I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor this morning.  I glanced up, at the ancient artwork above the fireplace.

“Look at the beauty of the sculpture inset into the wall”

Then more looking …

The shadows.  The roundness of the tree trunk.

But could it be a painting, perfectly flat?  >  No, that’s impossible  >  I know my eyes  >  Or do I?

I stood up and came close.  Flat.  A painting.

I know

Or I don’t know

And how much of life do I really not know?

It was October, 1992, inside this big white building in Toronto.  Thousands of us approached the SkyDome stadium, our non-perishable food item in hand.  That was our ticket to enter.

Slowly the stands filled with eager human beings … 47,000 of us.  And what was happening on the playing field?

Nothing

No game … no concert … empty

Except for us devotées, our eyes glued to the Jumbotron screens.  Huge images met us.  Images from Atlanta in the USA.

A baseball game was showing on the world’s biggest TVs.  Game Six of the World Series – the championship of professional baseball in North America.  Toronto was leading Atlanta three games to two in the best-of-seven series.

SkyDome rocked with cheers, gasps and groans throughout the evening.  It was surreal.  And then … the ending.  Toronto was ahead.  It was Atlanta’s last chance to tie things up.  If their batter didn’t get on base, the game and the series were over.

Ground ball to the infield, throw to first base, caught by the first baseman before the batter touches the bag …

Yes!

The stadium erupts

Hugs, high fives, screams, bodies flying high and others collapsing …

Toronto had just won the first World Series Championship in their history.

Soon we thousands were streaming out of the SkyDome, many of us walking north together on Toronto’s iconic Yonge Street, which basically goes on forever.  No room for moving cars that night.  We were a flood of humanity.

We Blue Jays fans were lifted high above the asphalt.  Our joy reached the heavens.  Yes, there was drinking, stumbling, getting up again to continue the pilgrimage home.  And all was well.

The best news?  No looting.  No violence of any kind.  Slowly we flowed northward, folks leaving Yonge when their neighbourhood appeared.  My destination was mom’s home seven miles from SkyDome.

***

It was long ago

And in my heart right now

***

Last night was Game Seven of the 2025 World Series.  Toronto versus Los Angeles.  In the same building, but this time brimming with fans.  Now it’s called the Rogers Centre.

Final score:

Toronto Blue Jays  4

Lost Angeles Dodgers  5

(Sigh)

Over a month ago, I was short of money.  I needed to borrow a considerable number of euros for three weeks.

My bank said no, not because they’re unfeeling people, but because they have to abide by Belgian law.  I can’t get a loan until I’m a permanent resident, which will be in two years.

A dear friend said “Yes”.  (Thank you!)

Money would be coming from Canada in “six to ten business days” to repay her.  So it felt like a three-week loan.  She graciously gave me till the end of October to repay.

But then …

Someone at my Canadian financial institution made a big mistake, forgetting that the transaction required me to sign a form.  So I thought the process was flowing along.  Actually it was standing still.  (Sigh)

So I waited.  I had expected three weeks and now it was looking like at least four.  And … I had given my word that the funds would be in my friend’s hands by the end of October.

What mystery.  There was my word.  And there was my inability to control what a financial institution does (and when).  It was a somehow gracious limbo of letting go, contracting, letting go again …

Often a softness entered my face.  And a smile.  An overarching feeling of All Is Well.  I floated.

***

My friend received her money on October 29

It’s a simple photo beside the Lieve River in Gent.  Two boots … standing alone.  Unseen is a nearby wine bottle, empty.  Steps on the left, leading down to the water’s edge.  A tunnel on the far shore.  A boat.  And no one to be seen.

As with much of life, I don’t know.  There’s a story here.  Many possible beginnings and endings.  Joy?  Sorrow?  Neither?  Ordinary?  Extraordinary?  Heart-warming?  Heart-diminishing?

I’m getting better at being stopped by life.  Often pausing, even in mid-step or mid-thought … and wondering.

I don’t know

And I don’t care that I don’t know

The sky is so big

I wrote a couple of days ago about accompanying my friend and her cat to a nearby care home.  I made up names for the residents I especially enjoyed, but not for her.  So … she becomes Valerie.

I like that name.  Three syllables entice me.  They flow.

Valerie and I went for coffee yesterday.  I needed to talk about my experience, particularly being next to residents with dementia.

After our visit, I woke up the next morning sputtering out the words …

What was that?

What happened?

Yes, the twelve or so residents with dementia each sat in the lounge in apparent separation.  But there was some energy flowing in the room.

I was loving people, most of whom had no words to give.  I wanted to sit beside each and every one of them.  In silence.  Not physically touching unless they initiated that.  Just being there.  Together.  Not alone.

The head occupational therapist told me after the visit that I wouldn’t be able to volunteer in the home because I don’t speak Dutch.  The other OT, who visited residents with us, suggested I approach the volunteer manager in the sister building across the street, where older people who don’t require nursing care live.  (Gosh, I didn’t find a name for her either.  She was lovely.  So she becomes Daphné.)

The morning after, I was clear: I didn’t want to volunteer with the higher functioning folks.  I wanted to be in the dementia lounge.

I asked Valerie if she knew what level of Dutch was needed for people to volunteer at the care home.

“A2”

“I passed A2!”

It was sixteen months ago, but I have the paper that proves the level of competence that’s required.

Back then, I concluded “This is too hard.”  And “I don’t want all this homework and exams to learn a skill that I don’t care about.”  And “Most adults and teens in Gent speak English so why am I banging my head against the wall?”

Could it be?

That was then and this is now?

Am I about to scare up my notes from A1 and A2 and … study?  Plus renew my friendship with the Babble language app?

***

(Shaking my head in amazement)

Wonders never cease

My friend has a cat who makes a huge difference with many residents of a nearby care home.  Yesterday I was invited to tag along.

A delightful occupational therapist toured us around.  Her touch showed great love for the residents.  She honoured them.

I’ll make up names here.  The first room we entered was the home of Marina.  She spoke some English so we could make meaning together.  On her bedside table stood a portrait of a blonde 18-year-old woman wearing no doubt the latest hairstyle.  In the chair nearby sat the same human being, now 79.  The twinkle in the eye remained.

Marina was a stenographer, skilled in shorthand dictation for her boss.  Sometimes she had six letters on the go at once.  I could see her pride in the skill within a “secret language”.  I told her that I also had a code that hardly anyone knew – braille.  Marina and I met.

Down the hall, Dominique sat up in bed, enthralled with the kitty cat.  She and I got talking – in French.  My high school version couldn’t keep up with her rapid-fire enthusiasm, and most of her words floated away from my knowing.  We smiled a lot.  Dominique and I met.

Both of these women seemed cognitively intact, unlike the folks I met next.

In the hallway, the eyes of a woman met mine.  I’ll call her Marie.  She cooed over our cat, and her smile never wavered.  We shared no language but there was a 90-year-old pixie in front of me.

At the end of my stay in the care home, Marie and I once more exchanged our grins.  We met.

The lounge at the end of the hall was a meeting place for residents with dementia.  There were maybe ten of them sitting on chairs and couches, really not meeting each other at all.

I sat down.  Despite the apparent isolation, there was a sweet energy hanging in the air.  I let it waft over me, not trying to figure it out.

Halfway across the room, a very thin man turned his head toward me.  To me, he’s Jérome.  Our eyes lingered.  He stood there for a few more seconds and then started a slow walk … towards me.  I pulled out a chair from the table and gestured for him to sit.  He did.  For maybe a minute, his head was facing away from me as we sat close.  And then he turned my way.

His eyes on mine were soft and sad.  His right hand came forward.  I responded with mine.  We shook … a steady pressure for at least ten seconds.

Jérome sat with me for a few minutes more, his eyes again looking the other way.  And then he stood and walked out of the room.

Later, as I was leaving the care home floor, Jérome was walking near the elevator.  Eyes, long handshake.  Jérome and I met.

The kitty was the star of the show in the lounge.  What a powerful little being.  I saw a visiting man adjust the dress of a female resident whose dress had slipped a bit.  There was love.

The rest of the folks sat in their aloneness, perhaps yearning for the next arrival of a loved one.  I yearned too … to sit silently beside each of them.

And then it was time to leave …

***

I shall return

My dear wife Jody and I loved the TV series Lost, about the survivors of a plane crash on a tropical island.  Years later I’m watching it again.  Would you believe there are 121 episodes?  I’m on Number 5.

Number 3 is called “Tabula Rasa” … a clean slate.  The video I’ve included begins with Kate sitting beside Jack.  She wants to tell him about the bad things she’s done.  He doesn’t want to hear it.  “We’re all starting again.”

And the music of Joe Purdy’s “Wash Away” begins to swell …

I got troubles oh, but not today
‘Cause they’re gonna wash away
They’re gonna wash away

And I got sins Lord, but not today
‘Cause they’re gonna wash away
They’re gonna wash away

And I had friends oh, but not today
‘Cause they done washed away
They done washed away

Lord, I’ve been cryin’ alone
I’ve been cryin’ alone
No more cryin’ alone
No more cryin’ here

And slowly four pairs of human beings are revealed.  Each person has been angry with the other.

Jin approaches his wife Sun, who’s sleeping under a section of wing.  He kneels down and brushes the hair from her forehead.

Boone holds a pair of missing sunglasses in front of his sister Shannon’s eyes.  She smiles at him as he walks away, also smiling.

Sayid from Iraq tosses an apple to Sawyer from America.  He catches it and his gaze lingers towards the donor.

Young Walt looks up and sees his father Michael approaching with their dog Vincent, who had been missing since the crash.

Looking on is Locke, who found Vincent, and brought him to Michael so Dad could be the hero.

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=cq4Dsv7EdyQ&si=OT0b3K1zat6loimK

George W. Bush, the 43rd U.S. President … Michelle Obama, the wife of the 44th U.S. President.  Together.  Republican … Democrat.  Human beings.

There are so many ways that we can be seen as different from each other.  But we can see beyond all that.

Sometimes I feel alone, understood by very few.  But when this photo was published on Facebook, I saw in the comments that my smile in response is also yours:

I wasn’t a fan of Bush’s political beliefs, but he is inherently a good person who just felt the best for America was a different route than what I thought.  He loves his political rivals because they want the best for us too.

Kindness is never weak nor out of fashion.  Kindness is the brightening of one soul from another.  It rejects fear, materialism and hatred.

A kinder, gentler time

This just makes me happy.

We can love each other.

George W. Bush wasn’t one of our best presidents, but I hope history will forever remember him as a decent human being.

When the Obama’s moved into the White House for the first time, the Bush’s were so nice and made the transition so easy.

Beautiful photo.  You don’t have to agree with everything in life.  You can still be friends.

***

We need each other

And we need to love each other

I love going to Basic-Fit … my gym.  We exercisers take the elevator to the third floor, where an infinity of orange machines is revealed.

After I finished my workout yesterday, I saw that the elevator was broken.  We were invited into a hallway and then outside, before descending a lot of steps.

And what appeared before me were coils of razor wire.  It was the first time in my life that I’d seen that symbol of violence up close.  In other moments I saw the wire way up high, on top of fences.

The evil of it all stopped me.  I leaned close.  I put my fingertip on the point of a blade … so sharp.

And I returned to a life I’ve never known … of prison camps and gas chambers.  Razor wire was not in my reality but millions of my earthly companions, past and present, have felt the horror of the coils.

I’m sorry, dear ones

That you have felt such pain

May peace be with you