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At Home and In Paris


 

Mixed Feelings of Springtime


Today, I sit at my desk, my fingertips touching the computer keyboard. I want to write; I must write, for I am a writer. I am my father's daughter, carrying on the work he left behind many years ago. Although I've meandered and mingled and managed to take in much of the beauty that Paris has offered since the beginning of March (especially opera and ballet, some live theater, and, of course, classical music, and I've accumulated many images to share that would probably delight my readers), I somehow don't feel like writing my usual. This springtime has been relatively mild, but despite the meteorologists' predictions, we've had a drizzle here and a drizzle there almost every day for weeks until now. But when the sun comes out, and I lace up my shoes to take a nice walk in the park, a cloud passes over, and my first step out onto the sidewalk is greeted with raindrops. It's not that I don't like rain. I like its effects on the city. The shiny streets, the clean air, and the thirsty flowers and trees, all well-nourished so that they may continue their verdant growth, are what I love most about spring rains.


I am thinking of a poem by William Wordsworth titled "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud." I will share the entirety of this poem with you.


"I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils."


Wordsworth's poem seemed to capture my mood, or perhaps my mood reminded me of Wordsworth's poem. Writing is undoubtedly like wandering alone. Until all of a sudden, ideas appear like a "crowd in the distance." On a good day, the crowd is like a field of daffodils. And when the writing is at its best, it's as if the words "toss their heads in spritely dance." And when the writing is very, very good, the words seem to "shine and twinkle... in a never-ending line." But of course, there must be an ending, brought about when the writer hits the key that puts an end to all creativity through publication. But I realize it is also true that when I lie or sit in "a vacant or pensive mood, thoughts flash upon that inward eye … The bliss of solitude" that allows the writer's mind to fill the page with words that dance like daffodils!



In the meantime, I leave you with these thoughts until I can once again fill the page with the words and images that you've come to expect from me over the last four dozen blog posts.


À bientôt!

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Great post!

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