Retreat in Ostend

4 and 1/2 min read

By the end of February, the murmurings of spring come around with a quickness that should no longer surprise or unnerve me. But it does. 

My counsellor invites me, for free, to a Christian weekend retreat for singles on the Belgian coast. I assume God really wants me there. I wouldn’t have had the disposable income for the trip otherwise.  

The only drawback is that I am obligated to share a room with a stranger. It’s a lottery. It’ll be hard to switch off completely not knowing the temperament of my roommate. On verra.

Despite the inauspicious weather forecast that weekend, it turns out to be mild enough to take walks along the sandy Ostend beach. To my pleasant surprise, the convention is booked at a lovely new-looking hotel, delectable meals included. The capacious shower facilities are almost the same size as the bedroom. There’s also a great view of the coast. The building is nevertheless so labyrinthine, that I never quite master the layout. It’s only at the end of my stay, for instance, that I discover I’ve been dining in the ‘wrong’ canteen.

I arrive at the retreat not in the most sociable mood. Perhaps the thought of bunking with an unknown is playing too much on my mind. I’ve also not come with the intention to hardcore socialise. I see this as akin to my previous experience of silent retreats; a break from the norm in the hope of spending sustained quality time with God. Furthermore, I’m still negotiating my roller-coaster morale. 

Between the seminars, I’m not interested in much chit-chat. Whilst I’ll somewhat regret being aloof at times, keeping to myself generally seems like the right call.

My counsellor, Sandrine serves as moderator. Having only recently married well into her 40s, she knows a thing or two about making the most of being single. I learn more about her in the first few minutes of the opening seminar than I have in the two years I’ve been her client. She’s a more confident and fluid public-speaker than I expect.

The attendees are also far more diverse than anticipated; in age, gender and ethnicity. (It’s not just a room full of black women over 35, then.) There’s one guest whom I can only suppose was coerced into coming. I notice him taking swigs of some unknown liquid stashed away in his pocket. I can’t blame him, if it’s not his scene. Maybe in order to endure, he feels the need for some Dutch Courage. A jocular character even when sober (from what I observe), he’s especially disruptive during seminars. More than once he abandons them altogether, escorted out of the hall by the woman I presume invited him.

Over the course of the weekend, I’ll spot a few people from my home church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It’s a relief of sorts to see familiar faces. I’m friendly but maintain a polite distance.

The main sessions are led by an elderly Caucasian couple, Anne-Marie and Louis, both on their second go of this marriage business. Apart from Sandrine’s opening address, there’s an awful lot of focus on future marriage, rather than appreciating singleness in its own right. I wonder how this serves those who don’t want to or, for whatever reason, will not marry. I think of those in the room who might be LGBTQ+ and choose to be celibate; how this over-emphasis on being wed invisibilises their experiences.

Louis still has a noticeable Quebecois inflection, despite having left North America decades ago. Most French Canadians I come across in mainland Europe tend to soften their accent to be better understood. This speaker, not so much. I make a special effort to catch what he’s saying. Then again, ignorance is bliss. At least a decade older than his wife, Louis lives down to several clichés of the reactionary older white evangelical. He rails against the Big Bang theory, apparently not aware that it was first put forward by Georges Lemaître, a Catholic priest from Belgium, of all places. Already fed up, I retire to my room when he launches into an off-topic and vehement Zionist apologia that seems to indirectly justify current events in Gaza. On the way to my chambers, I hear strains of a pitchy rendition of The Macarena emanating from one of the bars, courtesy of the hired 'talent'.

Anne-Marie's interventions are much more pertinent than her husband's. She has a heartening backstory of finding a new lease of life when, after 20 years of marriage, her serially unfaithful ex abandons her and their four children. She does make a few stray comments that leave me uneasy, however; one of them being borderline heretical. 

Whilst I am able to engage with some sessions more than others and there are a few insightful moments, it’s nothing that I hadn’t heard before. Louis' interventions irritate more than inspire. It’s hard to relax not knowing when my roommate will return. If she is around, she's amicable but meddlesome. And she snores. I request earplugs from reception after a fitful first night. When my roommate queries why I nap so much, it’s difficult to avoid mentioning her unconscious habit. She blames it on weight-gain, somehow making it all about herself. The second night is a lot less stertorous. I suspect she took my observations to heart and ends up not sleeping well herself.

Meal times are a highlight, not just for the variety but also the friendly (mostly male, Middle Eastern or African) staff. Alas, there is one karen lurking around and scrutinising my every movement. At the end of my stay, when she waves her finger at me for leaving the premises with a half-eaten apple, I snap at her in exasperation. She quickly backs off.

Overall, I’m not sure what to make of the retreat. Back in Brussels there were a number of places I could have been that weekend, including a solidarity demo for DRC. Whilst a change of scene and a bit of alone time with God in relatively plush surroundings has been welcome, there has not been -at least not yet - the life-transforming revelation I had in mind.

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.

Still in Transit, Apparently

 6 min. read

(courtesy of The Healthy Epicurean)

On the social action front, I’ve added a couple more volunteering activities to my already very rewarding shifts at the Red Cross. In late 2022 I join the team of an excellent Belgian charity that supports those involved in the sex trade and provides routes out for those looking to leave. In some ways, it’s a resumption of the outreach work of which I was part in Strasbourg, except this organisation has an even more extensive support system. As was the case in France, I limit my participation for now to once a month. The work is fulfilling but emotionally and mentally heavy.

I also join the team at church responsible for translating English worship song lyrics into French. It’s led by Mark, a convivial young man, it seems. Owing to the lack of uptake elsewhere, he's responsible for several ministries at FWM, despite himself being a full time healthcare worker. We have a surprisingly good working relationship so far. I say surprisingly, because our first encounter at a retreat for young professionals a couple of years earlier, was not at all promising. We fell out over politics. I can’t speak to his current views on socio-economic justice but Mark is far less obnoxious than I recall. He’s affable even, to a coquettish extent.

In early February, Monica – one of my church home group leaders and the former coordinator of the Young Professionals group – invites me round for dinner. She’s been wanting it to happen for a while. Uncharacteristically, I hope she’ll forget. It’s not that Monica is a bad sort. She’s confident, proactive and has her heart in the right place. We get on well enough. It’s just she lacks self-awareness. I find her assertive to the point of being obtrusive; nay, bossy. In any gathering, she’s the self-appointed spokesperson. Perhaps it’s a clash-of-the-Alpha-females thing but I don’t find her company as easy as say, Karin or Brenda. I perceive that Monica and I wouldn’t be compatible enough to ever be close friends. 

 However, it reaches the point where I can no longer put off her dinner request. It’s an act of kindness after all; more so given that she’s had a rough time of it herself lately.

Overall, my feelings about the experience are mixed. Her honey, walnut and feta salad is very good and Monica makes an effort to ensure I feel welcome. My initial plan is to keep the focus of conversation on her and avoid going into detail about my life. That works for the first portion of the evening, until Monica starts asking pointed questions. I’m initially judicious about my responses but once in the flow, my guard comes down more than intended. Some of the discussion is genuinely enriching, particularly the theological elements. Monica has a specific take on the Prodigal Son story – a parable about which I've long been conflicted – that I find refreshing. Unfortunately, she also feels at liberty to proffer unsolicited advice. 

I already have a shrink and a close circle with whom I can confide.

In hindsight, I feel over-scrutinised. I'm annoyed with myself for not being firmer with my boundaries. Monica is in no position to comment on my life, no matter how well-meaning. Our relationship is not - and unlikely ever to be - that deep. 

I have a chance to share my misgivings sooner than anticipated the following day, when Monica and I see each other at another FWM event. She announces she’ll be accompanying me home afterwards, since she also has a function in my neighbourhood. I acquiesce before I can think of a plausible excuse. I’m miffed.

It does nonetheless provide a prime opportunity for me to be polite but frank about the previous evening and other misgivings. She takes it as graciously as she can. In the end, she is whom she is. 

It makes me reflect on when I’ve been on the other end of this kind of dynamic. I have more sympathy for some - not all - former budding acquaintances who have found me ‘too much’ and decided to walk away from any potential friendship. I can’t always take it too personally. Sometimes there isn’t sufficient kismet to make it work.

Meanwhile, I endeavour to redirect attention from a lack of connection and relational false starts to investing time and energy into my meaningful Brussels friendships. Karin welcomes a new addition to the family in January; chubby-cheeked Nehemiah.  To her immense credit, she still makes time amidst the busyness to see friends. Her now middle child and only daughter, Evita has a mixed reaction to her new sibling. No longer being the youngest, she oscillates between devotion and her diva antics. I bear witness during an awkward meet up at a shopping centre with the whole family, including dad Felix. More than once, I've insinuated to Karin that it'll do Evita a lot of good no longer being the baby of the bunch. 

The following week we have a far calmer morning catch-up over hot drinks at an agreeable South American establishment, for which I have Karin to thank for the discovery.

(image courtesy of Knox Box)

My cultural highlights of the year so far have mostly been musical. In mid-January I attend a Brazilian Jam and Open Mic session at an intimate venue in central Brussels. It turns out to be a good opportunity to practise my Portuguese with some habitually welcoming Brazilians, as well as dust off the odd Bossa Nova tune. I take to the stage for a rendition of Berimbau/Consolação. I am not best pleased with my performance. I feel it’s pitchy and I am not as self-assured as I’d like. Nonetheless, the reception from the crowd and musicians is warm. I'm back for more the next month.

The following evening, I join a group of relative strangers - via Meet Up - for a night of raucous Karaoke fun. It's the bar-style set up which I've historically avoided (compared to the traditional Japanese private booths that I prefer). The venue is nevertheless not the dive I expect it to be and our group has a good rapport. Most of the singing that night can scarcely be qualified as such. Guilty pleasures abound, such as a fixation with ABBA's cheesier output (no shade on the Swedish quartet's repertoire overall), mixed in with some more respectable numbers. It tickles me no end to see drunken young men singing along to Rihanna or Linkin Park as if they're at a football match. Hussein, a member of my group, convinces me to join him in Rick-Rolling the whole room. I regret not signing up for a solo. It's more of a blast than I imagined.

Later that month, I’ll pop to Marolles for an event organised by another recent acquaintance, B-mol. I’ve long given up on hearing from him, when he reaches out to inform me of a weekly Afro Jam/Open Mic he’s hosting in the old Jewish district. A singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentalist himself, B-mol warms the crowd with both originals and covers before leaving the stage open to whoever wants to have a go. 

It’s not my intention to sing, just observe. 

Famous last words.

Before I know it, I’m jamming with the musicians to Sade classics and hopping on the mic for an impromptu Bill Withers/Arrested Development mash-up. I am surprised by how comfortable I am on stage. It must be the ambiance. It’s one of those gloriously enjoyable moments I couldn’t plan. B-mol - and his wife, Luna in particular - are most encouraging. Ditto for the audience and musicians. It’s a different atmosphere from the previous open mics/jam sessions I’ve attended in Brussels. The quality of musicianship and song choices are solid, compared to some of the more liberal events I’ve frequented (A couple of females kill it on the bass and drums to my utmost pleasure). Yet, there’s none of the cliqueyness or withholding elitism of the Jazz crowd. It's -so far - a happy medium between the two. Much kudos to B-mol for pulling it off, despite only moving to Belgium a mere few months before. I tell him  -sans hyperbole - that it’s the best of this style of event I’m yet to attend; certainly in the Brussels context. I hope to make it one of my regular hotspots.

By sheer happenstance, B-mol and I will cross paths once more on the metro the following afternoon.

Soundtrack: Best of 2022 mixes, Now by Astrud Gilberto, Tropikadelic by Ireke

Ready or Not...Part I

 

Hamburg (courtesy of Reisroutes)

5 min. read

Hello, is anybody out there? 

Following a lengthy-ish summer hiatus from posting on LVC, it was always going to be tricky working out if/when to return. It’s not as if I have an army of subscribers eagerly awaiting my titbits. In the end, it’ll be the compulsion to write that will have me coming back despite myself.

I’ve enjoyed the respite; just living life without the obligation to document everything. The past couple on months or so have been so packed, it would have been a challenge in any case.

Let’s get the less pleasant aspects out of the way first...

 I am still job hunting. It’s not how I would have liked to spend the aestival months but needs must. I have one interview in late August, during my mother’s first Belgium visit (more on that later), with an anti-racist organisation. I love the sound of the role but taking it would mean a significant pay cut and a continuous search for something more financially sustainable. I am upfront about this in the interview. Some might question the wisdom of this. I can’t say I’d be so bold again. Nonetheless, it feels like the sensible thing to do at the time. The interview otherwise goes swimmingly (as far as I can tell). The feedback in the rejection email is very encouraging. Yet, it is still a refusal when all is said and done. Psycho-emotionally, it’s the usual rollercoaster; some days I feel plucky enough to weather the storm. Other days are so dark I can’t see past them.

There have been moments of reprieve. I take the all-night bus to Germany in mid-August to spend the long Assumption weekend with my dear friend, Coral. We haven’t seen each other in the flesh since early 2020, mere weeks before the global lockdowns. Meanwhile, she’s left Dresden and moved across the country to begin a new job and life season in Hamburg. 

I arrive early Saturday morning but we don’t step out until evening, it takes that long to catch up on our news (well, mainly me and my monologues). Not being familiar with Hamburg, it’s also a chance to be acquainted with what turns out to be an attractive city (the main train station notwithstanding). 

My good friend, Brenda – a Hamburg native – provides some culture tips beforehand. I cross most off my list thanks to a comprehensive city tour, Coral’s guidance and my own curiosity. I also benefit from Germany’s subsidised nationwide summer deal, thanks to which one can traverse the country for a mere nine euros all month.

It’s a soothing break. Coral’s great listening skills and sagacity are forever welcome. Plus, she spoils me rotten, not allowing me to pay for anything.

Shortly after my return to Brussels, I host my mother for the first time since I moved to Belgium. Owing to other commitments, I can only entertain mum for under a week. One of the few advantages of being between jobs is that I can focus on her visit.

I make an itinerary, including a city tour (also a first for me in Brussels), an evening at a traditional Belgian restaurant, a ramble around my local environs, an indispensable trip to the African quarter, Matongé and as many park visits as can be squeezed in. At some point I start feeling flu-like symptoms. I’m too nervous to test in case I have to self-confine. Neither can mum afford to be holed up in Belgian for an extra week. I wait to see how things progress. I do make a swift recovery, save for some coughing and sneezing. I remain masked up and persevere with showing mother dearest a good time.

To my relief, mum likes my Brussels accommodation, as different as it is from my Strasbourg residence. She enjoys her five day visit and promptly books a follow up in the Autumn. TBC.

The famous Matongé Mural (courtesy of Le Vif)

Almost immediately after mum’s departure, I’m off to Namur, Wallonia for my first ever silent Christian retreat. It’s on the condition that my symptoms have  subsided enough not to expose anybody else to risk. I’ll discover on arrival that there are elderly and immuno-compromised guests present.  It’s a tough call. It would’ve been incredibly depressing to quarantine in my flat, especially so soon after mum’s visit. (I do test when I get back to Brussels and it shows up Corona-free).

The journey to Namur is a little madcap. There aren’t many participants in possession of a car and none that live in Brussels. I’m supposed to travel with friend and former church member, Jana, courtesy of a lift offered by another participant living in Flanders. When our ride pulls out, we’re left floundering. Jana researches alternative train routes. By a hair’s breadth, I miss the connection which would have reunited us en route. I remain in touch with Jana by phone whilst I catch a different train.

There is one plus about missing my original connection. I’m not forced to travel with Lorenzo. Yes, it’s a bitter irony that I still run into him at the events in which I once encouraged him to participate whilst we were on good terms. I am thankfully forewarned by Jana that he’ll be attending, she being apprised of the decline in relations. I am not shocked by the news. There was always the outside possibility. I can’t pretend his presence has no impact on the experience. 

By chance, a few weeks before the retreat I speak to Melissa, the mutual friend who introduced me to Lorenzo. At the time I’m unaware of how much she knows about the state of play. A lot, it turns out. He had apparently given up on the friendship long ago, citing flimsy and at times even judgmental reasons, from what I glean from Melissa. 

The River Meuse, Namur (Routard)

He appears to share more with her by IM than he ever does with me on or offline. This revelation sparks a fresh wave of grief. During the retreat I alternate between being courteous but distant (not so hard with most of it spent in silence) or avoiding him altogether. Lorenzo, for his part, prefers the latter. From what I can tell, he's done his utmost to disassociate from me and the situation. It sticks in my claw to see him play the perfect gentleman with others. 

Anger, hurt and betrayal stir within me. 

Before we depart, I nevertheless slip a note under Lorenzo’s door, as encouraged by one of the retreat organisers in the know. It’s with much apprehension. Lorenzo and I are long past reconciliation. Besides, it can’t be a unilateral decision. I’m tired of consistently being the one to reach out; remembering his birthday for example when he can’t be bothered to do the same.

Still, I recognise we need to clear the air. It would otherwise be hypocritical, particularly before breaking bread for Holy Communion on the last day. Lorenzo does acknowledge the note but confesses he’s yet to read it. We have a couple more civil exchanges before everyone goes their separate ways. 

At the time of writing, Lorenzo is yet to respond to my brief letter. No remorse shown. From cowardice or callousness, I have no idea.  It is a needless reminder that this person is not – and probably was never – good for me.

Yet, despite this added challenge, it doesn’t define the getaway. The retreat has an aquatic theme, owing to the centre’s proximity to the River Meuse. The workshops, shared sessions and a temporary art installation all have a therapeutic effect.  I find genuine solace and rest within the comfortable accommodation as well as the scenic surroundings. I while away time in the chapel or sat by the Meuse. The weather continues to be kind, which will soon change when September arrives. It’s a delicious novelty not having anywhere to be; not to be a slave to my own self-imposed schedule. It's something I usually struggle to achieve, even on holiday. The serenity naturally makes it easier to connect with God, although it takes a moment to reach this point. 

The retreat is not perfect, nothing is. The available literature and music is very Eurocentric and male-dominated, for instance. I am the only non-European in the group. However, I have no regrets about attending. It enables me to turn down the volume of my mental traffic, even if I can't completely switch it off. 

Once that precious long weekend is over, I reflect on how to carry forward the tranquillity into my everyday life.

Part II

I Can Sing a Rainbow

 

Last week, during one of my daily walks, I see a huge double rainbow straddling a busy main road in my neighbourhood. It ends somewhere in a nearby field. Following a drop in temperature and return to more frequent rain, there have been a few of these multicoloured appearances in the past couple of weeks.

I’ve always been taken by this natural phenomenon. In the biblical story of Noah, it’s representative of God’s mercy and fresh starts. I also like the paradox of this hopeful emblem. Such a wonderful and reassuring sight is only possible after significant rainfall. A rainbow would never be found on a clear, sunny day.

In this prolonged Coronavirus season, it’s symbolic of my efforts to count my blessings amidst the trials. March marks the first anniversary since the WHO officially declared COVID19 a pandemic. The month has brought with it more crises of morale as I reach another slow descent in the rollercoaster analogy. The monotony of teleworking once again eats away at my soundness of mind and there’s no immediate relief in sight. Yet March has also brought some opportunities to interact with others in ways that have eluded me for a while.

On the first Friday of the month  my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) organise a mass sandwich making initiative on their premises. The following day we are to deliver and distribute hundreds of packed lunches alongside the Serve the City team at the Red Cross Centre. Owing to the scale of the operation, it’s been in the church diary for weeks. It nevertheless requires some time management on my part. Friday nights have recently been set apart for online Christian counselling sessions with specialists from FWM. With all that’s going on, it’s vital that I avail myself of whatever resource to improve my emotional and mental well-being.

After another evocative session, I rush to FWM HQ. Dozens of (fairly) physically-distanced church members are in the back hall, beavering away. It’s quite the slick process, broken down to its most basic components. Some are buttering, others do the filling, whilst others still wrap the finished product in clingfilm. 

There are ample treats around, both for the sandwich bags and to line the volunteers’ stomachs. Pastor Tasha asks me to join a group of Francophones doing some buttering. This is no time to be coy. After mildly awkward salutations and listening in for a bit on the girls’ talk, the conversation becomes more relaxed and inclusive. There’s an embarrassing episode where I mistakenly eat what I think is a stray slice of bread. Tya, one of my co-volunteers at the Red Cross, teases me all evening. Sensitive sort that I am, usually this would bother me to a small degree. But teasing denotes familiarity; like being officially initiated into the clan.

The simple act of being in a room full of people has taken on life-affirming significance in the past year. Moreover, this will be the first occasion I have had to meet some FWM members in the flesh, including Pastor Tasha. The atmosphere is full of bonhomie. We brave the near-freezing temperatures to load approx. 500 packed lunches into car boots, to be handed out the following day. On the way back home via the metro, I spot a couple from church heading in the same direction. I recognise the male contingent, Jean-Luc, from the welcome team. Not wanting to be the third wheel, I keep a polite distance. The two are pretty persistent nonetheless. They accompany me all the way to my interchange at Merode. It’s good French practice too. I’m in full flow by the time I have to switch trains.

Some of us reconvene the following day at the Red Cross Centre. I’m wrapped up warm, expecting to hand out sandwiches to rough sleepers as on a previous occasion. Instead, the RC have a soup-kitchen set-up to distribute the lunch bags. 

This is an even more rapid-fire operation than the sandwich-making. Recipients of the food packages are moved along a conveyor belt-style system. The international voluntary team set to work; some pouring out flavoursome soup and passing it around, the rest distributing various components of the food bags. We’re given strict instructions to hand out a maximum amount of food at the onset. Those with families are only allowed limited extras, to ensure everyone can eat their fill. A few chance it, hoping we won’t recall their faces when they return for second or third helpings.

The distribution goes so fast that we barely have time to speak to beneficiaries. Many are the walking definition of world-weary. They avoid my gaze, as if the burden of their circumstances has denied them of their dignity.

 I try and make eye contact, smile, ask Ça va ? or wish them a Bon Appetit.

The afternoon shift draws to a close before we know it. There are plenty of left overs, long after redistributing extra helpings. The rest is to be deposited at another centre to minimise any waste.

All the volunteers are dying to taste the tantalising, still-warm soup on offer.

At home time, I’m shown more backstage bounty by a confident young Anglo-Belgian man. He has a fascinating hybrid accent, that at first makes him hard to place. I’m not tempted by the sandwich bags so much as wanting to give some away en route home. Murphy's law, of all the many homeless in Brussels, I’d see none on my journey. I decide not to risk it. There are indulgently large bags of brownies and muffins on offer that I manage to resist. I take a respectable portion home and no more.

I’m on a high from this fulfilling start to my day. I’ve also been enjoying the respite from Rob the Frenemy. That afternoon will be the first time I’ve been in contact since taking a break from the drama. I send him a carefully curated email, hoping that we can come to an entente cordial. Or at least I'll understand why his overtures of friendship are so conflicted. I have to manage my expectations. Emotional intelligence is not one of Rob’s strengths. I hope nevertheless that being earnest might get us somewhere…

Instead he makes a glib comment about having ‘ulterior motives’ after all. I’m an Aphrodite Kallipygos, according to Rob. I have to look up the term.

Once apprised, I explain that I choose to overlook this remark. Considering he’s spent the last couple of months protesting his innocence; even when unsolicited. I re-direct Rob's attention to the rest of the email’s content, which he ignores.

So what if I’m attracted to you? Is it really a problem? he shoots back. He claims his admiration of my rear is the same as some women appreciating his height. 

No. It's not the bloody same.

Seeing we won’t have an adult conversation by email, I decide to call. I’m not prepared for what turns into an hour plus of drunken confessions. I don’t pick up anything untoward at first. I’m used to Rob mumbling. It’s only when he admits that he’s been drinking all evening; at first with a guest and then on his own, that I peg just how wasted he is. He proceeds to send me photographic evidence.

Alcohol notoriously loosens the tongue. Heck, Rob doesn't have much of a filter when relatively sober.

 Time won’t allow for me to go into the half of what he says. He tells me things that I know he’d regret in the plain light of day. Pretty much every suspicion I’ve had about his intentions, he confirms. He itemises all the ways he finds me attractive; physically, intellectually and spiritually.

 Half-way through inviting me to the park the next day, he mentions he just broke up with one of his girlfriends. As if that has anything to do with me. 

Rob admits that his hitherto refusal to meet up for a platonic walk is little more than petulance. He resents that I wont come round for dinner or invite him to mine; something on which he still insists. He claims that he doesn't have a history of sexual assault (how comforting). Besides, he says, if I try anything you can just push me off.

Likely flipping story. He's 6"6. It'd hardly be a fair fight.

Don’t take it personally, I say. Just ask your South American friend. This is a segue for Rob to begin some emotional exposé on my former crush that makes little sense in his intoxicated state. Something about the South American being ‘confused’ and hung up on an old girlfriend. Tempting as it is, I have no time for these revelations. It’s none of my business.

Then in probably the most startling admission of all, Rob interjects

You know, a girl like you, you shouldn’t even give a second thought to [men like] us.

Many a true word spoken in drunkenness. There’s a poignancy to the obvious complimentary element of Rob’s statement. I find it depressing that under current virus-related circumstances, my friendship options are so minimal that my most regular contact is with a man who has such muddled motives. Moreover, it appears Rob prefers some idealised version of me in his head than the one in the real world. He questions why his being attracted to me should pose a problem. Normally it wouldn’t. Except he seems less respectful towards me than other female acquaintances such as Carol; to whom he’s much more like a model friend.

Seeing I’m getting nowhere, I leave Rob to sleep off what is sure to be the mother of a hangover. His communication over the next few days is predictably sparse, although doesn’t drop off altogether. Our paths cross-again the following week at an online quiz he's co-organised.  On a couple of occasions he sends 11^th hour invitations to hang out with a variety of acquaintances. I demure. I’m not about to drop everything at the last minute for him.

Thankfully, not all my efforts to socialise are so fraught. I have female acquaintances round for late lunch on two consecutive Sundays. First it’s Brenda, a sweet 20-something Austrian sister from FWM. Having moved to Brussels around the same time, she’s one of the few other consistent contacts I have in Belgium.

I take care of starter and mains, whilst Brenda brings over a more-ish homemade trifle. My spinach soup entrée and main fish pie dish go down very well. She’s appreciative to the point I feel a tad embarrassed. With both of us stranded in Belgium for Easter, I suggest she comes over again for Resurrection Sunday lunch. The offer is accepted without hesitation, her enthusiasm reiterated by text a fortnight later.

The following week, I’ll be pleasantly surprised to find a ‘thank you’ card in my letter box courtesy of Brenda.

That Sunday, it’s the turn of mutual friend of Rob, Auntie Carol. Her being of West-Indian extraction, I’m especially keen for my flat to be in good order when she arrives. Nobody keeps house like Caribbeans. It’s mixed-meat tagine on the menu this time, albeit not as warm as I would have liked despite being fresh out of the oven. My lukewarm flat is also too chilly for Carol’s through-and-through tropical blood. She hops from one foot to the other. There’s not much I can do to alleviate her discomfort. The living room heating is on a timer.

Notwithstanding my eagerness to share my Rob-related gossip, I learn more about Carol’s adventures as a student in Spain, our shared faith, various exes and suitors as well as work-related drama. I’ve lived a sheltered life in comparison. As Carol recalls her pre-COVID nights on the town, I rue how much this bloomin' pandemic has robbed me of Brussels’ life.

By the time we’ve exhausted this round of conversation and I accompany Carol to the metro station, it is nightfall.

Soundtrack: Expansion by Speech

Lockdown: The Sequel

A few weeks into the second round of lockdowns that have swept across much of Western Europe, there are signs that the sacrifice is slowly paying off in Belgium. Thank God. Infection rates and hospital admissions are moving in the right direction. Any optimism however, must remain extremely cautious. Some of this success could be attributed to extended school holidays. 

Recently announced festive plans favour commerce and little else. Depressingly, the tight restrictions on indoor gatherings will remain until mid-January. Neither will restaurants, cafés and most cultural venues be re-opening. It's as if the Belgian authorities expect people to flout the rules over the Christmas season. Thus, they're not giving any leeway, as to offset any possible breaches.

Day to day, the sense of routine is more maddening than reassuring. I remark to friends and family that to an extent, I’m struggling more this time than during the even stricter quarantines of spring. A few echo my sentiments. I don’t want to over-romanticise the difficulties of Lockdown Part 1. Domestic and other forms of (often gender-based) violence rocketed. There was of course the widespread economic devastation for many. Not to mention those already in a fragile psychological state. All travel plans came to an abrupt halt. On a personal front, like many living alone I was completely isolated save for some online community. I had the additional stress of unemployment. 

On the material front, life has improved drastically since March. I found work and moved countries. Thank God, I'm still in good health despite the continued circulation of a vicious virus.

Yet mentally, there’s a particular weariness accompanying Lockdown: Part 2. There’s neither the shock or novelty of the situation to cushion the blow. It’s also leading up to winter in the Northern Hemisphere. There’s no longer the warmth or heartening abundance of sunlight that characterised this year’s unseasonably clement Spring.

Whereas online audio/visual platforms proved a lifeline during the First Wave, personally the charms of community-by-Zoom are wearing off fast. My desire for human interaction and -on the work front- the professional imperative, demand that I interact with these apps despite ever-diminishing returns. On one hand, with more time in theory and less reasons to step outside, I have more opportunities to catch up with friends at a distance. I reconnect with acquaintances with whom I haven’t spoken in years, including a celebrated writer and pundit now based in the German capital. Another one-and-a-half hour conversation with a long-lost friend, builds up to the announcement that she’s divorcing her childhood sweetheart. As she stoically recounts the hellish last five years of her life, it puts things in perspective.

And yet…

There are days I’m bouncing off the walls from the minute I wake up. The thought of another whole day of quasi-house arrest fills me with dread. Or rather, the familiar feeling of light depression eating away at the peripheries. The spontaneous crying on a regular basis is a sure sign. One morning, to combat the especially lachrymose Monday blues, I spin Sade's modern-day secular Psalm King of Sorrow.

There's nothing anyone can say to take this away. Just another day. Nothing [feels] any good.

Boy, that hits the spot.

It's as if lockdown removes all the pros about being single and leaves mostly the cons.  I make a point to leave my flat at least once a day. Preferably during the lunch hour whilst it’s still daylight. Occasionally, my gamble doesn’t pay off. Work duties encroach on my break. By the time I step out for a quick jaunt round the neighbourhood, I’m late back for a work meeting much to the consternation of my increasingly ill-humoured supervisor, Ama. Navigating her shifting-moods is exacting more psychic energy than I can spare.

Work is otherwise good. Busy but good. I’m becoming more autonomous; albeit with much still to learn. The projects and campaigns on which I’m working have never been more urgent than in the current crisis. Thank God I can be useful at a moment like this. Yet the atomisation that comes from having to constantly WFH is tough for us social butterflies. I’ve never been a homebody. The first lockdown necessitated it. I adapted and survived but it’s still not second nature. With the closure of all eating establishments and cultural centres, it’s not as if there are many other chances for sustained offline social interaction.

I am so grateful for any occasion to get outside. The streets are no longer enveloped in the ghostly quiet of the first lockdown. (Admittedly I was living in France where, until very recently, restrictions were generally harsher). One Sunday afternoon, when a newly made acquaintance cancels a promenade because of bad weather, I improvise one of my own. Rain, fierce winds et al. There’s no such thing as a wasted journey. Contrary to the advice by some health experts, I make frequent shopping trips. When I arrive to find my local Aldi’s closed earlier than I expected one evening, I don’t curse the heavens. I’m just pleased to be out in the elements. I've developed a tendency to leave the radio on when I go for my twilight walks, so I don't return home to silence.

My local shopping centre in Woluwe is comfortingly serene. There are still sufficiently-distanced corners to sit, snack, read… I even stumble across a deserted Chapel on one of my visits, seizing a chance to collect my thoughts in the calm setting.

When I can, I arrange to meet with colleagues and new acquaintances for one of the state-approved park strolls. Meanwhile, the intervals between catch-ups with the South American have widened. For all his seemingly enchanting whimsy, otherworldliness and not conforming to masculine clichés, I worry that he might just be another fickle and unreliable hetero. He has a habit of ignoring my text proposals to meet up, only to send me a cheery non-sequitur out of the blue. Or to leave me an (admittedly flattering) voice message about how he misses the 'melody of my voice' and the 'poetry' of how I speak. Hmm. It's as if he only comes alert when he's being ignored. 

At one point he invites me round to dine. No matter how good a first impression, I don't make a habit of going alone to men's homes; especially those I hardly know. I eventually agree, telling myself not to be too rigid but still mentally hedging my bets. I pray for divine intervention if it's not to be. A couple of hours before our scheduled Sunday lunch, he texts to say he's too exhausted and wants to postpone. Hmm. Trying to work out if he's on a power trip or just incredibly disorganised is another mental workout that I. Do. Not. Need. 

I default to my natural spiritual posture; wrestling with God. It’s not that I don’t recognise a foxhole. Or even need one to call on the Almighty. God is ever-present. I am just seeking a more tangible experience.  More often than not, it feels like screaming into the void and other clichés. Not just about my own sadness but the state of the world.

Speaking of spiritual outlets, despite the disruption I’ve managed to find some church community. Ironically, the first time I attend a Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries, it's the last before places of worship are obligated to close. I have a presentiment something isn’t right when one of the welcome team mentions Pastor Mike has some ‘special announcements’ to make. 

With a ready smile and a comically-broad Afrikaans accent, he’s a man of unbelievable good cheer. Suspiciously good, at first. Such that it would be impossible to maintain if it weren’t innate. 

Pastor Mike explains that the authorities changed their mind literally from one day to the next. His message is adapted in accordance to the news; acknowledging the turmoil whilst suitably encouraging.

Afterwards, I have the opportunity to speak to the man himself. I confess the closure comes as a blow. From late September/early October I have been visiting churches. I didn’t realise how much I missed Sunday services in real time. Fresh Wine had been on my radar for a while. I’d been following them from afar. 

I’ve avoided joining Anglophone congregations as not to get stuck in an expat bubble. The church offers a bilingual service (English to French translation of which I avail myself). It’s a compromise I can live with. Unlike other Anglophone churches, it attracts a number of Francophones. Also contrary to other churches I visited, COVID-19 restrictions are not a reason/excuse to be guarded or unwelcoming to newcomers. Fresh Wine members seem genuinely warm and friendly. Thanks to one or two serendipitous encounters on and offline, I meet up with a couple of them on separate occasions for the aforementioned state-approved park walks. (One said acquaintance, Gerry Rose, is like a dark-skinned Senegalese version of the capricious South American. Except more reliable. By coincidence, both are deceptively* camp fashion designers who are apparently attracted to voluptuous, cocoa-complexioned African chicks. Go figure. No sparks with Gerry on my end but that's a boon. I can enjoy his company without being all in my feelings)

*I like to believe I'm forward-thinking enough to realise that not all gay men are camp and vice versa. Heck, I've seen enough examples that defy the stereotype. Alas, socialised-instincts are hard to kick.

There’s much to recommend FWM. Pastor Mike clearly doesn’t take himself too seriously. The church has an outward focus and is pragmatic in its approach to God’s kingdom. It doesn’t espouse pie-in-the-sky theology. They've begun organising monthly lamentation evenings-in the spirit of the psalms.  The objective is to have a safe space for people to mourn all that this turbulent season has churned up. For the inaugural event, I'm crying before I even log-in.

It helps that Fresh Wine's senior pastors are not all Caucasian and/or  male. Mike and his wife Tasha, diverge from the usual. They’re both offspring of multi-generational mixed-heritage families from the Cape. They have a late youth/early middle-aged vitality, whilst old enough to remember what it was like living under Apartheid.

I am forthcoming about all these considerations. Pastor Mike seems to appreciate my honesty. 

A few weeks later I join an online newcomers meeting. Mike is chipper as ever, despite having just recovered from the dreaded virus.

I am fairly distracted, having lively bilingual private conversations using the chat function. 

During the Q&A, I point out that singles (especially women) shouldn't be sidelined the way churches have a tendency to do. My remarks receive enthusiastic assent from fellow singles, as well as (married) Pastor Mike. FWM is doing its best but, he admits, more could be done.

Another new-ish member, reeling from her mother’s recent demise, commandeers the introductions segment. Mike’s polite interventions are in vain. Loneliness compels her to monopolise the floor as long as she can get away with it. The meeting thus finishes later than scheduled. My positive appraisal of FWM is reinforced. Still, it would have been so much better if we could have all met offline.