The Traveling Writer

A Pause for Beauty and Creativity in Paris

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Mon, 02 Mar 2026 22:11:00 +0000

Come inside my writer's world:

Enjoy The Traveling Writer

by adding your name ------->

By Norma Hopcraft

I urge you to take a moment to bathe in stained glass beauty.

The walls of St. Chapelle in Paris are mostly made of glass. It's an architectural feat by the French who pulled this off in 1248.

If the wall isn't made of glass, it's stenciled with all kinds of designs in gilt paint (a detailed photo below).

Saint Chapelle is breathtaking.

What places, either man-made or in nature, have you been in that you thought were exquisite? Please comment below and share it with all of us so we can explore it too!

Now I'll let you enjoy St. Chapelle in peace:

What places, either man-made or in nature, have you been in that you thought were exquisite? Please comment below and share it with all of us so we can explore it too!

Adirondack High

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 19:05:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

The scent of a foot of new-fallen snow. Just pause for a moment and imagine it. Take a relaxing break to think about "woodsbathing" (Japanese term) in a forest with every twig dusted by white powder.

Please do come with me now to enjoy the cross-country skiing I did over New Year's.

I was there for four nights, during which we got 16 inches of snow. One morning it was 6 degrees when I got up, with a "feels like" temperature of -1.

But the pristine snow was beautiful!! The woods were beautiful!!

I was in the Tughill area of the Adirondacks, in a ski lodge called Osceola XC Ski. Kristin and Tom are the excellent hosts, and they're crazy about winter. Good thing, because there's lots of it here.

Blue-eyed Barrow

He's one of Kristin's two Euro Hounds. These dogs are bred to pull sleds mid-distances (30-300 miles in a day). They are a blend of husky, German short hair pointer and saluki. Kristin says she has yet to truly tire them out, but I can testify: they are on the run ALL day.

Barrow went out with me on my first try at snow-shoeing. He would gallop way ahead, turn, and wait. He'd disappear around a curve, and I'd think, I've lost him. But when I got around the curve, there he was! Then he'd dash past me, heading toward the lodge. I thought he was abandoning me in favor of checking to see if there was kibble in his bowl yet. But no, back he would come, galloping at top speed. Then stop, turn, and wait. He stuck with me the whole time I was out, except when we were once again in sight of the lodge. I was very glad to have his company my first unsteady time on snowshoes.

He and his half-brother Slate followed other skiers too, every day, all day. They did not stop for one moment. More pics of the Euro Hounds below.

Me, heading out onto the groomed trails.

The wind would toss the tops of the 40-foot-tall Christmas trees and snow would slip to the next lower branch, and the next -- a mini avalanche of pure powder! Beautiful. Would have filmed it for you but I never knew when it would happen.

Despite day-after-day below-freezing temperatures, this stream was still running, cutting a path through the drifts.

We got a lot of snow.

My athletic sister, a twinkle-toes on skis.

I highly recommend this place -- rustic, with friendly, helpful hosts. You can rent or buy skis and snowshoes, boots and poles, with personal guidance from Kristin.

Just one of the beautiful trails.

Left a Mohawk on this big car, where I couldn't reach.

This is how folks who live in the Adirondacks get around in winter. Snowmobiles parked outside the self-styled "World Famous Osceola Hotel."

Tom grooming the trails with Slate and Barrow supervising.

They do rest, but they don't really NEED to rest.

Be sure to see the short video of the two black dogs frolicking with each other on pure white snow, below.

Getting home was easy. The roads are thoroughly sanded after every snowfall -- it must be like Jones Beach around here in summer. I was able to easily drive home to Rochester. Don't let fear of the roads stop you from XC ski!

This poem explains winter in the Adirondacks beautifully. It crossed my path by pure serendipity. I would credit the writer if I knew his or her name:

And one last glimpse of Slate and Barrow:

Seven tips for greater creativity in the New Year

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Tue, 30 Dec 2025 01:08:45 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Take some basic steps toward exercising your native creativity in 2026.

The first step is to realize that you ARE creative -- every human has to be in order to 1) survive and 2) thrive. Give yourself credit for the coping mechanisms you've developed, and for the cooking, workplace strategies, fun childcare, homemaking, garage organizing you've done. You ARE creative!

Be open to the idea that in art, you can't do anything wrong. Even something that you'd like to label a mistake can be worked in to make something better.

Cultivate a mindset of readiness to be delighted. This could be with people you see every day -- you feel like you know them, but be open and ready to be amazed. And inspired.

Is surfing in a storm creative? Say why or why not below! Was my sister creative to capture this moment? You betcha! Watching for serendipities counts.

Take an awe walk. Be open to being awestruck by clouds, trees, sky. This practice has been studied and found to be effective in alleviating pain and depression, if practiced regularly. It will lift your mood for creativity too.

Strike up conversations with strangers, if you don't already. Chat about the weather and listen for a quirky comment -- then ask a polite follow up question. Get ready to laugh, or disagree quietly, but we all have much in common that can be explored.

Then do some sitzplatz: that's German for stay in one place (I call it "butt in chair") long enough to apply some paint to canvas, get some words on paper, pick out a woodworking project. Some people stride around as they paint, but they stay near the project they're working on.

Set a goal for what you want to work on in 2026, then make some room to do sitzplatz every day, even if only for a short while. Best if it's at the same time every day. That way, your muse will know what time to meet with you.

Please comment below with your goals and plans. What will you be working on in 2026? I'd be delighted to learn from you and encourage you!

Dublin, Paris, the Irish and the French

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Mon, 08 Dec 2025 16:23:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Dublin was just okay after the beautiful architecture of Paris. Dublin was gritty and reminded me of NYC.

But the Dubliners are so nice! I stepped off the bus from the airport, completely disoriented, not knowing which way was which. I asked an older gentleman to point the way to the street I needed. "Let me help you, pet," he said with a twinkle in his eye and a mischievous smile. He got me oriented and then said, "You just go like t'at, and you'll be fine, love!"

So kind and charming, the Irish! No other stranger could get away with calling me "pet" and "love"!

I was at Dublin Castle and asked the man at the information desk, "Where's the Beatty Museum," which is on the same large grounds. He was a little Irish man leaning on a cane.

“If you’d like, I’ll show you the secret door so you don’t have to go all the way around,” he said in a marvelous brogue.

“I love secret doors in castles!” I said.

I found on this trip that I was liking the Irish but not Dublin that much -- scooters and bikes whizzed in every direction, stepping off the curb was to risk your life, buses coughed by constantly, and the architecture just wasn't beautiful like it is in Paris.

A young French guy was handing out headsets at Christ Church Dublin. He said he likes Dublin better than Paris.

“Why?”

"It’s vibrant. There’s music everywhere. And the people are so nice.”

Yes, whereas the Parisians are so glum, I admit it. Complaining is a national sport in France. But the buildings in Paris are far more pleasing to the eye than the gritty thoroughfares of Dublin.

I have the answer: Let’s take the cheery Irish on another one of their diasporas (America, Australia, the Caribbean), only this time we'll ask the Parisians to leave and put the Irish in their place.

Voilà! The perfect city!

Compare for yourself:

The Louvre and the Seine by moonlight.

The Musée D'Orsay and -- guess what?

L'Institute de la France. Can a city be this beautiful?

Now for Dublin:

The bell tower of Trinity College. Not bad.

The Dublin riverfront at the River Liffey.

The riverfront in late evening.

Looks like the set for an Irish movie.

What do you think? Which city would you prefer, and why? Comment below!

The Glories of French Libraries

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sat, 22 Nov 2025 12:18:00 +0000

"I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." -- Jorge Luis Borges.

I've always loved reading, books, libraries, and writing.

From the moment I realized that little black marks on a page could form pictures in my mind, I wanted to be a writer. I loved that experience, even if it was just "See Sally run," and I wanted to create that experience for other people. For me, it's all about the joy of communicating with each other with images made of words.

As I kid, I read every spare second. I read the toothpaste tube, the Cheerios box, the Rice-A-Roni carton, just for something to fill my voracious appetite for words.

Now I make a point of reading widely: some science, particularly about the stars and about the tiniest particles. Lest you think I'm a total nerd, I also read favorite mystery writers (nothing very gory, please) and classic novels (Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters being favorites). I push myself to read poetry--I prefer stories, but poets say the most with fewest words, a good habit for prose writers too.

I love books and have a pile in my reading corner. One must have a chair, a lamp, and a book. There are a number of folks who say you also need a cat in your lap, or a dog at your feet. I don't have a cat now, but I have happy memories of Ninja, a Siamese. I bought him fresh out of my divorce, splurging on him when I could have gone to a shelter and gotten an American cat. When the owner named her price, I sat in stunned silence. Then she brought the price way down.

Really, one ought to practice stunned silence. It works.

And I love libraries. I own one cocktail table book, and it's about the world's most beautiful libraries. I've been in a few of them now, but not yet in the Library of Congress, which is stunning.

Here's that quote again, because its worthy of being repeated: "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library," wrote Jorge Luis Borges.

I agree. In Paradise I will also compose music like Bach, do the high jump like an Olympic athlete, and write novels even better than Jane Austen. In heaven, I will be published to critical and popular acclaim! My dream for 30 years, still waiting for it to come true. Maybe in Paradise.

There's a beautiful library in Paris where I wrote The Paris Writers Circle ten years ago, when I lived in Paris for a year. I commuted to it six days a week. It's called the Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris. BHVP for short.

I've explored other historic libraries in Paris. In my 2019 trip, I worked on my next novel in The Richelieu, The Arsenal, and The Mazarine.

This November 2025 trip to Paris, however, I made a new start on writing that novel. It's about a set designer, and a fashion designer wanna-be, sharing an apartment in Brooklyn and working in Manhattan (I don't do the Bronx, Queens, or Staten Island :)

I had written almost half in 2019 and recently decided to start absolutely from scratch. Every chapter written fresh.

It's going well, thanks to the guidance of story consultant Lisa Cron's book. She says each character has to have a third rail. I had read that each character should have a visceral desire and an inner struggle that blocks her. But Cron brings those two elements together and says each character should have a third rail with two sides to it: the want and the misbelief that blocks it.

I love the way she integrates the character struggle! My first couple of re-written chapters are electro-magnetically charged!

Now I'd like to share pictures from the BHVP. It was built as a mansion for a duchess in the 1500s. The United States has nothing like this:

Here are the gates, on Rue Pavée in the neighborhood known as Le Marais.

Do you often see a facade like this in the U.S.?

In the corner, the door to Paradise, the library.

This is the workroom. It's silent even though it's full of people. Everyone is focused on their work. It's the most marvelous place I've ever been in to write. I love, love, love it.

More of the facade.

The opposite corner from the door to Paradise.

A detail of the beams in the work room. Every day I asked for a seat "under the angels, because I work better there." That I said it in French (after looking up the word for beams), tickles me.

If you enjoyed this post, would you tell me in the Comments, below? I'd love to hear from you!

Would you share this post with a friend? Copy and paste the URL above and email it off!

Thank you!

A Story from my journalism career

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Thu, 30 Oct 2025 11:30:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Down the right hand column of this blog you can see my three new covers for the Tricia Maguire romantic suspense series.

Tricia Maguire is a feisty, funny young widow and journalist who takes big risks to find the stories that will lift her from her small Central Jersey newspaper to The New York Times.

She takes risks and lands in precarious situations. Just as I did when I was a reporter in Central Jersey.

I'll allow that she takes bigger risks than I ever did.

Here's the story:

Even though I didn't take the risks my character does, sometimes I was really scared.

At one point I was given an assignment to go to a fur salon in Central Jersey and interview the owner. His neighbors kept complaining—to the police, and when they did nothing, to the newspaper I worked for—that he was training pit bulls in his backyard. He had a full-length leather suit with thick gauntlets and targets for the dogs to attack -- the whole set-up for training dogs to attack intruders.

So I went on the assignment, not too concerned, thinking I’d interview the owner amongst the mink coats. Instead, he led me to his break room in the basement – where six pit bulls were hanging out!

He said they would be fine. I didn’t want to admit that I was scared out of my mind with this arrangement. But I couldn’t let my editor down. I wanted to fulfill my assignment. I was ambitious to do well at the newspaper.

So I stepped into the break room. The dogs ignored me. Thank God. In retrospect, I should never have taken that risk.

My character Tricia has the same desire to fulfill assignments—and not just that but a burning desire to rise in the journalism world. In my novel Envy Kills, she interviews an ex-con who has a German Shepherd on a leash—and then he lets go of it. She takes even bigger risks than that in the story. Both you and I can enjoy her tale from the comfort of our armchairs.

Click on one of the covers to the right to order your book today. Envy Kills went live today, and reviews are in:

"I love it! It's fun! It's a page turner!" -- Val J.

"Deep, rich, with interesting, believable characters -- and I'm an English major!" -- John M.

Next up: Photos from Paris, where I'm staying with friends and enjoying the City of Light.

Back to the Sahara desert for a beauty fix

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Mon, 13 Oct 2025 14:18:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

In desert camp I laid in the sand that night for a while to soak in the vast display of stars, sharp and clear, with the Milky Way a cloudy streak across the apex of the sky. So many billions of stars in just one galaxy, and there are an estimated 2 trillion more galaxies. That's up from an older estimate of 100-200 billion because of the Hubble and Webb space telescopes.

I left the night-sky vista reluctantly when the desert chill drove me into my tent. I was grateful to crawl between clean white sheets, with a soft blanket above, and then the rough camel-hair blanket. I was overnighting in a tent in the Sahara desert. It was beyond my wildest dreams.

The desert was beautiful in morning light.

Camels were still with us, some nestled into the sand overnight. I believe that the Tuareg tribesmen, les hommes bleus, who guarded the camp overnight, used them as their mode of transportation to get to their jobs.

The temperature is about to go up with the sun.

I couldn't get enough of these exotic (to me) creatures.

A panoramic view of the desert, ending with our mode of transporation back to civilization.

Our driver, whose name I regret forgetting. All the Tuareg drivers displayed an infectious joie de vivre. Their music does to (look into downloading some Tinariwen, Grammy-award winning Tuareg musicion). Tuaregs are a specific ethnic group within the larger Berber people of North Africa, who are known for their nomadic culture and distinct Berber language, Tamasheq.

"Berber" comes from Roman times and means "barbarian" or "foreigner." The Berbers refer to themselves as Amazigh, or "free people."

Here's yours truly in blue.

Our SUVs took our group back to town, perched precariously at the edge of the dunes, in a scene that's at least 1,000 years old--except for the SUV on the left edge.

In town, a tower inscribed with Berber designs.

Our bus headed away from the parched region into the High Atlas mountains.

News from the crossroads of beauty, adventure + creativity!

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Tue, 07 Oct 2025 15:00:00 +0000

I'm whisking you away from the Sahara desert temporarily to share some news!

I've been writing away at the crossroads of beauty, adventure, and creativity. And I've emerged -- with a new novel! Here's the cover! Subscribers to my blog are the first to see it!

Envy Kills. I had fun writing it, in hopes that you would too as you read it.

"Meet Tricia Maguire. What fun!" says Readers' Favorite.

"She's feisty but funny, holy but horny, nosey but nice."

An ambitious young widow and journalist, Tricia dreams of romance and children with Justin Hardy, and a leap from her small New Jersey paper to The New York Times. But she's fighting more than deadlines -- her weight, her biological clock, her envy, and the scars of a disastrous first marriage that left her wary of men.

When a shocking murder rocks the local museum, Tricia investigates with daring. Every suspect hides a darker motive than the last. A chase through a swamp. A gunfight in a solarium. An unstable killer. And in the end, Tricia discovers that envy does indeed kill.

Will she achieve her Times-worthy ambitions -- or finally choose love? Can she make peace with herself before her battles consume her, despite her spiritual leanings?

A witty, suspenseful mystery steeped in the grit of noir Central Jersey.

You can preorder the ebook at a short-term price of $1.99. Paperback available soon.

Just think! A mystery in noir Central Jersey, in time for Halloween! Perfect!

Praise from early readers just came in: "It's got really interesting, believable characters. Really well written -- rich, deep, interesting." -- John M, an English major

"I'm loving it! It's fun!" -- Valerie J.

Preorder Envy Kills before the price goes up!

I hope you enjoy reading the novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Life-Changing Moment & Desert Camp!

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Fri, 11 Jul 2025 15:53:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

My life changed radically during a long day on the bus crossing Morocco's dry southeast region.

We passed a man walking. The most recent hamlet was three miles behind us and we didn't pass another hamlet for five more miles.

And the tumblers in my mind spun like crazy.

I finally saw with utmost clarity that I was very rich.

This man couldn't even afford a bicycle. Meanwhile I spun by on a bus, having been able to afford a plane ticket from America and this tour.

And one of our guides had told me that poor Moroccan girls go to Saudi Arabia and other oil-rich Arab countries to become second and third wives. In spite of the resentment of the other wives that they have to live with, they consider this a big improvement in life--at last, enough food.

I live now thanking God for the level at which I live. No matter that it's not as extravagant as some other people's. I have a bicycle in the garage and enough food on the table.

After a long dusty journey, and our camel ride and 4x4 drive across the desert dunes, we arrived at our desert camp for the night.

At the edge of the desert camp was a rest area of sofas, cushions, and rugs. The rest area led to the desert.

Our group walked out to watch the sun set over the dunes.

When the sun goes down over the Sahara, it's a big relief.

A caravan heading to their night camp.

An animal leaving his mysterious signs in the desert.

A Tuareg man, un homme bleu, passing us as he heads to his camp.

We stayed in tents (with running water). My bed had what I believe to be a camel hair blanket.

The dining tent. Tuareg men served dinner. We were within walking distance of the border with Algeria. There's a lot of tension between Morocco and this country. We were told not to go near.

Mystery and Beauty of the Sahara Desert

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Thu, 29 May 2025 14:22:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

The Sahara is a dry plateau not necessarily covered with sand dunes, Aziz, our group's guide, told us. In fact, he insisted we were not in the Sahara yet.

But for the last full day we'd been bussed across a dry plateau. When we had stepped off the bus for a break, our footsteps sent up puffs of dust. We'd been parched even though drinking lots of bottled water.

Then we came up to some sand dunes. I got my first camel ride, my first 4x4 drive on sand dunes, my first night ever out under the desert stars.

In my opinion, we were in the Sahara. You can decide for yourself from the pictures.

The sand dunes ahead of us said "Sahara Desert" to me. I was there, in my opinion, in this mystic desert, the setting of thousands of stories.

A troop of camels rested on dry ground from their labors carrying tourists.

My first ever camel ride! What a hoot--I had to hang on tight while the camel got lurchingly to his feet.

Tuareg tribesmen handled the camels. They traditionally dress in blue robes.

A profile of my camel. I admired the sand-filtering fringe on his ears and his eyelids.

Some people rented ATVs to go out onto the barren dunes, in the distance.

My shadow, hanging on for dear life on the rocking camel, trying to fire off some shots without blurring.

Our Touareg guide helped me with this shot. Looks like I do too much sitting and writing ...

Camels are tall! I was way up in the air. The gait of a camel is uncomfortable, and so was the saddle. I couldn't imagine crossing the whole desert like this, day after day.

When we got back from our 30-minute camel ride, both the camel and I were relieved.

Our driver of the 4x4 took us out to our desert camp for an overnight. He was dressed in the traditional blue bubu (robe) and turban that doubled as a scarf. The Tuareg are known as "Les Hommes Bleus du Sahara". They are renown as fierce warriors. They also live in a matriarchal society. The women are in charge. I saw one man in blue veil himself with his scarf, covering his nose and mouth, as a sign of respect for women when I passed him in a narrow passageway.

Our driver took us over sand dunes like a roller coaster. He was playing Tuareg music on the radio, an artist named Tinariwen. This musician won a Grammy for World Music. His genre is known as "Desert Blues," and it sounded great as we swooped through the Sahara. He's available on Apple Music and probably Spotify. I play his music all the time, now that I'm back from Morocco. He's a great favorite.

Inspiration at the Gate to the Sahara

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Tue, 03 Dec 2024 17:09:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Morocco is magnifique! Let the architecture, carving, and tilework you see here inspire you with an interior design project, or an inlaid wooden box you've imagined making, or a quilt.

We spent a night in the Sahara -- you'll see those pictures next -- but first explored beautiful Moorish buildings on the edge of the desert.

Even though we weren't officially yet in the desert, it exerts a powerful presence. The soil was painfully dry as far as the eye could see. Dust puffed out from under our shoes with each footstep and coated our shoes.

We enjoyed Malhoun music the night before we took the bus right to the Sahara's edge. Here is the lead singer of the Jorf Malhoun Band. I'll Spotify them when I get home. They were excellent.

Near the Sahara we met Ali. Behind him you can see The Gate of the Sahara.

He's wearing a bubu, which is the Berber word for a djellabah, the floor-length garment worn by men and women all over Morocco. His is blue, and so his turban, created by a very long scarf. He is one of the hommes bleus, blue men, from the Berber's Tuareg tribe. More pics about this next time.

Morocco is bustling with tractor trailers carrying goods -- and with other modes of transportation. Getting around by foot is still big. I often saw people walking out in the middle of nowhere.

We weren't allowed, as non-Muslims, to enter any mosque except one in Casablanca, which is a national monument. I took this shot from the doorway, in a hurry, that's why it's crooked, with people waiting behind me for their shot. But the mosaic work, carving, and stained glass are super, no? Moorish arches have always delighted my eyes.

Ali and a carved door at the mosque.

A detail of the carved door.

A lovely courtyard with mosaics, a shallow fountain, and light.

Look at the incredible amount of beautiful work!

Ali gives us some history and insights into the desert culture.

Families still live off of this alleyway that light never penetrates.

Ali took us here to show us desert walled communities. They're made of big mud bricks strengthened with straw, and they last for generations.

Morocco, a land of mysteries and stories

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sun, 27 Oct 2024 11:09:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

I feel so exotic -- I'm writing to you from Rabat, capital city of Morocco. I will meet my tour group here at approx. 5 pm. My sister arrives from Marrakech then too!

I hear a demonstration of some sort down the street from the hotel. But I've heard that Moroccans like their king. A taxi driver told me, "He's friendly." I don't speak Arabic so I don't know what the discontent is about.

French is spoken here too, so I trot out my French. When people hear my American accent, they want to practice their English, so they switch to English. It's, like, impossible to switch it back to French! Sigh...I'm the one who took the trouble to cross an ocean, so I ought to be the one who gets to practice their foreign language, don't you think?

I hope you have a chance to do as much travel as you would like. Getting to Rabat yesterday required taking a journey with five legs in it -- three by plane and two by train. It was a bit much. But after a great night's sleep, I am adjusted to my new time zone today.

To prepare for this trip, I read two wonderful books set in Morocco. Please read The Caliph's House, about a year spent in Casablanca reconditioning an ancient palace, and In Arabian Nights, both by a great writer, Tahir Shah. They are recent books and give so much insight into the people and the culture. The books have so many stories in them -- story is what I've been working at and studying about for three-and-a-half decades.

He talks about Morocco having underground streams -- not of water but of stories. Of mysteries. It's true, I feel it!

Here are my first photos from Rabat.

This is Avenue Mohammed V, a place where Moroccans stroll with their families of a pleasant evening.

This is a government building (Rabat is the capital city). Bird of Paradise flowers (orange) are in the garden, growing here just because they can.

A hidden, secret courtyard.

The change of guard at the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, father of the current king.

Built in the 11th century, this is the Tour Hassan.

A Moorish doorway at the mausoleum.

I do love a Moorish doorway.

Details from the Tour Hassan.

The guard at the mausoleum. The poor horses were being plagued by flies on their faces. I wish the soldiers could hold a brush for the flies instead of a spear.

Very different look than the famous guard at Buckingham Palace.

I went to the Atlantic Ocean in Rabat to do a ritual I've done in the Pacific, the Mediterranean, the Atlantic at various points, the Caribbean: I roll up my pants and get my feet wet, no matter what the season, no matter how cold the water is, and re-dedicate myself to two things: Jesus and writing.

There were lots of women surfers at the beach! I didn't expect that in Morocco, where some women are in Western dress, some in scarves, and some covered except for a slit for their eyes. The surfing women wear a wetsuit and tie a long piece of fabric over it!

How about you? What travel plans do you have? What impressions do you have of Morocco? Comment below and I'll be sure to reply!

Isle de Bréhat -- A French Playground

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Tue, 10 Sep 2024 19:27:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Next my sister, my French friend Martine, her dog Tibou, and I -- the intrepid foursome through Brittany and Normandy -- went from Dinan to L'Isle de Bréhat, just off the coast of Brittany.

A loaded ferry took us across waters that had many rocks jutting up from the surface -- how many more were hidden just below? But we made it safely across, as you would expect from a ferry company, and we were enchanted immediately.

The agapanthus was at its peak of bloom, as were the hydrangea. The sea air was refreshing even while the sun was blazing hot.

This was a very special place, glad I explored it, but certainly a playground of the very rich.

Houses were nestled into the landscape, which was burgeoning with blooms.

Rustic fences, stone walls, and hardy grasses caught my eye.

This is one cove, with boats basking in the sun.

A private cove for just one house.

The only problem with boating on Bréhat: the tide in this northern end of the world has big swings, and boats are often rendered unusable by the tide going out.

A path with ancient walls.

A cottage nestled into its lush garden.

Agapanthus growing wild, a mysterious house where certainly a family with some wild people in it must have lived.

Another view. What a place!

It's on a hill with sea air constantly flowing over it.

Another beautiful house.

Isle de Bréhat was just full of picturesqueness.

It reminds me of the kind of cottage known as Cape Cod. But here we are in the Old World, not the new.

A field of grass nodding in the wind.

My type of place: small and cozy.

A romantic door.

A statue just outside the restaurant where we had lunch.

Here's our lunch spot -- highly recommended!

Plants do well on Isle de Bréhat in the moist sea air, even in nooks and crannies. How about you? What special place have you been over the years? Comment below!

Just outside Dinan, Brittany, a jewel of a landscape

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Thu, 15 Aug 2024 19:44:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

This jewel of a landscape could inspire your garden, your photography, your writing, your life! And there's a recipe for a French almond cake below to inspire your baking.

After hijinks, rascals, and medieval homes in Dinan, with all the history they evoke, we sought some quiet time along the River Rance, which runs along the edge of the city. Downstream from us, in the Port of Dinan, the Kiwanis jousting boats kept going, with Celtic bagpipes adding to the swirl and hubbub. But just upriver was a marvelously peaceful scene. We walked to the incredibly beautiful village of Léhon on a footpath that followed the river's twists and turns.

The path took us past a few scattered houses that seemed to have no means of access by car.

The river was so quiet, it reflected perfectly.

I like how the bridge reflected until it looked like it was built in an oval.

The church for the little village of Léhon.

This is the scene in the heart of Léhon. I was dazzled by the beauty of a French village.

Ancient stonework. There's little in this world that's more picturesque.

Someone's well-loved flower garden.

There's Tibou, my French friend Martine's dog. He covered twice as much ground as we did as he ran ahead, then back to Martine.

A family enjoying a quiet moment on the Rance.

How about you? Been on any woodsy walks lately? Did you recharge your creative batteries? Let's chat about it below in the comments section.

And now for the recipe you've been waiting for. My friend Marla, a personal trainer and yoga instructor in New York City, says it's delicious. She is the nicest person, which you'll be able to see for yourself at her website.

Almond Bars (Barres aux amandes). Courtesy of Watkins Pure Almond Extract.

4 eggs

2 cups white sugar

1 cup butter, melted

2 cups all-purpose flour

1-1/2 teaspoons of almond extract

Confectioners' sugar

In a mixing bowl, beat the eggs and sugar until lemon-colored. Add the butter, flur and extract. Mix well. Spread into a greased 13 x 9-inch baking pan. Bake at 325 Fahrenheit for 30 to 35 mintes, until toothpick comes out clean. Cool on a rack. Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar.

Marla advises that people add 1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla and be sure to use salted butter. She recommends sprinkling the top with chopped nuts (of your choice) and a bit of sea salt. Also, you could drizzle melted chocolate on top.

What Hijinks in These Medieval Houses?

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Fri, 21 Jun 2024 18:25:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Today I have some shots that I hope spark your creativity and send you to your workroom or drawing pad, or simply to the kitchen to make a meal with a bit of je ne sais quoi.

I'm inspired by architecture, which is the art of light and space. People live and work, breathe and have their being within architecture. Let's take a look at some from the Middle Ages.

After the hijinx at the port, we explored at the top of the hill, in Dinan's centre ville.

Dinan has a fine assortment of medieval half-timbered houses. Get carried away with me: these houses are 1,000 years old. They have witnessed the births and deaths of countless generations of Bretons. Families and friends eating, sometimes meagerly, sometimes feasting together. Marriages lived out, heartfelt prayers said.

The walls, ceilings, floors get embued with the spirit of all these activities, creating an ambience for the next generations to savor.

Here in the centre-ville of Dinan is a half-timbered structure, supported by more recent columns, I'm guessing. I went in one of these houses. They're dark.

A detail from another half-timbered house in Dinan. How would you feel about having your house supported by timbers harvested 1,000 years ago?

A biscuiterie -- a cookie shop -- under the colonade formed by this ancient building. How French!

These timbers were fitted together with splices and pieces and who knows what. What are you piecing together today? Tell me, in the comment section.

Splices and pieces and a more recent column below. Would you like to live in one of these spaces? I imagine that the lives lived within them leave a person feeling crowded with personalities, with stories, with hijinks.

These are the gates between Dinan's centre-ville and the port of Dinan. France is replete with these reminders of history, of times past, of the people who preceded us. What are your thoughts about ancient homes and walls and gates? What do they inspire you to do? Please feel free to comment below!

Hijinks in Dinan, Brittany

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sun, 28 Jan 2024 15:20:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

My French friend Martine, her little white dog Tibou, my sister Chris and I went from solemnity in the abbey of Mont St. Michel to hijinks in Dinan.

We'll get to the hijinks. First I'll show you picturesqueness. Walking through the center of the village of Dinan, we found the side street that descends to the river Rance and the port of Dinan (this village is quite a ways inland but it does connect to the ocean eventually). The street knocked us sideways, it was so powerfully charming.

By the way, to be alerted when my next pictures from France are posted, sign up for my newsletter, at the upper right.

Everywhere on the descent to the river we enjoyed charming scenes.

The descent to the port on the river Rance is steep, but that adds to the charm. Can you imagine living your life in one of these houses? What a beautiful scene to come home to.

The roofline is so French too.

I experimented with black and white on this same shot. What do you think? Which do you like better? Comment below!

Hydrangea in glorious bloom graced our time in Brittany and Normandy.

The perfect windowbox and the perfect sculpture for a home.

A half-timbered home dating from the Middle Ages, maybe 1200 or 1300. Just down the hill, we enjoyed an amazing lunch of galettes (crêpes in the Brittany style, made with buckwheat). Mine had honey and goat cheese in it. So fabulous! A very memorable meal.

The French gift for making beauty against old stonework.

When we got to the port, we saw that teams from Kiwanis clubs in the region were practicing rowing toward each other and then knocking the jousters (note: on a tilted platform) off each other's boats.

Even though these boats were rowed by men and women, they moved fast, and each jousting encounter was over quickly. There was only one opportunity, one thrust, to knock off your opposition.

The next day, Sunday, we went back to the port for the actual competition. The boats' teams were now dressed in costumes, like these characters from a famous French comic book series, The Adventures of Tintin.

Here's a sea captain, Captain Haddock from the Adventures of Tintin, with a fake pipe that glowed. There were Native American teams in loincloths, teams dressed as zebras and other zoo animals, etc. The Kiwanis teams used their imaginations.

This team is dressed as construction workers, plus the caller, standing at the bottom of the jouster's platform, dressed as a ....?.... traffic cone?

Bagpipe music (we are, after all, in Brittany, with strong Celtic roots) played at the start of each jousting session.

Here's a team with the King of England, his subjects -- and polo ponies.

Here's a joust in full costume, with bagpipe soundtrack.

This guy was shoved into the water, which was the whole point of the day.

How about you? Would you participate if your local Kiwanis or Rotary or Lions Club got up to such hijinks? Comment below!

And sign up for my newsletter in the top right corner to automatically get the next installment: the picturesque center village of Dinan. Then more from Brittany. Thanks!

Beauty in this World: Sunrise at Mont St. Michel, Normandy

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sun, 07 Jan 2024 20:41:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Welcome to my blog, The Traveling Writer. I have great stuff for you! For the latest, sign up for my newsletter, The Traveling Writer, in the upper right corner.

Today I'm featuring a time-lapse video of sunrise over the 1,000-year-old abbey on Mont St. Michel. It was made this summer by a young man I met on the mount who generously shared his video. I'll get his name if I can.

With so much difficult news in the world these days, please take a moment to witness some of the beauty, some of the good things that this world still offers.

For more beauty, adventure and creativity, sign up for my newsletter, The Traveling Writer, to the right.

Celebrating 1,000 Years on Mont St. Michel

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sun, 08 Oct 2023 15:16:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Mont St. Michel celebrates 1,000 years this year. Which is strange because parts of it are far older than that.

I have a brochure in my hand that says the history of the island is thought to date to 708 when a bishop had a sanctuary built on the mount in honor of the Archangel Michael.

It became a major pilgrimage site. In the 900s, the Benedictines settled on the Mont.

So don't ask me why France is celebrating 1,000 years this year. But they are, and the official celebrations began the day we left in July and continued into August. We escaped before a giant wave of tourists.

But why quibble about a few hundred years? The Mont is spectacular, rising from an absolutely flat tidal plain. It has areas of quicksand, which doesn't stop people from walking around on the tidal plain. It usually gets just a few feet of water at high tide.

We spent one night (got a fantastic price from Bookings.com) so we could have the island to ourselves early in the morning.

We were there in early July, very soon after the solstice, and it was light out until 11:30 p.m. The seagulls of the island made a racket until nearly midnight and started up again with sunrise. They must be exhausted in summertime.

During the Hundred Years War, the fortifications of Mont-Saint-Michel resisted all British assaults and therefore the Mount has become a national symbol of identify.

Only a handful of people live full-time on the Mont, which gets overrun with tourists--like me. One of the residents said the whole world is there and it's very isolating.

A view from the ramparts.

Ancient stone walls and thriving plants.

A picturesque door, steps, and set of lions to guard it all.

A shot taken from near the steps to the Abbey.

This fellow landed next to me on the North Tower.

Incredibly old, hundreds and hundreds of years, and so beautiful.

The view out my hotel window. This is a residence -- I watched the owners go out for dinner.

The Abbey high above the houses and businesses.

A perfect window.

I got up early in the morning, before the buses with tourists arrived, and explored. Up one path or staircase, and down another. It was sublime.

The Mont's namesake, the Archangel Michael.

Knights in shining armor are another popular theme here.

A view of the bay at sunrise, above the North Tower.

The wash of colors in sky and sea was stunning all day long.

The agapanthus were stunning in Normandy and Brittany.

Another unexpected visitor.

The Abbey at the top of Mt. St. Michel. The straight line you see descending on the left is the track where supplies were once lifted into the abbey.

Just something picturesque.

The cloister in the Abbey, which is still inhabited today with Benedictine nuns and monks.

One of the Abbey's doors.

During the French Revolution, 5 prisoners walked inside this wheel to bring supplies up the track into the Abbey, which was used as a prison.

From Mt. St. Michel we proceeded to Dinan. What a hoot that was! Wait 'til you see! Comment below, if you please, to boost me in the search engine. Thank you!

Bayeux Is a Special Place in Normandy

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sun, 20 Aug 2023 10:10:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

Bayeux in Normandy is a neat town. It's the home of the famous Bayeux tapestry, a 210-foot-long linen scroll. It's embroidered with scenes from the 1066 Norman invasion of England. You can see pictures of it here.

As a person who has done a lot of needlework in her life, I recognize a work of art and a testament to women's craft. I attribute it to women's artistic achievement because historians think women made it--evidence indicates that only women in medieval England embroidered, according to BBC History Magazine. More info here.

Bayeux is also the home of the cathedral of Notre-Dame of Bayeux, consecrated on 14 July 1077 in the presence of William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy and King of England, and his wife Matilda. All that survives from the construction of this period is the crypt, the towers at the western end and the first level of the nave.

It's lovely. It's one of the few cathedrals I will trouble you with.

The town of Bayeux itself is picturesque. It has a river running through it.

The houses along the river have water doors leading to their gardens.

Isn't this the perfect window?

The roofline of Bayeux.

It's worth a visit, especially coupled with a side trip to the nearby Normandy invasion museums and sites. My experience in these historic places is here.

Respect and Gratitude at the Normandy Beaches

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sat, 05 Aug 2023 13:35:00 +0000

by Norma Hopcraft

While we stayed in Bayeux (see previous post for photos of the hostel / convent we stayed in), we visited the Normandy beaches.

I've wanted all my life to see this place where freedom vs. slavery of the world was contested. I've always wanted to pay my respects at the American cemetery. So many young men died on D-Day. There are 12,000 Americans buried in the American cemetery, and there are British and Canadian and Aussie and New Zealander graves in other burial grounds in Normandy. There's a huge German cemetery too.

So many stories of heroic leadership were written that day.

And so many young men died.

The day we visited was a somber day though the sun was shining relentlessly.

This is Pointe du Hoc, a 100-foot cliff and the highest point between Omaha and Utah Beaches. During World War II it was fortified by the Germans and believed to be impossible to breach. There are a number of German bunkers still embedded in the hillside. There are also huge craters where American bombs fell. The craters are now full of wildflowers.

The Pointe was full of people, all respectfully quiet and serious. Many young people were there with tour guides telling them about D-Day, and about all that was at stake that day. It was gratifying to see their serious interest in history. May we never have to repeat a day like that one.

The barbed wire has been there more than 80 years.

From Pointe du Hoc you can look east toward Omaha Beach.

Can you see the windsurfer in the center of the picture, just beyond the wall of the American Cemetery?

All these young men fought and died so we'd be free to do things like windsurf

instead of slaving in Nazi mines.

And free to vote.

The number of crosses is overwhelming.

A Dream Come True -- to Be in France

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Tue, 01 Aug 2023 13:03:00 +0000

By Norma Hopcraft

At long last, some photos from France, as I promised! After 15 hours of travel, my sister Chris and I took one day to adjust to jet lag in Maisons-Laffitte, where my friend Carol's house is, the one I'm housesitting in. After a nap, we walked into town and enjoyed the shops.

"How can you govern a country with 400 kinds of cheese?" Charles de Gaulle once

lamented. Here is a typical sampling.

Then we took a train to meet our French friend Martine and her little Himalayan Mountain Dog, Tibou (which means morsel in French argot) in Rouen. From there we went around Normandy and Brittany in Martine's car.

We had a very good time!

Let's start in Rouen today, and then head to Normandy.

First, meet Martine, my landlady when I lived in Paris for a year. She's an actress, and this is a photo of her that she gave me 10 years ago:

Next, here's Tibou -- or rather, here's a Shih-Tzu, a type of Himalayan mountain dog, also known as a cat-dog (because they're so independent by nature). You'll see a picture of the real Tibou later in this series.

Now, let's go to Rouen, which has an elaborate, ornate cathedral that Monet spent a year on, striving to capture an impression of its appearance in all kinds of weather, every season, all times of the day. He made more than 30 paintings of this cathedral.

When you look closely at the details, the ornateness of the entire cathedral becomes even more overwhelming.

Here's one decorative column on one side of one doorway, surrounded by stone

cut so fine as to look like lace.

Here's the arch over the doorway. Sculptors carved the stone

on nearly every inch of this cathedral.

The Cathedral at Rouen is so very elaborate, it's actually not to my taste, if I may be so bold to say. It's "over the top." You'll see more over-the-topness when we get to the opera house designed by Garnier.

That same evening we drove 90 minutes to Bayeux, where we wanted to see the 1,000-year-old Bayeux tapestry and the Normandy beaches the next day. We stayed in a hostel, to cut costs of course, but then the hostel magic I hoped for actually happened--I met a woman who lives in Rochester! She told me all kinds of fascinating things about my adopted city. Here's the hostel where we met -- it's in a former convent.

The front gate to the building, from the 17th century, I believe.

The front door.

The wing where I slept, upstairs.

The accommodations were spare -- we made our own beds and the showers, sinks, and toilets were down the hall -- but the place had an abiding peace and grew on me over the two nights we stayed there.

Next post: Bayeux, the Normandy beaches, and the American Cemetery.

See my recent photos of Rochester immediately below this post.

For Fun, Try a Photo Walk!

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Mon, 03 Jul 2023 20:11:00 +0000

I'm in JFK, on my way to Paris -- photos from France up next!

But first:

I went on a photo walk last Saturday, led by a film company named Cinestill that refinishes Kodak film for movies. They lead photowalks all over the world. They took us -- us being at least 75 photographers, with cameras strapped all around them (I, however, had an iPhone and was fully adopted into the family) -- on a windy path through the annual Rochester International Jazz Festival to a secret neighborhood I didn't know existed until that day. Then to the Genesee River and back into town.

Here are my photos from that day.

You're getting a picture of a classic car simply because I love classic cars.

Isn't this a handsome building? It's across from Ugly Duck Coffee Shop, for those of you who live in Rochester.

Lots of patterns in this photo!

Here's the first house in the secret neighborhood.

I love the purple!

I'm a sucker for May Apples and shady gardens.

Another house in the secret neighborhood.

A shady garden

I call this photo "No Privacy" because I probably shouldn't have taken it.

More from the secret neighborhood (whose name I don't know)

Here's a fellow photo walker fiddling with his gear.

A bit impudent of him

A photowalker NOT in comfortable shoes

I love messy buns.

More tats

Another handsome downtown building

A fellow photographer

Looks like a church, right?

It has no roof

Inside it's going wild

Tree growing out the window. This is the old St. Joseph's. The roof and interior were destroyed in a fire in the 1980s.

A bridge over the Genesee, downtown, reflecting in the water.

Another bridge over the Genesee

Photo is even more successful as a black and white.

A man we're proud to claim as a Rochesterian

Reminds me of the Grace Building in NYC.

Three years in, I've come to call Rochester home.

A fantastic drummer at the jazz festival.

A tree in my Park Ave. neighborhood

Korean dogwood in black and white.

The fragrance garden behind the Science Center.

If you have any comments, feedback, insights to share, please use the comment box at the bottom of this post. I'd love to hear from you!

New Adventure -- France All Summer!

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sat, 17 Jun 2023 12:01:00 +0000

Hi, fans!

I'm in the midst of a countdown: just two weeks until I fly to France for the summer!

I'll be staying with friends that I met in 2014-2015, my year of creative writing sabbatical in Paris.

Please come with me on this current trip! I'll be posting photos and commentary here on my blog. You can correspond by leaving a comment--each post will have a comment box at the bottom.

So I'm visiting friends in different parts of France and also house-sitting on the edge of Paris for a month. My friend Carol owns a house to the northwest of the city. She is a retired American major magazine reporter on French and EU economics, and after spending her working career in Paris she chose to retire in France. I can't wait to see her!

I too am retired, just six weeks ago. One part of this trip is a retirement gift to myself. For 9 days I'll tour Normandy and Brittany! It's quite extravagant of me, but I worked for 57 years and I feel that I earned this reward.

There is only one downside to being away for two months, and that's being away from my little grandsons for so long. They will have grown and changed by the time I get back, without my witnessing it in person. Nothing in life is unalloyed--there's always both an upside and a downside.

Stay tuned for more from France! Posts start in July!

It can be only the French who wear high heels while riding a scooter!

I'm Changing the Name of "In Search of the American Dream"

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sat, 04 Mar 2023 20:32:00 +0000

Saying Goodbye to the Old Blog Name

by Norma Hopcraft

My mother once introduced herself at a little talk she gave as a person who had lived the American Dream. My father and she made it happen together.

My father started his career right out of high school, lower than the secretaries, he told me, adding columns of numbers in the insurance business. After years of struggle and setbacks, he rose through the ranks. He retired from a corner office at the top of a skyscraper in New York City's Financial District, with a view of the East River, where in summer he sailed his 36-foot sailboat.

My mother's role in all this was to be a helpmeet. She started out as a motherless child, raised by a great aunt and uncle in the Depression, collecting eggs from the chickens in the backyard. She worked as a secretary for a few years and was forced to quit when she got pregnant, which is how all companies operated in the 1950s--not that long ago. She took care of the kids, cooked, cleaned, and ironed Dad's shirts for 20 years, even in the height of summer, making the shirts crisper than a professional laundry, until Mom and Dad could afford to pay someone to do it. They never ate out for the first 20 years of their married life because it wasn't in the budget.

But Dad rose, and his dreams of being in charge of lots of people, saying to them, "It's time to jump," and the people saying "How high?" came true. He loved it, he told me. And he had his boat.

If all this sounds like high success on my parents' part, I'm only telling you the surface. You'll have to read my memoir, coming out in about a year, to know the truth.

But right now we're talking about the American Dream.

So along comes me, who decided 30 years ago to be a writer and to risk investing tons of time and energy in it to make my fortune. My American Dream was to write such great stuff that people would tell their friends about it, and sales would soar. I would retire early from my corporate career (such as it was -- marketing writers are not very high on the food chain) to write full time in the capitals of Europe, since I'd be able to afford lots of travel.

I still believed in it 12 years ago, when I started this blog as I traveled around the U.S. -- on a shoestring budget, taking the bus and staying in hostels, sleeping 12 or 24 people to a room. And I couldn't even afford that. I put it on a credit card and spent the next 8 years paying it off.

I wrote some great books, in my opinion, and got some great reviews, but the books didn't catch fire the way I hoped.

Now I'm restarting my blog after a one-year hiatus, and I had to take a long, hard look at the name. I'm wondering if I still believe in the American Dream. My American Dream died a painful death over the last five years as I faced the reality that my books had not outperformed the other 33 million books on Amazon. I resolved -- to be honest, I resigned myself -- that I would write just for excellence, just for the glory of God (as did my favorite composer, J.S. Bach), just to make my own small contribution to the culture of the world. I expunged fame and fortune from my hopes and dreams.

But is that really what I want?

I've always believed in having a BHAG, a Big Hairy Audacious Goal, as one of the writers on corporate excellence puts it. My BHAG was to give readers something fun, funny, interesting, thought-provoking to read. And I wanted my work to lead to a full-time writing life. My dream didn't come true the way I envisioned it. I didn't get to retire at 55, but I'll retire eventually, in my late 60s, to write fulltime. So in a way my dream of retiring to write fulltime is coming true, just not the way I'd hoped.

I'm glad to report I have 3 books out there and 3 books nearing completion. I think they're fun, funny, interesting, and might provoke some thought.

But I had wanted that financial piece.

For years I drew lots of energy from my American Dream of making money, energy that's vital to a long, protracted apprenticeship in writing. To be honest, I don't get that same surge of energy from dreaming solely about excellence. But would dreaming once again of fame and fortune make a dupe out of me? Dreaming of it gives energy, but it's not a good reason to write, according to writers who have written acclaimed books. Maybe it could still happen, though I'll be too old to do much more with it than pass it on to the younger generation -- and it might not be good for them.

The important thing is to serve people, to serve my readers, to serve my Higher Power (whom I call Emmanuel), with excellence in every undertaking.

What are your thoughts? Is the American Dream still alive? Do only a very few, exceptionally educated, talented and lucky people get to make theirs come true anymore? To do what my father did these days, you'd have to have an MBA from Harvard. But why are immigrants still coming to our country believing in the American Dream more vividly than any native-born American?

I'm still in search of my dream, refining and revising it as I go.

What's your opinion on all this? What do you think of the American Dream?

Please comment below!

I Got a Fragment of My American Dream--but still working on it

noreply@blogger.com (The Traveling Writer) — Sat, 25 Feb 2023 17:26:00 +0000

I live in Rochester, NY, now. Yes, I'm a snob about cities. I commuted to New York City for 25 years, then I lived in Paris for a year, Barcelona for 3 months, Brooklyn for four years.

Rochester does not have the cache of any of those cities.

But it can be an amazing place.

It hosts the world's longest running international film festival, and it's the only film festival that provides feedback and critique to each filmmaker.

It houses the world's largest collection of American classic films. That's because Kodak is based here, and most of the American classics were filmed in Kodak film.

It hosts a long-running international jazz festival.

And it has an interesting art museum.

It recently hosted an exhibit of Egyptian sculptures that had been chipped away at -- mutilated.

The exhibit was full of fragments of statues. I find fragments more interesting than whole things.

These sculptures were attacked thousands of years ago because the ancient Egyptians believed that statues of kings had inherent power, that they actually embodied the spirit and authority of each king. When they wanted to malign a king's reign and legacy, they chipped off the royal symbols on a statue -- the upright cobra on the headdress, the stripes on the headdress, the royal beard. They chipped off the eyes or nose so the spirit of the king couldn't see or breathe.

Fragments of statues are like my life. I started out whole (I think--don't children start out undamaged? a tabula rasa, a blank slate?) and then life happened. Plans and desires and longings went unfulfilled. I ended up with just a fragment of what I thought I wanted. And what I wanted was very much shaped and inspired by being an American, being brought up in times when it seemed like the sky was no limit.

I wanted lots of money from my writing, lots of travel, a big house to float through.

What I got was different. It's a fragment of my big, big American dream.

So now I'm sorting among my fragments, among the things that remain. Thank God I have my health, I have a growing sense of God's love for me, I have a family here in Rochester to spend happy time with, I have my driving desire to write--to connect with people, to give people something worthy and nourishing to think about.

What are your fragments? What remains of your hopes and dreams?

What's driving you these days? Want to make some art? Leave something behind?

Perhaps take some inspiration from these ancient fragments:

Here's another post of mine that involve fragments:

Bits of sculptures and architectural details in Providence, RI

Isn't the face above beautiful? Let's make something beautiful today. Comment below!