Today Gabriel called me by a name and continued to say my new name over and over.
Each time he would say my name I would respond,
»I E loves Gabriel. »
Eventually I E will become Vavie.
Yann’s name so far is « BaBa »
which will become Grand PaPa.
Unless of course we just let it go and adopt these names.
I E
ok.
Marrakesh, Morocco...
An ancient harem,
light danced like many scarves across the threshold
I could hear the bells on their feet and smelled the perfume in their hair,
my imagination swirled me to another time.
The first time I went to Morocco was with my cousin Julie.
I wish I could be near her now but since I cannot travel
my spirit is with her
Brave on Julie!
Walking...
one step in front of the other
begging my thoughts to fall like seeds to the ground
how they hang on and turn over,
and intertwine with one another
until at last with yet another step,
the waterfall takes them.
My steps breath
The littlest flowers look up at me
"I see you"
and bend down with ease.
On auction today there was this...
a textile fragment which was a piece of Marie-Antoinette's clothing.
Seriously why does this sort of thing grab my attention?
The trip it takes me on...
First thought: OMG I want it.
Second thought: Yeah at 1200 Euros beginning bid
I do not think that is going to be a realistic option.
Third thought: Dang to think most likely someone is going to bid 5000 euros and take it home.
Fourth thought: 5000 euros can feed a lot of people or at least this should go to a museum.
and on and on my mind wanders from wanting, to reasoning, to listening, to wondering ...
to settle on being happy that I am able to see these things.
What object/thing do you take a fancy to regardless if it is reasonable?
Pam’s husband Rick has sent me daily messages regarding his lovely wife Pam.
I am happy to say there is good news!
Pam is recovering she is breathing and eating on her own!
The days ahead will be filled with hope and thanksgiving and
regaining her strength and mobility.
Whew!
Thank you for your everything.
Good news feels so divine.
Walking every day of the year allows me to see the transformation
brought on by each season,
also where flowers grow outside the boundaries of properties.
Clipper in the pocket off I go
hello, lilacs, rosemary, almond blossoms...
Do any of you know the name of the pink beaded flower branch? It is a tree blossom.
At the moment and maybe for a while longer
I will be posting quotes that speak to me and or a sweet photo as I take a step back to let myself
catch up with what has happened and what is happening.
Haven’t we all at one time or another needed time to just say okay here I am
and let it just sit in our lap while we hold on to it,
Thank you for your comments, your thoughts, your miracles shared
and sadness expressed.
My heart has thought of many of you especially Alan, Jill, Tom, Antonette, Pam, Ellen, Wanda, G, and so many more.
Yesterday, I received again devastating news about my cousin Julie, Sacha's Buddhamere.
If I wasn't so sad I would have had time to feel downright mad at the God I call Love.
I know Love has no bounds and that God can take my anger with a grain of salt.
Some hit pillows I have a good go at God, it helps to be able to dump it somewhere and not be judged but restored.
My cousin suffered several subarachnoid hemorrhages. The outlook wasn't promising she was incubated. The thought was
to prepare for the worse.
Then a miracle.
My cousin sat up! Was breathing on her own, recognized people, could speak, moved her limbs... ate a yogurt.
The doctor declared,
« It is a miracle! »
and that is not usually what doctors say unless they mean it.
Yesterday morning I was devastated, stunned but by late last night a complete change to Julie’s story.
I spoke with her I said,
»You are an f-ing miracle! » she laughed a weak laugh, "Yeah," she said. then I added, « You are like Jesus reincarnated! »
Life is one big adventure we’re wonders never cease.
Yesterday was my father’s birthday.
May this incredible joy continue bringing my cousin Julie healing,
wholeness, and strength!
And may it bring you to hope in what you are longing for.
The last conversation I had with her was a day or two ago and she said, she was looking for adventure...
Julie has a big adventure ahead of her, I pray it goes as well as this moment appears.
I pray it is one long beautiful rich miracle ride,
I pray that I might see her again so I can hit her, and then hug her for a long time.
Thank you again and again for the love you bring and the kindness you afford me.
It has been an emotionally overloaded year ...
so dear God, slow it down, let's have some boring
uneventful, twiddle my thumbs, and plenty of time to be with Gabriel.
Miracles Happen
and when they do
there is a joyous elation of life, love, and a boost to faith.
Whether the miracle is big or small
and for however long
My mother always said, "When someone dies everyone is very present to the loved ones for the first few weeks, which is good and needed. But do not forget in six months, or even a year after that those who have lost someone still need loving attention, maybe even more so as the weeks turn into months as life goes on for those who haven't suffered, but those who have suffered, suffer long after."
Sometimes it is difficult to know what to say, or how to say it, or if it should be said...
No words are needed to show love.
nor to be loving-kindness.
Wherever we are there is something to share.
To be present to silence.
A gentle smile.
Tears are okay.
Tears make room
Gentle bloom.
Petal by petal,
rain or shine.
Standing alone if need be.
Adding light to the darkness.
Side by side.
Gentleness.
Togetherness.
A place to exhale.
An open invitation to be there.
Thank you for all your loving attention and kindness.
Haven't we all had a complicated ongoing year plus, and for some it has been terribly hard.
Thank you for your love sent to Pam, she is in need of every ounce of healing.
With Cynthia's passing so many memories have been stirred up. I hope to share some as time goes on.
As Annie said, "It takes courage to grow old." I see more and more what she meant by that.
Pam a longtime reader of my blog who has become a friend of mine
is in the hospital with pneumonia and is intubated.
Her husband Rick has asked me to pray and I am asking you to join with me to
ask for healing grace and gentleness to surround her.
Paris 1989 (repost from 2006)
Once upon a time and one time only,
did French Husband help deliver a wedding cake for our dear American friend Cynthia, who had an American bakery in Paris.
Cynthia who introduced chocolate chip cookies, brownies, cheesecake, bear claws, and muffins to the Parisians back in 1988, decided to try her hand with wedding cakes, à la Américain style. French wedding cakes are little cream puffs stacked like a Christmas tree...
Not at all the same thing.
The first order came, the cake was baked, decorated, and ready to go.
Cynthia delivered her cookies, brownies, and other baked goods with a bicyclette that had an over-sized-basket-like-thing attached to the back.
I called it the "coffin-on-wheels"... imagine riding that thing in Paris.
There was no way that this wedding cake could ride in the back... alone... safely.
Cynthia called a taxi.
The taxi driver looked at the cake and shook his head, "Pas possible!"
The wedding bells were ringing, the three-tier wedding cake with its fresh cream frosting had to be delivered.
The cake was the size of America.
"How am I going to get this wedding cake to the reception?" fretted Cynthia who hopelessly looked at me
who had her own little America, an eight-month bun in the oven.
French Husband, who would do anything for 10 grams of chocolate, accepted the deal:
Two dozen brownies - if he would sit in the back of the coffin-on wheels,
while another guy peddled clear across Paris to deliver the wedding cake.
Imagine the bride and groom's surprise when they saw their wedding cake arrive,
barely in one piece, straddled between the legs of a Frenchman.
Oh la la.
--------------------------
In loving, sweet, funny memories of my dear friend Cynthia who died today.
Oh Cynthia! What memories you gave us when we first arrived in Paris. I smile through the tears just recalling them!
Godspeed dear sweet baker!
(Quote from Instagram. The antique santon belongs to Dorlis a wonderful artist and curator of beautiful things. The crown of thorns was made by my friend Philippe. The two of them had a stunning exposition for Holy Week.)
Mahdi is 1½ years old. He has only experienced war and flight. He sleeps deeply despite the hundreds of refugees climbing around him. They are protesting against not being able to travel further through Hungary. On the other side of the border, hundreds of police are standing. They have orders from the prime minister, Viktor Orban, to protect the border at all costs. The situation is becoming more desperate, and the day after the photo is taken, the police use tear gas and water cannons on the refugees.
Every night Fatima dreams that she’s falling from a ship. Together with her mother, Malaki, and her two siblings Fatima fled from the city of Idlib when the Syrian national army senselessly slaughtered civilians in the city. After two years in a refugee camp in Lebanon, the situation became unbearable and they made it to Libya, where they boarded an overcrowded boat. On the deck of the boat, a very pregnant woman gave birth to her baby after 12 hours in the scorching sun. The baby was a stillbirth and was thrown overboard. Fatima saw everything. When the refugee’s boat started to take on the water they were picked up by the Italian coast guard.
Photo and text Magnus Wennman
Swedish photographer and twice-winner of the World Press Photo awards Magnus Wennman has been photographing Syrian refugees in refugee camps across the Middle East and on journeys across Europe as they flee a conflict that shows no signs of stopping. His photo project Where the Children Sleep captures the suffering that hundreds of thousands of children caught in bloody war have been subjected to.
Fara, 2, loves soccer. Her dad tries to make balls for her by crumpling up anything he can find, but they don’t last long. Every night he says goodnight to Fara and her big sister Tisam, 9, in the hope that tomorrow will bring them a proper ball to play with. All other dreams seem to be beyond his reach,
but he is not giving up on this one...
There is a beginning to every end.
There is light in darkness.
There is forgiveness
and suffering.
Prayer doesn’t always bring you what you want
nor what you need.
it is okay to doubt, to be mad and
not want to hear someone tell you how to be better.
What are some of your reflections after this year living with Covid?
(photo and text via my friend Rachel Baker’s Instagram.)
I have various covid reflections rambling around in me but what strikes me most is the daily conversation about this subject the actual living through it each step and wondering will it ever end if we do not help the less fortunate receive a vaccine?
Gabriel's daycare was short-lived.
He started last week. Since September I had been going to and from Paris every week to watch him.
I was sad to give up my role but happy too to have my days back at home.
And happy that he could play with other children, which he hasn't been able to most of his little life.
Tonight France goes into deeper lockdown. All schools will close down for one month.
Daycare included (there are far more restrictions put into place but mainly we
have been semi-lockdown since October.
Martin, Chelsea, and Gabriel arrive tonight to stay with us.
As they both have been working from home
for over a year due to Covid.
The silver lining: I have my babysitting role back!
Spring with a toddler makes for happier days.
Brocante takes the back burner.
What is perfection?
What is loved-
What is created for someone-
and cherished-
even when it is worn true.
what is perfection?
a loaf of bread, a lily and contentment in the simple things that nourish us and bring beauty.
I am fortunate.
I have a good life.
I have a family who loves me, food to eat, a roof over my head. I am healthy and in no pain.
I have running water, more than enough to water the flowers in my garden and easily it turns hot.
I am safe, bombs are not falling from the sky.
Decisions are easy, what should I make for dinner? They are easy to ask too: "Would you like sugar in your coffee?"
I have time to blog. I have a computer and two hands.
When I had ovarian cancer, I was still fortunate I lived.
There was medicine readily available.
I had a soft bed, a toilet to throw up in and someone to hold my hand.
I had more prayers offered for me than all the prayers ever said at Notre Dame.
Chelsea who was three at the time told me, "...there are angels dancing above your head"
I had faith to believe her.
The hardest question to answer:
Why me?
Why am I generously fortunate while most of the world suffers beyond belief?
The biggest challenge is to live the gift of life, every day as lovingly as possible.
Is that too hard to do?
To pick up my harp, and play knowing others cannot?
What will I do today to share my fortune?
I remember the day like it was yesterday, though it was over twenty years ago.
I went up the hill to visit my friend Annie.
She invited me, saying to come mid-morning to help her pick the roses.
Annie was an American by birth.
Soon after she was born her parents returned to their homeland in Greece.
A few years later, Turkey invaded the part of Greece where they lived.
Her parents and three sisters barely escaped death.
Annie tells the story, of their leaving everything behind, except her mother's sewing machine and the family's icon.
They sailed across the sea to another part of Greece.
Years later they moved to France, Annie was a young girl.
The first time I heard "her story" was on the day I went up the hill, to help her pick the roses, to make rose jam.
As she recounted the details of her amazing voyage to France, I cut the old roses from the rosebush that her mother had planted years ago.
In telling her story her eyes often got that glazed look of a person who reliving the moment in their mind's eye.
Her story melted over me like honey, and I am sure the swarm of bees flying around grew confused.
That day roses seemed to bloom with each word out of Annie's mouth.
Annie's story took me far away from what I was doing. Absent-mindedly, I started to clip the tiny rosebuds that had barely opened,
(instead of the mature roses which were the ones needed for the jam,) and slipped them under my blouse and into my bra.
The coolness of the rosebuds tingled against my skin.
Clipping a few more, Annie stopped in mid-sentence, pointed her clipper at my blouse, then asked me what I was doing with the rosebuds.
Her sweet smile told me she was curious.
I told her how I had loved a young man years ago before I met my French Husband.
I told her of my love for John and how he had died. But before her feelings could carry her towards the sadness I had shared,
I clipped a rosebud and said, "Often John would bring me rosebuds, and slip them into my bra. He said that way I would feel his love for me throughout the day. That the scent of the tiny rosebuds would bloom from the warmth of my skin, that I would breathe in their perfumed notes,
and at the end of the day, when I took off my clothes, the tiny rosebuds would fall at my feet."
I held the tiny rosebud, Annie saw my eyes glaze over.
Spontaneously, Annie pulled the neckline of her blouse down, leaned over, and asked me to put some rosebuds in her bra too.
At that moment time stood still.
An intimacy that was far deeper than the rose's roots that laid beneath us.
We looked at each other: She with her bosom ripe with age, and me with a rosebud in hand.
I planted the seed of our friendship within her bra, close to her heart.
We giggled like young girls do when feeling something sensual transpire between them.
We stood in her garden and blushed rose.
When you cannot be together
because your countries are in lockdown to each other
and your hearts are longing.
Love finds a way.
Paradise found.
The Little Squirt pointed to the canister on his parent's dresser that held phone-chargers, plugs, a hair clip or two, some receipts, and a few lollipops.
"Gabriel, I don't think the lollipop is the answer."
You see the handlebar to his pushbike was up too high and I could not lower it no matter how hard I tried. When I told him I couldn't budge it he pointed to the canister on his parent's dresser then in his nonverbal but highly effective way I knew he was telling me the lollipop was the answer to our woe.
Now I know Chelsea and Martin do not give sugary things to Gabriel as most things in their kitchen are non sweeten. I texted Chelsea, "Gabriel is telling me that the lollipops in the canister are meant as a tool for his pushbike? Please advise? Or am I missing something?"
Chelsea responded, "Hi Mom, yeah we used the lollipop stick to push the button on the bottom as it jams."
Gabriel looked at me as I put my phone down, "Aren't you a clever, observant little Squirt! You are right the lollipop is a tool."
I gave him the lollipop and he proceeded to show me where the minuscule button was that I needed to push.
Children believe what they see ... a lollipop is a tool.
Paris and several other regions went into a stricter lockdown
than what all of France has been experiencing since October.
Parts of Palais Royal where Gabriel and I go to hang out were completely closed off.
Nevertheless, we had a good time.
Now that the weather is nice the parks are packed.
Everyone wears a mask.
All restaurants, bars, and cafes have been closed since October
and will be into April and maybe longer.
I just heard bars will open in July.
I might start drinking by then.
It will be a welcome relief to go into a bar have a juice and then use the toilet.
When everything is closed going out can be a stretch without a place to sit, have a breather and use the loo.
Rue de Rivoli is blocked off to most vehicles...
only bicyclists and pedestrians can use it freely.
And babies in strollers.
So weird and wonderful seeing Paris this empty
during the middle of the day.
The Louvre is desserted.
Though Paris is hauntingly beautiful
my friend Pam sent this to me. It says a lot about living with grief and not holding back about living and loving.
Live love abundantly.
That is the question.
What am I waiting for and why am I waiting?
Does time take the lead?
Or is procrastination the culprit?
What am I longing for?
SPRING.
Renewal.
Covid to end.
...and you?
It is that lace thing again, every now and then I must show it.
The funny thing about this lace attraction of mine is I do not use it. I do not sew it on my sheets, towels,
or pillowcases.
I don't create with lace or attach it to my clothing.
Nor do I doll-up a doll with lace.
Nope, none of it. So why am I attracted to it?
It never fails, I spot it at each and every flea market.
I tell myself, "Walk on by... keep going... don't stop..."
But it is pointless, the directives I give to myself are not followed.
How many times do I find myself stooped over a box, digging through lace, ribbons, and linens?
It is a weird obsession.
Obsession yes but not to this point.
This Chick-a-Dee likes her lace.
(My nephew Warren 14 years ago)
Years ago I was happy with my lace obsession when I found this full lace, 1880 baptismal gown, and cape for my baby nephew's baptism.
Happy because he looked like a doll baby in it, and because I had seen enough lace to pick out the old stuff versus
the newer stuff. If ever you need antiquing baby clothing let me know.
Lace has such a feminine, bohemian, sweet summer feel to it.
Lace invites the desire to touch, to feel. I guess that is why it adorns undergarments it is sensual.
Sweet sexy?
How silly of me not to have some antique lacy undergarments to show you or do I?
I don't. They never are my size and I cannot stand still long enough to try them on at a brocante.
Antique lacy nightgowns, but not very sexy but perfect for summer evening bed wear and pulling weeds in the garden.
I work outside in these night/underdresses.
I knew I could find a photo of lacy undergarments.
Sorry, they are not antique.
Can you imagine paying 37 euros for a string of course that doesn't sound crazy expensive unless
you are crazy about spending your money on other things like antiques instead? French Husband I bet would rather I spent 37 euros on a string
instead of old lace that sits in a box under my bed.
Boy, how did I go from talking about my obsession with lace to talking about what my French Husband thinks?
My mind is like that... it wanders. Okay, I gotta get back on track French antique lace and why I collect it and don't use it.
Maybe I'll forego my oversized, antique nightgowns that look like parachutes and dream up something different with lace.
I gotta stop now maybe my obsession with lace is a hidden desire (!!)
I always knew my blog was my therapist but hey Corey there are others sitting around this couch listening.
Are you into lace?
1800s tinted engraving on a young maiden with flowers in her hair.
Wildflowers from my walk today.
Spring come, come as soon as you can!
xxx
Thank you for your response regarding if and how you saw my blog.
For some unknown reason it was not appearing on the 16th to most of you,
then popped up twice, then not at all, then come up late on the 17th.
I have no idea why. But it is working now so all is good.
Wish I knew more about why my blog acts bizarrely sometimes
I hope it isn't imitating me.
A light at the end of the tunnel,
a burst a of spring in front of the last winter branches.
Two realities
the end of winter, the beginning of spring.
My blog appears not to be posting
trying to see if this works.
If you can see this please can you send a comment or an email.
Please tell me if you see this on your email subscription and or through your browser?
Thank you.
(Permillion has a beautiful beautiful account on Instagram. She takes photos of books with flowers.)
Thank you for all of your wonderful book selections for Gabriel!
Today would have been my brother Marty's 61st birthday.
I found Permillion's quote tender,
it is almost spring.
Almost
Grief is a passage of time,
the loss, the sadness will become part of us and blending into our being,
it will find its place
Each season has its purpose,
which helps, guides, and is needed to go on to the next.
Please can you suggest some favorite books of yours.
we have Good Night Moon, which is a classic and I have plenty of books from when Chelsea and Sacha were little too
but I am curious to know of more since we do not live in the States I am not aware of all the titles.
Chelsea and I are speaking English to Gabriel, Yann and Martin speak English but their mother tongue is French of course.
I thought I would ask you what are some of your favorite books for children?
For over a year I faithfully walked five miles or more every day as a prayer for my brother.
I walked in rain, heat, at night, early in the morning, during curfew in a circle in our courtyard...
I did it no matter what and in the back of my mind, I would think if my brother has to suffer for no reason every day with terminal cancer
I certainly can walk every day as a prayer.
But since his parting, I have felt a change in my steps
Not as fast
nor determine
less mindful
each step is just another step-
blah
I walk but it doesn't feel the same
and I am not motivated.
Grief hits in unexpected places.
I was walking for my brother and I could be walking for him now but it isn't with the same intention.
And it doesn't feel right to have another intention just yet.
So I walk and one day the grief will trail behind.
Tulips that I stood by
outside a flower shop
under a canopy in the rain
Wind whirled
the sidewalk glistened
with the changing sky
I thought about my umbrella back home
... the cut flowers in their buckets
brought me joy
remained as they were
brave delicate blooms
Reminding me nature’s elements
make them who they are
Reading to a baby
one page half-read
turning
two pages back,
then upside down
followed with
words in a row interrupted by sounds and
lots of facial expressions.
And when the pictures become real
on the life stage...
We spend much time admiring trucks, garbage trucks, and backhoes in the public gardens
but the biggest burst of joy was when I took Gabriel to the train station and we watched trains coming and going.
Need a cameraman?
Need a daredevil?
Need an artist?
Need a perfectionist?
Need anything to do with filming?
I know just the person.
so happy for Sacha but I must admit when he told me about this gig I said,
”You’ll be harnessed and safely attached right?”
Then I spent the entire time turning worry into prayer and feeling scared into abundant joy.
Sacha is doing what he loves what a gift!
Listening
to my breathing,
trusting its message.
The tender dance of grieving
two steps forward one step back
In grief, loving hurts
then it heals
in a tempo with uneven steps
until the rhythm
becomes fluid
with heart and mind
with the delicate steps
of sweet sorrow
slowly becomes
soften edges.