I walked into the Devonshire Park tennis grounds this morning … and what a feast for the eyes!  After I got through security (friendly staff), I emerged to the open air and faced a broad expanse of grass with lots of round tables.  People were smiling and eating.

I looked down at the green in wonder.  “That’s got to be synthetic – it’s so perfect.”  I reached down and touched.  REAL!

The photo above shows Center Court, and a match between Harriet Dart of Great Britain and Shuai Zhang of China (in the foreground).  The Brits cheered wildly for their girl and were appreciative of Zhang’s tennis too.  Harriet won.

I had never seen a tennis match on grass.  The flight of the greenish-yellow ball against the green grass was stunning.  And the blue seats.  And classic buildings behind.

To top it all off, hundreds of my friends showed up.  Seagulls!  They soared high above Center Court, and occasionally swooped low above the players.  Oh … what happiness is!

***

My tennis day began by watching Camila Osorio on a side court.  There she was – my favourite – in real life instead of TV. Before the game, I watched her in conversation with the umpire, a smile beaming.

Here’s a photo. Too bad the racquet is obscuring Camila’s face but you can feel the gush of energy. The match against Shelby Rogers was so close and I often heard “Vamos!” from my Colombian friend. And Camila got the job done!

About one hundred of us watched as Camila won the final point. I stood and cheered.

Now it was time for action. I walked around the perimeter of the court to her side as she signed autographs. Soon she shouldered her big tennis bag and started walking towards the locker room, accompanied by two security guards.

Camila was coming my way!

It was now or perhaps never. Our eyes met.

“You are my favourite player. You play with passion and you live with joy. And you are kind.”

Camila smiled my way … a real one. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

***

And so I did what I intended to do

It feels good

The day began early and soon I was pushing my suitcase onto the landing outside my apartment.  As I started down the first of five flights of stairs I heard “Bruce … let me help you.”

My neighbour Donia is a lovely human being.  She’s also stronger than me.  As we waved goodbye, I heard “Neighbours help each other.”  So true.

I bet that five years ago I would have said no to her offer.  Something has changed.  Guess I’ve grown up.

***

I’m sitting in the Brussels Zuid station, waiting for the Eurostar train to London to open its doors.  The website said to show up between 90 and 120 minutes before departure.  Customs, Brexit and all that.  I was here two hours ahead, and I was finished with the formalities in 23 minutes.  Oh well.  Better to have an extended period of leisure than running for a train that’s just out of my reach.

I sat with a father and son: the older from Manchester, the younger from London.  I asked for “insider” advice.  “What neighbourhood should I visit in London – one where tourists don’t go?”

“Hackney.”

Good.  And here’s a photo of one of its pubs:

Perhaps in two weeks …

***

Now on Eurostar to London.  I’m talking with a fellow who’s an expert on Chinese history, and especially Sun Yat-sen, who was the first president of China after the fall of the emperor around 1920.  He is revered by both the Communist Party in China and by many people in Taiwan.

My friend will be speaking about Sun at a conference about Taiwan on Tuesday, and he expects a rough reaction from some right-wing folks.  It doesn’t trouble him, which is very cool to see.

***

Now I’m in London’s St. Pancras Station, having missed my train to Eastbourne.  I’m doing my best to make two British women laugh … and I’m having success!

***

Another now.  I’m zooming along on a local train from London to East Croydon, partway to Eastbourne.  The young guitarist I’m sitting across from grew up near my destination.  I ask for recommendations and he gives them: the Dew Drop Inn pub, the Long Man Brewery and Harvey’s beer.  There … I’m all set!

***

I’ve missed another train, this time because of “damage to overhead electrical wires”. It’ll be another hour before the last leg of my trip begins. Life happens.

***

I’m approaching Eastbourne accompanied by Heather (mom) and Hannah (daughter). They live in Eastbourne. Heather has been in the area all her life and is sweetly happy about it. I tell her she reminds me of the Canadian singer-songwriter Rita MacNeil who enjoyed rural life in her home province of Newfoundland while her friends headed far away to the big city of Toronto. Here are the words to Rita’s song Realized Your Dreams:

So you never left the small town
With your friends when things got way down
You stood between the tall trees
Threw all caution to the gouries

And you stayed home on the island
And you watched the evening sunrise
And you never thought of leaving
Even when the winds blew cold

And I've seen you at the station
With your arms outstretched and waiting
To welcome home the travellers
Who went searching after dreams

And they never fail to mention
How your life's been one dimension
And you smile at good intentions
Knowing well never they'll never see

All you want or ever needed
You found here without leaving
It's the drifter and the dreamer
Who often fail to see

In the heart that never wanders
Lies a peace that comes with morning
It's knowing when the day is done
You've realized your dreams

***

I finally made it to Eastbourne and I fell asleep at the Airbnb. But at the top of this post I’ve included an evening photo.

I’ll tell you tomorrow about my fine host Jean. She’s a happy one.

***

Finally, for those of you who read my words yesterday, Camila won her match today! Tomorrow at 11:00 am GMT I’ll be sitting on Court Four watching her. Life is sweet.

I want to be in the presence of bright people. I don’t mean smart. I mean shining.

Camila Osorio is a tennis player from Colombia. It’s nice that she’s pretty, but far more vividly … she shines. And Camila is a kind person. After a match, win or lose, she has a smile for her opponent. And it’s a smile that reaches her eyes.

Camila is my favourite tennis player. Tomorrow I take trains to Eastbourne, England to see the Rothesay International tournament – both women and men. I want to be in the same stadium with her when play starts on Monday.

Thirty-two women will be playing. Twenty-six of them have been decided. Twenty-four other women are competing this weekend for the final six spots. Camila is one of them.

For me to see her, Camila has to win a match today and one tomorrow. Right now she’s playing Cristina Bucsa from Spain. Cristina won the first set 6-4 and Camila won the second by the same score. The winner of the third will move on to Sunday’s match.

I write > I open the Flashscore app … over and over again.

These are tender moments. I want something. It may or may not happen. I smile at the uncertainty, at how often my wishes aren’t granted, and that sometimes they are.

News flash: Camila is ahead 3-0 in the third! Be still, my heart.

Things are opening … closing … opening. I’m inside some immense pulsing. Then a jolt – all is well even if she loses. Then a response: “No!” I’m all over the map.

4-0!

My lips are dry. It’s so close to the end I want. On Monday maybe I can talk to Camila, tell her why I watch her play.

5-0

Why am I sweating like this? Probably because I’m a human being.

5-1

No problemo. My friend is still way ahead. Go Camila!

5-2

C’mon, Bruce. You’re a mature adult. (That’s right, isn’t it?)

Camila is one point away from winning!

I’d like some oxygen, please.

She did it! 4-6, 6-4, 6-2.

I can’t write just now. Give me a few minutes to recover.

***

Alrighty then … my vision of Monday remains open in the universe

All we see with our physical eyes is the outside of things … such as noses and mouths. But what’s inside?

In the world of matter, there are lots of complex insides. Here are a few:

The human body:

A wall:

A tree:

The split end of a human hair:

Asparagus:

***

A lot of us are uncomfortable with insides. In the physical world, blood is in there. And if a hole starts from the inside to the outside, it gets messy.

Emotionally many human beings like staying on the outside. Let’s talk about politicians and sports teams. But … O my God … there’s a brilliant pallet from ecstasy to sorrow waiting for an opening into conversation.

Spiritually the outside shows us solid things, like a statue of Jesus or the Buddha. But there’s a majestic universe roaming around in our souls. There’s an interior light that doesn’t come with a dimmer switch. We are full of God.

***

May I always pass through the other’s eyes to find the wonders within

Some of us want to reach God. Some of us want to let God be. Some of us say God doesn’t exist.

I don’t see an eternal Man sitting in the sky. I do see a presence for good, a benign force pulling us into an evolving future. I feel accompanied.

For many years my path for touching spirit was meditation. Being on my own with my eyes closed. Today I prefer having my eyes open as I connect with another human being. God, or whatever we call such mystery, is here in such moments.

When I write words like this, I know there are readers who say “No”. But many of you nod your heads.

It’s common to take a scientific approach to any topic. A consideration of eye “behaviour” could sound like this:

Studies have demonstrated that there are widespread significant differences in spontaneous brain activity between eyes-open (EO) and eyes-closed (EC) resting states. However, it remains largely unclear whether spontaneous brain activity is effectively related to EO and EC resting states. The amplitude, local functional concordance, inter-hemisphere functional synchronization, and network centrality of spontaneous brain activity were measured by the fraction amplitude of low frequency fluctuation (fALFF), regional homogeneity (ReHo), voxel-mirrored homotopic connectivity (VMHC) and degree centrality (DC), respectively.

Certainly there is a place for such analysis but it isn’t a place where I want to stand.

I seek the moments of majesty with a woman, man or child as we talk about this, that and the other thing. These times are precious in my life.

I don’t want to go deep inside

I don’t want to be a better person

I want to find you

Here is Maria Duenas.  She plays inspiring violin on July 10 in London, England.  I’ll be there.

Here is Bruce Kerr.  He plays unknown cello on July 7 in Ghent, Belgium.  I’ll also be there.

We both love music.  We both love playing music.  The quality of our playing differs.  And that’s fine.

***

Today my friend Cara visited me.  We went out to breakfast at Franz Gustav on the Kongostraat.  Delicious.  Far better, though, was the conversation.  We talked about what was real to each of us, what our lives were about in the moment.

Two days ago, as I anticipated being with Cara, I asked myself “Should she be the first person to hear me play the cello in the last 56 years?”  I said no … then yes.

As we approached the apartment building after breakfast, I asked Cara if I should close the windows.  “No.”

I saw a father and two kids sitting on the terrace of Nonna Stella, the Italian restaurant two floors down from me.  “I’ll ask them.”

Turns out that dad, daughter and son were all enrolled in the Poel music school, exactly where I’m heading in September.  They were all smiling at my story.  The verdict from all three?  Windows open.  So be it.

So here we were back inside.  Cara said she felt “honoured” to be the first to hear.  I was on the edge of saying “It won’t be very good” but I declined.  The bow was in my right hand.  My left fingers were ready to press the strings.  My eyes were on the sheet music for You Can Close Your Eyes.

This was the moment

I heard the words “Timid no … Passionate yes”.  And I began.

Yes … the passion.  No … the intonation.  But I carried on.  Playing on the G string in the key of D requires a stretching of the left hand so that the fourth finger lands a semi-tone higher than usual.  I wasn’t getting it.  And my transitions from string to string were strident … bad for the ears.

I glanced over at Cara’s face.  It was full of attention.  The sheet music kept presenting notes and I kept playing them, often squeaky and out-of-tune.  I could feel the passion regressing to the norm.

“No!” my brain yelled inside my head.  “Bring it up!  To hell with the notes.”

So I did.

My bow strokes had oomph again.  My fingers slammed down on the strings.  My head jerked back and forth.  The zest!

At the end, did Cara applaud?  I can’t remember.  But she smiled.  Whatever she said was held in admiration for the Canadian guy.

I played You Can Close Your Eyes a second time – also in the key of D but an octave lower.  Notes on the low C string had a deep vibration.  There were new challenges, and I failed some of them … but others I passed with flying colours.

Often in my playing I used vibrato – rotating my finger on the string to create a slight wavering sound. That brought back memories of teenage proficiency.

***

Cara enjoyed my playing. And actually so did I. I played for another person after so many years of absence. There are things to work on … and that’s exactly what I’ll do. July 7 and July 10 are heading my way.

Good for me

Moving to Belgium has been an experience of patience – it appearing, disappearing, reappearing …

There’s my language challenge – hardly any Flemish so far.  Plus the customer service people on the phone usually have little to moderate English.  I often don’t know if my requests have been understood.  Same for the technicians who come to my home.  How do I make meaning with folks whose first language is Flemish?

Deliveries are a challenge.  So often they come to the wrong street or they don’t know my apartment number.  With one furniture company five scheduled deliveries were unsuccessful.  My stuff showed up on the sixth.

Is all of this “bad”?  No.  Just frustrating. And I choose to roll on in becoming a Belgian resident.  The pull to be here is so strong.

Some friends in Canada thought I was crazy to move here.  “You’ll lose all your health care!”  Which indeed I did.

I came here thinking “Maybe I’ll have to pay full price for my prescriptions.”  Would that cause me big problems in the future?  Maybe.  But I didn’t have eyes to see the dangers ahead.  I just wanted to live in Ghent!

I’ve been talking to a private company named Solidaris for two months now, to see what health care I could get from them.

Because I’ve never paid taxes to Belgium, getting health care was going to cost me big bucks.  I might have to pay 900 euros every three months ($1300 CAD).  Ouch!

I got a letter from Solidaris, in Flemish of course.  I couldn’t read it.  But I do know numbers: 881 euros.  (Sigh)

That’s a lot of money!  Of course I could choose to not enroll with Solidaris.  I’d pay the full prescription cost but the real crunch was if I had to stay in the hospital … hundreds if not thousands of euros each day.  Even though I plan to live till 104, I can’t guarantee that I won’t darken the door of AZ Sint-Lucas Hospital Gent.

This morning I got an e-mail from the person at Solidaris who’s been cheering for me even since I applied. 

As a clarification: this one is for two quarters of a year. Your official enrolement date with Solidaris is 01/04/2023. So this invoice is for two quarters untill the 30th of September this year. So 881,42 : 2 = 440,71 euros every 3 months.

Yay!

I walked into Solidaris this morning and sat with another rep.  He thought my e-mailing friend was wrong.  I’ll really be charged 881 euros every three months.  But he said that because of the amount of my Canadian pension income I really should be charged 440 euros.

So … it’s under review

***

How come I keep smiling in the face of moderate adversity?

I don’t know … it’s becoming a habit

When I think about July 7 at 5:00 pm, and me sitting with my cello on the park bench, I’m so tempted to put quotation marks around the word “concert”.  Yes!  Just like that.

My small mind imagines the four or five souls who will attend.  Will I really be giving a performance that they’ll appreciate?

I start getting rational.  You know … it’s been 56 years, arthritis in my bowing thumb, past my musical prime …  So much blah.

My practicing has been less than spectacular. Being “in tune” seems like a far off land. Often the bow doesn’t meet the string at the correct angle. There’s a grinding sound.

But as I’m won’t to say: “So what?” On I go to the 7th. I see four possibilities:

1. I play timidly and out of tune. (Please no)

2. I play timidly and in tune. (Have you heard the name “Caspar Milquetoast”? Thoroughly blah)

3. I play passionately and out of tune. (Actually this has an appeal – not that I want to play out of tune)

4. I play passionately and in tune. (Wow!)

Okay … I’ve decided. Timidity is not allowed to show up in the park on July 7. I will give ‘er. I promise.

***

As a teenager, I tuned my cello hundreds of time. As an old fart, I would say four. Today was the fifth. I have an app that gives me the correct pitch for the four strings (in ascending order): C G D A.

After practicing for awhile today, something was off. My cello was out of tune.

Take a look at the photo. Is there something missing? I decided to tune the A string. The top right peg must have come loose because the pitch of the string was woefully low. So I cranked the peg tighter. Still way too low. So tighter!

Then “Bang!” The string broke. The sad truth is that the top right peg adjusts the D string, not the A. I’d forgotten which peg was which.

So humbling. What’s happened to my brain in the passage of time? Well … I don’t know. I still think it’s a good brain.

Tomorrow I’ll take my dear cello to Arpeggio Music and have them replace the D string. And then I’ll hit the three songs again.

I’m smiling

Last night Lydia, Luc, Ann, Kurt and I went to dinner at Shazanna on Steendam in Ghent. Delizioso! Dipping my bread in astonishing olive oil. And our conversation ranged far and wide.

Afterwards Lydia wanted to go to the Lievekaai – a broad expanse by the Lieve River bordered by many weeping willow trees. Lights in the cobblestones created brilliant greenness.

Lydia asked me to tell the story of Elise. So I did.

When I realized that I’d be moving from Canada to Belgium, I sensed that I would find the next love of my life in Ghent. I named her Elise.

I walked off the plane at Brussels Airport on January 28 to begin my new life. Soon I began searching for a bridge where someday I’d ask Elise to marry me. St. Michael’s Bridge offers a view of Ghent centrum’s medieval towers. It also offers hundreds of tourists … not what I’m looking for.

Weeks later I thought I had the spot. Right beside my favourite bench on the Lievekaai. But this one kept scratching my brain. It wasn’t right either.

At the other end of the Lievekaai is a bridge less visited. And it was an instant “Yes!” Yesterday Lydia wanted us to walk there.

On the way, I looked over at Kurt. “I want to practice my marriage proposal. Will you play Elise?” I can’t remember what his face did but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t sparkling enthusiasm.

The photo is a daytime view of what Kurt saw after I placed him. As we approached the sacred spot, I saw that there was a man lying on the bridge’s stone wall, and three teenagers were off to the side. I talked to all of them about my plans. The fellow stared. The two girls seemed to giggle. The teenaged guy had a tiny smile.

It was show time. I knelt in front of Kurt and professed my love. “Will you marry me?” Once he said “No” the spell was broken. The other friends started chatting. I told them to shush and began the process again. Happily Kurt said yes this time. I uttered the words “You may kiss the bride.” It was more of a hug than a kiss.

I am now well prepared for Elise.

***

One of the girls asked me “Where is Elise?”

“I haven’t met her yet.”

(Incredulous young faces)

***

If you suspect I’ve been stretching the truth, watch this:

“Elise … where are you?”

I had coffee this morning with a man who talks with his hands, and closes his eyes for the best moments.  His name is Dirk.  He had just bought a novel called Alkibiades.  And he was loving it.

Alkibiades is a teenager in ancient Greece who is being mentored by the philosopher Socrates.  No video games … just the grand opportunity to sit at the feet of his teacher and absorb his wisdom.

The author is from the Netherlands – Ilja Pfeijffer.  His writing has drawn Dirk in on the first day.  My neighbour sits there inspired … and transported through time.

Pfeijffer describes the building of the Acropolis – a gathering of temples on a hill in Athens.  All those people doing all those things for a very long time.

I look over to the couch.  Closed eyes and a beating heart.

Dirk tells me about Pfeijffer.  For years he was an alcoholic yelling at the world in Amsterdam.  A woman really saw him and wanted to talk.  They did a lot of that.  They fell in love.

She convinced Ilja to live in Genoa, Italy – her home.  She convinced him to enter an alcoholism treatment program.  She convinced him that he was good … and so was his writing.

Alkibiades took its sweet time to evolve out of Ilja.  Now it has landed, especially in one particular apartment on the Oudburg.

Ilja sits in his apartment in Genoa … and smiles