Last week we had the good fortune of revisiting the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Located on theLeft Bank of the Seine, it houses the largest collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionistmasterpieces in the world. Painters include Claude Monet, Édouard Manet, Degas, Renoir, Cézanne, Seurat, Gauguin, and Van Gogh. It began as a railway station in 1898. By 1939, the short platforms became unsuitable for the newer, longer trains, and some considered it useless. There was even talk of tearing it down. But because of the vision of a select few, it was saved. And it is now one of the most beautiful and visited museums in the world. I suppose it’s always been human nature to give up. Supplied with life’s hammer, we have a decision to make, again and again. To build or destroy. Standing on the left bank once again, I know my decision is already made. The first thing I see each morning is this painting. The children by the sea. There is wonder. There is joy. This can never change. I put down my hammer, and pick up a brush. There is beauty to be made. Still.
Maybe it’s because I was brought up to listen for them. To watch. Even to feel the track. It sounds of train this morning, though I know it can’t be true. There are no trains that run through our neighborhood, not through the hills of the Montaiguet, here in the south of France.
There were no flashing lights on the line behind the statue of Big Ole that guarded the Main Street of Alexandria, MN. No barriers to block out the danger. But to cross over from neighborhood to town, you had to get over the tracks. I began watching for one, coming down the hill by Lord’s house, just as my mother taught me. There were no distractions of cell phones. No music. No photos to take. But there was more than enough to hold my attention. Geese droppings to navigate through from the true owners of the lake on the left, who hissed and chased, just in case you forgot. Someone fishing. Someone biking. A gentle honk and hand wave out a car window — followed by an extensive explanation of yes, I indeed have gotten this big and am able to walk to town all by myself. Jingled change in pockets to be twirled and dreamed over. Shoulders burning in the summer sun. Would Shari and Jan keep fighting? Would Cindy still be my friend if I couldn’t sleep over? Is it Barbie’s birthday? Will I dive off the high tower? Will I be stopped at the tracks, losing five to ten precious minutes of my summer vacation — I listened for the train. Ready, willing, excited even, at the possibility that I could yell out to goose, fisher, or any passerby, “T R A I N!!!!!!”
I never go walking without my phone now. Is it for safety? Maybe. It would be hard to argue that case though. Is it because I need to begin every sentence with, “I was listening to a podcast…” — possibly. I do watch my surroundings. I say hello to the birds. Bonjour the daily walkers. I paint the path. But I know I need reminding to take it all in. Even the voices in my head. To really listen. To really see.
I know the sounds I’m hearing this morning are construction. Roads being redone up the hill. But my heart leaps with youthful warnings to pay attention. Listen. It’s all rumbling by so fast. Not to be lost, but gathered in. I want to shout it out to everyone – look how big we’ve gotten — how far we’ve come! — but it all sounds like “Train!” I look both ways, and cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.
