cemetery in Ghent. Dirk suggested Westerbegraafplats. And here I am.
It’s only the song birds, the mourning doves and me. And all the souls who have been laid to rest. In front of me are rows of low monuments and off in the distance huge chestnut trees with their white blossoms.
The trees are immense here. For some it would take three of us with arms outstretched to fill the circumference. And the quiet hangs above.
I came for the people who have gone on. In Canada I loved reading the personal messages carved into stone but in Belgium those messages are in Flemish. A language of my future.
What I did see were photos of the dearly departed – hundreds of them. I wanted to know these people. Almost all of the pictures felt like this:
I know that tradition in the long ago was not to smile, but it still makes me sad to see these faces. “Who are you, really?” So expressionless … so (if you will) “half-dead”.
Here are four more faces. The two in the middle make me smile a bit. “Here’s the spark I’m looking for.” I can tell they had a lot of good times, and that their family loved them dearly.
Ready for two more? Here you go:
Can’t you just seeing them reaching over that cross for a sweet hug, one that lingers? I can. I bet they had twelve grandkids, and that grandma and grandpa spoiled them something awful!
Another search in my mind was finding a photo of the couple together, hopefully arms around each other, their eyes shining. And there was success:
Bruce's Blog 