I sat under a chestnut tree a few days ago.  On the ground before me lay some green pods, each no doubt containing a shiny, reddish-brown chestnut.  I picked one up and took it home.  Voilà:

The brownish-green round thing looked pretty ordinary.  Nothing special.  But I knew what was inside.  A time would come when I’d break it open.

This reminded me of a story told by Jack Kornfield, a Buddhist teacher:

In a large temple north of Thailand’s ancient capital, Sukotai, there once stood an enormous and ancient clay Buddha … At one point the monks who tended the temple noticed that the statue had begun to crack … After a stretch of particularly hot, dry weather, one of the cracks became so wide that a curious monk took his flashlight and peered inside.  What shone back at him was a flash of brilliant gold!  Inside this plain old statue, the temple residents discovered one of the largest and most luminous gold images of Buddha ever created in Southeast Asia.

Unlike the monk, I was sure about what was inside.  But it was time to see the magnificent colour.  I took a knife and cut around the pod, then pulled the two halves apart.  Take a look …

“I guess the brilliant red is one layer down.  I’ll pry the rough outer nut apart to reveal the glory.”

The nut didn’t pry.  I scrubbed off the dirt and stared.  Could it be?  >  “This is it.”  There’s nothing else.

I stared some more.

Oh.  This is a walnut, which did not come from a chestnut tree.  Oops … wrong again.

And I wondered … Do I have the eyes to see the beauty of the object before me, even though there was no shine and no red?

The answer came …

Not yet

“An inflammation of a thick band of tissue that connects the heel bone to the toes.  The inflamed tissue runs across the bottom of the foot.  Symptoms include stabbing pain near the heel.”

(Sigh)

I remember it well.  I don’t know why I got it or how I got rid of it … but there were months between.  And yes, the heel!  There I was, 40 or 50 or something, wondering if my walking days were over.

Like things I’ve mentioned before, I’d forgotten about this period of pain, of being “a little old man” before my time.  Forgot until a week ago.  I was walking somewhere with someone.  (Hmm … how’s that for senior memory ability?)

It was early afternoon.  A touch of pressure in my right heel.  “So what?  I’m bigger than that.” 

Late afternoon.  Pressure has become pain.  Pain is becoming sharp pain.  Limping.  “Woh … guess I’m smaller than that.”

And then the mind.  “Not again.  Not all that agony for all that time.  Please, God!”

Despair as I hobbled home.  “Rest.  Put your feet up.  All will be well in the morning.”

Time for bed.  Limping to the bathroom.  Feeling “Poor Me” entering the space.

I sat on the edge of my bed and proceeded to do what I do every evening.  Unroll and take off my compression stockings.  I start with the left one.  Off the leg and flying through the air to a conveniently empty spot on the floor.  I smiled as I beheld the athletic move.

Now for the right.  Unroll. Remove from the toes.  And then …

Ping (or some word like that)

Something dropped onto the floor.  I stared at the round smallness.  Here it is, recently relocated to my bedside table:

One tiny blood pressure pill.  And my heel felt funny.  I touched.  And there was a tiny blood pressure pill hole!

So the truth of the universe was revealed.  No future months of pain caused by a word that is difficult to spell.

***

The day before, I had sat on the bed with bottles of pills and supplements.  I had doled out twenty-days-worth of the little critters, and plopped them into a plastic bag.

All except one.  It had found the floor, ready for the next morning’s ritual – Bruce sitting down and putting on his compression stockings.

***

As Mark Twain said …

I am an old man

And have known a great many troubles

But most of them never happened

I love meditating in my bedroom.  And I enjoy being watched … by statues.  They’re also quiet.

They’re my friends.  Jesus with his arms spread wide.  A boy angel balancing delicately on one foot.  A wee girl and boy under their umbrella.  An African woman with her hands together above her head.

The picture shows all except the upstretched lady.  They stand there loving me … and I return the favour.

And yesterday I added to my family:

Arlene and I were in the gift shop of the Carmelite Church on Burgstraat.  There were many wonders, including small books of poetry in Dutch – Rainer Maria Rilke, Rumi, Saint Teresa of Avila …

The room glowed with spiritual life.

And then there was her, looking so gracious in her blue robe, tenderly holding her son.  She kept looking at me.  I asked if she’d like to come to my home.  She smiled and nodded.

The statue says “Parent and Child” to me.  All the possible combinations:

Mother and son

Mother and daughter

Father and son

Father and daughter

A two-way love

May it always be so

My friend Isabelle graduated from Ghent University ten days ago.  Yesterday was a second ceremony, honouring Engineering graduates from four Belgian universities – Masters and PhD students.

You can see Isabelle in the photo.  She’s the one in the middle of the back row, wearing blue.

Isabelle and I took the train from Ghent to Brussels in the darkness.  The ceremony would be starting at 9:00 am.  She was so excited, and nervous.  Me too … the excitement part.

Every grad got to walk the long balcony of the ornate Brussels city hall, say a few words into the microphone, and have their picture taken.  Every single blue-robed human being was cheered by us the crowd of supporters.

Maybe there were 150 grads facing us.  I felt into the hours and years of effort that had brought these young people to this moment.  And I felt the love floating through the air from us to them.

One young man was the valedictorian.  He told us that his ideas about aeronautics were rejected by some people at his previous university, but embraced and fostered by colleagues at Vrije Universiteit Brussel (The Free University of Brussels).  His words inspired me.  At the reception afterwards I tried to find him … but no luck.

Isabelle and I wandered for hours down the cobbled streets of Brussels Centrum.  No agenda, just our noses leading us on. 

We sat in a lovely park of trees and grass and playground, made much more so by the presence of many kids and teens – playing football, riding on contraptions, wrestling each other … hanging out.

At a nearby bench sat a young woman wearing a hijab, looking down at a white bundle on her lap.  I smiled.  “Mom and child.”  Such love in the gaze.  My reverie was broken by Isabelle drawing something to my attention – a thin line protruding from the bundle at a 45 degree angle.

Oh.  No baby.  She was on her cell phone.

At some point we came upon a statue.  It was a man named Tim singing into a microphone, his mouth as wide as his arms.  I did what any normal Belgian/Canadian fellow would do: I sang to Tim, arms also outstretched. 

The song was “O Solo Mio”.  Unfortunately I didn’t know the words, but that didn’t matter.  I made them up, in my best Italian. And I sang loud!  (Feels better than “loudly”)  Isabelle said that passersby smiled.  Me too.

Later we sat in a grand church but the wood was hard on my ass and back.  Everything seems coloured by my fatigue.  I asked that we leave.  Isabelle’s ass agreed.

***

And now I’m tired some more

You get the yesterday idea

Bye for now

My friend Arlene is a force of nature.  She’s in a brand new world for three weeks … and she wants to poke her nose into all the life that’s here.

Arlene came to the open mic session on Friday evening to hear me sing.  We got talking to a young woman who’s a museum curator(?)  Some word like that.  Arlene wanted to know all about it, and she looked thrilled that the woman and her boyfriend were curious about her.  And so the conversation flowed.

Yesterday Arlene was out and about in Gent.  She not only figured out the transportation system but also found a magnificent church to worship in – one that I’ve never been in.  My friend is a major explorer.

Today Arlene is off to Bruges (Brugge in Dutch), another ancient Belgian city and a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  I asked her yesterday if she wanted my company today and she delightfully said “No”.  Yes to telling the truth!

She’s taken the tram this morning to Gent Sint-Pieters, our train station.  It’s full of murals and remarkable ceilings.  I’m sure Arlene will be looking up a lot, and lingering in the view.  And who knows what will beckon her in Bruges?  I told her “The world is your oyster” … but she doesn’t like oysters.

Tonight I’ll get the full meal deal of Arlene stories.  Lucky me.

Arlene, my friend from Canada, has been in Gent for three days now.  I wondered what I would say today with the written word.

Years ago I coached 12-year-olds about their writing.  For many of them, the tendency was to say “This happened, then this happened, and then …”  I encouraged kids to focus on one or two things and flesh them out: bring them alive for the reader.

So … guess I should follow my own advice.  I knew Arlene was a devoted Christian and thought she would enjoy sitting in churches.  I suggested my favourite church in Gent: Oekraïense Grieks-Katholieke Kerk – the Ukrainian Church.

We entered.

Two Canadian eyes opened wide.  I was delighted to see my friend brought to silence.  She sat with me some but mostly wandered through the sanctuary.  I watched her linger long in front of a statue or painting.  And then beyond my field of vision, exploring the mysteries.

I meditated.  I had told Arlene that whenever we were in some place, please stay as long as you like.  We’ll go when you want to.

I also said that it’s fine to talk to me when I’m meditating.  No problemo.

***

I heard my friend’s voice.  Time had disappeared for me, and I had no interest in checking my watch.  She was fine with leaving.  And so we did.

Later Arlene shared her wonder.  “The blue!”  Referring to the royal blue domed ceiling of Oekraïense Grieks-Katholieke Kerk.  The intricate carved wooden pulpit.  The statues of peaceful faces.  Jesus with his arms outspread.

A place of reverence

A place of peace

A place to simply stop

She was one of my wife Jody’s best friends.  After Jody died, Arlene remained my friend.  And here she comes … across the ocean for the first time.  Europe!  Gent!

I get to have my second Canadian visitor.  Tomorrow at 9:00 am or so, we will hug each other in Brussels Airport.  It’s been four years.

Who is Arlene now?  Who is Bruce now?  What are we becoming?  All part of the mystery.

I want Arlene to be happy here.  What does she want to do?  What spots does she want to see?  Whatever the answers, may they be sprinkled with conversation … between us, and also with the wide variety of humanity that we’ll see in Gent, that she’ll see in Amsterdam and in Normandy.

My wish is that Arlene’s eyes open wide … drinking in the ancient buildings, the outdoor terraces, the languages, the cultures – the life!

Will Arlene get a glimpse of the home I feel here?  I intend that she does.  May she fly high through the new, the old and the forevermore.

Welcome, my friend

I sang last night at an open mic session in the café of the Minard concert hall.  I used to invite friends to these evenings but now there’s no guarantee that I’d be stepping onto the stage. 

After the performances of a few scheduled singers, instrumentalists or poetry reciters, there’s a break.  That’s when we prospective open-mikers line up to register.  Only the first eight get to perform … and I’m not as fast as the 20-year-olds.

But last night I was speedy quick – Number four!

I hadn’t sung at Minard since June.  I was surprised about how nervous I was.  But not critical.  It’s part of being me, you and everybody.

I’ve been working on memorizing a song called “The City of New Orleans” for another open mic this Friday.  But I could feel in my gut that my level of memorization wasn’t high enough for the tension I expected to feel last night.  So … I bowed to myself and chose an old favourite of mine – Enya’s “Paint The Sky With Stars”.

And I could breathe again.  I knew the words would come easily.  I knew I could be with the audience.  I knew that my attention would be on them, not me.

And so it was.  I do believe I “filled the room” with my love for the listeners, for Enya, for her words …

Place a name upon the night
One to set your heart alight
One to make the darkness bright
Paint the sky with stars

***

I’m at peace

I needed to express last night

And I did

Since moving to Belgium, I’ve often been in an office or a store with a question for an employee.  If that person isn’t sure about the answer, they’ll often say “I’ll talk to my colleague.”

Most times I pause when I hear that word … and reflect.  It’s not a word that I often heard in Canada.  I sense that it’s bigger than “co-worker”.  There’s a sense of connection.

Yesterday I was reading a book by Sharon Salzberg, an American Buddhist meditation teacher.  She referred to “my colleague Joseph Goldstein”.  They were two of the founders of the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, USA.  “Colleague”.

I Googled for synonyms:

Aide, ally, assistant, buddy, co-worker, companion, comrade, friend, partner, teammate

That’s quite the variety of relationships.

Now I’m smiling.  I like the word “colleague”.  It sounds like people in similar careers, but it’s more than that.  I sense caring about each other, shared goals, real contact.

Okay then.  I will seek out colleagues … in coffee shops, in music schools, on the street.

Us

A friend of mine graduated from the University of Ghent yesterday.  I’ll call her Isabelle.  She was allowed to invite three guests to the ceremony … and she included me!  I was thrilled.

The first task of the day was remembering how to create a Windsor knot in my tie.  The knot is so cool and triangular  … but I hadn’t worn a tie for years.

So I Googled.  Here’s one image of the process:

Steps 9 and 10?  Sadly, the complexity baffled me, and my knot looked like a lump of clay.

So … I decided to let my hands remember.  My brain went for coffee.  On my third try, it worked!  Delightfully triangular.  What a good boy am I.

***

The ceremony and reception afterwards were grand expressions of celebration – everybody dressed up, including Isabelle in a stunning black top festooned with red flowers. 

Smiles, families, friends.  As each graduate’s name was called, she or he moved the tassle on their black hat from the left side to the right, signifying a life transition.  Lovely.

There were about 600 people in the hall, including maybe 70 grads.  So much commitment in that room – years of study or years of supporting those who study.  It was a magnificent display of humanity.

Two of my favourite moments were at the reception.  When one of Isabelle’s professors saw her, his face glowed and a smile filled the space.  Same with a second prof who approached Isabelle.

I watched carefully.  My friend has made a huge impact.

***

Well done

Celebrate you