Amid the moving and grooving of Gentse Feesten yesterday, I needed quiet.  I retreated to the Carmelite Church on the Burgstraat – one of my two favourite churches in Gent.  (The other is Sint-Salvatorkerk on the Sleepstraat)

I’m not a Christian but I know spiritual when I see it.

I love the statue of Mary and Jesus.  They’ve appeared on these pages before.  The sacred shines from them both.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a person’s aura.  If I’m not sure, I guess the answer is “No”.  Nevertheless, I know that I’m in the presence of Divinity when I look into certain people’s eyes.  There’s a shimmering that doesn’t seem visible to physical sight but I know.  I am touched.

Yesterday I couldn’t find a spot where Mary and I would join eyes.  It might have worked if I’d stood on the pew.  I’m sure Mary wouldn’t have minded but the local priest probably would have taken issue with my elevation.  Mary and I were together but not quite aligned.

***

Elsewhere in the sanctuary, this young saint welcomed me.  I can’t remember her name.  She probably doesn’t know mine either.

Once again … her eyes and mine.  And once again just slightly off centre.  That’s all right.  We were with each other.

I realize that my most precious moments are when one other human being and I are joining.  All else pales in comparison: the beauties of nature, the thrill of a sporting event, a stunning movie, a fine meal.

My job is to fill my day with such moments, accompanied by flesh-and-blood people … far beyond the wood and stone of statues.  But when I need to, I’ll still search for Mary’s eyes.

My friend Dirk reposted a photo this morning.

“This is 8-year-old Samuel Reshevsky defeating several chess masters at once in France, 1920.”

All these middle-aged and older men dressed in suit and tie, watching a little kid turn their world upside down.  So much mystery behind those facial expressions.  But there’s little doubt about the mindset of the man holding his head.  What?!

Tucked amid the crowd are two women and one girl but overall it’s the “mature” male ego on display.  A troubled ego.

You’re too young

In life, of course, many perspectives are possible.  Here are some more of the narrow type:

You’re too old

You’re a woman

You’re a man

You’re black

You’re white

You’re plain

You’re pretty (or handsome)

You’re poor

You’re rich

You don’t speak English

You don’t speak …

***

You get the idea

Now it’s time to reject the idea

So no one is left out

As a postscript to yesterday, I walked to Amal for the Dutch conversation group, nervous in the knees.  I crossed the street, looked up, and there stood a locked gate.  Amal was closed during Gentse Feesten.

It felt like long ago times in my life when an exam was cancelled.  A burst of freedom … and then knowing that the pressure would return.

I spoke a bit of Dutch to Lies at Izy Coffee and Dominique at Panos.  Figuring out their words took so much energy.  But that’s okay.  I made tiny progress, and I’ll do the same today.  Plus next Tuesday afternoon Amal will welcome me for a conversation.

***

I read that during the ten days of Gentse Feesten, about 200,000 visitors show up in town each day – for the music, the dancing, the eating, the drinking and the friends.

Yesterday evening I roamed around, absorbing the marvelous variety of human beings.  Here are some photos:

Belly dancers!  I too have one but I’m not as brave in displaying it.

Lots of folks.  But nowhere near as many as when darkness falls.

Line dancers turning together.  It felt strange to watch and not do but my body didn’t urge me onto the dance floor.  Somehow I’m both sad and fine with that.

So much music on so many stages.  At this very moment, the bass guitarist was coaxing a haunting melody from his instrument.

Ane then there were the rides.  Jacob van Artevelde oversees the action, pointing toward the beer tents.

***

My fully fledged oomph will return.  For now it’s the meandering of my feet amid the festivities.  That’s enough for this young man.

I look at this title and say “Huh?”  When I was a teacher, my favourite word in the classroom was “conversation”.   Right now, however, I add the word “Dutch” and the white turns to black.

I’m going to Amal this afternoon for a session of Dutch conversation.  It’s an organization for newcomers to Belgium.  Newbies like me will sit at a table with a native speaker … and we’ll talk.  I did this once right at the end of my Dutch Level Two course in late June, and I did okay.  A month later, I’m rusty.

Just show up, Bruce.  You’ll do fine, or you’ll do poorly.  Either way, you’ll do!

It takes so much effort to create sentences and to follow the sentences of others.  Okay.  That’s not the end of the world.

I woke up lots last night.  And I dreamt – being lost with no chance of being found.  Then I was a swimmer, tensed to dive into the pool.  Except I can’t swim!  Plus I was this skinny little guy, wearing a Speedo.  Endlessly poised to dive in.

I set my alarm for 8:00 am.  As the morning sun peeked around my blinds, I prayed that it wasn’t 7:55.  Covers to my chin, I wanted the protection to continue.

But protecting myself is no way to live.  Being away from life isn’t the real me.  It’s true that I’ve been recovering from the blood infection and have spent a lot of time in bed, a lot of time watching the Tour de France … being passive.

Yesterday I was in the gym, stretching and riding the elliptical.  Then I meditated.  When I finish this post, I’m going to study Dutch for an hour.  Then it’s off to Amal for talking, no doubt making lots of mistakes.

Get your head up, Bruce

Ik spreek Nederlands

(I speak Dutch)

My life has been way out of balance for many weeks now.  The typical joys have been shunted to the background.  My rhythms are gone.

It’s time to bring them back.  My happiness, and my ability to draw happiness from others, depends on me returning.

To …

Being on the elliptical at the gym

Strength training with light weights

Stretching

Meditating

Playing the cello

Being in Dutch conversations

Singing

***

Woh!  That’s seven things.  And there may be more that I’m not locating in the moment.

I have energy again.  I’m not retreating to my bed in the middle of the day.  Here I am, yearning for the bright orange machines at Basic-Fit, the soft green fabric of my meditation chair, my left hand doing vibrato on the A string of the cello.

Today, within the hour, I’ll be stretching on a gym mat and then later flowing the arms and legs on the elliptical.  A short and slow session to begin again.

Sometime in the afternoon, the chair you see will welcome me for the mystery of meditation, as I draw the world close in love.

And tomorrow?

More of me will return

This scene is in the Patershol neighbourhood of Gent, a few hundred metres from my apartment.

Last night it was pleasantly warm on the street.  Fifty steps above, in my apartment, I couldn’t get the temperature below 27 Celsius (80 Fahrenheit).

Actually I could have lowered it some … if I’d opened the windows.  The tradeoff is noise vs. warmth.  We’re beginning Gentse Feesten, a giant street party that attracts about 180,000 visitors every day.  In Gent centrum, where I live, it’s sometimes an all night thing.

Oh well.

As I’ve told many people, I signed up for Belgium 18 months ago.  I wanted to change countries, to call Gent home … and here I am.  No air conditioning.  But so much beauty.

My goal for the next week is to get six hours of sleep a night.  That may be elusive.  (Smile) 

I have a tiny electric cooler that spent last night about sixty centimetres (two feet) from my nose.  I also have a “white noise” machine that cuddled close when the decibels ran rampant.  They both helped.

On I go into tonight, tomorrow night and beyond.  Walking the streets and enjoying the music in the evenings.  Loving my pillow in the wee hours.

One of my favourite places to eat breakfast is Lunchroom Martens.  It’s only steps from my apartment on the Oudburg.  My balcony is just past the far building on the left – out of sight, never far from mind.

Most of the chairs face across the cobblestones to the other side.  My body tells me not to sit there.  My chair faces the curving of the Oudburg – the morning sun on the old buildings, families slowly disappearing on the horizon.  Or coming ever closer.

The long view has long fascinated me.  My eyes lift to the far away.  There is a yearning that begins in a place larger than this single human being.  It’s mysterious.

I went searching on the Internet for the geometry of this.  The finding was elusive but here’s the best image that showed up:

Find yourself at the intersection.  Look forward to the left or right.  For me it’s far sweeter than looking up or down.

***

Both deeply here and gazing over there

Wondering what’s beyond the curve of the Earth

The Evolutionary Collective is an organization of about 150 citizens of the world.  We meet on Zoom.  For part of our time together we do a practice in pairs.  Usually I connect deeply with the person who shows up on my laptop screen.

Julie is one such person.  When we practice, the love flows between us.

We both live in Belgium.  Today was the first time we’d met.  The knock on my door was met with a smile on the other side.  My online friend was soon sitting on my couch.

Our words were easy.  Sometimes we just silently looked into each other’s eyes.  It was sweet and natural.

Here’s a second photo.  Julie’s one-year-old son Raphaël and I were in contact.  You could say we were doing the practice.  This little kid is already a teacher.  He’s opening hearts.

(Smiling some more)

It means “hat” in French.  It’s also the gesture of taking off your hat and bowing to someone who’s achieved something.  “Well done.”  “Magnificent!”

I love it when two cyclists are battling towards the finish line in the Tour de France.  Often when the loser is being interviewed, he honours the victor.

Simon Yates from England had a great chance to win yesterday’s stage.  In his way was Ecuador’s Richard Carapaz.

Just before the Col du Noyer, Yates had launched a blistering move from a chase group of some 40 riders, powering through a lead breakaway alone, only to be overhauled by another counter-attacker, Carapaz.  With his best chance of a stage in this year’s Tour de France going up in smoke when Carapaz disappeared ahead of him 1.7km from the top of the Noyer, Yates could not have been more straightforward when asked what had happened, saying simply, “I was running out of legs at the end”.

…

The one subject matter to discuss was, obviously enough, his defeat by Carapaz just a few minutes before, with Yates crossing the line 37 seconds down on the Ecuadorian star.  It was hard to imagine he had much appetite for talking after such a relatively narrow loss.

“I was jumping around in the start a lot like everybody but it was not an easy stage, crosswinds at first and a lot of jumping around, flat roads … it wasn’t easy for me to be there.  I did my best but I was running out of legs in the end.”

“Chapeau to Richie, he did a great ride so that was all I could do.”

***

The Tour de France is the summit of cycling’s mountain.  To win a stage of the Tour is a huge achievement.  And yesterday it slipped between Simon’s fingers.

Please reflect on his gracious thoughts

Chapeau, Simon!

We all deserve to hear that word

On Gent terraces, I’m surrounded by Dutch conversations.  The times I’ve visited Senegal, those conversations were in French.

Three weeks ago I was in England.  I spent time in British pubs, watching early games of Euro 2024.  Once in awhile, I’d snap to attention: “Everybody’s speaking English!”  And that’s a weird thing to say after decades of English being normal.

Back to Euro.  I watch the games on Eurosport.  I have the choice of Dutch or French.  Either way, the words wash over me.  I understand some of it.

Yesterday I watched the Tour de France.  During the Dutch broadcast, someone was being interviewed in French and a second commentator was translating into Dutch.  So disorienting!  English was nowhere to be seen.

Later an English-speaking analyst had his say.  A tiny bit of me felt relief … that finally I’d understand everything.  Mostly though, and remarkably, it seemed like just another language.  My mind spins in the memory of it.

An hour or so after, the same English speaker is interviewing Alberto Contador, a former winner of the Tour.  The conversation is in Spanish.  The young guy had effortlessly moved to yet another language.

***

My life is bigger in Europe