Today I accompany Lydia and other friends to the city of Ypres in western Belgium, near the North Sea.  Tonight we will stand and hear a trumpeter play “The Last Post” in honour of all who died there in World War I.

In 1917, after three months of fighting, the Allied forces captured a ridge east of Ypres in the Battle of Passchendaele.  Nearly 500,000 young men – German, Belgian, French, British, Australian, New Zealander and Canadian – died.

As a teenager in Eastern Canada, all I really knew was Toronto.  The glorious Rocky Mountains to the west were merely shiny photos.  And Europe?  It was across the ocean somewhere.

***

In high school, a little old lady was our librarian.  Sometimes in class an air raid siren would go off (practicing for Armageddon).

Suddenly the librarian would throw herself out of her chair and dive under her desk.  We laughed.  And so the legend of “Mad Mary” was born.  It was so convenient for us of low self-esteem to have a new target.

Years later I learned that Mary was a survivor of the Blitz, the Nazi bombing of London.  I lowered my head and apologized.  And I’m still sorry I hurt you, Mary.

***

In 2018 I took the train east from Toronto to see more of my country.  I was heading to our most easterly province.  I stayed overnight in Sydney, Nova Scotia.  My eyes were wide in bed as I imagined tomorrow’s six-hour ferry ride on the Atlantic Ocean to Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland.

On landing, I was enthralled with the view.  Voilà:

The peace of God streaming from the sky, glowing the horizon.

I noticed a small sign near the ferry dock.  Surely it was worth a glance or two.  It said approximately this:

In World War II, a ferry that preceded the one you just took from Sydney was sunk by a German submarine, with a great loss of life

In Canada …

***

Before Belgium became my home, it was a place for me to visit my friends Lydia, Jo, Lore and Baziel.  Right now I’m on the same journey, riding the train from Ghent to Ronse.  Just before Ronse, the train will enter a tunnel.  While walking on the country roads, I’ve paused near the entrance to that tunnel … and pondered.

You see, one of my dear friends told me that Hitler and his train hid from the Allied forces there.

***

Now it’s all very close to Bruce

As life wanes into darkness
Lovers come to Rococo
Feeling the warmth of forty candles
Feeling the warmth of each other's hands

Soft words fly from one side of the table
Embraced and returned by the other 
The circle is wide as young ones
Are sparkled by smiles between

Do they glimpse the soft skin across the room?
The glow filling the walls and the ceiling high?
Do they feel other hearts
Entwining in the lightness above?

Betty has created here, all natural and giving
Her fingers know the sangria
Her heart dwells with the light
And we sit in a miracle

My favourite part of a woman’s body … are her eyes. I love the ones that soften and slide down into mine. The ones that open to the mystery, to the not knowing. The ones that are eternal.

Some eyes are tight slits. How can the light enter through such narrowness? Some eyes burn holes in mine … and it hurts. And some are nowhere to be found …

The eyes I love look all around in fascination. They see the shapes in the clouds. They notice the tender squeeze of hands in the street. They drink inwards and bless outwards.

There is much to see. Take this water fountain, for example:

It sits on the Kraanlei in Ghent. Thousands pass by every day. I wonder how many stop to ponder.

What this means to you may be different than what it means to me. Cool. As long as it means something beyond our usual sight.

What if this simple sculpture speaks more eloquently than all the sacred books? What if the beauty herein migrates down our faces to our mouths? What if the world’s secrets lie in the flow of the springtime water?

What do my eyes see, you ask?

Birds … and horses … and dogs

There is much in the world that falls from the sky
And seeps into the pores of our bodies
Blessing us

There are wonders on the streets and inside the homes
Wrapping around our waists so tenderly
Drawing us

There sits a glow atop the highest sky
Seeing us small ones bustling around
Quieting us

There are colours unknown in modern times
Blended at the edges by a master artist
Brightening us

There is a stillness with a wee little quiver
Can you sense it in your fibres?
Touching us

And a large smile hangs over us all
Happy we are here on this lovely small globe
Loving us

Later today, I’m going to walk around Ghent centrum to see what’s there.  It’s a stunning city, full of surprises, full of majesties to write about.

Right now I’m sitting on the terrace of Jaggers, awaiting breakfast.  In front is the Vrijdagmarkt – a lovely public square.  In English it’s “Friday Market” and since this is Friday, vendors, displays and visitors fill the space.

Near me I see clothes hanging.  Look how bright!  Look how lovely!

It would be easy to write about this explosion of energy.  “Oh!  You’re so beautiful.  I will write about you.”  But in this moment the writing would not be true.  The dresses are not calling me.

I need to be beckoned.  “Bruce, please come here and write about me.”  Whoever is calling needs to be known.  My blog will do nicely.

I trust that I will be approached and asked to express … today. 

I’m smiling.

***

Wandering … listening … looking up

***

There!  Do you see it?  Do you feel it?  Is it coming towards us?

“Show the three of us together, Bruce.  Have people see.  We’re side by side.  All lofty.  All shining.  Ghent, Belgium, the European Union.  We belong to each other.  We are strong, with our arms over each others’ shoulders.  In union, we can do great things.  Look at us please.  And come close.”

And so I write …

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