Getting ready to "Re-enter"

This week in Paris is known as "Rentree" (pronounced rahn-TRAY), the week when all the Parisians who have left the city in August come back home. Tanned from their month-long holidays in Marrakech, Morocco or the Cote d'Azur, the natives come back to the city in droves. You can feel the energy of the city change, the pace quicken. Buses are now crowded with people returning to work and the Latin Quarter is packed with students. College students travel in groups and young children getting outfitted for school shop with their mothers and grandmothers, picking over the school supplies.

My own "Reentree" begins today as well. I will board an American Airlines flight back to the U.S.A. around noon, saying good-bye to this little apartment, to the neighborhood I've come to love and to Paris, the city of my dreams. Turning a dream into a reality has had its bumps, of course--I learned that Paris is not just the stuff of fiction and movies but a real live city with problems like any big city. There are the homeless, the street people, just like those in Chicago who work a corner, asking for a hand-out. Paris is known for its strikes although none occurred while I was here. And for the millions of people who are returning to work and to school, Paris isn't an ideal: it's just home.

But what a home! While living here I developed a deeper appreciation for history, motivated by curiosity and a keen desire to know the chronology of events on how Paris came to be. My eyes are now trained to observe the smallest details of beauty. Granted, in Paris beauty is everywhere, from the lampposts to the curlicues and statues embedded in the facades of the apartment buildings. It's in the detail of the hardware on the doors as well as in the magnificent courtyards and gardens that seem to be around each corner. However, I live in Chicago, no stranger to art and architecture. All I have to do is be intentional about finding that beauty and I know it's there.

One of the last books I picked up off the bookshelf of my host's home is a book by Thomas Moore called Care of the Soul. I've been enjoying blasting through novels while I've been here, giving my brain a much-needed break from non-fiction to engage in stories and good literature. But this book called to me and I'm so glad it did. Much of what the author writes about aligns with my journey here. I made these plans to come to Paris a year ago when my mother was dying. With her death came an urgency to fulfill on this dream I've had since I was a girl. Through my sorrow I received the gift of impatience, a drive to "get on with it." So as impractical as it was to take a month off, and fighting my inner demons who whispered "Selfish!", I booked a flight. Thomas Moore would say that I was taking good care of my soul.

I've been nourished by the glory of Paris, the consumption of art on every corner and the rare opportunity to read, write and wander without thoughts of deadlines or time clocks. While it may take me a while to digest what I've learned here--and I relish the opportunity to sort and sift through these memories when I get home--I did have a few epiphanies along the way. While breezing through the last wing of Les Artes Decoratifs, a branch of the Louvre featuring the history of advertising, I was inspired by the work of one of the artists. A graphic designer, he had some early success but then fell on hard times. In spite of it all, he persevered, bought a print shop, kept producing. I heard a whisper that I took to be a gift: "Keep working." And through the joy of writing this blog, of remembering my first love of literature and after visiting the graves of the writers I admire, I heard a louder, more insistent voice: "Keep writing."

My wish for you is that whatever your dream is, you'll have the opportunity to act on it. Fulfilling our dreams isn't without cost: there were mornings when I woke up with a start, wondering "What am I doing here?" I thought about my hiatus from work, the revenue I wasn't producing and the bills that await me when I return. I indulged in some worry and confided in an e-mail to my friend and mentor Kristi Peterson. Her response woke me up: "Anxiety and Paris are not compatible." Duly noted. So I set aside my worries and devoted myself to being present, in the moment. That in and of itself was a valuable lesson. In spite of the cost (and there will be a cost), I hope you'll uncover your own dream and act upon it. As my dad used to say, "There's no time like the present."

And I'm not saying "au revoir" to this gorgeous city. As I board my plane later today I'll use another phrase I learned long ago when I was that young woman studying French, my new-found love, in college. "A bientot." See you soon.

Sunny in Paris

This week was filled with rain and cold--the Parisians all had their jackets and heavy sweaters on. Mon dieu! My Midwestern loved ones are being baked in a Chicago heat wave so I couldn't complain to them... but I confess I spent the early part of the week huddled under a comforter with my fuzzy socks on, reading novels and watching French TV. I didn't bring any foul weather gear and certainly no coat or jacket, so I decided to lay low.

But yesterday (Wednesday) the sun came out and so I ventured forth. The Metro is plastered with advertising for an exhibit for Willy Ronis and I've had that on my list since I arrived. Willy Ronis is the famed French photographer best known (at least in the U.S.) for his photo of an exhuberant little French boy running down the street holding a baguette of bread. I had to do some research because I had never heard of the "museum" where the show is being held--it's at "Monnaie de Paris" which is, essentially, the Paris mint. The building, across the Seine from the Louvre, is part industry, part social conscience and part musuem.

What it isn't is air-conditioned, and the rooms were packed. Thank goodness I have my "Woman of a Certain Age" fan that I whipped out to get through room after room of stifling air. For once, the Parisian women were jealous of ME. The exhibit honored the 100-year mark of M. Ronis' birth--he died last year before he could see this wonderful collection.

His photos capture the labor movement in Paris in the 40s, his travels to Holland, Germany and England, and unforgettable moments in Paris's history right up to 2000. The reflection of light on cobblestones at night, lit by a streetlamp; the creamy softness of a woman's skin; the harshness of factory work with miles and miles of cotten being woven--all these photos gave me nostalgia for a time I never experienced and places I've never seen. And isn't that the role of the artist? To transport us?

This led me to think about the wonder of being an artist. What an honor! And what a joy, to be able to wake up every morning with the "job description" of capturing life as it is, as you see it, as you want others to see it. Whether it's photography or painting or writing, or any other genre, the artist has the responsibility of capturing some kind of truth. But I know that life as an artist is not without its risks. Being an artist takes great courage... and great faith.

And it doesn't hurt to have an agent.