In my Canadian home, several of my lights had a dimmer switch. Turn the knob to subdue the brightness, to soften.
In my Belgian home, I had an electrician install globe lights in four ceilings. When the question of dimmers came to my mind, the immediate answer was No. “If I want a romantic glow, I’ll use candles.”
The image of dimming is useful to me. I don’t want it. Right now, though, I’m physically dim. My doctor says I’ll be back to full strength in two or three weeks. I patiently wait for the dancing and the cross-trainer to return. Spiritually I’m soaring.
And now the thoughts of others:
David Francey said this in song …
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
My friend Noreen is a nun in The Sisters of Charity of Jesus and Mary. We’re taking the Social Integration Course, which teaches us about Belgian society. And she invited me to lunch. She’s the one dressed in blue and white.
A few sisters spoke some English but mostly we smiled at each other. I was invited to sit on the honoured guest chair at the dining table. A welcome sign sat with me.
It was quiet and sweetly vibrating in the convent. A place of rest, of contemplation, of prayer. Like home.
The meal was delicious, especially the traditional Belgian stew – stoofvlees. A marvelous sweet sauce.
Noreen showed me the sisters’ two chapels:
The first was grand and silent. The second would be my place of meditation. Comfy.
When Noreen and I approached a doorway, she paused and extended her arm, inviting me to go ahead. I have been well schooled in “Ladies first” so Noreen’s gesture took a few seconds for me to absorb. But then it was “of course” … a request is made and that request is honoured.
In the bathroom, I discovered another reality: the toilet seat wouldn’t stay up. I smiled. Very few men grace the convent.
Two days ago I wrote about the poet Walt Whitman. I’m in awe of how he could express beauty in so few words. I want to do that too.
Words now come into my head:
I don’t knowhow
It feels like that’s the wrong conversation. I don’t want to dive into a book called “How To Write Great Poetry”, or any other resource. I don’t want to consult experts from academia. Strangely, I don’t even want to talk to poets.
Well, well … it seems that I don’t know what I want. All right. I can live with that.
Do I need my poetry to be “good”? No. And I don’t even know what that means.
***
After a pause that refreshes, I’m back.
It feels simple, really. I want to express. Pick a venue, a medium … that might be me. I want the energy to flow from my heart and find its way into the air through the pores of my body, from my mouth, from my hands.
In my better moments, I don’t care what comes back. I want to go forward to. I want to love.
In the spirit of truth, however, I want to be loved while I love. But if that doesn’t happen, I will still love.
***
Oops. Love talk is so distracting. I’m pretty sure I was talking about writing poetry (which is love).
Tomorrow in this space I will write a poem. So there. There will be a new collection of words in the universe, one without punctuation, perhaps one without premeditated thought. I pray that at least one person out there in the WordPress and Facebook worlds will be touched. That will be enough.
Please note: This post is about my friend Chris but he didn’t want me to take his picture. So I included one of his brother instead.
***
It’s no small thing changing countries. I’ve needed generous people to help me. Such as my immigration lawyer Amira. Without her I’d be talking to you from Toronto, Canada.
And then there’s Chris. In December, 2022 he and I were at the same Christmas party near Oudenaarde. I knew him a bit.
I had been back and forth between Canada and Belgium, doing what was needed to set up my apartment in Gent. My visa had been approved! Soon I had to return to Canada, surrender my passport and wait until the visa had been attached and the passport mailed back to me in Canada. Then I could fly to Europe … no longer a tourist.
IKEA furniture had arrived but I couldn’t figure out some of the instructions for assembly. More crucially, I had bought an old bed for my guest room that had a bowed wire mesh structure holding the mattress. Unsleepable. I’d bought a modern support system that looked like Venetian blinds but the old and young looked incompatible to my virgin eyes.
As we sat in the living room at the party, I asked “Does anyone know someone who can help me fix things in my apartment?”
Chris spoke up immediately:
“I do. Me.”
I stared for a few seconds. “Thank you.”
And so it began. Someone I barely knew invested hours of visits to help me. Such a big soul. He was a YES … untouched by being busy, having future complications, or becoming tired of helping. Just a soft nod of the head. A “you can count on me” commitment.
And so I am blessed. Others have also stepped forward in kindness … supporting me when I’m weak, celebrating when I’m strong.
Sometimes when I write, I take a lot of words to reach what I want to say. That’s okay … at least I express what’s true for me, rather than simply being in the neighbourhood.
I admire people who can get to the spiritual point in just a few seconds, people who can touch me deeply in an instant.
Take my friend, Walt, for instance. Walt Whitman was an American poet and journalist living in the 1800s. He was a free spirit, licking his lips in a sensual explosion of life.
Here are seven words:
We were together … I forget the rest
O my God. Waydago, Walt. You nailed it
Please let those words wash over you. I could wax poetic about “the meaning” but no thanks. Your spirit will respond.
Long ago, some forgotten human being of my past gave me nourishment for the rest of my life with only two words:
Welcome everything
Well, my unknown benefactor, you gave me an immense gift
***
And now back to Walt. Let these gems seep inside:
Re-examine all that you have been told … dismiss that which insults your soul
Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes
Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes
What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life
Your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body
At 5:30 yesterday, the kids played their concert – five girls ranging from about 7 to 13. I know three of them because their Thursday lesson starts after mine ends. Liara always gives me riddles, most of which I have no idea how to solve.
I loved watching them play, and applauding them at the end of each piece. I started the cello when I was 12. Makes me smile.
Liara, Luna and Ana played “Latin Nights” – the same as I would an hour later. I watched them move to fourth position, extend the first finger back to make the sound a half-tone lower, soar in volume and speed as the piece rushed to the end. I was proud of them, imagining myself as grandpa.
As the kids and their family members left, I gulped. Soon my friend Rani would be arriving to cheer me on. I didn’t want to disappoint her.
Cellists kept opening the door, with their instrument sturdy on their back. More gulping. Then it hit me … the audience would mostly be made up of cello players, people who could see my every little mistake. Sweat insisted on covering my forehead.
Rani arrived. I admitted that I was far more nervous than excited. Hadn’t expected the volume of terror. She was with me.
A half-hour before concert time, players took turns coming up onstage to rehearse with Frederick, the piano accompanist.
Lieven, my teacher, kept saying things to us in Dutch, which I didn’t understand. Finally I asked Rani what he was saying. “He’s asking who wants to rehearse.” Oh. I thought he was calling certain people to the stage.
I put up my hand before the dread completely took over. Soon I was dipsy doodling (a technical term) between bodies, chairs and cellos. The stage was getting closer.
And there I was, facing a small sea of professional musicians. Yes … that was completely inaccurate – we’re all cello students. But my rattled mind couldn’t tell the difference.
Frederick started his piano introduction and my left index finger was poised to extend backwards on the A string. My heart was similarly poised – in my throat. If you had asked at that moment, I probably couldn’t have remembered my name.
I played badly. Wrong notes, squeaky on the strings, the timing off. But mostly I kept the passion I had promised. Keep your word, Bruce! And I survived. As I worked my way towards the back of the room, I noticed I was still alive. The musical Gods had not struck me down.
Rani was kind. She heard “musicality”in my playing. But I barely heard her. I was overwhelmed. I so wanted my playing to reach the audience, in a tender and expansive way. And it hadn’t.
At some point in the proceedings, as I tried to get my head and heart together, my right hand started shaking.
Don’t let Rani see that!
But she did, and apparently didn’t consider it a problem.
And then the concert. My two cello classmates and I were invited up onto the stage. Brend and Sarah are my buddies. We want the best for each other.
Brend played. I (and all of us) applauded. Sarah played. Thumbs up to you, my friend. And then … moi!
I looked out at the audience with a wee smile. I saw cellists willing me on. I saw Rani at the back, sending me support. I heard Frederick starting his intro …
I played pretty well – far better than the rehearsal. My notes were mostly right. I let vibrato appear in my left hand. I went soft and very slow when that’s what the music wanted. I let the crescendo come and I matched Frederick pretty well as we sped up to the finish.
And the passion was there. Also the smile that showed up about ten bars from the end.
The audience applauded. Inside, so did I. I had kept my word.
I told Rani this:
Just that I’m doing it may inspire people. If I can be brave enough to do my thing, maybe they can be brave enough to do theirs
Well, here I am … about five hours away from playing “Latin Nights” in a cello concert performed by the students of Lieven Baert. Both kids and adults will grace the stage tonight. May we all be cheered on.
I’m nervous. I told people yesterday that I was more excited than nervous but now it’s the opposite. Oh well. I’ll just celebrate my shaking. It’s a part of me, as deserving of love as my kindness.
I said to a friend yesterday that I promise to play with passion tonight. I’ll try to make a nice sound, hit the right notes … but that’s secondary.
It would be a huge triumph if I smile while the cello soars through “Latin Nights”. The joy of playing is the thing. Reaching people within our shared love of music is a second cool thing. Being meekly accurate with the notes doesn’t appeal. My mistakes tonight will be with gusto! An exclamation mark or five.
What if I smile while I’m bowing a wrong note, or while there’s a screech rather than a rich tone? That would be awesome (not that I’ll go seeking such mistakes).
There’s a wide open sky available to me tonight … so far beyond “playing well”.
I see myself as a spiritual person … but sometimes I blow it.
As I walked into a coffee shop yesterday, I recognized the barista. Last time I was in, he played this awful rap song. The driving beat intruded on my sipping. I asked him to change the music and he did.
More rap as I approached the counter this time. Perhaps an evolved person would let the music wash over him like a spring rain. That wasn’t me. I started ranting about creating a calm atmosphere. (Hmm … that’s quite the contrast.)
He said he was willing to put on new music but I wasn’t listening. I wanted to make him wrong. I wanted to amp up my rant.
Oh, Bruce, this isn’t you. Where did yougo?
Except at that moment it was me. I wasn’t such a nice guy after all.
I was educated that the rap song was the only one on a playlist that the coffee place used. My timing on the two visits had been horrible.
Not willing to learn, or even listen, I grabbed my still-to-be-filled reusable mug and stormed out of the shop.
I had walked maybe thirty metres down the street when Spirit hit me between the eyes:
“Stop.”
I did.
“Think.”
I did.
“Go back and apologize.”
(Sigh) I did.
***
“I’m sorry. I apologize. I was scared that it would be rap song after rap song. I wouldn’t listen to you when you said that there was only one of them on the playlist.”
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