Wednesday, November 13, 2013


I just finished watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It was an intense French film. Poetic, a bit existential, conflicted, tragic, beautiful, tragic and touching. I love French films.

Did I tell you I went to France? My daughter was living in London and I was missing her so much my heart ached. I thought, maybe I would never see her again. An ocean was between us and with my brain injury I knew I could never fly for so many hours on my own and go to her.

After I sold the farm and moved to be close to my sister, some time later she asked me to go with her to London and then France. She was taking her daughter for their special time together and invited me to go along. Though I don't think I ever mentioned the longing that was in my heart, she must have known the way only sisters do.

I took a couple of pills and we flew and we got there. It was a life long dream. An impossibility and yet there I was, in London, seeing my daughter and feeling joy just being there. My sister and niece went somewhere for a few days and Beks and I visited and walked through gardens and I went to some of the most amazing museums. And I took a picture of Big Ben at 4:20. And then my sister came back and we took the train to Paris. My sister, niece and me. I drew colored pencil drawings beginning on the train to Paris. To a place where my favorite artists, writers and philosophers walked. I was so in love with Paris. And loved so my sister who shared this miracle, this dream, this impossible dream come true, this beautiful Paris. I was on my own for a little while and walked to an art supplies store and couldn't afford much but picked up more colored pencils. Everyone seemed to be more at ease living in the moment.  Present.  I liked that.

What could be more beautiful than a Merci or Au Revoir or Bon Jour? I had a dear friend that was French and he told me everyone there speaks English since WWII. It was taught in all of the schools. But most people didn't use it. I had heard many things. The French are snobby. They don't speak English. But I found them warm and watched their casual lovely way of communicating with each other and I found them absolutely enchanting. Overwhelmed in the moment I told a man who had a shop how I wished I could speak French. How I would tell him how beautiful Paris was and how much I appreciated the people and the art and its history. And I would tell him thank you. His eyes began to collect water on the rims of his lower lids and I said a most loving Merci and he gave my whatever it was I had purchased and never letting on, the either of us, that we understood the words that were spoke, we communicated heart to heart, this love.

Maybe that is why like love French films so much. Just hearing the language takes me back to that time, when a most loving a tremendous miracle happened. 

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