Paris with Rena, 2002

Another step back in time...my memorable visit with Rena in Paris during her study abroad.




Subj: Today
Date: Monday, October 7, 2002
From: Blackimage
To: Artist39
I walk out the door at 177 bis and head down the side street to the metro station dressed in gray pants, black turtle neck sweater, black boots and nice rain proof jacket, all things my mother has bought for me. As I am walking, choosing the sounds of the Paris streets and French over John Coltrane and my Discman and I think to myself: this is what my mother pictured when she thought of me in Paris. Her daughter walking quickly towards an unknown destination and a bright future that she worked hard to provide. It is then that I think I truly am my mother’s daughter.
Can’t wait to share Paris with you and learn some of your favorite spots. Talk to you soon.
Love,
Your Princess Girl

Subj: Re: Today
Date: Monday, October 7, 2002
From: Artist39
To: Blackimage
Dear Daughter:
Thank you so much for the lovely posting. In my mind’s eye I can see you there, my lovely young daughter roaming the streets of Paris, eyes darting back and forth to absorb the magic of street life. And looking good!
It brings me great joy to know you are so happy and enthralled with Paris life. I feel we have connected at a commonplace and time inside each other. I have walked those same streets in wonder and awe feeling lucky to be alive. There is so much beauty in the world Rena but often we are too distracted to take notice. We wait for big thundering events to mark significance in our lives when it is the small and ordinary that sustains us. I discovered parts of myself in my wanderings that I could never have managed if I had stayed put. It has been my goal as your mother to urge you out there, extricate yourself from the familiar so you too could feel the magic. When I read your email I thought it has worked, she understands what I have tried to do with my own life, perhaps on a smaller scale given my circumstances. And much like the passage I read to you from Ellen Gilcrist’s new book, your mother’s seduction is complete; you are finding and completing magical destinations, both internal and external, of your own. My messages are being delivered; they were always there waiting for you when you felt yourself to be ready. I also look forward to sharing my Paris with you; however, just as it happened when I visited you in my former home of Jerusalem, I am sure you will be doing much of the leading and I the following. As it should be my dear!
Loving you as always,
Mom

Subj: Greetings from Greece, Paris
Date: Monday, October 28, 2002
From: Artist39
I sit at a table in my daughter's studio in the Latin Quarter of Paris composing this letter. The studio is small but very charming. It is filled with light and on this particular day the sun is shining as I gaze out the large window to the courtyard and the white birch trees bearing yellow leaves confirming autumn's arrival. The courtyard is secluded from rue St. Jacques, the oldest street in Paris. Flower boxes filled with brightly colored geraniums decorate windows in true Parisian style. Rue St. Jacques is a narrow street lined with specialty shops. The green grocer adores Rena, calling to her as she enters and exits the blue door at 177 bis. Steps away are a bakery, a cheese shop and perhaps most important, a Laundromat. There are also a few good restaurants we intend to try. The flat is five minutes from the Jardin du Luxembourg where we walk each morning as we chat and admire the beauty of the gardens, sculptures and buildings on the large grounds. The first night I arrived we went for pizza and bookstore browsing and last night we went to the Marias for Jewish food, one of my favorite neighborhoods in Paris. Rena had not yet been there and found herself she loving it as well! We engaged in a conversation with a Hasidic Jew about where to go to synagogue. He seemed surprised with this black-white-Jewish-American-mother-daughter combination though he was very friendly and helpful. I bought Rena a small menorah and candles so she will be ready for Hanukkah. Everything must be small for her place. We explore and walk, enjoying Paris and each other.
How do I describe the feeling of arriving at Charles DeGaulle and seeing my soon to be twenty-one year old daughter through the glass partition waiting for me to fetch my bags? It was thrilling to see her standing there so beautiful and grown, looking cool and comfortable as if she lived in Paris her whole life. We blew kisses to each other while I waited for my bag, communicating without words, just smiles. From the moment I passed through the glass doors we fell into an easy rhythm together, no longer the daily adversaries arguing about homework, cleaning her room, the car, the phone and her appearance. I was now a mother visiting her grown child on her turf, turf I once claimed as my own. And I am happy to relinquish it to her and anything else I might offer to assist her on her journey.
I am enjoying Paris this stay more than ever. Living in an apartment rather than hotel is more my style. We market and cook, fix up Rena's apartment and I have loved buying her luxuries such as paper towels, napkins, aluminum foil and other staples she has felt too poor to purchase. While she was at class today I bought lots of groceries and when she came out of class I was waiting with two huge bags. There are still some outstanding items on the list, a water heater for tea and a straw basket for daily marketing, a must have in France. Rena is in great shape, walking faster than me and covering lots of ground as her classes are all over the city. She is eating more healthy than I have ever seen and very happy with herself and her place. We went drawing/watercoloring for a few hours in the Luxembourg Garden, the sun warming us as we tried to capture the vibrant colors of the flowers and the autumn yellow, rust and gold of the trees. Every so often we would sneak a look at each others paper and smile. I cannot help but marvel at it all.
Rena has a great group of friends from all over the US and by request I cooked red sauce and pasta for four of them tonight. They were all delightful and very grateful for a home cooked meal. I listened to their conversation with amusement, not very different from our conversations "back in the day"; however, I was compelled to offer some words of wisdom in relation to their homesickness and constant attention to the future rather than the present and the process. They were very gracious and respectful but you know what it is like to be young and in possession of all the answers! Rena reminds me several times a day how happy she is that I am here and asks me to stay on. I assured her she would tire of my company and long for her solitude after a while. I am very impressed with her and take great joy in her evolving maturity and adaptability. She rides the metro like a pro and seems at ease here despite the language obstacles. That’s my girl!

Greece was all I could have asked for, the magic in full force after ten years of annual visits. I spent a few days in Santorini with my friend Gylaine before taking the boat to Folegandros. My time on the island was filled with solitude, painting, reading and writing daily letters to Pamm on my laptop. I took long walks in the morning absorbing the colors and feeling nature creep into my bones. A full moon lit my way at night as I strolled through the village and up the hill to my room. I spent many hours on my terrace painting, reading and just being. I had some very warm visits with long time friends Anne and Fotis, and my morning ritual included coffee at another long time friend Dimitri's house. I cooked for myself most nights with the exception of some meals at Anne and Fotis' and one dinner out in Ano Meria with Anne and Fotis. I was so reclusive this visit that some of the locals did not know I was there until my last days. I was in my work deeply and very satisfied to paint most of the time. As always happens when I allow for it, the work came and I found myself engaged in a new series of abstract paintings that I am very pleased with. I spent many hours observing variations of blue, the horizon and the layers of colors that create sea and sky. The layers are often subtle but very significant. Blue is a language of it's own. I began to speak this language of blue and the complimenting colors that emerge from the terraced hills. Some days of rain produced many hues of green set against those ever-present golds, yellows and rusts. One early morning walk I watched the sun rise and the full moon set. Scattered clouds produced magnificent sunsets. My eyes followed birds in flight, awed by their grace and freedom. In that world I am completely at home, and while on the island that was my reality. The beauty and meaning helped release the toxins that had accumulated over the past two years and eased my worry over my uncertain fate in the job market, my anxiety over my son's senior year and impending departure to who knows where and most other things that keep me up at night. On Folegandros I was the essence of my best self, doing what I believe I am meant to do. I retraced my well-worn path over the past ten years and noted the changes from the woman that first set foot on the island and who she has become. There was some grieving at first for her and what she represented; however, by the time I departed I was not longing for her, rather I was quite satisfied with my present self despite the not so welcome changes that are inevitable with age. My work was vibrant, my time healing and affirming. I walked with that same old bounce in my step, and although ten years has passed since I first arrived it was magic all over again. I simply did not think I could ever feel that way again after the emptiness that taken its toll during these two rough years. I saw traces of my former self and was flooded with memories of past days and times yet I viewed it though a prism of compassion, not regret. If my theme upon arrival was loss and emptiness by the time of my departure it was one of abundance and healing. I felt pure happiness in my simple and meaningful existence. My time on the island was far too brief for sure, I could have kept on painting in my solitude surrounded by the island’s natural beauty and simplicity but I was not one for remorse, my gratitude far outweighed anything of the sort. I must admit though, I wept long and hard as the boat pulled away from the island while my friends waved from the shore until the boat is out of sight as is the custom on Folegandros. An end of innocence and the beginning of reality/adjustment, and one only hopes for the strength to sustain the magic as long as possible, to keep the island tucked safely into both heart and spirit.

And so the journey continues. On Thursday I depart for Copenhagen for a visit with "the girls" returning to Paris on Sunday. On Monday I take the TGV to Cadenet for several days with my dear friend Marie Anne, my first visit since her husband Hans passed away. We will have long talks, walk the dogs in the vineyards and miss Hans very much. I will travel more well worn paths and reacquaint myself with a much-loved landscape and colors I have painted countless times. This landscape and the village will offer me solace as I once again recall days and times gone by with friends, some of who remain in my life and others who for various reasons have not. I will return to Paris for a final day and a half with Rena before she departs for Amsterdam and I for San Francisco.
I wish all of you well and look forward to seeing you upon my return.
Much love,
Paula

Subj: More from Paris
Date: Wednesday, October 30, 2002
From: Artist39
Simply to be in Paris makes one feel special. That is my profound thought as I stroll across the Jardin du Luxembourg after walking Rena to class.
Life for me is a mixture of the mundane and the magical. I am working on unclogging Rena's drain in her shower and I am pleased to say progress is being made. I am also hard at work sitting in cafes and studying Paris street life, the hallmark of the city. Yesterday I walked Rena to class then crossed off several items from my domestic shopping list in one small shop. Using my small French vocabulary I purchased an electric hot water heater, Drano, can opener, covered trash container and a straw market bag. With that accomplishment under my belt I sat for two hours reading and watching people pass in the street as I sipped my coffee and ate a muffin. It was a hectic time of day as people were scurrying home after work or school. The cafes always seem to be busy and with the warm fall weather they are overflowing. Jardin du Luxembourg is full of people sitting, walking and jogging, taking advantage of the sun and mild weather. I jotted down impression and thoughts in my little notebook in hope that I might begin to write poetry again. So I collect words to be stored in the vault of my mind for possible use at another time.
The days pass all too fast as I shadow Rena in her life. We want to do many things yet time and classes prohibit us. I went to Comparative European Government class with her today and I confess I instigated a lively discussion. The Professor is an American and somewhat unbalanced in his interpretations, particularly when it applies to the US but also Europe or should I say major Western powers. Fairytale is the word that comes to my mind. When talking about the European conflict around farm subsidies he gave the impression that subsidies are not an American fact of life. I mentioned to our dairy, farm and defense subsidies, but not limited to...Amtrak, etc., tax breaks, incentives, blah, blah, blah. Then we progressed to the Iraq drama and nuclear weapons (I believe Mr. Bush refers to them as weapons of mass destruction) and I mentioned the fact that India and Pakistan also have nuclear weapons that they threaten each other with on a regular basis over Kashmir...blah, blah, blah. And then the good old notions of ideology as a motivating factor in all this aggression. Pakistan was a terrorist state and on our list of bad guys until we needed them to invade Afghanistan and now this dictator is our good friend while we overlook the oppression. Of course I had to mention the fact that Cheney was at the helm at Halliburton when they rebuilt the oil pipeline in Iraq. Somehow we ended with a heated discussion of affirmative action and quotas. Ah, good old affirmative action that has always been in place for white males and now that they are forced to share a few crumbs all one hears is the same tragic story about the white male who was very qualified and the woman or person of color who had less qualifications that displaced them...sob, sob, sob. In the words of white male student things get "watered down" with affirmative action, inferring that women and people of color are inferior and less qualified from the start. Look at the numbers I protested, there are not women and people of color taking over as CEOs or as Senators or Congressmen or judges. It does not add up, this conspiracy theory of quotas taking "all the good jobs away" and robbing white males of their birthright.

I was struck by how uninformed and shallow the students were, very impressionable and not very probing. There was a lack of diversity and not very much knowledge about world affairs or history. I suppose that is what they are here to learn and in that case I recommend the Professor present a more honest picture about the historical context and underlying motivations of government policy in the US and abroad. What he was saying about those "other countries" was very much at play in the US and Western Europe perhaps shrouded in ways that make us comfortable. It was great fun though and the Professor thanked me for the interaction.

Enough of the mundane and on to the magical:
I accompanied Rena to her studio art class and spent a blissful two hours painting a nude. It was fantastic, Rena in one corner and I in the other painting in Paris. I believe it was in Paris that I last painted from a live model. It was hard to dislodge me from my spot when class was over. I intend to return next week when I get back from Cadenet and put in as much studio time as possible. I was warmly welcomed by Rena's teachers and invited to return. It has been too long since I smelled the oil paints and turpentine, too long since I have worked from a live model. Rena started a fine watercolor that she will complete this week. The studio is outside the center of Paris and requires a few transfers on the Metro but nothing too complicated.

In a kind of mad dash we left the studio to get to the travel agent by 6 to purchase Rena's Eurail pass for travel to Amsterdam, Cadenet, Italy and Denmark. With that task out of the way we made our way back to the Marias for falafel and dessert from the Jewish bakery. We wandered the small streets arm in arm window shopping and admiring the warm night in Paris, an aberration for late October. As we crossed the Seine we saw a boat cruising down the river. I thought the boats had ended in mid-October but apparently not. We looked at each other and smiled both of us thinking the same great thought...Lets Go! The next boat was scheduled to leave in a half-hour. We huddled close on the top deck while the boat cruised past all the beautiful sights and under the many bridges. The Eiffel Tower was lit up, standing tall and dramatic. As I looked at my daughter I felt a surge of pride and gratitude for these special moments with her. I wondered how after years of struggle and self-doubt I had managed to have a part in raising a child so special and solid. I find myself looking at toddlers in Jardin du Luxembourg then at my grown daughter and I wonder where has the time gone? I try to fill in the gaps between these two distinct ages, rewinding and fast-forwarding the years in between, yet I still cannot comprehend or quantify the passing of time as it relates to one's life or the life of a child. It is as if time is swirling around me, mesmerizing me in a trance and then I wake up and abra cadabra here is this 45-year-old woman and her grown daughter. I reach to the toddler in Rena when I touch or smile at the toddler in the park. I take note of her tiny shoes or her cute dress; very similar to those I dressed Rena in at the same age. Rena and I watched a toddler venture away from his mother with all the courage in the world. I said to Rena let's just watch and see how far he will go before he turns around to find his mother, his touchstone and security. Minutes later he turns around and calls Mama! We giggled at the predictability of us humans, always turning around at some point for that which makes us safe and familiar, just as we are drawn to venture out to the world in search of the unknown and adventure.
It is a new day, Thursday, as I finish composing this letter. I have strolled through the Gardens on another sunny and mild morning. I inhaled the fresh morning air and took my place among the mixture of people on their way to work/school, joggers and others scurrying about. After I press send I will throw a few things in a small bag for Copenhagen. I hesitate to leave Rena and Paris simply because we are having such fun together. I assure her we will have more days together before I head home. Home is a strange notion for me right now. I felt at home on Folegandros and I feel at home here. I will do some thinking about what constitutes home as I continue my journey. Jonathan is my anchor to "back home" right now, and if not for him I believe I could redefine home quite easily, not with permanence perhaps but with more flexible contours.
For now I will return to the mundane once again and ready myself to leave. Thanks so much for your replies filled with warm and loving words.
Much love,
Paula

Subj: Copenhagen, encore Paris
Date: Thursday, November 7, 2002 10:52:23 AM
From: Artist39
There is no order or logic along this journey....
Copenhagen
I arrived in Copenhagen to Rie's open arms. We took the train into the city for dinner with Ping and Torgunn who met us after Greek class. Having been in Copenhagen so many times it has come to feel like one of my "homes." I am familiar with the city and have my routines. My first day is always a good time to sleep in and go slow. Luckily Torgunn was off in the morning allowing time to catch up on our lives while drinking coffee and eating breakfast. While Torgunn was at an afternoon class I took my sweet time getting dressed, a feat I managed by 5 PM. Torgunn and I went for Indian food then met up with Ping and Boris, her so-called boyfriend visiting from St. Petersburg. We had a spirited discussion about the controversy between Denmark and Russia, labor unions, old boy politics, and other political topics. We dragged Boris into the discussion kicking and screaming though in the end he seemed to enjoy himself.
Torgunn and I walked home that night as we usually do at all hours of the night, something that would be inconceivable in my car dependent driving life at home. My friends ride their bikes at 2 in the morning. Can we in the US imagine such a thing? Especially women! The weather in Copenhagen was better than expected, cold but sunny, and lovely for walking around the town. On Saturday I walked into town myself to meet Rie and Ping for lunch, then later we met Torgunn at an exhibit on Fundamentalism. The exhibit had some interesting presentations by artists from all over the world but it was not really about fundamentalism per se. My two favorite presentations were about the Danish presence in Greenland and an email written on a wall about a journey from Bosnia to Denmark. We ended the day with a great dinner prepared by Ping and walked home around midnight. We all gathered for brunch on Sunday at a cafe near the train station before I caught my flight back to Paris. We said our farewells, holding on extra long for hugs at the Air France ticket counter, confident we would all meet again soon either on Folegandros, Denmark or the US.
As always my time in Copenhagen is full of thoughtful discussion and warm meetings. Rie had much to share about her recent trip to Syria, and I was especially grateful for the soap she brought me back made locally in Aleppo. We speak freely regardless of our similar or conflicting opinions. We hold a basic respect for each other that forms the basis of the deep and lively conversations that are for me synonymous with my friends in Copenhagen.

The political backdrop has not improved since my visit to Copenhagen last October. At that time we were reeling from the 9/11 tragedy and I had hoped we might as a nation begin to reflect and perhaps change our course. Instead, we dug in our heels in name of patriotism and now we are frothing at the mouth for a chance to prove ourselves the supreme power by invading Iraq. "W" would have us believe this invasion is about evil and weapons of mass destruction but really my friends this about controlling the oil fields, not about morals. I see little evidence of moral practice anywhere in the world. For me it comes down to a bunch of guys making decisions that benefit their system, a boy's club of global proportions, bottom line. No offense to all my friends and family of the male gender, this is not personal. We are despised and envied all over the world because of our power and our innovations, our arrogance and our brains, but nothing lasts forever and it would behoove us to pay more attention to the history and the context of the places we see fit to impose ourselves on. I can say with no hesitation that I am frightened by the prospects appearing on the political horizon.

Paris
I returned to Paris/CDG and found Rena waiting for me in the same place she was one week earlier. I felt happy but tired from my Copenhagen trip. The thought of re-packing and heading out the door early the next morning for Cadenet seemed impossible. After some difficult deliberation I decided to remain Paris for the week rather than make a quick trip south. I was very conflicted but in the end I opted for Paris and a slower pace. My week in Paris began with the familiar pattern of walking the J du L, buying my paper at the same news stand, roaming the streets while Rena was in class and either cooking or going out for dinner. Since my arrival in Greece I have been in a process of excavating myself. I felt buried and lost. Over these weeks I have made a connection to my former vibrancy and creativity.
Such a process involves an afternoon like the following:

I believe I have found my favorite place in Paris. Browsing at the Sennelier Store on quai Voltaire is a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. As I wandered through the store floors touching pastels and paper I felt myself to be in heaven. There are drawers and drawers filled with oil and soft pastels of every color ever made by Sennelier. The store faces the Seine and is a short walk from the Pont des Arts. The store is very small. A narrow spiral stairway leads to two upper floors that resemble an attic. Each floor has a window with a lovely view if you should decide to linger as I did, reluctant to leave the shelves full of paper, canvas, paints and brushes. Everything is stocked to maximum efficiency with a bipolar sense of chaos and order.
As I stood in silence and solitude I gripped the edge of a display counter, overwhelmed by the perfection of the moment. I was clear in thought when I whispered to myself, this is where I belong, where my life is supposed to be, in Paris. The afternoon light fell softly through the window as the hustle of the crowd could be heard two flights below. Particles of dust hung in the air creating an almost grainy effect. I memorized every aspect of the moment knowing I would attempt to recreate the room in precise detail, perhaps on a day not as joyous as this.
I filled my small plastic tray with oil and soft pastels. I bought two small books of hand made paper. I debated about what and how much I should buy, as if I were readying myself for a long stay in a remote region with no hope of buying art supplies for many months. I did not want to squander the opportunity and miss one single item. The salesman showed me extra large oil bars that I have never seen before. As I considered my purchase many people came and went while I listened to the intensity of their questions. I reluctantly paid for my supplies and stepped out to the street and a flowing current of homebound workers/students. I navigated along small streets populated by art galleries and specialty shops, peering into the window of those that interested me. In little time I was approaching the Jardin du Luxembourg where I stopped for a coffee before making my way to the blue door at 177 bis. After a visit to the produce store and the butcher I was back "home" to begin dinner, chicken soup and salad, a Rena request.
I sat at the little table and looked around the studio. I have come to feel so much at home here in this small space that I share with my daughter. I tried to picture myself in a four-bedroom house on Dohrmann Lane and was unable to conjure up the image. My days in Paris have been full, as they were on Folegandros. While preparing dinner I glanced outside the kitchen window and noticed a bug making its way across the ledge. How good it is to take note of such small things, to be in a state of mind that allows you to follow a bug and simply wonder about its life and what will happen after it is no longer in your field of vision. Life is happening all around us and hundreds of people and creatures cross our path in the course of a day. I wonder about that fleeting split second when we brush against each others universe and I find it remarkable as I total up the network of family and friends and connections at work and school that criss-cross here and there as we occupy the same space in the street or metro station/train most likely never to see each other again. However, for a brief moment in time we overlap in this random sort of way whether we choose to consider it or not. Such are the thoughts of a woman with time on her hands.

I set out for Sacre-Coeur early in the morning with my nephew Abehjha in mind. I took the Metro to Gare du Nord and walked through the neighborhood bordering the station
and Montmartre. These streets are distinctly different from where Rena lives; streets lined with discount shops and far more people of color. I stopped at a few of the discount stores to see what was happening inside. It was a whirlwind of activity and frenzy as shoppers picked through the merchandise in search of a bargain. Once inside I felt the electricity and urgency of the shoppers, like a tidal wave about to crest as hands reach for item after item, grabbed or discarded. Dressed in jeans and sneakers I almost blended into the crowd; however, I lacked a certain shopping desperation and possessed far too much reserve to truly blend in. I continued on to Sacre-Coeur, which abruptly shifts to a tourist infested, zone as you turn onto the cobblestone street leading to the church perched high on the hill. I climbed the steps pausing to enjoy the view. It is a breathtaking view for sure. The shortest, steepest, metro line in Paris, the Finicular, runs up and down the hill and for the price of a regular metro ticket you can hop on. Having walked up I decided to experience this tiny tram-like metro car. I inserted my metro pass into the billet machine and rode the tram down the hill simply for the sake of it. I retraced my steps back to Gare du Nord and home.
Rena and I spent the afternoon at the art studio painting another nude. I was so impressed at the painting she completed last week I put first dibs in for it so I can frame it when she gets back to the States. I have long been convinced of her artistic abilities, her painting was bold and imaginative, and definitely her own style.

Walking through the Jardin du Luxembourg this morning I discovered a small apple orchid. I must have walked by that particular spot at least twenty times without noticing it before. There are plaques indicating the type of apple tree. The park is full of surprises if you have the time to explore and wander around the less frequented areas. On a sunny day, no matter how cold, people are jogging, sitting, strolling and reading. Living so close to this park has been a daily pleasure.

My time in Paris quickly draws to a close. These past two weeks here have been some of my best since I began traveling again ten years ago. I have had special time with my daughter that I will delight in for years to come. My mother and I also had some very happy days here together in 1995 and as I mentioned to her the other day via instant message, "Every mother and daughter should have their Paris time." We will miss each other but it is time for me to go and leave her to her life. It is no secret that she is living a life I could only dream about at this time; however, I take great pride in the fact that I have helped make this experience a reality for her. She is very clever and I am sure her time here will serve her well in the coming years.
It feels as if I have been away for a long time, more than a month but I cannot actually quantify it. I have pangs of longing for the island; those hot afternoons painting on the
terrace, hours and hours of deep solitude, fabulous October skies, walks in the early
morning and star/moon gazing late at night. Both in Greece and on the streets of Paris the beauty of it all is overwhelming, life uncontainably swelling up inside me. In these moments I have the urge to weep, to release the tidal wave of emotion that grips my soul. I am certain one cannot live in each moment with that degree of intensity or consciousness, we would blow like an old fuse. Yet those moments and realizations remind us that we are alive in the truest sense of the word with all our senses ready to receive the magic we too often overlook as we scurry about in our day-to-day tasks.
I arrived on Folegandros feeling very broken and empty seriously doubting I could ever feel this way again. I feared I had lost my edge and would never paint or write worth a damm. I lamented my younger, thinner, more energetic self like a long lost lover. I still think she was a ball of fire, lit from within by a sense of desperation to change her life or else and no one better stand in her way. However; I no longer "want my old body back" or return to those tumultuous days. I am looking forward to hitting my stride as I enter my 46th year as an artist, a mother, a friend and a perpetual seeker. A new chapter is about to begin and the best thing I can say about it is I have no idea what is going to happen.
Tomorrow is my last day on Paris. I will take one last morning walk around the J du L, buy a croissant and paper, see Rena off to class and have coffee while I reflect on this past month and contemplate the future. When Rena comes home from class we will dress up and take pictures, go to the Place de Vosges, the Bastille, and perhaps take a boat ride along the Canal St-Martin if weather permits. We have some last minute errands and stocking up to do. We will cram all we can into our last day in Paris. Rena departs for Amsterdam on Saturday morning after seeing me to the airport. And the journey continues...
Thanks to all of you for accompanying along this journey over the past weeks. Writing to you has given me cause for pause and reflection. As I made mental notes during my daily treks I did so with the intention of relaying them to you. The miracle of technology makes the immediacy of these reports possible.
I will be sure to check in one final time and let you know I have arrived home safely. Until then, take care and be well.
Paula



Subj: Afterthoughts and home
Date: Tuesday, January 5, 2003
From: Artist39

I wake up some mornings disoriented. Once the sleep has left my eyes I realize I am not in Paris, I am in my bedroom at home.
Home.
The word leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
Gone are mornings with my daughter as she dashes off to class, my walks in the Jardin du Luxembourg, days spent wandering the city on foot, reading at cafes. The electric current of Paris no longer passes through me. I miss my daily greetings with the kind people of the produce store. I often think about the laughter and joy that resonate from that shop throughout the day and I find myself wishing for work that sparks smiles for myself and everyone around me. Am I a romantic for believing that simplicity breeds delight and happiness?
The day before I departed, Rena and I crossed the street so I could say farewell to our friends at the produce shop. When Rena explained in French that I would be leaving the owner bellowed a passionate "NO!" We laughed but inside I was not laughing. In my best French I explained that my 17-year-old son was waiting for me to come home and I needed to help him prepare applications for university. I pointed to Rena and said, "my baby, I have to leave my other baby and I am sad." He put his arm around a lovely young woman Rena's age and said, "My baby." A knowing look passed between us, a look that transcends language, nationality, religion and any other form of difference. This is the look that conveys a shared experience of parenting, binding us together in understanding and sympathy like no other.
He leaned forward, eyes now serious and said in his best English, "She is part of my family now, if she needs anything she comes here and we take care of her."
I stood in the cramped quarters of this produce shop overcome with love and gratitude for these kind and welcoming people, for the part of humanity that offers compassion and generosity to another human being, be it a stranger or a friend for life.
You can go mother, don't worry, and there are eyes watching out for your daughter.

It poured my last night in Paris with a vengeance. We stayed close to home doing laundry one last time. Friday evening is not a popular night to do laundry so we had the place to ourselves for a change. As the dryer tumbled our clothes we sat in near silence reading, leaving our books now and then for a reassuring smile.
Rena reached for my hand and said, "Don't leave mom, Jonathan will be okay if you stay a while longer."
I stared at the page, trying to hide the tears welling up in my eyes. "I have to go Rena, you know I owe it to Jonathan as I did to you. I can't do this to him his senior year. He needs me, he is not ready yet, you want me but you don't need me. You are fine; I can leave here with complete confidence that you are fine. Leaving here is not what I want to do but I cannot do that to Jonathan. I have to go home and get him ready for college and I have to find a job"
No more words, just the dryer tumbling and the rain pounding the pavement.

I slept fitfully that last night, thoughts poking and prodding my sleep. Rena rode the metro with me, determined to deposit her mom at the airport before catching her train to Amsterdam.
As I waited in the long security line I told her to scat, allez, go, take her butt to the Gare du Nord and not be late as is her usual habit. We held each other and wept shamelessly. I pushed her away several times and told her to go. Finally she complied and I turned away, unable to watch her walking through the terminal. I was reminded of another time I left her in a far away city, almost four years earlier when my taxi pulled away from a street corner in Jerusalem where she stood waving, only 17 years old. A voice yelling "MOM!" loud enough for half the terminal to hear roused me from the past. I looked through the crowd and there was my girl, waving her arms, calling to me. In that moment I felt both victory and defeat. I had parented this child to adulthood and we evolved loving and liking each other. She still felt separation anxiety but she was able to walk away, however reluctantly and board that train to Amsterdam. I had done my job and after years of battling back and forth I could say I had done it well. My defeat came in the departure itself, in my trepidation that life at home would erase all I had claimed during this month away. The thought I would get sucked up and depleted was unbearable.
I cried those tears as we made the long bus ride to our board our plane, seemingly on the other end of the airport. The Air France bus was filed to capacity as people pressed up against each other. I stood holding on to a pole oblivious to those surrounding me, their voices a buzz with no words registering either in French or English. I hated each and every one of them for conspiring to construct this reality of leaving. One man in particular in my field of vision did not look away as the others did to my tears. After we exited the bus and began climbing the steps to the plane he came up beside me and asked in French accented English if I was going to be all right.
This provoked more tears. I stared him dead straight in the eyes and said, "No, I don't want to leave."
"Ah, but you can always come back."
But I did not feel this to be true. Though I can always return to Paris I will never be able to replicate the perfection of those days with Rena at 177 bis. No, this would go down as one of the great experiences of my life when persons, place and time are matched with no deficits, no empty spaces to fill. In the days and years to come I will lean back on this time, ask it to sustain me, and most important to remind me of how high I can soar when my spirit is in need of a lift.

Home
I was not wrong to be apprehensive about returning. Life has managed to peck away at me in the few short days since I passed through customs and saw my son's handsome, smiling face. There are issues, a crisis or two, and lots of details that require my attention. Work needs to be found and bills need to be paid. There is a university and a school district that are begging for an ass kicking. There are college applications to be filled out. And in the middle of it all is a woman who stands perplexed and confused about how she is going to hold onto herself in the eye of the many storms that encircle her.
I could say she is hopelessly despaired right now but that would not be the whole truth. There is a part to this truth, to this woman, that refuses to be deterred no matter what crops up. I saw her on the island in her past and present self and she gave me reason to believe she would never allow her spirit to fade as she once again painted until the sun fell behind the cliffs. I saw her on the streets of Paris, giddy with life and a bounce in her step. I saw her watching her daughter from afar, as she dashed across a busy Paris boulevard to her class, making sure she crossed the threshold into perceived safety, much like she did when the daughter was in kindergarten. In these already trying times I carry this woman inside me with a belief that she will spirit me forward as I fight for my kids, deal with life's trails and tribulations and desperately seek my rightful place on this planet. With her inside me I dare anyone to deny me.

It is time for my morning walk. No longer the J du L, I walk along the San Pablo Bay trail feeling all the blue I can, surrounded by the expanse of water and sky. There are autumn colors to study, trains passing to jostle me from my dreams and birds in flight to follow across the sky. For sure it is a gift and I am grateful for my proximity to water and nature. I will take account for these gifts, as I will no doubt be grieving the loss of Paris and Folegandros. Wherever I am, I hope I will continue to be filled by life, nature, art, poetry and that time and circumstances will allow me to share some hours in the company of my many friends who have been a patient audience to my thoughts and feelings over this past month.
I'll look forward to that.