Paris is for lovers.
This is fitting,
because I am here for six weeks, to write yes,
but also aching to fall in love again
with my own heart.
I am here hoping to woo myself back to that childish curiosity for life.
I am here flirting with my delight in ordinary things
and the scent of lavender
or the color of evening just before things get darker.
Things inevitably get darker.
I am here following the Seine somewhat aimlessly in the morning,
trusting the flow of open water,
of untamed spirit
will lead me to new clearings I can’t forsee.
I am here with permission to not feel guilty. I am so good at self-inflicted guilt.
I am here with an invitation to dwell,
to wake up with loose agendas, to relinquish control.
No matter how much that threatens my identity.
I am here with gratitude, knowing that all is gift and all is grace, and all I can do is give thanks
in the certain uncertainty of tomorrow.
I am here
aware that so few of us women can afford the time and the cost of getting away from our overflowing grasping lives.
But I am also here aware of how difficult it is to let ourselves receive any gifts of time and space,
to reacquaint ourselves with our own hearts, minds, desires, and thoughts,
aware that even letting go and living into freedom takes discipline.
Even lovers have to be disciplined.
I will practice the discipline of astonishment.
In the city of love
I will practice falling back in love,
with life, with me,
and if I’m lucky, with God.