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.

Gardens –Part 1 – The soul and heart of place, gardens nurture earth’s creatures on many levels of awareness.

Approaching the house through the gardens at Giverney

In Paris, the first garden Jon and I encountered was a small internal garden in the open-air atrium of our apartment building. We had the experience, after entering through the blue-painted door sandwiched between a café and a shop, of seemingly going into the heart of this 300-year-old building. We went up one flight of stairs and followed the banister that ran by open French windows to the next flight. The window was open to the atrium with the potted plants and stepped plantings so carefully placed. Our apartment, up another flight, had a tall French-casement window that allowed me to air the apartment and look down to the garden. The atrium also allowed conversations to gather in the garden space and bounce around so that I needed to be careful and be certain my voice was soft when I sat by the window.

On our first excursion to the busy intersection of Rue de Rivoli and Blvd. de Sebastopol, we discovered the gated garden around the tower dedicated to St. Jacques. It was typical of the various small gardens we happened upon around the churches and in corners of comfort along Blvd. Saint-Germain  and other streets. The fence held the bushes and trees safely in place and these surrounded paved walkways around the monument and led through the various gates. Benches were placed so as to let the shade pillow shoulders and comfort those who gathered there. This was very much an adult meeting space. The children in strollers were hurried through, and there were not many young people. With all the grandparents watching, snogging was not as rampant as in other areas. As we walked, feeling ungrounded and awed by all that was around us, these little gardens were blessings to our “senior” joints.

One image of the Water Lilies at Giverney

Our time in Paris was short, and there was so much more to explore than we were able to during our stay, but we exerted ourselves to visit Giverney via the Fat-Tire bike tour. Oh! What a garden!

My love for Monet and other Impressionist painters began when I was young. I loved to sit in front of the Water Lilies at the Cleveland Museum of Art. It became a part of me. I felt I breathed blue and purple when I took my  time with the painting. The chance to see the gardens of inspiration was a golden light for our trip.

We began at Gare St-Lazare, the very train station Monet used for his exciting painting of smoke and steam.  On our morning visit, we did not have the same colors and bustle of late 1870s, but we stood on the platforms looking at the trains and knew we were part of the stream of existence, part of the bustle of technology and modernity that had attracted Monet and continues to demand expression by artists today. Our tour guide, Peter, had a blue book under his arm that he referenced and shared during our train ride to Vernon. He was obviously in love with his subject and the sharing excursion that we were undertaking.

The Old Mill on a remnant of a bridge in Vernon

The day was cloudy, but we had been promised a bike tour rain-or-shine. The clouds were being temperamental.  We would be drenched in a steady rain, and then the sun would break out in a blue sky. We collected our bikes from garages in a courtyard that was not far from one of the old churches that Monet had painted. We biked in the wobbly shadows of the half-timbered houses that seemed to lean into the road as our guide led us to a market. At the market stop, the booths were set up in the center of a busy area that was lined with shops and bakeries. The booths were filled with fresh produce, and one shop had grilled chicken. We found fruit and cider; Jon found a lovely bakery and grabbed the last brie-stuffed baguette. With lunch stowed away in our backpacks, we were ready to continue to our picnic spot. The sky, blessing us with sunshine, gave us a chance to cross the Seine – it seemed a fairly calm river in Normandy – and find the park by the Old Mill and the Tourelles Castle.

Walking past Hotel Baudy toward the gardens.

After lunch and more stories about Monet  from Peter, we continued through a few more streets to a bike path in a park. The park road wound behind the houses, and the atmosphere changed. Even the weeds seemed to preen and boast of their nearness to Giverney, and the sun kept visiting us. I could hear the birds, but they stayed covered. We biked on Rue Claude Monet into the site, past the Hotel Baudy, and stored our bikes by a field.

Nothing can actually describe the garden. The visual impact would necessitate too many words. One breathes in color, light, and the essence of nature’s grand beauties assembled through each small bloom. The plants here do not have the pompous display of the crowned colors of a bird of paradise that seems to want to stand alone.  The blooms seem to be grown to enjoy each other.  Entering the garden one notes the points of color that tempt one to release the paint from the brush tip. 

Poppies next to the church by Monet's grave site

After touring the gardens and the house, we stopped by the church where Monet is buried with other family members. Everything was white: the marble cross, the church stones. The most touching memorial, for me, was the spray of poppies growing between the church wall and the gravel. We retraced our way back to Vernon. Returning to the train station. Again, it began to rain.

The gardens prepared me for the visit the following day to Musee de L’Orangerie only by intensifying the impact of the rooms of Water Lilies. Every moment of love and wonder I had felt since I was twelve, each moment of visual joy experienced at Giverney, every ounce of empathy I had shared as an artist washed over me when I entered the first room wreathed in four versions of Water Lilies. I cried.

All the pictures were taken by myself and my husband.

Romance, yes, it is Paris

The Eiffel Tower lit with a charming display of lights
as we floated by on Le Calife. Jon is watching from our
dinner seats on the boat.

Romance.  

Think “evening in Paris”  and music starts to play from some magical element, the evening shadows soften for intimacy, and thoughts of tall flutes of champagne are so tangible as to chill the tongue.

Jon and I had the ultimate romantic setting for our 40^th wedding anniversary. We had an apartment in Paris in Le Marais neighborhood, unstructured time around a scheduled tour of Giverney, reservations for an evening dinner cruise, and on our Anniversary evening, music and dinner at Petit Journal Saint Michel. The Hot Antics Jazz Band was performing in the intimate space. This small supper club had a charming ambiance that spoke of secrets and music to kept your heart beating. The tables around the band where we were seated were well lit in an arched space that reached back into the soft light of a darkly carpeted collection of booths and tables that filled with patrons who enjoyed the music over cocktails or wine.

Paris is so different at night.
This is a view of the Sarah Bernhardt Cafe.

The jazz was charming: American tunes with a French accent.  We enjoyed a lovely Beaujolais with our dinner.  The venue was mellow, a bit of a contrast from our usual haunt at the Barking Spider with Hot Jazz 7. There, my most elegant drink is an ale from Great Lakes Brewery.  Since Jon is usually playing, I it would be a stretch to say the  situation is romantic, but music always brings a good time.

We came out into the dark evening of streetlights. The club is directly across from the Jardin du Luxembourg, so we walked a short way until Jon Jr, who had flown from Manchester to join us, grabbed a cab. It was a blessing for the old legs that had walked up Sainte Michel to the club, but we sent the poor cab driver into the heart of the music festival. He came to the corner at Rue Saint Denis and Rue des Lombardes and literally drove into a wall of people. We assured him it was fine to let us out in the midst of it, and he made it to Blvd de Sebastopol only a few seconds before us. He was happy to turn to a more sane setting, and we returned to the champagne in our apartment for a toast. Then, Jr headed out for the nightlife.

A few days after returning to Cleveland Hts, I asked Jon what he found most romantic on our trip. I got "that look" that implied "I am going to avoid any argument" when he threw the question back to me. After 40 years of marriage, we are not always on the same page. No, I will confess, we do not think alike. However, after some prodding we agreed that the evening walk along the Seine on our first night in Paris and our dinner cruise the following night were probably more romantic than even our anniversary dinner. Whereas Jon acquiesced that Giverney and Bath were romantic settings, he was, by that point of the trip, having problems with his asthma and his knee. Truly the first few days of magic, when we were slowly opening our eyes to the wonder of the corner of the city we had embraced, were comfortable your-hand-feels-good-in-mine times. We had planned the trip at our own pace, so it was fortunate that we could stop and change our itinerary as needed. Through the trip, we only had to cancel one dinner reservation because of the limitations of senior bodies on evening strolls.

This is a view of the side of Le Calife. You can almost
see Jon through the window.

We both agreed the evening dinner cruise on the Seine was marvelously romantic, though our long-married behavior did not send off as much steam as the young couple sitting next to us. We were seated in the upper, smaller part of the boat between a four-some, about our age, and a young couple, late 20s-early 30s. There were probably 50 patrons on our level. The lower level had a bar and a large party.

The weather promised rain, so the plastic windows were zippered down. I had not known that Paris was so frequently rainy, but the contrast to the bouts of rain was brilliant sun, usually in the afternoon.  For tonight, the world was gray, and the other boats were only filled as much as they could accommodate the patrons in covered space. We were surprised to see others taking pictures of our small boat, but as I looked out the window at the lanterns that lined the sides, remembered the shape and dark green and gold paint, it was quite obvious that Le Calife was the charmer, sweet and romantic. The reviews had promised excellent food, and it lived up to the reviews.  The setting, wine, food, and of course my husband's company earned a gold star rating.

Our first evening in Paris, and we walked
the old city to familiarize ourselves with
the neighborhood.

The night before the cruise, we had found the boat docked in the quay. How can one sit still on the first night in Paris? We were enchanted to find the walk from our apartment to the Seine so short, and since it was Sunday evening, it was calm. There were not too many people on the sidewalks, and traffic was not heavy. A lovely, whispering dusk. People lined the steps and sat on the banks. We crossed the bridge and walked along the quays. Here we were in the old city, the heart of Paris. Across the river, I had a clear view of the Conciergerie and other grand buildings pinioned next to each other. The elegance of the Louvre differentiated itself, and we took one of the staircases down to the river. I didn't quite know what to think of the small boats that were docked, quietly draped on the river’s side.  It was a different world from American rivers where businesses and boats are so obviously linked to industry in dusty, sooty corners of towns and cities. Then we saw our charming boat with the dancing calife on the prow, we laughed, charmed in anticipation of our cruise. We strolled down further and found stairs up and crossed on Pont du Carrousel into the Louvre’s courtyard. I was interested in Pont de Arts that was covered with locks. There were all types of key locks linked to the chain-link railing. They were accompanied by ribbons and other fluttering color. I was charmed by this public art, but is seemed incongruous next to the historic buildings.

Our romantic stroll wound through streets until sun had set and the city was lit. We found ourselves at Saint Michel and turned to cross the river, again. Notre Dame was lit, and the city was magical. We found our street which was an every-evening-party street, but we were jet lagged. Our small apartment had tall windows that opened onto an interior courtyard. As noisy as all of the night-spots were, inside was quiet. We were happy to let in some of the warm evening air and relax.

We were in Paris. The very stairs, uneven 300-year old steps, were romantic.

Beds - Part 2: Beauty and Simplicity

This elegant cradle (above) in the Louvre does not have the ornamentation of a cradle of  le Roi de Rome, but I forgot to note the historic significance of this bed. The veneer presents sea images, and there is a dolphin at the base. The organic form extends the metaphor of a child as hope and future.

This elegant, royal promise of greatness is in direct contrast to the bed in Marie Antoinette's cell (below). The recreation of her cell, complete with mannequins presenting the doomed queen and her watchful guard are simple and shabby. The only comfort left is prayer.

The inner courtyard was designated as the women's walk, a place where the female prisoners could leave their cells and get air and exercise. They would be escaping, momentarily, the filthy straw bedding and fetid air that helped breed disease and despair. This corner (above) presents the teethed ledge of blades that circled the courtyard and is directly above the gated area reserved for Marie Antoinette. She would have looked out on the courtyard (below) at the women who shared her fate.

Beds - Part 2: Beauty and Simplicity 

           also The wonder of Sainte Chapelle

Beds of the rich and famous are always of interest. In the Louvre, the rooms of Napoleon III presented a grand richness that was overwhelming. As we progressed through the apartment, it seemed there was a challenge to build a bigger and grander chandelier with each room. It was the type of elaborate decoration that numbs the senses. The baby cradle, though elegant and draped in satin, presented a simplicity and elegance. It was presented as a work of art, and the woodwork and inlay present sophistication and artistry.  Of course, we were frequently reminded that many of the occupants of this former palace were despised.

The prison, La Conciergerie, and Marie Antoinette's cell

At La Conciergerie the stark plainness of the displays added to the somber, almost reverent, tone of the heritage site. This is a site of memories, and the sudden openness of the sub-street-level passageway presents the visitor with the uplifting arches of the ceiling, the sturdy pillars, like shafts of wheat, the glow from lights that implies a blessing. But this is the entrance to a prison, a site that has long held people who knew they were waiting for death to greet them, whether it was masked by the plague after a long wait in dank, fecal strewn straw or death in  the guise of a guard wearing a Phyrgian cap to escort the doomed to la guillotine. The lighting was gentle, but the mood of the chambers was not golden.

Through the hall and up a short stair, the guardroom is to the right. When we passed through a group of primary children were clustered about a table with a small rendition of La Conciergerie's floor plan. The children were pointing, and the teacher spoke quickly before covering the model and shooing the children to the next position. It was obviously the wooden model for a Montessori lesson, and I so wanted to lift the tarp to examine the plan which seemed to include the Palace de Justice and the chapel, Sainte Chapelle that were part of the complex. Instead, I turned to the pewter tinged light of the guardroom. It was armor and weapons and forbidding. True, it would have been a raucous hold of cards and irreverent jokes, camaraderie and long stories, but I was not interested in tarrying.

The stairs and the hallways are winding and surprisingly short. The path is confusing because the series of compartments and clusters of cells or rooms are meant to be separated. The paupers or those without resources to pay for their rooms would have been at a lower level. Displays of busts and educational cartoons were strategically placed. The building had seen violence and encountered upheaval and unrest of generations. As we had waited in line, I took a picture of the pock marked sandstone that seemed to be bullet marks from an unknown century. Take your pick. Guns have been fired down Boulevard do Stepha... since they were invented.

We came into a courtyard labeled the woman's walk. During the reign of terror, the women prisoners would be allowed to walk and take the air, away from the stuffy, claustrophobic cells. There was a little garden in the center that I doubt was part of the amenities the prisoners enjoyed. A basin with a spigot, like a watering trough, was on one wall. Looking up, pointed blades bristled from the walls just below the 2nd floor windows - old-fashioned barbed wire. I could imagine them coated by the blood of some desperate soul who tried to escape, but I could not imagine the desperation any more than I could image the herculean attempt to maintain a sense of one's personhood in such a place. Marie Antoinette's walk was a corner, triangular in shape, that was barred from the rest of the courtyard.

We went under and arch, through a doorway, up a stair to the room where Marie Antoinette had been held. Mannequins were dressed to represent the queen and a soldier. The queen was draped in black and seated before a table; a soldier stood behind a chest-high screen. Maybe the queen had some privacy if the soldier sat. Remnants of fleur-de-lis wall paper, dark blue and gold, hung from the wall against which the table, set like an altar, and the headboard of her bed were placed. The bed was roughly made, but it was a bed with a mattress and had a pillow and coverlet. This was luxurious in comparison to the other cells displayed. The warm yellow lighting that gave the limestone a friendly blush did not alleviate the feeling of doom. One room had a pallet, one room was only covered in straw. Even though Paris rain can feel as though the sky is dumping buckets,  being in the knife-fringed courtyard would be preferable to the small room that might be shared by numerous people, some were simply left in their cells to die. These rooms held uncomfortable beds.

Sainte Chapelle: breathtaking stories in the Palace of Justice complex

Somber and thoughtful on the overcast morning, I was anxious to reach Sainte Chapelle. A friend had described it, with that enthusiastic tone of someone who liked to recall a vision, as walking into a stained-glass window. To reach the chapel we exited La Conciergerie and passed the glossy black, gold tipped gate of the Palace de Justice. Business suits were moving with purpose through the gates and the courtyard. A special security check was required because of our proximity to the very active civil building. Exiting security we were more than a little lost in-the-middle. The courtyard, cobbled with the uneven pavement of this side of the ocean, rose five stories and presented nondescript surface. Signage was limited. When in doubt, follow someone who is walking with purposeful stride. We went through a passage and noted signs.

The small doorway, by Paris standards, for this chapel was two narrow arches. The carvings were not memorials to kings or saints but panels of story. Everything about Sainte Chapelle is about telling a story. Stepping into the church, my eyes needed to adjust to the darkness. I was standing in the lower chapel reserved for the common people. Everything (walls, ceiling, pillars) is painted with royal colors and coated with the ubiquitous gold fleur-de-lis. Sainte Chapelle was built by Louis IX, the only French king to be made a saint.

 We were standing in the lower chapel reserved for the common people. As lovely as it was, the stained glass windows were small and simple. Appropriate for common people who would still glory in the gold paint and the paintings, but this was not the glorious reliquary to house Christ's crown of thorns. This was not the celebration of kingship. What bed can any king lie in peaceably? All the concerns of ruling, of being the champion and servant of the people, of being in a position that needs to be affirmed even while claiming divine right will make the highest featherbed uncomfortable.

We walked up the curving stair to colors that rose on every side. The little pieces of glass, a mosaic of story, embraced the space. I was inside laughter, song, poetry, parable, and all wonder. There truly is no way to describe the way these windows presented light, broken into narrative. In spite of being encased in windows, the chapel was dark. The marvelous, dominant blue was warm, and the reds pure, but lights were needed for the altar. The services, warmed by the many people and the necessary candles, would have been quite warm. Incense would have tried to purify the air, and all that soot and smoke would have darkened the light. The king and the priests both needed the stories to be told. On my right, an opening panel presents Saint Helen discovering the true cross. I read the images that relate the stories of the relics. King Louis, later Saint Louis, clearly presents the connection, through story, of his link to the ancient Kings of Jerusalem. We saw the connection continued, validation of the divine right of kingship affirmed in the statues that coated Notre Dame. The story needed to be told in multiple ways to the people.

In the grand upper chapel, angels are in every corner, not Baroque cherubs, but gowned, draped youths with short curls presenting images of helpful, youthful squires instead of chubby-cheeked babies. They are strong, supportive like the apostles that stand as pillars around the chapel.

The upper chapel that Jon and I viewed was in its restored condition. Its history had been as rocky as the reign of France's kings. The whole complex of the Conciergerie, like the buildings of the Louvre, had undergone numerous stages of building, destruction, reorganization and reuse, and renewal. This was a pattern we recognized as we marveled at everything we experienced. 

We walked on very old roads but, everything was new to us.