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

Will we reach to the sky together?

Will I hoist you up as you hoist me?

Will we live in the stars so far away?

Will the future show us its pretties?

…

We touch in the morning, we smile goodnight

Surely our path lies through the mist

We know that a hand beckons us on

We two entwined in the climbing

…

We need not be troubled as the journey unfurls

Let’s give thanks for the stumbling, the scraping of knees

For the slowing and sighing that come to our souls

Are the breath of another’s care

…

We are held

It’s Labor Day in Belgium, a holiday of the socialist labor movement.  So … it’s time for a parade!  Most of the shops are closed and the people are open.

It took awhile but I eventually intercepted the route.  I couldn’t figure out why the street I chose wasn’t full of parade goers.  Simple … I was on the wrong street.

You can see the flagbearers at the front.  They’re having a great time.  Next, here comes a marching band.  Listen to the drums, the brass, the woodwinds.  Makes the feet want to lift off.

So many banners were held across the street, followed by families, dogs and work colleagues.  Sometimes it felt like I was in the parade.  I felt unified with these folks, even without their language and history.

Humans living on the parade route opened their windows and waved at the marchers.  Above or below, we walked together.

I’m sitting on the terrace of De Postiljon, a café (pub) on the Vrijdagmarkt, a public square in Ghent centrum.  There is so much red in folks’ clothing.  One fellow wears a red braided rope around his neck.  This is the Gentse Strop.

The name “Gentse Strop” refers to the nickname of the people of Ghent: noose carriers.  This nickname comes from the humiliation of the people of Ghent by Emperor Charles V, who had them go through the city with a noose because they revolted against a tax imposed by him.

Today the Gentse Strop is a symbol of resistance, of standing up for your rights.

Speeches are resonating across the Vrijdagmarkt

I don’t understand the words

I understand the spirit

The band starts playing some anthem.  The people in the picture are singing!

Here are the two glass doors entering my neighbour Dirk’s apartment. The right one is open, the left closed. I often bug him that who really lives here is Princess Di. He always smiles.

Tomorrow is the three-month anniversary of Dirk’s arrival on the Oudburg. It’s clear what’s to be done: throw a party! In an hour, ten of us will gather downstairs. Dirk has a bevy of surprises planned. He wants his guests to smile and laugh, to sip their favourite beverages, to fill their bellies with frites! We shall oblige.

Hours from now, I will continue. Let the celebration begin …

***

Wow! First of all, I’m thankful that Dirk included me. And so did the other eight folks. I wasn’t a Canadian oddity. I was simply another human being who wanted to celebrate the arrival of his friend.

Almost all of the evening was in Flemish. I know none of the words when they’re spoken fast. And therefore it’s all music … with mysterious melodies. I’m used to this at two other dining room tables – with my friend Lydia in Maarkedal and with my friend Anne in Toronto, where the language is Ukrainian.

We sat around snacking on strawberries, chocolate mousse and other assorted yum yums. Someone would try on the role of storyteller. I watched the other faces. They were following along, with occasional bursts of joy on their faces. I didn’t need to know the story to feel its impact.

At one point, Dirk was getting his frites fryer ready. Slabs of fat started heating. And then an instant of raucous Dutch laughing all around. Near as I can tell, Dirk was heating the fat without having taken the paper off.

Then there was excited pointing to an open closet, and a shelf way up high that included a big vertical wheel. What, oh what, was that about?!

Next another fellow started his story, complete with wild hand gestures. He soon had me, even though I had no clue about the plot. Suddenly he blurted out …

Over my dead body!

Then he was back at it in Flemish. A fine time was being had by all, including me.

A cluster of tiny white lights hung on the wall, with a little black tube at the end. Dirk grabs the tube and starts speaking into it. Gales of giggling. Sounded like he was ordering room service, but this English speaker was essentially clueless.

And so it went

The music rolled on

And at the end we all hugged goodnight