The one pointing to the left I see as the past. Sweet memories and sour regrets, yearning to be younger, reliving childhood traumas and joys.
Pointing down says “going inside” to me. What am I feeling and thinking? How fine or ill is the body? Hours of analysis are available.
Pointing up is the contemplation of Spirit or God, of non-dual realization, of perhaps enlightenment. To speak of “non-dual” suggests “the interconnectedness and oneness of all things”. In my mind, it’s a broad spirituality that doesn’t focus on human beings.
Pointing to the right says “forward” to me, into the wonders of the future, closer to the wonders of the person standing before me. It’s where I want to live.
In the world of other human beings
Touching them gently
Exploring paths together that lead to unknown places
After coming back from Canada, I’ve continued reading a novel – The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman. Philip is an artist of the written word. I’m often stopped and stunned.
Here is a passage that points to moments of “flatness” … perhaps despair. We all know those times.
The colour was slowly seeping out of the world. A dim green-grey for the bright green of the trees and the grass, a dim sand-grey for the vivid yellow of a field of corn, a dim blood-grey for the red bricks of a neat farmhouse
Happily there are other times, where our heads are held high and we embrace the world. Hopefully we all know those moments too.
David Francey wrote a magnificent song about his time working on a huge cargo boat on the Great Lakes of Canada … All Lights Burning Bright.
That storm overtook us And it fell like the night And the Point and the Island They passed out of sight
But we sailed on rock steady Set course through the storm As the sky fell upon us And the wind drove us on And I thought to myself I’d be just like this ship If I kept my light burning On every trip
The watch it was ended With the turn of the night And I wrote in that log book All lights burning bright
We had all lights burning bright All lights burning bright
I went to a slam poetry session last night on Gent’s Burgstraat. Thirteen poets were vying for the five spots available for the next level of the competition. The picture is from the Internet.
I didn’t know what “slam” meant. What came to mind was watching WWE wrestling on TV in Canada. One guy would pick up his opponent and slam him down to the mat. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be happening last night.
What I eventually got is that the power of the poet and the poem “slams”into the audience. Impact. And that’s what happened.
The first thing to say is that I didn’t understand any of the poems. I knew certain words in Dutch but I couldn’t follow the lines of poetry. But I did get what unfolded before my eyes.
I watched the eyes onstage. Some were full of wonder, some fierce, some soft.
Hands often painted pictures of the poem, sometimes tenderly.
There were pauses in the narrative, ones that let we the audience drink in the majesty of the moment.
Some poets varied the speed and volume of their offering, to great effect.
Some cast their eyes widely, since the room had a far left side, a far right side, and a centre. These ones reached us.
Most of them clearly loved their creations … and yearned for us to love them too.
My favourite moment was when a woman stopped during her recitation, and put a hand to her heart. And then again. I didn’t know whether it was part of her performance or whether she’d forgotten the words. Each time she began again and flowed to the end. At intermission she told me she had indeed forgotten and improvised for the rest. Brilliant! Courageous. Full of life.
About five of the thirteen read their poems from a notebook or phone. That took their eyes away from us … and they didn’t touch me as deeply.
We audience members got to vote for the poets who moved us the most. Our votes determined who would go on to the next level. Each poet came back to the stage for their voting. Some closed their eyes, some turned their backs to us, and some faced the many or few raised hands.
First of all, I think giving is one of the coolest things going. And when I give, the receiving is huge.
My giving is often simply being with one other person, listening to their story, “getting” the human being before me.
Also telling them my story … what’s true for me. And expecting nothing in return.
Sometimes my giving is sharing the wonders of life. Pointing at something and asking my companion “Do you see that? Wow!”
Every day my giving includes my silent mouth. I smile easily. There is so much to be thankful for.
Occasionally my giving is money. Someone’s in trouble. I can help.
***
Every day, as I climb the steps to my apartment, I see another giving. And now I share it with you …
My neighbour Dirk is an artist of the spoken word, and of the unspoken beauty of lilies. Just buds, then slowly opening to their full glory, then dropping to the floor … their job done. Thank you, Dirk.
My vacation in Canada was about people I love. Almost all of them were flesh-and-blood – two were metal.
First is Jack Layton:
Jack was the leader of the New Democratic Party in federal politics. He fought for people’s rights. He talked cordially to his political opponents. He said “Hi” to people on the street. And all-round nice guy.
Jack was a Trekkie. He showed up in an officer costume at a Star Trek convention. He loved singing and playing guitar for people, and getting them to sing along.
The enduring image of Jack, captured in his statue, was he and his wife Olivia Chow riding their tandem bicycle through the streets of Toronto.
Jack was my friend … from afar.
***
Second is Johnny Bower:
Johnny was the goaltender for the Toronto Maple Leafs ice hockey team from 1958 till 1969. From age 33 till 44! Amazing. For years he had toiled in the minor leagues of hockey. During his time with the Leafs, he led them to four Stanley Cup championships – the pinnacle of the sport.
I loved watching Johnny perform gymnastic moves on my black-and-white TV. He was fearless. And this was in the days when goaltenders didn’t wear masks.
Johnny was my hero. If he could do great things at age 40, there was hope for the future of this 16-year-old kid.
***
When I lived in Canada, I often visited Jack and Johnny’s statues in Toronto. I’d hold Johnny’s hand. Since Jack’s hand was busy on the handlebar of his bicycle, I’d hold his arm.
This is Ward’s Island, one of the Toronto Islands. Last week I sat peacefully in this chair, eating my McDonald’s and contemplating the downtown.
I was on a mission.
Before I left Belgium, my friend Lopke asked me to shout her name to nature, to the universe, when I was in Canada. (She pronounces her name “Lope’-kuh”.) I agreed to do it.
I asked my friends Anne and Ihor if I could do the yelling in their living room. They politely declined. So the Island it was.
I girded my loins on the ferry ride for the big explosion of air. Then, after eating, I wandered familiar parkland, eventually looking through the windows of the Island church, remembering classical music concerts that had wafted over me inside.
And now to the boardwalk, moseying towards Ward’s Island Beach, which I expected to be empty in mid-April.
I had texted Lopke that her name would fly out of me at 3:00 pm (9:00 pm her time). But I didn’t know if she’d read it.
2:45 on the boardwalk, the cement seawall to my right, followed by a mass of wet rocks, an expanse of Lake Ontario … and way over there a peninsula of trees. Definitely nature.
Looking way ahead, there was the beach, sprinkled with human beings. Hmm … no privacy.
I had passed a few folks on the boardwalk. Time was marching on. An older couple sat on the bench ahead. I walked up to them and shared my plan. “I don’t want to scare you.” They smiled. We chatted … briefly, since the moment was approaching.
2:59. The man pulled out his camera for a video op. I walked to the seawall, gazing at the lapping waters of the ocean. I was ready. So was the universe. This would be loud …
When I log into the site of my Canadian bank, they ask me security questions. One of them is “What is your favourite sport?” When I created an answer years ago, it was “Golf”. Now that’s long gone as a passion of mine, but I don’t know how to change it to “Cycling”.
What has remained is my love for golf courses – especially Tarandowah near London, Ontario, with its wild, rolling fairways and deep bunkers reminiscent of a British links course.
Last week, I pulled into Tarandowah’s parking lot and crossed my fingers. Then I uttered these words to the young employee behind the desk:
I used to be a member here. What I’d like to do is walk over to the eighth green. Behind it is my favourite spot on the course. If I’m careful to avoid golfers, will you let me do that?
Yes
And off I went, remembering the shapes of Tarandowah. Such as …
On to the eighth! Here is the view that still thrills me:
The grass is shaved close behind the green and to the sides. The shot from down there (right to left in the photo) is wondrously difficult. It’s easy to run your ball all the way off the front of the green at the left edge of the photo.
And look closely. There’s a wavy horizontal line on the left side of the picture, down from the lighter colour of the green. There’s a huge dip that eats golf balls. From the bottom, you can’t even see the flagstick. Marvelous. I love all the curves.
I didn’t have much oomph in Canada to write but now there are a few things I want to say from my vantage point of Belgium. The experiences aren’t fresh anymore but I’ll do my best to recreate them.
***
Gent is home. My street the Oudburg is home. But Robin Ridge Drive in Belmont, Ontario, Canada was home.
Early in my visit, I spent a lovely few hours in the home of my Robin Ridge neighbours Elaine and Mario Corvaro. But I knew there was more to do on my home street. So a week later I returned.
Robin Ridge is a cul-de-sac of about twenty homes. I decided to walk its length, ringing doorbells. I wanted to say “Hi” to those with whom I’d shared many conversations over our six years together. In effect, “I see you.”
Sladja and Chris weren’t home.
The next door was number 12, my former home. I’d heard that there was a brand new owner – Terry Kerr. Nice name.
After Karan and Sarah D’Souza moved into my/their home in 2022, I was afraid to visit them. They had repainted all my colourful walls into an off-white … and I didn’t have the strength to see that. A week ago, I was stronger.
Terry opened the door, found out who I was, and welcomed me inside. And so was revealed the beigeing of my previous world. It was fine. It was Terry’s home. I re-saw the beauty of the living room, with its view out to the farmer’s field. The floor was still the rich dark wood of my memory.
And then a surprise. A small cabinet I’d had installed on the wall of the laundry room had fallen down. Et voilà! A patch of my brilliant blue!
Terry and I enjoyed our time together. As I walked out the door, a familiar sight:
I did that!
Sharon and John weren’t home.
John Card wasn’t home.
No answer at Marilyn’s door.
Then from across the street here comes Dan. “Marilyn died last year.” (Sigh)
“John Card moved to St. Thomas.”
And now a delightful conversation with Dan and Ann.
Across the street, a car pulls into Sharon and John’s driveway.
A delightful conversation with Sharon and John.
A delightful conversation with Roger and Pat.
A delightful conversation with Mary-Ann and Len.
A delightful conversation with Les. Sadly, Sonya was sick in bed.
A delightful conversation with Jack. Jill died last year.
Steve and Anne-Marie were away in Florida.
Bill had moved away.
Another delightful conversation with Elaine and Mario.
One from the morning, one from the afternoon. One “lost in space”. One joyous. Both brilliantly intense.
1. My music theory class
I arrived back in Gent from Canada on Monday. I’ll call Tuesday Day One of Jet Lag. It withered me. Last night I slept ten hours, the same as Monday.
Day Two of Jet Lag has been worse! I sure didn’t expect that. I went to The Cobbler for breakfast and asked three staff members if I should go to my late morning Music Theory class. Two said yes, one no. I went.
Our teacher would say a two-bar rhythm of notes and our job was to transcribe them. I’m usually bad at this. Today it was impossible. Contrast my spinning head with the precision of listening needed. It was remarkably intense. Intense bad. The flesh and the mind were weak.
I recognized that those moments were stunning, brilliantly lit, shouting at me to appreciate them – despite the angst. Within the wobble, I did my best to do so.
2. La Flèche Wallonne Féminine bicycle race
The afternoon brought a 140-kilometre cycling race on TV. My favourite rider, Puck Pieterse, was racing. She’s spontaneous, kind to her opponents, alive. And I love her red hair.
The last kilometre climbs a steep street (the Mur de Huy) which has an average gradient of 9.7%. Puck sprinted past Demi Vollering, whom many people say is the best female cyclist in the world. And Puck won!
I yelled “Puck!” as the finish line approached. And then I cried. My hero won.
I just had the thought: “You have jet lag. Don’t write in your blog today.” It was immediately replaced by: “Write your blog while you have jet lag.” I choose the second one.
First of all, any thought about the quality of today’s writing is drifting away. It’s not important. I barely have the oomph to proofread. Oh well … I’ll write something.
I flew overnight on Sunday from Toronto to Brussels, arriving about 8:00 am on Monday. No sleep on the plane. At the airport I was in a lineup for Customs for over an hour and I couldn’t have cared less. I even talked with an American guy in line about US politics. And that’s so unlike me. Maybe I should fly overnight more often, just to see what version of Bruce shows up.
After taking the train to Gent, it was time for a tram. I stood at Perron 20 for seemingly endless minutes until someone told me that it was the wrong stop for Tram 4 – it had moved to Perron 18 in my absence. Such discussions met a mind that was slowly fading away.
At last home in my apartment building. My suitcase was pretty close to the 23 kilogram limit and I knew that the fifty steps up to my apartment was far too much for this dreary body and mind. I went into the Bento House restaurant on the ground floor and asked Li to carry my bag upstairs. I knew he would help me, and he was happy to. A good neighbour.
(A little voice just said “Stop writing. Tell them you’ll continue tomorrow.” A response came, with respect: “No.”)
I know the prevailing wisdom about jet lag: “Stay awake as long as you can into the evening of the new place.” I set a goal of 9:00 pm. It seemed like approximately forever into the future.
I needed to eat. And so came a meal at Lunchroom Martens. It was so busy that there was no chance to talk to hosts Fran and Lieve … and I needed to talk.
Next I dropped into Jagger’s, one of my favourite breakfast places. Thank God Franky had a few minutes to talk. I stumbled through my words but at least they came. Speaking, listening – I know how to do those things.
(Oh boy. Why am I doing this? Fuzzy head leads to fuzzy words? Okay … that’s better than no words.)
Back at home. “How do I stay awake till 9? I know. I’ll go to the CNN app and read what Donald Trump has to say. That should jolt me awake!” And it worked.
As the sun’s decline accompanied my own, I decided to watch a movie. That should work as well. I chose War Games on Prime Video. It was the story of a teenaged guy who accidentally hacked into a US military site and started a “game” which the government thought was real: the Soviet Union was sending missiles our way! I saw the flick maybe twenty years ago and magically remembered some of the dialogue. I shook my head at the marvels of an older, exhausted human brain.
Movie done at 9:20. Body horizontal at 9:25. Sleep.
***
I did it! All this writing, I mean. Hope you enjoyed my meanderings.
