I strolled in the world alone yesterday afternoon.  I needed to breathe in the Flemish air.  I needed to see the sun dance on the earth.

We had been driving earlier and I saw two vehicles turn off the road into a driveway.  “That’s a cemetery,” said Lydia.  Oh.  I’d walked by many times and thought it was someone’s fancy estate.

So when the walking drew forth my body from the couch, I had tombstones on my mind.  From Lydia’s dining room, there’s a long view over the hills to another cemetery, on the horizon.  I had walked in there before but now I couldn’t remember something essential.  Are there benches for me to sit?

I judge the humaneness of a spot by the number of places available for people to sit down – free public places, not tied to buying a beer or coffee. 

My feet suggested a reconsideration … away from the somewhat known cemetery to the brand new one.  So I walked downhill towards the wrought iron fence and the gap that beckoned me down the long driveway.

And voilà.  There I was among the gravestones and the trees.  Faces in oval photographs looked up at me.  Virtually none were smiling.  I guess being dead is a solemn affair.

My meanderings took me past two benches.  Neither had a long view, another fetish of mine.  Finally my big circle led me back to the gate again. 

Nearby was a green trailer – your basic industrial rectangle.  Must be the centre of operations for the cemetery.  Nobody was home.  Through the window, I saw a businesslike interior.  Behind was a far more interesting building – a little shed with moss growing amid the red tiles of the roof.  No windows … so no sensing of the inside soul of the place.

A bench faced the front of the office.  I sat there, uninspired.  It was time to go.

Back down the driveway, then climbing up the street, turning right at the intersection.  I had to be careful.  There were no sidewalks on my way to the other cemetery.  Cars came and went.

There were long views to be loved.  And sunshine sparkling the grass.

And now … Dead Place Number Two.  It was quite orderly for the first part, thoroughly rectangular.  And not a bum resting spot to be seen. 

Off to my right was a wide expanse of grass, bordered by deep woods.  “That’ll do nicely.”  I climbed up, I wove around, I dipped down.  Through the trees I saw a Belgian flag centred on a circular lawn.  “Hmm … didn’t the other place have a similar setup?  Must be a common feature of cemeteries in Belgium.”

I stepped around gravestones set in a grid.  I curved down a hill.  Far in the distance I glimpsed something rectangular, something green.  As I got closer, I saw that it was a trailer that looked similar to the other place.

And there was something behind – a shed with moss growing on the roof!

Both my mind and body stopped.  This is all one big cemetery – two entrances!

I stood, limp in the arms.  My mouth dropped.  My brain cells were scrambled.  The possibility of “one big one” had never come to mind.  I sat once again on the bench facing the office and marvelled at the strangeness of life.

***

I wandered down little roads some more

I saw beauty on the land some more

And then I lay on the couch some more

I’m staying with my friends Lydia, Lore and Baziel until Christmas.  Oh … and one more friend – Henri.  They live among rolling hills near the village of Maarkedal.

Henri is a big guy, a Rhodesian ridgeback doggie.  When I visit, I sleep in a separate building and in the morning use a key to get into the home.  Guess who greets me at the door?  He knows my patterns, that I’m usually the first person up, and that jingle of keys is me.

This morning I moved to the living room couch to take off my outdoor shoes, and Henri moved with me.  He started off with his usual bouncing … and licking.  My face was an inviting target.  In years past, I would let the dog tongue migrate all the way to my glasses but now I’ve dematured, only revealing my chin and neck.  Still, I’m well lubricated.

And then Henri presented the side of his body to me and stood there. I took both hands and rubbed his flanks – over and over. Occasionally he brought his head close and my hands knew what to do there as well. Then his side again, this time facing the other way.

For at least ten minutes.

The rhythm of the touch, the softness of the fur, and Henri gratefully receiving. Time lost all meaning.

And then he walked out of the room …

I smile as I remember

I was talking to a friend this morning. She told me a marvelous story. Her son was travelling somewhere and had bought a seat. I can’t remember if it was plane or train. As he sat there, an Arabic man appeared above him and started yelling. Neither person spoke the language of the other.

The young fellow spoke softly as the other one continued to rant. He was offering to change seats. The first tried different languages but none were understood. Still he stayed calm, hoping his example would rub off.

What marvelous presence, to stay centred in the midst of a hurricane. I wondered if I could have had such a broad view in the moment.

An older Arabic man appeared and congratulated the gracious man for his meditative being. Then he spoke in Arabic to his still “foaming at the mouth” compatriot.

And the fury fell away …

Examples of kindness are everywhere, if only I have the eyes to see. The older Arabic fellow could have aligned with his countryman … in a knee jerk way. But he decided to help. My friend’s son could have escalated the situation but his mission was to defuse.

Thank God for human beings

I go to Basic-Fit about four times a week.  Some days I’m on the elliptical (called a cross-trainer here).  Other times I rotate among thirteen strength training machines.  (I’m sure you can imagine me spinning around!)

What I most enjoy is a half hour of stretching – fourteen different ones on or beside a yoga mat.

In my favourite stretch, I bend my knee so the outside of my leg is on the mat, foot pressed against the other thigh.  Then I bend forward and … kiss my knee.  It’s a marvelous symbol of self-love.

I wonder why this is so special to me.

Today I was walking near home and peered through the window of an art gallery:

The woman is so horizontal in the arms.  The fingers stretch long.  The back is arched.  Such beauty.  Such … length.

Oh, to feel the body becoming bigger.  The world seems closer.  More of my surface area is available to touch.  All the pores are open.

Sometimes I feel that a presence is pulling my head upwards.  As I extend, I am above the trees.  New vistas invite me to adventure.

In other moments I’m flowing over the land, beckoned to new worlds around the curve of the Earth.

Longer

Outwards

Touching more of life

Float is a six-minute Pixar film on Disney Plus.  Six of the best minutes of my life.

The boy has wide eyes that embrace life.  He loves blowing the fluff off dandelions that have gone to seed.  The trouble is that he follows the flow of the bits … through the air.

The first screenshot is an older version of the fascinated kid.

Years prior, dad is initially enthralled with his child’s superpower … but then there are the neighbours:

Dad rushes the boy back inside, buys a backpack and loads it with rocks. The person who has power shuts down the one who doesn’t.

Dad is ever watchful of society stepping on him. The heavy backpack goes on walks. One day father and son pause at a playground full of kids. Dad turns the wrong way just for a few seconds … and there’s a backpack lying on the sidewalk.

The young one hovers over the slide, mimics kids on the swings by tracing a curve in the air, soars high above the net to grab the basketball. He leaves a trail of disbelieving faces:

Dad hauls his son away by the shirt, with the kid trailing horizontally in the air.

Then father turns and screams …

Why can’t you just be normal!?

The boy stares. He cries. He sinks through the air to the ground.

And time stands still for me.

It was a moment of truth.

***

Dad feels the faces turned towards him

He sees the wet trails descending from his son’s eyes

Dad’s eyes soften

And then …

Yesterday I went with my friend Larisa to the Poel school of music, drama and dance.  Her nine-year-old son Philip was performing in a play.  He’s dressed in grey and black. I wanted to be there to cheer him on.  We sat in the front row. 

The play began with each kid being pushed by the others to the front of the stage to say something.  Though the words were in Dutch, and too much for this newbie, the light in the eyes and the wide open mouths were universal. Some of the kids were so “out there” – far beyond what most adults give in public. Whatever happened to us?

Later there was a scene where each actress and actor had an envelope in hand. One by one they opened it up and revealed to us what the message said. The occasional child was delicate in the opening but most of them ripped heartily, sending bits of paper every which way. Yes!

At one point, a girl forgot her line. An older girl, script in hand, said the line to the girl next to her, apparently wanting her to pass it further down the line to the actress who was stumped. That didn’t work, so finally the assistant walked across the stage and whispered the words into a waiting ear. We loved it, and even the girl who forgot had a smile.

The finale featured nine girls moving, grooving and speaking across the stage. But where was Philip? Soon the curtain parted and out came … Santa Claus! Larisa’s son beamed out joy. And he gave us some choice Dutch words to put a cap on the play.

We clapped and clapped

I sat down in a Gent café yesterday and realized I could have any beer under the rainbow. But my body said “No alcohol”. So I ordered a ginger beer.

The fellow at the next table and I got talking. I sense that he wouldn’t want me to share his name, and I’ll respect that.

He mumbled a lot. I had to lean forward and open my ears wide to get the gist of his words.

And yet … I wanted to know.

He was smoking a cigar. The air was still on the terrace and a cloud of smoke hung above us. Not good for this pair of lungs.

And yet … I wanted to be close.

He offered to play some music for me – a piano piece that he had composed. I was enjoying the quiet of the street.

And yet … I wanted to listen.

I hated the music. It was dreary, written in a minor key with only the occasional glimpse of a melody. I thought of remaining silent in response.

And yet … I shared my dislike with him. Without an edge. Just a soft statement of my truth. He seemed unfazed.

His words were so negative, critical of someone or something. “They’re bad” was hanging in the mist above us.

And yet … I wanted to learn of another human being’s experience of life.

He got up, gathered his bags and turned to leave. “Goodbye,” he said. > “Enjoy your day.” > “That’s impossible.”

And yet … there was a smile on my lips. Mysteriously he and I were connected in the depths of our being.

If I look at my days, there’s magic in each one. It might be a lingering conversation in a bistro. Perhaps a walk through old streets in the sunshine. Or merely a moment in time … a stranger saying hello with their eyes.

Yesterday one of the magics spanned ten minutes. I sat in Izy Coffee watching a young girl and her younger sister. Beside my chair was a ramp for wheelchair users. The little kid would squeeze by me and then run down the ramp to the older one. What was timeless was the smile awaiting at the bottom … such joy in receiving the beloved in her arms.

I was enthralled as the scene played out again and again. Always the same adoring in those eyes. It’s what life should be about.

The older girl knew I was watching and would occasionally share her smile with me too. I wish I had been brave enough to take a photo of the moment of contact. The parents were right there and I gave in to some version of “appropriateness”.

I don’t know mom and dad. The only two moments that remain are he saying something to the kids in a raised voice, in a language I didn’t understand. And she straightening the older girl’s sweater.

Nothing can remove the joy I felt as I saw the connection between two children

Such young teachers

We look at the ordinary, the daily hurrying, the intense focus. But what if we had super duper vision, and could see the shining that is around all of us and everything?

Perhaps we glisten … if only the eyes could take it in. As we look, do we have a built-in dimmer switch, a lessening of the majesty that has always been here?

I wonder if there’s someone standing behind each of us, holding a coat of many colours and inviting us to slip our arms into the sleeves.

I wonder if there’s the beauty of an opal lying on our skin and lightening our hair.

I wonder if we humans in northern climes look at an ice storm and see the icicles beyond the dangerous driving.

I wonder if the hallway shows us a door we’d never noticed before. And will we turn the knob?

I wonder if we can open to the sun shimmering the snow on our favourite tree.

The world is pink beyond the brown

Curved beyond the straight

Floating a few inches above the ground

I’m at AZ Sint-Lucas today for an ultrasound … a possible hernia.

Here I sit, watching humanity walk by.  You see the young man with a backpack.  He scans the parking lot.  He holds a plastic bag full of medicines.  He checks his phone a lot.  I don’t know his story, but I bet large parts of it are my story too.

He just stood up.  He walks towards the revolving door with a huge limp.  His face is turned away so I can’t see the pain.

In the photo, you may be able to see two people passing each other – a woman pushing someone in a white wheelchair and a young man using a walker.  When the legs don’t work well, we need help.  I wonder what it’s like for the fellow.  Perhaps he’s used to playing sports … and then one day a doctor says “This is your walker.”

Here comes an elderly woman wearing a red coat and a white scarf in a sea of black.  It’s the colour of Santa’s suit.  I wonder if she’s Mrs. Claus in her family … or maybe even the big guy herself.

Heads are adorned: Covid masks, hajibs, ball caps, berets.  The world is here – being sick or caring for someone who is.

Some people hurry, some people shuffle.  Some hold the arm of a loved one.  Many are alone.

To my left is a restaurant.  Lots of folks inside.  I remember being a patient, and how comforting the warm food was, the sweet dessert, in the times when woe was me.  Today I won’t be eating for awhile longer.

A young woman dressed in blue and red stares out the window.  I can’t tell what’s in her eyes.  And from my angle I can’t see what she holds to her chest.  An infant?  A dog?  A full plastic bag?  And then a wee human foot jiggles.

Some walk by holding coffee cups.  Many are grasping little rectangles of paper that show their destinations.  Purses, of course.  And a broom wielded by a woman wearing a pale blue top.

The reception desk is just past the Christmas tree.  A woman stands behind it, turning as folks come by.  My eyes can’t tell but I sense she’s smiling at people.  “Welcome.”

Yes, that’s the feeling I get

Welcome