The painting captures the current state of my mind.  On one hand, there’s a royalty in my daily life, a feeling of standing tall, seeing life big, all dressed up for a party.  I see the beauty in the folks passing by.  My eyes are soft.

Then there is the bowed head.  I’m finding the Dutch lessons so difficult, so humbling.  But the space is somehow rich within the “not knowing” and the “not being good” at something.  There is a gift being extended amid the confusion and angst.

Most of the time I can’t understand what the teacher Isabel is saying.  I catch lots of words but I don’t discover the sentences that tie them together.  I’m not making meaning.

In my skewed perception, I see every other student nodding agreement with her and engaging in the conversations.  And then there’s me.

During the break in class today, Isabel told me that my integration counsellor had put me in the “fast Dutch” class, perhaps because of my university education.  Woh!  That was a mistake.  She will look to see if there’s a slower class that I can transfer into.  Or should I stay in this one, absorbing what I can?

I panicked today in the discussion about numbers.  How wondrous that numbers in English roll off my tongue but ones in Dutch stick in my throat.  Actually, what else would I expect?  I’m a virgin in this world.

After writing this, and letting in the words “Don’t panic”, I’m experiencing what I told you about a few days ago as I look out at the street full of strolling people.  I see the words “I love you” in my head but when I try to say them internally, I can’t get past the “I”.  How can it be that this spaciousness comes calling soon after I was lost in class?

It’s all such a mystery.

***

Wow … what just happened?  I’ve slipped into “Poor me”, something I’ve vowed never to do.  To snap out of it, I choose to let my eyes rest on each face that enters the coffee shop or strolls outside. I’ll get back to you in ten minutes …

***

Ahh … the wonder of all these human beings – happy/sad, young/old, male/female.  Each with a silent story.  I feel raised up.  Now to the gym for an hour of strength training.  Then home for an hour of Dutch. 

I will prevail

I will thrive

As the roller coaster rolls …

Sometimes it feels like my whole life is new. So many startings and re-startings. I’d say it’s time to tell you how I’m doing.

1. Singing and Playing Paint the Sky With Stars

I wrote two days ago about my efforts here, and included a video of the song. The melody changed a lot when this stanza showed up:

Who has placed the midnight sky
So a spirit has to fly?
As the heavens seem so far
Who will paint the midnight star?

On the word “star”, the tune changed keys … and I found the chord I needed. Yay! The stickler was the second “who”. The melody was on the C note, but I couldn’t find the chord to go with it. My ear and my brain were having an argument … and it went on and on.

I listened and listened to Enya singing the piece. I found the guitar chords on the Chordify app.

The bottom line? I persisted for over an hour. I played the C chord but my ear said no. I tried a few minor (sad) chords but Paint the Sky is joyful, not melancholic.

Finally I saw that I’d really been playing the F chord (it has C in it). The true C chord at first felt wrong but repeating the stanza many times finally showed me it was correct. My ear had to be trained!

The lesson is clear as I contemplate other songs I want to sing: “Don’t give up!” Works well for the rest of life too.

2. Cello

My cello teacher is having me do technical exercises, including these:

It’s a world away from playing a simple sweet melody. Once I master control of the bow and fingers and shoulder (as well as the mind), the melodies played will be far sweeter.

Right now many of the sounds I’m creating are God awful. My right arm feels weak when I’m bowing on the highest string (A). Ahh … this ties in nicely to challenge number 3!

See the line of music where there’s a 3 above a 4? Go to the right end of that line. There you’ll see notes that start at a low pitch, climb to a high pitch and then fall back down. Oh my God, that’s difficult! Bad sounds, tired arm and a little smile. I’m on the road.

3. Strength Training at the Gym

There I was yesterday at Basic-Fit, gazing at the circle of machines with my exercise log sheet from Canada. Nine exercises. Would I find the nine machines?

I did.

I was armed with long ago memories of doing too much too soon and staying away from the gym for many days while the pain receded. So I started very slowly. “Twenty pounds isn’t very much” > “Too bad for you. That’s the resistance we’re doing.” > “Okay.”

I couldn’t figure out how the triceps extension machine worked. The instructions were in French. I saw a friendly-looking guy who was taking a break between sets on another machine. I asked him. He smiled and got to work – demonstrating and coaching me with the subtleties of form. I wasn’t alone in my quest!

I completed my circle of nine, giving myself lots of time to rest. I’m pleased. And there are a few other machines I may add in time.

4. Dutch

I feel like a “stranger in a strange land”, but only with respect to this language learning. I love Ghent.

We had online homework which I finally completed this morning with ample help from Google Translate. For instance, my job was to answer questions about this letter. Some words have sunk in. Many haven’t. And that’s okay.

I’m inching closer to the time when I’ll be able to have a simple Dutch conversation with some old man who doesn’t speak English. On that day, home will be even richer.

***

And there we have it!

Bruce is morphing

My life is two huge beginnings – living in Belgium and learning Dutch. It’s also a bunch of re-beginnings – being on the elliptical (cross-trainer) at the gym, stretching at the gym, playing the cello, playing the piano, playing the guitar, learning and singing songs.

How about one more?

Strength training. I know how important it is. It’s essential for me to reach my main fitness goal: continuing to live in my apartment until I’m 90, which means climbing the five flights of stairs to reach my home.

Fitness machines await me at Basic-Fit. Voilà:

They’re arranged roughly in a circle. I like circles … and I love orange. Can’t you hear them calling? “Bruce! Please come here.”

Later this morning, I will.

For many years I had a Bowflex strength training machine in my basement. I waxed and waned in my commitment to climb on board.

This morning I lay in bed thinking about getting stronger. During my cello lesson on Thursday, I noticed that I couldn’t maintain the proper bow position on the highest string (the A). The brace on my thumb is helping but the whole arm is weak when rotated like this. So the sounds up high were squeaky.

My morning musings brought me back to the exercise log sheet that I used to fill in during my Bowflex sessions. I gave the machine away before I left Canada.

Did I throw away the exercise sheets? I tried to remember back to spring 2022 when I was letting go of most of my worldly belongings. What was my mind saying then?

Those sheets are part of your past … let them go

It’s not like you’re saying goodbye to fitness … keep the sheets

Upon rising, the second thing I did was go to my remaining three cardboard boxes from Canada and start digging. And guess what I found?

Yay for foresight! And I even saved some blank copies of the form. I can begin again.

So cool. I don’t have to start at square one. I can find Basic-Fit machines for each exercise. The weights listed will be far more than I can manage now, but so what?

Twenty-four sheets, each with six days of strength exercising. Okay, I used to be committed. I can be committed again. It looks like I was regular until November, 2021 … so I’ve been on a two-year hiatus.

That ends today.

***

My arms, legs, heart and lungs are thanking me

Enya writes songs.  She sings those songs.  And she breathes life into them.

As my mind continues to float free, I want to bring this space to singing and playing piano.  What will that be like?  What will be transmitted in words and melody?  Will I soar?

Yes … I’m soaring now.  The people walking by the window are blessed expressions of Spirit.

There are about sixty-five songs I want to learn and sing for the world.  One of them is Enya’s Paint The Sky With Stars.  This afternoon I will sit at the piano with the lyrics.  I will begin.  May the length and breadth still be here.  May these words shimmer:

Suddenly before my eyes
Hues of indigo arise
With them how my spirit sighs
Paint the sky with stars

Only night will ever know
Why the heavens never show
All the dreams there are to know
Paint the sky with stars

Who has placed the midnight sky
So a spirit has to fly?
As the heavens seem so far
Who will paint the midnight star?

Night has brought to those who sleep
Only dreams they cannot keep
I have legends in the deep
Paint the sky with stars

Who has placed the midnight sky
So a spirit has to fly?
As the heavens seem so far
Who will paint the midnight star?

Place a name upon the night
One to set your heart alight
One to make the darkness bright
Paint the sky with stars

I’ll let you know what happens.

***

I’m smiling. I had my moments in the playing and singing, moments when my heart was rising. Stanzas 1, 2, 4 and 6 were easy for my fingers – right hand melody and left hand chords. I sang the words I was reading on my phone. And I played in the key of F, which let my voice go low. The throat and the piano often vibrated in unison … and something beyond took over. The words of the song lit up. And the grand expanse of the last few days was with me.

I couldn’t figure out a chord for stanzas 3 and 5 so it was all focus and problem-solving. If I had tried, “I love you” would have been easily spoken in my head.

So … a beginning, one that was far beyond memorizing words and piano notes. The mechanics will come. Far more importantly, someday soon life will flow between performer and listener.

Here is Paint The Sky With Stars:

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=fI_sBqAsItk&si=o8BgLyJGuNg6fhFv

Yes, I could write about something different but the events of the last two days are still alive in me.  So I continue the story …

I went to The Cobbler for breakfast this morning.  People walking by were still my loved ones.  They were shining.  There was no forcing, no intending.  The softness was simply there.  It was a mist … descending on us all.

I drank in the faces – all shapes, colours and expressions.  Everyone was lovely.  Everyone … even those who were trying to be distant or nasty.

Several pretty young women strolled along.  My eyes rested on theirs.  I didn’t migrate down to their breasts or legs.  There was no need to.  The soul was enough.

Then in The Cobbler.  A woman sat at a window table:

I loved her from afar.  We hadn’t met and probably never will.  But she was mine in the morning.  I delighted in her presence.  Again the words “I love you” were painted in my mind and again the silent speaking could only get to the beginning of “I”.

I tried to stop the vastness, so I’d be able to say the entire sentence in my head.  I blinked several times.  The space would not stop.  I couldn’t remove the beloved from my heart.  I sat in awe.  “What is happening to me?”

Later I was with my friends Geert and Arjen, still floating … entwining.  When I was talking, saying the entire “I love you” was available.  When one of them was speaking, they were God.  The softness was back.  It was especially strong when they were conversing in Dutch.  I knew nothing of the words and everything of the spirit.

This is all unbidden.  I just find myself in the middle of something so soft, so wide open, so far beyond my brain.

Now I’m alone in my living room, tapping away on my phone.  No one else is here and yet the pausing of time is still with me.

***

There is love

The world is glowing

I wanted this post to be about “I’m feeling this right now,” not a day or a minute in the past.  Alas that was not to be. 

Three hours ago, I was deep inside something stunning.  If you read my post yesterday, you’ll sense what’s been happening in my mind.  There’s often a wordless exploding of love in all directions.

I just got off a Zoom call with thirty-five folks.  The connection was vivid across our screen rectangles and the residue of love is still with me, but it’s far less intense that it was when I was gazing at human beings sitting in a Ghent café or walking by.  The photo can’t capture the volume of the moment which resided in my head.

I’m disappointed that I’m not living the shock and awe of a few hours ago. C’est la vie. What I do have is a memory of something Thomas Merton said years ago. He was an American Trappist monk and theologian:

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world …

This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud. I have the immense joy of being man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now that I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.

Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time.

***

Two people

Separated by decades

Joined in the heart

It’s “elephant in the room” time again.  Sure, I could write about this morning’s music theory lesson, and I could have made it interesting for you.  But something is happening to my mind.

I decided this morning that I wouldn’t tell anyone.  Strangely I have re-decided.  I’m afraid.  Because I think …

Nobody will understand

People will think I’m weird

And stay away

Ahh … but the truth wins.

About a year ago the words “I love you” kept entering my head, usually not directed towards any certain person.  Occasionally, when the words fell on someone’s face, my “I love you” thought came into view but I couldn’t get past the “I” in my silent speaking.  I couldn’t think the rest of it.

Very strange.  “What’s going on?”

***

For the last week, this experience has been with me for much of the day.  I look at someone (actually anyone) and start saying the words.  A tiny “I” and that’s it.  The universe is here.  A grand love is here.  And mostly I’ve never seen these people before.  I even changed the sentence to “Nice to see you” and all that came in thought was “Ni …”.

When I have a purpose as I talk to someone, there is no immensity. At the Hema cafeteria this morning, I asked an employee for some yogurt with mango and strawberries. There was no giant pause, no being overwhelmed by something so unknown.

When my music theory teacher was explaining something in Dutch and I wasn’t understanding anything, the flow of connection returned. I also felt it (without turning around) when a student behind me asked a question. The words were lost on me but there was melody in her voice.

Now I’m alone in the laundromat, watching my clothes spin around. Any sentence that comes into my head is easily expressed internally.

Now I hear a voice singing at the far end of the room. She is shielded from my eyes by a wall. My silent words evaporate once more.

I’m not interested in figuring this out. Who cares if some profound psychological principle is at work? What I’m experiencing is here. It could retreat in the next moment and never return. Or it could be with me for the rest of my life.

In an hour I begin a long journey … learning Dutch.  I don’t have a photo to show you now, but I will – the cover page of the textbook.

I told Lydia that I’d seen the class list.  There are ten men and eight women, and every woman is named “Elise”.  (I’ve determined that the next love of my life will be called Elise, even though I haven’t met her yet.  So I’ll have lots of choice in class!)

***

It’s such a lovely half-hour walk to school. Much of it borders the river. And cyclists are heading to and fro to school or work. Ghent is alive!

***

It’s 8:40.  I’m sitting in Room 13.  No one else is.  Hmm …

8:50. Now there are thirteen. Isabel and twelve of us adult students. A whirlwind of learning is about to take off.

The course is thoroughly conversational and after today no English will be spoken. It’s deep end stuff.

I’m by far the oldest student, and it shows. Over the two-and-a-half hours, the book throws lots of questions at us and Isabel is 1-1 with each of us. In one memorable moment, she asks me:

Uit welk land kom jij?

And I softly stare. I couldn’t remember the question and thus the answer (which is “Canada”). Despite the moment of emptiness, I see the road ahead. I’ll keep walking.

Someday soon all of this will be so easy:

Dag. Hoe gaat het?

Welke taal spreek jij?

Hoe kom jij naar school?

We learned each other’s names and I actually had my first conversations! They were error-filled and silence-filled but so what? We’re in the game together.

I can feel us already being a group, cheering everybody on. We all speak English but it’s the mother tongue for only two of us. Isabel put up a map of the world and we each came to the front to point out our homeland. The map zoomed in to show cities and we shared those too. So cool. Here’s where we’re from:

Bangladesh
Thailand
Australia
Canada
Dominican Republic
South Korea
The Philippines
Ethiopia
Colombia
Argentina
Japan
China

The world!

Here we come, all you native Dutch speakers!

P.S. There are nine women in the class, none named Elise

Lydia and I went for a walk yesterday on the small roads near her farm. We were quiet. It was simple, ordinary, lovely.

We’re coming up on the one-year anniversary of Jo’s death – her husband and my friend. I decided to let Lydia take the lead in our conversation.

We talked about the crops planted nearby. The wide open spaces of her home. Smiles about the people in our lives. Jo was with us, just not in our words.

There is a peace in two friends walking in silence. No expectation of profound thoughts expressed. Happy in the warmth.

It was a long walk. I was getting tired on the rolling roads. I didn’t expect that would happen, and I was sad about becoming older. Once, after a nice sit on a tussock of grass, Lydia offered to help me up.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Bruce …”

I gave in, with a tiny nod. There was a sweetness in the weakness, an admission that things are slowing down. I felt a part of all the human lives that play out across the globe. All was well.

At one point, Lydia asked me what was the happiest moment of my life. What came was a 20-year-old man reaching the peak of Mount Lineham in Waterton Lakes National Park. Oh … the vista of snowy peaks that surrounded me!

Lydia’s moment was giving birth to her son Baziel while singing Dos Gardenias.

And the quiet returned …

Comfy

Together

Take two Belgian cyclists. The one on the left is Eddy Merckx. He rode professionally from 1965 till 1978 and won hundreds of races. Eddy was a serious type. Then there’s Roger De Vlaeminck. He rode from 1969 till 1984. Roger definitely had a sense of humour.

Rouleur magazine had a story to tell:

It was the 1970 Tour of Lombardy in Italy. Roger and Eddy were riding in a big group of cyclists (the peleton). Roger announced that he had to pee. He’d ride ahead into the upcoming tunnel, do his business and then rejoin the pack.

Off he went. As the peleton later flowed through the tunnel, guess what? No Roger.

Merckx was livid. His great rival had lied. He’d entered the tunnel and then attacked (rode faster to get ahead of the group). Cheater! As the riders emerged into daylight, Merckx ordered the other riders on his team to speed up. I bet his language was … colourful.

Mr. De Vlaeminck, however, had hid himself and his bike in bushes past the far end of the tunnel, enjoying the spectacle of the peleton riding merrily by.

Man, they were going at nearly 60 km/h. At first, I had to dig deep to rejoin. Little by little – it must have taken half an hour – I moved up, until I suddenly found myself next to Merckx.

“Hey, Eddy, who is off the front?” I asked.

You should have seen his face. Priceless. As if he’d seen a ghost.

***

Oh, Roger …

I love you