Often during conversations, the words of others reach me like shattered pieces of a porcelain vase. After painstakingly fitting some of those pieces together, I realize their hollowness.
And yet, in rare occasions, I hear ideas of immense clarity. They tend to be expressed with simple words, all genuine and filled with kindness. I then do my best to memorize and write them down.
After more than fifty years, they barely fit on the back of a Paris métro ticket.
Inspiration: poetry and silence.
Hafez once wrote about a bird holding a rose petal.
As years went by, I realized it is the same petal upon which I lean, its delicate beauty helping me to remain standing in this world of perpetual confusion.
– Hafez (Shiraz, Iran – XIVth c.), Persian poet and Sufi mystic.
Falling asleep, I close my eyes tightly wishing to wake up as a white cosmos flower.
Like the one I saw today, I will be most delicate and sway with laughter in a field of white and pink. I will turn towards the deep blue sky of autumn, and laugh some more as the sun warms me.
The cold wind will blow and I will flutter while it scatters my petals. I will then die knowing that after the winter months, I will come back as a delicate white cosmos flower swaying and laughing in the wind in an immense field under the deep blue sky.
Inspired by the change of season and simple natural beauty.
J’écris au singulier. Le pluriel, c’est les autres.
C’est pour cela que je laisse le silence me guider plutôt que les paroles.
Tout est si simple et pourtant, cela prend tant de cahiers pour tout expliquer.
“We live no more than one hundred years” wrote Sikong Tu at the start of a poem more than one thousand years ago.
We live but a speck in timelessness.
So, why not let our hair turn white and the soft breeze rustle through our clothes?
Why not let the moss cover the stone?
Let us not fret about the world, shall we?
Inspiration: Sikong Tu (China, 837-908), Tang Dynasty poet, known for his poems and for writing the Chinese poetry manual “The twenty-four styles of poetry.”
Just as the sun starts to light up the sky, flocks of birds fly over the house.
White snow egrets with gold reflected on their wings, ducks in almost perfect formations and swallows moving in waves.
Closer to me, a few hummingbirds buzz around the lavender; while, despite the coolness of the air, bees start their morning collection around the same flowers.
These are the sights I am privileged to, and every dawn I give thanks for the beauty.
This morning, from way way up, a white egret pooped. As simple as that, and it landed a few centimeters from my foot.
I took it as a blessing both for its ordinary nature and … for having missed me.
I smiled and the smile remained with me for the entire day.
Who would have thought? Life brings us joy in so many forms!
As I knead the dough in the early morning…
… Doing the same gesture on a stone slab of pale color, I look up and see the bend where the two rivers meet.
I continue to work the dough, lifting a few strands of hair from my forehead with the back of my hand. Small particles of flour float in the air; as the sun rises, they turn into gold.
The house is still asleep. I so enjoy this moment of solitude, working the dough to the rhythm of the river.
I shape the dough into small sunshines, and place them in the clay oven.
The aroma of bread will be the same a few millennia from now, and maybe, just maybe, someone will be thinking of me as they knead the dough in the early morning.