On the crossroad of Vleurgat Street and upper boulevard Louise is a banner with the Brussels airport ad: A sporty and capable looking man is carrying a box with a cross on it and the headline says: New heart for Lisa. A clever message. The airport has a red heart in its logo. It beats the argument of an airport as a nuisance. Planes are also bringing life, the message says. I see it several times, passing along in the bus 60. My cells shrink with the vivid image of a human heart disconnected from the rest of a body it belonged to. It is dead now, otherwise the heart would not be here; lying in the ice waiting to be place to another body, not dead, otherwise it would not be receiving this heart. Lisa, a name from a story. Her life depending on this cargo. How would her cells accept the new organ? A human life is placed above all, above mild or rather big nuisance of everyday noise and the environmental impact on the countryside around the airport. I cannot judge; I flew here. A carbon footprint of love. Coming to the town I love, to people I love.
This is a city that feels rough on the surface, at least many say so. One needs to dive deep into its nooks to uncover the tender heart of it. Noisy, rumbly, with many sleeping in the streets, with garbage spurled on the pavements, with pieces of plastic caught in the trees lining the streets, the smell of urine around rundown building waiting for better times to come. And still, I see people helping each other in a vulnerable moment. Caring for each other and letting each other just be. It is astonishing how cultures of all continents mingle in Brussels. I know, there are also individuals full of prejudice, living in their exclusive neighbourhoods and never sticking noses out of it. And it is okay, too. If only any change happened from the place of it is okay in the first place. Less urgency, less insisting, embracing a paradox that nothing is ultimately good or bad.
We meet in Flagey area at our friend’s house for our book club. Precious moments of laughter, sharing opinions, food, drinks and aha moments. Reading D. Kehlmann’s novel Tyll that brought us this time to the 18th century 30-year war in Europe which had tormented countries and people for decades. ‘All the time of war duration, peace emissaries were negotiating secretly, meeting in different towns and striving to find a peace agreement,’ my friend Jana brings up. ‘Their names are largely forgotten, but thanks to them the Westfalen Treaty was finally signed. It gives me hope,’ she adds. ‘Now also, in these turbulent times, there are individuals putting effort into ending conflicts.’
‘Yes, and in the meantime, people all over are losing limbs and lives and homes and children are growing with another major collective trauma!’ This is my scream; I can get very heated in such a debate. Jana looks at me and quietly asks: ‘But it does not diminish the effort of peace seekers?’ We hold space for each other, and that is so precious about this club.
‘Not cheap, the parking in the area,’ another old friend remarks. ‘Well, cities chase the cars out of the town, so that air is breathable and space more decluttered.’ I have an opinion again.
A few days later the same friend writes us that he got a fine because his parking ticket was overdue. Did not give up, though, and wrote back explaining his reason for visiting the area was a noble book club attendance. Yeah, I thought. Worth the shot but forget it. Guess what? Another few days later he writes ‘I was forgiven, the fine withdrawn.’ No kidding. The gentle heart of the town. Whatever the motivation of the police. Perhaps the request what so bizarre they just surrendered.
From lush Rouge Cloitre in the sun to Jette in the north, from an unfriendly taxi driver who thought we were too much of women with too many kids, to Woluwe shopping area that looks so 80s and the jadis era, in the streets and cafes that I frequented with friends long gone from the town, and even from this world. We meet with Writing Brussels; Raquel flew here from Spain where she lives now with her five-year-old twins. We pick up on the conversation we left years ago, older, wiser, frailer and stronger.
I love you, Brussels, and love is not such an easy thing. Light, yes, easy, never. At least until some more karmic, conditioning nods are released. Because the need to feel safe is associated with intimacy and we have mostly obtained safety in a way that required giving up our authenticity. Whenever intimacy occurs, our old wounds show up, too. Vulnerability is then the courage to admit I feel intimidated, threatened, confused, unsure, insecure. Instead of fighting or supressing.
What differentiates a hero from a coward? A moment. A moment in which we are caught. Because we all are capable of everything, of an act of bravery when we overcome a natural fear instinct, of an act of cowardice when survival spur gets the upper hand.
And it is the good news, it is a cosmic entanglement, all one in endless forms and shapes. Brussels knows it and welcomes me always just as I am.
