What's your best?

Geez Louise, this process of wounding, healing, living fully, loving well…is all so exhausting. Should it be? What is the cost of living well? Or thinking you live well? From where does the pressure come? If I was brilliant yesterday, does that mean I must be brilliant again today or I am a failure? Don Miguel Ruiz says, “Always do your best.” Some days that means you pull the covers up and stay in bed.

As I was writing this little rant, I looked out of the window and saw a beautiful little sparrow in the fresh spring blossoms of my ornamental plum tree. It reminded me of a Bible verse which quickly slipped my mind, but I landed on “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” It is apt, but not the one for which I was looking. Wait, here we go: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

How do we stay in relationship (or do anything) if we are constantly worrying about wounding and being wounded. What does it mean to find our own rhythm in the context of relationship? It is such a paradox. A paradoxical dance. I want to see well. I want to be in relationship. I want to find my own pace and rhythm.

Since I returned from Paris, I have been dreaming in French. One of the phrases, that sticks out in my mind is "Je ne parle pas Francais." I don’t speak French. Translated for me from dream world, it means I don’t speak the language. Is that what living life means? Constantly trying to learn the language of ourselves and of those around us? Who does the wounding? Who is responsible for the healing? Can love overcome all? Is it as simple as “turning it over to Christ?” So simple. So hard. So challenging.

Today I will choose to do my best. Who knows what that will look like? Maybe it is some ramblings on a page. Maybe it will be some completed tasks. Maybe it will include pulling the covers back over my head. Life is exhausting…AND it is an amazing and wonderful adventure…Maybe it’s worth peaking through the covers to see what’s out there. Maybe it's worth doing my best...whatever that may look like.

Thoughts? Stirrings? Rants, perhaps?

photo: 'waiting for the bus' by lucy

Paschal Mystery

"Christians speak of the "paschal mystery," the process of loss and renewal that was lived and personified in the death and raising up of Jesus." --Richard Rohr

Welcome back. So, I am a little freaked out right now, because I read the above words from a morning reading AFTER I spent my quiet time alone this morning and wrote the following (unedited):

Trust. Trust you will be held with your strong hands and mine too. Trust the process. Unfinished. We wound and we are wounded. We are never healed, but always healing if we allow ourselves to heal--to trust we will go up and down and all around. Wounding. Wounded. We wound because we are human. We heal because we are made in God's image. Healed from the tomb. Nailed to the cross and risen again.

I have been nailed to the cross time and time again. Wounded and wounding. Healing. An unfinished woman. We are moving forward. Gratitude. The healing that continues to take place in me. The woundedness and the healing. Momentarily healed, but then a new wound appears or maybe a very old one we were unaware of. We have the opportunity to receive grace and heal again. Some wounds heal quickly and some are deep and leave scars that are like gouges to our soul, but our soul survives. No matter what, the light cannot be extinguished.

Wounded and healing. Loss and renewal. Is this the "paschal mystery" of which I write? What does healing and wounding look like for you? I'd love to know your thoughts. It is a mystery to me...a paschal mystery, perhaps ☺. (By the way--I do not recall ever hearing the term paschal mystery before this morning. hmmmmm....)

Blue Dancers

Life comes rushing in so fast. I wake up dreaming of the Musee d’Orsay, Tess, the grandmother & her boys (who I have not had a chance to write about), Blue Dancers. I want to return to Paris. There is so much left undone. No regrets except maybe that I did not ride the carrousel ☺. Still, I know I will return.

I have been dreaming in French. Soon the trip will start to fade. Not so quickly for me, but it will certainly fade for others. Their lives are not changed by me. I think of Ally and the lives she touched. The life she lived. Yesterday was a day filled with memories of her just as today will be and probably—hopefully—tomorrow.

I miss Paris. I did not have to worry about so much there. I could wake up and let the wind blow me where it would. Now I am here. My dear husband sleeps next to me. The dog wants attention. My daughter is being a little snarly. (Is something wrong or is it just “normal” teenage angst?) My son is in treatment again. Lord, please help him. Help all of us.

I don’t want my journal to move away from Paris. I don’t want to leave there. I don’t want to jump into the seemingly million obligations that await me here. I just want to write about the Musee d’Orsay and Blue Dancers.

Alas, life slips in. How can I live today as though on the wings of Paris? How will I choose to live these moments fully? How will you?

Image Edgar Degas', "Blue Dancers"

Au Revoir, Paris--musing #9

“Breathe deeply,” said Aurore (my Paris hostess) as we parted ways. My first walk out of the neighborhood found my local patisserie, Jean Millet, closed. “Quelle horreur!” I thought it must be closed on Friday and found that I could not bring myself to enter another café. And so, I walked around and said good-bye to the Eiffel Tower from the first place I saw it at Pont de l’Alma. The morning was gray again like when I arrived only not quite as wet and rainy. I stood on the bridge and watched the people heading to work. I’d like to believe I did not stand out as l’Americain. This had come to feel like home.

I returned to my apartment for a quick stop and resigned myself to going to Starbucks down the street. At least I could do a little comparison shopping at a semi-familiar place. I was not willing to risk having a mediocre cup of coffee at a new café--rather to have something vaguely familiar. And then I saw it—the night time bars removed from my favorite haunt and “Voila!” they were open for business ☺.

I finally felt confident enough to use a little more French with the Madame.
“Comment allez vous?”
“Bien et tu?”
“Tres bien,” I said, but in truth I was a little sad. Still I ordered my breakfast. “Je voudrais un grand café au lait et un croissant, s’il vous plait.” (This was a far cry from the stumbling, “Uhhhh????” of a week ago ☺.)
For one last time, my coffee came in its beautiful China cup. The espresso served first followed by the little pitcher of warm milk. The croissant tasted especially buttery and fresh this morning. Pure heaven!

As I prepared to leave the café, I told the shopkeeper that I loved her shop and thanked her for her recommendations as well as telling her it was my last morning. She said, “Wait! I have something for you. You will like it—a souvenir to take back with you.” She left and came back with a straw “Jean Millet” tote bag and a nice little French pastry cookbook. Tres bien!

As I left the shop, there was one more surprise for me—Madame Martine and Ginger were coming up the street. I said, “Au revoir and it was a pleasure meeting you.” Martine told me not to be so sad for leaving Paris. It would always be there.

“It is in my heart”, I told her.
She said, “See you again. You will be back. Same place” and she pointed to Millet.

Nothing will ever compare to this first amazing trip. It was exactly what I needed to do for me. As I walked through rue Cler slowly breathing in the morning, I knew that I was a different person than the one who arrived eight days ago. I was more of me. It was like I found a piece of myself that had been tucked away for awhile.

I strolled once more through the market. The locals had their shopping carts and the dogs were out en masse (in a very lovely sort of way.) It was a little drizzly and threatened to rain, but that never happened. I visited the streets that were foreign to me a week ago that now felt like home. I snapped a few more shots—stalked a few more dogs—enjoyed the lovely aging people. As Tess said, “The older women are not ‘invisible’ here.” (I think I would love to grow old in France with my little shopping cart and sensible yet still stylish shoes ☺).

When I turned the corner to go back to my apartment for one last time, I saw the taxi. My taxi—15 minutes early. The cab driver was polite, but not talkative. The trip to the airport felt like the final scene of a movie complete with operatic soundtrack. We toured through the Right Bank (a place I spent very little time). I saw sights I had missed along the way—the couture houses, Hermes and others. Then up the Champs de Elysee and back to the Arc de Triomphe where it all started.

Au revoir, Paris. Je t’aime!

where have all the poodles gone? paris #8

Sitting here on my last morning in Paris I find myself wondering...where have all the poodles gone? Paris is full of dogs. Big dogs. Little dogs. White dogs. Black dogs...actually mainly white dogs. (Hmmmm...wonder what's up with that?) Les chiens are on the Metro, in the cafes and fine restaurants, strolling through the parks and along the Seine. In all of my wanderings and dog stalking, however, I only came across one poodle!! But oh what a poodle he is!!!

I would like for you to meet Ginger. Ginger belongs to Martine who in return speaks lovingly of her very own Mr. Darcy. Tess and I met Martine & Ginger at my favorite little neighborhood patisserie, Jean Millet. They occupy the far corner table and have done so for 15 1/2 years (which happens to correspond with Ginger's age.) Martine described Ginger as a "confused male poodle" since he has lived with a female name for his long life. He was thus named because of his beautiful color. Currently Ginger is deaf and basically blind, but continues to enjoy his morning stroll and cafe sitting with Madame Martine who is a definite treasure herself. Oh, Paree...you have to love it!!!

See more chiens (pups) at lucy creates!!!