Is my skin the boundary of me?

Sounds logical but I wonder.  It looks like we’re all these enclosed entities wandering around, occasionally bumping into each other but mostly maintaining the space between.

Some of us have big personalities and cool shapes – like this:

Look how bright!  A riot of colours.  Maybe others say we’re “too much”.  These arms bursting as they reach out, so loud.  We’re noticed by less “out there” folks.

I guess this is good.  It’s cool to be throwing lots of energy out into the world.  Having lots to say and lots to do.

But here I am wondering again.  Perhaps me doesn’t stop at the accepted border.  Perhaps I’m not solid at all.

And then there’s the whole question of what “me” might mean.  Sometimes I look at “Bruce” and feel the letters separating.  No glue.  Over here there’s an “r” floating and way yonder an “e” is hanging in space.

Right now I feel wide open, being stretched ever outwards, flowing beyond the dotted lines.

There’s some sphere far larger than particular human beings.  It’s a container of all things individual.  It holds us in a rainbow embrace.

It may very well look like this:

All the room in the world

I speak.  You speak.  We have mouths

Whether you’re Christian or not, listen to what these faces say

And I wonder what that is …

Fifty years ago I was a young man, spreading my wings in Vancouver – the stunning marriage of mountains and the sea.

I lived only steps away from Stanley Park, a 1000-acre expanse of ancient trees, sand beaches and sunlight sparkling the inner worlds of the forest.

And I got a job!  As a bellman at the Pacific Palisades Hotel on Robson Street.  I carried the guests’ luggage and knocked on their doors with hot meals.  I saw my task as “Welcome”.

One day we learned that a Hollywood movie would be shot in Vancouver … and the cast would be staying at the hotel!  I was thrilled.

I had heard of the two leading actors and I hoped I would get to talk to them.  My young self-esteem was teetering on an edge.  I needed validation from famous people – actually from anybody.

They arrived.  I was the luggage guy.  The first celebrity was young and handsome. I was jealous of him but maybe some of his charisma would rub off on my tiny shoulders.

I won’t name this fellow because every day I felt his disdain.  Indeed I was tiny in his eyes.  He hardly ever looked in mine.  Our relationship was simple: “Do this.  Do that.”  >  “Yes, sir.”

My moments with the heartthrob were small and damaging.  I was sinking fast.

And yet there was another man.  Here he is:

Of course he didn’t look like this in Vancouver.  Ron Moody acted as Fagin in the movie Oliver! and later on Broadway.

What I remember is his smile, so often aimed at me.  His delight at seeing me.  His interest in my life.  Here’s a later version of Ron:

Ron never seemed in a hurry, though he no doubt had places to go, people to meet. His eyes met mine and were happy to linger awhile.

When the movie wrapped and the cast were leaving the Palisades, Ron came by … to each of us. He handed me a little porcelain object. It was to hold a toothpaste tube. For years I cranked it, especially when the tube was nearly empty. Thank you, Ron.

This morning I thought of Ron Moody, and I looked him up on Google. The dear man died in 2015. I felt the jolt of sorrow.

Thank you for helping this young guy find his way

I pray that I have been “Ron” for some young one along the way

I have the idea that completing a certain task will take “x” amount of time.  But over and over, the reality is “2x” … or even “5x”.

Many months ago, I told new friends in Ghent that I’d be living in Belgium by September.  I’d built in extra time in that calculation for visa problems.  The reality?  I landed at Brussels Airport on January 28.

Maybe five weeks ago, I started the process of selling my shares in a Canadian company.  “Should be simple,” I thought.  Today I was on the phone with three company reps for nearly two hours … and it looks like it’ll be a few more weeks before the money will enter my bank account.

As a symbol of the vast, my growing response to these challenges has been to smile (!)  What’s that about?

I don’t understand me, and that’s fine.  What mystery leads the corners of my mouth to turn upwards with my mind not involved in the process?

I’d be sitting like an innocent human being as a wave of sweetness started washing over, with no perceptible cause.  It’s strange … in a lovely way.

There’s just so much I don’t know

So much I’ll never know

(More smiling)

It’s 12:15 and I’ve only seen four seagulls.

Surely this nice little Buddhist guy can find peace within a simple reality.  Surely he smiles as infinity wraps around.

No!  Where are the gulls?  They can’t leave me.  Don’t they see my love?  Fly over Ghent please.

What if it all leaves? 

All the people I love turn their backs to me and walk away.  Sunsets are forever hidden by black clouds.  The streets are empty of children at play.

People speak to me but all I hear is silence.  My hip aches 24/7 and I can no longer climb the stairs at Oudburg 40.  There is no day and no night … just some middling greyness.

Birds no longer fly.  Pesto pasta can’t find my mouth.  The mirror shows nothing in its window.

Everything goes away

***

I know what this is called …

Death

Who are you in the window? I can’t see you but I know you’re there. You look out as I look in

Perhaps you’re five-years-old, and your eyes are just above the sill. Or you’re eighty-five and it’s hard to stay standing

I wonder if you’re happy today, if your body is being kind. Is someone dear coming to visit? Is there a favourite food all ready for your mouth?

I know you’re like me, no matter your age, gender, culture or sexual orientation. We both have the same blood. And our eyes see marvels

***

And now …

There is someone above you, living their own life. Do you know them? Is there a winding staircase from your place to theirs … or just the ceiling?

May there be a joining of souls, many moments of shared laughter. Because you two have the same blood as well

All of us do

As I lay on the pillow with the morning light, these were the words  which came.

“What tree?”

There was no need for my brain to answer.  My heart knew.  There is a deciduous tree on a roundabout in south Ghent.  Six streets radiate.  I had walked there once and today was the time to return.

Over the past few months there has been a surging outward from the centre … ever stronger and furious.  I am being exploded out into the world – everywhere.

And so the streets call.  I had to answer.

I know this voice.  It is to be trusted.  It’s quiet and smiling (unlike the other voice!)  The quiet one is leading me to parts unknown, into the mist where I can only grope.

Approaching … It matters not that my new friend is not yet in its full glory.  It still shines.  And it asks me to come close.

I yearn to sit in a pub nearby, to just look into what the tree is.  There are two – both closed in the early afternoon.  So I sit on a low wall and watch life whirl around.

Cats swoop past the dear tree, with their drivers concentrating on the curve, not feeling the grace of a middle point flooding out into the arteries of life.

But I see.

Inevitable

Uncontrollable

Forever

I could have met no one from Belgium five years ago on that hiking trail in Alberta, Canada

On that day Lydia might not have invited me to accompany her and friends to Senegal

I could have said “No thanks” and waved goodbye

I might have lived in the same village in Canada for the rest of my life

My visa application could have been rejected by the Belgian Immigration Service

I might never have thought of engaging an immigration lawyer to secure the visa

Lydia and Jo might have lived near Ypres rather than Ghent … no seagulls

I could have gotten that apartment on Sint-Jansvest rather than the one on the Oudburg in Gent centrum

I might not have liked tagliatelle porcini

I might have never discovered Belgian beer, especially Westmalle Tripel

I might not have marvelous friends in Nukerke, Ghent and Ostende

I could have died by now

***

It’s all a miracle

For most of my life I have loved golf.  But what I’ve really loved is golf courses.

I became a member of Tarandowah Golfers’ Club in Canada.  It was designed by the British architect Martin Hawtree to resemble the seaside links courses in Scotland.

I love Tarandowah … the sweep of the fairways, the deep pot bunkers, the severe slopes beside some of the greens.  Take a look:

On a misty morning, alone in the rolling world, I was at peace.

Back in the clubhouse, I waxed poetic about the beauties of the land to my fellow members.  I sighed …

And no one cared.  No one noticed the love in my eyes.  They wanted to talk about scores and the nuances of the golf swing.

I was alone … while surrounded by people.

***

And now in Ghent, far from the world of golf.  Instead I have the Leie River and the seagulls who ply their trade there.  How they soar!

Do you see the widespread wings?  Do you feel the tilt of feathers as the dive begins?  Are you there above it all with your brothers and sisters?

Usually the answer is “No”.  Seagulls poop on us and squawk a lot.

(Sigh)

My friend Michel is the only one whose eyes widen in contemplation of flight, who marvels at the still wings aloft.

***

It’s a bittersweet aloneness, yearning for people to join my life, and knowing that most of them never will.  And yet closing my eyes on the pillow with scenes of the twelfth green and the Zuivelbrug Bridge inviting me to sleep.

All is well

We went … and we opened.  So many young lives that ended in 1917.  The time gap seems wide but it’s not.  Soldiers of all countries lived like me: happy and sad, together and lonely, healthy and sick.  They had dreams.  I have dreams.  I get to live mine.

We visited the memorial to Canadian soldiers.  A man with head bowed mourns the loss:

A sign told us that the soldier faces the wind that brought chlorine gas into the lungs of Canadians.  Such a horrible way to die, clutching your throat for air.

And today?  It felt so ordinary.  A pretty park.  This patch of grass could be anywhere, hosting a single dandelion:

But the Battle of Passchendaele was fought in oozing mud and driving rain.  How easy it is to sense only our usual world of 2023.

A British writer spoke for his compatriots but he could have been French … or German:

There is not a single half-acre in Ypres that is not sacred.  There is not a single stone which has not sheltered scores of loyal young hearts, whose one impulse and desire was to fight and, if need be, to die for England.  Their blood has drenched its cloisters and its cellars, but if never a drop had been spilt, if never a life had been lost in defence of Ypres still would Ypres have been hallowed, if only for the hopes and the courage it has inspired and the scenes of valour and sacrifice it has witnessed.

The German Air Force bombed Ypres until there was virtually nothing left, including the Cloth Hall.  It was “built in the 13th century.  Also during this time cats, then the symbol of the devil and witchcraft, were thrown off Cloth Hall, possibly because of the belief that this would get rid of evil demons.”

Yesterday I sat in front of the Cloth Hall, pondering mankind’s beauty and depravity.  My head dropped without my mind in the picture.

Here are two photos:

We also visited the resting place of many young men.

“There are now 11,961 Commonwealth servicemen of the First World War buried or commemorated in Tyne Cot Cemetery.  8,373 of the burials are unidentified.”

Such an expanse of death.

Sonetime in my future I want to visit the nearby cemetery for German soldiers.  They too need to be honoured.

For all the dead, there is this tombstone:

And at the end of the day, there is life … in front of the Cloth Hall:

You know the ball is there