On French Soil Once Again

Arriving in Toulouse, the city that made me who I am, and reveling in the hilarious but sweet adventure to get here (with a toddler who didn't sleep AT ALL on the plane!)

I have arrived in Toulouse, a city that populated my twenties with French imagination and faut pas, setting me on previously unimagined Path. Often called la ville rose because of the now-ancient bricks from which the city was constructed, for me, this place taught me to see la vie en rose. Nevermind storybook romance, Toulouse taught me to live… to eat… to enjoy… and perhaps most of all, it gave me permission to sing my own song, beat my own drum, and write my own words.

Being back after five long years—now as a mother—I find that the city is familiar but I have changed. I’m not yet sure what I mean by that. I’m still jetlagged and finding my bearings. Having my feet on familiar French soil is a relief in so many ways, yet I sense that I have only but touched the surface. I hope, in the next few days, to begin to connect more deeply.

The Skies over Paris

Here we are again, on the eve adventure… or the morn after a long night left unslept.

Isabelle decided not to sleep at all on the trans-Atlantic and instead opted to melt down completely in the Charles-de-Gaule Starbucks.* After rushing down a quiet corridor to keep her screams from echoing through the entire terminal, she had a few sips of mamas milk (discreetly, if ungracefully, hidden behind a pillar), and promptly fell asleep on my shoulder.

Antics ensued as we then attempted to juggle luggage, backpacks, purses, hot coffee, boarding passes, and a 35-pound passed out toddler while my mother and I boarded the plane to Toulouse. Mom looked like a pack mule with backpacks on front and back, while Isabelle’s head kept slipping off my shoulder as I struggled with my venti latte and myriad passports.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world, now watching the sunrise over the clouds above Paris with my little girl’s head in my lap in a pose of absolute trust. Traveling with her, I feel better than I have since my twenties. No longer concerned about my own comfort but instead holding the experience of another creature so sweetly that I become greater… I become more than I would be if I were only concerned with myself. Questions of my own comfort become the means to an end rather than an end in themselves. And coming from this place, I find that I’m so much more satisfied with my own experience. Comfort, or the lack there of, becomes yet another rich sensory detail, of no great significance.

The only ends that matter are the totality of the experience, the bond between us, and the Beauty of watching one I love meet the world powerfully… and if we’re lucky, with joy.

It’s really not so different from my role as sacred tour guide. To show up fully and hold space, to handle details and facilitate the powerful experience of others is something I deeply love. Something inside me comes alive supporting others to discover the magic that’s possible. Like watching someone unwrap the perfect gift, it offers a sweet interior satisfaction… a quiet joy that just isn’t possible when I’m the center of my universe.

I don’t know what the upcoming adventure will bring. It’s always a Path into the Unknown when we walk in the ways of the sacred. Yet there is a calming familiarity in the way the Mother rises in me, calling me to be greater than I know myself to be. Magically… miraculously… holding space for others, I find myself held as I all ways long to be.

*I prefer to avoid chains, and I generally never patronize major international conglomerates while traveling, but traveling  with others always requires a level of flexibility, so Starbucks it was.

Today I am going a much-anticipated Cathar exhibit at Les Jacobins. I hope to share this experience and more with you, but (in spite of the fact that I’m posting at my regular time on Thursday) I have no idea what my posting schedule will be or when I will be able to find time to post.

There will inevitably be a bit of “jetlag” between where I am in real time and what I am posting here, as you can see from today’s post, which was written on the plane from Paris to Toulouse.

Some of what I share over the next few weeks will be rawer, less edited than my usual pieces. I hope, dear reader, that you will forgive any errors and accept the time that I’m able to share with all of you with a spirit of connection, rather than perfection.