A bird across the hall talks in chirps cheerfully to morning alone…
a piano playing, through another door wants out;
someone unseen stitching seams in Silence in a studio down below is
perhaps an angel making our forever clothes-at least i hope in her atelier
she is clothing us as the birds at least…
For, God is always preparing our clothes in winter…as we must know by now!
(and, someone has been stitching fabric here for hundreds of years-
today is just a present echo of That Silence).
The gold fish below, move slowly, almost lurchingly, in winter ponds beneath
the bare fig tree, and a sheen layer of Winter’s ice. The gulls and church bells cascading together overhead, as
the little black headed finches chirp and shrill,
searching for fresh sprigs towards Spring. Someone surely is painting- for the sound of concentration is nearby too. The application of color
is clearly in the air!
And even the workers drilling new holes, and smoothing some cement surface, are in their own way, constructing new foundations for us,
a new cool acoustic for us to walk upon, and discover ground again.
Good to be with
so many friends simultaneously present today, regardless.
Every single sound in this endless building, this
enormous room we live in together,
is allowed in by Love today
every single silent or singing ringing stitch of it
is somehow a gift formed for me today
as I listen in Love from above.

Perhaps we are all clumsy souls! I know, I am. But, here’s to the potential, that in our klutziness, our stumbling out loud in Love, we attain and offer Love to one another, beyond our foolishness, partialness of sight, and towards one another’s wholeness—that’s my toast towards you today friends.

That despite ourselves and location on our journeys, we may bless one another as we tumble. Towards Love, we go, and tumble, or stumble into! Love will make us whole in the end, despite us, as long as we lean in that direction! Grace catches those who fall out loud into Love. It’s a falling forwards act…us.

We are like clowns, who must learn to fall well, for us all. Let’s fall well friends! So, here’s my toast to tumbling…perhaps we should be drinking from a tumbler for this one!

Living from Rest:

Just sitting with life today, what’s that like, you say?
I see so few, who can just be, including me most of the time.
It’s not just busyness, it’s internal rustling, which keep us from just being-something that won’t just let us appreciate the art of life daily. It’s a interruptive frequency which only active gratitude can overcome hourly.
Just to be thankful for a room, or lighting, a child’s face, a person’s tone in a certain conversation, a little girl’s wrist in sunlight, or a bird flying overhead in Silence.
Just to be with the day as it occurs is a type of practicing Sabbath, and is an action of severe gratitude- a huge potent act of receptive kindness.
Thanks Lord, for allowing me to be today. We are always trying too hard down here, and rarely living out of or from rest of being. Learning to live from rest, may be the most important and underrated daily practice for our times. At least, that was my sense, as i returned home to myself today—just thanks for life!

The useful loneliness of chairs…
Sitting with chairs
stacked outside my favorite cafe
i watch them all evening, to see how they hold memory
then i get up, walk on. Today, i gave nothing back to them but noticing them
and these words. The way chairs wait for us each day…
Tomorrow i may chat with friends on them
beneath those trees which lean into the cathedral,
and I will be more useful, but today
they are already being themselves,
waiting to serve tomorrow’s scene.

What are you and your city’s central stories you tell yourselves to remember who you are? We all tell ourselves stories to remember ourselves by! Even cities and nations do. It matters which stories we tell ourselves.

Finding a person or places central stories or symbolic tales, has become more than a hobby to me—more a way of seeing, over the years!

I try to ask a city it’s central stories to know it. When I return often to the person or place, I start to sense their repeated symbols, and where they are at in healing them. Fun way to travel about!

Antwerp, for instance, where I stay has a David Goliath like story about underdogs overcoming, and cutting off the hand of the abuser. So there are many hand symbols throughout the city.

Tells lots about how she sees herself. And why she still welcomes the weak!
Her hand is extended from her heart. But also an oppressor was thrown off and that became a healing place.

We can see where she was wounded in the story as well. Exactly where her gift of friendliness and extension of hand is. And what she had to do to heal it. Defeat the giants of oppression and abuse, historically and daily, I’m sure.

So much in city’s stories, which you can often read through architecture or central landmarks or statues!!! And the personal stories we repeat to ourselves and others to remember who we are. Our identity motifs. Again symbols hold expressions of core identity.

What again are you and your city’s stories you repeat to carry identity?

The Greeks repeated stories of origin, adventure, conquest-all sorts of Odysseus as they equated travel with wisdom. Etc. each culture has its central stories. In fact, it is said that Alexander slept with both the Iliad and the Odyssey and a dagger under his pillow. What books are beneath your pillow, they may guide your journey, for better or worse!

I often sometimes also ask, what stories are your historical or foundational ones, and how are those interpreted currently. How are your symbols in dialogue across time. It’s another way of reading the overarching narrative of a person or place.

The Jews repeat the Passover story each year to remember themselves.

We all have haggadah’s. But each reflect unique aspects of identity? So, what are your central stories, and where are they at in editing, or healing process of you and your city’s identity. Fun to work from our stories into our cores!

It’s always about to rain in belgium
In Texas, everything leans towards Summer instead.
Yet, in both, church bells are just about to always ring…
birds and church bells are about to converse with everything..
It’s how I keep time in both places. I’ve given up
other types of time. They take too long.

After the workers next door stopped their drilling yesterday…

The Silence which comes
after the workers finally stop
their buzzing and drilling next door.-the noise of toil.
What an endless space
that silence is, which comes like mind breath. Makes you thankful
again for home, that place you hear the Voice of Love,
and your other name,
the one you didn’t work for.

(Saw an old bike last evening leaning into an enormous cathedral from medieval times. The bike’s been there for years, just leaning into ancient stone…as if it wanted the church itself to be its headstone!)

An old black belgian bike now leans on a cathedral
in soft sea white light of evening here.
It was there the last time I visited, and hasn’t moved an inch since.
I don’t think anyone would steal it,
as it’s heart is no longer for sale.
Maybe it just decided to stop; having offered it’s last ride one morning,
Besides, it had to anchor somewhere, why not a cathedral in a port town!
People have always leaned their bikes here
or tied their horses to the arches of this old church…But, this one
hasn’t left in years. I’ll probably end up leaning into
an old Church too, just like it, still holding design and evening in time;
good place to eventually lean, it won’t be torn down anytime soon, The Church,
and angels live there, seems smart to lean into…
and we all end up leaning somewhere, into something anyway. Regardless,
nice to see this bike again in evening’s last light.

My little prayer today:
We need precise tears,
Clean love,
And pure bread
Down here.

Stories as a way in the South….stories as a way of knowing, and conveying what you know so far: learning regional epistemologies!

People tell you what they really believe through telling stories here. All sorts and colors, shapes and lengths, of stories. Requires a different type of patience.They’ll tell you their religious and political beliefs implied between the lines of long tales, some tall, some shorter. Not directly, or abstractly as ideas, but ideas embedded in narratives—life stories. And you test one another through tales as well.

In Boston, where i used to live, you would get someone’s best three ideas, here you will get their best three tales which carry all their ideas. Bit more Jewish than Greek, i think! They way here.

One time, we had rats in the attic, we called a local, and before he would tell us what to do about the problem, he told us at least six great rat stories from his long career. My wife wondered if he’d ever get to the point of fixing the problem, which he eventually did, but not until we had lots of rat wisdom!

Just met an old timer today, who told me old Spanish stories when Texas was still deciding who it was, or rather who to ally with in being itself. Great stories, little fables and parables—that’s how people are here. I like the ways of the South despite her long shadows. There isn’t a day goes by, that i don’t hear a story here. I appreciate that.

Heard one today about a man’s grandma who used mascara on her legs because in that day, you couldn’t afford stockings or hose. And carried that mentality into his generation—rationing, being careful with resources, and thinking about the next generation. Good values, even if you must use mascara on your legs.

Plus, this little place welcomes all sorts of people, but to really get to know each other, you will need to tell and listen to a few good stories first! Then, you have a place at the table forever.

Plus, stories last forever if they are good. I like stories as a way of carrying what we know, requires us all to become better story interpreters. That’s one thing this region teaches, how to tell and listen to a good story. I appreciate that about it. All my uncles were tall tales, and told them as well. I still like that way. I still like stories as a way of knowing.