I saw my first Mona Lisa, (some might say only), at the Louvre in Paris. It was not my second, nor even third siting yesterday, but there she was, at a restaurant in Stillwater, Minnesota. She made me smile, returning hers, coyly, knowingly, which may be the whole point after all.
We’re very quick to evaluate each other’s experiences. I am not proud of it, but I’ve certainly done the same. Thinking how my travels are more real. My pain more devastating. My love deeper. And it’s just not true. I’m trying to get better. Not to judge, but simply acknowledge. There is no need to keep score.
I was certain that no one could have loved their mother more. No one could feel the loss more deeply than I did. Than I do. But I saw her there. Entering the party. I gave her my smile, my slight turn of lip, my knowing what she was going through, and her return, drenched in tears, told me the truth. The loss of her mother — “her easeled Mona Lisa” was no less real than mine.
The thing is, we think we know. We don’t know. The best we can do is to care. Keep caring.
I will go walking soon. Wearing my Mona Lisa sweatshirt from the Louvre. Not to tell you that “I’ve been THERE,” but more to say, “I’ve been there…”
I am an author and an artist, originally from the US, now living, loving and creating in the south of France.
I show my fine art throught the US and Europe, and sell my books, art and images throughout the world.
www.jodihills.com
