A crown on her head, roses of the softest shade.
Along the streets of France history surrenders itself to anyone who wants to see.
Caressing my path, filling my desire… I sigh.
"You are under my skin."
The petals of her crown land at my feet.
Though it is not all a bed of roses in France, no place every is, it is a matter of choice, it is a matter of how one sees beauty or the beast around them.
The hand of both reaches out asking us silently with determination:
"Which will you hold? The rose or the thorn?"
How many times have I wanted to knock on such a door, and take a peek simply to see what is inside…
"If it looks this good on the outside imagine what it looks like inside!"
Imagination helps weave a path.
So does trust, so does believing, so does holding on to that which is good.
Call me crazy, but I find this beautiful.
Some would say, "Yep, crazy!"
I could walk a thousand streets just to see more.
Have you ever felt something that is hard to explain, that has gotten under your skin, that leads you to yourself and sets you on fire? Like a song that makes you want to dance?
Love. Life. The age worn peeling wonder of it all.
Perfection.
Not shiny, not new, not in style, just standing the test of time, still winning hearts.
No need to change: Shutter, lantern, stone wall, roses climbing… Classic Provence.
"God, is that the gift I see?"
That I can be myself, simply me.
The history before me, the soul of time, I am a part of that, so are you, woven piece by piece.
All is good.
Like a crown above a doorway a few carved words remained: "Au Lait"
"Milk" it said.
"Cream!" I smiled.
Two hundred years old or more, I am so glad it remains.
France how did you become so faithful to old beauty?
A hinge on a shutter, with a curl at the end.
That is what I am talking about.
The moment of surprise, the wondrous little surprises!
A curl.
The eye opener, that makes you catch your breath, quicken your step and fills your heart with enough "Wow" that smiling stays with you throughout the day.
Art without trying to be.
Living art.
Being art.
An artistic way, layer by layer, lives intertwined, with the passage of time.
Seeing beauty when nothing is telling you that it is.
Between two windows an alcove,
a pedestal of sort,
a base and a crown though the statue is missing.
Pregnant space.
Waiting for us to stand and say,
"Here I am."
An angel overhead,
under a broken window.
A lady walking down the street asked me, "What are you taking a photo of?"
I offered, "The angel above the door, with the broken window above it."
But under my breath I thought, "Capturing what I find beautiful."
Leave a Reply