Time is not the same everywhere. For everyone. I see it. As we travel. For some it is a weight. It drags on their legs until the immobility sets up a barrier. “Nothin’ gonna change here.” I hear it. No room for hope or progress. Beliefs grown too rigid to adapt, to learn, to grow, at best snapping, leaving nothing but fear. And I’m not sure why. I suppose that’s the biggest question of all — how do we see it?  

It’s not like I’m immune. I have to work at it. I have to tell myself “it’s the same palette as Paris,” as we drive across the flat and barren plains. And I smile, because it is. And returning to the hotel I watch the video on the most essential accessories for Parisian women. And as I’m watching the mother and daughter on the screen, I keep smiling, because I know somehow my mother is watching with me, and I point out, I already do that, and she’s smiling from heaven saying, “because I taught you, long before you went to Paris,” and we’re both laughing now, because it’s true. 

Is it because I saw the tumbling weeds and saw the Eiffel Tower? Maybe. Quite possibly. Is it because my mother taught me to see beyond circumstance and look for something beautiful. Most certainly.

It was Camille Pissarro who said, “Everything is beautiful, all that matters is to be able to interpret.”

I was lucky to be raised by one, an interpreter. Maybe that’s what I’m doing now, each day, trying to take what is given and find the good. Can you hear it? Can you see it? It’s most certainly here.