Fortunate accidents. Fate sends us little signs and it depends on how we read them that determines our happiness. Little signals.-Serendipity, J & S

I just finished watching the movie (with John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale) and i’m feeeling very much in tuned with the universe. Not because the movie was sweet and very romantical or that there was a happy ending for them and the fairy tale was all there. No, that’s not it. Although I am a sucker for the hopeless romantic ideals. I feel sync with the universe because it’s all around me- and you and all. This movie is perfect in reminding me, sending out and conveying what it all means. It’s a good reminder that the universe will allow good things, will reveal whatever it is that needs to be unveiled, will give you what you need (and not exactly what you want), will be there for you when you need it most. Because it knows.

Ultimately, Jonathan concluded that if we are to live life in harmony with the universe we must all possess a powerful faith, of what the ancients used to call fatum; what we currently refer to as destiny.

I don’t think i’ll ever go as far as S in the movie to prove fate’s plan. But I do believe in the small glimpses that the universe offers. It’s our own wakefulness to these clues to pay attention to. Like J says in the movie, little signals and all. Not to say/mean that everything is left up to fate. No, not exactly.  That would just be too easy. Being open to the universe is really what I mean. Perhaps it’s a bit romantical theory. Or maybe even foolish and ridiculous sounding. Or maybe the universe does know. Who knows, anyway.

Maybe that one week  we spent together only existed in my universe and not yours. The meaning, anyway. And maybe we were never meant to be. And maybe I’ll look back someday on that and just know. A fortunate reconnection.

It’s also quite amusing that Kate Beckinsale’s character in the movie has my name- Sarah. Coincidence? Hm. You probably know my answer.

A friend recommended this movie. Though I cannot say it was a great movie – somewhat predictable and contrived, I liked the basic message.

It’s about a couple who meet one snowy night in New York City, while Christmas shopping. Jonathan and Sara want the same last pair of black gloves. When Buck Henry tries to grab them from both they work well together to keep the gloves. This starts a magical night of misses and connections. Sara says that she believes in the fortunate accidents of serendipity.

As a test, she leads them into the Waldorf Astoria hotel. They’ll each get in an elevator and push a button and if they end up on the same floor they were meant to be together. I believe she added, now. They do choose the same floor but Jonathan’s elevator stops to pick up a child dressed as the devil and his father. The father assures Jonathan that his child is happy to ride up, even if they’re headed down. The devil child promptly presses all the floor buttons, making Jonathan late for his meeting with Sara on the 23rd floor. Was that a fortunate or unfortunate accident?

At the end of the evening, Sara puts her name and number inside a book she promises to sell to a used book store and Jonathan writes his name and number on a bill he uses to buy something from a street vendor. If these two items find their way into the other’s hands, they ware meant to be.

To me, the movie speaks of the Loving Universe conspiring to make our lives work in the best way. The causes and conditions were not right for them at that time. The movie jumps to several years later when both are on the verge of marrying someone else. Sara has just accept her musician boyfriend’s proposal and Jonathan is hours away from getting married. But they can’t forget each other.

If they’re going to come together for the good of both, they have to be sure in their hearts what they want to do. What may be right for us, doesn’t always come in the way we expect it or at the time we want it. What looks like misfortune, may in fact be just what we need. The Universe is always at work to create the right causes and conditions. All we have to do is look for the signs.

In my last blog entry, I discussed visualization, the process by which one conceives of a shootable image in one’s mind’s eye, and then goes about the process of trying to actually capture that image.  I mentioned that while I’ve had some success doing this, it’s been extremely modest.  As I discussed in the last entry, my typical workflow is more in line with trying to keep an open mind about what I might shoot at a given location and then seeing what the light and landscape reveal to me.

Taking this a step further, when I visit a site with a certain type of shot in mind (as opposed to a specific visualized image), I still try to keep my eyes open for other shots–outside of the anticipated milieu–both on location and even after I leave it.  Every once in awhile in circumstances like these, light and subject matter come together to produce something special.

There are few things as satisfying as coming up with a noteworthy shot when expectations were non-existent.

One such experience for me took place on a brief trip to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in April of this year.  I had been waiting for an opportunity to photograph a white fringed phacelia-laden woodland after failing to take advantage of the chance to do so during a visit the previous year.  I had scouted a location one day and returned late in the afternoon the following day to produce some images.  It had been a breezy, blue sky day (much to my chagrin) and to capture the scene in even light I had to wait for the sun to drop behind a ridge line to the west.  In the hour or so that passed before this happened, I defined several specific compositions that I found particularly pleasing.  When the sun finally fell below the ridge, bathing the scene in shade, I got my shots, packed up my things and prepared to head out of the park for the evening.  Within a mile’s drive on the winding mountain road, I caught a glimpse of something so impressive that I pulled into the first available turnoff and ran several hundred yards back up the road to get a better glimpse.  I saw a tree in its full spring finery, backlit by the setting sun, brilliantly contrasted by a background mountainside in full shade.  The wind had dropped to next to nothing by this time and the budding leaves were shimmering like jewels in glorious light.  I ran back down to the pullout where I’d left my car, hauled my gear out and sprinted back to the viewing point to photograph this unanticipated treasure.

Backlit Tree, Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

I hadn’t been looking for this shot–or any shot, for that matter, at least not consciously.  But evidently my mind was open, just enough, to see this opportunity when it smacked me in the face (visually speaking).  Now, had I not waited out the phacelia scene as long as I did, I wouldn’t have tripped upon the above image.  It was only because I happened upon the scene when I did that all the elements needed to make it happen fell into place.  Serendipity.

I had a similarly fortuitous experience on the Oregon Coast this summer.  I had descended on a particular turnout along the coast highway with the intention of photographing Heceta Head Lighthouse at sunset.  The problem was that marine layer fog kept billowing over the headland; not only wasn’t there going to be a sunset, the lighthouse itself wasn’t visible!  After waiting in vain for the fog to lift for the better part of the hour I packed up my things and, discouraged, headed down the highway.  The vagaries of the marine layer are well-known to anyone who’s spent any time along the coast and sure enough, just a few miles south of where I’d been grumbling about the fog, the highway curved around another headland.  From this spot, the marine layer was dissolved enough to reveal the dunes of the Baker Beach Recreation area below and the marvelous post-sunset light on the clouds and breaking waves of the Pacific.  From an unofficial gravel pullout protected by a guard rail, I tried to make the most of the scene before the light disappeared.

Pacific Sunset, Baker Beach Recreation Area, Oregon

Once again, I hadn’t been looking for or expecting this scene.  In fact, because of the discouraging experience at Heceta Head, I was almost certainly in a more negative mood than I had been prior to spotting the tree in the Smokies.  But evidently I was still cogent enough to be at least subconsciously alert to some of the possibilities that were, quite literally, staring me in the face.  And, once again, if not for the specific set of events that allowed me to come across this scene at precisely the point I did, this moment would never have been revealed to me.

Serendipity:  it can be a wonderful thing as long as you give yourself a chance to experience it.

The famous Frozen Hot Chocolate that Serendipity is known for has been on my “I must try this at some point in my life” list since I was 18.  Right up there with Magnolia Bakery (which we are getting in LA soon). Although the thought of going to NYC is tempting, it certainly wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

So imagine my contentment when I heard that Serendipity was opening up a shop in Las Vegas! Score! Totally accessible and a place that I visit at least once a year. Honestly? I was super excited. Not only was I influenced by the movie, and hype, but my interest was only fueled further when Colin Cowie took Oprah there and they were both raving about it. I love Colin Cowie soooo much.

When my plans were finalized for this Vegas mini vacation, I knew that Serendipity was going to definitely be one of my stops and I actually ended up going there on Thanksiving. There was about a 10 minute wait to sit inside, although if you are in a hurry you can order from a take-out window and get your Frozen Hot Chocolate in a cup.

Not me! I wanted the FULL experience! So I waited and eventually got a table near the entrance. They also have an outdoor patio seating area where you can people watch.

The menu is huge. Literally. It’s pretty big. Lulz. Turns out you can get food too! I had already eaten (and honestly the food did not look too great) so I went straight for dessert. Although tempting…I just had to pass on this thousand dollar dessert. People actually order that? WTF.

Since there were three of us, we decided to order two desserts. The Frozen Hot Chocolate was a given, but what else could we try? Finally after some debate, we ended up with a banana split (the cowards portion).

The decor of the place is kinda cutesy. A lot of pink and it totally gives off that ice cream parlor vibe. You can also purchase some souvenirs, including some of their hot chocolate so you can replicate it at home.

This was our banana split. It was pretty big for being the cowards portion. It tasted just like many banana splits I have eaten in my lifetime.

And then our famous Frozen Hot Chocolate arrived!

Um. It definitely is not a life changer. Honestly? I was kind of disappointed. I thought it would be amazing and awesome and the most fabulous dessert ever! It was good, but I think it is a victim of hype.

Even if the whole experience was somewhat of a letdown, I would still say that if you were like me, and have always wanted to try Serendipity’s Frozen Hot Chocolate, then definitely do it. It is one of those things that you definitely need to experience for yourself, just to see what all the hype is about.

Serendipity3 (Caesars Palace)

3570 Las Vegas Blvd S

(877) 346-4642

Degrees up the levels, aliens have a new meaning. It is a glowing world when it is right..Everything from toes to bushes.Whatever or whoever, when correct then it starts to glow.

Is this the rule now?

Or is it a Drug?

Better, the Drug…We     are addicted to it, since, who knows when..

too much happy thoughts feels too new now.Like the Frog who laughed : ” You shroomface! “

But not so cold in this place when you are in your own world, bubble.

Bubblegum with cherry, but better.

Cake of harmony and every bite makes you fly..Better then the space cookies, more real, with passion and stars. All golden stars and every detail is colorful.Only waterfalls and rainbows with a golden warm rain and the glory of the sunshine.

But still not so real as you see the every day ..But more like the dreamlife of a indian god..Surrounded with symbols and ornaments with tigers and flowers.Still going more and more into the feeling.

and then you have so many emotions at the same time…one from angelic  to ..

• The acid test for the Illuminative way:
  Love my enemies with ease.
  — Fr. Groeschel
• Forgive:
  give up my right to be angry at the other,
  give up my right to have hurt feelings.
  — Fr. Groeschel
• Forgiveness is a gift of Charity [greatest of the Divine virtues].
  — Fr. Groeschel
• x
  
• x
  
• x
  

“Are any of you single?”

Click.

That moment – that click – was the kick-start to my evolution, much happiness, self-acceptance, yet just as much confusion and even a little pain through many years.

Snapshot: Windham Mountain, NY, in January 1984. The picture: A tall, handsome boy with dark hair, a beautiful smile and even more beautiful eyes – eyes that spoke to me so differently than I had ever experienced before. But really, what had I experienced, at that point? I was just short of 15 (he was already 15, but only 6 months older than me).

I was there with my school’s Ski Club – something fun that my best friend, Natalie, and I thought we’d try out; we’d also recruited another close friend, Claudia, to join, too – though we had just started skiing, Claudia’s parents would often go to visit Germany, their home country, and Claudia had experience skiing the crazy mountains in Europe from the time she’d been a tot. Anyway, that quote from Brad was after a morning of lessons and the Bunny Hill for Natalie and me, when the three of us were on line for the ski lift to a regular slope. Three of us, one of him – he was looking to pair up with someone on the 2-chair lift. So I readily volunteered, and we talked the whole way up.

And talked, and talked.

We pretty much spent the rest of the day hanging out with him; I never knew where his friends were (though I vaguely remember asking him and him actually telling me), and I think he was with his school, too. Details, details… Anyway, it was funny enough – there we were, several hours upstate, and we met him there, when we actually lived a little more than an hour apart down on Long Island. When we left, the three of us exchanged addresses and phone numbers with him.

Typically, at that age, easy come, easy go. We had plenty of cute boys in our high school, and plenty of the typical teenage noise that goes on in a well-populated area. However, we kept in touch with Brad. It started out that Natalie, Claudia, and I all wrote letters back and forth with him (back then, there was no such thing as email, Internet, texting, or even flat-rate phone plans!), and I remember his mom bringing him out to spend the day with the three of us once.

Eventually, Natalie and Claudia’s letters dropped off, but I continued with the correspondence, behind all of the other day-to-day noise of high school. At some point, we switched over to phone conversations; I can’t remember exactly when that happened, but I believe it started about a year after we met, when he was in the hospital for an extended period due to a sickness. I think it was pneumonia, and I remember that he told me something about having a heart murmur – but what is clear was that once we started talking, there was nowhere for us to stop!

Years later, he told me that during that period, I became his connection to reality, because even though he’d had a lot of visitors early on during that stay, the longer he was in the hospital, the less he heard from people, until eventually I was the only one he could count on to call. Every day.

It was somewhere in there that we became best friends.

Funny, I still had Natalie, which ran its course around that time – largely due to my rebellion and going down some shady paths (Natalie, on the other hand, stayed fairly straight – she did have a “normal” family life, after all, and at some point, our viewpoints and attitudes skewed differently), and then I had other “best friends” and a number of good ones who I saw day to day. I was interested in this boy or that, and dated this boy or that. I even fell in love. But regardless of what was going on, at the end of the day, I would be home and on the phone with Brad, for endless hours of narration and discussion about our lives, our thoughts, and our feelings.

Thinking back, it’s funny that our friendship seemed to be in the background, because though I would definitely not have known how to say this back then, it was like we knew each other’s souls. For the first time, I felt understood; I had a consistent, supportive, positive voice in my head – and even if it was through the phone line, it started to help overwrite the years of negativity that had been programmed into me at that point, because finally, somebody really knew me.

And vice versa. Brad had issues of his own; though he had married parents and a “normal” household, he was the 3rd of 4 children, so he had similar feelings of disinterest by those around him as I did. He lived in Southampton (for those of you who don’t know, the Long Island haven for Bluebloods), and with the exception of a handful of close friends, he felt very detached and different from most of those who he went to school with, because though they had a solid household income level, he definitely wasn’t a Blueblood! As a 3rd child, he often felt ignored; like me, he was extremely intelligent, and like me, his parents didn’t pay much mind to him because “If school was going OK, then he must be OK,” right? Plus, that feeling of isolation had been heightened from that hospital stay in mid-high school.

So we worked through it all together, debated each other, egged each other on, teased each other, explored ideas together, and pushed each other forward. It’s sort of like my life had two different levels: There was my topical life – what everyone saw every day, such as school stuff, happenings, the friends I kept, the boys I dated, the family drama; and then there was us. Like it was two different dimensions of reality, and the connection between Brad and me was the red pill. It wasn’t just deep, it was my core – it was real. I could take the truth from Brad when I couldn’t from anyone else, and he accepted exactly who I was, the good and the bad, with no pretense. We listened to each other about romantic interests and woes. We were confused, got lost, and made sense of it all together. We both did stupid things, but (sometimes miraculously) made it out OK on the other end – and could talk about it with each other. Then we’d shake our heads, marvel at it, and move on.

Hours and hours on the phone. I can’t tell you how many times I got punished for the phone bill, and for keeping the phone tied up so no one could get through (there was no call waiting yet). But we always found a way to connect! When Brad and his friends got their licenses, we were able to see each other every once in awhile because they’d come for a visit; I’d also taken the train out… standard, easily accessible transportation which added the ability for us to get together and talk some more.

Through this period, I got hooked in with a lost crowd – I won’t say bad, because I really believe there are few truly bad teenagers, just lost ones. I became free with sex, starting when I was 15 (I guess a psychologist would say that it was a way for me to get the attention of which I felt deprived), and soon after that, I began experimenting pretty heavily with “recreational” drugs (yet still somehow stayed in Honors classes and on the surface, “functioned” pretty well). My family? Mostly, they didn’t even notice. But Brad knew all about it, usually down to every nauseating detail. One time, I even called him and got him worried sick because I’d gotten “slipped a mickey” and passed out while I was laying in bed, on the phone with him. He’d told me it had killed him to wait to hear back from me the next morning – because again, no cell phones, no call waiting (so therefore, I’d just passed out with the phone off the hook in my bedroom, so my mother had no way of knowing), and no other way to get in touch with my mom to have her check on me and see if I was alive and OK in my room. Sad that someone who lived an hour away knew more about my physical state than a parent who lived in the same house as me, isn’t it?

At the same time, Brad experimented a bit where he could, though Southampton was a little more sheltered than the typical middle and upper-middle class town where I lived. He dated and fooled around, but never fully did the deed, because he wasn’t overly thrilled with the choice of most of the girls where he lived. He had pretty available access to the basic “recreational” drugs – I remember there was a period when his older sister – who’d already moved out on her own – was apparently being investigated by the FBI because of her marijuana activity. For awhile, we had to have code words on the phone to discuss anything that might be construed as illegal drug use, mostly because of that! And I knew about all of it.

Off and on for almost 3 years, I dated (and fell in love with) a loser who would be considered a low-level drug dealer, providing easy access for me, while also putting me in situations I was lucky to have gotten through (fairly) unscathed. Threaded throughout was a stream of other varied liaisons and at the same time, personal discovery.

Most of the rest of the world had no clue about all of these details. Yet always, even though we were working out these things with the world, at the same time, we were working out the things – the really important ones, that were about 5 or 6 levels down – on the phone, with each other. And though some of it could be pretty ugly, there was never anything we couldn’t talk about; though we challenged each other and even would get angry and upset about some things with each other, there was no real criticism or judgment to make the other one feel bad about him- or herself. It was just natural concern that resulted from our bond.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering, “Why didn’t the two of you become a couple?”

Well, that’s the thing I really can’t explain. I thought him to be the most beautiful person I knew, inside and out, and our bond was undeniable. However, looking back on it now, I realize that my love for him was so much deeper than that – in fact, I think too deep and intense for someone at that age to be able to fathom. Heck, I think most adults couldn’t deal with that, either. But who knows? Maybe if we’d had the opportunity to be in each other’s physical presence more often, it might have been more of a conscious possibility.

But then, maybe not. Because it was when we tried exploring that dimension of our relationship that things started to get mucky – which always brings me back to the understanding that it was probably better, purer, and more solid the way that it was provided to us early on. Or, depending on how you look at it, how we chose for it to be.

20+ years – and a completely different life – later, there are still a few events with him that stand out in my mind, and make me wonder, what if, and why didn’t we? One is the day that provided us with our first crossroads of opportunity for a different exploration of our relationship. Read on:

It was early in the summer between my Junior and Senior year of high school. I was 17; Brad had just graduated from high school (he was a year ahead of me), and was planning on going away at the end of the summer, to the University of Detroit. I’d wanted to go out to his house and stay a night – not because of anything except that it would give us a few days together, which was always a hassle to plan out, because of the travel time between our houses. His parents loved me, so that wasn’t a problem, but my mother really didn’t know anything much about him except that Brad was this boy that I’d gotten in so much trouble talking to on the phone to over several years – and even though she’d allowed me to go out there on multiple occasions for the day, she wouldn’t even consider an overnight, even though we were “just friends,” and his parents would keep a close eye out. (As a parent myself now, I guess I can understand that. But that was then…)

I already felt the pangs of our separation, even though his departure for college was more than a month away. In addition, my loser boyfriend had broken up with me (it was somewhere along our 5th or 6th breakup over that 3-year period), and I really needed some downtime and some fresh scenery. So, strong-willed as I was (and by this time very used to being put upon to make my own choices), I took matters into my own hands. My then-partner-in-crime Karen (the “best friend” I always say was the one who I always got into trouble with – not that either of us was worse than the other, but it was like we spurred it on with each other! Again, stories for another day…) concocted a plan: There was a day when I had a Guidance Counselor’s appointment that my father was supposed to attend with me (to talk about my Senior year coursework); however, the appointment wasn’t until mid-afternoon. So we told Karen’s parents that we were going to stay at my dad’s the day/night before, and we told my mother that we were going to stay at Karen’s cousin’s house, and that we’d be back about lunchtime the following day. As unsupervised as I was those days, and as wily as Karen could be with her family, it was actually a pretty airtight plan – my mother didn’t check with Karen’s parents, and vice versa. Brad decided he couldn’t tell his mom – I think mostly because she would have wanted to speak with my mom, though she was well-versed in my troubled (or rather, non-existent) family life. Therefore, we simply planned to stay at his sister’s house.

And so we hopped the train out to Southampton on our overnight adventure! It’s funny, in the midst of the muck of those years, how clearly that day still comes to my mind. Brad and one of his best friends, Tom, met us at the train station, and we ensued on a day out on his family’s boat, out on Shinnecock Bay. Cruising, waterskiing, beach, and plain old fun and escape, with a couple of wine coolers (and maybe some beer?) thrown in. (Note: At that time, the drinking age had just shifted from 18 to 19 to 21, so it was still pretty easy to get the simple stuff like that when you were 18ish.) Karen and Tom had some interest in each other, so for a time later in the afternoon, while I was laying out in the sun on the front of the boat, Brad and I were alone to talk; we had a few things to sort through, and we were never so comfortable as when we were alone for our connection.

Let me back up for a minute, before I proceed. I realize I left something really important out of this. I guess it’s really important – it might seem to be a little tidbit in this story, but over the years, it’s one of the things that has repeatedly plagued me with the nagging questions that I can’t get rid of. So I’m going to rewind a little.

For the first time that day, I’d noticed something I had never experienced before: When Brad and I touched each other skin to skin – even just casually in passing, like if we just bumped into each other – it felt like a current of electricity passed between us – not like static electricity, but internally, like the sparks between 2 live wires when they touch. At that point, I was pretty experienced with guys (and much more physically experienced than I should have been at that age), and had even been through dating and “oh-my-God-I-love-him” relationships. But I’d never had anything close to that happen before. I never said anything about it, but I do know that it freaked me out and made me…well, uncomfortable, because I didn’t understand it. It was strange.

OK, so fast forward a little bit, back to the boat that afternoon: One moment we were talking, and the next moment… well, we were kissing.

And I think that’s the moment when I really came alive.

He’d never even been that kind of consideration – in fact, since by that age I had already so effectively trivialized physical contact via my escapades – because he was much, much more important than that! He was my confidante, the quiet voice behind the noise of the troublesome daily life of my teen years. It was as if he were a part of me, because he knew everything about me; I felt as if I were completely naked and vulnerable with him, but completely safe. And I knew he felt the same way about me.

At 17/18? Are you kidding me? How many people don’t get there with someone by the time they’re 25? 30? 40? Ever?

Yet it was that kiss that moved me along…. to what? I still can’t explain it, even in writing. I just know that in the first moments of that kiss, I jumped forward in self-awareness, beginning with the discovery that I wanted him, more than anything else in the world. And I wanted to be his first.

The rest of the afternoon was a slow crescendo of mutual desire and discovery. Knowing I was already planning to stay the night, we took our time, exploring this possibility that had never before come to light. Everything else was a blur, but somehow, I know we had dinner with Karen, Tom, and (I think) his sister and her boyfriend; I know we distracted ourselves a bit by smoking some pot. But that had nothing to do with the way my heart felt (in fact, I think I wanted to smoke a joint to try to ease the excitement a little); it which raced with anticipation for that evening, when we’d be able to be alone – and finally, completely together.

But, as it happens, that’s not the way it went. I’ve always felt like there was something beyond our control that was on a mission to prevent us from physically consummating our relationship that night, for some reason.

Here’s what happened: That evening, my father called my mother to confirm our Guidance Counselor appointment the next day (even though I had confirmed with him the week before); as usual, my mother was clueless about it (and probably hadn’t listened to me if/when I’d mentioned it). Not knowing what else to do, she called Karen’s house, even though we were supposed to be at her cousin’s with her family, and got her mother. When my mother brought it up and asked for the number to her cousin’s, the conversation got all confused, because Karen’s mother said that we were at my father’s. So, after a brief panic attack because she at that point had no idea where I was, my mother called a few of my other friends (who knew nothing), and then called Brad’s parent’s house. Now, his parents knew nothing either, but after the conversation, his mother called his sister’s house (knowing that Brad was staying over there that night), to ask if I was there.

His mom wasn’t mad that I was there; I think (if I recall correctly) that she was mostly mad because Brad hadn’t brought me by. But in the meantime, I knew I was in DEEP TROUBLE. So, later in the evening as it was, Tom and Brad drove us home; I walked in somewhere around 2am to find my mother and father sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me (and I knew I was SO busted!). I made up a story that I had in fact been w/Brad, but his mom hadn’t known (truth), and that I’d planned on coming home the whole time (lie) – I just knew it would probably be really late, and figured it was safer to plan that way. I know. Lame. I think I was punished for a month or so… though since my mother wasn’t home all that much, it was hard for her to keep me off the phone and really carry out that part of the punishment, anyway.

In the meantime, the more time I had to think about what had happened – and what had almost happened – the more it scared me, because I valued our togetherness and our bond  so much that I think I was afraid that it would ruin everything. And who knows? Sometimes now, I think maybe I was even more afraid that it wouldn’t ruin everything – and that it would take us to some depth that would be too far out of my realm of comfort, which I couldn’t comprehend. I don’t know. In the meantime, I know I made up some dumb thing to Brad about how he deserved better than me for his first, and that I was ultimately careless with guys I slept with and figured I’d eventually hurt him with my carelessness. I know, how stereotypical, right? Well, we were both all too willing to mask ourselves by covering up that passion by accepting such a thin excuse.

And by the time he left for college a month later, he’d found someone who was convenient – and probably far less dangerous – to “break him in.” By then, I’d tucked all those feelings away, and it was back to being OK. I got all the juicy details, and it never bothered me a bit, probably because it seemed different… I don’t think it meant as much to him, and I knew it would’ve held much more significance had it been with me, that night.

Anyway, as things went back to “normal,” I went out with others shortly after that, and went back to the loser boyfriend for a few more months before I was finally completely done with that – it may have had to do with my newfound strength after dealing with Brad going away to college. And Brad and I still talked for hours, back in “our place,” without any disruptions.

However, there is one other thing shortly afterwards that conveyed more depth than I was ever willing to admit: The day Brad left for college. I remember that it felt like I might as well be having an internal organ ripped out of me. I was physically in pain, and felt ill. I spoke with him several times, and for quite awhile…. and when I hung up, I cried in my room for hours, which was (and still is) purely foreign and uncharacteristic of how I ever dealt with difficulties.

Thoughts about that part of my life…which I call “Section 1″
In my mind, that’s where I end the first “section” of  my life’s development, on many levels. I look back and realize how much I had to learn – and how much I made myself learn – by the time I was a Senior in high school. When I look at it from an abstract or metaphysical point of view, it’s as if I pushed myself through on a “fast track,” to get through so much in so little time, so I could get to the “next step.” And I know that I wouldn’t have been able to get to it had it not been for Brad entering my life.

In fact, as I get through the other “sections” of my life to date, you’ll start to see the same pattern – that in one way or the other, no matter how close or far we are from each other, or how long it is between our conversations – that Brad is here. He’s a part of me, in one way or the other, and it doesn’t matter how far we are from each other physically, or how long we go between direct communication. But I hope to provide a better explanation (and develop an even better understanding) as I go on.

However, one piece of the puzzle I’m really studying – because my gut, third eye, or whatever tells me that it’s important – is that day, as described here. What were the odds that day, in such a perfect situation, when I’d just found out that I could have something I hadn’t even known I’d wanted more than anything else in the world, that it would have fallen apart by such strange events that seemed almost serendipitous? It still blows my mind, how it all happened – and how it didn’t happen. And it makes me think there were greater forces at work to prevent it from happening just then. But why? is the question that gnaws at me.

And overall, I’ve lived my life in similar sections – very fast-paced, very eventful, and very challenging – like I’m rushing to “get to the point.” As I get older – right now, at the ripe ol’ age of 40 – it seems to be getting more urgent that I “get through,” because I have to get… I don’t know where. But that somewhere is coming; my heart beats faster just thinking all of this out and writing it down, because it just knows. Which is what has made me start to look back – not just at the smaller sections, but across the full span of my life – to try to make sense out of this big jigsaw puzzle that’s beginning to take shape. And my first epiphany has come, which is why I’m here, so I can feel it out here, draw it out in words, and see if it all makes sense. I’m starting to feel that once I do that, the pieces will come together so my next level of understanding will come, and so forth. Because it seems like it’s very, very important suddenly that I do this – not something I’ve decided to do, but that my inner voice is telling me I have to do.

Enough said for today. I’m spent – this is the first time I’ve even put that period of my life into words, and that I was even able to punctuate it the way I did is amazing to me. I’ve lost half the day in doing this, but at the same time, am also amazed at how freely the words actually came. Because this stuff — well, it’s really buried deep. I know that there’s no one besides Brad and me who know all of this, and I’m just sure that he’s kept this as contained inside of him as I do inside of me.

However, the importance of that piece of the puzzle is what I’m still trying to understand.

In the name of Allah,

most gracious, most merciful.

In the name of Allah,

most gracious, most merciful.

An old friend of mine finally opened a blog for his thoughts. alhamdulilah.

May your blog be a source of knowledge. insyaAllah.

Yes, such an announcement’s worth an entry about itself.

www.looking4light.wordpress.com

A friend had brought her child to work this weekend, in connection with “Children’s Day Celebrations”, and had got her decked up as a Native American.

He was sharing photos of the event with me, last night. (Featured below, Cindy Amrita, posing as a Native American).

An interesting series of mini-discoveries, happened soon after, that I would like to share with you all.

The moment I saw this photo, I was reminded of the very beautiful and silently smart woman I saw in the “Night At The Museum“, the native American lady who comes alive from the exhibit..

The name was complex, was all I could remember, still Google was helpful – Sacagawea was the name, I knew in just seconds..

Googled for her further, and learnt that she was the famous guide who helped in the Lewis and Clark expedition.

Then, tried to learn a bit more of the connection between her and the movie. And, landed on this article about Mizuo Peck, the Japanese-Caucasian actress!

And, hidden, like the proverbial diamond in the rough, was this article by a learned woman of Native American origin, elaborating, among many things, the responsibility borne by media story-tellers.

I was amazed at her command over the language, her ability to express forcibly, politely, yet sternly, what the right thing to do was.

The best thing about the web is this. The ability to level the playfield, to provide each an equally loud mouthpiece, and the once-in-a-while discovery that comes by laden with serendipity where each turn around the corner provides a more interesting vista and a greater learning experience!

Jai Ho!

Today’s Dr. Seuss quote is very apropos of blogging! Seeing what you say, and saying what you see seem to be the basics of operating in the “blogosphere.” Yet, since a blog, by nature, can be very personal, actually putting those words “out there,” can seem to be a daunting task!. That’s why I admire bloggers, like beaknfeather who not only look in the mirror, but share the images as well as the words!

As this is intended to be a positive blog about being a chronic pain survivor, I guess I should make the political personal (to turn around a phrase), and give what I hope is brief enough chronicle of my journey from there to here.

I’ve dealt with one sort of transient pain or another for as long as I can remember – which is going back to about 2. (Apparently, I had colic along with the other baby pains such as teething that we luckily forget – but those who were around us don’t!) Childhood problems such as severe headaches (known as “cranium crushers” that I now recognize as just another form migraines), chronic sinus infections and asthma-like symptoms after a cold. As a teen, like so many other women, I suffered through those monthly agonies that hot water bottles, doses of Midol, and other home remedies did little to lessen or alleviate and added (un-medicated) migraines to my list of “woes.” As an adult, I had other “woman” issues including endometriosis, and ovarian cysts along with “killer” PMS, and in my late 20s, I developed IBS (which I continue to deal with). Although these pain episodes were regular and agonizing, there was still a transience to their nature: I could conceivably have a pain-free day. Before I learned about medication for migraines, there was that euphoric feeling when, after hours, days, of lying still, holding your breath because breathing hurt, eyes shut, pillow over face to block light and sound, the migraine broke its hold, and you had your life back. An endorphin-like high kept that me “up” for hours.

Then, one day in 1998, I was waiting in the grocery store line, secretly scanning the tabloid headlines, and holding a bag of rolls and some potatoes, when the left side of my face began to hurt under the eye socket, along the cheek bone, and into my jaw. There was initially some tingling/numbness in the left corner of my mouth as well. So began the “continuing saga” of  life as a chronic pain survivor. I followed a route probably familiar to all those with chronic pain; visits to specialists, and in my case dentists, and the search to find a health care professional who believed you were in pain. That is one of the problems with having chronic pain as an “invisible illness; no amount of dental x-rays, CAT scans nor MRIs are necessarily going to reveal the source of your pain and without “physical” proof, I spent years being told it was “literally” in my head! I was often told I should be happy that I didn’t have trigeminal neuralgia, cancer, a tumor, or TMJ (links to follow) (which I am glad about; I know those conditions cause horrific pain!)  But, at the same time, these reactions by health care professionals as well as friends and family, seem to trivialize my pain.

I gobbled aspirin, Tylenol and several over- the-counter products containing codeine available in Canada (where I lived at the time); I used hot and cold compresses, and Tiger’s Balm, and the pain remained, gradually getting worse. At some point, I was told, rather dismissively, that I had chronic atypical facial pain. As talking was my career, there were days when I wished I could just be silent; I even undertook two career shifts (other factors were involved) so that I wouldn’t constantly be moving my mouth. By then (2004) on a good day, my face felt like a combination of two or three abscessed teeth (by then the pain had spread), a severe sinus infection, a black eye, and someone was using a nail gun to put nails up through my teeth into my jaw). Sorry, I know this is supposed to be a positive blog, but I’ve never put my “pain face” completely out there to the world; as Dr. Seuss so eloquently put it I never: “. . . just look{ed} in my mirror and {then} see what I say, and then I just say what I see.”

Then two things happened that year to alter this journey: I unexpectedly lost (for no apparent reason) the “job of a life-time” I had travelled a thousand miles and physical and physiological borders to take. And, I found, by pure accident, a primary care physician who not only believed I was in pain, but did so in an extremely caring and compassionate way. One made my pain much worse; the other helped start me towards manageable pain. I tried, unsuccessfully, to find another comparable job; it seemed like a thousand resumes equaled one response. The added stress and depression seemed to fuel the “demon in my face.” I finally “chased the dragon,” and tried an opiate-based pain management regime. I’m sure many people know the kinds of issues this sort of daily medication raises: nodding off peeling potatoes; agonizing withdrawal symptoms (yes, tv/movies have it right: when you are withdrawing from something like morphine, your nose and eyes run!); trying to fine-tune the dosage so that the pain is manageable (mine never went away) and the brain can still function like an alert, engaged individual.

I documented my pain – a pain diary – tracking what made the pain better or worse; what I ate; the medications I took; what activities I did. It became clear that certain things – working at the computer, looking straight up for too long/often, carrying heavy bags on my shoulder, hurt my neck, but also made my facial pain worse. If you haven’t kept a pain diary, please give it a try (These are just a few of the ones available on the web. I’ll upload by personal one in the future). It can be discouraging, I realize, but it might also provide you and/or your health care professionals or whoever you share it with, some insights into the “nature of the beast” of your chronic pain!

I also tried several pain management specialists to varying degrees of success. One put me on a medication that made me so nauseous that I lost over 10 pounds in a month (not the way I would recommend slimming down). Then, during an office visit with another, he poked a spot on the left side of my neck that made me scream out aloud. “I made your face hurt,” he said. “No, my neck!” This discovery led to a nerve block (link to follow) in 2006 (I forget the technical term – years of pain meds can do that) at a point where two nerves meet in my neck and travel up to my face. The block was amazing; my pain level went down about 30% to 40% as did my consumption of pain meds. With the meds and block, I really could put down a pain level of 2 or 3 (on a scale of 10) on my very best days! But nerve blocks don’t hold, and my pain doctor (like so many in that line of work seem to do) stopped taking insurance/my health insurance providers changed and wouldn’t cover the expense.

So, it was back to tweaking the opiates again. And, I found out I am one of the about 10% or so of the population for whom Fentanyl has no little or no effect. The number of my migraines increased because of neck spasms, my IBS was intolerable, and I felt at the very edge of a large, dark abyss with no way forward or upward, just spiraling further and further down. Then along came Lyrica; it is not a miracle drug by any means, but once again I was/am able to tone down on the opiates. Still depressed and stressed (think my life will always be that way), but at least I’m managing the pain again, rather than it managing me. That’s why I say I’m a chronic pain survivor – I’ve come through bad and still teeter on the ledge; I haven’t reached the other side of the abyss, but I’m trying to build some sort of a bridge across.

If you have positive thoughts about surviving chronic pain: alternative therapies; moments of serendipity; light bulbs going off over your head at 4 in the morning; cartoons, images, or comics; appropriate websites and forums to share, please let me know! Being positive can be an individual or a community “thing.” (Or as Dr. S. might say “Thing One” and “Thing Two.”

The Parc de Belleville, 18 November 2009

This is my second posting of the day. On Thursday, I wrote some of my musings as inspired by fellow blogger Betsy Shaw (see here), but I did not get to the point where I was ready to post the blog, so I revised it a little today, posted, and now am continuing what I had hoped to finish yesterday and did not: the last part of new friend Karen’s and my adventure to the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, the Parc de Belleville, and Cimitière Père Lachaise.

The Adventure, Continued: Cimitière Père Lachaise

I have already written about the first and second parts of the adventure of my new friend Karen and I went on here and here. The third part of our adventure was to the Cimitière Père Lachaise, what is possibly the best cemetery in the world!

I love going to Père Lachaise. Part park, part sacred ground, it is 118 acres of a visual feast. I love to photograph there as there are so very many fascinating headstones, statues, and other memorials. The colors and textures are beautiful. Plus there are the resting places of so very many famous people for both the French and residents of other countries: Frédéric Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Sarah Berhardt and, the Lizard King — Jim Morrison of The Doors.

Karen and I walked from the Parc de Belleville to the cemetery.

Map from Mappy.com

We exited the park at the southwest at the Passage Julien Lacroix (the little sticky-outy bit at the south of the park where Rue Julien Lacroix joins Rue des Couronnes). We continued east on the Rue des Couronnes to the Rue Henri Chevreau and then south to the Rue de Ménilmontant.

Map from Mappy.com

The park around our point of exit at the Passage Julien Lacroix.

Karen noticed this sign on the side of what appeared to be an apartment building on Rue des Couronnes.

Hmmmm. RAPE 66? We were really wondering what that could be about!

We saw a lot of paintings on buildings like this. I have noticed these in the area around the Canal Saint-Martin, too. Some take trompe l’oeil to a whole new level! Some are just fun like this one.

I think this one must have been on Rue Henri Chevreau. I know it was before we got to the Place de Ménilmontant, which on the map up there is where you see the green bit with the cross in the middle of it on the Rue de Ménilmontant.

That’s because these photos are next:

This plaza is where the l’Eglise Notre Dame de la Croix is located.

Just to let you know the crazy things that go through my head as I write, I put in and took out the “the” in that sentence about five times. The “L” with the apostophe there means in French either le or la — depending on the gender of the noun which it precedes (no idea if “eglise” is masculine or feminine, but I am guessing feminine, so “la”) – which is “the” in English. It is contracted there because it precedes a vowel. It is bothering me on some level to be writing what amounts to “the the Church of Our Lady of the Cross,” but it sounds stupid in English without the first “the” to my internal ear. What’s a writer girlie to do in these situations, eh?

The l’Eglise de Notre Dame de la Croix

This is the photo from the Parc de Belleville with the church in the distance:

Something else that made me understand that Karen is a chica I can really be in sync with is that when we were discussing which route to take to the  intersection of the Boulevard de Ménilmontant and Avenue Gambetta in the map down there, either the Rue Duris route or the Rue des Amandiers, she spoke up and said “I think the Rue des Amandiers because I like almond trees!”

Amandiers, as you might have guessed, means “almond trees.” I love a girl with my kind of logic. We did not take the route that seemed the shortest distance, but the route that sounded the coolest based on its name. So, Almond Trees Street it was.

A side street off the Rue des Amandiers.

More trompe l’oeil, which by the way I have learned since coming to France is pronounced “tromp loh-eeee” with a slight little “yuh” at the end, which is how the “L” is not pronounced. Ahhhh, French pronunciation!

(You might want to click on that photo to see it larger in Flickr. It really is very cute to see the things going on in each “apartment” there in more detail. Also, I just said “tromp loh-eeee-yuh” to myself about five times, extending the “eeee” each time, until I had myself in giggles. See? Total weirdo am I! I remember doing that as a kid though: saying a word over and over until it sounded absolutely ridiculous. If you don’t know what I am talking about, try it sometime! I guarantee you will wind up giggling, too, or your money back!)

And still more trompe l’oeil. (I bet you said it out loud that time and giggled, didn’t you?! )

An apartment courtyard.

This is the plaque on the side of an apartment building which says:

In the memory of

ZALKINOV Anna

ZALKINOV Rachel

MOYEN Raymond

MOYEN Alkmar Julie

Deported and killed by the Nazis

and of

ZALKINOV Noél   Father

ZALKINOV Fernand  Son

Members of the French Communist Party

Shot by the Germans

9 August 1942

I wrote about Tatiana de Rosnay’s Sarah’s Key in the previous posts about Karen’s and my adventure, especially in my post about the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. It was touching and interesting to see a plaque such as this pop up out of nowhere, yet another memorial to the atrocities that happened during World War II in Paris.

We saw more memorials, too. I have noticed on various school buildings in the 19th arrondisement this plaque. We came across another one like this one earlier in our day, too:

It basically is memorializing the 390 children who lived in the 19th, especially the ones who attended this school, and who were exterminated by the Nazis from 1942 to 1944. It says that they were innocent victims of the barbarism of the Nazis with the complicity of the Vichy Government, something I wrote about in that previous blog. I added the italics there as that part of the plaque is so important! The barbarism of the Nazis has never been disputed as official party line in France. The italicized portion there is an indication of the shift in official policy ever since the 1995 speech of Jacques Chirac where he condemned the role of the French government and its law enforcement branch as being “complicit” in the Nazi regime in occupied France.

Interestingly, Karen’s and my touching upon this part of Paris’ history was not over with seeing the plaque memorializing the family up there. More on that in a bit.

From the Mappy.com map below (the link connects directly to the cemetery map, not Mappy.com in general, if you care to see the whole of it), you can see how the Rue des Amandiers meets Place Auguste Métivier/Avenue Gambetta. I usually go into the corner entrance of the cemetery there. It is across the street from where M° Père Lachaise, Lines 2 and 3, exits at the Boulevard de Ménilmontant.

I am also so in love with Google Maps! I love how it is possible to zoom right in on actual photographs of the area in question. The below is a screen capture of the same stuff in the Mappy.com map above it.

Google Maps, Cimitière Père Lachaise.

To play “virtual tourist,” click on the link there and then click on the “Street View” link in the description of Père Lachaise.  (You may have to first click on Point A to be able to do that. In fact, by doing so myself, I learned the link takes you to the Rue de Repos entrance, one I do not know about. If you click on “D,” the Métro Père Lachaise, then “travel” down the Blvd Ménilmontant to the south, you can see the entrance I usually go in at the northwest corner of the cemetery.)

A closer view of the intersection near the Blvd de Ménimmontant entrance to Père Lachasie.

And, the screen capture from Google Maps of the street view of the Blvd de Ménilmontant entrance. There is usually a guy with a map stand at that entrance (the stone doorway there on the right) selling cemetery maps for about 2 €. I *highly recommend* that you buy a map. I use mine every time I go there as Pére Lachaise feels like a small city unto itself!

(I am kind of laughing at myself with this post at this point. I *dearly LOVE* to get these screen captures and maps and show you exactly where I have been and how YOU can get there, too! It also really helps me re-live the experience and then be able to write about it, recalling each and every street traveled, and what I saw there. My oh my I love the Internet! It is a reader and writer’s dream-come-true to me.)

Ahhhhh. Okay, so where was I? That’s right: map of the cemetery. GET ONE. Spend the two euro to have one! I know they are also sold in the flower shop there to the left of the stone doorway entrance.

A word to the wise about the cemetery, too: wear comfortable shoes and be prepared to get some exercise. This would not be the kind of place to bring the 85-year-old mother and the three-year-old. Nor anyone who has bad knees or feet or any other kind of impairment involved with walking. This is not going to be a wheelchair-friendly place, either, not that France, in general, is friendly that way. They are working at it, but at a snail’s pace compared to the States. I wish it were different for folks who have special needs, but it is not, unfortunately. Maybe in the future it will be different. For now, though, please experience this virtual tour. I mean, with the Internet, you can see it all! The wind may not be blowing in your hair, and you may not feel the sun on your face, nor the rain on your back, if it is that kind of a day, but you can at least get an idea about what it is like there.

Oh My Goodness, Now What?

I actually, at this point in this post said out loud, with a great sigh, “Oh my gaaaaawd!”

I have so many photos and so many things to write about this journey.

I think what I am going to do at this point is choose my Top Five photos from the afternoon, post them here, and then go over to the Flickr Set of this afternoon and annotate the photos there with descriptions that are more specific to each photo. How does that sound? I am already feeling like, at just over 1,800 words for this post, that I could write a WHOLE NOVEL just based on this one day! LOL! And it is exhausting me. But, I still want to tally words for NaNoWriMo to see how far past 50K I can go, so I will push on just a wee bit more.

Before I post the five photos, though, I would like to write about first, Héloïse and Abélard, and second, a woman we encountered when we got to the main entrance within the cemetery, which is a little further down Blvd Ménilmontant.

Karen and I met her while we were looking for the memorial tomb of Héloïse et Abélard.

Héloïse and Abélard

The Wikipedia article on Père Lachaise, in the section called “Origins,” says the following;

At the time of its opening, the cemetery was considered to be situated too far from the city and attracted few funerals. Consequently, the administrators devised a marketing strategy and with great fanfare organised the transfer of the remains of La Fontaine and Molière, in 1804. Then, in another great spectacle in 1817, the purported remains of Pierre Abélard and Héloïse were also transferred to the cemetery with their monument’s canopy made from fragments of the abbey of Nogent-sur-Seine (by tradition, lovers or lovelorn singles leave letters at the crypt in tribute to the couple or in hope of finding true love).

Pierre Abélard was

a medieval French scholastic philosopher, theologian and preeminent logician.

(Wikipedia)

At the tender age of 22, he set up his first school in north-central France, and then moved closer to Paris where his teaching became well-known and he had quite a following of pupils.

I love how the same Wikipedia article expresses the next bit of information, so I am just going to quote it rather than get more creative on my own:

Distinguished in figure and manners, Abelard was seen surrounded by crowds — it is said thousands of students — drawn from all countries by the fame of his teaching. Enriched by the offerings of his pupils, and entertained with universal admiration, he came, as he says, to think himself the only undefeated philosopher in the world. But a change in his fortunes was at hand. In his devotion to science, he had always lived a very regular life, enlivened only by philosophical debate: now, at the height of his fame, he encountered romance.

Oh la la! Romance!

Painting from 1822 by Edward Blair Leighton: A Scene of Abélard Schooling Héloïse

Héloïse, young, certainly beautiful, and very intelligent, was living under the care of her uncle, the canon Fulbert, as his ward, when Abélard sought a position in Fulbert’s home as tutor to Héloïse. He set about to seduce her and was successful. Abélard became something of a braggart about his conquest, the affair was apparently also interfering with his teaching, and they were found out by her uncle. He forbade them to see one another, but they continued to meet in secret. Héloïse got pregnant, and upon this discovery was sent off to Brittany by Abèlard, where she gave birth to a son and named him “Astrolabe” after the navigational instrument.

[Aside: BWAH HAH HAH!!! ASTROLABE!! Hahahahahaha! Poor kid. Reminiscent, too of Hollywood parents naming their children interesting things as well, like Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin's daughter "Apple." Only this was in the 12th Century, A.D.]

In an attempt to smooth Fulbert’s ruffled feathers and unsully his reputation as a teacher, Abélard proposed a secret marriage to Héloïse. Héloïse initially rejected this proposal, but still they married.

The Wikipedia article states what happened next:

When Fulbert publicly disclosed the marriage, and Héloïse denied it, she went to the convent of Argenteuil at Abélard’s urging. Fulbert, believing that Abélard wanted to be rid of Héloïse, had him castrated, effectively ending Abélard’s career. Héloïse was forced to become a nun. Héloïse sent letters to Abélard, questioning why she must submit to a religious life for which she had no calling.

[Aside: Castration ending Abélard's career??? Career as what? Stud stallion? I do not understand that part. I guess one has to be acculturated into 12th Century mores to get that one. Sounds like there was a major misunderstanding, though. Oh, miscommunication! This has the markings of a Shakespearean tragedy à la Romeo and Juliet, no? I wonder if Shakespeare knew about these two when he was crafting his tales for the stage. I'm sure he did. There are even some very cool modern cultural references about Abélard and Héloïse.]

So, Abélard joined a monastery, re-started a school, got disillusioned, took joy in irritating monks (he is sounding kind of like an annoying, arrogant smartypants, this Abélard!), and then he was allowed to leave the monastery. This next part makes me laugh. When all else fails, go turn into a hermit, wear a hairshirt, and build a hut out of sticks!

In a deserted place near Nogent-sur-Seine, he built a cabin of stubble and reeds, and became a hermit. When his retreat became known, students flocked from Paris, and covered the wilderness around him with their tents and huts. When he began to teach again, he found consolation and in gratitude he consecrated the new Oratory of the Paraclete.

Héloïse, meanwhile, became a well-respected nun, accepted fully her religious fate, eventually becoming an abbess in the Paraclete. They wrote letters to one another in which she expresses her resignation to her and Abélard’s being as spiritual brother and sister to one another, in holy love. The Wikipedia article on Héloïse says the following about this period of time:

About this time, correspondence began between the two former lovers. After Abélard left the Paraclete, fleeing persecution, he wrote his Historia Calamitatum, explaining his tribulations both in his youth as a philosopher only and subsequently as a monk.

Héloïse responded, both on the behalf of the Paraclete and herself. In letters which followed, Héloïse expressed dismay at problems Abélard faced, but scolded him for years of silence following the attack upon him, since Abélard was still wed to Héloïse.

Thus began a correspondence both passionate and erudite. Héloïse encouraged Abélard in his philosophical work and he dedicated his profession of faith to her. At one point, she tells him to share every detail of his life and not to shield her from unpleasantness.

Ultimately, after telling Héloïse of instances where he had abused her and forced sex, Abélard insisted he’d never truly loved her, but only lusted after her, and their relationship was a sin against God.

Some scholars consider Abélard was attempting to spare her feelings (or his feelings, altered from disrupted hormones [from the castration]) and others point to the damage of his hormones and psyche, but from this point on, their correspondence focused on professional subjects rather than their romantic history.

There are sections both of the Wikipedia articles on Héloïse and Abélard referring to religious intrigue and persecution of Abélard and his eventual expulsion from the Paraclete, but what stands out the most in the remainder of it is this piece of information. Upon his death in 1142, his last purported words were:

I don’t know.

Oh my! Could not have said it better myself.

His remains were given into Héloïse’s care at the Paraclete, where she was still abbess. Upon her death in 1163 or 1164, she was supposedly buried with him there at the Paraclete, and, after several moves of the remains, they allegedly rest together as of 1817 in Père Lachaise.  Some say they do not rest there, and it is only a memorial; others say it is only Abélard’s remains there.

This website says the following about Héloïse and Abélard:

The two were ultimately reunited, in death and burial, at Pere Lachaise Cemetery in the 12th century. They are buried in the same crypt and are the oldest residents of that famous address. The abbesses [sic] who added Heloise’s body to Abelard’s crypt swore that his arms opened to receive her in an eternal embrace.

Regardless, it is a monument dedicated to life-long romance, and thwarted romance, and tragic romance. ***SIGHHH***

Here is my photo of the crypt, which is covered by scaffolding most of the year as it needs constant refurbishing after Valentine’s Day, when allegedly hundreds gather to leave messages with hopes,wishes, and desires for true love, according to a self-appointed tour guide we ran into at the cemetery.

That’s Héloïse on the left, when standing at the foot of the tomb. The somewhat odd, wild-eyed and wild-haired self-appointed cemetery guide (I wish I had snapped his photo) told us the dog at the foot of the tomb was a symbol of fidelity.

We were to discover unofficial guides such as this are a bit common in the cemetery: people who love the cemetery and are knowledgeable about it want to show people to different graves. They hang about and walk around looking for people with whom to share information. As far as we could tell, Karen and I did not think they wanted money for any services rendered. They just seemed to want to talk about the cemetery and tombs. Maybe we were naïve about the whole thing, but it was interesting to hear the man we ran into speak about this crypt. We ran into another man later who offered to take us to Molière and La Fontaine’s tombs. We let him show us. He did not ask for remuneration, and in any case, neither Karen nor I had small change to offer so we did not try to give him any money.  I am uncertain about the role and desires of these folks who hang about, waiting to show people where graves are, but she and I took advantage of the situations and learned a lot. It was also useful that Karen spoke French as one of the guides we ran into spoke only French.

The Interesting Woman

But not the anonymous woman who came up to us, clearly a tourist as well, but also clearly a French one. She was probably in her 70s, a petite woman, with white hair in a chignon, wearing glasses, and who was smartly dressed in a practical, older French woman sort of way. She had her map in French with names written on it (not Jim Morrison, although he is the cemetery’s number one resident in terms of visits) and areas circled in pen. When she first saw us, she must have taken us for French women, for she started talking to us in French. Karen tried to keep up, but then when I turned to Karen and said something in English, the lady said, in English, “Oh! You speak English! I could tell from your expressions you were not understanding me completely,” and proceeded to negotiate the rest of the conversation in English. She was so excited, exuberant, to be searching for all the famous people on her list.

What was most interesting was, out of the blue, she started talking about, guess what, of all things? The Vichy Government during the war. I understood from her comments that she had been a child during wartime in Paris. She spoke about the fear, and the disgust she had for complicit French collaborators with the Nazis, some of whom she was saying were buried in the cemetery.

It was so curious that fresh after finishing Sarah’s Key, Karen and I ran into yet more evidence and conversation about this dark period in Paris’ history.

I enjoyed that woman so much. Her spirit and enthusiasm were contagious. I remember thinking about her when we were conversing with her for the time we were,  I hope I can be like her when I am her age.

Also, it was her, when I said I was from Colorado and living with my “boyfriend”  in Paris, then waxing on about how it seemed silly to call an almost 50-year-old man (he is 46 next week, and will likely bristle a little at the “almost 50″ part, but it is true!), my “boyfriend,” she looked me in the eye knowingly and said, “He is the l’amour de ton coeur.”

She could not have been more correct. Thank you, delightful woman, whoever and wherever you are, for that knowing and understanding phrase.

Top Five Photos for the Day

In conclusion, here are my favorite photos of the cemetery that day.

A statue I had never seen before in the six or so visits I have made to the cemetery.

Offerings. A 26-hour candle, and a moldy orange.

Karen, leaving a lipstick kiss on Oscar Wilde’s grave.

Mr. Fucker and Me

And last, but not least,

Intricate Shadows

If you made it all the way here, thank you for reading it all! This was such a wonderful day spent with Karen, and it really will go down as one of my best ever in the city because of all the serendipitous things we saw and did.

Until later then, I am Your,

pariskarin

an alien parisienne

I’m not sure I like the movie Serendipity. (I just watched it, yes I’m slow.)

Is it romantic? Sure. The winter snow fall, the beautiful scarves, gloves and coats (I love winter wear, sorry), the lit up Christmas trees and string of lights, and the couples skating around Central Park – all so lovely.

But the whole idea of Serendipity? Destiny? Fate? The one true love? I watch it with trepidation and dismay. It scared me to death.

How can meeting a person just for a few hours, determine your entire life? How can you think that person is the one you’re meant to be with, when you don’t know their fears, their joys, their loves, how they are like when they are mad, when they are excited and when they sad? And most importantly, how can one so easily let someone else go, the person whom you’ve shared your life with for many years, whom you have asked to marry/or agreed to marry, who has stood by your side and know you best?

We all gush and cheer and get all teary-eyed when the main characters (in this case John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale) fall in love in that one serendipitious moment and eventually meet again, but nobody remembers the peripheral characters, the ones who actually matter, whom you go to sleep with at night, who were there far longer than those who just hopped in at the last second, the people who were hurt and had to stand aside for this silly thing called ’serendipity’. Does anybody ever think about what happened to those people?

Call me a non-spontaneous wet blanket for not being able to toss it to the winds and embracing your ’soulmate’ when he/she comes. But to me, all these words are just pretty ones for something simpler – aching for something new because you are tired of the staid. Commitment phobe. Or, having an old love that has run its course.

All these idealised catchphrases that rhapsodize romance stoke the flames of unrealism. It  plants very unhealthy seeds into people’s minds.

I’ll admit I’m normally very sentimental and can occasionally fall prey to these Hollywood creations of what is love. But I don’t think it is ok to search for this other girl (whom you’ve only spent a few moments with and immediately think is the one for you) 3 days before the wedding, and dump your fiance the day before the wedding (at least give it a few weeks/months!). And it is not ok to flirt, kiss, and exchange numbers with someone that you are attracted to with the sole intent of hooking up with them when you are already with someone else. It is not ok to think that there is just one person out there for you, and the rest are just the backup you settle with when there’s no other choice. That just isn’t fair to the person that you are with, it just isn’t.

There is no soul mate. There is just the person that you love and choose to spend your life with. Whether you let the love and magic slip away or not depends on you.

“Serendipity is the faculty of finding things we did not know we were looking for.”

-Glauco Ortolano (2008)

The word has been voted as one of the ten English words that were hardest to translate in June 2004 by a British translation company. Serendipity is also defined as the ability of making fortunate discoveries by accident or as a chance observation falling on a receptive eye.

Here’s a short story of a serendipitous event.

CHAPTER 1: Accident… Luck

Being in a busy and crowded street like Manila, it is very difficult to find time to stop and “smell the roses”. Everyone seemed to always be in a hurry even if there are no reasons to. One girl happened to do that until after a few months, she realized that she has a choice to stop and take it slow; which she did.

One tiring Friday night, while on her way home, she decided to drop by at the mall, grab a coffee and something to eat. She decided to take it out and have it eeaten on her way home. Inside the bus, she sat at the very last row at the back, which is a 6-seater capacity. As she was minding her own business, a guy stepped in and sat at the other side of the last row where she was also sitting. From the looks of how the guy threw himself on his seat, he was tired and a little disappointed. It was obviously that he saw the girl sitting on his favorite seat. Despite that, the girl ignored what she saw and instead started eating her food.

For only a few minutes after the bus left, the bus accidentally bumped into a passenger jeep. The bus’ side mirror was broken into pieces. It was not major, though still the bus and the jeepney had to stop and file an incident report. While most of the passengers, both the bus and the jeepney have started transferring, four of them stayed inside the bus. That includes the girl and the guy still sitting both each at the end side of the last row. None of them where moving from their seats for they are waiting for the bus driver to start moving the bus. Despite the bus conductor’s request for them to transfer to another bus, both of them along with the other 2 passengers insisted to wait. It was both the girl and the guy who kept insisting they will stay until the bus is ready to move.

To keep them from being bored, they started talking to each other. They found out they are headed on the same direction home. Out of nowhere the girl asked the guy how old he was, the guy didn’t say his age at first and instead said “I’m not young anymore…” The girl still insisted to know and when the guy said “30”, the girl responded “so if you think you are that old, what am I then?? An elder?!” the girl said “I’m 31…” she continued. Then they just smiled. The guy asked this time “what do you do?”, “I’m a teacher…” the girl replied. There was a little admiration on the guy’s face, but only for a few seconds. As they were talking they learned that they are a product of the same school. Both were surprised of what they’ve heard, and still wondering how come they never saw or at least remember each other’s face considering the school was not that huge back then and the girl was an active varsity, while the guy was taking a Citizen’s Army Training (CAT). Even the schedules of their trainings were the same back then. And yet, they never saw each other.

Finally after an hour of waiting, they were convinced to transfer for it will take longer than expected before the bus can move again. Since they were going on the same direction, they transferred on the same bus, sat together and continued their conversation for they were seemed curious of what they have discovered. As the bus where heading Southbound, their conversation was headed north. They were talking about the places they’ve been through and sharing their experiences back then. Another revelation was discovered when they found out that they have a common interest in terms of music. It all started when the guy asked the girl about how she spent her free time. The guy was surprised for he didn’t expect the girl is also into the same genre he is… rock music. Probably trying to be sure if the girl was really into it or she was just riding on, he mentioned some bands and rock music, surprisingly the girl responded. She even showed a text message of an upcoming concert event whom she got from one of her contacts. It even made him more surprised when he learned that the girl was actually putting up her own concert events. The journey home was a long one yet both of them were not tired and are still talking about not-so-important stuffs. As they were about to take off from their respective bus stops, the guy realized he haven’t got her name yet. “We’ve been talking for hours, and yet I haven’t gotten your name” the guy said smiling. “Oh yeah…”the girl replied and then she gave her name. “Hello…” the guy said, he also asked the girl’s number, and the girl with no hesitation gave it to him.

to be continued…

So progress continues to be made on Serendipity, although I am beginning to doubt more and more the way the crunchy rules fit in with the rest of the system. I may pull them out into a seperate book to give them more space to be explained and to not constrain them to the restrictions of the other two sets. This is kind of dissappointing for me as I really wanted the 3 to be completely seemless. Ah well, maybe I will think of something.

In other news I didn’t get any writing done today because I bought a copy of Andrew Peregrine’s new game Hellcats and Hockeysticks. Its basically St Trinian’s the RPG and its wicked fun. Yes I can hear you all now talking about soft porn this and dirty perv that, but what can I say, I’m only human. But seriously it really is an interesting game and is really well written. His style has changed a lot since his earlier stuff (I have Pie Shop, which is worth a read by anyones standards as long as you can cope with something that disturbing) but this feels a lot more like a real game, so go pick up a copy its not that expensive.

Anyway back to Serendipity for me now.

Estoy sentado en el andén del metro, escuchando la radio con los auriculares. Se escuchan las noticias deportivas que hablan de la lesión en el tobillo de un futbolista. Justo en el momento en el que el locutor pronuncia las palabras lesionado en el tobillo una chica, sentada junto a mi, se aprieta el tobillo y mira a su pareja con un gesto de dolor.

Apoyado en la pared, junto a la puerta de un bar, escucho la radio, un anuncio, se escucha la frase líbre como un pájaro, justo en ese momento sale del bar una chica con un tatuaje en el hombro en el que se se lee la palabra free bajo el dibujo colorista de un ave.

•

I’m sitting on the subway platform, listening radio with headphones. We hear the sports news talking about a footballer`s ankle injury. Just at the moment in which the speaker pronounces the words injured ankle a girl, sitting next to me, it pulls the ankle and looks at his partner with a wince.

Leaning against the wall beside the door of a bar, listening to the radio, advertising, i hear the words free as a bird , just then leaving the bar a girl with a tattoo on shoulder which reads the word free under the colorful drawing of a bird.

This recipe, perfect for the Thanksgiving holiday, is my husband’s favorite pie – The Great Pumpkin Pie. It’s based on the recipe from the cookbook Sweet Serendipity: Delicious Desserts & Devilish Dish. When I bake it, I prepare it with love. Which means I don’t measure to exacting standards so there may be an extra helping of sugar and spice and everything nice. The recipe as follows will yield one awe-inspiring 9-inch pie to feed 6 or more (depending on how you slice it).

INGREDIENTS

• 1 (15 oz) can pumpkin puree
• 3 tablespoons sugar
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
• 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/3 cup unsulphured molasses
• 1 cup milk
• 3 large eggs
• 1 unbaked pie crust

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Place unbaked pie crust into pie dish and set aside.

2. Mix pumpkin, sugar, spices, and salt in a large mixing bowl.

3. Add the molasses, milk, eggs and beat until fully incorporated.

4. Pour the mixture into the pie crust. Even out mixture for a smooth appearance.

5. Bake in oven for 45 minutes or until the custard is slightly firm.

6. Allow the pie to cool to room temperature before slicing.

7. Store covered at room temperature. Serve wedges with whipped cream.

WHIPPED CREAM INGREDIENTS

• 1 cup heavy cream, very cold
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1 1/2 tablespoons light corn syrup

DIRECTIONS

Combine cream and vanilla and mix well. With an electric mixer with a whisk attachment, start whipping the cream on medium speed. Add the corn syrup slowly while beating. Whip until the cream holds soft peaks. Slather, drop, or dollop as your heart desires onto slice of pumpkin pie and serve. (Makes about 2 cups of whipped cream; up to 8 servings)

TIP: To avoid pie crust from burning while baking, cover the crust edges with strips of aluminum foil. Place the foil around the edge of the pie for the first 25 minutes of baking and then remove so the crust will brown slightly.

Interesting video and article on serendipity and how we can develop and nurture connections from it…

Read and see it here..

I often wonder how friendships are made. I wonder often, too, how they sustain.

The two hour trek to Stamford was one of these times. Paige at the wheel and I in the passenger seat, I let my mind drift into and out of possible friendship theories as we made our way down I-95 to see our friend RJ and his band Jacques Le Cocque play Seaside Tavern on Saturday night.

My friendships with RJ and Paige serve as a great point of reference on the matter. They allow me to further develop my thoughts on how it is that we make connections with people—and keep them—throughout life.

I met RJ through my already best friend Paige over a few beers and some good conversation. Paige and RJ had recently returned from a semester spent abroad in London. I listened as they recounted some of their shared English experiences and even their adventures that happened in venues beyond the Channel. I recognized that, even despite their twinned travels, Paige and RJ shared deeper, more inherent commonalities. I enjoyed spending time with them and their connection indirectly, albeit vicariously.

After that night, which was spent under dimly lit lights in a choice bar near campus and even outside its doors smoking cigarettes while talking about film and family stories, Paige, RJ, and I spent an exponentially increasing amount of time together. Soon, RJ and Paige assimilated me into their friendship; I even developed one with RJ, whom I now consider one of my best and closest friends.

I met Paige randomly during our first semester at UConn through our mutual friend Yuka. I met Yuka randomly too through my then roommate Eliza; Eliza and I had not been paired as roommates. My scheduled roommate had not shown, and I had a spare bed in my dorm room. Eliza came to me per recommendation of a campus coordinator because of the vacancy in my two-person room. When she told me about her current roommate troubles and her overwhelming desire to leave her assigned room, I had no reason to turn her away, so I let her move in. It’s strange to think: I would have never met Yuka or Paige if I did.

Then there’s Vicky. I met her, too, during my first semester away at college. We were casual friends, losing touch unless living in the same dorm. Then, during my last year at UConn, while on my way to the commuter parking lot, I heard someone calling “Erika” behind me.

‘It couldn’t be me she’s calling for,’ my subconscious assured me, ‘Nearly everyone I know here has graduated.’

Then the call grew closer.

Then there was a hand on my shoulder.

I turned.

“Hey!” I said. It was Vicky.

“Hi! How are you?” she returned.

Vicky was surprised to see someone she hadn’t seen in so long too—hence her vivacious call. We talked for almost two hours everything. In the weeks that followed, we kindled a close friendship that lasted through that semester, the next one (despite Vicky having graduated), and even beyond (I was even a bridesmaid at her wedding).

But, what if we had never run into each other that day?

Where would we be now?

Sometimes mutuality isn’t enough to create friendships…

Sometimes a little serendipity does the trick.

Friendships are things we should feel safe in; places where we can share our thoughts, our feelings, and our fears. I’ve found this sense of safety in many of my friendships.

I’ve heard that “To know someone is to love them.” I believe that’s true.

I’ve heard, too, that the strongest connections are made when they’re based on commonality in things we hate dislikes. I’m not too sure about this one. Maybe alliances are, but are friendships…?

Your early twenties are, have been, or most likely will be the most dynamic and arguably unstable period of your life… Or maybe that’s just how they’ve been for me. Your late teens and early twenties signal a lot of personal life changes. For example, the legal ability to remove your self entirely from your parents and/or guardians means a lot. No longer do you have to quell your feelings in fear of having no place to go and little chance to get your own if you’re kicked out of your ‘rents’.

If you’re like me, you’ve heard about settling down—with one person, in one place, at one company—and if you’re like me, you think that sucks. Your twenties are a time when you can put that sort of thing off as long as possible. It turns out that being “stuck in the middle” isn’t so bad, especially when you have some good friends to be stuck there with.

Yet, these years of revelry can be a difficult time too. Like my dad’s always said, “With freedom comes responsibility.” Unfortunately, it’s easy to lose your footing in your final teen years, not to mention in your early twenties. The newly found taste of unabashed freedom is sweet… until you boot the rancid bile that is responsibility into your toilet bowl the morning after.

If, in fact, you do make it past your twenty fifth year (and come out alive), there are still another five years to go ‘til you hit 30—which is apparently the new 20—and who’s to say that you’ll even have friends after your 24^th year?

Maybe leaving college, enrolling in a full-time professional/graduate degree program, movin’ ‘cross country to your first ‘real’ job, or ‘actually growing up’ will be more than your friendships can handle. Life changes like these hold the potential of snuffing out the last burning embers of friendship. There’s only so much uprooting and re-rooting that a person’s psyche can handle too. After all this change, who’s to say you’ll even be in the mood to make new friends / keep in contact with your old ones?

After our two-hour trek was complete, Paige and I arrived in Stamford. We spent Friday night with RJ, talking over food and beers at a local tavern. Then Saturday rolled around—and the long-awaited performance of Jacques Le Cocque glistened on the horizon. By 11 pm, I was three beers deep and dancing at Seaside’s second reggae band. By midnight, I was searching for Paige and her curly blonde hair, her water in one hand and my forth beer in the other.

I finally spotted her during Jacques Le Cocque’s third song and joined her on the dance floor. We danced, we sang, we cheered… and so did everyone else. The stage was practically rushed by the bar’s crowd. Some people had come to Seaside just to hear Jacques Le Cocque rock out with some garage punk songs—others stuck around to listen.

Half-way though their set, despite my heightened dance-induced heart rate and my alcohol intake, I noticed a forty-year-old man waiting for some vacancy in the restroom. He was watching the band and its crowd; and he smiled.

I realized that, rather than developing my theories on friendship or worrying about how best to sustain it, I should just enjoy it, the moment, and all the crazy places it takes me. The manual can wait.

Last night was clear with minimal clouds.  The moon was framed in the branches of our gigantic walnut tree and there were a few bright stars out as well.  You can see one to the left in the photo.  By the time I decided to play with the camera, a ring showed up around the moon and the air started to feel damp.  I like noticing these things.  I like feeling connected to my surroundings.  The weather got quite warm and the sun was out yesterday in the late afternoon.  I hopped in our hammock swing, kicked my shoes off and let my bare feet touch the cool earth.

I had a quiet day, doesn’t happen very often.  Both of the kids were gone and Frank was out in the woods.  There were several things I needed to catch up on around here.  But instead, I found myself distracted.  Luckily, that passed quickly and I was able to get back on task.

This evening, someone I know is offering yet another Restorative Yoga class.  I’m going.  I need it as prep for the holiday.

Risk-taking, trust and serendipity are key ingredients of joy.  Without risk, nothing new ever happens.  Without trust, fear creeps in.  Without serendipity, there are no surprises. -Rita Golden-Gelman, Tales of a Female Nomad

 I  AM THANKFUL:

FOR THE WIFE
WHO SAYS IT’S HOT DOGS TONIGHT,
BECAUSE SHE IS HOME WITH ME,
AND NOT OUT WITH SOMEONE ELSE.

FOR THE HUSBAND
WHO IS ON THE SOFA
BEING A COUCH POTATO,
BECAUSE HE IS HOME WITH ME
AND NOT OUT AT THE BARS.

FOR THE TEENAGER
WHO IS COMPLAINING ABOUT DOING DISHES
BECAUSE
IT MEANS SHE IS AT HOME,
NOT ON THE STREETS.

FOR THE TAXES I PAY
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM EMPLOYED .

FOR THE MESS TO CLEAN AFTER A PARTY
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE BEEN SURROUNDED BY FRIENDS.

FOR THE CLOTHES THAT FIT A LITTLE TOO SNUG
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE ENOUGH TO EAT

FOR MY SHADOW THAT WATCHES ME WORK
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM
OUT IN THE SUNSHINE

FOR A LAWN THAT NEEDS MOWING,
WINDOWS THAT NEED CLEANING,
AND GUTTERS THAT NEED FIXING
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE A HOME

FOR ALL THE COMPLAINING
I HEAR ABOUT THE GOVERNMENT
BECAUSE IT MEANS WE HAVE FREEDOM OF SPEECH.

FOR THE PARKING SPOT
I FIND AT THE FAR END OF THE PARKING LOT
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM CAPABLE OF WALKING
AND I HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH TRANSPORTATION .

FOR MY HUGE HEATING BILL
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM WARM.

FOR THE PILE OF LAUNDRY AND IRONING
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE CLOTHES TO WEAR.

FOR WEARINESS AND ACHING MUSCLES
AT THE END OF THE DAY
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE BEEN CAPABLE OF WORKING HARD.

FOR THE ALARM THAT GOES OFF
IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM ALIVE.

AND I AM THANKFUL:
FOR THE crazy people I work with
BECAUSE they make work interesting and fun!

AND FINALLY, FOR TOO MUCH E-MAIL
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE FRIENDS WHO ARE
THINKING OF ME.

(from an email sent to me this morning when I was feeling mauldin’ and moany)