Monthly Archives: March 2023

Falling in Love

A funny thing happened yesterday and I planned to write about it today.  But now it feels completely irrelevant.  It doesn’t “sing”.  And so it shouldn’t be told.

The events of the day are being overwhelmed by me falling in love.  I’m wobbly, taken somewhere not remembered.  Right now I just don’t know anything.

The last time I fell in love was in 1984.  Almost 40 years ago!  It felt like slow motion – a two-year friendship sliding into a deep joining.  Today it’s a plummeting, a topsy turvy free fall.  My mind is spinning, along with the rest of me.

Rather than “It could work,” my brain shouts “This is it!”  The gaze between us holds … and holds some more.  There’s no foreground silhouetted by a background.  There’s just This!  These eyes.

Last night we cuddled as we drank in the feisty girl known as Anne with an E.  The 13-year-old on Netflix speaks her mind without thought and searches again and again for a “kindred spirit”.  And I’m nestled next to one!

How long it’s been since I last watched TV with the two of us on the middle seat of a three-person couch.

The touch of skin in the far nighttime … so soft.  Feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps.  What wonder!  What privilege.

Many a time over the last nine years I thought that romance would be no more.  Too old.  Now I shake my head: “Stupid man.”

And then the morning, setting off on a walk in Ghent.  Her hand swinging by her side, and mine by mine.  I reach over.  She takes my offered fingers.  And we stroll into the next chapter of our lives.

What will become of us?

Let’s ask Enya …

Who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows
Only time
And who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose
Only time

We begin …

Small

I was showering just now when the voice came through: “There is something small in Ghent that wants to be shared.  Find it.”

Okay.

***

Now it’s hours later.  An image came into my head of a statue inset into a brick wall – Mother Mary and Jesus.  I’ve wandered there many times and felt my eyes lift to the love.

Mother and child are on Karmelietenstraat in the Patershol, only two minutes from me.  They watch over us – locals and tourists – as we pass by.  I expect most of us don’t feel the blessing.  Perhaps the beauty of the cobblestones takes us, or the daily grind is grinding us down.

Mary and baby Jesus don’t analyze the quality of the visitors.  All are loved … languages, personalities, ages, clothing choices, sexual orientations.  “Come close everyone.”

Karmelietenstraat is also small.  One could say “ordinary” but I think not.  What are those cobbles saying?  Who is the woman walking away?  Does she bleed like me?  Does she cry and laugh and fall to sleep in the wee hours?  Yes.

Distances dissolve.  The world of solid things crumbles at the edges.  The lines of separation disappear as the Karmelietenstraat glows.

“It’s just a wall,” someone says.  No … that’s not true.  There are secrets inside.  Sometimes small.  Always vivid.

***

And now it’s time again to go out and see what’s there

‘Tis Love

I wonder and then I wonder again
The seas part their ways
The angels have a song to sing
All is giggling in this sacred place
Mountains rise and fall under the touch of a finger
I hear the sighs of babies
And see the shuffle of the ancient ones
The sun keeps rising ... it needs to be with us
And the blue is royal
There is much to learn I 'spose
But now that is passing away
The petals stretch out upon the linen
And eyes say hello

Down Deep

Look at the colours in the sun.  So bright and delicious.  This is what I want.  Even the whiteness of the bowl speaks of purity.  Surely this is home.

So elegant.  So festive.  So sweet.

Consider as well the vessel of yogurt and granola.  This one is made of glass and allows us to peer inside … a bit.  It holds vanilla and flakes and berries.  It too has its beauty.  It has its place in the centre of things.

Which one will enter my mouth?

Which one will I roll on my tongue?

***

I choose the second

I choose the unknown beauty that takes time to be revealed

I choose the diving in, the swimming around

The treasure at the bottom of the ocean

***

There is a wideness and a fullness that calls me

I know not why

I must obey

Wonder World

Not knowing anything except the breath in my body
Seeing two lovers on the Kraanlei, arms around and heads leaning in
The silver sky above the steeple of the Post
Eyes that linger on the companion
What has gone before - the bones of food and drink on the tray
"Would you like another coffee?" > "Yes"
Warm water showing up in the shower
Lying sideways on the pillow, welcoming morning gulls 
A single candle sparkling the night of my room
Shafts of sun seeking to find me
A silent "yes" to the life I've been given
Wondering about the order of these words > "Who cares?"
The words bubbling up and disappearing in the air
A blast of cold shocks the cozy of breakfast
Rectangles of green on the wall, standing proud above the white tiles
Falling into the next moment, smiling as each comes
Feeling the webs of together as twenty of us inhabit the world
Ending when the end comes to say "Bye"

Dancing Past the Daylight

Dancing past the daylight
And over the skyline
Dancing beyond the sights and sounds of the day
To the fullness of black
Perhaps we will live here
Under the shroud of night
Forsaking the shine of bright things
And the comings and goings of people on their way
It may be a hearing 
Rather than a seeing
A call to walk into the darkened mist
A call to the rhythm of the spheres 
Let us travel together at dusk
As our bodies sway to the melody
There are no steps
Our feet know the way

Turner Brown

Turner and I have been friends for decades.  He doesn’t say much … but oh, the smile!  (Right now it’s hiding under his mouth fur).

Turner sat on Jody’s and my dresser.  It was important that he was high enough so we could make good contact.  His eyes were soft.  He enjoyed my good morning visits.

After I began going to Buddhist meditation retreats at the Insight Meditation Society in Massachusetts, USA, a new greeting came to me.  I’d look into those marvelous Turner eyes and say to him “All beings everywhere”.

Still later, my right hand wanted to contribute.  I rubbed Turner’s furry cheek with the backs of my fingers as I wished everyone well.  He started smiling then … and he’s never stopped.

In 2015, after my dear wife died, I decided to go on a three-month silent meditation retreat at IMS.  What essentials would I bring?  Well Turner, of course.

That first day, as I was bringing my luggage into the building, I had Turner under my arm, where he would be cozy.  As I crossed the dining room in the presence of other arriving yogis, eyes lifted to a little bear, and mouths began a smile.  I’m pretty sure Turner waved back.

Now Belgium is my home.  I’ve lived on the Oudburg in Ghent for two months … and Turner has been in the background.  I had placed him on an end table beside my bed.  I know that sounds close but he was too low and facing the wrong way for me to meet his eyes.

Yesterday I searched for a spot where we could be friends again.  There’s a cabinet in my kitchen that does nicely.

***

Four eyes

My fingers running down his cheek

Love

Just This

There is something that holds in the air

There is something that flows down the walls

It is unstoppable and gentle and real

It is beyond and within at the same time

It cannot be named and it is known to all

I Wonder Who’s Running the Show

Life keeps amazing me.  How do so many precious moments land gracefully on my lap, without me doing anything?  Perhaps I’ll just rest in the mystery of it all.

It was two days ago.  I was sitting on the terrace of Café Rosario near St. Nicholas Church, watching the trams curve by the Post Hotel and head straight to me.

After breakfast, I started walking towards Albert Heijn, a grocery store.  My friend Marieke was coming over in the evening and I wanted to have a bowl of chocolate yummies for her to nibble on.

And then a far less lovely thought: in my strolling today so far, I hadn’t seen a single seagull.  If you’ve read my stuff recently, you know I have a gull fetish.

I changed course.  Wings are sweeter than chocolate.

The most famous gathering place in Ghent is the Graslei, a wide cobbled stretch beside the Leie River.  It’s perfect for hundreds of bums to plunk themselves down so that their nearby minds can cuddle with other ones.

This day I was the only sitter.  After a few minutes, I spotted a single gull far, far away.  But at least he or she was there.

My peripheral vision revealed a woman putting out a sign by the tiny entrance to the Post Hotel.  It included the magical word “breakfast” even though I was no longer hungry.  I walked towards the door which obligingly opened as I approached.

Then up a winding stone staircase, surrounded by the past.  “And then, to my wondering eyes should appear” The Cobbler.  Voilà:

The faces welcoming me were real.  Two lovely servers.  As I took in the spirit of the room, I saw a well-dressed grey-haired man hanging on the far wall.  I asked one of the servers who that was.  She said the architect of the building, which originally was the post office.  The other woman said “No, the architect hangs on the other wall.”

I jumped up to explore the other face.  A woman had been sitting at a table near mine and she got up too, confirming that the architect was on the side wall.

We got talking, about me having recently moved to Ghent from Canada, and her being the owner of the hotel with her husband!

Her name is Greet.  Its pronunciation is a bridge too far for this recent North American.  Oh well, I’ll rearrange my tongue and throat over the coming months.

Greet offered to show me some of the hotel’s rooms.  “Yes!  Thank you.”  Here’s the light bathing one of them:

Sublime.

It was a sanctuary.  A place to look in the mirror and see who’s there.

Then there was a suite containing an interior balcony that looked down on the bedroom.  I thought of Romeo and Juliet.

Also a tower suite with windows stretching in a circle.  The upstairs bedroom was being cleaned when we visited but the downstairs living room held my gaze.

This morning I came back to The Cobbler because I hadn’t taken a photo of this sweet spot for human beings.  I’m lounging with my latté as I tap.

Greet just came by with a tiny box of chocolates for me.  What I sense in this room from the three people who work here is a natural kindness.  Rather than being kind to get some result, they’re simply living in the moments of being nice people.

Dear Cobbler, I shall return

Reading Words of Love

My neighbour Dirk Tanghe is a passionate man.  He lives life big.  And he has big books, like this one:

Oscar Wilde was a playwright in the 1800s.  He loved a young man named Bosie who was 16 years younger.  He was imprisoned for this illicit bond.  Two Loves reveals letters that Oscar wrote to Bosie.  Let the words speak.  Let Oscar’s soul touch ours.

Leave behind any thoughts about homosexuality, about age, about “appropriateness”.  This is universal.

Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should have been made no less for music of song than for madness of kisses.

You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and genius.

[Love] repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him.

Be happy to have filled with an immortal love the soul of a man who now weeps in hell, and yet carries heaven in his heart.  I love you, I love you, my heart is a rose which your love has brought to bloom.  My life is a desert fanned by the delicious breeze of your breath, and whose cool springs are your eyes.

Love me always, love me always.  You have been the supreme, the perfect love of my life.  There can be no other.

O sweetest of all boys, most loved of all loves, my soul clings to your soul, my life is your life, and in all the worlds of pain and pleasure you are my ideal of admiration and joy.

A day in prison on which one does not weep is a day on which one’s heart is hard, not a day on which one’s heart is happy.

I feel that my only hope of again doing beautiful work in art is being with you … you can really recreate in me that energy and sense of joyous power on which art depends.