Soaking in the Rue Royale in Paris

While sight-seeing on the elegant Rue Royale in Paris, a short street lined with high-end stores (think Chanel, Gucci, and Dior), creamy classical French architecture gleaming in the summer sun, the Place de la Concorde visible at one end of the street, the Place de la Madeleine at the other, I had to pinch myself to believe I stood in the middle of such history and magnificence.  

Amazed and dazed I drank it in. Wrought iron balconies, arched doorways, gilded shop names on sparkling glass doors, exquisite ornamentation everywhere. In my hand was a green Ladurée bag containing the store's specialty macarons in various colors. Delight! At the pristine glass counter I had ordered the sandwich cookies in French, which always makes me happy. To be understood! To understand! In French!  

Rue Royale is elegance itself. Every bit of it.

As my family and I stood waiting for our ride to pick us up on Rue Royale, I noticed tourists with their eyes on their phones as they walked past gorgeous window displays, lush flowers and trees, artful street lights, everything. 

"Look up!" I wanted to shout. "You are in the most beautfiul city in the world and you are missing it!"

I felt terribly sad. Sad that social media and immediate gratification evaporates evocative experiences for all of us. They steal our attention, our time, even our joy and often we are completely oblivious to this high-tech mugging. 

Then and there, Paris gave me a lesson I needed just as much as anyone else. 

"Be in command of your time. Be in command of your attention. Be in command of your life."

"Participate. Pay attention. Pursue delayed gratification." 

This lesson stays with me. My life is richer for it.

Thank you, Paris! 

Joie de Vivre Moment #2 - Père-Lachaise and My 'Little French'

Pére-Lachaise Cemetery located on the northeast side of Paris boasts more than 5,000 trees on its 110 acres. It is both her largest park and largest cemetery. Estimates of people buried within her walls vary wildly between 300,000 and a million. It is in this eclectic place that Paris personally hugged me for the first time.

My daughter, Caroline, and I have a secret bond between us that I will keep secret. It concerns Gertrude Stein and her way with words. Because of our humorous connection to the writer, and because of her burial in Pére-Lachaise, Caroline and I included the ancient cemetery on our must-see list for our August 2022 Paris trip.

At the wheel of our huge gray van full of family, including a six month old granddaughter, my highly capable French son-in-law deftly parked on Rue de Rondeaux, outside Pére-Lachaise Cemetery's wall, down the street from one of its gates. Excited, our group entered the grounds en masse, for the very first time. I don't know that any in our group, which included native locals, had been there before. The massive grave markers, trees, and monuments overwhelmed us. In a good way, a sobering way. 

From my gray travel purse I pulled the map I'd brought from home, gleaned from a book. Unfolding it, I oriented myself, Caroline peeking over my shoulder. We quickly located the 'x' we'd made on Gertrude's site. Her grave was on the path currently underfoot. Yes! We headed in her direction, stopping often to examine holocaust monuments, other war memorials, and graves. Quite a place, somber and yet, somehow romantic.

Gertrude's grave was exactly where the map described, easy to find. A selfie was taken, bien sur. I placed a small pebble on her headstone, which joined hundreds already balancing there. It marks a visit, respect.

We continued down the walkway, discovering famous gravesites amidst the shambles-like atmosphere of the ancient French cemetery.

Occasionally I suffer from piriformis muscle pain. It is similar to sciatica, which can flare up into excruciating pain. Such pain overtook me right there on that beautiful dream-come-true day. I often describe my pain level to my husband in numbers, with zero representing pain-free and ten being I'm-going-to-die. In Pére-Lachaise the pain ratcheted up to a nine, a number I have only experienced once before at home. My leg was doing weird things which worried me; I needed to sit down. Not about to sit on a beautiful ancient grave stone in front of my family and dozens of tourists, I bit the bullet and persevered, trying to keep my face from grimacing. Not an easy task.

At last, my daughter and her husband said they had to go back to the van to feed the baby. My husband wanted to see Jim Morrison's grave as he promised the guys at work he'd take a picture for them. So, the Frenchies and Tom headed to the right and around the corner, soon out of sight. My stroller-pushing daughter, son-in-law, and baby granddaughter were already out of sight to the left and beyond. I remained standing alone, in the middle of the jumble of stones and paths and tourists and garish grave decorations, nowhere to sit that wouldn't feel like desecration. 

Tempted to rest on Edith Piaf's nearby grave, I resisted. I took a picture instead. Then, I began the walk back to the van. The pain was unbearable. I prayed. I know God makes things happen for a reason. I have been a believer long enough to know that God is trustworthy and will take care of me. I prayed for a bench. When I opened my eyes, there was a bench! How had I missed it before?

Praising God, I sat down. For some reason sitting makes the pain go away for awhile, even after I get up again. I sat. A few tears of relief fell, but I kept myself under control, for the sake of others. There on the bench I thanked God for His constant presence. He never leaves me. Ever. (Don't get me wrong, I understood and supported the others who left for the van and Jim Morrison. No self-pity, no hard feelings. Only my husband knew how bad it was, and I assured him I could deal with it, sounding much braver than I felt.) 

As I sat, it dawned on me that I was going to need a rest room at some point and Paris does not have fast food restaurants on every corner as we do at home. Besides that, bistros, restaurants, and other businesses do not allow anyone but customers to use their rest rooms. I pulled my new-to-me iPhone from my purse and opened the map app. A public restroom was down the street! 

Feeling adventurous, my pain down to a three, I began walking to the gate we'd entered. It was up a sloping path and not a short way ahead. The pain began to creep up. It was hot outside. Sweat began to form on my brow, wiped away by the pink handkerchief I carry in my pocket when walking in hot weather. I was not relaxed. At all. But I was determined to do what needed to be done and do it on my own. I exited the tall navy blue gates and turned left, walking until I began to feel frightened for some reason. Bad vibes or something, I couldn't say.

I texted my son-in-law in the van telling him what I was doing and that I was scared. When he pinpointed where I was he immediately texted: Stop. Don't go down there. Come back to the van now!

Retracing my steps, I headed back to the gray van. Cement rounds in front of the cemetery gates looked inviting. I sat on one to relieve the pain again. As I sat, pain-free, I gazed down Avenue Père Lachaise, the road that jutted out in front of me. I saw friendly looking people, some families and couples, and some sidewalk bistros. Aha! I will tell Charles about this when I get back to the van.

I did. He said he didn't think they would let me use the rest rooms. He said we would soon be on our way to a restaurant for lunch. I would find the access I needed there.

I realized that since the rest of our group was still poking through graves beyond the tall walls, the lunch timeline was going to be too long for me. You know how it is. The more you know you can't, the more your body says, "Oh, but I must!" Yeah. That was happening.

I waited, quietly. Then, I said, "I think I need to find a solution pretty fast." 

Silence.

Then, Charles, who is the kindest and most competent person you could ever meet, said, in his gentle, patient French accent, "You know, Cherie, I think if you go into one of those bistros and use your little French, they will let you use the rest room." He'd been thinking about it, you see. My attempts at French do yield results, especially when coupled with hand motions, and sprinkled with a lot of English. It is my little French, my speaks-like-a-four-year-old French.

That was all the encouragement I needed. 

I opened the heavy van door and stepped back out into the sunshine of the sidewalk. I walked the Rue de Rondeaux until it intersected with Avenue Père Lachaise. My feet upon that friendly avenue, I strolled a couple of shop, bistro, and flower-laden blocks intending to select the friendliest bistro I could.

Finally, on the corner by a round-about, was a bustling bistro. A pleasant-faced customer sitting outside smiled at me. "Bonjour," I said. "Bonjour," he replied. A hopeful start to my adventure. With as much confidence and nonchalance as I could muster, I entered the busy bistro. 

Leaning over the bar was an in-charge looking man with a pencil and notepad in one hand, a phone in the other. Rumpled, but nice enough attire, messy hair, a sort of grumpy face, he was in business mode. The stereotypical French man, I thought. I found him delightful. He looked authoritative, so when he looked up at me as I walked past, I asked, "Où est le toilette?" He made a curving and pointing motion with his arm and hand, and went back to his papers and phone.

"Thank you, Jesus!" My mind exploded with praise and gratitude to God. I turned the corner, found the old, narrow, dark-wood door with its well-worn brass hardware. It creaked when I pushed it open. I was faced with a clean, tiny, functioning bathroom. Nothing fancy, but I have never been happier to meet a restroom in my life. Not only did I find relief, but I found it using my little French and all on my own, against all odds. 

France made room for me!

After washing my hands really well - the cool water felt delicious on my skin! - my heart sang in thankfulness to God and the bistro man. I reversed my snaking path from the bathroom to the wide corner entrance. With a merci beaucoup and a smile, I left the man sort of scratching his head as if he knew something unique had just happened.

I skirted my way through the patio tables to the sunny sidewalk of Avenue Père Lachaise. 

"What have I just done? What happened?"

"Why, I navigated Paris by myself,. Timid little old me. French people showed kindness and generosity. And, Cherie. Cherie! Look where you are! Look what you are doing! You are ambling along a street in Paris alone and you are not afraid. And nothing hurts!"

I took a moment to look around, still walking slowly as I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself.  Excitement bubbled out of me. It was hard to contain. Flowers everywhere. Sidewalk cafés up and down the street. Friendly men, women, and kids. Straight ahead were the large, heavy, dark gates of the cemetery I had long dreamed of visiting, where so many notables are laid to rest. I was in Paris! I was happy! Thrilled! It was better than the movies; it was real. I could smell foliage, flowers, trees, soil, food, coffee, wine, pastries, bread. Oh, the bread! I felt the heat of the sun on my head, shoulders, and back. My mind comprehended French signs and window notices!  No translation necessary. I was immersed in France, and it felt terrific!

Paris embraced me! 

I floated my way back to the van, opened its unwieldy door, and hopped up into the passenger seat.

"I did it! I did it!"

Caroline and Charles, two of my staunchest cheerleaders, enthusiastically congratulated me and offered praise. Then, Charles said, "They let you in? They let you use the rest room?"

"Yes!" I answered excitedly. "Yes, they did. No problem." I relayed the entire experience to them.

With my objective met, we four settled into our seats, waiting for the rest of the gang to return. They had wandered into the furthest reaches of the cemetery and were trying to find their way out. About this time Charles began to think maybe he should visit the rest room since he had opportunity and time.

It was decided that Caroline could use a quiet moment in the van while Charles and I took baby Sylvie with us. I would show Charles the accommodating restaurant.

As we started down the rue, I told my son-in-law about a closer and friendlier looking establishment on the other side of the street that I had noticed as I'd floated back to the van. We agreed to give it a go, though Charles was a little hesitant. He really didn't think it would work. But he is a learner and will try new things whether it's the French way or not.

We walked down the street and around the corner. I showed Charles the bistro with the pretty tables nestled amidst potted trees with a smattering of customers enjoying coffee and pastries en plain air. I told him I'd hold Sylvie. We'd be just fine. The owner or manager was very kind. Charles graciously asked if he could use the facilities and the man immediately directed him to the back of the room, no problem or hesitation at all. Then, he glanced out at me holding sweet little Sylvie, giving a nod of approval, an invitation to stay.

Sylvie and I relaxed in a red metal chair at a clean wooden table. Half-walls topped with flower pots and trailing vines separated us from the avenue. Pigeons flitted and flapped, some overhead, some walking around our feet pecking at food scraps. Sylvie craned her baby neck to get a good view of the pigeon-toed birds. They cocked their iridescent heads to look back at her. She looked at me and gave a huge toothless grin! I bounced her on my knee. Customers cooed at Sylvie, others smiled as they passed. Bonjour! Coucou! 

And I thought to myself, "I am sitting in Paris, down the street from Pére-Lachaise. I am bouncing my youngest daughter's daughter on my knee, at a sidewalk bistro. Pigeons are present. I hear French music! I hear the fast-paced French language. Soak it up, Cherie. Faites attention! Pay attention!" (Yes, my inner-narration was part in French, part in English. What can I say? It happens.)

Because I did pay attention, because I made myself be in the moment, because I soaked it all up and let it become a part of me, I remember every detail. Fondly. Vividly.

From excruciating pain to inexpressible joy sprinkled with serendipity, this joie de vivre moment rejuvenated my mind and soul. It reassured my belief in the kindness of family and strangers, refreshed my belief in God's provision during unusual circumstances, it reframed beauty and blessing in the everyday, and it emboldened me as a world traveler. 

For where are we without God? Where are we without the support and love of our families? And where are we, really, without the warmhearted souls all around us who open their lives in big and small ways to make ours just a little bit more comfortable.

Artful Day

An artful day introduces itself early, in the après dawn morning.

A heightened sensation of pleasure as I walk the hall gliding my warm fingers through silky clean hair, brow to nape, their tips gently massaging my scalp causing eyes to close, a smile to spread. Ah, life, health.

Warm water delights on my cheeks, eyes, nose, mouth, forehead, neck, drips like rain into the basin, swirls in rivulets down the drain as if merry in its journey. Soft creamy towel smells fresh, clean.

Crisp white luxurious bed sheets float and flatten, easily cooperate in bed making. Pillows seems to plump themselves, ordered, lying one upon another, pastel perfection. Smooth, ruffled, a parrot on a blue square pillow.

Bulging about-to-burst pear blossoms out the window, rain jewels sparkling along limbering branches, swaying ever so gently in the breeze, accepting the sun's intermittent rays, now here, now gone. And back.

Cool iron black French door handles twist and crunch, the door swings in. Brisk air brushes my face, lifts my hair, enters my nose carries welcome scents of wet garden soil, sun warmed cobblestones, damp foliage, and the neighbors' morning coffee. Bird song. Squirrel scamper. Shimmering tear-shaped raindrops blithely clutch the screen door's mesh as I slowly slide it left. Stepping onto the dark green wooden landing, my arms stretch up and outward, lungs fill with cool fresh air. Glorious! In my soft pink and gray plaid pajamas.

Vivid sensual offerings greet my every glance and turn. Lines of furniture, graceful light and shadows partnering in whimsical dance, my husband's wellies carefully positioned next to his loafers on the faded peach mud-rug by the front door, pointing north together, brown rubber and leather, resting like horses tethered in front of The Long Branch Saloon. Waiting to ride into the sunset. Or something.

Quiet. Not a car drives past. Not a neighbor strolls by. The refrigerator hums. The furnace clicks on with a faithful whoosh. 

Deep breaths. Eager reception of gifts always present, too oft unnoticed.

A good night's sleep, an observing mind, a cheerful mood.

Artfulness. 

An artful day, this. 

My our Artist God bless you with such abundance - and more - today and always.

Spring Fever, Mark Twain Quote

 

"It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!" ~~ Mark Twain

 

Grandpa Reads a Book

Little Iliana, my three year granddaughter, selected The Little Engine That Could from the shelf of children's books in my family room. Her grandpa, my Tom, knelt beside her as she pulled out first one book then another before settling on this classic. 

Grandpa suggested they sit in the living room to read, where tiny sister, Claire, age one, pushed herself along on her toy rolling horse, while holding a rainbow colored ball she found in the toy box. The wee ones' mama, our daughter, Cassie, and I were having a pleasant afternoon conversation while eating oatmeal raisin cookies made especially for this moment. 

Out the window a squirrel leaped from picket to picket along the fence. Crows squawked while perched in the newly-budding trees of the neighbor's yard. The sky was gray. Oregon gray. The air brisk. The day begged for homey child-play.

After snuggling into the soft sage sofa, his granddaughter beside him, Tom opened the hardback's cover. Having read this book to our four children, many many times, the pages were quite familiar. With expressive enthusiasm, Grandpa Tom read the old friend as if for the first time. Iliana's golden-curled hair framed her intent face as she leaned over the book, her chin on Grandpa's arm. 

My golden-haired husband read each page deliberately. With great care and interest he pointed out items in the illustrations, asking simple questions of Iliana, her answers quick, yet thoughtful. She remained riveted. 

From cover to cover the two traveled with the little engine that could meeting imaginary people and circumstances, all the while oblivious to Claire on her horse with her rainbow ball, to Mama munching a cookie, to Grandma smiling at the joy in the cozy living room, that room with its treasure trove of happy child-play memories spanning thirty-five years this May.

Joy, that balances the world. Sweetness, which softens the unpleasant. Love, which reminds us of the One who makes all things beautiful in His time.

Joie de Vivre Moments - French Cat and London Lemonade

Joie de vivre, a feeling of great happiness and enjoyment of life. 

How marvelous it is to curiously explore new places. In adopting the pace of a flâneur, casually ambling through cities, villages, and countrysides, joie de vivre moments reveal themselves. Little, larger, or life-changing, these unanticipated moments stop my tracks with something sweetly unusual, bewildering, fascinating. Concentration is required, rather than autopilot, to decipher this befuddlement. What am I seeing/hearing/smelling/feeling/tasting here? I don't understand. Do I have a frame of reference for this? What is going on? I like this! My curiosity is definitely piqued by what I consider a learning moment, a challenge, and so very often a petite plaisir, a little pleasure.

Or a big one. You never know. That's the fun of stumbling upon a joie de vivre moment. 

Examples of these intriguing moments are: the first time driving on the left side of the road (if that is new to you), learning to greet strangers with bonjour or buongiorno (and they respond in kind), passing mile upon mile upon mile of centuries old rock walls in Ireland's farmland (think of the hands and backs involved in gathering and laying all those stones), ubiquitous ancient castles strategically perched high in the crags (the history within those mighty fortresses), a full, honey-colored moon hovering above a hilltop Italian village (what this little village may have experienced in her lifetime?), and bell-tower bells counting the time, marking events, ringing invitations to pause together through those emotive ding-dongs.

Or, a joie de vivre moment can be as simple and as mystifying as a tethered cat.

Dogs tethered on ropes or leashes I have seen. I understand dogs need to be restrained. Horses, too, in certain circumstances.

But cats? 

One sunny morning in France, my husband, Tom, and I were strolling the streets of old Beynac, the ancient village just outside the walls of the castle, admiring architecture, shops, little restaurants, and galleries when suddenly I saw an intent feline, watching the world go by. Then, I noticed the leash. That is the moment my mind had to consciously catalogue what it saw. I stood there, transfixed, as my mind's gears and wheels did their work.

Questions immediately came to mind. Why? What would happen if the cat had no tether? Would it run away? Would it hurt someone or damage something? Was the cat not at its regular home but being cared for away from home thus requiring restraint for some reason? Was the cat ill? Was there a danger to the cat against which it was being protected?

No sure answers appeared for there was no one to ask nor was any information available.

Who cares that I don't know the why, I thought? This was the discovery of something unusual. 

A cat on a leash seems insignificant, I know, but the uniqueness of it jolted me with wonder. No, seeing a leashed kitty didn't make me happy. It was that I'd never seen it before, this scene before me. That cat was perfectly content, a pretty animal. My mind was bathed in the clarity of the brand new, the wonder-full. Here something completely foreign introduced itself to me. I saw all of it, without presumption. The child-like quality of my encounter conceived enjoyment.

A single month-long trip contains dozens of moments like this if I include even smaller things like counting out foreign money - each time a little less challenging - discovering new-to-me products while doing everyday shopping in supermarkets (toothbrushes with replaceable heads), the differences in the working of paid parking devices (why can't they all be the same?), and the deliciousness of street-vendor crépes.

Another example of a joie de vivre moment which intruded upon me all of a sudden, ocurrred while I was pleasantly engaged in conversation around a table in a little pub in London. An ordered glass of refreshing lemonade arrived by a busy server's hand. I had automatic expectations of how it would look and taste. As I absent-mindedly chatted, I took a sip. Brain jolt!. What is this?  I froze as my focus naturally went into deduction mode. What is this delicious flavor I have never experienced until this very minute? It is lemon, yes, but so light. Such tiny bright bubbles. My mind immediately began to process my questions and answers to pin down my personal conclusions, what is different, what is the same, do I like it? 

I more than like it, I love it. This is not like American lemonade, but it is every bit as tasty and refreshing.

The world slows nearly to a stop during joie-de vivre moments. Collisions with merry unexpectedness change me. Forever. Life's innate drudgery ebbs away replaced by color, brightness, happy satisfaction. Yes, even little things like counting foreign money, never heard of products in the aisles of French big-box stores, and  paying for parking while others wait for me to figure out the curmudgeonly machine. 

Eyes to see and ears to hear. A tongue to taste and skin to feel. A nose to smell. Soak in those moments, my friends. They are the sugar and spice of life.

More joie de vivre moments to come, including my encounter with French parking machines.

Bonne Journée, mes amis!

* photo of lemonade was taken in Sarlat, France, but London lemonade is just as lovely

You, Me, and a French Bench

Daydreams kick start my day. 

Friday morning, here, and I have yet to enjoy breakfast.

Daydreams and wishes gently couple and sway in a mind remembering.

My face is peaceful, relaxed.

Fond memories erupt one upon another, scenes from last summer, of Monet's Giverny garden. 

Crunching gravel paths underfoot. Endless varieties of floral offerings both dainty and colossal. Shimmering pink blossomed lily ponds and trickling streams.

Colors subtle and bold. Aromas sweet and spicy. Air humid and zephyrean.

In the rambling, welcoming maison, freshly painted sunlit rooms of pale yellow, sky blue, lavender, and Monet green rise from patterned tile floors and Persian rugs. Sheen-polished wooden antiques prompt musings, and masterful canvassed artwork overtakes high walls in the artist's gallery. 

As if existing in a painting, my senses immersed in loveliness, immense gratification floods my spirit.

With today's memory-beckoned daydream in mind, I welcome March. And with it hope of my own garden already sprouting, soon to flourish with surprise and expectation, serendipity and excitement. 

In my daydream, you join me on Monet's French bench in Giverny. Here we rest our feet and legs after crunching, inspecting, and sniffing our horticultural wonderland. Deep contended sighs from fresh-air filled lungs breathe in and out. Speaking in whispered tones so as not to disturb the bees and birds, even serenity herself, we gleefully design our own seasonal gardens.

In our whimsy, let's imagine today is the third of June rather than March. The cobblestones are warm, so is the bench. Blue sky overhead, greenery all around, with every color of flower floating above and within Monet's impressionist sea. Bird song. Humming bees. Giggling children. We find ourselves refreshed, rejuvenated, rejoicing in the enchantment of a friendly day in a lush and lovely place. 

Here we are, together, in le jardin de Monet. . .

. . . where dreams come true, their memory sweetly relived in daydreams.

'Thinking Hurts' - John Dos Passos

From a 54 year old interview with a 73 year old thinker, an excerpt.

"Interviewer: Incidentally, what is your opinion of the students of the New Left? 

'Dos Passos: Many of them seem to be going through something rather like a tantrum. An odd paranoia sweeping the country, I don't know exactly why . . . a mass hysteria . . . a combination of the St. Vitus's dance of medieval times and the Children's Crusade . . ." "

~~ John Dos Passos, "The Art of Fiction",  The Paris Review, Issue 46, Spring 1969

'St. Vitus's dance of medieval times' is a reference to the saint who was known to have relieved people suffering from neurological disorders including loss of emotional stability and voluntary motor control. Outbreaks of dancing and mania and other delirious behavior struck Europe during the Middle Ages. The symptoms of those afflicted with such disorders during medieval times mimicked the movements of a bizarre dance, thus the linkage to Vitus and his dance.

The Children's Crusade consisted of sincere children taking vows with the intention of marching to Jerusalem during the summer of 1212 to convert the Muslims who held the city at that time. Their efforts failed, they never reached the Holy Land, many of them were sold as slaves, some returned home, some died along the way. Passionate and full of sincerity, they followed foolish leaders to a disastrous end. Bitter failure.

If you live long enough you learn that history does indeed repeat itself. There are human behaviors which are predictable in particular circumstances. Political forces incite gullible young people - and older people who should know better - into the mass hysteria and paranoia Dos Passos references. Irrationality takes hold because emotions rule the day rather than critical thinking. 

Dos Passos' observations could have been penned today. 

"Tantrum." 

"Odd paranoia sweeping the country." 

"Mass hysteria."

Ring a bell?

Read the news. The author's description fits a certain slice of American life today.

And we adults in the room, like Dos Passos 54 years ago, scratch our heads in bewilderment at the uncalled for hysteria and paranoia sweeping our country, the unrestrained emotionalism. "People must be prodded into thinking. They resist. Thinking hurts." (John Dos Passos)

We are witnessing a certain madness that our logical healthy minds cannot categorize because it is, well, madness. Attempting to rationalize what we witness against what we know to be true is futile. 

We must trust our senses here, our minds, knowledge, and lived experience.

Beyond this, what are we to do?

Observe. Educate ourselves. Fortify our families. Protect our children. Preserve and model our spiritual beliefs and standards. Communicate with each other. Vote for sanity.

Pray. First and last, pray.

"Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand." ~~ Ephesians 6:13

Uncle Vincent - Almond Blossoms

Vincent Van Gogh's 'Almond Blossom' oil on canvas, 1890

In the South of France almond trees bloom as early as February and, like many early bloomers, were a signal that spring was on the way. For Van Gogh, almond blossoms represented awakening and hope. 

This painting celebrates the birth of Vincent's nephew and namesake Vincent Willem Van Gogh, the son of Theo, his brother, and Theo's wife Jo.

Vincent wrote to his mother of the birth of little Vincent saying: How glad I was when the news came . . . I should have greatly preferred him to call the boy after Father, of whom I have been thinking so much these days, instead of after me; but seeing it has now been done, I started right away to make a picture for him, to hang in their bedroom, big branches of white almond blossom against a blue sky.

A tender soul, our Vincent Van Gogh. Uncle Vincent to his namesake. 

Beautiful.

 

Happy Valentine's Day

A simple man, is my husband. 

Simply kind.

Simply gentle.

Simply in love with me.

For over 43 years.

A steady, unwavering, strong love.

Appreciation for this love of ours grows as we get older. Time has a way of clarifying things.

When younger couples shower each other with dozens of roses and boxes of chocolate and glittery jewelry - all things we used to give - we give each other ourselves, our knowing of each other, the fluff removed and the treasure exposed.

We give each other our hearts, full of seasoned love, full-bodied and a little fruity like a good red wine.

He gave me a vase full of pretty pastel pink carnations because they are my favorite merry and light balance to the heaviness of winter.

He gave me four See's chocolates - my favorite flavors because he knows them - instead of an entire box because that would be too much, less special, less knowing.

He gave me a card in a red envelope that I will open when he comes home.

He gave me his heart that has God in the center, and me around the edges where I want to be, floating in there with our children and grandchildren in joy and love.

These gestures of his, these knowing gifts of kind thoughtfulness, these mean the world to me.

The world.

La Chandeleur - Of Candlelight, Coins, and Crêpes

February 2nd is celebrated as La Chandeleur in France, Belgium, and French-speaking Switzerland. Also known as Candlemas, this Catholic holiday marks forty days past Christmas in its commemoration of the presentation of Jesus at the Temple, based on Luke 2:22-40. In the Torah it is written that a mother cannot visit the Temple until forty days past the birth of a son and sixty past the birth of a daughter. Hence, the timing of la Chandeleur.

Not to be confused with Shrove Tuesday aka Pancake Tuesday on February 21st, la Chandeleur is also known as Crêpe Day. Besides marking Christ's presentation at the Temple, this celebration also marks the hope of Spring. Crêpes, with their round shape and golden color, remind people of the sun's return after the darkness of winter, or crêpes can remind of gold coins and prosperity. (Superstition promises that if you hold a gold coin - a gold louis - in one hand while flipping a crêpe in the pan with the other, you will have good luck and prosperity all year.) 

A summer visit to Sarlat, France last year afforded me the opportunity to indulge in freshly made street vendor crêpes neatly folded into quarters, sprinkled with sugar, and served on tiny paper plates [see photo below]. My husband and I meandered to a sturdy ancient bench in a lovely gravel-pathed park colored with late-summer flowers and shrubs which surrounded war memorials etched with the names of those who died for freedom's sake. A pensive - and delicious - moment, for sure. 

Some traditional Chandeleur rhymes include:

     À la Chandeleur, l'hiver se meurt, ou prend vigueur.

     At Candlemas, winter dies or gains strength.

     À la Chandeleur, le jour croît d'une heure.

     At Candlemas, the day increases by an hour.

     Rosée à chandeleur, l'hiver à sa dernière heure.

     Dew on the Candlemas, winter in its last hour.

     Si le ciel n'est ni clair ni beau, nous aurons plus de vin que d'eau.

     If the sky is neither clear nor beautiful, we will have more wine than water.

     Chandeleur à ta porte, c'est la fin des feuilles mortes.

     Candlemas at your door, is the end of dead leaves.

My husband and I will celebrate la Chandeleur today because it snuck past us on the 2nd. Candles will be lit for illumination during our evening. Luke 2 will be read. Crêpes will be enjoyed in the glow of waxy candles as we contemplate our love and gratitude for Jesus our Saviour and for Joseph, Mary, Simeon, and Anna, all servants of the Most High God.

Spring approaches! Soon we shall welcome longer, warmer days and new growth bursting from soil. May you have spiritual prosperity all the days of your life, health and happiness, too.

Joyeuse Chandeleur! 

Though the World Burns, Yet Will I Trust in You

A measured response as opposed to a knee-jerk reaction, yes, let us be those people. Let us rise to the occasion and be salt and light, faithful preservatives of the Truth, and beacons evidencing the Goodness of God through our quiet and honest lives. Yes. Let's do.

"Romance is Everything"

Gertrude Stein wrote: "Romance is everything."

Her sentiment strikes a chord in me today.

I looked up the word romance: "A quality or feeling of mystery, excitement, and remoteness from everyday life."

Yes.

This definition describes my heart and soul, mind and emotions as winter unfolds and settles in over me, with spring in hot pursuit. Foggy short days, cold shivering my bones, gray skies occasioned with sunshine, all intruded upon by earthy offerings promising it will not be this way forever.

There is comfort in hibernation. Seasonal restrictions serve as hugs, permission to rest, to contemplate, even to play a little at things busier seasons keep at bay.

Alas, in time, I will gladly give over that comfort to warmth, color, delicious scents, longer days, and to incubating gardens bursting with joie de vivre.

Enjoy the romance of the early months with me. The gifts they give sustain us throughout the remaining days, weeks, and months of this happy new year.

Autumn's Irresistible Anodyne

 

"All at once summer collapsed into fall." Oscar Wilde

Autumn, the dying of leaves, the colors, the crunching, the change, the floating and drifting, the drama, the inwardness.

While many find fall invigorating and lively and beautiful, I find autumn sad. Yes, it is all those marvelous other things, but the soup that contains the loveliness is melancholy, for me. Sadness. 

(Hold on. Be brave. There is a happy ending.)

Summer delights me. Swimming, sunning, gardening, playing, long days, room to freely move, arms outspread, face to the sun, its warmth on the skin. Expansiveness, energy, exotic vacations. Adventure!

Then, fall creeps in - almost undetectably - snatching away summer's serendipity. Realizing that long months of cold and darkness must be endured before the landscape is reborn on spring's wings, my mind weeps.

For my loved ones' sake, I force myself to buck up, pursuing gratitude. My wardrobe is scanned for earth tones and oranges, reds, golds. Some items present themselves. Harvest decor is pulled from my seasonal decorations box. I buy a few pumpkins, set them here and there in an artful way. My spirits lift. Creativity breeds jollity. Maybe fall is not so bad after all.

Leaves dance from above, gracefully floating from their deathbeds to the ground, piling into crunchy heaps which must be raked and composted. Work. Sometimes very soggy work. Still, it is hard to resent this ballet of leaves, each one a prima donna.

The color orange is spunky. I like it. Crimson, elegance. Yellow and gold hobnobbing with green, playfulness. Once a year an orchestral masterpiece on display, colors, movement, surprise. Undeniably breathtaking, no matter how gloomy my outlook, ever-changing scenery brilliantly beckons.

Unshelled nuts tightly packed in bulging plastic bags at the local farm entice my attention as do knobby gourds in whimsical shapes. Then, there are the apples! An abundant variety of crisp freshness. My hand reaches to pick one smooth fruit after another. Into the white plastic bucket they go. The quaint outdoor store, lined with produce, sparkling bottles of syrups, jams, jellies, savories, offers explosive sensory delights of sights, scents, tastes. I can't help but purchase more than I should, grinning in exuberance all the way back to my car.

As I navigate the farm yard's unrestrained mounds of pumpkins, I chuckle at children rhapsodizing over their pumpkin selections.

"Look at mine! It is bigger than my head!" 

Memories of my own pumpkin hunts as a child come to mind at the funny blurts and excited movement of kids as they weave their way amidst the goofy orbs, until their Eureka! moment when the perfect one is befriended. Laser focused and determined, filled with childhood wonder and utter joy.

In spite of myself, amusement at the children, the farm, the beauty of fall nudges melancholy to periphery. No time for brooding while this blazing drama plays out, this quickly fading marker of year's end. The sun is still warm on my shoulders and face, summer's staleness is blown away, replaced by crisp fresh air. The soil absorbs long-needed rain. Late harvest yields a few tasty surprises from my gardens. Pleasant. These are good things. These are not nothing. This season is something.

Autumn coaxes me. "Participate. Participate. Participate in the glory of the shedding of the old and the promise of the new."

I will. 

I do.

And in my participation, melancholy offers its balance to the poetry of fall.

"Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonize. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." George Eliot (Letter to Miss Lewis, October 1, 1841)

Before We Know There is a Question, God Knows the Answer

As the sun set golden in a clear blue sky, God distinctly answered a question my mind had not asked, let alone knew how to form.

In its special way, my heart understood the answer a moment before it put together that which the question addressed.

Mind followed heart in quick step, illuminated, for both struggled with something - something - which they could not reconcile, a longing, a discontent, something to which a finger could not point, deeper than the cares of this world, broader than experience, seemingly unknowable and yet, persistently beckoning. For months. 

Suddenly, in the words of C.S. Lewis, there it was: understanding, pieces put together, an answer, a reason.

I have been to this place before, and here I was knowing it again for the first time. From a struggle fiercer, a burden heavier, the answer came clearer for the vibrancy of the ache and the years of my life. Clarity. Recognition of a truth fully understood.

Weeping overtook me, both from awe and relief, as the last rays of the sun washed over teardrops, warming my face with their cleansing, end-of-day brilliance.

"Thank you, Lord. So much. Just thank you. Now I understand the yearning and the discontent. Now I understand the why. The answer, Lord. The answer. The answer . . . is beautiful."

I am made for a different world.

Crise existentielle

Okay, the title of this post is a little dramatic. I'm not really having an existential crisis.

My mind played tricks on me today. I stupidly allowed the 'overwhelm' games to be played until I'd worked myself into quite a pitiful state.

Not to be conquered by the imaginary, I let the rational part of my brain take the lead. Finally.

A nice shower. Cute gray and white striped shorts and chic, soft black tank top. Made the bed. Drank some water. Listed ten gratitudes right off the top of my head. 

Out to the garden - my friendly terrazza - to water my fruit  and evergreen trees, dainty new flowers, spring herbs pushing up and blooming, hearty strawberries, and steady onions. Tiny weeds pulled up. Concrete and cobblestones sprayed off.  

I coil the hose, set the pretty black wrought iron chair in the sunshine, gently ease into it and turn my face to the sunshine, glorious sunshine.

My reward for all this effort? The scent of freshly watered, sun-warmed foliage and cobblestones enters my sunny family room. The French doors are wide open as is the window. Lavender! Sage! Thyme! All of these perfume the air. Yes, aromatics coupled with deep satisfaction for overcoming, once again.

Crisis averted.

The mind is the thing.

The Problem is Sin

Another school shooting. We've all heard the news. Children killed and teachers, too. Young children, all from one Texas classroom. Shocking. Horrific. Brutal. Savage. Not human . . . 

. . . wait a minute. Not human?

No, no it really is quite human. Why? Because of a problem inherent to every single human who has or does or ever will exist: sin.

Sure, it sounds like a relic, sin, a religious term that isn't relevant anymore. However, nothing could be less of a relic, less irrelevant than the notion of sin.

Romans 12 describes sin entering the world and death as the result, an eternal separation from God and all that is Holy and Good. The chapter goes on to describe the provision of reconciliation through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. This is good news!

The bad news is that as long as this old world keep turning, as it has since God set it all in motion, as long as sin exists here, there will be one single problem which mankind cannot eradicate, hard as it may try through politics, philosophy, psychiatry, eastern religion, and humanism. Within the heart of every human is darkness, a foulness which rots the soul. Its name is sin. Enmity against God, who is the source of goodness and love.

But there is that good news, remember? There is hope for each and every one whom God calls to Himself. God will work in our hearts to soften them - the Bible refers to this as changing a heart of stone to a heart of flesh, metaphorically, of course. Ezekiel 36:26 says, "Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh."

Isn't that marvelous and beautiful! Generous is the love that moves the  Heavenly Father to offer a sort of heart transplant to His children. He has an answer to the problem. The answer is Jesus. You have probably heard this verse, well-known to Sunday school children: "For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life." (Yes, I memorized it in King James, back in the 1960's.  It's been with me a long, long time.)

Now, back to the school shooting.

A recoiling reaction reverberates throughout the world, as well it should. Things like this ought not to happen. Ever.

But they do. Why? The problem.

During His Beatitudes talk with the crowds in Matthew 5, Jesus said, "'You have heard that the ancients were told, 'YOU SHALL NOT MURDER,' and 'Whoever commits murder shall be answerable to the court.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be answerable to the court.'" The passage goes from there to describe other sins and Jesus' idea of justice concerning them. Suffice to say, He makes it quite clear that obvious wrong-doings are only the tip of the iceberg. It's the garbage in our hearts that needs attention, for that garbage - sin - is the root cause of evil in all its degrees. Heart garbage must be evaluated. It must be addressed if a person has any chance of coming to grips with the dichotomy of his or her human heart. 

School shootings and other loathsome behavior and events are stark reminders to anyone with eyes to see that something is terribly wrong. In heinous events, evil is not hidden, it presents itself unfiltered. We are horrified, as we should be. But constant sin in our hearts ought to horrify us as well. It is just as bad. 

I know. I know, it doesn't seem as bad. What's a little anger, a lustful glance, a white lie. I'll tell you what it is. Within every evil thought, every evil impulse, every evil deed, hidden or not, there exists complete sinfulness. One virus from a Chinese laboratory in Wuhan, China, replicated and infected the entire world, or most of it, probably all of it by the time it finishes running its course. One little virus had the power to grow and mutate and survive and harm and kill millions of human beings for two and a half years and counting. It began in a small vial. It exploded over the entire Earth.

Sin behaves in the same way. One evil thought uncaptured, can harm many, infect many, mutate and grow. Take envy. One thought of envy. "I envy the car she drives." Capture it and that is that, it is killed. "I shouldn't envy her for her car. I have a perfectly good car. I am not her. She is not me. I can work to acquire a car like hers if I really want. She is a nice lady, and I don't want to feel anything negative about her." Captured. 

Uncaptured? "I envy the car she drives. Man, is she haughty, full of pride. Got to have a fancy car! Drives it around like she's a celebrity or something. She can't possibly be a good woman. A person who is so attached to material things like that shouldn't be a Sunday school teacher. She is an awful person." Pass around that she is an awful person who shouldn't be a Sunday School teacher and her reputation is maligned. She may never get it back. The cat's out of the bag and running around the city spreading disease. Uncaptured envy results in the disease of sin left to itself to replicate and infect.

How did the school shooter come to carry out his odious act? Evil took root in his heart, infected him. He didn't notice, therefore he didn't evaluate. It grew. It altered his thinking. He lost touch with whatever morals or goodness he may have possessed. Evil conquered him, compelled him to act. Multiple murders occurred. Of tiny children and caring teachers. 

As heartbreaking - unimaginable! - as it is to think of little children dying in pools of their precious, young blood, how heartbreaking is it to realize that all over the world sin infects human hearts and carries out evil every single day. Every. Single. Day.

Sex slavery. Kidnapping. Fentanyl trafficking. Cartel murders. Pedophylia. Political corruption. 

Now take it down a notch, seemingly: lust, greed, anger, hatred, perversion. Those don't seem as bad, right? But they are each the one virus that infects the world, you see? Left unchecked, they become the sins that shock us. Those sins begin with thoughts, small thoughts, small potent nefarious thoughts, left unnoticed and unchecked until they grow, quietly at first, then tantalizingly until they take over the heart and mind of a human being.

From looking evil right in its repulsive face, we can learn to evaluate our own hearts, to check them, to create antibodies against evil, if you will. No, we can't kill it entirely. Sin is here to stay, until the next age in Heaven. But we certainly can stop much of what we currently allow to live and grow and change us for the worst.

As Jakob Dylan's song lyrics say, evil is alive and well. But Jesus is alive and well and everlasting. And He is Good. He has conquered eternal death, given us new life after our mortal bodies cease. It's up to us to live those lives with conviction, determination, and to persevere in our battle against the sin that so easily besets us. (Hebrews 12:1)

If we will allow evil events to push us into self-evaluation, into calling evil in our hearts by its name - sin - into curbing some of the darkness in the world by crushing it within ourselves, well, then something good can be born from the foulness. 

Those little children and their teachers deserve at least that from us, don't you think?

Educated or Anesthetized?

"The difference between the educated and the propagandized mind: The one is prompted to think, the other is anesthetized to thought. The one is given the greatest questions, the other is supplied with canned answers. The one seeks a measured and rational view of oneself and others, the other can be lulled into satisfaction with caricatures."

Tracy Lee Simmons, The Harmony of Contemplation, 2015 CiRCE National Conference

The Thinker, by Auguste Rodin

The Importance of Music

Without the sun, the colors of fall are muted, a bit dull. Music does for the soul what brilliant sunshine does to a stand of autumnally hued trees: it blazes them, brings them to life, gasps the human heart. 

A spiritual force inhabits music.

Music connects the world together, past, present and future. At present, past music reaches forward to us, instructs of its time, while current music sends its messages forward to the future. Along the timeline of life dances music, uninhibited, its stories shared.

From music flows the yearning and hope for everything we care about and long for in this world.

Music's language, like gently curling ribbons, flows in and out of our lives, from the tiny nursery where a mother nurses her cooing infant, to the world stage where the virtuoso massages the hearts of the audience.

Music's inspiration alters the quality of our undertakings, deepens them, enlivens them, betters them.

Music's balance, precision, and understanding mimic the best of humanity, expose the creativity of God. 

Music lifts our hands to the face of the Almighty and rests them there, in promise.

Staring Down the Fear

Ever since the virus contaminated our planet, threatening every single human being alive, I have found myself in a news loop. It started with a fixation to track the virus. That fixation has since enlarged to envelope the despairing miasma that is the Biden agenda. 

I can't stop looking. I can't stop reading. I can't stop . . . staring at it.

I am clenched as I stare. I am frozen as I imbibe.

This morning I analyzed my strange-to-me behavior of over a year and a half.

I am afraid. I am full of fear. I am afraid for my life, for the life of my friends and family, and for my country. For the world.

Staring at the events that seem to suffocate us all, I realize that I stare as I would stare at a large, threatening animal. Don't blink. Don't move. Watch it. Watch for any signs of movement, of change, of a forward motion toward me - terror! - or of signs of a hoped-for retreat - relief! Staring and concentrating with every fiber of my being, mentally and emotionally trembling, I exhaust myself on a daily basis.

All of this staring has achieved nothing. At all. Except for eye-strain induced headaches and occasional insomnia. Anxiety, too. I am well-informed, this is true, but most of the news subsides so quickly it hardly even matters. Every day there is something new and alarming, more Alice in Wonderland weirdness. To keep up is to crack up.

I am still afraid, but less so today. Why? Because I realize that my fear can be assuaged, even largely eradicated, if I break the stare-lock the news has on me and replace it with time spent advancing my own life. How, you ask?

Control the media input, reduce it, massively. It is manipulation, anyway, of the worst sort. It's good to keep a finger on the pulse of current events but not to be strangled by them. I am a witness to history, after all, one of many who will record and testify truthfully to what is now happening. This is important. However, I serve better when I am healthy and balanced.

Set realistic daily priorities which actually achieve productivity and happiness. The furor of national terror will reduce to a slow, controllable simmer. Shocking things will still happen, but they won't obliterate my time and peace of mind if they are not the sole and fearful focus of my life.

Regain a balanced perspective by concentrating on nourishing the spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical dimensions of my being which have been too-much waylaid during this time of the virus and Biden. I've found it's quite helpful to do a weekly self-check: have I made time for socializing, for quietude, for exercise, for fun, for family, for God?

The heart can get carried away. The mind makes the choices. Choose a long view, including trust in God. Choose to be rational, logical, faithful. Choose health and intelligence. Keep an eye on the news and help where you can, just don't overdo it to the point of self-harm. That helps no one.

Small tweaks, large benefits.

I feel better already.