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Musings from the Summer of 2018, When Two Twenty-some’s Found Themselves in France
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The Pool in France Where I Saw the Gods

Maybe the sun touches us differently—pulls you close in a deep embrace or pecks you on

the cheek. Maybe it visits like the refractions of light on a disturbed surface of water. Or possibly

it slow cooks you to a golden brown. Maybe it is not that we are different, but that the sun loves

us in different ways. And for these French men accustomed to close contact and foreign to

personal space, it has spent many years in glossing over their bodies. They sit on the edge of the

pool as gods—gods whose knees touch, and who look over us as if on asphalt thrones. Their

bodies are lean and sculpted, and I think, maybe I should eat more baguettes and cheese. Do they

know how beautiful their bodies are? Is that why they sit by the pool in their Speedo shorts and

only dip their toes?

The Sabbath Was Made for Man

It’s the seventh day in Orleáns consecrated by closed

shops to fasting—an event holier people have disguised from its

base form of starvation. Tears and stomps and pouts follow. They

are answered by laughs and then, finally, frustration. But when

the young native passengers touch the public keys at a station,

they paint a story of worship through black and white rhythms. In

reverent awe, I forget my hunger. As other French travelers

depart, I hear the report of their kisses.

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Marvel Not That I Say Unto You Ye Must Be Born

Again

Water on a hot day in rural France is like water

from the rock of Horeb. This spray comes over from

sprinklers that move slowly enough over the rows of corn

so that you can catch it if you run. But don’t scream or

giggle too loud. There’s a French man in his car who might

hear you. Will he realize you aren’t sensible and wise?

They might see your drenched clothes and try to call your mother across the ocean. But no, the

French man smiles. Perhaps there is something in him that recalls the new flesh held in strong

hands as it is washed for the first time after leaving its mother’s natural sea. We the foreigners do

not know exactly who we were before this, only that now we are new. Childhood reawakened.

True Enlightenment

France—the national champions. But maybe she has forgotten. Or maybe, she has

remembered. Remembered that she is the true champion. She who kicks the ball past the boys,

over the dirt, and into the small GOOAALLL! As she crosses herself, she thanks God that as a

small girl with white halo curls she is strong.

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One of the Five Pillars of Travel: Pilgrimage

Paris, we have discovered, is not our Mecca.

Holiness is found in small French farms with a grocery

nearby. Pilgrims of the world have sought refuge

here—a quaint cottage and stables. Here they hear the

unspoken prayers for the plants. Bless the tomatoes. In

faith we add, bless the polite and friendly dog. Bless the man on the Segway that the gravel may

not oppress him. Here we fellowship and break bread over French cuisine. We bless that too, and

it blesses us in return. But it is the rooster of the farm that calls us to pray in the East where the

sun truly rises. After all this, even holy vegetables by necessity need to be supplemented with

carnal offerings. Eight chocolate croissants: four for me, four for you.

And Then They Hid for They Were

Naked

Or maybe he hid because I

yelled so rudely, “There’s a naked

man!”

There on the banks of the river Loiret is calm peace and gentle breezes. But I do not keep

to the shore, and neither does he. Each of our feet longing to touch wet slippery water, they take

us off the sand and onto the pebbles. The skies are clear, the banks almost uninhabited, and we

have found our Eden. Was it not Eve who first partook of the fruit? This time it is Adam who
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runs in shame of what my loud shouts have revealed. In the end, there is no God to thrust me out,

just time and dinner.

Is Religion True Without Martyrs, Without

Suffering?

God often uses fire to punish those who have

not listened. Turn away from pride. Love one another.

Perhaps this is his fury. This oppressive sun and high

temperatures. These heavy packs he has not lightened. This friendship among traveler’s that

sometimes turns sour in dark, subterranean tunnels, in hotels with orange carpets and outlets that

shoot sparks, and in dirty bathrooms where we wash our heads and hands and faces. We are

aware now that the tales of world travel may be more Romantic than real. The truth is, even

Lazarus stank after three days without a shower.

Holy Communion Sometimes occurs in Empty Cathedrals

This cathedral is empty except for the old beautiful woman and

two onlookers. We draw breath as we, in the shadows of the aisles,

observe her knees bend to offer specks of colorful petals to the vase

before the altar. To us, this is more beautiful than the intricacies of crafted

glass whose crevices and angles throw rainbows on the floor’s surface.

There is something holy about the silent moments filled with meaning and ritual. It is the fresh

shade of a tree in a desolate and scorched landscape.