Every so often in life, we meet someone who seems to bypass all the usual stages of acquaintance and step straight into the inner room. That was how it was with my friend Darrel McLeod. From the moment we met, there was a recognition—not dramatic or sudden, but immediate and unmistakable. It was the recognition of someone who lived with an inner life as vivid as my own.

Darrel was a writer, and perhaps that helped. Writers tend to cultivate a certain fearlessness about truth; they live at the edge of memory, emotion, and story. But he was also generous in a way that had nothing to do with craft. He shared his life openly, as a Cree man from British Columbia, telling stories that were layered with history, struggle, resilience, and extraordinary clarity. He didn’t speak about himself so much as from himself. There is a difference, and it’s a rare one.

Over the couple of years we spent together—listening to music, exchanging books, discussing literature and writing—I never once felt the distance that so often exists between people. Our conversations were effortless, full of curiosity, honesty, humor, and a sense of mutual understanding that felt both grounding and exhilarating. I never wondered whether he was listening. I never felt the need to shrink or simplify myself. I never doubted that he understood exactly what I meant.

He was, in every sense, the friend I had always longed for.

When he died, suddenly and far too young, the loss felt impossible to hold. It wasn’t just a grief for the person he was, but for the kind of presence he brought into the world—one that is not easily replaced, and maybe cannot be. I still miss him. I miss the ease of our conversations, the trust, the shared inner landscapes. I miss the rare feeling of being met exactly where I live inside myself.

His absence makes moments of superficial connection feel even thinner. And it reminds me, again and again, that when someone like Darrel appears in one’s life, even briefly, it is a gift of the highest order. A reminder that true understanding is possible. That soul-recognition is real. And that when we have known that level of companionship, we carry it with us always.
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In the final weeks of his life, Darrel was in a period of extraordinary creative unfolding. He was only a few weeks away from publishing his fourth book — his second novel — and he was stepping boldly into a dream he had carried since he was young: becoming a jazz singer.

The very week he passed, he performed a concert with friends in Victoria, British Columbia. He hadn’t been feeling well, but he went onstage anyway. And afterward, he told me he was pleased with how he sang — genuinely pleased. There was a quiet pride in it, as if he knew he was stepping into a new chapter of himself, one that blended the storyteller and the musician inside him.

He had also done work in Puerto Vallarta with musician friends, producing some lovely videos that captured both his voice and his spirit. He told me — almost with disbelief — that after a lifetime of struggle, the success of his books meant he was finally living comfortably. And with that comfort came a new possibility: he wanted to spend the next year supporting and promoting some of the local musicians I had been championing for years. He said it with such enthusiasm, such sincerity. With his experience, his connections, and his generosity, I knew he would have been phenomenal. It would have been a beautiful collaboration, and we both sensed that.

That is what makes his passing so difficult to hold. He wasn’t fading — he was blooming. He was entering a vibrant new season of his life, full of promise and creative abundance. And I feel grateful, deeply grateful, that I witnessed that last flourishing. I saw him becoming the fullest version of himself. And I still miss him — not only for who he was, but for the future he was just beginning to step into.

Not long ago, I received a text from someone I hadn’t heard from in years. The message was simple, almost casual, as if he were just checking the weather of my life: How are you? How’s everything? After all that time, it seemed to carry some weight, so I suggested we talk on the phone. We set a time, and he called.

I greeted him warmly: “It’s good to hear your voice. What’s up?” But it became clear very quickly that nothing, in fact, was “up.” He had reached out, but he had no story to tell, no question to ask, no curiosity to follow. The conversation fell into my hands like something fragile and unfinished.

So I began to fill in the gaps—my life lately, the things I’ve been doing, the memories we once shared. I asked about his family and about people we once knew together. I even tried reviving old moments that had made us laugh. But he didn’t remember any of them.

There was a strange hollowness in the call, like talking to someone through a long hallway. Eventually I said, gently, that I didn’t want to take up too much of his time. That’s when he said, “Yes, you do talk a lot.” I hung up, and a question curled its way into my mind: Do I? Is that a flaw?

Later, while revisiting passages from Night Train to Lisbon, I came across a line that struck me with unusual force:

"When we talk about ourselves, about others, or simply about things, we want—it could be said—to reveal ourselves in our words: We want to show what we think and feel. We let others have a glimpse into our soul.”
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That is exactly how I feel when I speak with people. I reveal myself. I offer something true, something inward, something thoughtful. I invite connection.

Yet not everyone wants to reveal themselves. Many people stay safely on the surface: what happened today, what they saw on the news, a movie, an errand. These are the outer layers, easy to talk about, harmless, unthreatening. But deeper questions—Who are you really? What do you want? What do you fear?—feel dangerous to them. Some avoid those inner spaces because they hold trauma. Others simply never learned the language of self-reflection. And some prefer to leave the soul unnamed.

For me, the more puzzling question is whether people feel unheard because I “talk too much.” That phone call made me wonder. But when I look back honestly, I gave him all the space in the world. He simply didn’t step into it. Perhaps he couldn’t.

The truth is, I speak from a life that has been deeply lived—through literature, memory, inner exploration, Pessoa, Jung, symbolism, dreams, the shifting landscapes of Lisbon and Mexico, the ocean, the patterns of fate. I live with a mind that never stops turning over the meaning of things. Not everyone does. Not everyone can meet a conversation at that depth.

So I’m learning something: It’s not that I talk too much. It’s that I talk from a place that not everyone knows how to reach.

Still, I want to be mindful, to listen closely, to notice who asks questions back and who reveals even a small piece of themselves. But I won’t shrink the parts of me that reflect and remember and speak from the soul. That is who I am.
And maybe that is the season I’m claiming now—a season of speaking honestly, listening generously, and recognizing when a door remains closed not because I knocked too hard, but because the room behind it was never meant for me to enter.
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These are paintings by the renowned Portuguese painter Antonio Costa Pinheiro from his series honoring the work of Fernando Pessoa 1983 and Landscape of his Atalier 1984. Both very connected to their interior selves.

 Long ago — as the fairytales say — I attended a class taught by a charming and talented man named Jim Hadley at the Piedmont Adult School. Extremely knowledgeable and endlessly prepared, he covered the entire history of Europe over a two-year period. As he moved from Ancient Egypt to the French Revolution, he brought each era to life with lectures, slides, music, and art. His humor made everything both entertaining and deeply informative.

One of my favorite lectures was about octogenarians who accomplished their greatest works after turning eighty. At forty-five, I thought eighty was unimaginably old. But now that I am here, it feels perfectly sensible that after decades of experience — and if blessed with some good health — one might finally be ready to create something meaningful. That idea stayed with me. I promised myself not to collapse into an armchair and wait for life to wind down. Instead, I would do whatever I could to maintain my strength and pursue things that others might consider outlandish for my age.

Not everything I do will benefit society in the way Titian or other late-in-life creators contributed their masterpieces. But I don’t believe that was the point of Jim Hadley’s lecture. The message was simply this: eighty is not a time to doze off. It is a time to stay awake.

For the past four years, I’ve taken a deep breath each September and flown to Lisbon, Portugal. It’s a long journey — especially for me — yet I have never regretted a single trip. I plan to keep going, even when obstacles try to pin me at home.

One of the best decisions I made this year was hiring a personal trainer. I always assumed it would be a frivolous extravagance, but working with Chris has been transformative. By cutting a few unnecessary expenses, I carved out the resources for this small investment, and it has paid off in strength, balance, and confidence. I’m hopeful that when September 2026 arrives, I’ll be stepping onto a plane to Lisbon yet again — ready to see the places, the art, the poetry, and the people who fill me with joy.

Lisbon is a lovely city — physically beautiful, emotionally calming, quietly inspiring. Its architecture, mosaics, the wide sweep of the Tagus River, the Atlantic winds, and the plaintive sounds of Fado have become part of my life’s rhythm. And even if all I do is sit in my condo, walk to the park with a book, enjoy a simple coffee at a kiosk, and let the city breathe around me — I will be content. A change is good. A challenge is even better.

What I discover in Lisbon.
​I  grow closer to the life of my favorite poet, Fernando Pessoa. I visit his old haunts and think of his daily life and inspiration.

I revel in the writings of Jose Saramago and Eca de Queiros, visiting the sources of their inspiration.

I listen to Fado music whenever I get the chance.

I enjoy the views from nearby beaches, the river front at the end of each day and relaxing in the park outside my apartment in the evenings.

Above all, my comfy little home away from home feels so right!

Today I smelled a magnolia blossom for the first time. There are many magnolia trees in my neighborhood, but they’re so tall I’ve never been able to reach one. This morning, on my walk, I spotted a small young tree in bloom.
I bent close and inhaled — the scent was fresh and lemony.

I can’t think of the magnolia without recalling a very poignant song by Billie Holiday, recorded in 1939 — Strange Fruit.
​I found myself wondering: why do I associate the magnolia tree with that song?
After all, the lyrics tell us the “strange fruit” hung from the poplar tree.

Then I remembered: the song’s quiet horror unfolds in a landscape where
“the bulging eyes and the twisted mouth”
contrast with “the scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh.”
That sweetness, meant to bathe the neighborhood in beauty,
is obliterated by the tragic scent of unwarranted death and suffering --
the violence imposed upon Black lives by a supposedly Christian white society.

From now on, the scent of magnolia blossoms will bring to me
the image of tears of Christ — if he is watching.

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This morning, I took myself to Saint Albert’s Priory—a place I’ve passed hundreds of times. It sits just off College Avenue in the Rockridge district of Oakland on a quiet stretch of Chabot Road near where we once lived on Florio Street. I’ve always admired its calm green lawn and the small stately chapel behind the fence, assuming the large building beyond was a monastery. For years I thought, that’s not a place one simply walks into.

But today, something nudged me. I woke with the feeling that sitting in front of Saint Albert’s might clear my mind and soothe the small sorrows that had gathered lately. So I took BART to Rockridge, had my morning coffee, and walked up toward St. Albert’s. To my surprise, the gates were open—as if the place had been expecting me.

I walked up the path, shaded and winding, and noticed the chapel door slightly ajar. From inside came the sound of choral music, serene and steady. I eased the door open. The space glowed white and gold. At the altar stood perhaps a dozen men in white robes, touched with red and gold, their voices rising in harmony. A full congregation sat along the side pews, absorbed in song or prayer.

I stood quietly and listened. I was enchanted. The music was familiar—Catholic liturgy, yet reminiscent of the Episcopalian services of my childhood. The cadence, the reverence, the shared silence between phrases—it was exactly what I needed.

When the service ended, the men in robes and the priest came out front. I walked up to the one I assumed was the officiating priest—Father Raphael Mary, as it turned out—and thanked him. I told him I had passed Saint Albert’s many times but had never imagined going inside, until today. He smiled warmly and said I was welcome anytime.
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I admitted it had been more than forty years since I’d attended a church service—not as a tourist admiring art and iconography, but as a participant in worship. I told him I’d been raised Episcopalian but had drifted from organized faith in college, encouraged by a kind priest, Father Neville, who told me simply to “find the answers you can live by.” And that is how I have lived.

Still, standing there in the hush of the chapel, I felt something pure—perhaps not belief, but belonging. I left feeling cleansed.

As I stood outside afterward, words from Night Train to Lisbon came to mind. In it, Amadeu de Prado—a 17 year old confirmed atheist—delivers the graduation speech at his very Catholic school in Lisbon, at a time when the country bowed to the strict authority of Salazar.

“I would not like to live in a world without cathedrals.
I need their beauty and grandeur.
I need their imperious silence.
I need it against the witless bellowing of the barracks yard
and the witty chatter of the yes-men.
I want to hear the rustling of the organ,
this deluge of ethereal notes.
I need it against the shrill farce of marches.”
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That passage captures exactly what I felt: a yearning for beauty and silence amid the noise of the modern world—the shrill farce of politics, the endless chatter. Even without an organ, the pure a cappella voices at Saint Albert’s offered refuge from all that.

So thank you, Father Raphael Mary, for your kindness, and thank you to the universe for leading me there and opening the door.