They’re very good about marking their notables in Paris. Carved on the sides of buildings. Voltaire lived here. Voltaire died here. I’m not sure everyone notices. They are perhaps too occupied, trying to get the hand placement right on the photograph so it looks like their finger is placed atop the pyramid outside the Louvre. 

And as I stand there, in this sea of outstretched arms and index fingers, I shake my head at myself — wondering if it matters. Me, standing there too, but with my new Degas sketchbook, and Voltaire notebook, lifted by the these lives, feeling their presence still.  Immersed in the joyful responsibility of doing more. Because of them. 

And I do feel it – them – the others that have come before. Those that have made the paintings. Wrote the books. Dared the thoughts. Lived the lives. I have to believe it all matters. 

I sent my Minneapolis friend the photograph of me in Paris, wearing her blazer jacket. Layered over my mother’s blouse, and the t-shirt I purchased at The Walker in my home state. She replied – “The jacket! I’m with you!” — all the proof I needed that it does matter — to carry the ones who once carried us, who lift us still. 

I smile and carve my notables.