Rodin's Lover, Camille Claudel

Because Rodin was Camille's teacher and lover, people always assumed that her work was merely an imitation of his. Nothing could be further from the truth, and Rodin himself said, 'I showed her where to find the gold, but the gold she found was truly her own.'

Sound of a Heart Breaking

I know intimately the sounds of a heart breaking, of fears found true, alive and living well in my own life. This sound; the gasping and uneasy queasiness of failure, of let downs, of love lost and days bound by unwelcome solitude is the sound I express alone, in private behind closed doors. I recognize in others, the familiar sound that escapes my throat from time to time when I realize it is April 9, and for ten years I have not been able to speak to my father. It catches me off guard these days. I may see a man who reminds me of him, or hear a song reminiscent of the out of tune whistling on a Saturday morning, at an hour when not even the birds dare open their mouths. I miss him and I mean to say that I know what it feels like to have your heart broken and to have to carry it piecemeal with you in the the hopes that you may find someone who knows how to make it whole again. I wish for myself to have gumption to not be trapped by my fears of losing again, to not be overcome by a "what is the point" attitude, but to thrive and remind myself often that to love and lose love is to have lived to the fullest; the richest life possible.

Breathing Room

I have given alot of thought to breathing room lately. Breathing room; the space created that allows us to inhale and exhale with ease. My bookcase had no breathing room at all, poor Anna Karenina was suffocating under her heavy load, she could barely cry for help her mouth dry and cracked under the weight of Carl Jung and his Dreams. So I decided to give them all a little space and am happy to say that a little breathing room has helped us all feel a little more open, a little less caved in. I was drowning underneath my books and disorganization but now I have breathing room. Space to move about as I please. My guilt is no longer consuming me, the inability to find a book no longer unnerves me, I am crawling out from the clutter and into the open air. Anna Karenina is calling.

Paris in July

To be in Paris and not be Parisian is both frustrating and intoxicating. I stared openly at the women who seem to be born with impeccable style and grace. They wear everything with such confidence. It's not only what they wear. It's how they hold themselves, the way they do everything from crossing the street, to grocery shopping and ordering food. There is beauty in the mundane. I hope that is something I can take with me. I can see why Hemingway and Fitgerald were expats in a city that inspires beauty in every single moment.