It’s a week away but I’m already thinking about it.  Next Monday I begin a nine-day silent retreat at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts, USA.  It will be my eighth time at IMS. 

Here’s a photo of the meditation hall:

There’ll be 80 or 100 of us at this Buddhist retreat.  Every evening one of the teachers will talk to us about what the Buddha had to say … usually about the workings of the mind but sometimes the opening of the heart.  Other than those times, it’ll be pretty quiet!

As well as the silence, we “yogis” are encouraged not to make eye contact with other participants.  Prolonged silence tends to bring up life issues.  There’s no TV, Internet, music or books to distract the mind.  So … the person I pass in the hallway may at that moment be grappling with something huge.  Leave them alone.

I’m a social person.  I love talking and looking into the other person’s eyes.  It’s one of the reasons that my recent spiritual life has focused on the practices we do in the Evolutionary Collective.  But there is a place for another spiritual way.  I’m about to be immersed in silence and a type of aloneness.

I intend that my fifteen days in the US will be an expression of loving the human beings I’m with – in the meditation hall, at the airport, at my pre and post Airbnb, on the streets of Boston.  Asking nothing in return.

A little smile is growing on my face.  I will give to human beings whom I don’t know and whom I will never meet again.  Letting go of relationship, embracing love.

I was standing on the Oudburg this morning.  It’s my street.  Talking to Laurens in front of his restaurant.  We were both excited because planes are in our very near future.

Tomorrow Laurens flies to Thailand with his partner for a two-week vacation … lots of hiking.  On Friday Bruce flies to Boston, USA for a nine-day silent meditation retreat.

Our four eyes were bright with anticipation, and we were enjoying the joy of one another.

And then Salut!  We walked off into our days.

As I strolled away, I felt the upturn of my mouth.  The smile was wide … and it continued.  Over the Zuivelbrug bridge, onto the Langemunt shopping street, to now in Izy Coffee.

And I got to thinkin’.

I remembered past moments when I watched two people leave their conversation with a wave … walking away … smiling.  And how precious those images still are.

Happiness that has no period at the end of a sentence.  No borderline that keeps the experience inside a box.  It continues to flow out into the open air, available to the next human being who comes our way.

***

Just let your love flow like a mountain stream
And let your love grow with the smallest of dreams
And let your love show and you’ll know what I mean

“Let Your Love Flow” (The Bellamy Brothers)

I sat with my friend Michelle in Izy Coffee yesterday.  She was sad.  It was the day of her friend’s funeral.  I’ll call her “Monica”.  The service was to be live-streamed from near London.  Michelle would be watching from Gent.

Monica has had a huge impact on Michelle.  That was clear from her eyes and voice.  What a privilege to have been touched so deeply by another.

Awhile back, Michelle co-ordinated an event in support of Ukrainians who had come to Belgium because of the war.  Monica sent her 250 euros to help cover the costs.  No fanfare … just action coming from love.

Michelle showed me a photo of 75-year-old Monica taken a few weeks before she died.  It took my breath away to see the radiance of her smile.  Now lost to the world … on the physical plane.

And then there were Monica’s instructions for friends coming to her funeral.  Wear bright colours.  No black!  I love it.  Michelle was heading home to put on her red-and-yellow outfit, even though no one would see her.  It’s what Monica wants.

Also: Monica had a request aimed at getting her brother, who no doubt would be speaking at her funeral.  He hates the music of ABBA.  So, with impeccable timing, someone will play “I Have A Dream” as he begins.  The ceremony will be videoed so the whole world will see brother’s facial expression as ABBA launches into the song.  And Monica will be giggling from the other side!

***

Waydago, Monica

You nailed it

Your funeral and your life

When I arrived in Gent two-and-a-half years ago, a word entered my mind and wouldn’t leave: cello.  I’d played as a teenager but not since.

For the last two years I’ve been a cello student at the Poel music school.  Now we’re on a two-month summer break.  I haven’t picked up the instrument for weeks.  This morning, the word again: cello, accompanied by another one: sing.

The vision of my musical future returns.

Far beyond the ego flaring of “I’ll be the only one singing and playing cello” is the truth … I want to do this.

The future is pulling me, in many respects.  “C’mon, Bruce.  Let’s go!  We’ll do this and this and this.”

I look at the photo and see an immense this.  The vision is clear – just replace the young woman with an old man.  (Okay, how about a seasoned man?)

There’s a way to turn the commitment into a performance.  The MuseScore app will help me find a cello harmony that blends with a singing melody.  But that’s not something for July.

What’s here and now is a tiny white candle burning bright, casting its glow to the far corners of the room.

Me

Sitting on the bench in the tiny park just off the Oudburg

With my cello

With my voice

This is actually what my chest looked like for two days in Dour.  I was wearing my Africa/Europe t-shirt.  And people kept coming up and touching my body, pointing to their homeland.  It was fun … and stimulating!

***

I forgot to tell you about a blessing, one which didn’t happen right away.  On the train to Dour from Gent on Wednesday, my esophagus problem reared its ugly head once more.  I was having trouble swallowing, feeling that something was building up in my throat.  It was a huge “Oh no!  Please and please, don’t have this continue for five days!”  I needed the festival to be about dancing and talking, not about my health.

And sometime during Wednesday evening the tightness disappeared, and has remained so.  Thank you, whoever takes care of such things.

***

It was in the early hours as I lay in bed.  The nearby music was still blasting.  I heard footsteps outside.  And projected on the wall of my tent was the shadow of silent dancing.  I think it was a woman.  She floated by, her arm in the air, a ribbon trailing behind.  Magical.  Timeless.

***

Thank you, Dour, for the several eating areas full of picnic tables under a huge awning.  A place to sit down, whether I had refreshments or not.  A refuge from the sun.  An opportunity to talk to groups of young people sitting beside me.  Just basic human needs, addressed by the organization.

***

The live music touched people

Such as me

And about 200,000 other souls who came to Dour 2025

I’m sitting in a train at Saint-Ghislain Station, waiting for a départ to Brussels, and then back home to Gent.

The body is tired after five days at the Dour Festival.  And the smile is big.

Last night at the De Bazaal stage was the peak of my dancing.  If I would attach a number to previous days, I’d say moments of 70, 80 … even 90%.  But yesterday!  Some of my body gyrations were truly 100%.  Giving everything of feet and hands in the service of expression, of joy that rises above the earth.

I hit my pillow before midnight, in advance of Charlotte de Witte’s grand finale to the festival in The Last Arena.  And I was fine with that.  I’ll see her in the not-so-distant future.

And God willing, I’ll be back at Dour next July to shake a leg once more.  Dancing is a realm where I’d set an artificial boundary of potential aliveness.  These five days have said it loud and clear … Silly me!

I’m amazed …

That I could sleep each night when the driving bass beat at the nearby stage went on till 3:00 am

That my 76-year-old knees just kept vibin’ – no collapse into agonized stumbling

That lots of young people talked to me, some shaking my hand, many high fives

I made people laugh

I sang “O Canada”

I lasted five days!

My home away from home is The Village, an assortment of tent-like abodes, each hosting anywhere from ten people to one person (Me!)

Beyond my slow motion showering, another morning ritual is two visits to the “Bar” kiosk.  No, not for alcohol, but for cappuccino.  After a few days of this, the staff know me.  Yesterday I asked my favourite server to sing me a song.  She waved her hands and shook her head.  And more versions of “No!” came my way from other staff members.

So … I sang “O Canada” in French.  I was greeted by wide eyes and polite applause.  It was fun.

Early morning today it rained, and the skies were still grey as I approached my friends for another sample of liquid refreshment.  The corners of four mouths lifted.  And I thought “I make a difference with these folks.”

A young employee looked me in the eyes and said …

Tu apportes le soleil

You bring the sun

In the hours from then till midnight, I couldn’t imagine my day getting any better.

***

Last Dour day.  The body is slow and likes sleeping a lot.  Tonight in De Bazaal I will dance in farewell, accompanied by hundreds of young people I will never meet.  Why not give ‘er one more time?

It’s afternoon after a rain of an hour or two.  I spent the time horizontal.  The sun has returned and so has my chair in the shade.  Think I’ll do something quiet and sweet, such as writing this post and reading The Amber Spyglass.  “Why not?” indeed.

***

Just sittin’ and readin’ about the adventures of Lyra and Will – two teens who have inspired me through hundreds of pages to be Bruce.  Definitely unique (just like you).

***

Back on the festival site, for the last time this year.  In The Last Arena, we danced …

And two night shots:

I’ll tell you about my evening dancing tomorrow

Goodnight

Well … there appears to be a crashed person sitting in this chair at 12:30 pm on Saturday.  Despite what I wrote yesterday, I did go dancing in De Bazaal last night.  Sweaty random whole-body twistings and turnings.  And now the music is only in my toes.  My feet, legs and arms haven’t got the memo yet.

Gosh I’m slow in the activities of daily living today.  The showers are excellent here.  I have my own cubicle to wash this, that and the other thing, and to shave.  Perhaps I’m not the only beardless male at Dour but it’s an open question.

Did I really take 45 minutes in my washing space, or is that my heat-addled brain talking?   One thing: long ago I experienced first hand the lingering itch of athlete’s foot.  Knowing I was coming to a festival full of thousands of sweaty feet, I brought my watershoes.  Who knew it would take so long to put them on, and then take them off?

Everything was performed in slo-mo, with nary a knock on my door.  No time limit!

***

I whiled away the afternoon hours lying in bed, watching the Tour de France on my phone.  Decadent.  No dancing.  Hardly any moving.

Now it’s evening.  Here are a few photos of Dour:

Voilà the entrance.  You go left or you go right.  What’s ahead are twelve back-and-forth lanes before you get to security.  Plenty of opportunities for silliness across the fences.  A guy and I came up with the names of countries as we kept passing each other … Uganda!  El Salvador!  Italy!

Inside the festival site as the evening crowd starts to build.  Two hours later there’s still green grass to walk on … but your choices are fewer.

It poured rain for half-an-hour but then the sun broke through.  Would you believe I’d just finished giving a speech to these fine folk?

No, I wouldn’t believe me either

***

And … I do believe that dancing is in my near future

I’ve yet to find anybody else here with grey hair.  It’s possible that there are a few 70-somethings roaming the grounds … but maybe they’ve dyed their hair!

Today I’m wearing my “I Have The Body Of A God” t-shirt, featuring a round-belly Laughing Buddha dancing at Dour.  There’s a physical resemblance.  No one has commented on my current attire but hope springs eternal. 

I’m surrounded by flat-bellied and muscular young men.  I can’t quite remember if that was a part of my history.  Oh, well … I have a cool t-shirt.

I danced at Dub Corner yesterday.  The band was in the middle, surrounded by us festival folks.  Off to the side was a tall bank of speakers. As I glanced over there, my mouth dropped open.  There were three rows of young dancers facing the speakers.  The faces of the front row were about a metre from the blasting sound.  Earplugs or not, there goes the hearing of oodles of teens.  “Don’t do that to yourself!”

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in the shade at a picnic table when I noticed hundreds of people walking or jogging across the green towards one of the Dour stages – Le Labo.  Soon they were rockin’ to Roland Cristal, throwing their arms in the air in a packed room under a blessed roof.

“Hmm … perhaps tomorrow.”

And tomorrow came.

I showed up at Le Labo early … and the crowd grew fast.  Soon we were under the spell of Roland.  I too got to wave my hands high and move my hips beyond my range of motion.

And then …

Roland’s directions were in French but I caught on with a little help from my neighbours.  We all made circles.  Mine was six souls.  Four steps in and four steps out … then groove to the right as a sweet unit.  Loud, loud, loud.  And a neighbouring group banging into me on the outstep.  So I banged back!  “Hold your ground, Bruce!”

And then …

A congo line – many of them.  I was swept along with the sweaty 20-year-olds … sometimes stumbling as the pace increased.  (What am I doing here?  >  Having fun.  Don’t you remember?)

The venue was full to the brim.  Dancing became up-and-down.  There was no room for back-and-forth.  I was rubbing against young female and male bodies.  Was it sexual?  No!  It was survival.  Once I was on the way to the ground, and someone’s hand supported me.

I was getting woozy in the press and the heat.  And there was no exit that I could comprehend.  “You chose to come into a Cristal extravaganza, Bruce.  Suck it up!”

It’s hours later.  Once Roland’s show was fini and we were spilled out into the open air, I stopped for some slow motion food and then plodded home to my Tip-up and lay down – for two hours.

I’m still pooped as I write.  I wanted to tell you about another thing that happened in Roland’s show.  I knew the moment had a name but I couldn’t remember it.  So I Googled “passing someone over an audience”.  Here’s the AI response:

This most commonly refers to the act of publicly introducing a speaker to an audience.  It involves giving the speaker credibility by highlighting their background, expertise and the relevance of their topic to the audience.  This introduction helps to engage the audience and prepare them to listen attentively to the speaker.

No, that’s wasn’t it.  The correct term is crowdsurfing.  The photo shows some folks looking to the right.  Roland has just been passed virtually over me.  I was smashed away from the action as the young ones wanted to touch him.  I survived nicely.

It’s 9:00 pm.  I have no more dancing in me.  I think I’ll read my book for awhile.  Here’s to more energy tomorrow. 

Goodnight

Last week two people gave me recommendations about who I should see at Dour.  My friend Franky had one list and Doctor Eva another.

This afternoon one of the bands was playing in The Garage … Maria Iskariot.  She was advertised as wild and free.  Accurate, I’d say.

The energy was sky high – Maria’s strident voice and her two virtuoso guitar players.  Plus the light show … and I was only a few metres away.  As I love saying, Maria “filled the room”, all the way from screaming to tender.

Despite what I said yesterday, the roofed venue was a blessing.  It was hot out in French Belgium.

How in the world did I sleep last night, with the nearby bass notes thumping my bed till 3:00 am?  Somehow I got seven hours.  Life continues to be a mystery.

I got through the night with two fluffy blankets and heavy socks.  Cold in the Tip-up.  By 8:00 am, however, the sun was toasting me through the tent’s fabric.  It seems there’s no middle ground in my festival life.

This afternoon, at a stage called Dub Corner, my ass and the rest of me boogied.  A few folks glanced at the gyrating senior but mostly people were absorbed with the music and their friends.  Fine with me.  There was no floor to dance on, just grass, and I kept stumbling, feet sticking in the uneven stuff.

***

Yesterday, after I’d received a tiny locker for charging my cell phone,  I had a thought:

You recorded the access code on your phone, which is exactly the device that will be safely stowed away in the locker.  Perhaps you should write it down.

I protested, reasoning that I was an intelligent young man who could remember seven digits.  But the conservative side of me won the day, seeing that I was often tired from the heat and the leg shimmying.

And although I’d prefer not to have the label “conservative” applied to me, today I needed the sheet of paper.

***

Soon I’m heading to De Bazaal, the main stage, with lots of room for thousands of partygoers.  And for much of the space there’s a floor.  So the running shoes can fly!

I’ll send a photo of the De Bazaal action later tonight.  Promise.

But first, here’s a shot of my palace, accompanied by other palaces, with De Bazaal in the background:

Home sweet five-day home.

And … I was floor-dancing tonight, as opposed to the grass version.  I could move my feet … in either wondrous or ordinary ways.  I can’t remember.

I just left the second show.  Got tired of the DJ pleading with us to “Make some noise!”  De Bazaal will continue for four more hours.  I won’t.

Homeward to my Tip-up.  Let’s dance again tomorrow.