I live in a human city. Usually, when I’m sitting in a café, and I say something to the folks at the table beside, they smile and respond. Lovely. That’s where I want to call home.
In my travels, I’ve discovered another clue:
Are there lots of places to sit?
Public spots, unattached to a café or restaurant. Vantage points from which to see the world and its inhabitants, and feel into their lives.
Ghent is such a city
Here are twelve photos for human beings … like you and me. Perhaps you’ll join me someday on one of these chairs. Or maybe not. We’ll talk. Or maybe not.
Or perhaps it’ll just be me, living these words that I love:
In May I told you about my obsession with analyzing the ongoing quality of my life – daily if not hourly checking how well or poorly I’m doing in the moment. Yuck!
I said that I would let go of two examples of seeking continuous improvement:
How well I slept, asmeasured by my Polar watch
How many views I get for these posts, as measured by WordPress stats
You’ll be happy to know that not once since returning from Senegal have I poured over daily sleep stats. Before then it was hit and miss. There were four variables that I tracked … and I can’t remember three of them! See how important they were?
That’s the easy part. Now for the number of views I get on WordPress. Over these years of writing, has my self-esteem been so fragile that 50 views means I’m good and 10 views means I’m bad? Since I’ve been well programmed by decades of society to keep things hidden, I’ll now refuse to answer the question.
…
All right – I can’t stand this. The answer to the question is too often yes. So much for whatever maturity is.
I’ve written on here about me glimpsing a new realm where it doesn’t matter what comes back from the world … only what I put into it. Sadly, that hasn’t been my history.
My recent experiment of not viewing WordPress statistics has been difficult. The groove of needing others’ approval has been worn deep. My experiment since May had been a failure up until about a week ago.
“Come hell or high water, I’m not looking at those numbers.” And I didn’t, even though my right index finger was twitching! Such an ordeal to let my writing stand on its own, unaffected by public participation.
Then there was two nights ago. Sometime during the ordeal of hospital – home – hospital, the fear of dying in my sleep took me. I needed something to gladden my fragile heart.
I chose WordPress views. Somewhere far away, a voice told me not to give in to bad moments, to keep my word. But that voice was a whisper. I clicked and clicked.
It was a consolation … a tepid source of happiness that is really no happiness at all.
Okay … here I am in my 70s. The body doesn’t always work right. No “Poor Me”. It’s just what’s so.
Two nights ago, an hour after supper, I felt something I didn’t recognize – my throat was tightening. Then I’d belch a few times and it loosened, gradually followed by a retightening. I took two antacid pills and eventually fell asleep.
Yesterday evening I was watching the third Mission Impossible movie, fantasizing about being Tom Cruise. I heard my voice say “Why not have an Avocat?” It’s a thick yellow and delicious liqueur. A few sips later my throat again. My esophagus was being coated. More antacids, more burping, needing to swallow every ten seconds.
I often get scared when my body reacts. A few months ago, I was choking in a Ghent restaurant – no air, probable death I unreasoned. Many years ago in Canada I twice had a procedure where a balloon is inserted in the esophagus and inflated. Both times it opened things up nicely.
I lay down on my bed, wondering what Tom Cruise would do. No sleep. I panicked. “What happens if the saliva keeps building up when I’m asleep? Do I die?” (Oh, Bruce … please grow up sometime)
12:30. “Go to Emergency” > “It’s not an emergency” > “Go! You’re not a doctor”
There’s a hospital a 15-minute walk from home – AZ Sint-Lucas. I thought they had an Emergency Department. But I didn’t know the Flemish word. I was navigating Google Maps with a crazy mind.
Spoed! I created the route you see, starting on the Oudburg at the grey dot and ending at Emergency. The blue route was fastest. “Why isn’t there a direct route? What’s wrong with Google Maps?”
Nothing. I needed to do what was being asked.
The world was quiet and dark as I walked, swallowing all the while. Next was a kind receptionist, a kind nurse and a kind doctor – all women. They calmed me down. The doctor gave me the phone number of a gastrointestinal specialist and told me to come back if the swallowing effort became more intense. I’ll make an appointment on Wednesday since Tuesday (today) is a holiday.
3:30 … to bed. A very active throat for three hours, no sleep.
Clothes back on. Again through the streets – now lightening.
Lying in a hospital bed awaiting the doctor. Here comes Pedro, and I immediately got it: he’ll do everything in his power to help me. As I told him my story, the blossoming of saliva was accompanied by nausea, dizziness and a loose selection of words.
I asked Pedro about my fear of dying if I fell asleep with growing saliva in my mouth. No judgment from him, just knowledge: the body’s gag reflex will prevent that from happening. And such empathy from the young man. Human beings are good.
Now for the tests: four blood samples, ECG, scans of my lungs and throat. An IV drip, something for the nausea.
And two hours to wait for the results. I asked for a blanket and did my best imitation of a fetus. Cozy, covered to the chin, SAFE.
First I lay on my back. At least ten times I nodded off and then sprang alert seconds (?) later. On my side was far better and soon I was off to uninterrupted dreamland.
Pedro came to visit and didn’t wake me as I slept. A good man. The second time I was awake and he told me that all my test results were good. Yay! But something is going on with the gastrointestinal system and hence the specialist appointment.
***
It’s hours later now. I’m sad that I’m old now, and that my night was a mess. And I’m happy to be Bruce in the universe.
Today I’ve eaten sole for lunch and sushi for dinner. No saliva building. No constant swallowing. A deep sleep hopefully awaits …
Someone other than me took this photo two days ago … but I was there! This is my neighbourhood street festival that was loud and strong all weekend. If you look at the top right corner of the blue-black sky, you’ll see the black railing of my balcony.
You’re right … there’s not much space to move, but O my God I loved the crowds. Thousands of smiles flowing by – families, friends, strangers – celebrating life.
The restaurants and cafés were as packed as the streets. Three times I just sat with my beer or coffee and watched the infinite expressions of peoplehood. So cool.
And then there was last night, on a so-called “quiet” street a few hundred metres from the Oudburg. Voilà:
I sat with brand new friends, Flemish to the bone with a touch of English. I cradled my Duvel beer and Belgian hot dog. We laughed. Hundreds of us were crammed into the little square, welcoming the music of a local ragtime group.
Those musicians were brilliant players of the trumpet, trombone, clarinet, piano, drums and double bass. Each solo was followed by generous applause from we the audience. My favourite was the bass player. How can a hand move so deftly on that long, long fingerboard?
In front of the stage and to the side, couples danced their rear ends off, including two guys who had no fear. The music lifted us all.
I sat with a man, a woman and a man. No romance … they were friends. I tried getting them to snuggle some, which led to raucous laughter. The Canadian/Gentian was being included.
What if I had a pure day, not with respect to what comes my way, but how I react to it all? What if I was committed to having every minute be an expression of my essence? What if I let go of anything “extra” to how I want to be in life?
My small mind says that’s impossible, offering a host of “What if’s”. But often the large mind is resident in my head, and stays open to the infinite.
Last night I walked across the street and sat on the terrace of Yo’s Place. Settling in with my Maredsous beer, I began talking to a couple who moved from Wales to Ghent two years ago. And then here comes another couple, from Quebec in Canada.
As the conversation began flowing, I said a few things but something seemed off. The topics came fast, and centered on government and culture in the two countries. That was okay but the words seemed wrapped in an attitude. “I know things. I know a lot of things.” The man of one couple and the woman of the other looked to be competing, dancing on the edge of “I’m right.”
So tiresome.
I went silent and turned my chair slightly away from the flurry of words and towards the flow of humanity on the Oudburg. It didn’t serve my soul to participate in this discussion, or to pretend I was involved. I meant no ill will to the four but I needed to detach from this world of opinion.
Half-an-hour later, having spent good time feeling into the women, men and children of the street, I wondered if my “sort of” companions were thinking badly of me. As in “He sure turned unfriendly.” If that’s what they were thinking, I accept that. It wasn’t true, however. I simply needed to protect myself from a toxin.
When I felt it was time to go, I turned towards my neighbours, smiled and said that I was glad we met. I invited them to come to a guitar concert that started in an hour further down the street. They all smiled back and extended their hands. We ended well.
***
I sat down in the Gregor Samsa bookshop, awaiting the arrival of the guitarist. My friend Anouk and I talked of real things, such as how it was for her a few days ago singing solo rather than with her band. And how it was for me to sign up yesterday for an in-person Dutch language class starting in September. Then we wondered how life would be for each of us in ten years. It was real. I was home.
The electric guitarist began. His instrument pierced me … so loud! I had been to the Core techno festival armed with earplugs and in a park. Last night was in a small room with no earplugs.
At the end of the first (painful) piece, I asked him to turn the amp down a little. “It’s hurting my ears.”
He did an adjustment.
“How’s that?” > Still way too loud
And then a moment of truth …
(Shaking my head) “I’ll go.”
The performer thanked me for coming. I smiled at him. I said goodnight to Anouk and Harry, the owner of Gregor Samsa.
Something is happening with my appreciation of tennis. One perspective is leaving … another is deepening.
For years I’ve picked my favourite players, usually based on whether they’re a nice person, or whether they’re Canadian. I elevate them to heights unseen, needing them to win. In the process I turn their opponent into a “thing”, some solid object that’s getting in the way of my hero.
How sad. How myopic of me. We’re all marvelous sources of life. “Where have your eyes been, Bruce?”
A few days ago, I was following the scores of Leylah Fernandez’s match on my phone. The tournament in Montreal, Canada was not shown on Belgian TV. There I was, staring at the tiny screen, waiting for the numbers to change. Hypnotized.
During the hour of glazed eyes, I never woke up to the sadness of my action. A day later, I did.
I thought once again about a sweet book: The Inner Game of Tennis, written by Timothy Gallwey. A fresh perspective revisited.
Here’s my favourite quote from Timothy:
Once one recognizes the value of having difficult obstacles to overcome, it is a simple matter to see the true benefit that can be gained from competitive sports.
In tennis who is it that provides a person with the obstacles he needs in order to experience his highest limits? His opponent, of course!
Then is your opponent a friend or an enemy?He is a friend to the extent that he does his best to make things difficult for you. Only by playing the role of your enemy does he become your true friend. Only by competing with you does he in fact cooperate!
In this use of competition, it is the duty of your opponent to create the greatest possible difficulties for you, just as it is yours to try to create obstacles for him. Only by doing this do you give each other the opportunity to find out to what heights each can rise.
Thank you, Timothy. What if it doesn’t matter who wins the match? What if a 6-0, 6-0 win (or loss) puts the fans to sleep? What if my opponent stretches me beyond what I’ve known by the brilliance of his strokes? What if I discover something “beyond” while watching an epic struggle between two evenly matched players?
“The name Amal is primarily a female name of Arabic origin that means hope, expectation.”
Perfect for what my morning has been about. Weeks ago I received a letter from “Amal”, including an English version. Was this an organization? A company? They were welcoming me to Ghent and Belgium, offering Dutch language classes and an integration course.
England and Senegal intervened and my curiosity faded away.
But now I’m back. Googling Amal gave me a raft of rave reviews. Amal is an organization funded by the Flanders Government that offers free services to newcomers. Wow!
After breakfast at nearby Franz Gustav, I sauntered down the Kongostraat and soon came to an open gate … and this entrance:
A lovely green welcome, complete with flowers, old brick and cobblestones. And then a sweet smile from the receptionist.
Wonder of wonders, one of the counsellors just had a cancelled appointment and I could walk right into her office. Samra treated me like her best friend.
Part of the requirement for my visa continuing past February, 2024 is that I take steps to integrate into Belgian society. Amal is going to help me do that.
From late September to early November, I’ll be taking an in-person Dutch course. For six hours a week, I’ll grapple with Level One of the language. Finally I’ll get a glimpse of what all these Flemish folks are saying! The welcome program requires me to complete Level Two as well in order to stay registered with them. There are ten levels. I wonder how far this old fart will go?
Starting in January, I’m in another course: being introduced to the nuances of integrating into Belgium. Three three-hour sessions a week for five weeks. How the government works all the way to how garbage collection works. These lessons will take place right in the Amal office, in this room:
It’ll become familiar.
The other orientation stream is doing forty hours of volunteer work. I wonder where. I vote for some place with kids.
I’m being given a support person to help me wade through these various waters. And the best news? I’m getting wet!
Sitting beside all these “becoming Belgian” experiences is my enrollment in the Kunstacademie Gent de Poel for September. It’s my music school! Every week I’ll have a one-hour group cello lesson and a two-hour music theory class. That last one will be taught in Dutch. So bring on the Amal language lessons!
***
There’s a huge potential bonus here. The next love of my life may be hanging out at Amal or Poel
The rhythms of my life in Ghent are returning. I’m falling into my home once again.
Here I am sitting on the terrace of T’Kanon café by the Leie River yesterday. For two hours. A small part of me says that’s too long, that I should be out and about doing useful things. But I don’t want to be useful. I want to watch the world flow by and talk to lovely people.
You may have heard about my seagull fetish. I love watching them fly. I sat down beside the river and waited. For fifteen minutes there wasn’t a bird in sight – seagull, pigeon, mourning dove or duck.
The frantic part of my mind woke up, imagining a future of total bird absence. “The gulls are gone and they’ll never come back!” Silly mind, but actually fun to watch when it’s full speed ahead.
At about the 20-minute point, white wings zoomed low from behind. A friend of mine. During my stay I only saw ten gulls or so but that was enough. My life is richer within the soaring.
There were faces everywhere. My St. Bernardus beer and goose paté were enjoyed under the gaze of a green post on the railing – a post that was curious about me. And as the terrace filled, couples chatted and held hands, groups of friends were silly together … and there were so many cigarettes being inhaled through so many lips.
In the photo, but hidden from view, is a wooden path by the river, stretching from the grey building to well past the weeping willow. Celebrating humans eat and drink there with their friends, enjoying the tiny birds who float by.
Above the grey building to the left of the willow is my apartment, set back so there’s no river view, but I can feel the flow. UPDATE: I got the wrong grey building. My apartment is beyond the tree.
***
Here I am … Belgium instead of Canada, Ghent instead of Belmont, London (Ontario) and Toronto. Lucky me. Ghent will be the centre of my universe until I say goodbye to this world.
This is one of my favourite songs, written and sung by Enya. It lulls me. It enters my pores. It takes me …
City lights shine on the harbour Night has fallen down Through the darkness And the shadow I will still go on
Long, long journey Through the darkness Long, long way to go But what are miles Across the ocean To the heart that’s coming home?
Where the road Runs through the valley Where the river flows I will follow every highway To the place I know
Long, long journey Through the darkness, Long, long way to go But what are miles Across the ocean To the heart that’s coming home?
Long, long journey Out of nowhere Long, long way to go But what are sighs And what is sadness To the heart that’s coming home?
Long, long journey Through the darkness Long, long way to go But what are miles Across the ocean To the heart that’s coming home?
Long, long journey Out of nowhere Long, long way to go But what are sighs And what is sadness To the heart that’s coming home?
It has been a long journey and hopefully it will continue for many years. So many chapters when I was here and there, doing this and that, gradually opening my heart to the world.
Probably like you, I’ve had great loves and great sorrows. I’ve triumphed and failed. I’ve had immense power and debilitating weakness. I’ve touched the lives of hundreds of kids. Many of them likely smile when they think of me.
Like the song, I feel my heart coming home. It includes a sense of place in Ghent but it’s also far more. It’s moments of connection with anyone willing to look into my eyes. It’s living within the melodies of cello and voice. It’s caressing the lyrics of precious songs … like this one.
And …
I will still go on
To the place I know
It’s such a mysterious knowing
Listen now to Enya giving us “Long, Long Journey”:
It’s time. I joined the Basic-Fit health club a few months ago and then trips to England and Senegal had me disappear.
Since returning from the heat of Senegal a week ago, my favourite word has been “sleep” … many horizontal hours.
In Senegal I felt so weak, so old. I couldn’t imagine climbing onto an elliptical machine again. “Perhaps when I get back to Belgium,” I un-reasoned, “I’ll visit a medical supplies store and pick me up a multi-coloured walker.” (Sigh)
Now I’m sitting with my cappuccino feeling physically unfit. I am, however, spiritually fit. There’s great love inside me that needs to ooze out into the world.
And now for the physical …
I have everything I need in my Basic-Fit backpack. Once I finish writing, I’ll head over there, with no expectations of “performance”. I don’t need to perform to some standard. I just need to show up.
Two years ago in Canada, my trainer Tony showed me an awesome stretching program. There were fourteen stretches, most of which won’t come to mind right now. No worries … I brought the sheet.
I love the elliptical. In Belgium most folks don’t know the term – it’s a cross-trainer. Any way you spell it, the machine is smooth. My knees say thank you. My feet are on pads that do a circular motion. My hands are on bars that go back and forth. Sweet.
So what if I last ten minutes on the elliptical today? Who cares if I’m “slow”? I am returning.
My body is different than I remember. More fat, frequent aches, laboured breathing on the stairs. (I just wrote this … and now I’m smiling) Smiling is good, especially since I’m living in the marvelous city of Ghent, and enrolled with my cello in the Poel music school starting in September, and blessed by the presence of new friends.
Bruce's Blog 