Two nights ago I sang in the open mic session at Minard (the café, not the concert hall).

As I waited for my time, the heart managed to climb up the throat. Pressure. Fear. As expected.

I so want to sing. I want to take soulful songs and add to their spirit with my voice. I don’t want to write songs. I want to share what’s already been written.

I was scared. Would I remember all the words? Would I sing in tune? But two things were far more important:

I will sing with passion

I will get the audience to sing along during the chorus

The song is called MTA. It tells the story of the metro in Boston. Long ago the company decided to raise the fare from ten cents to fifteen. 50%!

There was about to be an election, and a fellow named George O’Brien decided to base his campaign on fighting the fare increase. But how to get people’s attention? “I’ll have someone write a protest song, and tell people to vote for me!” And that’s what happened:

Well let me tell you the story
Of a man named Charlie
On a tragic and fateful day
He put ten cents in his pocket
Kissed his wife and family
Went riding on the MTA

…

Charlie handed in his dime
At the Kendall Square station
And a change for Jamaica Plain
When he got there, the conductor told him one more nickel
Charlie couldn’t get off of that train!

Before I started, I told the audience I wanted them to sing. “The chorus shows up five times. Sing with me!”

I sang the song well. That’s good. But my heart soared when I heard the words flow back to me:

Did he ever return?
No, he never returned
And his fate is still unlearned
He may ride forever
‘Neath the streets of Boston
He’s the man who never returned

During the last chorus, we sang strong. I stopped after the word “Boston” and held out my arms.

The choir filled the room

I was walking down Tolhuislaan yesterday, seeking eyes.  Two tables were ahead, hosting three people.  I smiled at a man and he smiled back.  He gestured for me to take an empty chair.  I did.

He didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Turkish but it was clear that coffee would be a good idea.

Inside, the hostess you see in the blue and pink moved past the languages to the pouring of coffee.  I rejoined my friends on the sidewalk. 

The fellow who welcomed me isn’t in the photo.  On the left is the owner of Denizli.  She speaks Bulgarian and Turkish only.  On the right is Sari from Turkey – the only one who spoke English.  His smile says it all.

No one cared that I wasn’t Turkish or Bulgarian.  I was included.  Sari asked about Canada.  I asked about Turkey.  Passersby stopped and lingered with my neighbours.  At one point it felt like four languages were roaming around, including Dutch.  All was so well.

I had a long view down Tolhuislaan as people favoured us with their words.  Seagulls soared.  Families strolled.  Cars tootled along … quietly.

I was home.

Sari bought me another coffee.  We talked about this, that and not much.

And then …

Everyone smiled, got up and left. Two of them into Café Denizli, two others down the street. The scene was just as lovely but the energy of companionship was gone. Oh well. Sounds like life.

Easy come … easy go

Easy come back again

Here are two screenshots of the same moment in the Netflix series Outlander – the first one taken during the day and the second in the evening.

For months I’ve grappled with my internet service provider and TV repair company to fix the problem.  So many phone conversations, so many technician visits.  Many evenings the images are far better now.  Sometimes not.

I lay in bed this morning and decided I’ve wasted enough energy on this.  So much focus on an issue for so long.  I’ve talked to the very highest level of technician in my internet company.  I’ve done various tests meant to show faults in the TV.  There are none.

So I hereby let the issue go.

I’m tired of holding my breath rather than breathing deeply.  I’m tired of having a creased forehead.  Enough.

I guess that sometime in my younger life I decided that things in my space must work perfectly.  The screen resolution on my TV must be sharp.  Well … maybe not!  Seems to me I’m not the boss of the universe.

Since January I’ve been an adept problem solver … except that the problem is still there.  Now it’s time for a rethink.  Who says that softer images on TV aren’t beautiful?  An impressionist painting is different from a photograph.  Vive la différence!

In a movie I love the story.  I love the characters.  That’s what opens my eyes.  That’s what inspires me to be good to people.

I vow to enjoy the sharpness when it comes

And to smile when it doesn’t

There is much to contribute in this life …

So far beyond the mysteries of technology

He’s a friend who also enjoys the flow of conversation in Izy Coffee.  We talk of the mysteries of the mind.  I tell him things that I expect few would understand, such as the times I see everyone on the street “shining like the sun”. Samuel gets it.

“Here’s a quote that I think you’ll enjoy,” he says:

Where does the power of a word come from? It does not come from the spoken word itself, but from the energy, the quintessence with which it is impregnated. This quintessence is found in the aura of all beings. The power of a magus comes from his ability to impregnate the words he pronounces with light, with the light of his aura which is rich, intense and pure. The word is the repository of a force, and the more the word is impregnated with this creative element – the light – the greater its power. It is not just anyone who can pronounce magical words that will produce great effects. Only a true magus, by the power of his aura alone, without straining his voice or gesturing, is able to pronounce a few words which can command the forces of nature and attract higher beings. It is not the spoken word which created the world, but the Divine Word. Speech is the means used by the Divine Word to implement the work of creation. The Divine Word is the first element God put into action, and it is by means of the spoken word that this Divine Word is able to express itself.

Very cool. I don’t know what a “magus” is, and I don’t need to. What I do know is if I want my words to reach people, my heart needs to be open in the speaking. Or in the singing.

I want to sing beautiful songs that already have magic in them. And I want my voice to enhance the beauty so that people will let them come inside.

When I write, I trust that my words have an underlying sweetness that will contribute to lives. I don’t think much when I write. Something kind usually just comes.

Samuel told me about a moment in Thailand. At a red light he made eye contact with a few fellows who were riding in the back of a truck. There was such peace in their gaze as they joined with his. Even though no words were spoken, the silent connection was “impregnated with the light”. There was a blessed transmission.

And then there was me, 35 years ago, walking across a parking lot in Lethbridge, Canada. A woman, perhaps from India, smiled at me and said “Hello.” That was it … and I’m still affected by the moment.

It is by means of the spoken word that this Divine Word is able to express itself

So … will my future (and Samuel’s) be resplendent with Divine Words?

I say “Yes”

I was sitting yesterday in Café Come Back, my favourite pub in Gent.  I nestled close to my friend Westmalle Tripel – my favourite Belgian beer so far.  Two euros gave me seven songs in the jukebox … and I was a happy hummer.

To my right were four locals, talking brightly in Dutch.  One of them gave me a little smile, another tilted his head and looked sharply into the eyes of this stranger, and the other two didn’t seem to notice my existence.

On the left, three more regulars talked quietly in Dutch, less intense than the others but no doubt just as lovely a conversation.

I was alone … and yet not.  As Adele told me about Someone Like You, I sang along softly.  Later, as Lady Gaga blasted out Poker Face, I played inspired table piano, never missing a note. I felt enquiring eyes on me, but who cares?

I love the taste of Westmalle. Even one was leaving me with a sweet buzz. But here comes the server with a message: “That fellow over there is buying everyone another drink.” I looked over at a gentleman sitting alone and smiled. He returned it, along with a thumbs up.

I knew in my head that two beers are one too many. I also knew that Westmalle was more expensive than some, so I chose a cheap Belgian beer. If my mind had been clear, I would have opted for Coke Zero, but it was not. So I ventured down a path sadly taken before …

Eventually I decided to leave, wobbly in the mind and body. I walked over to my generous friend, bowed and said “Thank you” again. He said a few words in Flemish, which the server translated:

Until you return

Indeed. I’ll be back.

My feet were especially careful on the cobblestones as I meandered homeward. It was 5:25 when my bed found me. I was looking forward to being on the Evolutionary Collective Zoom call at 6:00. I love doing the Mutual Awakening Practice (MAP) with another person.

I sent my alarm for 5:50. “Twenty minutes will be enough.” My wrist vibrated at the appointed time. And every part of me said “No.” Clearly having two beers was a connection killer. I awoke again at 6:36.

Oh well

Life is a miracle … with or without alcohol

I’m leaning towards “without”

A very long time ago, I managed volunteers at Lethbridge Regional Hospital in Canada. It was especially challenging when some of these folks were on the Alzheimers nursing unit. The person suffering from dementia needed someone who would flow with a conversation that may have no basis in fact.

I remember one of the patients. The staff called her Mrs. Please Come Here, because that’s what she said throughout the day. Her words have entered me. I carry them with me.

When I open my eyes after meditating, the first thing I see is my local version of Gent’s bumpy skyline. The second thing I see is Jesus. He stands on the windowsill.

I’m not Christian but I revere spiritual teachers such as Jesus. He looks at me … beckoning. His arms are wide, gathering in all of us. “Come close. I want to know you.”

And so it is with me.

Think of any adjective that you could use to describe a human being. I enclose every word, in my mind (and sometimes my body) drawing people to my chest. In my better moments this includes everyone, even those who are mean or distant.

Please come here

It’s a simple thing within Canada – sending Christmas cards.  Not so simple with the international flow of language, postal services and currency.

But really … all of that isn’t important.  I knew life would be different in Belgium.  I will jump through the hoops in order to make life work.  I signed up for Europe, with all its beauties and challenges.

First step: find five Christmas cards for five fine human beings: Lance, Nona, Jaxon, Jagger and Jace.  Easy peasy.  In the first store, an employee showed me a tiny display of Christmas cards.  The only thing on offer were packages of maybe ten identical cards.  My five loved ones aren’t generic.  So that won’t do.

Second store … same result.  But the woman serving me suggested the Standaard Boekhandel store.  “They’ll have what you need.”

Indeed they did.  Before you is one of the cards I found … in Dutch.  I smiled to think of my English-speaking relatives opening their cards, to be greeted by incomprehensible words.

Happily, Google Lens lets me take an image and translates into English.  Here you go:

Time for one Christmas party

Play your best Christmas hits on “Repeat”

Buy a tree up on the ceiling

Fill the glasses and enjoy

Cool.  Inside the card, I translated for the dear Canadians.  Hallmark’s words were different on each one.  So were mine.  Except for three little ones: “I love you.”  Jody’s brother, his wife, and their three boys each needed to receive the direct message.

In Canada a quick trip to the bank machine would have given me the cash I wanted to tape to each card.  Of course it wouldn’t be that easy internationally.  Friends advised me that currency exchange stores charged big fees.  “Go to your bank.”

Sabine, my advisor at Beobank, is marvelous. But it took a few days for the bills to arrive. In the long run, who cares? I will produce the result.

Friends also said that I shouldn’t send cash in the mail. “Big chance that it’ll get stolen.” Do bank transfers. I understood. But I wanted my loved ones to feel the texture of real money. I vowed that a post office employee would advise me how to send cash pretty safely in the mail. And she did.

Then there was yesterday. Messages translated, mine added, funds attached, envelopes sealed … and I was off to my local postal outlet in a variety store.

The woman serving me was dedicated to my success: five cards in their envelopes tucked inside a padded one, a sending method that provided speed and very unlikely to be opened by postal officials.

She attached stickers. I paid. We smiled. And I sauntered off into the world … happy like a cat with milk on her lips.

Ahh …

Look down as you walk the streets of Gent and you may see the glint of their eyes … finding your heart from below.

The basements hold mysteries. They radiate darkness … or is that radiance? Maybe it’s only a root cellar, with piles of potatoes yearning for the light. Or even a crawl space. I wonder who is crawling ever forward … towards you?

Secrets of the dark want to say hello, perhaps even sucking you down through the grating for their purposes.

Will the unaware be taken into the underworld and become the subjects of … experiments? And will they survive?

Perhaps you will be accompanied as you descend. Will all the dead who ever died be eager to wrap their bony fingers around your neck?

Or will choirs of angels welcome you home?

I’ve given much to a lot of people in my life.  Sometimes it’s money but usually it’s my attention.  I hope the other person has felt that in conversation I have only been with them.  In those moments the outside world doesn’t exist.

I like to think that one of my gifts to folks is offering them my time:

Let us linger here together

Feeling the words that want to be spoken

Feeling the warmth that wants to be shared

Finding what’s true

There’s no “hurry up”, no “on to the next”

It’s you and me

***

Here’s some lovely giving by Dan Clark’s dad. May he inspire all of us to be generous.

Once when I was a teenager, my father and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus.

Finally, there was only one family between us and the ticket counter. This family made a big impression on me. There were eight children, all probably under the age of twelve. You could tell they didn’t have a lot of money. Their clothes were not expensive, but they were clean. The children were well-behaved, all of them standing in line. One could sense they had never been to the circus before. It promised to be a highlight of their young lives.

The ticket lady asked the father how many tickets he wanted. He proudly responded, “Please let me buy eight children’s tickets and two adult tickets so I can take my family to the circus.”

The ticket lady quoted the price.

The father leaned a little closer and asked, “How much did you say?”

The ticket lady again quoted the price. The man didn’t have enough money.

How was he supposed to turn and tell his eight kids that he didn’t have enough money to take them to the circus?

Seeing what was going on, my dad put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill and dropped it on the ground. My father reached down, picked up the bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket.”

The man knew what was going on. He wasn’t begging for a handout but certainly appreciated the help in a desperate, heartbreaking, embarrassing situation.

He looked straight into my dad’s eyes, took my dad’s hand in both of his, squeezed tightly onto the $20 bill, and with his lip quivering, he replied, “Thank you, thank you, sir. This really means a lot to me and my family.”

My father and I went back to our car and drove home. We didn’t go to the circus that night, but we didn’t go without.

Lovely

Life is sure rock and roll, “I never promised you a rose garden” and all that.

I had three events last night and I wanted to be present and happy for them all. The first two were with the Evolutionary Collective on Zoom. A meeting and then assisting at the basic EC course. I made a difference in both.

Dessert was going to be a group of us reading the play Pygmalion at Gregor Samsa. I was so looking forward to being with my friends: Rani, Lola, Harry and Witold. And of course becoming a character or two.

Because of the course, I arrived an-hour-and-a-half late. A sweet oval of playreaders was in the centre of the room. I sat against a wall, eyes closed, feeling the weight of the last three hours and enjoying the music of the spoken word.

I could feel sleep nudging me but it was not yet time. We were together. I wasn’t going to miss this.

At the break between acts, Harry asked me to play Henry Higgins in the next one. He’s the pronunciation and grammatical expert who vows to transform the speech of Eliza Doolittle – a flower girl – into that of a duchess.

As I read, I struggled with fatigue, reading the small font, and twisting to see the book which my neighbour and I held. “Too bad, Bruce. Suck it up.”

I had my moments when I was Henry. Gosh, I love these readings. Hearing my voice turned in a strange way, in awe of others’ voices as they animated their characters.

After the act concluded, a fellow actor said he liked my voice but my Henry Higgins wasn’t “bad” enough. I wasn’t strong enough in that moment to let his comment float away. I was triggered. My mind knew the value of straight feedback but my heart was bleeding.

It took me awhile to get that he was right, that his comments were a gift, not an assault. I smiled inside my head that I had lost mere minutes in the mire, not days.

At another break between acts, someone asked Lola about her ideal man (or something like that). She replied with some version of “I don’t know.”

I mentioned to the group that the next love of my life is named Elise, and I haven’t met her yet. “She lives in Gent and she loves music and dancing.”

We went back to the reading. This time I was Mr. Doolittle, Eliza’s father.

I gave what I had for my character and I loved the long back-and-forth between Eliza and Henry. But no one knew what was happening inside the Mr. Kerr pretending to be the Mr. Doolittle.

Even though I had jovially described my familiar Elise story, now I was flooded with despair. My loneliness ground down deep into my bones. I was lost.

And I stayed in the woe, despite trying to pull myself up. The curtain closed on Pygmalion, a few words were passed between tired humans after midnight, hugs were shared, and off we went into the night, seeking the comfort of our beds.

***

I awoke with a word on my lips … WRITE. And so I am. The sorrow has lifted and I’m glad I wrote about it. I tell folks that I write to reach people, not for me. This morning it’s for both.

On we go