Today I wanted to visit the loveliest cemetery in Ghent.  Dirk suggested Westerbegraafplats.  And here I am.

It’s only the song birds, the mourning doves and me.  And all the souls who have been laid to rest.  In front of me are rows of low monuments and off in the distance huge chestnut trees with their white blossoms.

The trees are immense here.  For some it would take three of us with arms outstretched to fill the circumference.  And the quiet hangs above.

I came for the people who have gone on.  In Canada I loved reading the personal messages carved into stone but in Belgium those messages are in Flemish.  A language of my future.

What I did see were photos of the dearly departed – hundreds of them.  I wanted to know these people.  Almost all of the pictures felt like this:

I know that tradition in the long ago was not to smile, but it still makes me sad to see these faces.  “Who are you, really?”   So expressionless … so (if you will) “half-dead”.

Here are four more faces.  The two in the middle make me smile a bit.  “Here’s the spark I’m looking for.”  I can tell they had a lot of good times, and that their family loved them dearly.

Ready for two more?  Here you go:

Can’t you just seeing them reaching over that cross for a sweet hug, one that lingers?  I can.  I bet they had twelve grandkids, and that grandma and grandpa spoiled them something awful!

Another search in my mind was finding a photo of the couple together, hopefully arms around each other, their eyes shining.  And there was success:

It’s a place where lives still live

It was a long time ago …

Jody and I had been travelling in the United States.  We were driving west to Buffalo, an American city on the Canadian border.

Once back “home” I knew the route back to London.  I knew that eventually the huge Lake Erie would appear on my left, and then I’d only be two hours from our village of Union.

But then, as I was dehypnotizing myself from the rhythm of the road, I peered ahead.  There was a touch of blueness in the distance … on the right.

The touch became a broad expanse.  I was shocked.  “Huh?!  Where the hell am I?”  I pulled off onto the shoulder.  My brain cells were misfiring.  I was close to drooling.  I was lost – in the mind and soul.

As you can see from the map, after I crossed the bridge into Canada from Buffalo, I must have missed a turn.  I was not heading west.  I was heading north!  The blueness was Lake Ontario.

Oh my God!

It was yesterday …

I went for a long walk in the rain, exploring unknown parts of Ghent.  Here’s a map, something that I refused to use on the journey:

The top-to-bottom body of water on the right is the Handelsdok.  I had been walking north along the western shore towards the little bridge near the green balloon.

I looked across the water to see what seemed to be a building under construction.  There were bare girders … and on a floor open to the air, way up high, kids were playing football (soccer)!  My eyes opened wide.

Actually it was a school – Kinderdagverblijf Melopee.  And there was a sports complex in the same building – the Buurtsporthal Melopee.

Very cool.

I roamed some more, past an industrial site, with metal things piled up. I was delightfully lost, and at a dead end. Did I mention I love getting lost? Showing incredible courage for a human being, I left my cell phone in my jeans. No Google Maps!

I found my way back to the school and decided to head east away from the bridge.

On and on I trudged, accompanied by droplets on my face. Warehouse after warehouse. I kept expecting some road to the left would show up, taking me north. But nothing …

“Wow! I’m really far east now. But that’s okay. I have tons of time to wind my way back to the Oudburg.”

Finally, a street showed up on the left and it curved gently more to the left. “This is good. I’m going north and a wee bit west. Piece of cake.”

After taking more steps than any other modern man, I saw something big moving in the distance. It was a tram!

“Huh?! What’s a tram doing way out here?” Was this Lake Ontario all over again?

And then a street sign: “Sint-Salvatorstraat”. “What? That’s just up the street from home!”

I was stopped, stunned, discombobulated. (Sigh)

I hadn’t been going east. I’d been going north. The reason that there weren’t any cross streets on the left was that the water was over there, behind the warehouses.

On the map, the curving street that I eventually found is at the top right, under “Play” in the word “Playground”.

***

Spun around enough for one day, I retreated to Bar Oswald (new to me) for a beer I’d never heard of (Lola).

I sat at a window table and watched the rain continue to fall

It’s raining, not a torrent but steady.  Holding an umbrella would be a natural choice.  But not the only one.

How about letting the hair get really wet, with drops falling into the eyes?  How about tilting the head upwards a bit rather than the protection of down? And no hood.

Why not?

I figure my skin is drip dry and the temperature is 13 degrees Celsius, so hypothermia is out of the question.  So let’s get wet.

***

Now consider the words we use.  Are we pretty ordered, with a nice sprinkling of nouns, verbs and adjectives, not to mention correct punctuation? Or are we willing to be loose in the vowels … with words bubbling up from the unknown and spilling into the world? Far more poetry than prose, far more airy than solid.

What will people think of me if I just flow in the speaking, if I don’t make a lot of sense, if I throw in four adjectives in a row … just for fun?

Who cares?

Speaking of which … I’m sitting here with my Ritchie Lemon and Ginger feeling so light, buoyant, porous, not here. (Ahh … that felt good)

***

Today I’m going to roam down a few Ghent streets that are new to me, without Google Maps. Ordinary, extraordinary – doesn’t matter. I’m going to walk into a café that the tourism office has never heard of and drink a beer that I’ve never heard of. Perhaps I’ll even say nonsensical things to the bartender.

Just ’cause

In the summer of 2019, my friends Lydia, Jo, Curd and Anja invited me to accompany them to Italy.  And I said yes.

Most of the time we stayed in a classic village – Riardo.  But one day we drove south to Napoli.  Such narrow streets, where neighbours could reach out from their high balconies and almost touch the fingers across the way.  And the harbour was a surprise broadening to the blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

But the highlight I experience today, as I cast myself back to the past, is underground.

The Catacombs.  I’m gamely resisting the temptation to Google the place – to feed you the details of time and religion and customs.  So that won’t be a part of our day.

But the darkness is … along with the history of death.  The Catacombs are for cherished souls as their bodies lie down and fall apart over time.

It was more intimate than a graveyard, more of a touching. I don’t know who got to walk in The Catacombs as people and their clothes disintegrated but I bet they felt the mystery of souls departed, some of whom perhaps still lingered in the close air.

The silence flowed with our walking that day. We were accompanied by the repose of long ago men and women, people who felt the same emotions as we “modern folk”.

Some of the resting places were small …

Children

The tragedy of kids dying was deeper below the ground. I remember pausing a long time before the sanctuaries of the little ones. Intense loss.

I managed to forget about The Catacombs in the years between but this morning’s search for Italian photos brought it all back. Clearly The Catacombs have entered me and I them.

From dust you came

And to dust you shall return

That’s been my mantra for decades, analyzing everything I do, how I’m feeling, everything that happens to me.  Putting all that on a scale from really good to really bad.  Exhausting!

A friend told me a few days ago “Why don’t you stop that … forever?”  Why not indeed.

What if I let go of the micro life and open myself to the wide open sky? Actually, I’m already pretty open but there are exceptions.

I asked myself “What is a thing or two that you can say goodbye to?  Can you pull yourself out of its groove?”

I came up with two areas of my life where I can do a grand experiment.  You’re looking at one of them.

My posts show up on Facebook after they appear on WordPress.  That platform keeps track of my views – daily and monthly.  Shall we say I’ve been obsessed with such numbers?  Intensely silly.  I would write a post like this and then consult WordPress here and there for the rest of the day. 

As April wound down, I set a goal of 1000 views.  I ended up with 1007.  I now sit here with a gigantic “So what?”

A waste of time … waste of energy, all in service to a skewed sense of self-esteem.

I hereby stop such foolishness

Another unlovely stat resides on my left wrist.  My Polar watch can tell me everything short of the future of mankind.  How many steps did I take yesterday?  “Good people take at least 10,000.”  How many calories did I burn?  How much sleep did I get and what was the quality of that sleep?  How well did I recharge overnight?  What is my average score for this, that and the other thing over the last week?

BORING

Do normal folks spend as much time as me looking at their wrist and the Polar app?  Then again, I have no ambition to be “normal”.

So what’s the verdict on experiment number two?

I hereby stop such foolishness

***

I wonder if there’s a number three …

They lie on the water as the sun falls down

They follow the wires to the roof high above

They sit past a tree for the eyes of a few

They whiten the world through the shadows of eve

They seek out the brick for the glow always there

They look far away to the sun that still shines

They tilt our heads down to the smallest of things

They step in the sky to the wonders beyond

They stroll down the gap to the brightness of age

They show us the circles that ever expand

***

And they grace us through all of our years

There is something here about a living being pressing against something that has no life, giving it its beauty.

I can’t see clearly.  I’m reaching into the haze and waving my hand around, touching here and there.  Some words are asking to be expressed … but I don’t know what those words are.

I’m waiting.  Perhaps the words will come now, perhaps not.  If it’s a “No” I guess this will be a very short post.

***

The branches entwine. They have to love each other, to wrap around, to feel each other’s warmth. They are brothers and sisters in their essence as a tree.

The branches climb. They have to seek something above. It’s magnetic. They’re going someplace … together. It’s important that they get there.

The branches adhere to the brick. It’s the only way they can get where they’re going. There has to be a union of life and the lifeless.

The branches lead to the blossoms. A mysterious fragrance beckons, that of the lilac. The scent is intoxicating, shocking even. Such beauty actually exists.

The street is not remembered

The city is Ghent

Life lives here

Ever since I moved in, the apartment above me has been empty. Last night there were many feet heading upstairs, carrying heavy things.

Footsteps on my ceiling, conversation until midnight on the terrace above mine. Life has changed.

And yet I woke up this morning with a thought on my lips: “Nothing has to go away.” May the pitty-pat from the floor above and the flow of people talking continue.

If there’s loud music at 3:00 am, my mantra may change to “Hardly anything has to go away.” But the essential truth remains.

The “hardly” part fits if I was in intense pain 24/7 but in general my health issues need not disappear: bursitis, fatigue, high blood pressure, aging (!) I’ll continue to do what’s needed about these problems but I’m okay if they continue to say hello.

I love someone. They don’t love me in the way that I love them. It hurts. And I give permission for that hurt to linger.

I’m the Zoom host on some internet calls. I often make mistakes. I do all I know to avoid them but if they return I’ll invite them in for coffee.

I feel all sorts of “bad” things: fear, anger, sadness. They’re welcome to stay in the same room with me. I’ll give them my best chair. Would I prefer that they don’t come calling? Yes. But I’ll smile at them a wee bit when they do.

I’m having a lot of long phone calls these days, dealing with financial issues. I get very tired and often confused. Part of life, I’d say … talking to companies, being put on hold, hearing the rep spurt out words that I don’t understand. All of that can stay too.

And now my quiet voice has more to say:

Please come here …

All of life welcomed

All held

All honoured

For years I’ve told my Canadian friends that Lydia, Lore and Baziel live in Nukerke, Belgium. Actually they’re on a farm surrounded by other farms … and the village of Nukerke remains a mystery.

Until today. I have a doctor’s appointment – with Lydia’s doctor.

I’m sitting in the train station of the city of Oudenaarde, waiting for the bus to Nukerke. What will I discover there, beyond the renewal of my medications? Stay tuned.

***

Now I’m sitting in the cement stands of KSV Maarkedal, the local football (soccer) team. I hear three sounds – cars on the freeway across the field, tweeting birds in the trees, and sheep grazing somewhere out of sight.

There’s a clubhouse with lots of tables primed for viewing the Nukerke heroes rushing down the pitch. Also lots of beer kegs. Everything is empty in the morning sun. I’m the only human in sight. And I am being warmed.

I just found the sheep! Or rather they found me.

Nukerke is so small. My feet have already taken me out of town to the fields beyond. I love vistas.

I round a corner and suddenly … more visitors! I wonder if humans are as curious about me as these folks.

As roads become streets, I’m once again surrounded by people, even if they’re mostly behind their windows.

But some of them step out onto their front lawn to greet me. Hi guys! They’re pretty quiet but I think they’re smiling.

One more visit: to Onze-Lieve-Vrouw-Hemelvaartkerk – the Catholic church in Nukerke. It’s a home for the living and the dead. The beating heart of the village.

And now for my prescriptions …

Gordon Lightfoot has died. He and I go way back, although he didn’t know me.

Gord was a Canadian singer-songwriter who wrote about the land and its people. Perhaps his most iconic song was Canadian Railroad Trilogy, which told the story of building the railroad that spanned the country.

My favourite of Gord’s creations is Song for a Winter’s Night. It’s a love song that I’ve learned to sing. He showed us such exquisite images:

The fire is dying now
My lamp is growing dim
The shades of night are lifting
The morning light steals across my window pane
Where webs of snow are drifting

In the 1960s I was a teenager who loved folk music. Many Friday nights I took the subway downtown to Toronto’s Yorkville district. I walked down the stairs into a coffee house to listen to singers pouring out their souls. Only two hundred metres away, Gord was starting his career in another cozy room – The Riverboat. I couldn’t afford the famous place so the future legend and I didn’t cross paths.

Sometime in the 1970s I took the ferry to Toronto Island to experience three days of the Mariposa Folk Festival in the summer sun. The headliners didn’t include anyone well known in popular culture. But there were surprise visitors who wanted to stay incognito as they enjoyed singer-songwriters who had influenced them. The undercover ones were Bob Dylan and Neil Young.

Another unexpected guest had no need to be hidden. He wandered far from any stage, plunked himself down on a picnic table and began singing his songs. About twenty very lucky people sat on the grass and listened to the brilliance of a young man named Gord. I was not among them.

About five years ago, four Gordon Lightfoot tribute evenings were scheduled at Hugh’s Room in Toronto. Word got around that Gord himself would show up for two of those concerts. “Don’t come Saturday night, because Lightfoot likes watching the Toronto Maple Leafs play hockey on TV.”

I showed up. So did Gord, surrounded by his admirers. I squeezed in, met his eyes and said “Thank you for your music.” He smiled. It was just a few seconds … and then the next person had his attention.

Gordon Lightfoot and I have met many times across the years, including today

Thank you, Gord