It’s only 9 am in the morning and I’m exhausted, which sounds ridiculous, but hey- I’ve been up since 4:30. That’s early even for me. I spent a day and a half I didn’t exactly budget for doing nothing but explaining about the book(s), why there are two now instead of one, and there isn’t anywhere to get them back from except sleep. I have a feeling I’ll sleep well on that flight to Paris.
I leave Monday morning, God willing, Tuesday if not. The life of a standby crew pass traveller is exciting and unpredictable. I’m still waiting for all of the Dems to clear out of Charlotte, you see, so that the East Coast airplanes open up.
I would show you a photo of my tabletop, with all of my work on it, and all of the things I need to mail today and Monday, but it would make me cry, and we can’t have that on board ship.
Instead, I’m going to turn on NPR, start addressing Priority Mail boxes, and think of baguettes, and Paris, and the sweet feeling of knowing that I Did What Need Be Done to earn my week’s vacation. Because I want to really, really, really enjoy it.
Irreligious as I am, I have business with the concept of God at the Sacre Coeur; there is something I need to do inside my heart; I have a few tears to shed, and a world of thanks to give. I suspect I will be sobbing in churches all over Paris, but that isn’t new.
For some reason (probably having to do with newness and an over-emphasis on literalism in Scripture) I don’t care for American churches (or American religion for that matter) and I rarely find sustenance inside their walls. It isn’t a Creator I seek; it is Creation. I seek spaces that have seen centuries of human sorrow, joy, and atonement… in those places something very human opens inside me, and I can commune with the sacred.
The Sacre Coeur is a good place; it is always quiet, as tourists are not allowed to take photographs or chit-chat inside the space.
Wish me luck today, or at least a nap.