So much happens at breakfast when I’m out and about. Yesterday a woman probably in her 60’s sat with a younger man. I’m guessing they were mother and son. As they talk, she whips out a pack of cigarettes and offers him one. And off they continue chatting, puffing away together.
I was shaken. Huh? It didn’t fit my picture of modern days. Was the behaviour bad? No, just unhealthy.
And now today. I was sitting in a breakfast spot that I’ve frequented for over a year. As yogurt presented its glories to me, I had a thought: the two owners have never called me by name. I always say “Hi, _____” to them.
When I was paying, I decided to be brave. “Do you know my name?” > “Bruce.” > “I’ve noticed you never call me by name. In fact that’s true of a lot of Belgian people who know me.”
The owner gave me a confused look and said something like “I’ve never thought about it. I never call people by name unless I want them to listen to what I’m saying.”
I love this photo. Neighbours … such a narrow street … touching.
Not being able to get rid of the extra stuff around the photo dims within the brilliance of the message.
We build houses, complete with walls and rooms. We build cars that compress us into separateness on our highways. And some eyes mostly see better than / worse than, differences in any variable you can think of, and words such as Do I know you? in response to a hello.
I want a world of connection where I’ll know enough Dutch to speak to the old man in Lunchroom Martens who knows no English.
I want to laugh with a fifteen-year-old (sixty years younger) because we’re both human beings.
I want to sit easy with someone who’s immensely shy, with me doing most of the talking … and showing that I am with them.
It’s been a challenge for me, looking at what’s essential moment-to-moment and what’s “extra”. My responses have changed over time.
Yesterday I said goodbye to structured Dutch courses, with their timetables, assignments and exams. Yes, I want to have conversations with folks who don’t speak English … and No, I don’t want the stress of going to school.
Today is Part Two of that journey. I love being a member of the Evolutionary Collective and I’m letting go of one way that I’ve expressed myself there. I’ve told the EC leaders that I will stop being a Zoom host for online meetings as of the end of September.
Zoom hosts are responsible for having the sessions run smoothly. There are a lot of tasks that require rapid-fire decisions, and my proficiency there has waned. I’m experienced more stress in the role than a few months ago.
The worst is that the dreaded word “obligation” has crept into my mind. I don’t want it there. I think I’ve been a Zoomie for five years (maybe four) and it’s time for other chapters to be written.
And so I end … responsibly, with sufficient notice. Making the change is what works in my life.
I’ve had the thought “You can’t keep dropping stuff, Bruce. Soon there’ll be nothing left!” Silly me. What remains will be loving and wide open.
I’m drinking cappuccino and sighing. I’m feeling tender and slow, knowing the first person on Earth I have to love is me.
An hour ago, I came out of a Dutch class … overwhelmed with speaking and understanding the language. Most of what the teacher said I didn’t understand. (Did I mention the sighing?)
I surprised myself by studying over the summer. And by going to eight conversation sessions at Amal. But this morning I felt like such a newbie. It was the first session of Dutch Level Three. Two three-hour classes a week until January.
Do I really want this stress?
My purpose is simple. I want to talk to people who don’t speak English. The road of academic study is not the only path home.
And so I’ve decided … I end this. It’s what the body and soul need. I have another plan:
1. Go to Amal Conversation Tables once or twice a week.
2. Proceed slowly through the lessons on the Babbel app.
3. Have simple Dutch conversations in restaurants and stores, and with friends who expect English from me.
4. Keep reviewing my notes from Levels One and Two, taking lots of time to let the vocabulary and grammar sink in.
The course doesn’t give me time. So I’ll give it to myself.
I met several very cool people in class today, including the teacher Ineke. So I’m saying goodbye to them just after saying hello. So be it. Other fine human beings will come my way.
I want to sing. I want to play cello. I want to be on Zoom calls of the Evolutionary Collective. I want to have coffee with dear ones.
On Saturday evening, Sabrine and I went to a lovely restaurant for dinner – the Indian Curry House. The two young servers smiled a lot. So did the older hostess. And she bowed to us as we were leaving.
I wanted to celebrate Sabrine’s and my friendship with a Belgian beer. I chose Leffe Brune … brewed in an abbey, with an alcohol content of 6.5%
My dinner was mango chicken, immersed in a sauce that was adjacent to heaven. And we had a sweet talk.
That’s the good stuff.
Soon after leaving the restaurant, I felt nauseous and I was having trouble swallowing. (I won’t mention the burps)
Nearly all my adult life, when I’m hungry and the food is delicious, I’ve eaten too much and too fast. On Saturday, I forgot Dr. Lahae’s advice to eat slowly and chew lots. I also forgot about my earlier intuition that strong Belgian beer is bad for me.
More sauce! Faster! Such amnesia.
As Sabrine and I walked in the general direction of home, something bitter was climbing my throat. I told her I had to sit down. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a plastic bag. Usually I use it for leftover restaurant food but this time I had another purpose in mind.
Wow. Sitting on a bench with a slow flow of people passing by, wondering if I was about to vomit in front of a friend. I’d never done that. Just in the presence of Jody, my wife.
Sabrine was so kind. She said it was fine no matter what happened. She wasn’t going anywhere.
There we sat as the nausea rolled, me accessorizing with a plastic bag in my hand, looking so … unique. Sabrine simply still and quiet.
***
I didn’t puke, and eventually found my bed. I thought long about changes my body needs for me to continue being happy, and therefore for me to continue contributing to the lives of others.
My friend Sabrine is visiting me for two days. She’s a friend of Lydia, who on a long ago hiking trail in the Canadian Rockies asked me to accompany her to Senegal. Which led eventually to me … being … here!
I had made a dinner reservation for Friday night at an amazing Gent restaurant called Dish. It’s my absolutely favourite place to celebrate life with my guests. Before then, the afternoon beckoned with its glorious unknownness.
I usually led as we meandered through the streets of Gent centrum. Sometimes I asked Sabrine to … and so it was – left, right or “keep going”. No agenda. No big tourist attractions. We passed so many “ordinary” buildings that had a shine of their own.
And we sat on benches. We watched people. I told Sabrine that I was sending them love. And then there were the long views, where I turned my eyes to the sky. My friends the seagulls occasionally said hi.
Dish was a marvel – small portions of delicate flavours. All the time in the world to savour. And Doreen – the brilliant chef and smiling being. Sabrine and I were welcome in Dish.
All that was Friday. Today is Sunday. Sabrine left this morning. The Saturday between was pretty cool too. The hours were full and laughing. Strangely, given the rhythms of my life, they didn’t include writing. Oh well. Here I am now.
My neighbour Dirk invited us for breakfast yesterday. He’s unique in the world, having immersed himself in theatre and the other arts, and having returned so much joie de vivre to those around him. Like Sabrine and me.
Take a look at the breakfast table:
Where did that coffee go? And do you recognize what’s in the little dish in the middle? It’s a fig. You may be aware of my hatred of raisins. Many years ago, I expanded my list of distaste: currants and dates. I had tasted them both and they were similarly yucky.
Later, in a spurt of dubious wisdom, I added figs. The trouble was, I’d never tasted one. At yesterday’s breakfast table there sat one – uncut. I frowned. “Just a raisin in disguise.” Dirk cut it for me and placed it on the dish. “Hmm … sure doesn’t look like a raisin. Actually it looks pretty good.”
It was delicious! So much for Bruce’s historical wisdom.
Our triad of discussion roamed over the tapestry of life. Three people who really enjoyed expressing themselves. Perfect.
I’m trying to remember. We might have been talking about the magnificence of Firenze (Florence), a city in Italy. Dirk mentioned a man named Stendhal, who wrote about being “overwhelmed by beauty”. Dirk knows what that’s like. So do I. And most likely so does Sabrine.
This is New York City in 1932. It’s a lunch break for the construction workers building the Rockefeller Center.
Look at those faces in conversation. Digging into their lunch boxes, sharing a smoke, taking a swig of some magic liquid. So normal. So relaxed.
So terrifying!
This is so thoroughly not me. I get a bit woozy looking down into the Leie River from a low bridge. I’m astonished at the differences between us humans … even though we share the same joys and sorrows.
I can sing for an audience at an open mic session but put me on a log crossing a creek and I freeze. Impending death in one situation but not in the other.
We all need to hold our heads high, to laugh in the rain, to do a wee little dance when the mood strikes. We are miracles … together we’re all the colours of the rainbow.
Something good is coming back into my life – spontaneity.
I walked into Panos on Langemunt this morning, spread my arms to the staff members I know, and said …
Ik ben dik!
Probably these marvelous serving people had never seen anyone celebrating fatness, face lifted to the sky and a smile filling the space. They were confused and amused. And I was having fun.
Minutes later, a 50-something English-looking woman was gazing across the Leie River towards ancient buildings. I couldn’t help myself:
Someday all of this will be yours!
She whirled around with a huge smile and said “I doubt it!”
Okay, I was on a roll. The Cobbler beckoned – one of my favourite breakfast places. I know the server but I’ll protect the innocent with anonymity.
She talked about her boyfriend … and maybe someday he’ll give her a ring.
Give me his phone number. I’ll set him on the right path
Soon thereafter, I was pretend-talking into my phone to the young man, suggesting a wedding next week, or maybe the one after. And The Cobbler hosted more smiles.
***
Perhaps that’s enough being “out there” for one day
Her name was Elizabeth Eckford. She wanted to go to school. These people didn’t want her to.
It’s 1957 in Little Rock, Arkansas in the United States. See the hate in the woman dead centre in the picture. Elizabeth hears the taunts. She keeps going. There’s momentum in courage.
Usually people exclude each other quietly. Not returning e-mails. Averting the gaze. Not continuing a conversation that the other one had started. It’s just as violent as the crowd in 1957.
Too many of us look in the mirror, see a certain variety of human being and see the image as the “gold standard” for humanity. “You should be like me.” Except I’m often not. I’m remarkably like me.
I wonder if Elizabeth is still alive. I’ll look her up on Google.
As I sat in Izy Coffee, I watched people on the street. Many of them turned this way. Finally I realized that there was someone or something that they were looking at. There’s a sheet of paper taped to the window, and behind that a pillar. Behind that was … ?
There’s even a family gathering to have a photo taken next to … I pondered. What could draw such focus?
So I imagined. Was it Beyoncé?
Don’t we put famous people on a pedestal, seeing them as some type of God without ever having met them? What strange behaviour, Mr. Kerr.
Or perhaps Michelangelo’s statue of David resides outside of Izy.
The human form coming into glorious being through the hands of the sculptor. What could be more divine? Millions have come to the Accademia Gallery in Florence, Italy to witness “what one man can do”. Perhaps ten people on Gent’s Langemunt are doing the same.
How about a world where it could be any of us eight billion folks standing behind that pillar? Someone ordinary, maybe down on their luck, sagging under the weight of the world.
It could be someone like the fellow that Gordon Lightfoot sang of in “Home From The Forest”.
His tears fell on the sidewalk As he stumbled in the street A dozen faces stopped to stare But no one stopped to speak For his castle was a hallway And the bottle was his friend And the old man stumbled in From the forest
***
May we have the eyes to see
***
P.S. Behind the pillar was a puppeteer pulling the strings for a young violinist
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