The end game is great vision but I’m weeks away from that. So suck it up, Bruce, as the body has its reactions.
Yesterday was a tapestry of things not working. At various times, it stuck out its tongue at me in these ways: dizziness, nausea, difficulty swallowing, constipation, exhaustion. Oh well.
My favourite was how I walked on the streets and at home. When there were lots of people out and about, I often brushed against them. “Sorry!” Plus doorjambs and walls became close acquaintances. I kept miscalculating the distance between me and the world.
And I’d waver down the street. Guess I’ve never been a straight-line guy. Makes me wonder if folks thought I was drunk.
My current remedy for the woes of the eyes and other body parts is hanging out in dark rooms with my eyes closed. Meditative for awhile … and then boring.
I’m 48 hours past cataract surgery on my left eye. My head is dizzy, with one eye moving towards a new level of acuity and the other one stuck in the old visual world. My right eye will receive a new lens in two weeks.
It’s a process that will take six weeks for resolution. In a world seeking instant gratification, a wee part of my brain is protesting the delay. But the wiser part of me sees the big picture.
I love the title I’ve used for this post. The next weeks will be an opportunity for me to widen, to see, to embrace the new. Not a “Woe is me” slog through my vision journey. What will be revealed?
One thing … To what extent will I write this blog? I’m guessing that my posts will be shorter. I certainly feel that right now. And will I say anything of value if I continue in this woozy state? Who knows … perhaps my wayward eyes will soften my mind and allow the infinite easy access. I’m open to that.
As I look through the big windows of Izy Coffee at people on the street, they are more paintings than photographs. They blend with the background. No sharp lines. A good way to live, I’d say.
Handsome dude. Looks a little weird in the eye, though. Maybe he’s a pirate … or good at robbing banks.
I had cataract surgery on my left eye yesterday. My marvelous ophthalmologist Dr. Kose replaced my natural lens with a synthetic one. In two weeks, my right eye gets the same treatment. And in about six weeks I’ll be a man of vision, complete with new funky eyeglass frames (I hope).
Dr. Kose expected it to be a straightforward surgery – local anaesthetic, somewhere between thirty minutes and an hour, no pain (!) I especially liked that last point.
In the prep room, the nurse had me lie flat on my back, a position I hardly ever take at home. And then a moment of “Oh! Oh!” I’ve been struggling for months with a fungus growing in my esophagus. Lying flat brought back the difficulty I sometimes have in swallowing. I was needing to do it every ten or fifteen seconds, and each time my head moved. Not good for precise surgery where I’m looking straight up.
I explained my fear to the prep nurse, and later to Dr. Kose in the operating room. She was unfazed. “We’ll make it work.” And she did. At my followup appointment today, she said that my swallowing was so subtle that it had no effect on the surgery. Who knew I was such a good swallower?!
Today I’m very tired and my vision is blurry. I understand them both. Stumbling a bit while I walk. These tapped letters looking a lot like other tapped letters. No TV for awhile. If I really want to see the latest Netflix show, I’ll watch it on the small rectangle I’m holding now.
The right eye surgery is on July 3. I’m heading to the Dour music festival from July 16 till 20. Dr. Kose says it’s fine to dance, “but do it gently”. Nuts. I wanted to throw everything into the air all at once!
The local beauty of my life is in image number two … so voilà:
This is my favourite spot to sit at the Poel music school. Often I’m alone here, feeling life wash over me in the gentle light.
Sometimes there are kids everywhere on the padded orange benches, chatting and laughing as their instruments cover the floor.
Lots of students have a class upstairs, and I watch the younger ones bounce up the stairs. Yesterday a tiny fellow with short legs took his time on the risers – two feet on each one.
Parents hang out, listening for the musical tones of their daughter or son, hoping for success … and especially for happiness.
I love the rising and the turning and the rising again. I think of life. The visiting and revisiting of experiences.
I’ve been feeling old this morning. Wanting to head back to bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Wanting to be alone.
I need to practice the cello before Tuesday’s lesson. I need to study for my Music Theory exam on Wednesday. I need to prep myself emotionally for cataract surgery on Thursday. But sleep sounds like a fine idea.
I walked into Izy Coffee and started talking to an old man. As I struggled to understand his English, I could feel my life force slipping away. Not dying … just deflating.
If I was “on” I would have suggested we sit together and share each other’s lives. But I’m not “on”.
Now I smile when I think of him. I didn’t learn his name. He’s 92, never married, no kids, travelled the world. His smile said it all. And these words of advice: “Be happy with what you have. Don’t ask for more.”
Usually I’m the older in the conversation. Not today. Usually I’m the more alive of us two. Not today. And I accept the dip in my vibrancy. The unnamed fellow in Izy has taught me.
As did Barbara Marx Hubbard, a futurist who died a few years ago at 89. When someone asked her about being elderly, she had a quick retort:
“I’m feeling newer! Not older”
Well said, Barbara
Well said, gentleman of an hour ago
***
Update
I finished writing this post and published it on Jetpack and Facebook. Then I sat there in Izy and thought some more.
The man-older-than-me was still there. I walked over and asked to sit down. He smiled and said something like “Please.”
We talked for twenty minutes or so. Mostly I didn’t understand his words but I understood his eyes. I sat there loving him. His name is Hans. I took his photo.
Nine days ago, I wrote about a new piece my teacher Lieven has given me – an unnamed “étude” … Number 17. A piece that is meant to teach a technical aspect of playing the cello.
I usually struggle with the notes and finger positions. Lieven emphasizes listening to the melody, letting it have its way with me, allowing it to seep inside my pores. He offered to record himself playing the two-minute piece and send it to me on WhatsApp. He kept his word.
I replied: “Thank you, Lieven.”
And he replied: “Graag gedaan, Bruce.”
I didn’t know what that meant … so Google Translate to the rescue.
The first translation: “You’re welcome”
Of course. Being polite.
The second translation: “Don’t mention it”
I know what people mean when they say this: “It’s not a big deal” or “No thank you is needed.”
But I got to thinkin’ as I looked at those three words. Of how often we human beings don’t say things that we want to say. We stay silent, perhaps worried about how the other person would respond.
I’m not saying to speak in a cruel way. A friend has gained weight and you say “You’re fat.” No.
I think we people need to express, to say things that are important to us. And ask the other one what they’re interested in.
On Thursday evening, I hosted eight friends in my living room. We read the play “Our Town” by Thornton Wilder. We had fun. Maybe none of us had experienced the play before. We jumped into the dialogue and the characters … brand new interpretations of both.
The photo is from the Internet, rather than the real us.
Much of “Our Town” centres on the love between George Gibbs and Emily Webb as the three acts unfold. Teenagers … brand new adults … and nine years later.
Before we started, I told my friends that Emily’s words in Act Three particularly moved me. I offered the group the opportunity to be Emily for the last part of the play. Three of us wanted to take it on. I wrote a number between one and ten on my pad and had them guess. Witold got to be Emily.
Spoiler Alert
George and Emily married in Act Two. Such love! In Act Three, Emily has just died in childbirth. As a dead person, she says some amazing things to Mrs. Gibbs, who has also died. They’re watching the living people lead their lives … in the present and in the past.
Wilder knew much about life. Emily speaks for him.
Live people don’t understand, do they?
They’re sort of shut up in little boxes, aren’t they? I feel as though I knew them last a thousand years ago.
Look! Father Gibbs is bringing some of my flowers to you. He looks just like George, doesn’t he? Oh, Mother Gibbs, I never realized before how troubled and how … how in the dark live persons are. Look at him. I loved him so. From morning till night, that’s all they are … troubled.
I can go and live … back there … again.
I choose my twelfth birthday.
Oh, that’s the town I knew as a little girl. And look, there’s the old white fence that used to be around our house. Oh, I’d forgotten that! Oh, I love it so! Are they inside?
Mama, I’m here! Oh! How young Mama looks! I didn’t know Mama was ever that young.
I can’t bear it. They’re so young and beautiful. Why did they ever have to get old? Mama, I’m here. I’m grown up. I love you all. Everything. I can’t look at everything hard enough. Good morning, Mama.
(Mrs. Webb) But birthday or no birthday, I want you to eat your breakfast good and slow. I want you to grow up and be a good strong girl. That in the blue paper is from your Aunt Carrie. And I reckon you can guess who brought the post-card album. I found it on the doorstep when I brought in the milk … George Gibbs … must have come over in the cold pretty early … right nice of him.
(Emily) Oh, George!I’d forgotten that …
Oh, Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me. Mama, fourteen years have gone by. I’m dead. You’re a grandmother, Mama. I married George Gibbs, Mama … Butjust for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy.Let’s look at one another.
I can’t. I can’t go on. It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another.
Good-by. Good-by world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners … Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking … and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths … and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it … every, every minute?
Over the decades, I’ve had this obsession with being thin … but I never got there.
This morning, in the spirit of choosing a t-shirt to wear, I came upon one of my favourites. It was just the recipe to loosen up my fat.
Voilà the photo!
With an immense amount of “weight” energy in my rear view mirror, I decided to leave it where it belongs … in the past.
I have a nice tummy. While the barista Arjen presents his six-pack to me, I’m beginning to revel in my one-pack. After all, I really like curves.
So into Izy Coffee I strolled, eager to demonstrate the wonders of the human body. I knew five customers who were sitting there – Michelle, Boaz, Geert, Tita and Jacques. I faced each of them in turn, removed the creases from my t-shirt message, and stuck out my stomach. Some laughs returned to me, some stares.
The truth?
In those moments …
I was free
Yes, I will continue going to the gym and walk a lot in the streets of Gent. I will stay healthy. And I will love my tummy.
As I was walking towards Minard last night for the open mic session, my heart was wide open. The bigness of life surrounded me. All was well.
Inside I introduced myself to Kevin, the host for the evening. He seemed like a nice guy. I enjoyed talking to the fellow beside me and the couple behind. I sipped my ginger beer and watched the music and poetry of the first three performers.
And then a break, after which eight of us would take turns standing onstage for three minutes during the open mic part of the evening.
My heart was reaching out to whomever I beheld. Soon it was my turn at the microphone … and I began loving the whole audience. Thoughts such as “How well will I do?” were far, far away.
I said a few words about John Denver, who wrote the song I was about to sing: “Spring/Summer”. I invited the ones sitting before me to sing the chorus, and demoed the words …
Oh, I love the life within me I feel a part of everything I see And oh, I love the life around me A part of everything is here in me
Time to begin.
(Ten seconds of me silently gazing at the audience)
I smiled
“I forgot the words of the first line”
(Ten more seconds)
I raise my index finger
“I remember the words!”
And I sang
***
Those were precious moments at the beginning. I stayed open within the not-remembering. I didn’t go to “I’m bad.” I trusted that life onstage would work out, that the universe would provide … and it did.
***
I’d noticed that for some previous open mic performers, Kevin had walked to the front and sat on the stage as the three minutes approached. Once he stood up, right beside the performer. The signal for “Time’s up.”
My turn. Here he comes. A smile within the singing.
Kevin sitting on the stage. Me singing the last verse (to be followed by the chorus).
Kevin standing up and sidling up to me as these words were about to emerge:
And oh, I love the life around me A part of everything is here in me
A tiny part of my brain thought of turning to Kevin and singing the final words to him but I’d be turning away from the microphone, and the audience wouldn’t hear.
So I kept facing forward, put my hand on Kevin’s shoulder, and heard myself sing a new final line:
On Saturday Lydia and her daughter Lore visited me. Eight years ago, I met Lydia on a hiking trail in Canada. We became friends. She showed me Gent. I fell in love with the city. I moved from Canada to Belgium.
So Lydia is the reason I’m here!
Lydia stayed overnight on Saturday. We went to a marvelous Italian restaurant called Osteria for dinner. The food was sublime, but came second to the conversation.
Before dinner, we saw my neighbour Dirk in the stairway. We laughed together. And … Dirk invited us for breakfast.
Sunday morning, a fine time was had by all. And the same thing as Saturday night: excellent food, more excellent talk.
As we roamed wide through the experiences of our lives, Dirk told us about the advice he gave his young sons long ago. Dirk is a storyteller. I sat there transfixed.
He painted a picture of the conversation: dad animated, lots of gestures, a passionate voice. Here’s Dirk’s advice:
1. Don’t Judge
You don’t walk in the other person’s shoes. You don’t know what their childhood was like. Have they been nurtured or diminished? It’s fair to comment on how another person’s behaviour has hurt you … but do not throw them out of your heart.
2. Travel
The tendency is strong to say “My way is the way” or “My people are better than their people.” The trouble is, if you never sit down and talk to someone whose background is way different than yours, the beauty of “difference” will remain hidden. So get out there in the world and look around. If you don’t have the money or health to take planes and trains … read. Authors, cultures, fiction/non-fiction – travel!
3. Stay Horny!
And not just sexual. What are your yearnings? Follow them. Go towards what moves you and let go of experiences that leave you “flat” or wounded. Think of your deathbed: Please … no regrets, just smiles that roll over the span of a life – people loved, places embraced, moments of wonder.
Bruce's Blog 