Fall

A gift in the path

yellow leaf dotted with dew

autumn’s first message.

I've continued the practice of writing haiku every day so far this month, and many days, the haiku link up to the images on my Instagram account (@lorigravley). I appreciate how the practice (the poems and posting to Instagram) invites me to pay attention.

Paris History: Wall of Philippe Auguste

When I imagined the wall of Philippe Auguste, I imagined something about the height of a garden wall.  I should have listened to Mrs. Hackett in 6th grade when she told us we would all need to know the metric system someday. I had read that the wall was so and so meters tall, but since I can’t easily convert meters to feet, I ignored the measurement and continued to picture a wall maybe ten feet tall.

After a lovely walk through the native plant gardens at Arena Lutece (the ancient Roman arena uncovered under the city of Paris), I made my way up the Rue Rollin, on to Rue du Cardinal Lemoine and then to 12 Rue Clovis and the large section of the wall visible on the left bank. There is a small plaque, as there are throughout Paris, next to the enceinte that gives the history.  In this case, the wall, three Paris stories high, has been used to support the adjoining building.  A smart engineer or architect incorporated the thick, ancient wall into the design for the attached building just as the architects during Philippe’s and later times used the wall for support, insulation, and defense. 

Perhaps I’d seen the wall on earlier trips to Paris, but then I hadn’t been looking for it.  It hadn’t been important for me to understand the wall and its history.  My visit, this time, was rounded about by the wall.  Searching for and finding it was a highlight of my Paris trip.

I was impressed with this first view, and seeing the portions of the wall and old towers at the Louvre moved me to tears, but by far the most impressive yet almost pedestrian discovery of the wall is on the right bank at the Village St. Paul where a long section of the wall encloses a public park.  In the photograph, you can see a child hitting a soccer ball against this nearly 1,000 year old testament to the protection of Paris. 

(Photos: Top, 12 Rue Clovis; Middle, Louvre; Bottom, Village of Saint Paul.  All Photos by Lori Gravley, please request permission to repost.)

Remington Goes on a Writing Date

For the last four years, my friend Debra and I have been writing at the Emporium on Sunday mornings.  Over time, we've been joined by two other writer friends, Jude and Becky.  During NaNoWriMo, we have even more writers join us.  Now, Debra and I are working on a project together, featuring Remington and his friend AnaMae. So this morning, Remington came to the Emporium with me for a writing date.  Remington says that the gluten-free bluberry muffins are great.  His presence is inspiring, as always. 

A Year in Words and Images

Nearly a month ago, my friend Jude told me about someone she knows who wrote a haiku a day for a year.  I took it as the challenge she meant it to be. Since then, I’ve written at least one haiku a day.

Sometimes, they don’t make it to the screen until the next day, but that’s what has been so powerful about this practice for me.

When I was completing my MFA in poetry, I drove three hours a day, back and forth to El Paso, TX from Alamogordo, NM.  I had a lot of work to do, so once papers were written, papers were graded, and the house and child were cared for, there wasn’t much time left over for poetry. 

I began to use the drive as my writing time.  I would listen to the words in my head, refining them, saying them aloud, changing words, counting beats, and when I arrived at school or home, I would commit the words to paper.

Writing haiku is a perfect compliment to walking.  The beats and my steps become one.  I can discard words, challenge my vocabulary, and just stay present on the walk to what’s happening around me as I walk.  I can write as I move.

This practice might take me further out of the moment I’m in. I try to remain attentive to that possibility, but so far I’ve noticed that I’m more present.  I feel the tap of my shoes on the ground as a metronome to my words.  I’m mindful of what’s happening around me.  Anything can start the poem, anything might help build it. 

Thank you, Jude, for challenging me to this new practice.  I’m looking forward to the next eleven months.
 

Here are a couple haiku from the past month.  The one from 1 Sept. is a double haiku.

19 August 2014

Will you abandon

reason, bite into the peach

with only your teeth?

1 Sep 2014

The plane lands, a thud

A white haired woman crosses

herself, a small cross

once, and then again,

hidden, as if gratitude

were cause for shame

9 Sept. 2014

Sometimes a new path

beckons you, tangles your feet.

Lost is the only way home.

A note on structure: the haiku form is three lines with the syllable counts 5/7/5.  The traditional haiku contains a kireji or cutting word that separates the first half of the poem from the second half of the poem (I think of it as the same thing as a volta in the sonnet, it’s a word or a turn that connects to but deepens the earlier words) and a kigo or seasonal reference.  

Remington

I have a friend who isn't on social media.  She was so joyful about my Remington post, I told her I would share more pictures of our journeys in the garden.  

Remington is a lovely companion.  He's willing to sit in silence for long periods, but as you can see, his compelling personality and great wit mean that he's a popular guest at any gathering. 

Remington or the Dangers of Working from Home

When I'm not working at my consulting job, I'm sitting at home (or at the Emporium in Yellow Springs, Ohio), working on the latest novel, poem, blog post, etc.  One day, I looked over at the typewriting sitting on my shelf and thought, "I bet he'd like to head outside."  

Sitting alone all day can lead to anthropomorphizing objects, I'm told. 

Anyway, it was good excuse to head outside. I took my phone with me to record our little journey.  So began my series of Facebook and Instagram posts with Remington. You can check out my social media page for more photos and follow me to see what sort of adventures he finds in the future.

For now, I'm sitting in a hotel, and he's sitting at home waiting for my return so that we can finally take the walk to Clifton Gorge I've been promising him. 

(Not Quite) Medieval France: The Catacombs of Paris

The Paris Catacombs are not medieval, but I’m considering setting the third of Christine’s mysteries underground, and the Catacombs provide the largest underground available to tourists today. To get to the ossuaries themselves, you walk through long underground tunnels, slick with moisture and smelling of earth and damp.

The fact that this particular underground houses the bones of 6 million of Paris’s dead didn’t deter me.  I tried the catacombs at three different times.  At lunch, the line rounded the block.  At 3:30, they informed me that I could wait but was unlikely to get in. So I showed up the next day at 9:30 for the 10:00 opening.  And waited.  I finally got in to the catacombs a little after noon. Though I had been within the first 200 in line (they only allow 200 in at a time), it didn’t matter.  They let the tour groups in as they arrive and since tour groups have 20 people in them, it doesn’t take too many tour groups to slow the line to a crawl. 

When I finally got into the catacombs, I was fortunate to have been allowed to hop in front of a group, so that there wasn’t anyone in front of me for a while in the long halls that led to the ossuaries.  When other people finally caught up to me, I was a bit amazed by their callousness.  Facing death can make people uncomfortable, and the people in the catacombs with me worked through their discomfort in numerous ways--loud jokes, complaints, feigned ennui. 

But the catacombs is a cemetery, and the dead, indeed death itself, deserves our respect.  There are many quotes in French and Latin throughout the catacombs to remind the visitor of this fact, but since the beautiful poems--calling the readers attention to remember the dead, to respect the fact that we all die, to attend to our short life on earth with care--aren’t translated into any other languge, the message is lost. Tourists wander the catacombs unaware that its an opportunity for reflection and inward seeking.

As I exited the Catacombs, I was struck by the number of people who had scratched or written their names on the walls.  As if to say, I too have been here, remember me, a scratching against the fear that we might live and after our short time be consigned to shared oblivion. To battle that, we talk too loud and scratch our name on some lasting surface, claiming I was here, I lived, I existed, read my name, remember me.  Those of us who don't take to graffitti write a blog.

To find out more about the Catacombs and to plan your visit.  Visit the website here. 

http://www.catacombes.paris.fr/en/catacombs