Next stop was that eclectic neighborhood of artists and writers, bohemians and courtesans (popularized by the Moulin Rouge), Parisian and foreigner alike. Montmartre. The Basilique de Sacre Coeur stood like a virgin in the midst of a rowdy, egregious, and at times drunken crowd. A Catholic monastery of beauteous proportions, it was a curved white dome that housed golden frescoes of the faith within. Light was used as an architectural construct, crossing the path of many a tourist.
This was to be my home for the next few days. The monastery allowed lodging to pilgrims seeking travel and spiritual enlightenment. I awoke to the Gregorian chanting of the nuns every morning, sibilant voices that seemed other-worldly. This must be what angels sounded like (in French no less!)
I changed money to pay for my keep (by the way, the nuns only took cash), and oriented myself despite a poor sense of direction. A friendly, plump African-Franco sister tried to direct me through the labyrinth of the city, but to no avail. I got lost on the Metro. Because I did not know where to begin, I began anywhere.
I walked aimlessly, armed with a baguette and a few ounces of Brie fromage. One should never underestimate the tastiness of French bread. In the Champs Elysees I found myself, and chatted with a Sorbonne physics student along a park bench. I saw the glass pyramid of the Louvre. By the time I got to the Arc de Triomphe, my legs were so cramped that I panted and sat squarely on the ground. In another time and another place, I might have been embarrassed. However, desperation reigned and there I squatted, idiotic or not.
Perhaps I had finally accepted my limitations.
While excited tourists clicked digital cameras and Asian lovebirds engaged in corny poses, I thought about the grace of the present moment. Pam, a beloved friend and spiritual mentor, had taught we are called to be the best version of ourselves in the present moment. This moment is unique, from the people we encounter to the warmth of the sun, and there are limitless possibilities of what we can do and who we decide to become. We can constantly reinvent ourselves. Pam’s own life was an evolution from award-winning radio producer who covered the Tiananmen Massacre in the 1980s to respected theology professor to director of admissions for an inner-city school.
Each day was a rebirth. Because I had nothing, I was liberated from all the attachments that typically hold us back: jobs, family obligations, financial responsibilities. I felt like a tabula rasa once again, a blank slate upon which multitudes of stories could be written.
Which would I choose? Where would life take me?
In the course of wandering, I stumbled back upon Montmartre, to the prestigious cemetery that sheltered the bones of the rich and prominent. Edgar Degas and Alexandre Dumas and Francois Truffaut, to name a few. I only remembered artists, even though legions of famous politicians dwelt there as well.
How much land, how much living space did these notable folks claim as their own while alive? Yet, how much land does one really require to be buried? The irony is that most people are buried in very similarly-sized plots of land, egalitarian almost. (Notwithstanding the meticulous detail and expense some of these folks invested in their tombs.)
Why, then, do we like to acquire so many things?
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