It was 1888.  There was so much poverty, disease and violence in London … and hopelessness.  Women were often beaten and abandoned by their husbands.  In desperation, many of them turned to prostitution.

Sadia, our Jack the Ripper Tour guide, talked to us in front of one of the old lodging houses in the East London neighbourhood of Whitechapel.  19 Princelet Street.  People drowned their sorrows with gin and then looked for a place to sleep, so they wouldn’t be killed on the street after passing out.

You could get a room for the night.  If you couldn’t afford that, it was four pence for a mattress. If even that was beyond you, two pence would get you a spot on a rope strung across a room.  You leaned over and tried to sleep standing up.  Sadia told us that’s where the word “hangover” came from.  O my God …

The famous story about Jack the Ripper should really focus on the five women he killed and mutilated.  They were all prostitutes in Whitechapel, considered scum by polite society, and denied a church burial plot when they died.

In Amsterdam I stood for a long time in front of the house where Anne Frank and her family hid from the Nazis in World War II.  I wanted to feel a spot on the Earth where man’s humanity to man happened.

And yet there still are countless places around the globe where horrendous acts unfold.  But hardly any of us know about them.

Now in London, I want to be in locations that were part of the Whitechapel murders.  Last night Sadia pointed out the Ten Bells tavern where at least two of the victims were regulars – Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly.

I vowed to come back to the corner of Commercial Street and Fournier Street.

And the next day … here I am.

The mural on tile is entitled Spitalfields in Ye Olden Time – Visiting a Weaver’s Shop.  It was here when Mary Kelly was enjoying her gin and friends.

Now the pub is filling up mid-afternoon.  Lots of guys standing …very few women here.  I’m falling into sadness for Mary and Annie.

Mary was Jack’s fifth victim.  Powerful friends of hers fought to have her buried in a church graveyard … and it happened.  It was a six-mile walk from Christ Church Spitalfields (which I can see through the window) to St. Patrick’s Catholic Cemetery.  Many people walked beside Mary’s casket.  Thousands lined the route, some of them crying.

Earlier today, I stood in front of Mary’s gravestone.  I cried too.

But first, revisiting last night …

As I was finishing off my meal of pie and mash, I became aware of the plate below.  Familiar.  And then my eyes spread wide.  In front of me was a dinner plate from my 1970 life.  I had my server bring me a clean one for you to see:

I was a 21-year-old bus boy in the dining room of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton, Canada.  I was basically scared of everyone, and especially the manager – Mr. Hayes.  He snarled a lot.

Make sure the birds fly high!

Woe was the bus boy who placed the dinner plate upside down.  And it all came back to me yesterday.  I’m a lot happier now … 54 years later.

***

And just now at a sidewalk table of Dilara’s Café.  Such a gracious woman serving me.  Maybe she’s Dilara.  Here’s my view:

In contrast was the force of an impatient driver.  Imagine two lanes of traffic, both going the same way.  A little further on, the right lane curves to the right and the left one to the left.  A driver in the right lane swerves into the left, and then pushes their way into a small space in the right, about six cars further.  And everyone is waiting at a red light.  All to save a few seconds.  (Sigh)

***

Tonight I’m taking a Jack the Ripper Tour in Whitechapel, seeing some of the sites of his horrendous murders.  Rarely have I been on location at moments of history.

Seeking a place for dinner near the rendezvous spot, I heard a man chanting above the din of street life.  Across the street stood the East London Mosque.  I was hungry … but more for experience than food.

Welcomers welcomed me, asked me to take off my shoes, and escorted me to a chair.  I had never been inside a Muslim place of worship before but I was invited.

I sat next to 83-year-old Suleman who quietly helped me in the moments when the Imam (~ “Priest”) wasn’t chanting.

Most of the faithful knelt on the floor.  Often they would lean forward and touch their forehead to the carpet in reverence to the Divine and the prophet Muhammad.

There was a softness in the air, and after the prayers were completed, a few smiles turned my way … including Suleman.

***

And now I move towards Jack.  I’ll share all tomorrow

On the train from Gent to Brussels, cranes like these flashed by.  I’m sure they were talking to each other.  And I wonder what they were saying.

Human beings are so short … and not very smart

Or perhaps they were complimentary.

***

Not Knowing kicks in so easily for me in airports.  Upon leaving the train, a machine wanted me to scan my ticket.  So there I stood … and stood, adjusting my British Airways ticket every which way so the little doors would fly open.  No luck.

Eventually a smiling uniformed woman came my way and said that it was the train ticket that needed to be scanned.  Sad but true is the fact that I’ve been on this “train – Brussels Airport” journey many times and today I forgot what to do at the gate.  Makes me smile, actually.

***

One thing I’m good at is lining up behaviour.  An hour to get my luggage stowed.  (Boo)  Twenty minutes for security. (Yay)  Twenty more for Customs.  (Yay).  Two out of three ain’t bad.

I watched a Customs Officer having a conversation with a little girl about her stuffed doggie.  She loved it and so did I.  I hoped I would get him when it was my passport time.  I did.

***

During one of my lineups I saw my name flash on an info screen:

BRU is the call sign for Brussels Airport.  I’m glad they decided to acknowledge me.

***

Now at London Heathrow.  Pick up my luggage and then take the Heathrow Express train to central London.  Easy.

The sign at luggage pickup says Carousel Five for flight BA 393 from Brussels.  It’s the only Brussels flight mentioned.  My number is BA 397.

Close enough!

Another sign says “Bags delivered”.  Half an hour later, I’m searching for a lost luggage office.  I’m worried about my meds being gone.

My searching for help takes me past another sign: “Brussels Flight BA 397 – Carousel Seven”.

Oi!  Close enough doesn’t count.  And there sits my suitcase.  Oh well.  Perhaps I have an older brain.

***

I was on The Tube (subway) a couple of hours ago.  I had a seat, hugging my suitcase and backpack, while the aisle was crammed with pressed-up-against human beings.  My question?  How am I going to get out of here?  I asked the woman sitting next to me for advice.  Do I have to start moving to the door before we reach the station before my destination?  She laughed.  No, people will make way for you!    And they did.

***

I’m just about out of writing oomph.  Here I am in The Spread Eagle, a vegan British pub:

I asked the sister and brother on the right if it was okay to have them in the photo.  They smiled yes.

I ate pie and mash.  Who cares if there wasn’t any meat?  It was delicious.  I forgot to take a picture at the beginning.  Here’s halfway through:

Okay … that’s it for today.  More human lives tomorrow

Tomorrow beckons … I fly to London.  May blessings abound.

I wanted an image for this post.  No words.  (Thinking) 

Ah hah!  An arrow. 

Colour or black-and-white?  >  Colour

Which one?  >  Red

Straight or curved?  >  Curved

Up or down?  >  Up

Mellow or surging?  >  Surging

***

And so I lean into the possibility of the next eight days.  While there are plans, the wide open Infinite is what thrills my soul.

Who will I meet on a park bench?  What conversations will unfold about the beauties of life?  What wayward paths will I take, perhaps exploring dark alleys at night?  What foods will brighten my tummy?

I look forward to bringing these words into the moment …

Love them all.  Light the world

I look forward to getting lost in London, sometimes leaving Google Maps in my pocket and simply wandering.

I look forward to seeing the brand new in my life … and lingering there.

I’ll see you on the journey

I talked of The Mother in these pages back in April.  She was a mystic … one whose spiritual world is immense.

I’m reading a book about her and her beloved Sri Aurobindo.  Most of it so far is quotes.  Many of her thoughts are beyond my experience but every few pages I stop and stare.  “That’s me speaking!”

Am I an enlightened sage?  >  No

The answer came without thinking.

Am I a mystic?  >  Yes

The answer also came without thinking.

It’s so easy to elevate spiritual masters onto a pedestal.  I’m sure they don’t want that.  I expect that their ego has been reduced to a whisper.

If The Mother were still alive, I think she’d be happy to have coffee with me.  On one level we’d have an asymmetric relationship – uneven.  Her touch of the Infinite is deeper than mine.  But there’s an also: two human beings roaming through words and eyes, comfy together.

Here’s something The Mother said.  Or was it Bruce … momentarily?

Being this love, I feel myself living at the centre of each thing upon the entire earth, and at the same time I seem to stretch out immense, infinite arms and envelop with a boundless tenderness all beings – clasped, gathered, nestled on my breast that is vaster than the universe

I was sitting just now, sipping my cappuccino, wondering what I’d write.  I knew that something would come … and I’d begin to put words together.  I trusted.

As I thought about the shot of caramel I asked the barista Sasha to add, a word came …

Lighthouse

It slid smoothly down the slope of my mind.  I welcomed it.  Would I say something about lighthouses that’s never been said before?  I doubt it.  But that’s okay.  As long as there’s goodness residing in this post …

***

My first thought: I want to be a lighthouse

My second thought: I am a lighthouse

I found lighthouse quotes.  Most of them didn’t sing to me.  These ones did:

A lighthouse doesn’t save the ships.  It doesn’t go out and rescue them.  It’s just this pillar that helps to guide people home.

Yes, I can do this.  Even though I do good works in the world, that doesn’t feel as big as simply standing and loving.  I’m a presence, someone who’s just here.  Showing what my home is.

To be a lighthouse, you must be strong enough to resist every kind of storm and every kind of loneliness, and you must have a powerful light inside you.

Ten years ago I couldn’t sense any light within.  Gradually though, someone has opened up my dimmer switch to “high”.  The fears and sorrows still make an appearance but they are usually nudged to the periphery.

The lighthouse, like a guardian angel, watches over sailors lost at sea, offering them reassurance that they are not alone.

My life is us.  I’m here to lift up, to cherish, to connect.  I try to leave people with the afterglow of contact.

We are told to let our light shine, and if it does, we won’t need to tell anybody it does.  Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining – they just shine.

Oh, that’s funny.  I just spent time in this post talking about the light I feel within me.  I hope my cannon fire fades away.

May we all shine

One of my favourite moments shows up after I awaken.  My knees go left and my head right … stretch.

It’s beyond the physical.  My heart is stretching too.  I move farther into the world, closer to all who are alive.

I love this sculpture.  We’re all stretching, together.  We see each other.  We touch each other.  And we’re delightfully “off-kilter” about it all – topsy turvy, with the mind left behind.

***

I’ve discovered on Facebook that if I start with a vertically oriented photo, it doesn’t show up when I post.  So … the really cool photo of the sculpture is right below your eyes.

Soar with the flying folks!

I read an article today written by Alton Frye in The Globalist, an online magazine which aims to “highlight what countries and cultures can learn from each other”.

The article was about two men who have shaped history.  One of them still is.

It is through his voluble speeches and media presentations that Trump invites a basic comparison to Hitler.

His habitual resort to epithets regarding his opponents resembles the Nazi’s style in describing those he saw as enemies – communists, Jews, anyone standing in the way of his quest for unfettered power.

At their core the two men share egos that are plainly narcissistic in the extreme.  And that self-centered focus generates a coarseness of vocabulary and behavior that degrades politics.

Both men exhibit an intense will to power, a drive to dominate that is incompatible with genuine respect for the views and rights of others.

A few definitions …

Epithets = disparaging or abusive words

Unfettered = not limited by anyone

Narcissistic = ignoring the needs of others

Dominate = prevail over all others

***

Will many Americans attach themselves to Trump’s coattails?

Will many Americans say yes to tyranny in order to get ahead?

Will many Americans see those who disagree with them as “things”?

Will many Americans punish anyone they see as “other”?

And … will other Americans stand up to all this?

What does it mean?

I’m scared

November 22, 1963

John F. Kennedy, the President of the United States, is assassinated in Dallas, Texas.  I’m 14.

September 11, 2001

Terrorists take control of planes and fly them into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City, killing over 2000 people.  I am 52.

November 5, 2024

Donald Trump wins the US election.  The Republican party wins the Senate and looks likely to control the House of Representatives.  I am 75.

God help us

I woke up this morning with a thought:

This is all there is

And now to delve into what the this is …

I’m loving Philip Pullman and Stephen King – two authors creating characters who sit close beside me.

Last night I decided to try a new writer on for size: Kurt Vonnegut.  Slaughterhouse Five is a classic. 

I started in.  Twenty pages later I said “What am I doing here?”  The story apparently will be centered on the Allied fire bombing of Dresden, Germany in World War II and Kurt’s time in a concentration camp.  The first pages were a jumble for me, with virtually no character development … no one to love.

I was bored.  I tossed the book on the couch, not knowing if I’ll fall in love during some future chapter.

“I’ll watch a movie.”  I was partway through A Wrinkle in Time and I decided to continue.  A young girl Meg was searching for her father who may have discovered a portal to another universe.  She was aided by three loving protectors: Mrs. Which, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Whatsit.

I was enthralled with Mrs. Which, played by Oprah Winfrey.  When she looked at Meg, she went way deep inside the girl.  Mrs. Which had some wise things to say, but I didn’t care much about that.  It was the contact.

Later in the film there was lots of action, as the bad guys tried to stop the journey.  My heart faded away from the story.  “Hmm … I wonder what’s happening.”

I went to YouTube.  I watched one of my favourite videos – Lara Landon singing The Blessing.  She was seeping through the screen to my eyes.

The Lord bless you and keep you
Make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you
The Lord turn His face toward you
And give you peace

Lara was giving me peace.

***

And then this morning …

What if the only important thing in life is to look into the eyes of another and exchange God stuff?

What if all those well-meaning people praising money, inner peace, nature, self-esteem, comfort, intelligence, fitness, security … are wrong?

Is this all there is?

I wonder