I was sitting last night with some young people before a concert started. About five of them, in their early 20’s I’d say.
It was easy, which made me so happy. We were separated by age but not by spirit.
Our conversation roamed around our lives. For awhile the topic was Ghent, about how our city is a pocket of delight within Belgium, about so many residents being open to each other, to life.
I asked them a skill-testing question: “When I took my first computer course in 1968, how big was the computer?” Guesses included the size of a car, of a fridge … Truth was that the beast took up most of a very large room. Their eyes opened wide.
At one point, our words ventured into the mysterious process of peeing and pooping. I think that was a first for me. Clearly my young friends knew and enjoyed each other. I was thrilled to be included.
And then …
A quiet moment in my head led to …
My eyes opening wide
“We’ve been speaking English”
(Spoken silently)
All this time, these women and men had let go of Dutch in favour of English. Because I was in their midst. Such quiet kindness. Thank you, young ones.
I was watching a Netflix movie on Wednesday evening. Suddenly the image froze and “0%” appeared onscreen and stayed there.
And so it remains … no Netflix, Disney Plus or Prime Video. I’m sad. I enjoy watching cool stories.
In the larger scheme of things, there are far deeper losses: a loved one dies, friendships end, health declines, self-esteem withers away.
But still …
I’m attached.
Here’s a sign promoting the elimination of television from our lives:
I’m not strong enough to say goodbye. Or wise enough? I’ve often had a thought bubble up: “I’m free.” Maybe not.
The problem of my smart TV no longer being connected to the Internet will no doubt be solved. The problem of needing TV in my life will take longer to fix.
I was sitting in a restaurant yesterday, watching my stomach billow out over my belt. I didn’t like it. Even though I make jokes about having the perfect U-shaped body, my ego still compares mine to younger, slimmer bodies.
For years three pairs of jeans hung in my closet in Canada. They didn’t make it to my legs because they were for a 32-inch waist, and I had become a 34. Hope sprang eternal that a rigorous program of fitness and healthy eating would reduce my middle. Ha! Never happened. And I eventually donated the pants to Goodwill.
A few months ago, I read that the composition of the male body changes as we age … more belly fat. That sort of made me feel better, but not really.
As I pondered my increased roundness yesterday, a number came into my head – 36. It had been there before, in the spirit of revulsion. But this time, a mysterious smile came along for the ride.
If your waist really is 36 now
Why not celebrate it?
And buy new pants
And so I did. A marvelous sales guy searched high and low for 36 jeans with a 30 length … and now they’re in my closet. Except the one that now rides on my hips. Love it! I’ll call it personal growth … 36 inches as a friend rather than an enemy.
I also bought a longer belt. So I’m all set for moving and grooving into life’s next adventures. Comfy in my emerging body.
Fantasy and drama combine in the story of a teenager known as Powder for his snow-white skin. Powder is introduced into a tiny Texas community after spending his entire life in his grandparents’ basement. He’s a wise genius, but an outcast, alienated by those who misunderstand and fear him. When a schoolmaster and science teacher discover that Powder has a capacity for empathic insight and possesses the power to control electricity, the unusual boy becomes a tragic Christ-like figure – peaceful, prophetic and perhaps too good to survive in the real world.
Sweetness, goodness, supreme empathy. Can such a one thrive, even survive, in our world of “Me first”? Powder stands tall in the face of rejection. He reaches out to those who are hurting.
A male classmate: Why you look like that? You look like some kind of vampire from outerspace or something. There’s not much fight in you, is there freak show? You really think you could be like us?
The white skin, the soft eyes, the hat covering the baldness … all incomprehensible to these Texas teenagers – and adults. Powder is other.
The science teacher: It has become appallingly clear that our technology has surpassed our humanity.
We’re stumbling around in a very dark age basically trying not to kill each other … I think you have a mind that we won’t evolve to for like thousands of years – you’re maybe the man of the future right here and now.
Perhaps there are many such future human beings walking the Earth today, “too good” for the smallness, the divisions, the “I’m right and you’re wrong.” They are ambassadors of what can be, how a life can be lived.
Here’s what Powder has to say:
Inside most people there’s a feeling of being separate, separated from everything. And they’re not. They’re part of absolutely everyone, and everything.
What a concept … you and I are connected, and there’s a way that we can find each other’s divinity. We can truly be together.
It’s possible to talk to someone without any lies, with no sarcasms, no deceptions, no exaggerations or any of the things that people use to confuse the truth.
There’s so much that is possible …
I want to go home. Do you understand that? I want to go home.
A real home, where we can cuddle, put our feet up on the couch, pass the bag of popcorn back and forth.
Powder meets a girl who sees beyond differences to the pearl being revealed. She is a gift … and sees him that way too.
I don’t know what I think when I look at you. But sometimes I think, I think you’re the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
In the Evolutionary Collective, we have been considering the words of The Mother.
Just now I was looking for a photo of her, and I was bombarded by images of Jennifer Lopez. She starred in the recent Netflix movie of the same name. The world knows JLo … The Mother not at all.
She was born Mirra Alfassa in 1878 in Paris. At age 36 she went to India and met Sri Aurobindo, a mystic and spiritual teacher. She died there at 95, having lived a deeply spiritual life. She was deemed to have been “the mother” of a new way of being.
Here are some of her words:
Nothing must ever be done that cannot be done before the Divine.
Hmm … the idea of living a life like that shines like a candle before my eyes.
It is not by running away from the world that you will change it. It is by working there, modestly, humbly but with a fire in the heart, something that burns like an offering.
A modest fire. Yes, sometimes that’s me. And sometimes not.
Sri Aurobindo often talked of The Mother:
There is one divine Force which acts in the universe and in the individual and is also beyond the individual and the universe. The Mother stands for all these, but she is working here in the body to bring down something not yet expressed in this material world so as to transform life here.
Am I willing to embrace something so radically new?
It’s the day after and I’m so tired. And so happy. I went to the most famous bicycle race in Belgium. I found a spot right against the barrier on the Oude Kwaremont, one of the cobbled climbs. The men came by twice, and the women once. Each time I got to see riders for maybe five minutes … and then they were gone up the road. But it was so worth it.
I loved the faces flashing by. They were splattered with mud, mouths open sucking in oxygen, legs churning on the pedals. I was in awe. These women rode for 163 kilometres, the men 270 – often in the rain.
On the train to the start in Oudenaarde, where the race started, I sat with a young couple from the U.K. He had ridden the entire race route yesterday. So that’s all the climbs, with the gradient occasionally reaching 20%. “I’m so jealous of you. You’re young and incredibly fit. I’m old and far less fit.” He smiled … and actually so did I.
Before the race, I watched each team being presented on the stage. The hosts interviewed one or two riders. They asked cool questions, sometimes funny ones, and got engaged answers – in Dutch, French or English.
There were hundreds of us watching, including a line of VIPs on the balcony of Oudenaarde’s ancient city hall.
I love the colours of bike races – the jerseys of the teams and the brilliance of their bikes.
The big problem I had all day was standing for long times – at the presentation, on the bus to the Oude Kwaremont, the hours of waiting there for the cyclists, the long lineup to catch the shuttle bus back to Oudenaarde. The legs got tighter and tighter. But so what? I was there.
I snuck a picture of the guys on the far side of the cobbled route. They were having well lubricated fun.
Here’s a shot of the Kwaremont to my right, where I’d see riders’ backsides before they disappeared around the bend. There’d be a rolling roar of yelling and clapping as each athlete rode by.
And just for you, a close-up of the cobbles. They were so slippery that on the steep climb called the Koppenberg, some cyclists had to dismount and run up the hill.
The final stretch of the race featured a trio of racers fighting for the top step of the podium: Shirin van Anrooij from the Netherlands, Kasia Niewiadoma from Poland and Elisa Longo Borghini from Italy. I was glued to my phone from the Oude Kwaremont. A sprint …
Two hours ago I left my Dutch classroom after a long morning session. The intense concentration was wearing on my body and soul. I felt barraged by the new and sometimes incomprehensible.
And then to Izy Coffee to recover. I read lots of stuff on my phone about the Ronde van Vlaanderen, tomorrow’s epic bicycle race near here.
I love writing but today I knew I had nothing to give. The body was depressed – not the heart but the body.
My ego was treading water, knowing that I had written a blog post for 45 straight days. “Oh well. I’ll start again tomorrow.” Still, I kept searching for a topic and the energy to write about it. Nothing.
Without any thought of “Do this to produce that” I looked over to the woman sitting at the other end of the couch and asked her if she was visiting Ghent. She smiled and we talked … about her being an American living in Switzerland, me having moved to Ghent from Canada, the spiritual energy in this city, American and Canadian accents, and a certain bicycle race!
Her boyfriend walked in and he and I compared notes about the magnificent Canadian city of Vancouver.
The three of us chatted away about this, that and the other thing … and then it was time for them to be tourists again – off to Gravensteen, Ghent’s castle.
The street is called Schoenlapperstraat. It’s a tiny little thing, off the Langemunt, which is a shopping street in Gent.
I like wandering its few metres to the edge of the Leie River. Here’s a delightful out-of-the-way spot. Squeeze under the railing and you’ll find steps for sitting and wondering.
As I looked down today, a chalk design caught my eye. It was drawn on one of the steps, but not in the direction I expected.
Here’s a close-up:
I looked and I pondered. And then it came to me. Some kind person had created flowers pointed towards the tourist boats that ply the Leie. I say it was a message of welcome to Gent.
This is the contraption that I wear over my right thumb. Without it, the arthritis there means that I can only hold the cello bow for a few minutes.
Yesterday I went to the gym … stretching first. One particular stretch requires me to take off the splint. Otherwise the metal presses in. Too much pain.
I reached to remove my “jewelry” … and it wasn’t there!
I stared
“Damn! Where?” Having no splint would mean a few things: Much reduced cello playing until I could get it replaced. And everything seems to happen slowly in Belgium. How many weeks will I wait? Plus it would cost me about 275 euros ($400 CAD).
(Sigh)
“Where did I go today?”
1. Breakfast at Pain Quotidien. I headed there. A pleasant male employee searched the Lost and Found. Nothing. I searched all around my table. Nothing.
2. Music Theory class at Poel, my music school. The receptionist volunteered to leave his post and go across the small campus with me to my classroom. We burst in on a bagpipe class! So cool. Searching … everywhere … no splint.
3. Izy Coffee, writing yesterday’s blog post. My favourite black couch. The floor. Niet.
Then a thought: Maybe I forgot the splint at home. I leave it on a favourite white couch. Homeward …
Shuffling through papers on the couch. Removing cushions. Staring at the floor. Same result.
***
Many hours later, it was time for sleep. I drifted off with visions of “275” in my head. Oh well … I shall survive.
Now today. Feeling my naked thumbness. I knew that Pain Quotidien opens at 8:00. Why not a second (and final) try? Maybe one of yesterday’s employees would be there again and would remember something.
Talking to a fellow at the counter. Actually he had heard my story from another staff member. I asked him to check Lost and Found again. He was thorough. No splint. (More sighing)
I wandered over to the table. Peered under the radiator beside. I started lowering myself to crawl around. And then I heard …
Sir. Is this it?
And dangling from his fingers was you-know-what. Nobody stole my shiny device yesterday. An employee had simply put it on the wrong shelf, partially hidden behind some take-out bags.
Many moons ago I was a university student in Toronto. I loved music … going to the Mariposa Folk Festival every summer, singing with the University of Toronto Chorus, playing my LPs of Buddy Holly endlessly in my bedroom.
I had a tradition on Thursday evenings, before I headed to choir practice – having a burger and fries at Harvey’s, then walking along Bloor Street till I reached the gate of Philosopher’s Walk, which you can see in the picture. The building on the right is the Royal Conservatory of Music, where many careers were launched.
If my heart was sad, walking under those windows (so often open) cheered me up. Because sweet tones of the voice or the instrument greeted me as I passed by.
It was a blessing.
Fifty some years later, I’m a student at the Poel music school in Gent. Also on Thursdays, I have my cello lesson. Before the teacher arrives, I usually sit on a bench in the courtyard. And look up …
More windows, also with music sometimes spilling out. Plus small studios on the ground floor, favouring my ears with guitar, drums, piano …
Bruce's Blog 