When it’s close, what I behold is large.  I can see the brushstrokes, feel the artist.  I’m there with the creation … cheek-to-cheek, feeling their breath.

Let’s go for the front row seat, right in the middle.  The cellist and pianist are only steps away, sharing glances and smiles and the runs of the melody.  Beads of sweat lie within reach.

Brick walls ask to be touched.  “Please come here so I can show you my secrets.”  No standing back, observing, evaluating.

Twenty people at a concert, not twenty thousand.  Shoulder to shoulder with lovers of tunes and songs.  The glass of wine just a reach away.  The walls hugging us as they cradle the sound.

Let’s feel the train from Ghent rather than the plane from Brussels.  Paris two hours away, Amsterdam three, London four.


Having it all be here

Letting go of there

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