Would you believe this is an exquisite piece of abstract art created by one of Belgium’s unknown but brilliant painters?

Would you believe that the essence of life lies dormant but reachable within the folds of this greyness?

Would you believe that this is a napkin from Izy’s Coffee in Ghent centrum, augmented by my black pen strokes?

You get full points if you said no, no and yes!

Yesterday morning I embraced my cappuccino on the long couch in Izy’s, accompanied by my friend Michel. He’s a smart guy.

Our conversation wandered the map of human experience. We were cozy together in our words.

At one point, Michel said something that widened my eyes. I was suspended for a few seconds and then reached for napkin and pen. “I have to write about this!” Since I had already started a blog post about Stonehenge, I knew it would be a tomorrow project.

Well, tomorrow is today. The napkin lies on my knee, ready for revelation. But then there are the twists and turns of fate: grey napkin and black ink.

I have no idea what these words are! I remember being enthralled as Michel spoke but I can’t remember what he said. Actually, such artful forgetting has become quite common for me.

I’ve scrunched my eyes and so far have made out two words: “In everything …” That seems like a good start. In the interest of desperation (for who wants to neglect wisdom?) I moved to the good light of the kitchen. I turned on my phone’s flashlight. I went to the window so the light of day could solve my problem. Niet.

In a fresh spurt of creativity, I blamed Bart and Larissa at Izy’s for having grey napkins. That didn’t help much so I changed the target. “Why do you buy these pens with black black ink?”

Oh, Bruce … give it a rest.

Perhaps meditation will help. I’ll be so gosh darned relaxed that the words will float off the paper to my heart.

…

Sadly, no floating.

So … I now return to frantic concentration. Give me a minute.

…

There’s a whole bunch of tiny words near the bottom edge of the napkin. They must contain the kernel of Michel’s insight. But they’re just random scratches to me.

I give up. When I see Michel again, I’ll press him for the wisest thing he ever said. He probably won’t remember.

And there you have it. The napkin now sits in my left hand. I do believe it’s laughing at me.

Oh well

The painting blesses me through the night.  It knows me.  It doesn’t say much but it breathes everything.

I rest on my back … feeling the sky.  The arms are limp, the hands open.  The fingers are unfurled, revealing a palm that welcomes everything.  All the “good” stuff and all the “bad”.  Please come here, precious life.

I am buoyed up from below.  So many hands from all my years are lifting me.  I am asked to see the vista that is given.

The yellow shines through.  It brightens my bones and invites my skin to glow.  Every fiber of Bruce is massaged by an artist’s loving hands.

There is nothing to do in this world of night.  In my sighing I breathe in and out through the wee hours.  And then I’m greeted by the first light of morning.

The woman I have fallen in love with doesn’t want to walk that path with me.  (Sigh)

She has been with men who have tried to control her, and she lost the essence of herself with them.  And she’s afraid that she might hurt my soul if we were together.

It’s so quiet as I let these words wash over me.  There is something sacred hanging in the air, far broader than the journeys of two human beings.  There is an opening to the mystery that is love.

Right now I do not know.  The tomorrows will probably be as uncertain … and I smile at the thought.  I am being taken aloft by the wings of tenderness, tossed and turned in a dark sky.

Sarah McLachlan, in her song Angel, nuzzled my life this morning – the loss of touch, of looking into, of sighing together:

There's always some reason
To feel not good enough 
And it's hard at the end of the day

Oh, this human life is so often hard!  We do our best to be happy and sometimes demons come knocking on our door.  All of us.

Sarah again:

In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear

What if it’s all like this, forever and ever?  Reaching out to touch the sublime, and the fingertips just falling short.  We want to be warmed and to have marvelous paintings adorning our walls.  What if that never comes to pass?

And yet there is this:

Oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees

***

Life is so big

There is so much we don’t know

Bring on all the Tuesdays, all the Fridays … all that will unfold

There is a loss today.  The truth will emerge in these posts in the days to come but now is the time to be with something that is leaving.

It’s quiet and sad here.  And still.  I’m abiding with what is so, like sitting on a park bench together, saying a few things but mostly passing popcorn back and forth in silence.

Life is sagging now, with no scaffolding to keep me erect and solid.  And so I fall …

It’s a falling backwards, eyes closed, with somehow a tiny smile on my face.  As I drift down, some presence is there to catch me, cushioning me to the ground.

Something precious is lingering, in no hurry to go anywhere.  There’s a stretching outwards and a gentle return, being held within a shining oval ring.

Now I’m stepping, without a skip or a dance, but still in the flow of rolling somewhere.  I wonder what’s beyond the sweet clouds.

I just figured it out!  The sun is resting serenely behind the whiteness.  And it’s happy to stay.

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