Freedom from Should Have

All the spiritual mumbo-jumbo about happiness and bliss are just fine when everything is going well but what happens if you get on the wrong train or lock yourself out of your apartment on a Sunday? This weekend i got to find out the answer to both of those questions.

A beautiful Italian friend living an hour south of Paris invited me to visit for an Italian afternoon feast. How could i say no? It was easy she said, take the train to Malesherbes or Melun and get off in Corbeil Essonnes. I checked the map online before i went to the station and it seemed quite straight forward. Got to the station, saw a train for Melun y viola i was on it like a bee on honeysuckle. She said to call after about 45 minutes and she would meet me at the train. I didn't have a map of the train route but 40 minutes into the trip i began to get uneasy. At the next stop i ventured out and discovered there are two trains to Melun, one that goes through Corbeil and yes you guessed it, one that doesn't and i was on The Doesn't. At this point i had no choice but to continue to the end of the line another twenty minutes or so.

I called my friend who in excited anticipation went to the station early and i was going to be late, like an hour late. We talked for a few minutes. There was no drama on her part. No drama on my part. I rode to the end of the line, found an official conductor (my friend warned me that there were three trains that headed back to Paris but only one that went to Corbeil. Find that one.) The conductor escorted me to the right platform (and i was grateful for my elementary french).

As i sat in the train headed toward Corbeil, i realized that i was enjoying immensely the extra view time. There was no second thoughts about "i wish i had" or "i should have", just the sheer joy of watching a beautiful French countryside unfold before me. (BTW lunch was delicious!)

Fast forward to Sunday and i am leaving my apartment for groceries and on the way out taking the garbage. Grabbing two full bags of garbage/recycling and two empty bags for new purchases, cramming what i could in my purse, i walked out of my apartment and slammed the door shut with the key in the other side of the lock. Unfortunately my door locks automatically and as the door was clicking shut i realized what i had done. Yikes.

Let's see. Landlord's phone numbers are sitting on my desk, not in my purse or telephone. (Note to self put phone numbers in mobile.) It's Sunday and most shops are closed. Then i have a brilliant idea and remember that my neighbors have my landlord's numbers because of the leak from my apartment into theirs a few weeks ago. (Funny how events intertwine.) Luckily they are home. Unluckily my landlord is 700 kilometres away and won't be back to Paris for a few weeks. She offers to call a locksmith warning me that it will be very expensive, but what choice do i have but to buck up the euros or play homeless for a night and then buck a few less euros. I say send the locksmith. She says he will be there in 30 minutes. Two hours later he shows up, "Sorry Madame. I had trouble with the lock of another client." (But by the size of his belly, i think he probably just had trouble leaving the lunch table.) He spent three minutes trying to thrust a piece of sturdy plastic paper between the door and the jam and declared, "C'est pas possible." (It's not possible.) He then said that i would have to get a new lock put on and that would cost at least 300 euros not to mention way more time locked out. "Please," I pleaded with him in my most flirtatious french "Will you try again?" Looking like he was appeasing a recalcitrant three year old he crammed the plastic back into the door jam and shook the door profusely to show me that he was right when "clink" i heard the sound of the key falling out of the lock and hitting the floor. Luckily there is a gap between the door and the floor and the key slid right out. Y viola i was in my apartment.

The fact that the guy was two hours late, that none of his master locksmith skills were used, did not stop him from charging me 100 euros for the inconvenience of a Sunday call. Unfortunately my school girl french was not up to the task of arguing and i doled over the money with nary a thought except relief to back into my nest.

The rest of the afternoon was spent blissfully watching the French Open (how can you not be blissful while being treated to the eye candy of Rafael Nadal?) and making ratatouille.

In reflection what i noticed about both situations was a lack of self-judgment or recrimination. Sure i made some mistakes but as soon as i realized it, I put my little brain to solving the problem (instead to solving me), took the action required and went on enjoying my life including the detours caused by the mistakes. This was brillant. Freedom from should have.

By the way, my landlord felt so badly about me paying the locksmith that she invited me to her "grande maison" on the sea near Bordeaux...and i think i just might take her up on it.

Suffering for Beauty

Walking in the Parc du Champ de Mars (the Eiffle Tower park) i noticed a very cute pair of high heeled sandals sitting under a park bench. It was a warm day, sun shining and a scores of pale Parisiens pursuing tans. Next to the very high heels was a beautiful woman with seven band-aids on her left foot. (I couldn't count the right foot too without being totally obvious.) After having walked miles myself in my practical but cute flat soled sandals for the first time this season i too had a blister on a tender toe. The next morning on the recommendation of a friend i went to the pharmacy and there i discovered the secret of high heels in Paris--a wall of bandages dedicated to blisters. A specialty bandage in every shape or form for every possible shape blister in every possible location on the foot. And please let's put this in perspective: shampoos a half a wall, deodorants a quarter of a wall, lotions a half a wall, ampules (blisters) full wall. I was astonished and then i began to think: "What will we suffer to look good?"

The suffering is not confined to the physical. Clearly woman have physically suffered for beauty: whale-boned corsets, bound feet, Christian Louboutin shoes. (Men too, hair transplants, penile enlargements, steroids.) But how much do we suffer emotionally in the name of appearing strong, capable, loving or even needy in order to attract someone's attention? The masks we wear might be beautiful but they are indeed as painful as as a pair of Louboutin four inch heels. And unfortunately there is no wall of band-aids to provide temporary comfort. Really the only solution is to de-mask.

Luckily for me the blister was small. The bandage cheap. And gone the next day.

Compare and Contrast

A few days ago, I tootled off to meet a new friend at the Grand Palace and see the Turner exhibit. From the loads of people there, a wildly popular exhibit (but i have an idea that most of them were part of some conspiratorial tour group operation.) Turner was a prolific English artist famous for his classic late 1700's early 1800's landscapes. When possible the curator chose to show the paintings side by side with other artists who had painted the same landscape from the same point of view. Imagine two artists sitting on the same terrace perhaps at different times drawing the same vista. It produced an eerie deja vu type of experience.

Since the exhibit i realized that i have curated my life in much the same way. If my life i Portland is one painting, my life in Paris is another. By comparing and contrasting them i get to note the similarities and the differences and a certain detachment ensues. And somehow this detachment from one life or the other (i am not this painting or that) gives me a freedom to be something that is neither painting. Imagine realizing "Oh i am neither the person who runs off to work everyday nor the person who runs off to language school." "I am neither the person who drives a car nor the one walks everywhere." I get closer to the essence of me and metaphorically speaking further away from the distraction of colors, shapes and brush strokes.

It sort of boils down to this: on the one hand there seems to be very little "me" operating and on the other hand a whole lotta "I am" operating. It is a joyous place to leave the little me behind.

Taking Off the Filter

A partial list of things that have made me laugh at loud or at least smile in the last eight hours:

1. My toes tickled into happiness when I slip my feet into decadent sheep wool lined slippers.
2. The feel of water throwing itself at me through the shower head as i sit in my over-sized dog bowl i mean, bathtub.
3. Watching the smile appear on a beggar's face as i look him in the eye, put a armful of respect into his empty cup and say "bonjour monsieur."
4. The rain kissing my face.
5. The taste of dark chocolate with a grenache-syrah wine.
6. Having my head massaged into ecstasy at the coiffure.
7. Blow drying my hair until it feels like a cloud surrounding ma tete.
8. Lastly watching a young man pushing is his daughter in a stroller covered by a clear plastic cover, hearing her make a fuss and as the man took off the filter, y viola a giant smile beaming from her as soon as she could "see."

May we all take off the filters and "see" the joy that surrounds us in every moment.

Just Stopping

One of the most important lessons i am remembering is how important it is to pause, breathe and be completely consumed by the moment. Just now i was standing in my room with the windows flung wide open and allowing myself to be kissed by the sun. It wasn't a long time, maybe three or four minutes but in that eternity--peace, space, expansion were present and fulfilling. Here in Paris there seems to be many opportunities for that. Maybe it is the parks, the flowers, the architecture, the statues or even the people. Maybe it is because i am not in a hurry do something, everything or even anything. When i walk, which is everyday, i see people stopped, sitting on benches, on the quai next to the Seine, pausing at cafes, sipping coffee, smoking a cigarette--just stopping. It is a good remembering for me.

Last night i was at a cafe in Montmartre with some new French friends. The Project is their neighborhood Cheers. In the course of the evening, a prominent, drunk "artiste" stopped to share his incoherent views with these friends, next came the crazy woman "artiste" in her pajamas? spattered with paint and clumps of hair missing, then the cigarette lady less than five feet tall, round with oversized eyes, drooping mouth, bossing all of her clients around and reaching deep into her mystery bag and pulling out specialty brands for known clients. It was like a street cabaret. And i had a beautiful front row seat for the price of a verre du vin (glass of wine). It was so easy to be entertained. Is life like this all the time?

Pause, breathe and be consumed by the feast life is delivering. A beautiful remembering.

French Men and an American Woman

French men seem to have an inborn appreciation for beauty. Is it the centuries of art, architecture and music that they have been exposed to? Does it hearken from the courtly days of royalty? I'm not sure but their sense of beauty clearly extends to the feminine form. If you sit at a cafe you can watch the men watching the women...with no apologies, no surreptitious glances, just full out adoration. The french women have also been trained from an early age to expect this type of adoration AND completely ignore it. So what happens when you add an American woman into this mix? Oh and i should add a happy American woman. This is a typical day.

Early morning on my way to the atelier to draw for three hours. Hair swept back (to keep out of the charcoal), jeans and black boots (because they are the only shoes I have that won't show the charcoal dust), carrying an armload of drawing supplies including a large portfolio to hold the papers, large silver earrings, no necklace (french women wear one or the other but not both...how gauche). Walking down my pedestrian only street on the way to the metro, the Brinks security guy sees me and starts following me with one eye on the road (so he doesn't hit a pedestrian like the Tri-met bus driver) and one eye in the mirror. He gets to the intersection before i do and despite his green light he waits to for me to catch up. He nods his head for me to cross the street (probably so he can catch a glimpse of my backside.) I do and he smiles appreciatively. He has a pick up(?) a hundred feet ahead of me. As I pass his stopped vehicle another smile and a bonne journee madam. Finally the metro.

There must be an unwritten rule for all metros in the world: dourness required for entry. I do my best to comply but its hard not to smile when you are thrown around the car like a go-cart ride and heck i'm in Paris on my way to create. No incidences on the subway (this time...more stories on other days but i am trying to focus on this day). However i leave the subway station and as i am walking to the atelier a delivery man (gorgeous by the way) calls out to me from the other side of the street, "Tres joli, votre sourier est tres tres joli" (very pretty, your smile is very, very pretty). He continues to beam and explain how wonderful it is to see such beauty. I duck into the studio, safe for now.

Later that day i am buying veges for a ratatouille at the local market. I am patiently waiting my turn as everything i want is on "promotion" which means i have to let the man behind the counter pick out my produce. Its my turn. He looks at me. Turns away. (Uh oh is the french brush off? Mais non) he turns back and produces a strawberry for the "very beautiful lady". (This is another good looking thirty-something.) He continues to strike up a conversation about how nice it is to see someone smiling and so beautiful and i am totally flustered and make it out of there with my aubergine, corgettes (zuchinni) and extra peppers because i was too embarrassed to say only one please.

AND the day is still not finished. I make the ratatouille in the late afternoon and head over for the evening admittance to the Louvre to hang with some beauty myself. I find a statue that is irresistible to sketch, so i pull out my pencil and my black moleskine. I am happy as a clam, looking at the shapes and angles, noticed the lights and darks, seeing the relations between the forms contained within the statue when as you can guess, up walks a french man. More glowing accolades for the gift of beauty, some conversation practice and a request for a phone number...denied.

My American friend living in Paris tells me i need to quit smiling. Happy people are presumed stupid people she tells me. Easy targets. But how can i turn off the glow inside? Why would i want to turn it off when i have worked so hard to liberate the joy that lives within? Maybe i need to be a little more selective as to who gets the full force of the light inside. Finally i return home. I feel completely fulfilled-- a day of creation, connection and beauty.