Hope Springs Eternal

 

7 min. read

March turns out to be a funny old month (she says, euphemistically). Most notably, my job hunt stalls completely, not for lack of trying. Whilst they have not all made me jump for joy, I did have a spate of interviews in the preceding winter months that gave me cause for cautious optimism, perhaps unwisely. Nothing but tumbleweed and crickets in March. The only responses I receive are negative and, worse still, for roles with which I could really engage. 

One was personally recommended by an activist I've met more than once, at various events related to migration rights. He’s well connected to the recruitment team and offers to put in a good word for me. I’m initially hesitant, as I don’t want any special favours. I merely ask that he informs them I’ve applied. I also happen to have met a number of the organisation's board members in the recent past. I apparently made a positive impression and I hope this will stand me in good stead if/when my name pops up. 

None of this works to my advantage. My acquaintance is seemingly as surprised as I am that my application doesn’t go beyond the initial stage.

Clearly, this is all very demoralising. I’m due another existential crisis and it doesn’t fail to show up in the first month of spring. A planned trip to Blighty for Mothering Sunday weekend thus comes as a mercy. Pre and post-COVID, my trips to the UK have proved to be a solace when I’m going through a difficult season on the Continent. This is no exception. Without a herculean effort on my part, I’m able to suspend most of my malaise. The comfort of being ‘home’; mum’s welcome and quality time spent with her and old friends… A little goes a very long way.

 Continuing my resolve not to overload my London diary, I plan select few meet ups around Mother’s Day, which is completely set aside for mum. I accompany her to her own church that morning, where I’m treated like the guest of honour. Afterwards, it’s back home for an indulgent Continental brunch and siesta. We’re back out that evening for a screening in the Greenwich area of Broker; a beautiful and affecting film with, incidentally, a strong motherhood theme. I have booked a table for two at a new Turkish restaurant nearby, which turns out to have a fantastic menu and solid customer service. 

Any morose presentiments about going back to Belgium are mitigated by the knowledge mum will be joining me in a couple of weeks for Easter.

(image courtesy of The Bouqs. Co)

I return to Brussels a few days later. To help adjust to the grind, I have scheduled a life-coaching session with a new acquaintance, Rev. Pieter Vanderveld. We meet providentially during a visit from my good friend, Vinoth Ramachandra, who is booked as a guest speaker at the Anglican church where Rev. Pieter ministers. On hearing that I’m in transition, the clergyman reaches out to me of his own accord, offering his free life coaching service - or Christilience. I’m intrigued and assure him I’ll reflect on it. After a few of the aforementioned disappointments, it makes perfect sense to avail myself of the opportunity. It could be a potentially useful addition to my monthly therapy appointments.

 Rev. Pieter is a calm and reassuring presence. He wastes no time  putting me in touch with previous clients who have been in a similar situation in the past. To their credit, a number of them promptly reach out with support, encouragement and information about available posts.

Elsewhere, I continue to nurture my socio-cultural interests and pursue spiritual nourishment. Musical reprieve awaits me at the Afro Jam in Marolles and related events around town. The weekend of Palm Sunday, I attend a timely one-day silent retreat, organised by the same team responsible for the long weekend in Namur last summer. There is no extended retreat planned this year. All the more reason to seize this chance. To my pleasant surprise, the one day retreat is held not too far from my neighbourhood. The sprawling grounds are impressive enough not to be marred by the miserable weather. We marvel at how this rustic oasis remains hidden in a busy city. 

Quite a few familiar faces are present; past and current members of my church, FWM. 

Rather awkwardly, a former potential recruiter is also in attendance. She happens to be a parishioner of Rev. Vanderveld as well. It’s a small world. Too small. Nevertheless, the short retreat proves to be a safe place to be vulnerable and gently wrestle with God in peace and quiet. (Mis)perceptions of the Almighty are a thread that run throughout the day. It chimes well with the current season in which I find myself on my spiritual and emotional healing journey.

The following day, I attend the second part of a bilingual (French/Dutch) political education weekend organised by Intal. The conference is aimed at those interested and/or engaged in decolonisation activism and international solidarity. I have Lisa, another new acquaintance, to thank for that invitation. Lively and stimulating conversation abounds, as do the food provisions. I find myself having heated discussions about the role of China in Africa, with me holding a much more sceptical position than many other participants, including Lisa. Before, during and after the conference I connect with fellow political travellers. 

That’s not to presume we’re all exactly on the same page. One participant -a Caucasian from central America - seems to have a hard time accepting the existence of systemic racism in Belgium, despite racialised Belgians informing her otherwise. 

Later that month, Lisa will invite me to a team meeting in Ixelles where a core group strategises on the regular. Lisa and her comrades go to pains to include me. This is exactly the kind of fillip my activism and political organising needs; gradually moving from absorbing lots of theory to praxis. A similar opportunity has opened up elsewhere with a group of volunteers defending the rights of undocumented migrants targeted at MEPs. I pick up one of their flyers at a solidarity demo. After simply making an observation at one meeting, I am drafted (no pun intended) by one of the organisers into the redaction team for campaign materials.

Mum arrives for Easter break a few days after the Intal conference. Once again, I am surprised by my own relaxed attitude throughout her stay. Even if the results seem to manifest at the pace of an iceberg, my self-care and mental wellbeing routines must be having some positive effect.

It took two Corona-interrupted years for mum to visit me in my new-ish Belgium home but she’s made up for it in a relatively short period. It’s her fourth visit since the summer. That takes the pressure off. I don’t have to pack our itinerary with activities, desperate to show her the main Brussels’ landmarks. Mum therefore has plenty of rest time in between outings. She’s keen to accompany me to the Anglican church in town (Rev. Pieter again) for their special Passion week services. We make it bright and early to Maundy Thursday evening service but only catch the tail end of the Good Friday meditations. Mum takes her sweet time at the latter, immersing herself in the liturgy long after everyone else has vacated the sanctuary. I eventually leave her to it, retiring to the back of the church to collect my own thoughts. That evening mum will also accompany me to a vibrant prayer vigil at FWM. My usually reserved mother prays out loud with boldness. She’s also a hit at FWM on Easter/Resurrection Sunday when I introduce her to fellow congregants yet to meet her.

We head to Antwerp on a rainy Easter Monday for a tour by a knowledgeable and zealous city native. I have been underwhelmed by Antwerp on previous visits. Yet the tour helps me see one of Brussels’ main rivals in a fresh light. It’s well-paced and engaging. After the two-hour ramble, mum and I lunch at the House of Waffles, having had our plans to visit the Cathedral thwarted by a long queue and access only granted on payment. Den of Thieves.

It’s a very different experience the following day at Brussels’ Basilica of Koekelberg. Whilst visitors have to pay for access to the gallery and the panoramic rooftop view of the city, access to the main place of worship is free (as it should be). I first visited the Basilica merely weeks after relocating to Belgium, almost three years ago. Back then, the interior was out of bounds owing to COVID restrictions. It’s taken me too long to return. 

I don’t expect to be so impressed by the imposing structure.  A ‘new’ house of worship (early-mid 20^th Century) compared to more ancient orthodox edifices in Europe, I’m stunned by the Basilica’s internal beauty. It has a warm and inviting luminosity, with modern art flourishes and contemporary twists on stain glass windows. 

The Koekelberg Basilica, Brussels
(stock image)

I contrast this with the gothic grimness of the interior of Strasbourg's Notre Dame Cathedral, as magnificent as its exterior might be. The Koekelberg's dome section reminds me of the Cathedral Santa Maria de Fiore in Florence. It’s easy to while away an hour or two inside, even if you don’t make it to the top where a dizzying view of Brussels’ awaits. With age, I’ve inherited more of my mother’s vertigo. We still brave it all to capture some footage, keeping a safe distance from the (admittedly high-walled) edges. The heavens are kind enough not to rain that afternoon. 

It’s not the case on the final day of mum’s spring trip. It's fortunate that I haven’t planned anything beyond the local before her train departs in the early evening. It’s been a pleasant and restful week. Mum and I seriously play with the idea of extending her stay by a few days but it proves impractical. Not to worry. There’ll be other opportunities, inshallah. The year is still young.

Soundtrack: Agora by Cubo Caixo, Young Hearts and various other projects by Benny Sings, Masego by Masego.