8 min. read
Apart from central Brussels – where the Christmas market is concentrated – and sporadic illumination elsewhere, local authorities are making a conscious decision to save on electricity. It’s unsurprising but nonetheless a little depressing. I can’t be the only one who derives a morale boost from such simple pleasures.
It also strikes me as ironic. I expected these austere measures during the first year of the pandemic. In 2020, I was pleasantly surprised that the City still made a concerted effort to brighten up an otherwise sedate Yuletide under lockdown. After travel restrictions put paid to plans for my mum to visit over Christmas, I found solace wandering the semi-deserted, albeit well-illuminated, streets of Brussels. Similarly, it was a silver lining in December 2021.
I'd argue we need even more reasons to be cheerful in 2022, despite the Pandemic not presently dominating our lives as much as it did. It’s been an arduous 12 months, amidst an already relentless start to a new decade. Energy crisis or not, this is not the time to dim the brightness.
Light represents hope. God knows, we all could do with a lot of that right now.
As December nears, the weight of disappointment hits me with unexpected force. It’s not as if I am unaware of all that has gone before. It’s just the realisation of its duration sparks a fresh wave of grief for all that could have been. We hear of a bad mental health day or week. How about a Bad Mental Health year. Help me out here, people. I know I’m not the only one. I sense a collective existential heaviness, and I pray every day it will lift somehow.
Whilst I do my best to avail myself of good resources, continue counselling sessions and apply helpful practices, I have often found myself in a dysregulated and/or lachrymose state.
I have a low level dread as Christmas approaches. God willing, my holiday will be split between Belgium and the UK. Yet my budgetary limitations make me nervous. I am never one to spend outlandishly at this time of year but there still needs to be room to manoeuvre.
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| Brussels' Plaisirs d'Hiver |
Clothilde, Agnès and I attempt to meet again for another sing-along. Unfortunately, Clothilde’s hectic schedule makes this impossible in the short-term.
In the meantime another of Agnès acquaintances, Andrea, is keen to join the fun.
Alas, it really isn’t the same without Clothilde. Her sunny disposition is missed, as are her notable musical gifts. Andrea gives us a warm welcome at her family home, and I steal a cuddle from her adorable young daughters. It’s nevertheless an underwhelming experience. Andrea doesn’t have much of a voice and poor musical instincts. Bref, it feels more like work than fun. When Agnès seeks to recreate that particular set-up, I politely decline. I’d rather we meet in our original trio, even if that proves sporadic for now.
Meanwhile, I am still debating whether to join the Gospel choir where all three of us first convened. I sit in on yet another rehearsal, thinking if I catch the chorale on a different day with a slightly different constitution, I might be more convinced. I am not. Membership is not free either. Even if it were, I still wouldn’t be that enthused. The group lacks the soulfulness associated with the genre and message. They are a Gospel outfit in name but an average-sounding chamber choir in execution. Not that I have much to choose from. There are so few options for this sort of thing in Brussels.
I need to face it. In the absence of a decision, a decision has been made. I feel bad. The choir director is kind and easygoing. The ambiance is friendly and the members welcoming...
...In any case it’s there, on my radar, if the urge to sing in a communal context is compelling enough for me to set aside my reservations.
Speaking of the Gospel, I endeavour to stay connected to my spiritual family in Belgium; in particular the midweek house gatherings. One evening when we’re due to meet at Karin’s, I’m in an especially foul mood; as dark as the cold December night. I am feeling atypically unsociable. I am running late to dine with the family before other guests arrive. Karin says the kids are looking forward to seeing me. I too miss them but fear I don’t have the emotional energy to hide my misery.
When I arrive at the family home in Schaerbeek, the streets are in a state of happy chaos. Residents of Moroccan extraction shout ecstatically, toot their car horns and set off fireworks. I'm guessing it's to commemorate another successful World Cup match. I've not otherwise paid attention to the international tournament.
The reaction this time is more wholesome compared to the riots that erupted after Morocco’s victory over Belgium a few weeks prior. I do admire the way Belgo-Moroccans so readily show allegiance to their roots. The few times in my youth that I was caught up in World Cup fever, and prioritised support for African teams over that of the national England team, it was treated as some sort of betrayal. One week later, Morocco's unsuccessful showdown with former colonisers, France will end the dream of an African World Cup victory on this occasion.
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| (Le Soir) |
For now, the mayhem is prolonged. The incessant noise prevents Karin’s oldest, Amos, from falling asleep. At least I am able to wish the little ones goodnight whilst they’re being tucked in by their dad, Felix.
The group bible study is postponed yet again. Too few members are available or are running late, according to Karin. Felix is preoccupied with another World Cup game.
I have no regrets, however, about surmounting my grouchiness to spend some time with Karin and anybody else who drops by.
On the way home, a hop and a skip from my front door, a young savage spits on me when I don’t allow him to force his way through the metro turnstile behind me. For days, I self-remonstrate for not having made a speedier getaway.
That weekend, on a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon, the church house group reunite to hand out meals and some festive cheer to rough sleepers and refugees. The sense of teamwork and goodwill abound, if I must say so myself. Out and about doing the distribution at Gare du Nord, I notice a couple of regulars from the Red Cross. Whilst there’s the odd wariness amongst some we approach, the lunches and hot drinks are largely well-received.
Sundays are proving tough on the old emotions. The harder these last months have been, the more difficult I find it to attend main services at Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It requires a mental and emotional energy that can be taxing at the best of times. Two Sundays in a row are especially rough. My heart is heavy from relational disappointments, to which I am especially sensitive these days.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the few good friends that I’ve found out here. I wouldn’t exchange them for the world. Yet, try as I might, I can’t ignore a relational deficit elsewhere. My modest friendship circle can only provide so much.
I make tentative steps towards befriending an impressive young woman from FWM called Albertine. She's gentle, cultured, well-informed and a dead-ringer for a young Lisa Bonet. Girl-crush time.
We make plans for a musical outing after church one Sunday. She ghosts me, without so much of a word or an apology.
Thankfully, my friend Em comes through that evening as planned. We make our way to another free concert at Jazz Station.
Even whilst appreciating the band, it’s an effort for me to hold it together. My longstanding fears of abandon have been realised too frequently of late. Em can relate. She routinely shares about her disenchantment over some friendship or romance gone wrong. We both have a tendency to go all in too prematurely, and are learning to hold back for the sake of self-preservation.
That evening, I hope to sing some of the blues away during the post-show jam session. A Jazzy interpretation of my seasonal favourite, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, would be my first choice. Failing that, a rendition of Donny Hathaway’s This Christmas. Unfortunately, the young cats on duty have too limited a repertoire – or are too unwilling to think outside the box - to comply. Em and I don’t hang around for too long.
The next week, I’m spinning out over some up-in-the-air arrangements to attend a River Jazz Festival gig with Jens. I plan to go with or without him. It’s just frustrating as heck getting a straight answer from him. I don’t know Jens well enough to discern if this is a pattern. I suspect he's also not in the best psycho-emotional state but with only scant communication, I cannot be sure.
I repeat: I’m still tender. I acknowledge I need to be gracious but again, to muster the energy...
I want to feel safe in any budding friendship, in order to build trust. Evasiveness and/or poor organisation rattles me.
Jens drops out last minute, citing ice on the road. I see his text just before the curtain call. I’m not buying it.
I throw myself into the energetic set to defuse my irritation.
After the show, I take a leisurely walk around the surrounding area – famous for the European institutions. Fortunately, this neighbourhood has not lost its festive vigour.
The next day I’m still worked up over Jens’ no-show.
I leave agitated voice messages for sis, explaining my disgruntlement. She’s sympathetic on one hand. Yet she warns that in my current state of mind, I could blow a mere slight completely out of proportion. It has also occurred to me that my perspective is distorted.
That Sunday, after another emotional church service, I walk around Parc Woluwe to calm my nerves. I have my good friend Brenda’s birthday celebrations to attend that afternoon. I must expunge all the killjoy out of me first.
I alternate between listening to my trusty Christmas mix, singing Gospel tunes and weeping. Pale blue skies and watery winter sunshine overlook the vestiges of an autumnal scene. It’s a necessary and cathartic exercise. I’m robust enough to attend Brenda’s low key bash wearing a smile. A cosy environment, classy decorations, a simple but delicious spread and - of course - la chaleur humaine await.
I'm signing off here for 2022. Wishing you all a peaceful and light-filled Christmas/Festive season.
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