CELEBRATION OF THE EVERYDAY
COLETTE NYS-MAZURE
("Célébration du Quotidien" translated by Renee Linkhorn)
Belgian Francophone library
New york. Peter Lang Publishing
I am writing to you from a woman's life
She has a head on her schoulders, so the saying goes. But her head is also among the clouds, sometimes even among the stars. Most of the time it is in the pantry or the washing machine: she leans over the round window to grab the clothes that must be dried, ironed,sorted and folded. Her hands soak in the salad's cold water, the dishes'scalding water and the cleaning pail's dirty water. Her feet stand firmly on the ground: in slippers that glide about the children's beds, or perched on high heels to comply with the comedy of social occasions.
Her body is firm and strong so she can tear up and down stairs from cellar to attic, from the underground parking to the social Security office; so she can push her cart vigorously through the aisles of the supermarket .So she can hug her man and comfort her young.
But sometimes she wishes she were just herself, free and limber, with no one clinging to her or slowing her down, with no voice calling or soliciting. To be able to run along, with bare hands, to swim a long distance, to meet people for no particular reason, just for the pleasure of an exchange with no set purpose. She would like to reassemble herself. She dreams of sharing. Everything. And not just the crumbs.
How can we achieve light-heartedness and jubilation? Heal without ignoring or denying the wound? Break free from the most oppressive shackles, and from the most subtle, those one cannot shake off without a little flesh mangled in the process? Ignore a painful or a satisfying experience. Wipe the slate clean. Could the answer be in renewing each dawn our pledge of kindness? Friendliness, tolerance,forgiveness, generosity,munificence, ease and grace. Meeting others half-way, with bare hands and a simple heart, with no anxiety or impatience. Bearing the joy of life rather than the burden of death...
From a balcony
I am writing to you from a balcony.
After the children are gone --they will forever remain the children, just as the house remains the house-- now is the time for grandchildren to fulfill the yearning of my mature years:
She, enjoying the last sunny day of a mild but flamboyant Indian summer.
She, lying in the white lounge chair made comfy with the familiar and well-worn striped pillows.
She, offering to the sky her aging face.
She, unbuttoning her blouse, opening it wider, finally taking it off, not able to resist the radiant warmth of the day. Her light skin is now faded and speckled in places, furrowed with tiny wrinkles and covered with salty droplets.
She, half-asleep and half-awake, floating between two undefined seasons before merciless winter comes.
She, tightening her grip on the newspaper the wind tries to tear apart; she, brushing away a drowsy, clumsy wasp.
She, speaking to herself only, fervently murmuring: I would like..., without ending her wish.
Seen everything. Lived everything. All over, buried, the time for childbearing, for large, heavy bellies, all round and imposing.
Finished, her maternal career. Blown off, whiffs of soured milk and golden baby stools. Stifled, the lisping sounds, the "Mama!"calls. Cleared away, the touch of velvety skin, the damp eyelashes, the beauty spots in well-chosen places. Gone forever, the taste of young skin, cheeks and buttocks that look good enough to eat; over with, the licking and playful nibbling.
Dimmed, the sparkle of young bodies that grew too fast, lanky girls and gangling boys.
Crossed out, the false starts, the beautiful flights of fancy, the protests, the fits of rage. Now only the wind slams doors and bangs down shutters.
She, coming back to her garden immersed in October light. She, emerging again, resolute. She, speaking: I wish one of the children would come.
A State of Grace
It may be that we are our true selves only when in a state of wonderment, praise or gratitude. The best in us is then expressed, that which sings, opens up and welcomes the One who cannot be named.
Admiration is but one of the names for Hope; it is a byway of Hope. To come out of the self, often narrow and dark, and let admiration take over. To scrub off our being the layer of timeworn patterns and social conventions, so beauty can be revealed and contemplated with eyes too often dimmed by habit.
To admire the break of day, each time new beyond imagining with its surge of colors; or the round of seasons, the meteors. To make our first encounter of the day a marvelous event: a face so near, so familiar that it almost goes unnoticed; or a stranger's face seen on the street; the face of the other who comes with his array of desires and fears that we can recognize as our own, even if we do not know him. To let fellow passengers on the subway touch our hearts: a black child's hand in his mother's pink palm, an adolescent cheek resting on the leather sleeve of a friendly shoulder, an animated debate from behind the pages of a newspaper hot off the press. Our brothers all, in a humanity we share.
To tear ourselves away from the self, to cast off errors and failures, to grow enthusiastic and adhere to the beauty that leads to salvation and to Him, God of bounty and love, our hope.
I am writing to you enthusiastically.
From a Home of Books
I like for the ceremony of reading to follow a ritual: a lamp appropriately placed,comfortable cushions, a fire burning, silence, a loving presence and a heart at peace. Nonetheless, I can just as well be content with a straw mattress and a flashlight, so I will not disturb others who share my room. I also can read in a noisy railroad station, with my suitcase between my feet, or nestled in the tall grass on a river bank. In each case, the sound of pages being turned, the soft rustling of language fill me with the same feeling of exultation.
I read, and I get rid of everything that might hamper my energies. I read, and I am ready to bond with all the people who know the book, all those who will read it after me, and the writer who entrusted it to us. I am in touch with my most intimate self, that of my childhood, just as I also prepare the ground for tomorrow. I nidify and I edify.
I read, and thus I compensate for the derisive limitations of my modest life. Authors and their heroes are intermediaries who permit me to live a thousand different lives, to multiply my experiences. I explore things in greater depth. I can understand someone else's folly. I penetrate milieus that otherwise would forever remain foreign or closed to me. Everything becomes possible. I read. Reading is riding high.
Ferment
Beauty brings to our lives but also to our hour of deathits modest, mysterious and powerful support. Our senses delight in images, fragrances, music, savors and textures that descend on us like some whisper from a Paradise we lost, but will find again sooner or later. An encounter with beauty, a selfless gesture, can bring us inner radiance: daily parables from the Kingdom. A promise.
We live in a world in ferment. Within us and around us war goes on between powers of life and death. Let us accept the times of sorrow that punctuate our existence the Ave Maria invocation, And in the hour of our death, applies to each instant of our lives. Let us resist vigorously the corrosive forces that would convince us our struggle is vain, and too soon would urge us to surrender. Let us nurture our will to live, and kindle our sense of wonderment.
The Glory of Simple Things
Toward the end of his life, Matisse revived his childhood memories by cutting pieces of paper and making collages. He felt as young as springtime as he playfully worked with these materials while humming a tune. He used to say: A painting on a wall should be like a bouquet of flowers in a room. Isn't this a metaphor for our lives that are made up of both ordinary and extraordinary things? To cut the very substance of our dreams out of colored paper, to discover shapes in the fugitive sensations caught by our attentive eyes, to put together fragments of captured instants, of dazzling colorful impressions. To recreate everyday joys and visions.
Beauty is as foreign to riches as it is to poverty. It blossoms out in the luminous austerity of romanesque churches, as well as in the baroque splendor of the churches of Prague or Spain. It is renunciation, not ugliness or mediocrity, that pays homage to God's glory. Inner beauty rises to the eyes and lips of artists and their works portraits, statues, poems. It flourishes in the wild as well as in cultivated gardens. It can be found on a faded fresco or on a torn musical score, just as it can emerge from a painter's sketch or a song's first trills.
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