pleasure and paradox in paris

At the Musée d’Orsay, pressing my face close to a Monet painting, practically inhaling the brushstrokes, I felt a mixture of profound gratitude and nostalgia. The pale pinks, lavenders, and yellows were indescribably soothing. I wanted to merge with the work. Escape into it.

I was mesmerized by the art of Paris to a degree that surprised even me. I’d studied Art History many moons ago at university, but standing in front of certain works – I could easily touch them, were it not for the ever-present security – left me deeply affected.

Until that point, I’d felt somewhat ambivalent about my impromptu trip to Paris. Though I had the time off work, cash saved in the bank, and a great deal from Air France, I questioned my decision to travel to the City of Lights. Surely there were more responsible things to do with my money.

In my hotel room that first night, I tossed and turned as the jet lag (and in-flight wine, no doubt) sank in. Habitual thoughts about work, relationships, and family pounded in my head. Paris, I thought. Why am I here? What can I learn from you?

Pleasure. Presence. Enjoy life, she answered. Be in your body, not your head. You already know this…but I can help you. In fact, you need me to. That’s why you’re here.

You think you’ve lost your intuition, she continued, but you haven’t. Don’t focus on my image or the tourists or the incessant honking and police sirens, or the camouflaged men with machine guns standing on the corner. There is an essence of me that is much deeper than all these things. Be with it.

I didn't make it to the top, but I had to get the Eiffel shot!

I didn’t make it to the top, but I had to get the Eiffel shot!

I spent a week exploring various neighbourhoods in the city. I walked along the Champs-Élysées and the Seine. Apart from food (and chocolate presents!), my only purchase was a 4-day Museum Pass, which I’d picked up at Charles de Gaulle airport upon my arrival.

Viewing the paintings of Monet, Degas, Manet, Cassatt, Morisot, Seurat, and Renoir (and so many more), I felt deep nostalgia. Nostalgia for the time in my life when I initially studied these works. Nostalgia for historical periods of great art, music, and beauty. Most of all, nostalgia for an era where artists truly sat with their inspirations. Focused and present, devoting hours, days, even years to the execution of their visions.

What must it be like to have that kind of patience? It is hard to imagine. My attention span is much shorter than it used to be, a deterioration I blame on technology. All around me, people flitted about with iPhones, snapping photos and selfies. I tried to take some pics, but they never did the moment justice. And trying to capture that moment would just take me out of it.

Jardin des Tuileries - I couldn't resist including this

Jardin des Tuileries – I couldn’t resist

I wondered what these artists would think of this modern world. Would they be disturbed, fascinated, inspired? Life cannot be as it was in nineteenth-century Paris, of course. And even then, things probably weren’t as idyllic as the dreamy vistas suggest. Still, I long to sit in front of a landscape or sunset, or at a cafe, for hours, just absorbing my surroundings. Not thinking about work or emails or how I should be doing something.

Paris reminded me of India, in that it’s a paradox. The Divine Feminine presence, which surely exists and spoke to me that first night, was accompanied by a rough, almost aggressive energy throughout the city. It was an interesting, and often unsettling, experience.

But visiting Paris was very, very good for my soul. In recent months I’d been feeling some grief for so many lost years where I didn’t trust myself as my own authority, where I sold myself short. This last decade in particular – I don’t know where it went. Paris reminded me to be gentle with myself and look ahead. Not everything in life has to happen at once, and my process won’t look like anyone else’s. Nothing is lost. There is still time.

The art, the red wine, the Autumn sunshine, the walks along the Seine…that’s who I am. Sitting in front of a canvas and feeling where the colours take me…that’s who I am. Doing my best to heal resentments, forgive, and live in divine love…that’s who I am. Willing to learn, be humbled over and over again, and create grand adventures for myself…that’s who I am.

Thank you, Paris, for reminding me who I am.

 

a letter to isis (the goddess)

Dear Isis,

Of the many Facebook posts I’ve seen this last week, not one has mentioned the glaring affront that your Divine Feminine name has been co-opted by a demented consciousness intent on displaying the darkest, most depraved aspects of humanity.

Is it mere coincidence that a force so antithetical to you who you are – to your infinite grace, love, and compassion – has assumed your holy title and mangled it with hatred and fear?

Of course not. The Divine Feminine is rising, and she’s being noticed. My sisters and I feel you, Mother. The world is experiencing the brightest light its ever felt, a light blazing shining love on all corners of the planet, exposing the darkness that could once hide…behind closed doors, swept under the rug, festering inside minds and bodies. The light is unearthing the shadow of humanity.

Susan Seddon Boulet, Isis & Osiris

Susan Seddon Boulet, Isis & Osiris

I tell myself that all the drama playing out on the world stage is the bigger picture game of light vs dark. That the patriarchy is being dismantled, and it’s fighting back with a vengeance. That all this carnage is part of humanity’s evolution; the density of 3D duality cannot exist in higher realms of consciousness. I tell myself that ascension is not necessarily the blissful, ecstatic experience we thought it would be; it’s the most terrifying, identity-pulverizing thing we’ve ever done.

And then I tell myself I’m crazy.

Am I just as delusional as some of the nut jobs I judge on Facebook? Am I dismissing unfathomable pain and suffering with my sheltered, new-age mumbo jumbo? Am I the one sweeping things under the rug because I myself can’t deal with how real this shit is getting?

And then I stop, and sit, and breathe.

And I tell myself, NO. When I doubt myself, things unravel. When I deny your presence, Divine Mother, I become weak. I can’t ‘see’ you like I see the images on my computer screen – looping, repetitive images intended to program fear into me. But I feel you. I feel you when I’m walking down the street and sense roses streaming from the sky, the ground pink beneath my feet. How can this be real? I wonder in awe. But it’s the most real thing I know.

My sisters and I have long been called ‘crazy’ for seeing what can’t be seen. We’ve let the shame, the ridicule, the name-calling – the fear – weaken us. We’ve kept silent, separate from ourselves and divided from each other. And we’re now saying NO MORE. There’s too much at stake, and there’s no time to waste.

Do I truly know why things are unfolding the way they are on planet earth? No. I can only know my own perspective in this grand game. And it compels me to heed the ferociously loving call to stand strong in what resonates with my soul.

Your feminine guidance is needed now more than ever, Divine Mother. Use me as your channel. Help me see myself in those who are the most reviled. Help me see oneness where my ego is most convinced it cannot be. Help me love the hate within.

I am your daughter in service.