Church and chapel in Montreal

Travel Companions & Expectations

When Marian first started outlining the days of travel and sightseeing, she anticipated our arrival times, some special restaurants and shops. I saw that we were arriving on Saturday evening I quietly asked, "where will we go to Mass on Sunday?" Conversation paused. Obviously, I was not on the French cuisine website.

“Leave it to Mom to think of church," my daughter snickered. "I am sure, in Montréal, we can find a suitable church." 

"Of course we can, it is Montréal,” Our conversation switched to the various neighborhoods and their charms.

Moden "Venus" statues
at Musee des Beaux Arts

A few hours later, she emailed me a link to the Basilica of Notre Dame. She was actually excited about making it the beginning of our walking tour of Vieux Montréal. It was an historic charmer by Place d’ Armes, and it would be the perfect place to start our walk about. As it was, the buckets of rain that descended on Montreal Saturday and Sunday changed our plans. We spent Sunday safely under the roof of Musee des Beaux Arts. There was a 5 p.m. Mass at the Basilica we could catch before supper.

Street parking was available, and we only had to pay for an hour since after 6 was free. With raincoats AND umbrellas, we sloshed up the steps to the one gate that was open. The attendants were turning tourists away, since only those going to Mass were to enter. For this hour, the Basilica was only a house of worship.

Basilica of Notre Dame in Montréal

The church was dimly lit, and we sat in a side pew by the pulpit. I was enthralled by the blue light that highlighted the art and details in the sanctuary. Since everything was lowly lit, the atmosphere was quiet and felt comfortingly secure. I am grateful that the celebrant and readers presented the prayers in carefully enunciated French, but I got lost early on, whereas Marian and Kate were able to follow.

 

Painting of Marguerite Bourgeoys
teaching children, in Basilica
of Notre Dame in Montreal

We noticed the side we were on contained pictures and stained glass celebrating Jeanne Mance and Marguerite Bourgeoys.

If I am honest with myself, my trip to Montréal began in elementary school with the Sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame. They were a Canadian order who had traveled the great distance to the farmland of Highland Heights, Ohio to start a new school in a new parish, St. Paschal Baylon. My brother would be in the first class to complete all eight years of elementary school at St. Paschal’s; I would be in the second. I had far more interest in the stories about the Mohawk maiden Kateri Tekakwitha than of the missionary Marguerite Bourgeoys, but eight years of the sisters in pointed starched headgear had left an impression on me. When I discovered I would be in proximity of the Sisters’ first church in the new world, one that had a museum and an archeological dig progressing underneath, I moved it to the top of my bucket list. Dare I say my daughters were not on the same page I was? That was fine. We could split up when the time came, and we did.

The habit of my teachers at St. Paschal

The sisters who came to the new parish truly had to build their own space. They were housed in a standard-sized bungalow on the parish property in which they created a chapel in the basement. Their habit was flowing in a multitude of layers, but the headdress to which they pinned their veil was a topic of conversation. It looked like a church spire and increased each nun’s height by several inches.  They taught us numbers, prepositions, and prayers for a cause very dear to their heart – the canonization of the Blessed Marguerite Bourgeoys. When Marguerite Bourgeoys was canonized, her body was moved to a tomb under the side chapel’s altar in Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours Chapel on the site of the church she had worked to establish.

The tourist information informed that the little church at the eastern end of the Vieux Montréal walking tour also was showing an archeological dig under the church and offering access to climbing the tower.

St. Marguerite Bourgeoys & Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours

There was construction, the noise of power tools, and yellow barriers on the streets and sidewalks leading to the chapel. I wound my way to a sunny, cobblestoned side street and saw an open red door. The attendants by the front desk were dressed in pilgrim costumes. Yes, I could take pictures. They announced the English tour or the archeological site in a half hour. 

The side chapel with the tomb of
Saint Marguerite Bourgeoys

It was an old church; however, as with any space that has held people and prayers for so many years, there was a calm, active presence. The light was primarily from the windows. The “Sailors’ Lamps”were lit. The ornate unity of the basilica did not exist here. Here one felt as though you had entered an aunt’s house full of stories and points of decoration to illustrate the stories. How different it felt than my expectations. I did pray at the side chapel, but it wasn’t until I went underneath to the foundation of the original church that I felt the touch of Saint Marguerite.

We were not allowed to take pictures of the dig, which in the light provided would not have turned out well. The attendant, in pilgrim costume, used an iPad to lead us through the tour and embellish the visual scene around us. The foundation of the first church and some post holes of the surrounding fortifiécation fit under the 18^th century structure above us. As I looked at the tree trunk beams over my head, I marveled at the elemental start of this journey. I would continue to tour the whole museum, very much on my own on a very quiet Tuesday, through the crypt, the dioramas, and up the tower.

The harbor scene from the tower of
Notre Dame de Bon Secours.
The flag-topped tower is the leaping
point for the zip-line.

It was a journey through time. At the top landing, I looked over the harbor where people were zip-lining from a construction only slightly shorter that the platform where I stood on level with the angels. Modern activity and festival noises unfurled with the flags around the mock-caravels that looked like a child’s delight. It was good to stand there.

It was several days later, sitting at my own desk at home that the thought came to me - maybe, my former principal Mother Saint-Mark-of-Rome had also stood on that platform. One thing I am certain, before she embarked on her journey to Highland Heights, Ohio in the 1950s, the scene she viewed was very, very different.

Time and place. Neither seems far apart.

Permission to Enjoy Montreal

There were several places to purchase
herbs and other culinary plants.

With any trip, it is important to find some point of beginning, even if it is in medias res. So, I will allow the travel to Montreal, our settling into the apartment, and our first dinner for later – a different theme.  Instead, I will start when we truly felt the gracious permission to enter Canada and be welcomed to Montreal.  Welcome usually begins with food.

The first morning or our first full day in Montreal (June 28^th) found us looking for coffee and breakfast at the Marché Jean-Talon in the Little Italy neighborhood. Marian was our travel guide for most of the trip, and as we stated our wishes and preferences, she presented positive ratings and reviews and (most importantly) directions for restaurants and sites. Marian promised us incredible crepes, and we followed.

The Crêperie du Marché was
surrounded by picnic tables.

Marché Jean-Talon covered a generous block. The street spots were already filled so we used the underground parking and climbed the stairs toward the smell of coffee. The main opening to the shops was through a large marque that fronted a roofed area. The Crêperie du Marché was under this high roof and just a few feet from the open area of tented space and walkways. The side streets that banded this area presented side shops that framed the central farmers’ market. It had a totally different feel from Cleveland’s West Side Market and was far more open. The three main differences were the ring of shops that framed the market space, the many plant and herb displays, and the small entrepreneurs who had set up a little soap shop or macaroon display or other little hooded tables in the back aisles of the market. Freeness and accessibility presented a welcoming atmosphere, and it was charming to see a trio of artists set up sketchpads and watercolors before the grocer who had garlic hanging decoratively at the corners of his table.

The artists were totally focused
on their projects.

Marian had searched for gluten-free options, and the crêperie boasted buckwheat crêpes free of wheat. There were marvelous savory choices (egg-spinach-ham, or apple-bacon-maple, or whatever) with coffee that Marian wanted to box for home. Feeling content, since good food settles and grounds one after a 13-hour drive through cloudbursts and one-way streets, we went in search of cheese and strawberries of the texture and flavor special to Montreal.

There is something to the buzz of a bilingual atmosphere in which the children ask questions in French and the lady in charge of the handmade soaps switched between English answers for me and French greetings for everyone approaching the kiosk. I felt far more inadequate in Montreal that I did in Paris, since I truly had more times when it was necessary to speak French and make myself understood. Everyone at the Marché was able to assist me, or would defer to a more English-fluent helper, but at the gas station and at one of the bookshops I was quite on my own. Inadequate is not strong enough for how I felt (and I truly need to put forth more of an effort if I aspire to return), but everyone was so kind.   

We entered several of the shops
that framed the market space.

I had asked permission to photograph the artists, and I truly aspired to be a gracious guest in this marvelous city. A year ago, Lynn Gadus has asked if I had a bucket list of things I wanted to do. Since I had never truly thought of myself as needing a bucket list (won’t I live to be 110?), her question caught me unprepared to answer. I first answered, glibly with a negative; however, a few minutes later Montreal and several other places I had dreamed of visiting and actually searched for in picture books and catalogues seemed to pile before my eyes like the multitude of post-it notes that fame my computer.  Maybe it was remembering my 5^thGrade teacher, Mother St. Abercius who was of a Canadian order of nuns, maybe it was remembering Fr. Aimee Le Jeune who spoke of the basilica in Quebec, but something brought this city to the top of my bucket list.  I began expressing my desire, and when Marian proposed a few days excursion, I jumped at the chance.

Traveling entails more than asking permission to leave chores and responsibilities, more than accommodating traveling companions. I was aware of a need to ask for permission to blend my footsteps with the history that continues to live on this selected spot, the need to ask permission to blend my own breath with all that had made the ambient air rich with words, art, and commerce.  I asked permission for many things, and I was welcomed.

The Weeds Have It - or - A Shaky Truce

Garden thoughts in May, 2015

Mother's statue is dwarfed by chives and buttercups.

Once again my garden has taken control of itself, and I have only myself to blame. But, I do not feel in the least bit guilty about having let things go, really they went without my having the chance even to let them go. The ground covers that crept out of some ancient garden that was here before Jon and I took possession of this house and yard, have once again claimed dominance over any space not covered by chives. There is one coral bell that keeps true, and I am loath to move her, but this next cleaning will necessitate a good soaking to get the dandelions and other invasive species untangled from her roots. That is life’s way – to tangle thoughts and opinions. People get so close, sometimes, the roots get confused.

I think of Mary Oliver’s nature image: “ How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I think serenity is not something you just find in the world, like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.”

Coral bells from mother's garden.

No, there is no guilt. I have tried to impose my will on the garden for so many years, that I must admit to a shaky truce for which the comfrey and mint and all the other perennials have the principal negotiating positions. There have been those years where I have sat and meditated over my weeds, blessing them for the comfort they have given me. I have sought the buttercups and forget-me-nots for the little bright-me-ups I have taken to hospice.  And, I acquiesce any time that I have to work my garden is time I have borrowed from another chore, another excursion, another visit. If my garden tries to take care of itself when I am elsewhere, I can only be grateful.

When I finish grading the exams, I hope for 10 days of good weather before my summer commitments encroach upon garden time. I will try to tidy the space, so I can save the coral bells and ensure happy basil, spearmint, and forget-me-nots. I really don’t have to worry about the chives.

Forget-me-nots and grass and . . .

Once upon a time, when I was a nascent gardener who truly thought she could control her plot of earth, a friend told me to meditate by the side of my garden, asking my weeds to move to a specific space I had given them. She assured me this was a realistic approach to living successfully with my garden and the rest of nature, but then she moved to Phoenix. None of my other friends thought highly of her advice, but it is in the back of my mind as I approach a task of forking up the wild beauty that shadows my mother’s Mary statue.  If I asked nicely, would they comply?

Oliver, Mary. “Yes! No!” White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems. New York: Harcourt, Inc. 1994. 8. Print.

Today's Prayer: Eventually

Eventually, I will be there, Lord.

The world will not stop when I arrive, nor will there be tears of happiness

because I paced with the clock’s spinning, because I negotiated the earth’s tilt

Stone Guardian, Paris

and clung within the gravitational hug,

hearing laughter emanate from grandfather’s belly.

I will arrive, eventually, and Wisdom will turn her pages

pointing to words printed, painted, sung –

throat to ink, scribe to typesetter, to the scanned document

I open and enlarge. Should I bookmark it? Will it wait for me

    until . . . until . . .

Eventually, I will return,  Lord.

In the vestibule I’ll place my coat and turn,

before I close the door,

to view the evening glowing behind the neighbor’s house. And I will arrive

to visit, eventually, on a day marked on the calendar, designated – for

I must mark, ink, post, save word and breath

to stop the tilt of the moment

and release to

my neighbor, Wisdom,

You.

With me, You are.

Wisdom and my neighbor are

at my right and at my left.

Seated, I stop my spinning,

present with You.

Things forgotten and found

I found a small 5.5 oz jar of Marionberry jam in the back of the  refrigerator when I went hunting for the smell that told me something had been forgotten. There it was, next to a bag of rather slimy veggies that had migrated behind the eggs on the narrow shelf. These things happen when I am distracted with work and school and things that are immediate. So, the little jar of yet-to-be-consumed flavor must have settled into a corner of my brain. I woke, this morning, remembering June's morning air in the cabin, and the soft light that filtered through the back window. The musty pine and moss shadows in which the cabin sat which held me, curled in the sleeping bag, settled on me again, even though I am months and a continent away.

Another three inches of soft snow has fallen, this morning, on this winter's crusty landscape of snow and ice that layered itself, 6-weeks-deep, and holds us in her shell. I am cramped and trying to stretch, ready to peck and claw my way out. Remembering the Oregon mornings is actually helping me settle into this closing hurrah of winter. The tulips I am forcing have 4 inch leaves. The orchids by the landing window have swelling knobs on the old stems. The newness of what is yet to bloom smooths a new layer of awareness over what had been layered in ice. Like a memory acknowledged each day in my prayers, the special petition tightly folded in the offering bowl, a dull ache embraced and released, I return to the flavor of the jam - the forgotten gift - and savor its smooth brightness.

I have the pitcher.

Stuff and nonsense. Someone used to use this ejaculation when cleaning or packing or moving things in and out of boxes. Who was it? Grandma or Aunt Lola? Mom or Aunt Noreen? Not that the source matters much, it is a phrase in the back of my mind every time I try to organize the contents of my house.

The hardest items to place and organize are those with memories. Can you relate to this problem? Do you have an item that no one else values that you wrap in three layers of tissue each time you clean the closet?

I want to display the little dish that my Mother valued, the teacup and saucer my husband gave me on an anniversary when such a thing was a frivolous luxury. (There was a time when budgeting for diapers and laundry soap was far more important than a teacup.)

The American Fostoria pitcher is  in front of a watercolor
painted by Mary Lou Kramer .

It is the infringement of someone else's needs or schedules forces me to move things. Recent painting projects and having children move out of town, out of state, out of the country have forced me to evaluate what I am saving for myself and what I think I am saving for my children. Do I really care a great deal about things? No, it is the story that is important to me. The dish, the teacup, and my mother's Fostoria glass have stories. They were handled and used by people who are important to me. That is where their value lies.

Mother was incredibly unique in her desire to divest of her china and glassware. When she could no longer maintain or use things that were of special family or personal value to her, she wanted to give them to her children. Of course, this was influenced by her inability to dust and polish items so they were maintained at the level of her standards, but I was aware of the selflessness that the action implied for I had seen, very closely, the results of hoarding. I saw how relationships were affected by gifting or by refusing to gift, and I was given the opportunity, by observing my Mother's choices, to learn an item's true value.

So, let me talk about glassware, that fragile item that becomes totally worthless when chipped -- or does it? I remember my sister-in-law placing a broken Waterford sherry glass on her window sill to catch and reflect the light. It had been a wedding present. I have a broken teacup that was painted by my husband's grandmother, a lady he loved dearly but whom I never met, that I dare not throw out. I have a box of small wine  glasses that I intend to have repaired simply because I remember my Grandpa Lennon holding one as he told me a story. So, I hold stories and connections and memories that transcend time and place, but these are mine. What can I share so the stories continue?

On a recent visit to Oregon, I saw that my sisters still displayed items they had carted across the country when Mom and Dad's house was emptied and items were dispersed. They still use these, as I still use the few things I have. That is how I will keep the stories going. I will use the goblets, even though they are not a matched set, because I want to build the connections and ensure that they are part of another person's memories. I will build stories around the one piece of American Fostoria I have from my Mother's set, because I have the pitcher. Whereas my sisters have plates and goblets and cake stands, I have the pitcher, small though it is, to pour forth stories.

Since I have the pitcher, it is a given, I must pour stories.

Evaluate the Future - it looks wonderful

Closing the school year and planning for the next.

For a News Site, nothing ever truly stops. Yes, the school year closes, students graduate and move on to new experiences that do not include Beaumont activities, but the stories continue. What life of students at Beaumont School never really end, there is simply a change.

Quiet hallways are empty libraries are temporary.

As this school year closes, Beaumont VOICE is anticipating the direction to be introduced in September. We are evaluating this year's successes and preparing for developing new projects.

Successes:
*The B-VOICE editorial staff has demonstrated creativity and invocation in the development of the new WordPress site.
*Energetic articles and collaboration from the Staff Writers are presented creatively and with panache.
*The B-VOICE team has forged a good working relationship and has found the strengths and energy of the team to be more powerful than the sum of the individual members.
*Beaumont VOICE has a Twitter presence and is connecting via social media.

Preparing for New Projects:
*The Beaumont VOICE anticipates expanding the staff to include more articles and activities.
*Continuing our commitment to advancing journalism skills, students will participate in Ohio Scholastic Media Association  activities.
*Improving  Publicity for the Blog and promotion of two group activities  are goals for 2014-15.

Continued Exploration:
*Students are still planning print publications.
*Students plan to investigate the inclusion of art and video in the publications.