Dad died this week.

In our last exchange, he texted me a picture of the view from his bed at Kavanaugh House hospice.  Des Moines’ fiery autumn woods served as the backdrop for the last day of his life, visiting with friends and family and watching one last game of football.

When his message came through, I was preparing dinner across the ocean.  Peace washed over me.  On the minimalist daybed under the picture window, his clothes laid folded and stacked, baseball cap posed on top of the tidy pile.  A striped throw pillow rested against one end of the daybed.  He was surrounded by beauty and order.

Dad captioned the photo, “New pic.  Another tomorrow.”  I’m still chewing on the delicious ambiguity of his words.  Did he intend to send a picture the following day?  Was he stating an intention to go on living?

Of course, Dad knew his time was short.  He had faced health struggles for many years and had given much thought to his relationships and his legacy.   Blessedly, his last day brought optimism and lightness.  Lying in bed, perhaps in his final solitary moments, he noted the gentle brilliance of the scene and snapped a picture.  Then, he thought to share it with me.

As I begin to grieve this loss from afar, my father’s message buoys me.  His missive is my poetic balm in the emptiness I feel.  I return to it incessantly and hold it at my heart center.  In those trying weeks leading to his death, my heroic siblings comforted him and advocated for him.  They secured a beautiful space in which he felt safe to finally let go.  He peacefully moved on to another tomorrow.

Obituary for Bernard Joseph Connolly, Jr.

I’ve been quiet in this space the last year as other creative projects percolated.  This morning, I was delighted to learn that a piece of my very short fiction was accepted for publication in an online journal called The Ekphrastic Review.  Twice per month, the journal runs a challenge and publishes a selection of the entries.  My story An Offering is amongst those chosen for the most recent challenge.  To read it, click here and scroll down to the fourth piece from the bottom of the page.

So, what’s ekphrasis? A derivative of Greek, “ekphrasis” means “description.”  Ekphrastic writing is creative writing inspired by the visual arts. My fellow writers and I responded to the mysterious painting Dances by Arch Hades, featured at the top of this post.  An Offering revisits an experience I had as a toddler and never knew how to put into words.  This summer, I finally realized that fiction is the best form for this long-ago, baffling encounter.

I am wading through the contributions of the other authors, gratified to have my work aside theirs.  Each of these stories or poems could be a quick read before bed or material for doctors’ office waiting rooms.  Happy reading and happy creating!

I’m a VIP? Oh my gosh!  I’m a VIP! 

Stéphane hung up, and we were off.  We darted through the Château de Versailles, slipping behind burgundy velvet ropes and ascending marble staircases.  Head of security at the Château, Stéphane gained access to secured areas by keypad, but he just as often whipped out one of the dozens of skeleton keys that hung from the jangly keychain on his hip.  A little jittery, my interior prattle was steady.  How can this be real?  I feel like I’m in a movie.  Stéphane always walks so fast.

Over the years, he had kindly given me many private tours of the Château.  I’d stood alone in the Royal Opera and gazed down on the Royal Chapel from Madame de Maintenon’s oratory.  Away from the crowds in the echoey palace, I’d experienced the silence of Versailles.  Though I couldn’t quite conjure the people who had lived here, I could inhabit the space and remember that this overcrowded museum once was a home.

I had booked this France trip with a specific goal—to visit the library of Queen Marie Antoinette.  For four years, I had been obsessed with this room.  I’d discovered that it played a role in eighteenth-century French tea culture, so I read, reflected, wrote, lectured, and published about its history—all without ever setting foot in the room.

Nervous energy welled up in my chest as Stéphane and I approached the library.  We stepped into a small room that served as an overflow area.  The books were stored on shelves behind glass.  Though there was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the room remained dim.  I followed Stéphane across the worn parquet floor.  He opened the cream-colored door.  I placed my hand on my chest, feeling my heart race, and entered Marie Antoinette’s library.

I took stock.  Two windows to my right, overlooking the interior courtyard.  I had noted this in my article.  High ceilings.  Another chandelier, parquet floors again.  There’s no fireplace.  How many people have passed through this room?

As I made my way around the perimeter of the library, I ran my fingertips along the hip-high marble shelf that separated the upper and lower bookcases.  The air was cool, yet stuffy.  Do they air it out on Mondays when the museum is closed? 

I turned to Stéphane.  “How many tourists visit the Queen’s Private Apartment in a month?”

“It’s been closed for restoration for almost a decade.  Once it reopens, we’ll welcome a few dozen visitors per month.  We need to protect the site.”

I placed myself in the center of the library and took a deep breath.  Prior to Marie Antoinette’s rein, this room was Queen Marie Leczinska’s “Laboratory” where she painted, entertained friends, made music, and sipped tea.  I imagined the Queen and her ladies in waiting.  In her time, the walls were adorned with panels depicting Chinese life, painted by the queen herself.  She had decorated the room with chairs covered in sumptuous moiré and chintz fabrics.  There had also been a Greek-inspired stool and painted curtains representing a Chinese landscape.  When she died, the “Laboratory” was dismantled, its contents dispersed.

As I stood in the Queens’ library/laboratory, the centuries unfolded like an accordion.  I was in Marie Leczinska’s orientalist universe, surrounded by the quiet chatter of her courtiers.  I felt them sharing tea and stories.  Leather-bound books from the royal collection lined the walls.  While Marie Antoinette favored music and theater over reading, she nonetheless owned close to two thousand volumes.  Had I been daring, I could have opened a cabinet and run my fingers along the spines of works by her contemporaries Voltaire, Rousseau, and Beaumarchais.  As I drifted through the eighteenth century, I was also firmly planted in my own century, clad in a green linen jacket and Veja tennis shoes.

My rumbling tummy broke the spell, and the centuries reorganized themselves in my mind.  I took a few pictures of the library, recording it in my iPhone.  Years of research and reflection had already imprinted it on my soul.  My quest complete, it was time to treat Stéphane to lunch at the brasserie down the street.

This post is part of my series on Versailles, France.

After your visit to the Château de Versailles, you will likely feel famished.  Intense tourism calls for a satisfying meal in a relaxed setting.  A brief stroll from the Château, the Brasserie du Théâtre Montansier serves homemade food made with fresh products.  A family-owned business, father-son team Stéphane and Dorian Platrier offer a warm welcome, exquisite food, and fair prices.

The restaurant serves traditional brasserie fare in an Art Deco setting: steak, sauerkraut, salmon, and tripe.  My friend Stéphane and I began our lunch with champagne—pourquoi pas?  I ordered snails, followed by the plat du jour:  pork tenderloin served over pureed root vegetables.  The generous portions left me full, and the red wine left me a little sleepy, but I stretched this pleasant lunch with crème brûlée, followed by an espresso.

My meal was top-notch, as was Stéphane’s company.  I also appreciated the clean beauty of the space:  mirrored walls, leather benches, and white table linens.  Our lunch was refined without being stuffy.  The service was attentive and unrushed.  The Brasserie du Théâtre Montansier is a bonne adresse that’s not to be missed!

Brasserie du Théâtre Montansier
15 rue des Réservoirs
78000 Versailles
Open Wednesday-Saturday for lunch and dinner
Open Sunday for lunch
Reserve online

Allison’s Tips

For quick access to the Brasserie du Théâtre Montansier, exit the Château property through the gate closest to the Royal Chapel, the tallest building on the property, in the northwest corner of the Royal Courtyard.  Take the rue des Réservoirs to the restaurant, a leisurely 5-10 minute walk.

As you make your way to the restaurant, take a moment to notice number 7 rue des Réservoirs.  This building is known as l’Hôtel Pompadour and as l’Hôtel des Réservoirs.   Constructed in 1752, Louis XV’s mistress Madame de Pompadour (1721-1764) received guests here.  After her death, the Pompadour’s casket was transported to the residence and displayed for two days.  From 1856-1922, it served as a high-end hotel and restaurant.  It currently houses government offices.

As you approach the brasserie, you’ll pass the Théâtre Montansier at number 13.  King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinnette were present at its inauguration in 1777.

Inspirations

Ore restaurant

Madame de Pompadour.com

Versailles : côté ville, côté jardins, Alexandre Maral

Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu was on this morning’s agenda, but a strained wrist is keeping me cozy at home.  I am bummed to miss class and wonder which techniques I’d have practiced—takedowns, choke holds, hooks?  But my tender wrist is telling me exactly what I need to do today:  rest.

In the last few years, rigorous exercise has taken me out of my mind and placed me squarely in my body.  While the language of ideas has always come naturally to me, the language of sports has not.  I am a timid athlete.  In elementary school, I was too polite to fight for the basketball.  As a young tennis player, I had fun learning forehand and backhand but felt overwhelmed by the prospect of lobbing the ball.  I grew into a scholar and participated primarily in gentle activities such as hiking, yoga, and brisk walks. Even now, I am competitive with myself but never with others.

I am not drawn to team sports, but strenuous exercise has done wonders for me.  Thanks to regular weight training, I’m calmer and steadier in my movements.  I am coordinated, strong, and light on my feet.  I have learned to listen closely to my body’s messages, and it inevitably tells me what I need to know.  Sleep a little more.  Blow off steam at the gym.  Walk away from this person.

This embodied existence is new to me.  Intense exercise has taught me how to balance body and spirit.  I have not abandoned a life of the mind, but I am now less likely to get locked in ideas and lost in intellectual questions.  I am comfortable in the weight room and seek to be part of an inclusive athletic culture at my gym and on my campus.

Though my confidence has grown in the last two years, I remain intimidated by Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.  As I knot my white belt and get ready to step on the mat, I acknowledge a nervous tummy.  I feel out of my element.  Drills are invigorating and practicing new techniques is stimulating, but putting the pieces together and grappling with classmates overwhelms me.  When it becomes too much, I back away and learn through watching rather than doing.  I am still dabbling, curious though not quite ready to let myself go in the calculated movements of the martial art.  I want to embody the grace of Jiu-Jitsu.  When the time is right, my anxiety will melt away, uniting body and spirit.

Inspirations

Feeling Safe in My Body

Luxurious Boredom

I enjoy dating older men.  They often offer me time, experience, and perspective that a man my age can’t.  Some of my most enriching romantic relationships were with men significantly older—all of whom were forthright about their age.  Of course, fibbing about one’s age is a way to manipulate the Bumble algorithm and meet younger women, but it quickly becomes problematic.  Age matters little to me, but truthfulness is paramount.  So, when I wind up on a first date where I suspect a white lie or two, I feel insecure.  It’s as if I am on shifting ground, wondering what untruths might emerge down the road.  If he’s willing to lie to me about his age, might he deceive me in other ways as well?

Straight up lies—even small ones—trouble me.  Withholding truth also creates unease and stilted interactions.  More than once, I have found myself in a relationship where I suspect that the guy I am involved with is keeping something in the shadows.  Communication is murky and clipped because he’s holding back and I am unable to pinpoint the issue.  My anxiety rises in proportion to his annoyance.  I feel unsafe, and the relationship eventually implodes.  Inevitably, I learn that my boyfriend had been hiding essential information from me, though not technically lying.  The mechanism is different, but the effects are nonetheless detrimental.

Regardless of one’s gender, it takes courage to meet a stranger for a drink.  Every time I do it, I give myself a pat on the back.  And as I inch up in age, I doubt myself less.  When I’m on a date and sense dishonesty, I pause.  Sometimes I know instantly that there will not be a next date.  Other times, I proceed with awareness.  Dating can be rough.  I aim to extend grace, and I am open to knowing his truth.

I soon learned that grace note is actually a musical term—a musical note added as an embellishment.  My quaint understanding of grace note is not accurate, but it’s not all wrong either.  Life’s narrative contains all sorts of markings that denote joy, loss, accomplishment, or grief.  Grace notes dot our lives, shining light on once-perplexing events.  These markings of clarity are gifts.

Of course, I know that some trying experiences remain opaque and incomprehensible.  This is the nature of life and makes grace notes all the more cherished.  Time is a remedy, but it does not always bring understanding. Odilon Redon’s Cinq papillons (Five Butterflies) evokes the flitting, unexpected beauty brought on by grace notes.  Some of Redon’s strokes seem partial or unfinished, reminding me of life’s rough-hewn endings.   These creatures are bold yet wavering.  And so are we.  As we grieve, forgive, and move forward with purpose, touches of grace grant lightness and serenity.

Balance, beauty, Viriditas, movement

In different seasons of my life, these words have been my aspirational guide posts. At the end of each year a word emerges, announcing a sort of theme for the coming year. I never feel that I choose the word. It inevitably comes to me in a flash and frames my thinking for months to come. For a year or more, the word accompanies and instructs me.

This year my word is light. I can’t guess where it will take me, but I do know where the journey begins. I’m moving into 2023 by tending to my inner light. I have long been aware of the brightness each of us possesses. As a little girl, I would have called it the Holy Spirit, and as a student of reiki, the great bright light. Some call it the soul. Mark Nepo references “the song from within ignited, again and again, that keeps the world going.” Bringing awareness to our inner light brings insight. Yet, I often fail to heed the clear wisdom I already possess. So, I begin the year by examining the hues of my own splendor.

Of course, this expansive and mutable force is not meant to be contained. Our inner selves inevitably move outward, unfolding beyond comprehension as our light connects us to others. In fact, I’ve come to understand that rays of my inner light emerge in this blog. As I compose my 100th post on Creative Sanctuary, it’s fun to take stock of 5 years of writing. The pieces I consider to be my best don’t always receive the most hits, but they still ring true to me. After the fire in Notre Dame de Paris, I wrote about the divine feminine. A few years ago, I wrote about yin energy as I moved into a hectic holiday season. And more recently, I published a piece on burnout versus exhaustion. The gentle play between the inner and outer takes form, and the self shimmers.

Inspiration

The Book of Awakenings, by Mark Nepo

This being human is a guest house

As we move into the holiday season, I find myself approaching each gesture with reverence.  Zipping up my long, puffy jacket to meet the icy morning becomes an act of self-protection.  Carving out 20 minutes to light a candle and practice yoga is a sort of prayer for a good night’s sleep.

These chilly, emotionally charged months call for tenderness.  First and foremost, we must be tender with ourselves.  I’ve spent the year learning to welcome all the emotions that arise.  Exhilaration and sorrow both visited and stayed on for a while.  Anger made its way through my guest house, but so did joy.  When I tried to oust my uninvited guests, they hunkered down. In The Guest House, Rumi encourages us to

Be grateful for whatever comes,
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.

At some point in this mind-boggling year, I stopped resisting the emotions I’d rather not feel.  Sadness, grief, and outrage took up space in my house.  I finally befriended them.  I engaged with them.  I ultimately tamed them.  And then they left me.  Allowing these guests to hang out for a while created an internal ease because I wasn’t focused on resisting them.  My life went on, more or less uninterrupted.  I traveled, I rested, and come fall, I threw myself into my work.  All the while, I tended to my guests, moving through successive ups and downs.

I learned to be tender with the effects of betrayal and the deep hurt that ensues.  I was patient with my healing process, extending grace to myself when I seemed to backslide.  Thankfully, my house is now less crowded and far less confusing.  Rumi teaches that unruly guests may be clearing you out for some new delight.  I hope this is true.  In the meantime, I’m content to move about my spacious, bright, relatively empty self.

Inspirations

Rumi’s The Guest House, Translated by Coleman Barks

The Rumi Prescription, by Melody Moezzi

“The body is a document.  It keeps a memory of its own.  We are made of loops and loops of time.” –Ingrid Rojas Contreras

COVID hit me like a summer cold, but long COVID has been no walk in the park.  I was spared excessive fatigue and loss of taste, but the virus nonetheless did a number on my nervous system.  I’ve always been emotionally expressive, but in the weeks following COVID, I was exceptionally fragile.  Happily, my emotions are slowly stabilizing and the steady progress feels sustainable.

My purple thumb is a wild, disconcerting reminder that my body is still out of whack.  The bruises first appeared on day 6 of COVID.  They come and go.  My thumb feels tight and slightly constricted, and my arm aches when it flares up.  After a few days, it fades and then unexpectedly reappears.

My doctor suspects that my condition was brought on by the disturbance the coronavirus caused in my sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system.  He told me that this elegant, well-designed system regulates the autonomous processes of the body, including the fight or flight response during a threat or perceived danger.  If the body is under attack from a virus, physical trauma, or emotional upheaval, that regulatory part of the brain is affected.

My doctor is perplexed but not worried.  I have no definitive diagnosis, but we believe that the trauma of COVID likely sent my fight or flight response into overdrive.  Long COVID is uncharted territory, and symptoms vary from patient to patient.  A few weeks ago, I opted to receive a nerve block to pause my fight or flight response.  The simple procedure was soothing and settling.  I consider the injection a useful tool but not a cure.  My nervous system will come back into balance over time, and I must give myself the time and space needed to heal.

I feel validated by the medical community and remain open to more injections and/or talk therapy as I recover.  As always, my friends and family hold me up.  And I’ve chosen to treat the purple thumb adventure as an opportunity to deepen my knowledge of healing.  When my purple-hued thumb sends me looping through my mind and has me pacing my house, I am reminded that healing rarely proceeds in a straight line.  I try to pause and practice deep breathing as a way to soothe my nervous system.  More than ever, I pay attention to emotional triggers and my reactions to them.  How can I step back and recalibrate?  What helps me keep my emotions in check?  Moving forward, how will our society deal with long COVID?  Given that health is a personal, private subject, how can we facilitate healing for others?

I hemmed and hawed before writing about my COVID thumb because the condition frightened me.  I keep it bandaged so that I don’t catch glimpses of the bluish-purple splotch.  As much as possible, I set it aside and focus on the more pleasant aspects of my life.  So why did I choose to post this story?  Writing has the power to restore wholeness.  Sharing does too.