Reflections on Bruges: Lost and Found

As a result of my travels, I have decided there is great value in being lost (even though, let's be clear – I'm not a fan). I can't thoroughly articulate what the value is yet: something to do with a tolerance for the unknown. How well such tolerance may serve us, being that all of life is an unknown. I'm sure I'm not the only one who does not leap with wild abandon into the unknown. I am learning, however, to push myself into it (or sometimes it pushes me – and while painful and difficult, I find there are many gifts waiting for us on the other side of courage.

Despite these musings, I was so relieved to find myself in Bruges, where it is hard to lose your way. I enjoyed a much-needed, four day respite from the hard work of being lost (which was often the case in Amsterdam). The Belfry of Bruges, her bells ringing faithfully every quarter of an hour and her elegant face stretching high into the sky, visible from any point in the city, is like a mother beckoning the lost ones home. Between the Belfry and the canals (Just follow the canal, I was so often told) you can always find your way in Bruges. With such a sound center, the freedom to wander the city's intriguing streets abounds. By contrast, in Amsterdam, I was constantly photographing street signs so I could refer back to them, and confusing one church tower with another, though by the end of my time there, I had learned my way around. It strikes me now that only because I was willing to be lost did I ever find my way. Could this be a fundamental part of the amazing grace we often sing of:  If we are not willing to be lost, how can we ever be found?

                                                                                                       

If forty years have taught me anything, it is that there is no single map for life – instead, we make our own and it is only the wisdom of experience that teaches us where to draw our lines. Even when we think we have found the perfect map, life is all too ready to reassure us otherwise. God, for me, is like the bell tower, immovable and forever positioned at the center of the city of my life – a refuge and a guide for me as I wander afoot. How comforting it is to have a center to which you can constantly return when you find yourself feeling lost in life. Are we not all constantly trying to find our way in the world? 

One night in Bruges, I made an intentional journey to the train station. As you might understand from an earlier post, I was determined to have less train stress on my way back to Amsterdam. So after a mind blowing plate of lobster smothered in garlic butter and herbs, served with plenty o' wine (okay, I had to bribe myself onto the bus with a fancy dinner) I headed to central station in the dark. After purchasing my train ticket, I realized the bus was running way less frequently at night. Despite my misgivings, I decided to walk back, having faith that the Belfry would show her face at some point and sing me back home. Indeed, after a left turn, I heard the bells and ten blocks later, I spotted the tower, which guided me back. Isn't it true that we often have to step out into dark and foreign streets on faith alone to find the answers we are looking for? That we sometimes have to wander quite a distance in a new direction before we even know where we are headed?

The Belfry and Market Square

Triumphantly, I made it to the Belfry, where a mysterious blessing awaited. Something different, something amazing was happening in the square that night, where hundreds of chairs were set up facing the Belfry. Instead of its usual time-keeping chimes, the music broke out into deep, thunderous chords of everlasting song. Come to discover, it was an hour long concert, played on a carillon in the tower (this is where the bells are played sort of like an organ on a special keyboard by an actual person). The music rung so deeply and so profoundly, carrying my soul in waves to heights of grateful passion with bold crescendo -- later followed by diminuenco, where my heart was afloat in a peaceful yet remarkable sea. Longfellow describes it better in his poem, The Belfry of Bruges*:

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,

With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sang in the choir;

And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.

From a remote bench in the courtyard, sprawled out on my back, I gazed up at the tower – my amazing grace, my source of profound
joy – the joy of not only having been found, but surprised, yet again, by the goodness of God.

*Find the entire lovely poem here: http://allpoetry.com/The-Belfry-Of-Bruges

To Wander, Linger, and Explore

Beloved Friends,

What do they say -- a rainbow at the end of the storm? Something corny like that? Well, I have found my rainbow! And whatever terrible things the taxi man had to say,I have fallen head over heels for Brugge and want to bring everyone I love to this magical place! It has been described as a fairy tale land, and that is indeed true. Every winding street has something magical to reveal.

Wandering, I have decided, is a spiritual practice and it is all I have done for the past four days. My legs have carried me thousands of kilometers in every direction and my soul has been touched by beauty and goodness in an unprecedented way. Besides the obvious charm of the main square, with its towering Belfry at the center (the Belfry who's bells ring "Ode To Joy" among other tunes, every hour of the day) and besides the fries with mayo (you mustn't picture Best Foods here, the mayo is more along the lines of whipped cream), and besides the Belgian waffles with warm, chocolate sauce, chocolate boutiques on every corner, countless quaint cafes and brasseries -- besides all that, Brugge has magical secrets tucked away in the alley ways and corners of her streets, if only you are willing to find them. That is, if only you are willing to wander. And when you do find them, these hidden courtyard gardens, these sprawling, impossibly green parks with proud, white swans floating in the middle of ponds, these medieval churches and basilicas...you happen into the other new spiritual practice I have discovered: lingering. You lay your body across a bench and stare at the lime green and amber leaves blowing gently overhead; you photograph swans for hours behind a fountain, capturing an unexpected rainbow in the scene; you kneel on the bench in the basilica and rest your weary soul beneath the somber but beautiful Madonna. What would happen if we wandered more in our lives? What might we find? What if we lingered longer in a place, rather than moving on in a rush to the next thing? What might we discover? I wonder about this...and how it might translate to my life at home.

And finally, the third spiritual practice -- exploring. Yesterday, even though I was convinc
ed I was too tired and too apprehensive for it, I nonetheless forced myself to rent a bicycle and ride into the Belgian country side. "It's only 400 kilometers, Madam," my charming, English hotel owner informed me. Having no idea what 400 kilometers is, I set out on my bicycle for the medieval village of Damme. The ride itself, along the canal, was so peaceful, with tall trees lining the trail, and the stems of lush, green grasses and wildflowers tickling my bear legs on either side. My skirt blew in the breeze, I pedaled with wild abandon, happy tears falling down my warm, cheeks. Fiddlesticks with Lisa Arrington's "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing," played in my headphones and I sang my lung out, not knowing and never caring how I sounded. I pedaled past wandering sheep, and cows lingering in their pastures. I pedaled over bridge after bridge, passing adorable cottages surrounded by hydrangeas of a purple I've never seen before...until I arrived, much sooner than expected, in Damme. As you may guess, I spent my day wandering in the village -- discovering a magical church, yards of roosters and sheep, windmills and an all-book flea market -- all places in which I lingered.

• The journey to and from Damme was not only beautiful from beginning to end, but positively liberating. If this is what happens whenever we are willing to find our boldness, wherever it may be hiding, and explore something new, I need to do it more often. My friends, I wish you the blessings of wandering, lingering and exploring, wherever you find yourselves today.

Welcome to Brugge

Well I nearly died of stress but have arrived in Brugge at last. Everything I feared about the trip from Amsterdam to Brugge came to pass (except for pick -pocketing). Dozens of tiny things coupled with the myriad of unknowns made for the most challenging day of the trip (or of my life?) thus far. For example, I tried to the board the tram, but me and my bulky baggage couldn't fit through the door. I was sent to another door, which refused to open. Dozens of eyes behind the darkened windows watched - with curiosity and amusement, as the American lady, sweating profusely with all her bags, waved her tram ticket in front of the door in hopes that it would open. The stranger's eyes watched as she moved yet to another door and stood knocking in panic while it also refused to open. Lugging her baggage yet to a third door, this time yelling, "Please help," a green light flashed, and the door finally opened. The nightmare was not over: I could hardly squeeze by with my bags without knocking elbows and ankles and there was no space for my bags but the center aisle. (You can imagine the rest). It was all kind of humiliating. And

there's more: as I tried to exit the tram, last of course, the doors closed on me, clamping my tired shoulders like a pair of tongs. A fellow English tourist came to my rescue and pried the doors back open so I could pull myself and my belongings out. And that, my friends, was only the beginning of my travel shenanigans.

At the train station, there was endless waiting and confusion, before finally purchasing the only ticket left -- which involved three different trains. They announced my train as I was on my way to the platform, so I went RUN
NING up at least forty stairs WITH my luggage, by somemiracle, lifted in the air: I did not know I possessed such strength. I made it onto the train, with the help of generous European men who hoisted my luggage up, and with very little air

left in my lungs. I sat down and blew my nose like a trumpet for the eleventh time that morning (did I mention I am still quite sick?) I began to breath my sigh of relief and wipe the sweat from my neck and forehead. Casually, I then inquired of the passengers who'd helped me, "This train is headed to Brugge, right?" "Brugge?" The man's eyebrows jumped up to his forehead, "Nay, Nay!" The tears gathered into tiny puddles in the corners of my eyes, as the news that I was on the wrong train sunk in. The men conversed among themselves in Dutch while I cried, and as it turns out, they had mercifully concocted a plan to reroute me - thanks be to God.

Add to all of that things like dropping my poster box down the escalator at the next train station, trying to make a run to the bathroom for the first time in hours before catching the THIRD train, only to arrive and realize I would have to pay with coins I did not possess, and being kicked off a first class train (where'd I obliviously set up shop and was innocently massaging my throbbing neck muscles with peppermint oil), and you probably now have the picture. But there's one final punch: after all that, I arrived in Brugge, caught my taxi, and as we are flying down the narrow, cobbled streets, my taxi driver began to complain about Brugge - taxes, government, etc. He concluded his speech, just as we pulled up to Hotel Ter Duinen, with this remark: "Belgium is the most shit country in all of the entire world." And there it was: my welcome to Brugge.

View from my room
(but you have to imagine the sound of church bells ringing "Ode to Joy" too)

****I hope the pictures will speak for themselves, that the difficult journey may well have been worth it:  Brugge is a fairy tale. More on that later. :)

Alone in Amsterdam

On the morning I left the United States, my six-year-old, Henry, was eating a bowl of cereal and inquired, "But Mom, who are you going to play with in Europe?" -- to which I replied, "Myself, of course." Henry looked pensive, and said, "Well, what if it's too hard?" I thought about his question: "Well...then I guess I will learn something." A truly interesting question from our perceptive little lad.

I have always loved my solitude; I am an introvert at heart. But I also value meaningful connection. Here in the city of Amsterdam, I have enjoyed crossing bridge after canal bridge on my own. The eye does not want for beauty here - not for a single moment in any direction of the city. The narrow buildings and houses with their ornate, colorful doors are so inviting, and have kept my interest almost entirely. And yesterday, I joined the locals on a rented bike and not a dull moment was had flying through the streets at a most terrifying speed - you have to pedal fast to keep traffic flowing. (Bikes pretty much replace cars here). If you pedal tentatively, scooters, bikes and cars will politely but very swiftly cut you off - which happened repeatedly to me, even when I thought I was pedaling pretty darn fast. There are traffic lights just for bikes, and odd little rules of the road I know nothing about, so I had people ringing their bicycle bells at me, as well as tapping me on the shoulder to cue me up. I think my jaw was clenched for much of the 3 hour duration of the ride, and all the same, the experience was absolutely exhilarating. After hours of aimless wandering on the bicycle, I did find myself craving connection. I whispered a prayer about my loneliness into the wind and thought back on the conversation Henry and I had that morning. Am I learning something? If so, what? 

About two blocks after my prayer, I happened into an alleyway with a most impressive church sandwiched between all the houses. It was Gothic in appearance and clearly Catholic. I didn't hesitate to park my bike and wander in. The familiar smell of candles burning comforted me instantly -- as did gazing on the most beautiful pieta I have ever seen. And there it was: I am not alone. Just as I'd told Henry the day he started school only two weeks ago, "Just remember, you are never alone. God goes with you wherever you go." And indeed, in that moment, I recalled my own advice.

After a few hours more of braving my way through the city on bike, my body began to ache with exhaustion, and my nose was extra stuffy (still fighting this cold). I recalled suddenly that I'd seen a sign for an evening Mass back at the cathedral and all at once, I knew there was nowhere I'd rather be. Glancing at my watch, I saw I had less than ten minutes to somehow locate the church again. I pedaled and prayed and low and behold, I happened upon that church again like some kind of miracle, only a minute away! The mass was in Dutch but I drank from its refreshing waters all the same. To my delight, (and utter surprise) what I did recognize was the "allelujia" was Jeff Buckley's "Allelujah" (a favorite of mine). I sang my hear out. And during the offering, a man played my favorite (and indeed the most popular) of Yo Yo Ma's Bach Cello suites -- Cello No.1 in G Major. Now, these songs will forever hold new and deeper meaning of the day I was comforted in a foreign city and proof that no matter where we go, we are never alone.

Well, from the courtyard outside my hotel room, I can hear the voices and laughter of happy, Dutch school children calling me out into courageous exploration once again.

Until Next Time!
Love from Amsterdam,
Shannon
xoxoxoxo

Day One in Amsterdam

Good Morning from The Netherlands, friends. It's Day Two of my solo adventure abroad and things are looking up. Be glad you didn't hear from me yesterday, as these weary bones were jet lagged, virus-ridden and overwhelmed. Even so, once I was knocked to the ground by some pushy tourists at the airport, and finally made it on the bus after missing the first one, I enjoyed a day of people-watching, as I sipped cups of tea to combat my jet lag, I was quickly joined by a boisterous group of ladies from Switzerland (they asked if they could join me). So sweet they were, going on and on in french and every now and again, translating some of their conversation to include me. In between conversation, I spent all of my time leering at the beautiful dutch families going by on bicycle. Skirts and scarves flowed in the breeze as these lovely, erect women cruised by, with or without children (there are special seats attached for children (as many as 3! and alternately, a little wagon attached to the front where small children can sit). My favorite was all the young women hopping on to the back of men's bikes side-saddle style -- what an adorable way to court someone!


I wandered the city for hours after my tea -- all charming, smooth brick beneath my feet. I happened onto a square with food booths and took down a hamburger. I hesitate to use the word hamburger, as you will no doubt picture a United States hamburger. This particular hamburger, however, was on a bun that was baked like sourdough bread, and was decked out with arugula for God's sake. And I swear the meat had the flavor of a sausage, somehow....It was an amazing find and for 5 euros at that. 

My evening was spent wandering through Vondelpark (oh what magic!) -- a sprawling park with a paved path surrounded by ponds, and lush green, jungle-esque foliage everywhere. Rollerbladers showed off with an assortment of acrobatic tricks and all the families were peddling by on their bikes again -- every one of them laughing and smiling and chatting away. People seem remarkably happy here - and friendly! It turns out there is a restaurant right in the park with a vast terrace of tables outside. I couldn't resist the atmosphere and decided this is where I need to eat dinner. I perused the menu while sipping my wine and saw that the dutch men at the table next to me were devouring some curious fried treats about the size of golf balls. I told the waitress I'd have what they were having and the men overheard and enthusiastically communicated that I would not regret order the "Bitterballen," a traditional Dutch dish. There were six balls and I ate every last one of them, dipped in a heavenly kind of mustard. For dessert, I ordered "Chocolate Three Ways" and I don't even know how to begin to express to you what I put into my mouth. I will tell you that I moaned aloud and closed my eyes right there in the park, because Holy Jesus, it was incredible.  I am definitely going back for more of that heaven tomorrow.  


After the chocolate experience, the body aches from my cold virus settled in again, and I returned to the hotel for my first night's sleep in 24 hours. And between the body aches and my neck throbbing with pain, I have never ever been so thankful for pharmaceuticals in all my life -- and Anne Lamott, too. I drifted off into a syrupy sleep reading Help, Thanks, Wow 
and told God how grateful I am for all these little things that save us. 

Well the church bells are calling and I am slathered in essential oils, filled with more pharmaceuticals, and have concealed the dark circles under my eyes --  I am ready to take on the city.  

Love from Amsterdam!
xoxoxoxo
Shannon