Put bluntly, yesterday was a crappy, crappy day. It wasn’t a tragic day, thankfully, but it was a crappy day, and one that means major changes ahead. And last night I was in that dangerous “fret zone,” where everything in my mind was whirling around the troubles, playing If Then Else with my future, and getting uncomfortably close to the death-spiral that would pull me down into depression.
Consciously, I retreated. It’s a mechanism I’ve learned, and it’s kept me from tumbling down into the dark many times. I retreated from the problem, tucked myself into a safe trench, and filled my forebrain with a fond memory while my subconscious wrassled with the problem.
And thus, Paris.
Every trip has its high point, its perfect moment, even if it’s a perfectly awful moment that is so bad you can’t help but laugh about it afterward. Last year, we went to Paris for the first time and frankly, I was ready to be underwhelmed. We rented an apartment in the Latin Quarter and spent a week falling in love with the place. We’d planned ahead, and got tickets for a concert on the Thursday we were there: David Braccini playing Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” at La Sainte-Chapelle.
La Sainte-Chapelle (The Holy Chapel) is a small 13th century Gothic church, tucked inside the massive arms of the Conciergerie and the Palais de Justice on the west end of the Île de la Cité. To get there, you must go through metal detectors and rigorous scrutiny from security guards, walk down the polished marble halls, past courtrooms and offices, then out into the courtyard and through a passageway before—BAM!—there she is, La Sainte-Chapelle. The chapel is ornate and delicate, with carved stonework, high arches, and needle-thin spires.
Inside, the chapel is nothing less than breathtaking. The stained glass made us feel like we were inside a huge jewelry box or, more apropos, a reliquary. It’s an intimate space for a concert, and we sat down with a raft of elderly Parisians to enjoy what remains the best interpretation of The Four Seasons I have ever heard.
Last night, I queued up my copy of Braccini’s Vivaldi performance, and let my thoughts subside, let my memories wander, and let the music return me to those two quiet hours in that beautiful spot in the city where so much began.
Today, I am better; sad and resigned to the tasks ahead, but better. Onward, unto the breach…
k
It sounds like you have a lot on your mind. Breathe deeply and keep slogging through. I look forward to hearing about it when things look brighter.
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I, also. At least, at this point, it’s not a question of whether or not we’ll get through it. I know we will. I just am not looking forward to the upheaval and changes it all means. Change is not always good, but it’s sometimes necessary. (There’s an epigram in there, somewhere, but I’m too tired to winkle it out..)
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