That day we had a party at my house. I was 1 and a half. My cousin Nora Jane and me Sylvie Rose were playing tag with my Uncle Jack! I was eating apple sauce at dinner! I was happy and I was wearing my favorite color!
One day I got to go to a cool movie with my parents. The movie was about a good tennis player named Serena. I like that she did really cool matches and won trophies. She made me think it was me!!!
Each of us has built a collection of seemingly small losses in the last few years—cancelled trips, lost time with family, missed events like graduations and weddings. The accumulation of these disappointments weighs heavy and cultivates disenfranchised grief. This type of grief is difficult to identify, and a lot of us feel guilty honoring it. When others have suffered more, what right do we have to mourn our more minor losses?
I believe it is essential to acknowledge disenfranchised grief, to speak it to someone with whom we feel safe, and then to find alternative ways to enact small joys. I’ve recently felt a diffused, latent grumpiness. I didn’t understand why my temper was short, and I didn’t know why I was feeling emotional. When I paused and went within, I realized that my quiet little griefs had brought on a palpable mood shift. The second I acknowledged my disenfranchised grief, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease a bit. It’s okay to feel sad for the lost moments with loved ones and the vacations that never happened. As I let my grief evolve, I distract myself in lighthearted ways. The feelings of disappointment will diminish, and in the meantime, I counterbalance my grief with happy activities.
Memory Travel
With travel severely restricted and very stressful, I’ve mostly traveled through my past. The last two weeks, my 2015 trip to Italy’s Val d’Orcia has been on my mind. I’m reliving the early mornings on the deck, when the sun came up over the valley, the wild boars squealed, and the birds chirped. Day after day, I’ve been seeing the glorious Tuscan hills in my third eye and almost tasting the fruity olive oil we drizzled on our pasta. Rather than leave me with a sense of loss, my Italian reveries are fulfilling and hopeful.
Awaken the Senses
Throughout the pandemic, the kitchen has been my happy place. Meal preparation calls upon multiple senses. I see the bright produce I pull from the grocery shelves, touch the ingredients as I chop, smell the herbs as I rub them between my fingers, hear the vegetables sizzle in the olive oil, and taste the dish resulting from my labor. After tinkering with my winter minestrone soup, I am ready to share my recipe, found at the end of this post. Please make it your own! Dried beans are even more delicious than canned, and dried herbs can be used in a pinch. My winter minestrone will adjust to your whims, your pantry, and your senses.
Work It Out on the Mat
Sometimes the best way to deal with grief is through movement. This week, my yoga mat has been a place of respite. I admit I’m not pushing myself hard. My exercise is slow and intentional. In the weeks to come, I’ll be ready for more rigor. But for now, I just need to process loss and disappointment. I am learning that acknowledging my grief is uplifting.
Inspirations
©Danesh Mazloomdoost
“Once in a while we meet a gentle person. Gentleness is a virtue hard to find in a society that admires toughness and roughness. […] Gentle is the one who does ‘not break the crushed reed, or snuff the faltering wick.’ Gentle is the one who is attentive to the strengths and weaknesses of the other and enjoys being together more than accomplishing something. A gentle person treads lightly, listens carefully, looks tenderly, and touches with reverence. A gentle person knows that true growth requires nurture, not force. Let’s dress ourselves with gentleness.” –Henri Nouwen
One evening several weeks back, I experienced a transformative moment that continues to stir in me. It was a delicious fall evening. The air was cooling, and the trees were still green. Night had not fallen, but the blue hour was approaching.
My friend and I were leaving his office, laughing about God knows what. When we stepped out, we encountered a young woman in crisis. Her clothes hung off her bony frame, she was covered in sores, and she seemed to be doing some sort of distressed dance on the lawn.
I was startled and scared for her, and I froze. My friend maintained his calm. He approached her gingerly and asked what was wrong. His voice was steady and soothing.
The young woman was apparently addicted to heroin, had been clean for seven months, and had recently relapsed after the death of her uncle. She was sobbing. Her story was disjointed, but her fear was clear.
She asked us to call an ambulance to take her to the University of Kentucky hospital. As we waited with her, my friend maintained his compassionate, caring way. He saw her, acknowledged her, and validated her. He trod lightly, listened carefully, looked tenderly, and treated her with reverence. Though I mostly stayed quiet, I held a space of compassion for both of them.
Within about 3 minutes, firefighters, EMTs, and police officers arrived. The lights and sirens were jolting, and it must have been overwhelming for her to suddenly be surrounded by nine men in surgical masks. But they were kind to her and helped her to the ambulance. As she lay on the gurney, she thanked us profusely.
I have always admired my friend’s steady demeanor. He is a gentle soul through and through. That evening he reminded me that gentleness is life-giving. His tender approach fortified a young person in crisis. He helped her find the courage to wait for the ambulance and to maybe seek help.
His gentleness also nourished me. I witnessed its power to soothe and effect change. After a long day at the office, he exercised focus, restraint, and compassion. I aspire to this. I have since deepened my commitment to gentleness and its beauty. I imagine wearing it like a cloak, flowing softly and creating an aura of safety and tenderness.
Inspirations
We’re giving hugs again, gathering around tables with friends, and some people are even planning summer travels. We are “learning to human again.”
I purchased my little aloe plant in fall 2020, when COVID cases were on the rise in the U.S. Tending to my house plants distracted me from the scariness. Months later, I can’t help but smile every time this scrawny pandemic plant catches my eye. He is thriving but on his own terms. This aloe refuses to grow straight. I have gently tried to rectify this countless times. Quietly, yet firmly I have encouraged him to “Stand tall. Reach for the light.”
But this charming aloe is a pandemic plant. He is comfortable hanging over the edge of his terra cotta home. Good posture doesn’t matter to him. He languishes. He is twisted and a little gnarly. I have come to admire his commitment to growing crookedly.
I, too, have carved a twisty path in the last year. Though I have not lost any loved ones, I have dealt with disenfranchised grief—the unnamable sadness that accumulates with continued disappointment and “small” losses. Travel, weddings, family meals. I have felt guilty for feeling sad. What business do I have grieving when I’ve suffered so little compared to others?
As I “learn to human” again, I like to think that my aloe is “learning to plant” again. I have an affinity for his hunched nature. Standing tall is not necessarily easy. Getting out into the world after more than a year of isolation is odd. We are both off-kilter right now, but as the time is right, we are branching out.
Forsythias dotted my early pandemic walks. Against a still-grey landscape, the vibrant flowers announced spring. Hope was elusive as the coronavirus emerged, and seeing the forsythias in bloom gave me brief moments of respite.
One year later, it was jarring to see the lemony forsythia blooms peeking out once again. How had a year of sameness passed? Why was I feeling lackluster as the world awakened? The heightened panic of 2020 and 2021 had numbed me, and I’d been plodding along in a pandemic haze.
This spring, the forsythias were painfully and pleasantly piercing. The bright yellow shrubs shot me back to the scary days of last year, but they also brought optimism and a tiny bit of joy. Forsythias are harbingers of spring. Often the first flowers to bloom, they announce a new season. They instill anticipation. And, for me, they cultivate hope.
The word harbinger comes from the Old French word herbergier—to provide lodging for. If you’re a French speaker, think of the words auberge or hospice—spaces of protection and care. In English, the word harbor echoes the sentiment of shelter. Before this spring, I had never understood that a harbinger could serve as both herald and protector. This spring and last, fiery forsythia flowers anchored my outings. Never had I found so much solace in the landscape. Never had nature been so comforting to me.
In Kentucky, the forsythia shrubs have mostly turned green—already! Though spring colors are fleeting, the season’s marvels continue to serve as an escape from the traumas of late-stage pandemic life. The birdsong invigorates, and the dappled light inspires. The world is alive!
Inspriations
“I am that living and fiery essence of the divine substance that glows in the beauty of the fields. I shine in the water, I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars.” –Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179)
The bancs-reposoirs (“resting benches”) of Alsace are sandstone memories of 19th-century peasant life. Spaced about 2 kilometers apart on well-traveled ways, the benches provided a place of rest for farmers headed into town on market day. Women, who carried their goods in baskets on their heads, placed them on the lintel topping the structure. The resting benches were often shaded by linden trees.
Throughout Alsace, about 170 bancs-reposoirs remain, built in 1811 and 1854. Found along a windy road in Hilsenheim, France, this bench offered a moment of respite to people carrying a heavy load. Visiting it in the 21st century, I try to imagine the trek to the next town and the weight of the wheat and bran the women carried on their heads. What emotional burdens weighed on them? What were their passions? Did they enjoy aspects of this work?
It goes without saying that there is a disparity in experience between 19th-century Alsatian peasants and a 21st-century college professor from across the ocean. Though as I trace my finger on the lichen covering the stone, I remember that time is fluid and that in this spot, the centuries touch. I sit on the same resting bench. The landscape I take in resembles the backdrop of their lives—neat fields, spring greens, unruly grasses in the ditch. They may have felt a similar May breeze on their skin. Stone, place, and air connect us.
This moment also reminds me that rest is essential. The world is currently burdened by a pandemic. After almost a year of living in crisis mode, we need to sit on our own figurative resting benches. Let us stop and catch our breath. Let us remember our fiery essences. Let us also be still and smile, seeing how we glow in the fields, shine in the water, and burn in the heavens.
Could you ever imagine being able to circumnavigate the city of Paris much like the 16th century explorer Magellan circumnavigated the Earth? Back in the late 19th century, such a form of transportation was made possible through the construction of the Petite Ceinture during the era of the Second Empire in France. In English, it translates to “little belt”, a connotation which rather undersells the immense scope and importance that this railway network possessed.Throughout the 19th century, the Petite Ceinture provided a multitude of functions, whether it involved transporting capital, housing public transit, or even contributing to military defense by supplying goods to French soldiers. The 35-kilometer-long belt provided stops at 29 different stations and could complete a round trip in just under an hour and a half. The efficient layout of the tracks prevented interfering with traffic in the city, thus creating a separation between the urban and transportation industries of Paris.
Despite its closure to public transportation in the 1930s, some parts of the line continue to function today, whether it be near Victor Boulevard in the 15th arrondissement or the Porte de Clichy metro station in the 17th arrondissement. In addition, the northern section of the tracks are currently being used to transport trains between the major stations in North and East Paris. Only 21 kilometers of the Petite Ceinture remain, although traces of the railway are still present throughout different areas of Paris. If you adventure around Montrouge, for example, you may find yourself taking a stroll through the gardens when you discover air vents which used to belong to train tunnels. If you recall the name “Jardin de la dalle d’Ivry”, which translates to “Ivry slab garden”, you can probably guess that such places cover areas where the line used to run. In addition, tennis courts and housing projects make up a majority of the urbanisation projects that have taken place of the belt’s remains.
While the inevitable evolution of the metro system has overshadowed the legacy of the Petite Ceinture , there are still pieces of its history to be discovered throughout different areas of Paris. The railway network continues to leave its mark to this day, whether it be through old tracks or nature trails that take place on its former paths. One does not simply think of the Petite Ceinture as a more traditional mode of transportation without considering its layout as providing connectivity and cohesion to a city bounded by lights.
References
Bretelle, Bruno. «L’action d’une association : l’inventaire de la Petite Ceinture de Paris». Revue
d’histoire des chemins de fer , 40, 2009, pp. 91-107.
Enon, Claire. «La survie d’un délaissé urbain : la petite ceinture de Paris». Architecture,
aménagement de l’espace , 2017.
Photos
https://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petite_Ceinture#/media/Ficheiro:Paris_16e_Petite_Ceinture_prome
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Deep in the heart of Paris, under the Gare de l’Est exists a perfectly preserved relic from WWII. Tucked away behind a secret hatch on the platform rests a WWII bunker completely undisturbed by time and modernization. A set of tunnels was built under the train station to help transport luggage, but when the war began, it was transformed into a safe haven. The bunker was initially created by the French government but was unfinished before the German military took over France and occupied Paris in 1940. Both the French and German government had wanted to keep the trains at this station running because there are tracks that lead into Germany.
Within the solid concrete walls and armored door are the remains of equipment and furniture used during WWII as protection from a gas attack. Although, during WWII, gases were used less than during WWI and instead were replaced with air raid attacks. Historians do not believe the bunker could have survived an air raid attack, but thankfully these were not common in Paris. All of the machines and equipment are in perfect working condition and appear to be “new” from 1939.
As you first enter the double door that is armored against bullets and gas attacks, the cool 59°F air surrounds you. As you travel deeper into the bunker, you will find regulation rooms complete with desks and chairs, telephones, and timetables for 1930’s trains. There are not any food or dormitory spaces because the bunker was only meant to be utilized for 10 hours at a time. You can find control rooms and an engine room as well. There are a few bicycles connected to equipment, which were intended to be used to operate the air filtration system in the bunker if the electricity went out. Along the walls are some German inscriptions and bilingual plans, which is evidence of the German occupation and usage. Marie-Noëlle Polivo writes, « …chaque cheminot français avait derrière lui un homologue allemand. » In English, “[…each French railway worker had a German counterpart behind him.]”
While there were other bunkers under train stations throughout Paris, most have been destroyed and dismantled. SNCF, the French national railway company, has promised to preserve this bunker however, only opening it during Heritage days and for other important events. Only 10 people are allowed in the bunker at one time and tickets sell out within minutes every year, as only around 220 people can go down inside the bunker each year. The tour guides worked hard with SNCF during 2019 to create tours that allow people to explore the bunker with virtual reality headsets.
References
https://www.neverends.net/le-bunker-sous-la-gare-de-lest/#prettyPhoto
https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/wwii-bunker-under-gare-de-l-est
The most macabre tourist attraction in Paris, the Catacombs, was initially a very practical solution to a serious 18th century sanitation problem. Cemeteries in Paris were overfull, so the remains needed to be moved to a separate, safer location underground. The skeletons were taken from many cemeteries around Paris, but primarily from les Saintes-Innocents, a very popular burial location for Parisians from the 12th to the 18th century.
The Catacombs are the final resting place for over six million Parisians throughout history. Beginning in 1785, remains were transferred to the Catacombs nightly for two years and sporadically for several years after that. The work of moving the remains had to be done at night, so that Parisians would not get upset and protest the removal of their deceased loved ones from their initial burial place. A priest accompanied the transfer of the bones and said a prayer for those who were being laid to rest once again. However, despite this care, the remains were dumped rather unceremoniously into the tunnels of the Catacombs.
It was not until Napoleon came to power that the bones were set up in the decorative way that they are today. Napoleon decided that the piles of Parisian bones sitting in tunnels beneath the city were not merely a practical sanitation solution but also a potential tourist attraction. Inspired by the famous catacombs in Rome, Napoleon appointed two men, Nicolas Frochot and Louis-Étienne Héricart de Thury, to turn the Catacombs into a site worth touring. Thus, the bones were arranged artistically and the design of the tunnels chosen very intentionally to appeal to tourists’ more morbid curiosity. One famous example of this is the sign above an entrance to the ossuary which reads: “Arrète! C’est ici l’empire de la mort” (Stop! This here is the empire of death”). These sort of dramatic touches might seem to an uniformed tourist to be the sign of a dark and ancient place, but in reality, they were a 19th century way to aggrandize the Catacomb’s spooky allure.
We might think of the Catacombs as an example of the Romantic or macabre fascinations of earlier ages. However, it is more truthful to understand them, as they stand today, as an intentional tourist attraction—and a very effective one at that. Over 150 years later, tourists in Paris are still happy to shell out €14 for a chance to visit Frochot and Héricart de Thury’s strangely beautiful underground ossuary.
References
“Histoire Des Catacombes.” Paris Pittoresque, www.paris-pittoresque.com/monuments/33.htm.
Karmelek, Mary. “You (Posthumously) Light up My Life.” Scientific American Blog Network,
Scientific American, 15 Apr. 2011, blogs.scientificamerican.com/anecdotes-from-thearchive/
you-posthumously-light-up-my-life/.
“L’histoire Du Site.” Les Catacombes De Paris, catacombes.paris.fr/lhistoire/lhistoire-du-site#.
“The Unbelievable Story of the Paris Catacombs.” Walks of Italy Blog, 6 Feb. 2017,
www.walksofitaly.com/blog/paris/paris-catacombs.