The Road to Notre Dame

Not many people get to Notre Dame by way of the red light district, but this is the path we took in Paris .

I like to think this was an ACCIDENT and that the E-Man had no idea we’d be passing by strip joints, brothels, and adult bookstores on our way to CHURCH. Surely he didn’t plan to take a walk on the wild side before confessing all in a church pew, but hey, there are some things a Grrrl never asks.

I like to look on the bright side: his alternate route showed us another VIEW of Paris . We got a good LOOK. Unlike the previous day's trek to the Louvre, I kept my camera in my pocket, even when we passed a fabulous photo opportunity: a large chocolate-skinned woman in a mini skirt standing in a doorway under a flashing sign that said “Pussy.” (Sex and English: the universal languages!)

If my 10-year-old had noticed the sign, he might have dashed across the street, thinking it was a Parisian pet store. OK, so it WAS a pet store of sorts but you all know what kind of pets I’m referring to. Straighten up will you! We are on our way to CHURCH, and it’s snowing and we’re attempting to think pure white thoughts.

Have you all gotten yourselves together yet? OK, let’s move on to the serious stuff now because as soon as my feet passed into the softly lit church, I was overwhelmed.

******

Europe ’s medieval cathedrals always make me cry. I’m awed by the sheer scale of them as well as their beauty. It’s humbling to stand small in these cavernous spaces and consider they were built by hand with wheel barrows and pulleys and scaffolding, not cranes, power tools, or heavy machinery. The marvel of the builders’ engineering is overshadowed for me by the depth of their dedication to honor God.

To take on a project that would take lifetimes to complete, to make it as ornate and glorious as possible, to hold back nothing and sacrifice everything in pursuit of a divine vision moves me. Always. To tears.

Standing in Notre Dame, I’m reminded it has been exactly 24 years since Thanksgiving 1981, the last time I saw my sister Louise. My memory of that visit is jogged by the crucifix in a recessed chapel on my right. The figure of Jesus is golden and virtually faceless, the eyes slits in a shapeless head, the limbs limp and sagging. I see Louise in that agony, unrecognizable and deformed by pain, isolation, by the via dolorosa she walked while we watched helplessly from the sidelines. She died of cancer of the sinuses, and was blind, deaf, and senseless in the end. She was only 33.

I light a candle to honor her memory and the memory of my parents, and I share my tears with that forsaken Jesus, so formless and yet so explicit in translating human and divine suffering. I take it all to heart and pull tissues from my pocket.

I offer small prayers as I wander through the dim cathedral, reaching out to touch the stone, to feel the permanence of faith through the ages, to consider the dim gray quality of our lives caught between the sacred and eternal. I’m pleased the children are reverent and quiet and caught in the moment. They don’t push and shove, giggle and joke, or complain about being bored or hungry. They take their time moving through the church, pausing when the spirit moves them.

They stop and pray for E’s mom. They ask to light candles for the grandparents they never knew. My son holds my hand at one point and tells me he wishes he had met my sister. He knows, even though I haven’t spoken, that her memory is heavy on my heart.

We spent last Thanksgiving with E’s mom, a devout Catholic and a native of Belgium . This Thanksgiving I buy her a French prayer card with Pope John Paul’s photo on it and a devotional candle to light at home, souvenirs of where she’s been that are wrapped in the promise of where’s she’s going.

I try to carve out a place for myself away from the crowds but I don’t always succeed. I ’m offended by the way visitors chat and explore the church as if it were an historic site and not a place of worship. They’re so busy photographing the interior and posing with the art that they miss the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the sacred. They have passed through Notre Dame and yet not been touched by it. How sad.

We step out through the heavy doors and into a full blown snow storm. The air is oh-so-cold and the wind fierce, but we carry the warmth of the church with us and forge on ahead, searching for the right path home.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 1, 2005

Things to Do Before I Die

Bestsellers, self-help seminars, and TV shows have focused on this topic. There are people that make these sorts of lists and systematically plan how to accomplish all their goals.

This is so NOT me.

I can’t even make the list. I have no lofty goals. I never live my life on those terms.

I don’t believe there’s some list of destinations and accomplishments that will make me feel complete and at peace. I am completely and utterly into the journey. Into the day to day, only slightly curious about where life will take me, acutely aware that I can’t fast forward or turn back the clock and that ultimately that is a good thing.

The here and now. This moment. Sitting at the computer on a damp gray Saturday morning that smells like burnt butter (thanks to my son’s culinary adventures), listening to my kids clean the mess they made in the kitchen (knowing that they’re making a bigger mess in the process), realizing there are dirty bathrooms, a nasty litter box, and piles of laundry waiting for my attention. It doesn’t sound good, does it?

But I also know there are hidden joys in this day waiting to be discovered, and my goal is spot them amid the clutter and mundane tasks that face me. As Granola Grrrl has implied, there isn’t a bus or shortcut to Enlightenment (or Joy or Meaning or Peace or God or whatever it is you seek!) There’s only you and the road you’re on.

Savor the journey and in the words of every geeky modern mom on the planet, “Make good choices!” ; )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 12, 2005

Big Lip at the Bus Stop

On Friday I hurried to the bus stop to catch Bus 316 to the Metro station and head into Brussels for a chiropractor appointment. There’s a girl waiting there who looks to be about 18, her yellow hooded top revealing a narrow sliver of brown belly above her jeans, her white sneakers are scuffed, her cell phone waits in her hand. She’s leaning on the bicycle rack, and tired after a long week, I slip over to the glass bus stop enclosure and drop down on a bench.

And that’s when I see him, the old guy that haunts my village, wandering streets and stores, aimlessly riding the buses, bumming euros from strangers. I shrink into my own skin a he approaches the bench I’m sitting on and sits down next to me.

I want to escape, but the words I always preach to my kids ring in my own ears: “Treat every person with dignity and respect.” Damn. I hate it when I have to be a better a person than I am. Parenting does that to you. I sit up a little taller, I take a deep breath, I don’t run away.

My new companion has an enormous bottom lip that curls down toward his chin like a giant wave ready to crash onto shore. Gravity pulls its weight towards his chest and reveals the lip’s glistening pink underside, which trembles a bit as he talks.

“Want a cigarette?” Big Lip asks.

“No, thanks.” I check out his bony frame, his dark brown pants, loose fitting buttondown shirt, and the dusty leather Docksiders he wears on his feet. His hair is shot with gray, neatly trimmed but long and stringy, very dirty looking. It is in total disarray. But he doesn’t smell, and for this I’m grateful.

“Are you English?” he asks.

“American,” I answer.

“From where?” he asks.

I’m doubtful it matters, but I answer anyway, “ Virginia .”

“I’ve been there,” he exclaims. “ Virginia Beach !”

I’m surprised. “I have a good friend there,” I say, and then stare off into the distance, thinking of Lynn, who is getting ready to start a new job this week. What would Lynn do if she were here?

He admires the spectralite necklace I’m wearing, the one Eric bought me in Finland in April. “It’s very nice, “he says. “Very beautiful.” His words are a little slurred: Is it because of his vibrating lip or has he been drinking? I don’t smell alcohol on his breath.

“I should stop smoking,” Big Lip says, “I want to stop, but it’s too hard,” he explains as he extracts a crumpled package of cigarettes out of his pocket. I nod in understanding and wonder if he’d slept with the cigarettes, slept in the rumpled clothes he’s wearing.

He lights the cigarette, takes a long drag, and immediately begins coughing. His breath rattles in his chest. This is my cue to casually escape the glass cage I’m in.

I wander out to the sidewalk and start to pace. Where the hell is the bus? It’s late.

The teenager is looking bored, praying for her cell phone to ring, the bus to help us get on with our lives. I edge closer to a tiny stone building next to the bus stop. It has a peaked roof and a French door. I peer in to see an altar to the Virgin Mary, the words “Ave Maria” set in stone, the year “1937.” Who built this and why is it here? It’s no bigger than a porta-potty and the door is locked. Are those flowers on the altar? Who put them there?

Full of questions, I turn my eyes back toward Big Lip, who is pulling a long strand of drool off the precipice of his lower lip and flinging it onto the sidewalk as he stands and hitches his pants up on his bony hips.

“How long ‘til the bus?” he asks me.

“Any minute,” I say. The girl and I exchange impatient glances. I move closer to her and we watch as Big Lip shuffles over to the side of the bus shelter, opens his fly, and takes a leak. The girl and I roll our eyes at each other and she shakes her head and says, “God, some people are so weird!”

I tell her if we position ourselves to get on the bus last, then he can’t sit near us. I immediately feel guilty. Mary’s ghostly white face is a shadow in the roadside shrine. Once again, I shrink into my skin.

A bus approaches. It’s 318. Big Lip flags it down. I sigh in relief. Me and the girl are waiting for 316. I watch as 318 carries away Big Lip but leaves my shame behind. I carry it with me as 316 pulls up to the curb.

September 3, 2005

PMS, Eve's Mistake, and the Second Coming

There's a big bowl of pistachio shells on my desk. I love pistachios. There’s something so satisfying about snapping them open and seeing a GREEN nut. And they’re salty, which makes them irresistible, especially at certain times of the month.

Of course, read any article on PMS and it will tell you to avoid salt, sugar, and caffeine in order to minimize symptoms like bloating, headaches and moodiness. In other words, just as every cell in your body is calling for the dark chocolate or the bag of Doritos (or both, God forbid), you’re supposed to deny yourself all that and expect to FEEL BETTER.

Oh yeah. Medical science fails women again. If you have a PMS Bitch and take away her morning coffee, afternoon chocolate, and one-night-stand with the Doritos bag, in the end you’re not going to have a NICE woman, you’re going to have a freakin’ psychopath.

Trust me: an ordinary bitchy woman is less of a threat to world peace, human health, and the people she loves if you just GIVE HER WHAT SHE WANTS. So I say, “Girlfriends, when your inner bitch rears her ugly head, break out a big bar of dark chocolate and don’t let anyone make you feel guilty about devouring it. Honey, you are SAVING civilization with every bite. You go girl! Everybody say ‘Amen!’”

Bibical history has it that menstruation was the curse Eve pulled down on womankind after she led Adam into sin. Sisters we ALL know that Adam went into sin all by his sorry little self, and Eve, establishing a pattern that would dog women for the rest of recorded history, covered for him.

“Oh yeah, God, it was ME, it was ALL MY FAULT he screwed up. Don’t be mad at Adam, he couldn’t help himself—I served him forbidden fruit! I’m such a jerk. He was just trying to be nice, joining me for a romantic little picnic out here in the garden!”

Uh-huh, uh-huh. I’m not buying that line for a minute! That story in Genesis is so lame—I mean c’mon, what kind of woman takes advice from a viper that LOOKS like a viper. None! We know better! But give us a viper in the shape of a man with six-pack abs, dark curly hair, deep blue eyes, and a sheepish smile, and DAMN, we’ll do ANYTHING for him—even disobey the Creator of the Universe. DUH! I'm convinced the children's bible pictures got it right: Eve was a blond.

Hang on a sec while I get some more pistachios and crack open another Coke. There now--all better--now where was I? Oh yeah, the first dumb blond who gave all subsequent blonds a bad name. Another curse on our heads (pun intended, y’all).

While medical scientists have never been able to figure out exactly WHY women menstruate, it’s been pretty easy for me to figure out why we have PMS. There’s been research done that shows women are perceived as more attractive when they’re fertile. When the egg drops, we all send out “a love me glow,” and through some metaphysical mystery, for a few days we attract men as easily as Jessica Simpson.

PMS, of course, follows this happy interlude and has the opposite effect. PMS shouts to the world—“Back away from this woman! Not suitable for breeding! We repeat, she is not suitable for breeding” PMS does this by adding five ugly pounds of water weight to our middles, making our pants grab us in all the wrong places, which in turn drives us to wear floppy gray sweatpants that are oh-so-flattering (NOT!). In case that doesn’t turn off the males of the species, our faces break out in angry red zits that make us look like we’re carrying an infectious plague. But if there are wonderful, rational men out there who still love us anyway, all we have to do is open our big moody mouths and snap their sweet little heads off. As heads roll across the floor, the message becomes perfectly clear: “Back off! Not suitable for breeding! Do not attempt to reproduce her DNA!”

The bad thing is that as I cruise through my 40s, PMS dominates my monthly calendar. This is because in mid-life, PMS not only stands for “pre-menstrual syndrome,” it also stands for “pre-menopause syndrome.” This is why I’m becoming a little BATTY (Bitchy All The Time Y’all). I’m caught in a riptide of fluctuating estrogen, and it’s making me crazy.

There is however, a cure for this, if only I could find it on a store shelf. What we need, Sisters, are Premarin M & Ms—pretty little pieces of dark chocolate laced with estrogen. Have you ever wondered if M & M really stands for Menstruation and Menopause? Are those bright little discs The Cure for The Curse? I have seen an awful lot of middle-aged women under their spell. They could be our salvation.

I’m convinced that when Jesus arrives in the Second Coming, he’s going to be passing out the estrogen M & Ms to all the women--even the blonds! And with divine M & Ms melting in our mouths, world peace will come again and men and women will all live happily ever after. Now that’s something to look forward to—that and some more pistachios.

September 2, 2005