Eighth Wonder of the World


Family Transport

Family Transport

On American highways we have signs that tell us when to stop, to go,to merge, to beware of a curve ahead, and how fast is acceptable. It’s all safely determined ahead of time. Everyone knows the rules and most of us follow them. There are no pedestrians in or near our roads—in fact, walking as a mode of transportation as opposed to pleasure, is generally an antiquated idea.

Everywhere one goes in India, at least in the cities, there is a tsunami of humanity on the roadways. People, cars, trucks, cows, dogs, oxcarts, motorcycles, bicycle rickshaws, tuk tuks (motorcycle taxis), school children and occasionally a camel all share the road. Each has as much of an equal right to the road as the other does or so it seems.

There is a kind of logic to their system of traffic though perhaps the word “system” isn’t the right choice nor is the word “logic”. Finally, as I have overcome my shock and fear and, as yet, havent had an apoplexy, I realize there’s a certain choreography to the whole drama. Drivers in India seem to have more of a sense of the whole. Everything in front of them is theirs to dodge or otherwise not collide with. What goes on behind them is the other guy’s job to figure out.

DSC05242In and out of traffic, darting around trucks three times our size, forty miles an hour when there is enough space to speed and then a precise stop missing the tuk tuk in front of us by an inch. Pass on the right, pass on the left, or squeeze between the cow and the taxi. Pedestrians walk within inches of moving vehicles and step aside for them as if doing a do si do.

A young man on a motorcycle stops next to us. He holds a toddler between his knees. His beautiful wife in a radiantly colored sari sits side saddle and with one hand holds her infant child. “Courage!” It’s the word that stands out in my brain like bold lettering in a BIG font.

As if all this isn’t enough, it’s an orchestra at fortissimo. Trucks grinding, engines burping and groaning. All manner of horns constantly blaring from beeps to elephant wails to deep duck drones. Pollution? Well, that’s another story.

I’ve changed my attitude over the years. I’m not scared any more. It has become quite the entertainment. I feel so much admiration for these drivers . It’s a good profession here in India. They have incredible reflexes and seem to be able to see 180 degrees.

Yesterday was our first day to leave the ashram and explore around Kolkata. Our favorite driver, Prodeep, has eyes that are like melted milk chocolate and full of compassion. He has enough “Hindlish” (English words) to get the message across most of the time and is diligent about repeating until we both understand where we need to go and when. I tell him that he and all the brave Kolkata drivers are reincarnations of the warriors of the Baghavad Gita, India’s great epic poem. He smiles and beams with pride.

His business card reads,

Safar Car Service

All Tipes Vehicles Available

In reality, he owns a mid-size Honda and can, for bigger groups, borrow his brother’s SUV.

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Storm Over the Ganges


Just because we can’t see angels doesn’t mean they do not exist. You must realize that your realm of experience is just an infinitesimal part of creation. There is an invisible veil that separates us from a more subtle astral world of light, color and energy. Beyond the astral, there are more subtle worlds of joyful thoughts and formless bliss that we cannot see with our senses. Our human consciousness is but a drop of this formless bliss.”             Brother Satyananda,

DSC05335Written in February, 2008

Yogoda Satsanga Retreat

Dakshineswar, India


Storm Over the Ganges

As a gardener, I had longed all week to ask permission to water the flowers here at the Dakshineswar ashram. They seemed to yearn for it. The dust covered trees look tired and thirsty. Their leaves have no turgor, but water is a luxury in India. I am a guest here and don’t know what might be appropriate.

DSC00787All afternoon the clouds dance a slow motion choreography—forming and reforming, billowing into mounds that tease a promise of moisture and relief from the heat. I walk to the small temple off the portico for the 4 PM meditation.

The first time I walked into this temple my body shivered, and I knew I had been here before–the blue carpet and little chairs that fit me perfectly. I love the sincerity of the brahmacharis (monks in training) who conduct our meditations and the very humorous way they pronounce the English language. There is more ceremony and ritual here in India.

DSC05332Meditating in this little temple makes me feel divinely happy.

Soon, however, the weather pulls my concentration out the windows. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Perhaps it is just more fireworks. There are so many celebrations in India. The breeze coming through the window has more moisture in it, and the thunder is quickly becoming serious. As twilight settles over the Ganges, I can see flashes of lightning through closed eyes. The whole room fills with light.

The next thunderbolt startles me, and I jump two inches out of my seat. I give up. I can’t contain myself any longer. The smell of coming rain and damp dust on the trees lures me outside, and I gather my things and quietly step out of the meditation room.

I race below the portico into the garden where no one can see me behave improperly. Indian women always act in a refined, gracious manner, but I feel insuppressible and can’t stop from twirling and dancing –swept up in the currents of cool refreshing wind.

It’s not my imagination. I can feel the anticipation of the trees and plants. Their leaves shimmy and dance in the wind like playful children.

An electric presence in the air bathes me in, what to call it, “Joy!” Before meditation at the Yogoda Satsanga Society we often sing a chant called “Joy, Joy, Joy.” I’ve sung it for many years, but until this moment “joy” had been just a word to me.

My body feels like it’s ready to burst with this great empathy for the earth and plants. I remembered my five year old daughter. On Christmas morning many years ago, she climbed into bed with us at 4 AM. “There’s a bicycle under the Christmas tree,” she exclaimed with so much exuberance I thought her little body would literally explode.

Could this feeling be contained within the walls of my skin?

It is quickly getting dark. Thunder cracks overhead just above the tree tops. Then, like an overfilled water balloon, the clouds burst and pelt the earth. Winds are swirling around me in gale force ferocity. I am getting soaked.

A young monk comes out of the darkness. With no judgment in his voice and a smile on his face, he says, “You’d better come inside. This could get worse.”

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Rishikesh to Jaipur

DSC04745Before leaving Rishikesh we did catch an afternoon aarti on the Ganges. Aarati is devotional singing on the steps (ghats) that lead to the river. The Austrian Ambassador was visiting with a Chamber Orchestra that day. It was a symbolic celebration– kick off to a program blending the waters of the Danube and the Ganges to purify the Ganges, and a blending of the music of East and West. The director of the Vienna Boys Choir was there. He led some of the young students in chanting. The boys in the picture in yellow all came from poor families and the Parmath niketan ashram is providing their education and a place to grow up. In typical Indian style, there was much officious and long winded ceremonies.

Our Lichtenstein friend went with us. We were squeezed together on the steps. She and I admired the sarees of the Hindu ladies behind us (it was also some kind of a ladies day celebration), and then we were all buddies. Language is only one way to communicate– pointing, laughing, pantomime and a lot of thank yous says a heck of a lot. I think they saw me telling Dave what to do,(NO, not me) so they tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the men standing in front of us, blocking our view. Once I stood up and asked the men to sit down, those women were patting my head and hugging me. They wouldnt have dared do that themselves.


Our first evening here David and I took a tuk tuk to walk around the Rambagh Palace which is currently a hotel. Before coming to India I read a book called, A Princess Remembers, by Maharini Gayatri Devi. She was the third wife of the last Maharajah of Jaipur and this was one of the palaces that they lived in. A tourist book told us that if you tell the guards you want to go to the “Polo Bar” for appetizers and possibly have dinner they will let you in the gate. It runs somewhere in the neighborhood of $500 to a $800 to spend the night. The guards telephoned ahead, I’m sure, to let the footmen and hostesses know two unregistered guests were walking around. Everywhere we went someone would ask, “May I help you mam? “ Do you need anything?”

DSC05031It was truly beautiful, but more opulent than anything I’ve ever seen before. I especially liked the smoking room for men—red and gold paneling, velour couches and chairs surrounding a fireplace. As we were leaving, the footman/bellboy asked if we would like to ride out to the gate in the Maharini’s car. It was, as you can see in the photo, a 1937 Ford convertible.

She wasn’t just a glamorous, wealthy woman. She ran for public office, started several girl’s schools, and cataloged much of the treasures to be preserved for the public in her other palace. The Maharajah willingly gave up his kingdom in order to achieve unity for India after independence.

Guess I have some lingering desire for luxury, but I think maybe this cured it. Tee hee

We spent the last days of our visit here at the Diggi Palace Hotel. Smaller palace with lovely garden for breakfasts and lunches. Lots of families and people from all over the world traveling. this 300 year old building is a little run down but has more trees and birds and nature than any other place we’ve been to. Around the ceilings and walls are delicately painted borders. I thought they had to be stencils as they are so precise, but was able to watch one of the painters who was called in to spiff up some of his work. There is an internationally known writers’ conference here once a year.

DSC05108Also visited the Amber Fort which was the setting for the film, Jodha Akbar. A small textile museum near there is working to maintain the local embroidery, block printing and tie dyeing that families have done in Rajasthan for centuries.

We flew to Kolkata and as we were landing, you could see the fireworks of Divalli lighting up all over the city. Quite spectacular to see them from above. I told you (in previous story) there is a surprise around every corner in India. Also have a mysterious, itchy rash which is not such a pleasant surprise. Tee Hee

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Night Train

Night Train

Knowing I’m going to spend the night on a train fills me with anticipation. There is a certain intimacy of sharing a cabin with other passengers, and in India, usually great conversations.

We stand on the platform waiting. There is the hustle and bustle of arriving and then people find their spot, turn their suitcases up and sit—waiting for the train. The tea wallah calls out, “CHai! Chai!” in his nasally voice. The first time I came to India I thought he was calling out,“Joy, Joy, Joy” (Chai is general term for tea in India but usually means masala chai with milk)

There are always beggars at the train station that, like a heart surgeon, crack open your chest and re-adjust the heart strings. The station is filled with colorful blankets and families sleeping on the floor everywhere.

The train arrives and a mad rush to climb on board begins. Indian people are patient and polite except in crowds when they push their advantage as much as possible.

DSC04979Once we are settled and in our compartment the train finally burps and lurches forward. Moving, slowly out of the station—then the clackety clackety clackety of building up speed. It begins like a horse in a gentle walk, then the riotous movement of a trot and finally, at full speed, it settles into a good gallop. I sink into my dark cubby hole of a top bunk allowing “train yoga” to do its work as it jostles my body like jello.

I am almost dropping off to sleep when the rumbling is interrupted by another train passing in the dark night. Its horn blasts an eery sound, a certain loneliness that only trains in India have– even more mournful as it fades in the distance. There’s something mysterious about hordes of humanity rushing to where I have just come from. I wonder, are they journeys of hope, of survival, a pilgrimage? Most people in India are not traveling for pleasure.

This is a first class air conditioned compartment, A certain guilt comes over me as I know the difficulty of sitting in the third class section, families squeezed onto benches with so many others, trying to sleep a little through the night, but David and I are too old to ever do that again.

The air conditioner in our compartment is what we call in the states a noisy ceiling fan. It spews out burnt smelling air, but still it cools a bit and provides additional background music to sleep by. The porter brings a packet of clean sheets, and I pull a wool shawl over my head. It’s sheepy barnyard smell is comforting. I turn, toss. Havent seen any lions in India as yet, but can hear their roar/snores in a cabin nearby..

Wide awake! Listening to the creakings and squeakings of a train that is probably older than the one my grandfather rode as a caboose man. Mind travels to those long ago memories—my grandmother and I sat in her 57 Chevy in the Rock Island train yard in Illinois, waiting. Finally my grandfather appears, his bald head shining in the late afternoon light. He limps over the tracks toward us, his old war injury always a source for another story or one I’ve heard many times before. I run across the tracks to meet him and wave goodbye to his old cronies who always remember my name.

The memories drop me into that snoozing dreamlike state and finally to sleep. In the morning Delhi.

In the dawn light I can see rice paddies like patchwork squares and sugarcane fields far into the distance. Along the tracks are neatly laid out cow patties placed in the sun to dry, later to become fire for the home next to piles of burning trash. Occasionally the smell of sewage comes thru the air. Red plumed pampas grass lines the tracks and women in fluorescent colored sarees walk with water bottles in their hands or on their heads.Train crossings oxcarts and Tata trucks line up. Bicycle rickshaws taking children in fresh uniforms to school, and hundreds of young men on motorcycles all waiting for the train to pass. Another day in India.

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Noida to Rishikesh


In India I found a race of mortals living on the earth, but not adhering to it. Inhabiting cities but not being fixed to them. Possessing everything but possessed by nothing.

Apollonius Tyaneus, Greek traveler of the 1st century AD


Noida Ashram

October 24

Yesterday in meditation I could hear the Brahmachari laughing upstairs in the hallway so I walked up there. I’ve seen him over the years in Dakshinesar ashram. He has a deep baritone voice, but when he sings it is so sincere and pure. He was talking with a couple of families who were visiting — delightful to see their older children bowing and idolizing this man of God instead of some football hero or a rock star. He isn’t, however, a “book learned” religious man. He exudes something which the word love doesn’t quite describe. Standing near him, it felt sort of like that moment when they lay your first child in your arms and new circuits light up your “mother channel” deep within your being.

David and I strolled in the garden on one of our first days. The cook, who I hadn’t even met yet, called out that she had a gift for me– an extra dress (kurta) I might like to have. Now, the reason this was so incredible was that I had just discovered in the morning that the special dress I bought to wear in the ashrams was still hanging in some closet in France

(or hopefully the cleaning woman is currently enjoying it). We walked further and met another new friend, Rajif, my adopted son. He arranged that David and I meet with two local people who own a travel agency.

In the past in India we often flew by the seat of our pants– planning a few days a head and deciding where we wanted to go. Not now. It has become so much more Westernized that booking ahead is a necessity.

We met our angels, Anurag and Shaifalli, in the library of the ashram. They are partners in a company called Travel Mate here in Delhi. Both are devotees and had lived the corporate life and were miserable. Six years ago they became partners and formed a travel company. In two hours of chatting, they planned the best prices and connections on plane and train tickets for our whole five weeks– all on Shaifalli’s computer– her fingers tap danced on the computer keys. Can you imagine anyone in the U.S. sitting down with you for a free three hour business consultation? (Well, except for you, MaryHelen) At the end of our scheduling session, David mentioned that I loved to eat and wrote a little bit about food. They twittered away in Hindi and then he asked if we join them to sample one of Anurag’s favorite delis in Delhi.

The place looked ordinary like most bakery/delis UNTIL. . . The first dish to arrive was called Pani Poori The plate held four bowls of sauce and a tray of what looked like small bird’s eggs with a center filled with a bit of vegetable and potato. You spooned ea sauce into the opening and popped it in your mouth. textures flavors alive in your mouth at once. They did a little dance on your tongue. Next dish was called Aalu Tikki it was a bowl of yogurt or here it is called paneer. Floating in it deep fried crispy potatos chunks. Slightly sweet strips of red veg over top. A green and golden sauce swirled through Mysterious mix – not really sweet, almost hot, definitely tangy, and great textures. The smell was so enticing. 

David and I see so many good changes in India. More abundant water, more hot water Yea! A garbage system that’s making a dent (in some cities). Fly overs (aka overpasses) So many young people in the local mall carrying many shopping bags. But Anurag says that only 10% of the people lives are improving. The villages haven’t changed much.


Just couldn’t find our place for a the first few days here. We’ve been so spoiled being around such loving thoughtful people in the ashrams and finally we are on our own. And I was ready for a real bathtub and pretty sheets—just not 30 any more. Now we are in a clean, sweet place with a great rooftop where we can see the Ganges. there is such a smorgasboard of yoga and spirituality here. All david and I want to do is sit on our roof and watch the world go by. I woke this morning at 5:30 AM with sound of a pony clip clopping on the cobblestone street below bringing rocks down to the main road. Sun breaks over the mountain and the Ganges almost glitters in the morning light. By 6:30 trucks and tuk tuks (motorcycle taxis) are revving their engines and the monkeys are squabbling.

David at the Ganges

David at the Ganges

Yesterday David  and I took a taxi to Vashistha guhu (guhu means cave). Mr. Toad’s Ride is nothin’ compared to these taxi drivers on mountain roads (but don’t worry about us). The cave went back into the cliff side, and we sat in there for an hour and walked along the Ganges before all the tour buses arrived. I don’t remember the saint’s name, but he lived there until his mahasamadhi. In India they celebrate not only birthdays but the day they leave the earth, called mahasamadhi. If we had more time, I’d go back there and stay in a guest house far from the commotion of Rishikesh.

Have another new friend in this guest house. Can’t remember her name so we call her Lichtenstein which is where she is from. Anyone know where that is?





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Two Hungers

There are places on earth where great souls have lived, not those that have run corporations, made huge sums of money or were world famous, but those that have lived an exemplary inner life. They leave footprints on the earth like the scent of perfume lingering on a woman’s dress. If you sit quietly and tune into them, they have a profound effect.

After visiting the cathedral of Saint Therese of Lisieux, often called the “Little Flower of Jesus,” we had only one day left. We decided to drive the back roads to Chartres (and the airport) stopping at graveyards, Farmer’s Markets, and fromageries (cheese stores). While I explored, David found a cafe for coffee where he had an interesting conversation with an elderly French man who told a few stories of World War II and his village in France.-

Chartres Cathedral

Chartres Cathedral

Chartres Cathedral can be seen from maybe 10 miles away. It is currently being repaired so we weren’t able to take a tour, but inspiring none the less. Again, I wish I had the vocabulary to describe this peeling, crumbling masterpiece of architecture. If you ever read Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett; you know that stone masons, glass men and other builders walked from city to city in the tenth to thirteenth centuries building these enormous churches. They didn’t go home every night with chocolate ice cream in the frig and a movie to watch. Life was violence and survival.

In this cool, musty quiet  environment ceilings crisscross into the heavens. All one can think of is hope and a promise of a better life. A group of singers in a far distant corner sounded as if they really were angels singing as the their voices echoed off the stone walls.DSC04520

This was also one of the beginning places for the Pilgrmage to Santiago de Compostela during the Middle Ages. An incredible vibration in this place.

I asked a young man at the travel information office in Chartres where we might eat our last dinner in France. David and I crossed streets and plazas and a river and finally found the place he recommended. My first course was served in a large white plate that looked like a nun’s hat from the Sound of Music. In the center was a small “cup of soup” size bowl which contained tenderest of — lobster, leeks, and French sorrel in a butter sauce with herbs I could never decipher. Main course was a piece of salmon lightly cooked and still moist with a hint of ginger, but the skin side (which I often remove) was crispy and tasty. The vegetables were sauteed in butter and tarragon but oh so subtly. Mashed potatoes were not potatoes at all but maybe rutabaga, turnips, and what we call salad radishes. That was the dinner of a lifetime.

An overnight flight, as if in a dream, we were in India.

India is not an easy country to travel in. Compared to France, I think of it as a “teenage” culture. Noisy, growing in spurts, sometimes stinky, lots of issues and constant movement.

I love how the people of India, of course not all, have so little compared to our lifestyles, yet know how to be happy and content. They are curious and open and ready to break into a smile. I love how proud they are of the progress their country is making. I appreciate how, as older people, we are respected and actually looked out for.  Most of all, I love their 5000 year old tradition of yoga and spirituality; the science of going beyond our limited minds to experience what every religion in the world has written about but doesn’t practice much— the peace that passes all understanding.

And besides, India is never boring. There’s always a surprise around the corner and a personal challenge of patience and acceptance .

We are staying in an ashram in a suburb of Delhi called Noida surrounded by call centers, offices, colleges, and many computer companies. The ashram is connected with the Yogoda Satsanga Society which is the Indian half of Self Realization Fellowship, based on the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda. It feels like a peaceful garden island in the midst of a raucous world.

I became a student of Yogananda in the late 1970’s when there were lots of “gurus” and consciousness raising organizations all over California charging huge sums to teach you to be peaceful and raise your consciousness. (This still exists.) But for me, Yogananda was love at first sight, and everything he taught has come true more than I dreamed possible.

Our basic room has marble floors and platform beds. It was autumn and chilly in France. Here it is the end of monsoon season and HOT. The air conditioner is vintage 20th Century and sounds like a frenetic ping pong game or a Cuban rock band whose drummer is half asleep. AND David won’t dance with me.

I feel ten pounds lighter here. Not so much in physical weight, but in the burden of my constantly changing mind. This is a very special place.

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2015-10-07 03.54.40The house. Gardens in front are all pink and red geraniums and





Monet’s Kitchen  –blues and yellows and lots of copper.

2015-10-07 04.22.53

2015-10-07 03.41.01In the distance you can see the green Japanes bridge in Monet’s garden

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Last Days in Paris

The place we rented in Paris was a little far away from all the tourist activity, but it just happened to be right near the largest weekday market. It was more than four city blocks long with varieties of mushrooms I’ve never seen before, fish, beautifully displayed vegetables and fruits, breads, wine, cheeses, lots of take home dishes, as well as snails, cow tongues, fish heads, little birds, rabbits, pig feet and everything one could imagine that might be edible. It was inspiring to see so many young and old people with their sacks loaded with their ingredients for the week. It’s a way of life here and, well, taking a hold in our own country. David and I picnicked in our room with ratatouille, cheeses, a basil and lemon tapenade, bread and wine. Best meal we’ve had so far.

Last day in Paris we finally got our travel legs. First priority was the Marmotan Museum—out in what we would call a suburb—it’s a private collection of Monet and other Impressionists. We took the metro but still far from the museum. Dummy country bumpkins! We didn’t even know how to hail a cab.

I wish I had more of a vocabulary to describe or know something about art. Monet’s pieces were ones we rarely see. But he takes you to a perfect moment – on the Seine River, the shimmering light on the water, luminescent weeping willow—well, just nature in all her joyous vibrating beauty. With all the horrible things that happen in the world, it is encouraging, uplifting to know this being (Monet) came on earth to share his sense of beauty with all of us for generations. We sat for hours with just 3 or 4 of the paintings we loved.

2015-10-04 10.00.07Then after a quick metro ride, had the most expensive and worst meal in the tourist section of Paris. (nothing is ever perfect). Finally took the boat down the Seine to see the Eiffel Tower and great architecture. History came alive as the young woman explained much of what happened in these buildings. Then we dashed (actually I was dragging myself) to the Saint Chapelle cathedral —just happened to get there as they were lining up for a concert—a choral octet with a small orchestra. This church is reknowned for some of the best stained glass in all of Europe.

2015-10-02 07.44.40It also just happened to be fashionista week in Paris. Models were in the park and in this one plaza where david and I just happened to walk by. We tried taking photos, but the professional photographers were no match for us. Fashion is a little over the top in france—sort of like health food in California.

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Miromesnil We’re Moving In!


DSC04362We’re moving in! Actually, it started a year ago. I helped a friend, judy, with her garage sale when she was selling her house. She gave me a book called Gardens of  France. I wrote down ones I’d like to visit and Miromesnil Chateau was close to our route. As we were leaving the town of Rouen, we headed for the coast and the region of Normandy. It was almost 5 PM when we drove into the Chateau, known for its potager’ garden. I assumed it would be way too expensive but we asked anyway and decided to stay.

David and I instantly liked the owner. He groaned when I said he must work terribly hard to maintain this place. It’s Downton Abbey (but his name isn’t Robert). He told us part of the history of the castle as we walked up the three creaking flights of stairs to our room. this house has been in his wife’s family for three generations. Her grandparents bought it in 1938 when Europe and Hitler were looking iffy. They had 9 children and wanted to find a place that might be safe for them. Spent 18 months rejuvenating the house, and then it was requisitioned by the French army as a training base. Then the Germans seized it . At the end of the war, the Americans used it to finish their work . The house and their family survived all that until a young GI tried to make a fire with green wood in the kitchen and decided to pour a little gasoline on it. Only one half of house went up in flames.

The potager garden (kitchen garden) is surrounded in red brick walls. This keeps out critters, wind, and makes a lovely back drop. They’ve won several awards in France and are conscious about planning for changing weather patterns that are already beginning.

DSC04372I walked out to the family chapel in the midst of the surrounding forest. It all smelled musty and mushroomy. Sunlight filtered through the beech trees as they began to turn yellow. Dedicated to Saint Anthony the Hermit, the small stone chapel built in the 11th Century was once a pilgrimage site. People from the nearby villages would walk here to bathe their legs in the pond (which no longer exists) to cure their varicose veins and other problems.

our room is round and the bath has a big claw foot tub. There are little doors in the halls that lead to little spaces—weird. At night the wooden shutters flap in the wind. I think they whisper “Heathcliff!” Oops! Wrong story wrong country.

DSC04375David and I have been cruising thru villages and getting lost on all the little back roads of Normandy. The countryside and the architecture of many village chateaus and farms is mesmerizing. The soil is a cafe latte color, huge John Deere tractors tilling it up all day long and rolling gentle hills of green.

It has been an incredible blessing to meet the owners and stay in this beautiful old house.  PS Can’t figure out how to turn the picture.

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Afternoon in Giverny

2015-10-06 06.59.02Bleary eyed, the world is glossed over—I’m having a genuine Impressionist moment. Blues dissolve into yellows and greens reign. The truth is, tears blur my vision. I can’t believe I’m here. Giverny, a short drive north of Paris. Well, truth be told told, it took David and I four hours of frustration, and more anger than I care to admit to get here. The English speaking manager at the McDonald’s outside of Paris finally saved us.

Giverny (pronounced gee vehr nee) is/was the home of Claude Monet in his later years. He designed, built, and planted this garden so that he could paint flowers and see them from every window. This is the ultimate pilgrimage—the Compostela of Gardeners. I want to cry because I can feel all my gardening buddies walking with me—Judy, Kristin, Jana, Pat, Renate, Annie. Carolyn, you are so here next to me I can almost hear your words.

This man genius painter understood on a deep level how light continuously transforms the world around us—for his garden . His vague outlines and discontinuous brush strokes bleed altogether as if he were seeing through tears. 2015-10-06 03.43.31I don’t know if Monet was a religious man or not, but he knew. He grokked. He sensed what the great yogis of India wrote about for thousands of years. The world is nothing more than condensed light and flowers whisper to us of something greater than our I, me, mines. In a broader sense, one could say he was self realized.

Sell the second car! Rent the house! Save your miles, but come to Giverny before you die. Every window is a photo, every doorway a scented enigma. There’s a stunning white garden in front of the Monet Museum with Japanese anemone, cactus and dinner plate dahlias, alyssum, Nicotiana and lots of burgundy foliage/ivy in the fall. There are hedges in the museum garden that divide into rooms of colors—pink and lavendars, yellow and oranges.

2015-10-06 03.40.43And I haven’t even been to Monet’s actual garden and home yet. I’ve only walked thru the village. The city has worked hard to maintain its integrity and not turn it into a Disneyland.

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