Yesterday Marketa Vondrousova from the Czech Republic won Wimbledon. I’ve long admired her game. She plays left-handed with a flowing grace, mixing in slices and drop shots with her power. There’s a dance.
I read an article this morning about Marketa’s tattoos. There are lots of them. I’m enthralled with one:
No rain … no flowers
I love it when the world’s wisdom comes in small packages. Having my phone stolen turns out to be a minor interruption in the sweetness of my life. The first 48 hours were impaling but now I can sit back and reflect. I see that, although the rain poured down, the shafts of sun now break through the clouds. I found a level of determination that I didn’t know was in me. I refuse to let a thief dictate my happiness. Nor will losing all my photos.
Do you realize how beautiful a rose is?
***
It’s 12:45 pm in Maarkedal, Belgium. At 3:00 we head to the Brussels Airport. We fly to Morocco around 7:00. After a two-hour layover, it’s on to Dakar, Senegal. Then a four-hour bus ride to Toubacouta. We’ll probably arrive around 6:00 am local time (8:00 in Europe).
This is a photo (taken today, with a brand new phone!) of the chef de village of Ghent. He looks rather extinguished, I’d say.
The last time I was in Senegal, a family in Toubacouta gave me this robe. I wore it as I walked the streets … and local folks called out “Chef de village!” I doubt if they were mistaking me for Toubacouta’s imam (a Muslim priest) but it was fun to pretend. I waved a lot.
We leave tomorrow for Senegal. Six hours in the air, four hours in a bus, and probably arriving as the roosters crow at dawn. We have two weeks to be with people – young, old and medium. My French is rusty but my eyes are in good shape. We will connect.
I want to celebrate life with Senegalese folks – to eat together, to dance together, to laugh together. You and you and you and you and me.
There are about ten of us Belgians going. It would have been eleven if my dear friend Jo was still alive. He wanted his ashes scattered on the river by Toubacouta and his wife Lydia is making it happen. It will be a profound family moment for Lydia and her children Lore and Baziel.
***
Yesterday I mentioned Francesca and Katherine. They were the servers at London’s MXO restaurant. They were so kind to me. I wasn’t just “another customer”. Francesca gave me ideas of cool London neighbourhoods to visit: lovely names such as Crouch End and Stoke Newington. Next time … and there definitely will be one of them.
I love the taste of good food, gracefully presented. I love the ambiance, the feeling of sanctuary, in some dining rooms. The romance of candlelight. But even more I love being welcomed, being seen as a valuable human being. I’m “from away”. Katherine and Francesca said “Come over here”.
***
I’ve been recovering my apps today – some success and some disappointment. But you know, I’m alive and healthy. Life is good. And once more I have a red phone case!
I can’t see into your living room, dear reader, but I bet you’re happier than me. I got back to Ghent in the early afternoon and have spent north of five hours making my communication life work again.
I’ve had it with the one in a thousand human beings who rip people off … most especially their cell phones.
Leaning on the counter of my internet service provider as the rep gave me my phone options and tried to encourage me about whether I’d lost everything.
Almost two hours on a phone call with Google, with a most dedicated human being stretching her mind to do all she could for me.
Working on my own to reinstall and recover apps that I need and love.
Here’s the bottom line: we recovered all my contacts and e-mails, and my WhatsApp chats up till mid-June. But all my photos are lost on the wind.
On Sunday we fly to Senegal and at least I have a phone. I can write blog posts and include pictures. Hopefully I can attend a few Evolutionary Collective Zoom meetings. I can e-mail.
Why are there thieves in the world and people who kill? Really in my life I’ve been touched so little by the bad stuff. This is bad but certainly not horrible. Still, I’m grumpy.
I wanted to tell you today about Katherine and Francesca, two marvelous servers at my breakfast place in London. But tight lips do not create sweet words.
There is a positive here: I’m one determined human being. I will make life work if it’s the death of me!
My dear friend Sarah visited me today. Her total travel time to and from London was eight hours. That’s friendship!
I love taking photos to accompany my words but there ain’t none of that till I get a new phone Friday or Saturday in Ghent. So I’ll paint a few pictures with words and you’ll get the idea.
Sarah took me to some big area (?) full of statues. I loved Nelson Mandela. I adjusted my location so he and I were making eye contact. Thank you, Nelson. Same with Winston Churchill. And a leader for women’s rights in Great Britain from the 1920s. I forget her name. My eyes and their eyes: no better no worse.
Then the drama of the huge fountains in Trafalgar Square … with so many people enjoying the world. A tall monument is capped off by a statue of Ricky Nelson, who sang “Hello, Mary Lou”. No, no … wrong guy! It was Lord Nelson.
A lush park full of trees with multi-coloured bark was so lovely. There was a cottage (perhaps from the 1600s) perched by a lake. Plus on an island just off the shore four huge pelicans spread their wings. And when they flew! Size matters.
The exterior of Buckingham Palace left me yawning … basically an immense rectangle with probably far too many bathrooms. But the old buildings downtown, many with faces embedded in the walls, opened my heart to history. And just like Ghent, I was thrilled to see so many folks on the terraces of restaurants, enjoying their friends or families.
As cool as much of the tour was, the real blessing was my tour guide Sarah. We had hours to say silly things and profound things. Both of us were spontaneous, bringing neighbouring human beings into conversation. We made more than a few of them laugh. I like doing that.
I loved Big Ben. It’s huge, and intricate in its brickwork. On my next visit I’m going to sit somewhere beneath it and look long and long.
Too soon, Sarah was on the bus back to northern England. Tonight, though, I ventured out again and worked on my tube navigation skills. The building lights in Piccadilly Circus had come on at twilight and the doubledecker buses were spinning around me in what I guess was a roundabout. Many of us sat on the steps under the statue of … somebody, and drank in the majesty of it all.
I woke up yesterday morning on the edge of moping. “No way … I’m going to Wimbledon.”
I got advice from people about how to get there. Conflicting advice, I may add. But so what? I’m going, even without the aid of Google Maps. I’d heard that people without tickets can get a day pass but they need to line up for the privilege. I also heard that some people queue overnight to get into the sacred tennis grounds. No way I was doing that. I needed my recovery sleep.
I figured that if I didn’t get into the tennis centre, I’d just walk around the perimeter, soaking in the atmosphere from a respectable distance. The energy would soar over the walls.
I did get in. One couple told me that the previous day they’d waited six hours for entry. Ouch! What was my waiting time, you ask? Zero hours, minutes and seconds! The gods were with me. And today the same thing. I was through the gates by 1:00. A fellow told me that he’d lined up at 8:00 am and got in at 11:00. I slept in, had a leisurely breakfast and wandered through the tube (subway) system. Et voilà … the doors opened for me immediately. Perhaps the universe is being kind to me after my phone debacle.
Everyone without a ticket has to walk about fifteen minutes through the grounds before reaching the entrance. This morning I decided to do a scientific experiment. I would say the same dumb thing to every volunteer I met and analyze the responses by gender. It sounded like fun, and it was. Here’s the question:
I’ve lost my ticketfor The Royal Box. Who can I talk toabout getting it reprinted? I’m supposed to meet my friend Kate there in an hour
For the uninitiated, The Royal Box is where Royal family members sit in Centre Court to watch the matches. Kate Middleton married Prince William, the son of King Charles.
I guess that I uttered the words to fifteen volunteers. “And the envelope please …”
Almost all of the men stared
Almost all of the women laughed
***
Over the past two days at Wimbledon, I’ve had so many good conversations with people from various parts of the world – guests, volunteers and staff. I can’t remember what I said to any of them but we sure had a good time. And I’m too tired to navigate my brain cells for specific examples. But let me tell you about this evening:
I decided to return to the scene of the crime … TheCrown and Anchor pub. None of the earlier staff members were on shift. I intended to sit at the exact table of thievery, but it and the one next door were crammed with revellers. So I sat across the way, with a good view of the site of previous festivities. Next to me was a young couple and I related my tale of woe from two nights before. “And if that yelling guy with the big hat comes back, I’ll tackle him!”
Yeah, right. Indiana Jones I am not. The couple nodded and smiled. Later I admitted the error of my thinking ways to them. “Okay, I’m really not brave enough to assault the thief if he shows.” But I helpfully suggested that they tackle him together after I leave.
No doubt I’ll read the police report in the morning.
I’m not a careful person. I was having a beer last night in the Crown and Anchor pub. I was still in the glow of Maria Duenas and I had nearly finished a blog post about her. The couple from Minnesota at the table next door were so friendly. I set my phone down next to the glass of Belgian beer and leaned over to engage in our stories.
A man wearing a crazy hat bursts into the bar and starts yelling at the three of us. He slams a piece of paper down on my table and demands that I buy whatever he’s selling. All three of us tell him to go away and he sprints for the door, having picked up the paper … and my phone beneath.
Gone. But it took me five minutes to realize that. I sank through the floor. Everything was on that phone.
I couldn’t think straight. I rushed to the bar to tell the bartender that a guy just took my phone. Another staff member rushed to a back room to see what the security footage showed. Other staff members and the folks from Minnesota sounded genuinely crushed by this act of evil. Me too.
The first thing that hit me was that all my photos from over the years had left my life. (Huge exhale) Next was the reality of my Airbnb. The lodging had a passcode for the building, another for the apartment and a third for my room. All that was on my phone. Where exactly was I going to sleep tonight? I figured I could access the Airbnb info with my laptop but it was safely hidden behind three locked doors.
So began an hour-and-a-half of trying to get the codes from Airbnb UK. A waiter graciously allowed me to use his phone for all that time. I talked to three Airbnb reps and was put on hold five times. They did all these security checks on me. FInally I was given the codes, by a person with a thick accent, whose first language wasn’t English. I struggled to understand the numbers. We confirmed them over and over. Plus I had been standing on the sidewalk all this time, since the bar was so noisy. London traffic continued on its merry way as I extended my ear deep into the phone.
But I had the codes! And the generous phone lender’s shift ended one minute after I hung up with AIrbnb. Life works (mostly).
The final accommodation chapter of the day happened towards midnight as I sat safe in my room. I had forgotten to ask the rep to give me the WiFi password. I sat in front of a laptop that was just a hunk of metal. “Oh, please … not another endless phone call tomorrow!”
It was 11:30. Three other rooms in the apartment were rented. I walked into the hall. A bit of music filtered through one door. Girding my loins, I knocked on that door. To my amazement, I heard “Just a moment.” And Will actually opened the door. And sat with frazzled me in my room as I entered the password. Connected at last!
I don’t have the energy to keep writing. There’s much more to say, and many hours before I slept. Should I regale you with tales of Eurostar, Beobank, the London Police and Proximus? Maybe I’ll just skip all that.
NEWS FLASH: Below you’ll find a post which I wrote on my phone today. I was sitting in a bar writing and talking to folks at the next table. Then someone started yelling at us. Five minutes later I realized he’d stolen my phone!
Yuck. I’ll use this laptop tomorrow to tell you more.
***
Yesterday I was at an Evolutionary Collective retreat on Zoom. It lasted from 5:00 pm till midnight. Most of our members are in North America so the times are more friendly over there.
I had a responsibility to be at the meeting. The timing, however, was bad. Today at 2:00 pm Belgian time, I sat down in Wigmore Hall in London, England. I was going to see and hear Maria Duenas from Spain, one of the world’s most brilliant violinists.
So it was a late night and early morning in Ghent. Two trains and a lot of walking later, I was sitting dead centre in the fourth row.
Maria came onstage wearing a gorgeous cream dress that touched the floor. The fellow accompanying her on the piano wore black. Three violin sonatas – by Beethoven, Schubert and Debussy – filled the afternoon. And Maria animated every minute.
She threw her head and body around. Sometimes she ended a musical phrase with a giant upbow, the tip of the bow finishing up way above her head. There were fierce passages with her fingers moving on the strings at the speed of light. And tender flowings that lifted our hearts to the sky.
I was in awe … and often on the edge of sleep. So what? I had signed for both the EC and Maria. It was time to suck it up.
There were moments when it seemed Maria was whispering to her violin. During others she was blowing it a kiss.
What a privilege to be in the audience. As the last note of the concert hung in the air, I soared my body and yelled “Bravo!” Magnifique. Strangely, very few of us stood. Was this the stereotypical British reserve? It didn’t matter. Maria’s playing was beyond … everything. And I got to be there.
Here’s a YouTube video of Maria dazzling the world:
I was in a Zoom meeting of the Evolutionary Collective yesterday. One of our members gave birth to a boy a month ago and she was online to introduce us to the new one.
The baby was cuddled against mom’s breast as she spoke. We in the EC see an evolving future filled with souls who live in the “we” rather than the “me”. And there in front of us was a prime example. A shared silence, of awe and love, filled the room.
We did a practice welcoming the boy to the planet, wishing him a full life of connection with other human beings. It was lovely.
Later in the day, one of our members read this poem written by Khalil Gibran, a Lebanese poet who’s the author of The Prophet, one of the best-selling books of all time.
On Children
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said “Speak to us of children”
Your children are not your children They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself They come through you but not from you And though they are with you yet they belong not to you
You may give them your love but not your thoughts For they have their own thoughts You may house their bodies but not their souls For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams You may strive to be like them But seek not to make them like you For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday
You are the bows from which your children As living arrows are sent forth The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite And he bends you with his might
That his arrows may go swift and far Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness For even as he loves the arrow that flies So he loves also the bow that is stable
***
Life in all its grandness longs for union … where you and I are entwined and yet each vividly unique.
Blessed is the bow and blessed is the arrow. May we launch the new arrivals to a new land, one that we older folks may never deeply experience.
When I was wading through visa issues to move from Canada to Belgium, Canadian friends would often say how brave I was. Once I got here, Belgian folks said the same thing. I didn’t feel that at all.
Yesterday I was brave.
I received a call a few months ago. It was inside my head. “Play the cello.” > “What!?” It had been 56 years since I played … but the voice stayed strong.
I rented a cello from Arpeggio Music. I started practicing. I dreamt of playing on a bench in the little park beside my street – the Oudburg. Anouk Turnock challenged me to pick a date. I did – yesterday at 5:00 pm.
There I sat. My cello glowed reddish-brown in the sun. Before me was a music stand with the sheet music for three songs, and a lower octave version for two of them.
Before me also were ten people, nine of whom I knew and cared about. I talked a bit but then it was time to play. I had never played solo cello for anyone. As a teenager, I was always in an orchestra.
My commitment was to play with passion … no matter what notes spilled out. You Can Close YourEyes burst from the fingers, the bow and my soul. I held my head high as some notes were off-pitch.
I was playing the cello!
The audience applauded. I talked about my love for the lower strings of the cello: the C and G. Then I launched into the lower octave version of Eyes. The bowing was strong. I hit one note especially well. It involved a stretching of my little finger that had been difficult.
On into This Wandering Day – a glorious song from the Prime Video series Rings of Power, a earlier story than Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.
The song contains the immortal line “I trade all I’ve known for the unknown ahead.” Yes! Bring on the unknown that is the rest of my life.
I played. The audience applauded. I sweated. I kept my head high. I let my essence bubble up and explode into the world.
More wrong notes. Squeaking on the higher strings. “Keep going!”
Now I think of a Springsteen song – No Surrender. It wasn’t part of my mind yesterday but I was living these lines:
Well, now young faces grow sad and old And hearts of fire grow cold We swore blood brothers against the wind Now I’m ready to grow young again
‘Cause we made a promise we swore we’d always remember No retreat, baby, no surrender
By the time the last tune came out of me – Song for aWinter’s Night – the arthritis in my right thumb was yelling. I couldn’t twist the bow to play the upper strings (D and A) and the screeching was awful.
“So what? Play, damn it, play! Give these ten folks all you’ve got. Passion! F*** the notes. Get that head up!
Yes … the passion dropped a bit towards the end but I brought it back up. And I finished the concert with a long deep note full of vibrato. I nailed the tuning on that one!
***
As my friends and I sat for dinner at Maison Elza, I was wasted, with hardly the energy to speak. I was twisted inside … bad notes and grinding bow strokes sat with the fire in my eyes, and I couldn’t make sense of anything.
Friends said wonderfully supportive things but it was up to me to create meaning from the concert.
As I awoke this morning, a smile came easily. I did it! I kept going when times were tough. I gave ten people me!
It was most certainly courage. I wonder if I had played beautifully, whether that would have been a less explosive experience than what actually happened.
I exploded yesterday. I stayed big when I could have shrunken to small.
I wrote a blog post yesterday while sitting in Izy Coffee. It was about today’s cello concert. I’m more excited than nervous. Cool.
“Now what? I know … I’ll go to my favourite place to drink beer – Café Come Back” (on Emilius Seghersplein).
It was a tidy walk from Izy’s, and there was a spring in my step. I said on Facebook exactly what I wanted to say.
I walked in – and looky looky – the Tour de France was on the TV above the door. I ordered a very cool beer – Westmalle Tripel – with an alcohol content of 9.5%. “Careful, Bruce. Only one.”
On the phone, I was following the score of a Wimbleton tennis match featuring one of my favourite players – 16-year-old Mirra Andreeva from Russia. She keeps upsetting players ranked far above her.
And … there’s a jukebox! For two euros, I could play seven of my favourite songs. I chose Adele, Bruce Springsteen, Lady Gaga, and other folks I forget. In front of me, along with my friend Westmalle, was a round table … perfect for playing piano. Do you realize that you never hit a wrong note when you play table piano?
So … the climb of the Col du Tourmalet in the Tour, Mirra close to winning her match against one of the best players in the world, the seeping effects of alcohol, the sweetness of Adele’s “Someone Like You” and inspired table piano playing … it was a perfect storm of happiness.
The race really got my juices going and I heard myself asking for another Westmalle. “Uh oh.”
An hour later, I gracefully stumbled out of the café and headed home. Seeing the door of my favourite church open, I walked in and sat down. The Carmelite Church on the Burgstraat is a wonder.
Ten minutes later, a Mass began. Oops. I decided to stay, despite my wavering head.
The priest spoke in Flemish. At least fifty times, he said something that included the words Jesus (Yay-zoos) and Maria. Each time the congregation would respond in Flemish. Often there were long periods of silence, which usually I love, but it was becoming harder for the body to stay vertical.
The chair I had chosen faced two statues: a Roman soldier stabbing a monk. Every time I snapped out of my slumber, here’s what I saw:
I kept hoping the priest would say the Dutch equivalent of “Go in peace.” Actually any form of “go” would have worked for me.
After an hour of Mass, with no end in sight, I hauled myself out of the church.
Slow as she goes, I found my way to the apartment. My eyes closed. My head spun.
Bruce's Blog 