Here I am again, after nine hours of sleep.  My finger is ready to recommence.

***

I found a spot near the start line, ready for all those riders to roll out.  A mass of motorcyclists, camera people and cars were part of the race staff.  And then we the crowd yelled out the coundown from “10” to “Go!”  The speed was incredible as the prime athletes started their pedals turning.

Wow!  What a rush!

And I had a plan.

I began walking to the Gent Sint-Pieters train station. If I really stretched out the legs, I’d have time to catch the 2:05 bus to Geraardsbergen – the town that was home to one of the most fabled climbs in Belgian cycling – the Kappelmuur.  “Muur” as in “wall” … 1.1 cobbled kilometres with an average gradient of 9.3% (maximum 19.8%).  Ouch!

There was a problem.  I had misinterpreted the tiny icon for the trip to Geraardsbergen.  It meant “train” not “bus”.  More brisk walking from one end of the station to the other.  I climbed the steps to Platform 7, looked to my right and saw the word “Geraardsbergen” at the tail end of a train that was pulling away.  (Sigh)

The next train was at 3:05.  And so began the calculations.  That train was scheduled to arrive at 3:55.  Usually Belgian trains are on time, but sometimes not.  Google Maps told me it was a 25-minute walk from the train station to the Muur but I’ve discovered that Google walks faster than me.  And by definition those 25 minutes would be uphill – a challenge for my much-better-but-still-recovering body.

A cycling website estimated that the riders would be climbing the Muur at 4:50.  That sounded like a half-hour buffer to me.  But who knows?  As I sat in Gent Sint-Pieters, a smile showed up on my face.  There was a possibility I’d miss the whole darned thing.

One detail that escaped me in Gent was that my phone charge was wearing down.  Oops.  Flying blind in Geraardsbergen wouldn’t get the job done.  And there were no outlets on the train.

I speeded off the train at my destination and searched for an outlet in the station.  There was one, which was the perfect number for me.  I plugged in at 4:00 and made the executive decision to charge until 4:10.  Ahh … the tightness of time.

Then I started hustling through town, staring at a tiny screen all the way.  A carnival was alive and well on the city streets.  Lots of music, candy floss and games of skill.  Here’s what the cyclists would see in a few minutes:

What you see is “moderately uphill”.  Soon it would just be one of those words.

As I climbed the cobbles, I was joined by other cycling fans timing their journey to the top.  The energy of expectation was brilliant!

The road narrowed, twisted and tilted up.  There was only room for spectators on the right side.

I walked up to two young men on a curve.  According to them, we were about a hundred metres from the summit. They said this curvy spot was the best.  We’ll be able to see riders coming up from below and then watch them climb beyond us.  Cool.

I stayed with the two guys.  It was 4:40.

About 4:55 a marshal blows his whistle and starts waving a red flag.  There’s a group murmur from below … growing.

And then the colours of cycling jerseys and the whirr of wheels:

I cheered my guts out.  “Bravo!  Allez!  Magnifique!”  A wall of yelling and clapping surrounded me.

Oh my God … I’m here!

I turned to my right.  Some of the fittest athletes in the world were straining upwards.  Their faces!  Their legs!  The wild calls of the crowd!

I will remember those moments for the rest of my life.  My favourite cyclist, Puck Pieterse, flashed by me in sixth place or so.  A mass of riders climbed together.  And later there were the stragglers … urged on just as stridently.

***

And then all was quiet

I was quiet

Life was deeply good

I woke up to two beckoning adventures.  The first was an all-morning Dutch class, my second at Level Two.  The teacher Jelle is so nice and often so incomprehensible.  She speaks basic Dutch slowly … but I listen even more slowly!  It’s so humbling.

Today we started exploring the past tense.  As an example, switching from “I walk” to “I walked” is “Ik wandel” to “Ik heb gewandeld”.  My mind rebels.

It’s probably not true that all the other students were nodding as Jelle presented new material.  It just seemed that way.

We had a test after the break, focusing on family relationships, such as “grandmother”, “cousin” and “father-in-law”.

I’m ready!

I wasn’t.

I was presented with a Dutch paragraph about family, chock full of words I didn’t know.  And grammar that was over my horizon.  I panicked … and then remembered that breathing is a good thing.

It was multiple choice plus writing about family members and friends, including what they’re good at and what they like to do.

I stumbled through the test, occasionally resting within humility but mostly tight as a drum.  It brought bittersweet memories of Level One.  The sweet part is a mystery but it was there (barely).  The grandness of life occasionally made an appearance … shining through my “not knowing” test responses.  Oh well, today had a Part Two.

***

In my 30s, 40s, 50s … I loved watching European cycling from my Canadian living room.  I saw the fans on the side of the road going crazy with cheering, and I thought:

Someday I’d love to go crazy too!

I’ve been hoping that today would be that day.  The first major Belgian race of the season – Omloop Het Nieuwsblad – starts in my hometown.

After class I walked to ‘t Kuipke, the ancient Ghent velodrome.  Early in the afternoon, about 140 women cyclists would set off on a rock-and-roll journey of 127 kilometres.  And I’ll be there!

First, though, each of the 23 teams was presented to us adoring fans inside the velodrome.  Two interviewers asks friendly questions of a rider or two from each team.  Everybody got cheered (with an extra dose for Belgian cyclists).

I watched the teams that were just presented ride out of the building.  Almost every rider high-fived the kids leaning over the barriers.  So cool.

Well folks, I’m officially tired.  There are many racing stories still to tell but my right index finger wants to sleep.  (That’s how I type, by the way.)

There  was so much oomph in my day – from the angst of not understanding the questions to all the colours of all the teams climbing all the hills.

Until tomorrow …

It started simply.  Last night I was watching a Netflix series on World War II.  I have two candles that sit by the windows of my living room.  They had melted down to little nubs of wax.

“I’ll light them and let them burn out while I’m watching TV.”  Just another task to be completed.

As death filled the screen, I’d occasionally glance at the flames in my room.  They were diminishing.  I was entranced with the undiminished beauty.  And I went to the future end of my life.

I was drawn to the story of war … and to the soon-to-be ending of light.  Then my eyes turned to the window.  I turned off the TV and beheld the right candle, more advanced in its fading than the left.

Closer now …

I smiled as the glow became a glimmer.  And I wondered what my last moments on Earth will be like.  I hope they won’t be wracked with pain.  I hope I will be giving thanks for all the magnificent human beings who have come my way.

There was a final spurt of brightness … then only one tiny dot of light … then black.

***

It’s a good life

And it will continue to be

Until the end

I am slow.  It seems that I’ve always been slow … and that looks like my future too.

These days I’m slow of both body and mind.  It’s not that I can’t think things out.  It has nothing to do with reasoning, with analyzing.  Rather it often feels like there are spaces between my words, a lingering in the conversation.  And it’s not that I’m speaking more slowly. 

Occasionally the letters themselves start separating from each other and float away.  So LOVE may drift off as O … E … V … L – no longer a word.

Perhaps this sounds to you like an emotional breakdown.  It’s not.  Sometimes I’m taken into the sky, watching the alphabet float by.

Much of the time, of course, I’m grounded in the “realities” of daily life.  But then there are those other times!

When poetry replaces prose, as the words bubble up and flow together …

When my feet wander a few centimetres off the ground …

When all of life and its inhabitants pass by in slow motion …

Sometimes I contract, and tell myself to speed up.  But I’m getting better at ignoring that squawking.  There’s a softer voice, with a built-in smile, that wants to be known.

That’s who I trust

I opened my eyes after meditation yesterday afternoon.  Soon the words were on my lips:

Go to a room and love everyone there

And then the room appeared in my mind – Café Barrazza, just off the Langemunt in Gent.

I walked in and sat at my favourite table.  To my left was a snoozing cat named Sam.  He looked so comfy.  I decided to let him be.  Petting would have been mostly for me.  I loved him a metre away.

My server was a nice young man.  I ordered a Westmalle Tripel and a croque monsieur while silently loving him.

There were only two other customers – two guys across the way, fully engaged in their conversation.  I loved them too.

See those picture frames on the far wall?  A young woman walked in and lingered back there, facing left.  She burst into smile, greeting someone hidden from my view, someone I hadn’t noticed.  She opened her arms in greeting and moved towards a hug with the person unknown to me.  I loved the two of them.

A couple sat down to my right, beyond a potted plant.  Their names were Bart and An.  Soon I was playfully complaining that Sam was approaching them, and also the hidden couple … but not me!  We smiled.  And then Sam took up residence on An’s lap.  More Bruce angst.

***

It’s not that I was running out of energy to love all these folks but my beer and sandwich had disappeared, and it felt time to leave.  I put on my coat and stood with my neighbours, whom I had been loving.  They invited me to sit with them and offered to buy me a drink.  I said yes … to the company and to a ginger beer.

After talking about this, that and the other thing, I heard my head ponder telling them why I was at Café Barrazza.  An and Bart were “strangers” but not at all strange.  They were lovely in fact.

So I told them my day’s story, about how I’d been loving them for the last little while.  They were happy I had gone to the truth, and also about the nature of that truth.

I think it was 24 years they’ve been together … and deeply in love.  They live in Antwerp and somewhere else.

I wish I could remember what they said but their words have floated away.  It doesn’t matter.  What was fine is that we connected as human beings, ones who share all the nuances of being alive.  Our stories differed but our hearts were the same – open.  I was happy.

We hugged goodbye, them heading to the train station and me to home.  New friends.

It was an afternoon well spent.  And many other rooms beckon me …

Some human beings leave memories of themselves on the city streets.  The future gazes in wonder at the creations of the past.  And we the future present are richer for it.

Who were the emergers that touch me today?  I say they’re my brothers and sisters across time.  I can’t hold their hands but I can feel their art vibrating … trembling me.

Is there a way we can sit together with our coffee and talk about life?  Can I summon you in my mind?  Will you stay awhile so we can be blessed by each other’s presence?

Yes to all of this … even though your body is no more.

I wandered yesterday and today, looking for beauty brought into the world by hands and hearts.  Here are some things I found.  Gifts given two hundred years ago or perhaps two hundred days …

I know these hands … these faces

It’s a word I’ve mused over for years:

Ethno – classifications of people

Centric – in the centre

As I sit in Gent places, I often feel at home with people who come by.  Cozy and warm. And then there are those other times:

… when I have the experience of being seen as other: a visitor, not a resident; Canadian, not Belgian; English-speaking, not Flemish;  male, not female; old, not young.

I too have a touch of ethnocentrism.  It feels light, porous, flowing.  It’s true that I love my friends far more than the man and woman in the street.  But there’s a different colour of love when I look into public eyes … the beloveds arm-in-arm, big families laughing and strolling, the beggar sheltering from the rain, the well-dressed business person in a big hurry.

I feel the humanity of us all, we of the vastly different life situations but also holding the same joys and sorrows.  There is love in my including.

I meet many people, and some of them are so solid in their living.  Some version of “Us / Them” shouts from every fibre.  I don’t know what it’s like to live in a cloud of “I’m right / You’re wrong”, in “We’re better / You’re worse” … but these are alive in every street, in every café, in many homes.

I choose not to despair.  I choose to live my life as an example of something else.  To include.  To feel our vivid particularities and hold them all.  To embrace my loved ones and smile at the folks I’ve never met (and perhaps am about to).

I like another word …

Worldcentric

Let’s try this one on

I was wandering in Gent centrum yesterday, in the Prinsenhof neighbourhood.

Down one street, I saw two glittering walls ahead.  I was drawn to the beauty …

O my God, I love living here!  Sometimes the art around me is ancient, and sometimes from today.  I am blessed.

I sat down at a pink circle of metal seats around a tree.  And gazed down the street:

Far in the distance was a steeple.  I recognized it … and I couldn’t remember where or what it was.  A smile came.  I fell into a far-off loveliness beyond labels.  Any “should” in the space floated away.

Then more meandering, taking me to one of my favourite hometown bridges.  (Hmm … I just said “hometown”)

A tourist boat, with about twenty open-air human beings, was approaching.  I leaned over, smiled and waved at the visitors, and said “Welcome to Gent!”  Ten or so smiled back.

I took the photo you see about five minutes later, as the boat was returning.

***

I have an idea.  And I will turn it into reality.  A huge part of my life is finding ways to contribute to other people.  How about if I regularly do what I did yesterday – wave to aquatic tourists from bridges?

It will make a difference to some of them.  Five seconds of a friendly face passing overhead.

I’ll do it

It will make me happy

And others as well

On January 28, 2023, my plane from Canada landed in Brussels.  This was it.  I was not coming to visit.  I was coming to live.

I had five pieces of luggage.  My friends Lydia and Lore were meeting me to help with all that stuff.

That day I changed countries.  I didn’t know the journey ahead.

***

On January 28, 2024 I decided to write about my one-year anniversary.  But I was writing a poem that day.  “Tomorrow.”

That night I vomited twice.  Writing anything was a universe away.  “Another tomorrow.”

The second night I vomited ten times.  And then the hospital for three nights.  And then no writing for twelve more days.

On Wednesday (Valentine’s) I had the energy to start again.

And now today.  “What about all those anniversary tomorrows?”

***

You see my apartment on the Oudburg.  My balcony is dead centre in the picture.  I have red, purple, yellow, orange, green and blue walls.  I have a terrace at the back where I watch the seagulls fly above the river that I can’t see.  A few doors down my street is Gregor Samsa – my resting place for playreading with friends, and for concerts.

It’s all here … especially me.  I wonder how this is possible – that I can feel so deeply home here in Gent.  It’s been such a short time compared to my life in Canada.  And yet the new belonging wells up in me.  It’s true and wise.

I drink cappuccinos and watch people, often feeling their joys and sorrows.  I talk to people, look into their eyes, feel their stories.  I walk the streets and find my favourite benches – sometimes perfect for more seagull watching.

I make music … singing, playing the cello, playing the piano.  The melodies live.

I’ve started Level Two of learning Dutch.  It’s so hard for me.  Oh well.  I shall persevere.

I’m no longer searching for Elise (the next love of my life, already named).  She will come into my life when she’s ready, perhaps around some corner in Gent centrum.

I’ve jumped through so many government and company hoops to have my Belgian life work.  Right now I’m impatiently waiting for the news that my visa has been renewed for another year.  Maybe in a week I’ll have good news!

There are jolts, sadnesses, disappointments.  But they are all held within the comfort of my couch, my wonderings about who lives behind far-off windows, and the sweetness of being at home.

As a kid, I knew something was wrong … with my name.  Even though I felt good about there not being a lot of “Bruce”s around, something was missing – syllables!

I complained to my mom:

You only gave me two syllables – “Bruce Kerr”

Looking back, I’m in awe of my ten-year-old brain.  Your normal person doesn’t care about syllables.  Even back then, I was seeping through the walls of “the box” … the expected square life.

Mom wasn’t concerned about my plight.  “It’s a perfectly good name.”

Flash forward forty years.  I had become enamoured with watching European professional cycling on TV.  I had created heroes, and I let myself rise and fall with their successes and failures.

One day an Italian cyclist came into my view.  And there was his name:

Francesco Casagrande

From the ancient recesses of my mind erupted “Seven syllables!”  I was in love.

At this moment, I’m smiling as I think of Francesco and me.  Let his name roll off your tongue.  Doesn’t it give you a thrill?  Or maybe I’m just weird.

I love three-syllable first names.  They undulate.  They flow.  I met my friend Genevieve six years ago.  She introduced herself as “Gen” but I couldn’t say it.  She was immediately “Genevieve” to me.  Today I’ve mellowed.  She still wants to be called “Gen” and I now abide by her request (while whispering “Genevieve” under my breath).

There’s another name I’m partial to: Elise.  She may look like two syllables but there really are three.  There’s an “uh” at the end.  I wonder why I love that name so much. 

Hmm …

***

I have a request of you.  If your first name has one syllable or two, get it legally changed to three.  Please.

And … feel free to ignore me