Last weekend was father’s days on both sides of the pond, which is unusual, as mother’s day is always different in the states from France.   Not being a father, I am writing this from a perspective as  a therapist who has dealt with a lot of fathering issues , and or course as a daughter and as a mother who had to face them within my self and with my own children.

Volumes have been written about mothering and the effect of maternal child separation, and pathological mothering, but in comparison , there has been only been a trickle regarding fathering, and especially the impact upon children deprived of a consistent and healthy relationship with a father.

Fathering has been in the shadows in so far as pointing out the importance of this essential relationship in the developmental aspect of children.   The consistency and quality of  fathering or lack of ,has multiple implications on children, with father loss having the most impact.

All of us have “bio” fathers obviously, but not everyone has a “life” father that takes on parenting and nurturing a child.   Fathering has a lot more to do with that unique male way of nurturing, than just providing that needed sperm!

One point , I do want to make clear from the beginning, is that a child, for whatever reason, comes into life without a “life” father due to being a sperm donor child, or a child that has been abandoned prior to birth by  their “bio” father, therefore never known to the child,or in a lesbian couple, actually suffers much less ,  from that of  a child who “had” a viable father at birth but suffered neglect, abuse or  father loss during their childhood.

In these instances, a loving  single mother, loving female partner, or male relative, or stepfather can be wonderful substitutes to some degree.   Although no single mother, however loving , can replace a father, they can certainly soften the effects of a loss.

This is not meant to devalue in any way fatherhood with its unique masculine way of parenting, but not all children have the opportunity to experience childhood with a healthy and available male father.   One can argue decades that  children need two different genders for optimal growth, but research so far has not shown this, and this is not this the scope of my article.

This article instead will focus of the impact of fathers on the psychological development of their progeny,  whether in a committed relationship, such as marriage or not.  Divorced fathers can maintain wonderfully full and nurturing relationships with their children, despite the inherent hardships separation and divorce entails.

Mothering may be the cornerstone or cement, to the very psychic connectedness and viability of a child, but that conjoint parent , called a father, has an incredible impact upon the child’s sense of self, self-esteem and relationships that a child will have for the rest of their lives.

Besides providing another perspective of parenting in the traditional sense, fathering , will have different implications depending on the sex of the child.  This impact on little girls and little boys is different.

I once gave a talk on the “wounded women”, to a packed audience, that resulted in  much media response.   The whole presentation was in what ways fathering can affect how women grow up to see themselves and how they will relate to men as an adult.

A father mirrors back to his little girl how she will grow up expecting other significant males in her life to respond to her.  In other words, it is the father that offers the very first male relationship in a female’s life.

If the father is present throughout her life, but unavailable to her emotionally, then the  little girl has a good chance of growing up with the notion or expectation that males will not respond to her emotional needs, nor really value her presence nor femininity.

These shadow dads, as I like to call them, are fairly numerous.  They are often too preoccupied with their professional pursuits, narcissistic, or in the case of divorce too involved with pursuing other women.  The end result is emotional neglect and a loss of consistent nurturance.

Women, who have suffered from shadow fathers will unconsciously project that men in her life will emotionally abandon her, and withhold love as her own father did.  This maladaptive way of protecting herself, can ultimately lead to failed relationships and real abandonment.

A little girl who had a father that she remembers, but was later abandoned by him, usually internalized that abandonment, even sometimes blaming herself for not being lovable enough, and can grow up being fearful that all future males will probably do they same.  This sets up some real unconscious negative projections that often play out in mature women, who have developed little trust in males, and might  even unconsciously seek out males who are unable to invest in a committed relationship.

I have often noticed in young teens and some adult women, who have suffered from this tragedy, a tendency of becoming promiscuous with men.  Driven by a voracious need to have male relationships and be  loved and valued by men, they prematurely use their sexuality as a way to get those needed attachments initially which can result in being used, misinterpreted, and even sadder, devalued in the end.

Little boys derive their sense of self and their self-esteem from their dad. Young boys are constantly looking to their father for male interaction that will validate their young manhood.  This identification is essential and constitutes a framework that little boys will build upon that will determine how they see themselves .

Of major concern is that the little boy is mirrored back consistently unconditional love, approval and encouragement from the father.   This is internalized and becomes the foundation of a boys self-esteem.

If a boy grows up with a shadow father, or a critical and demeaning father, that rarely validates him, he will suffer by feeling generally inadequate and unsure of himself.  This translates also to how he will projet other males in general to relate to him as an adult.

This poorly formed self-esteem in males can often lead to a constant striving to “prove oneself’, or being a driven overachiever, which is  precipitated by the unconscious need to finally some day obtain his father’s approval and affection.  I have seen many men who have suffered in this way, constantly trying to prove to themselves and the world their self-worth.

Worst is abandonment, as in boys they can often feel totally devalued as men and with a self-depreciation that may open them up to total under achievement and possible delinquency.  Having no male anchor to nurture them, they can end up angry and resentful, especially when deprived of a loving available mother, who might be exhausted from being the total breadwinner.

Unfortunately in American society, there is a subcultural tendency in some marginalised African-American men, most who have been abandoned in their own childhood to repeat the abandonment of their own children.   This abusive behavior has been passed down throughout generations  resulting in very negative socioeconomic implications.

Fathers also serve as models on how men should react and relate to maintain healthy relationships with women in their lives.   A father who is abusive to his wife, or chronically unfaithful , or devalues her, mirrors back to his son these abusive behavioral traits that some sons will incorporate  in future relationships with women.

Because women can never replace the uniqueness of  fatherhood, in the case of abandonment or loss; seeking out healthy male relationships for their children, can often serve as wonderful replacements, even if they don’t live within the household.  I have seen patients who were beautifully nurtured by stepfathers, grandfathers and even uncles.

Honorable and real men honor, love, provide for, and protect that which proceeds from their own flesh.   To be a father is a blessing that survives and surmounts all the vicissitudes of life.  To be called father and have children rush into your arms with love and glee are certainly life’s most cherished treasures and joy.

Today is June the 14 th, and one year ago to this day I published my very first post.  Now a whole year later, and with 122 articles under my pen so to speak, I feel a sense of personal accomplishment.

I decided to celebrate the day by making some  éclairs caramel au beurre salé(caramel with salted butter) seen in the photo, that is always fun to do and does not require much effort.  With a little leftover pate a choux, I also made some French cheese puffs, called gougères.  Bubbly, of course, but later on!

Blogging for a year has been good for me in many ways, and has helped me deal with what I have considered some self deficits.   Not that this blog has cured me of them, but it has helped nevertheless, in an enjoyable way!

I have always considered myself more gifted in listening to others and bringing them out, than myself, which is wonderful for what I do as a therapist.  My own self-expression, in my view, has always been rather reserved.

Some of that I can attribute to my innate timidity, though I have learned to break through that  and can even appear to be extroverted at times, however difficult that can be for me!  The major reason for my reserved expression, is being a sensitive empath, which again is wonderful for a therapist to have, but!

Empaths read clues from others very easy, perhaps too much, and in general will make every effort not to displease or bring out any disharmony.  In social settings, that might entail curtailing and  reserving my own expression of thoughts, in preference to others.

Blogging is first and foremost  all about sharing!  Sharing your thoughts and views and experiences with others, and letting others get to know you.    Each of us is a walking story to be told!   If only someone would listen.

I always get excited to meet a new patient for that very reason, because I find each person comes in with their own unique story that I always find fascinating to hear and help. Having been a therapist for all these years has given me a rich repertoire of knowledge to draw upon and share.

I enjoy teaching whatever I have learned, to others, which this blog has been a good vehicle in doing.   I have forever found human personalities intriguing and likewise the various psychiatric pathologies.

Another deficit I have always struggled with is procrastination and deadlines!  This blog has kept me very tuned in to getting it done or else!  Although, I have been good in writing clinical notes on patients, after learning early on the hard way, I generally will put off doing other things till the last-minute.

My only other experience in writing and deadlines was when I was in graduate school of course .  During that time, the local town’s magazine asked me to write restaurant reviews, paying for my meals, not writing.   I remember all too well making hospital calls on patients, some in the evening, then going home to try to write the whole article due the next day.

That being before the net and spell check, proved formitable.  Most physicians and clinicians are poor spellers and we got away with it, writing in hand all hospital patient notes, that were difficult to read in the first place.

Since I am a therapist who writes, not a professional writer; the best advice I ever learned about writing came from one of my patients.    Upon learning that I had a review to write about a restaurant that specialised in hamburgers, and that I was lamenting that this “gourmet” didn’t know how in the world I could expound about the glories of a hamburger, she offered this simple advice that works well even today.

” Cherry, just go home and write as bad as you can;”  ”just don’t care if it sounds good or not”  ”just write!” I did exactly as she instructed as I was already exhausted.  Frankly my hamburger restaurant review turned out to be one of my best!   To this day, I am forever grateful to her.

Believe it or not, each post requires a lot of writing time for me, so I have learned to start writing my post generally a day or so before it is due, which is totally new to me!  Alleluia! I know my procrastination is not “curred” by any means, and never will be, but I find myself somewhat surprised occasionally starting another post even before another one is finished.

If you have read this blog, you know the vast majority of my posts are a mixture of mental health topics, historical personality analysis, and experiences I have had living here in this magical city.   My son likes to tease me about my posts on food and wine, which is certainly one of my passions and I enjoy writing about, but not the scope of my blog.

What may be for others a simple activity or excursion, I generally will see it as an opportunity to expand upon philosophically or psychologically, which I enjoy tying together.

Being very spiritual in nature, I find it personally very nourishing , as I have in being a therapist, if through any of my inspirational posts, someone can find comfort, understanding, hope or even solace.

Sometimes, I would love to be able to write with more wit, which I don’t have anyhow, but, all in all, with typos and other mistakes, am proud of what I have been able to produce.

One thing is for sure, they have all been written from the heart.  So to each of you, who have taken the time to read my articles, offered encouraging comments, and helped me with technical issues;  I send you hugs and my heartfelt thanks!

Catherine de Medici, who was married to King Henri II, was indeed one of the most shadowy and diabolic queens of France.   She was implicated in murders, including a massacre, poisonings, child abuse,  favoritism with her children, and last but not least ignoring an incestual relationship amongst her children.

Some recent historians have tried to write more sympathetic biographies of her, due to unfortunate circumstances in her marriage to the king, and the fact that she is accredited with some political accomplishments.   Historians can continue to debate her political merits and contributions to the arts during her reign,  but as a therapist,  I find her personality and behavior extremely warped  and  pathologic.

Catherine de Medici was born on April 19, 1519 in Florence, Italy into the very infamous Medici family that ruled Florence with brute political power off and on between the 1200′s to 1743.   Her father was Lorenzo de Medici who was the grandson of the likewise ruthless Lorenzo the Magnificent.  Her mother was Madeleine de la Tour d’ Auvergne, who was from a noble French family.

Sadly, her mother died several days after her birth, reportedly from syphilis, that had already caused the death of her father a month before she was born.  Orphaned, she was taken in by her paternal grandmother and aunts.

She reportedly was passed around several relatives and ended up in a convent, after an uprising against the Medici’s, where she stayed until her teens and her marriage to the future king of France.

This marriage was arranged by her uncle, Pope Clement VII, who was also a Medici, looking to establish the Medici power in France.   The marriage took place in Marseille in October of 1533, when she was only 14 and her groom, 15, the future King Henri II.

She was described as not being very attractive, but frankly that mattered little to her young husband who was already smitten with Diane de Poitier, 19 years his senior, that I wrote an article about in March 2013.

Her husband’s total lack of interest in her extended to the bedroom to the degree that, even  his mistress, Diane tried to encourage him to make more of an effort in producing an heir.  After 10 years had gone by without any pregnancy, doctors were consulted who diagnosed Henri as having hydrospadias, a penal deformity.

Court doctor Jean Fernel intervened with advice on sexual positioning and herbal concoctions, and Catherine gave birth to the first of her 10 children in January 1544.   Though her infertility was cured, she really did not have any influence on her husband, nor in the French court until after her husband died.

Henri II died from a massive brain infection in July 1559, tens days after being accidentally wounded in a sporting joust .  As he lay dying he constantly begged to see the only woman he had ever loved, Diane de Poitier, but Catherine denied his final requests. After his death, she banished his mistress from the courts and that is when her own machiavillian personality became more evidently in view.

Although one can certainly feel sympathy for her being unloved by her husband; it was after all an arranged marriage, as all royal marriages were.  Who knows, perhaps her  husband saw a softness and loving nature in his mistress, that just wasn’t possible with Catherine.

Her maternal skills were just as lacking as her wifely ones in rearing and loving her children.  Those that survived into adulthood were all harmed by her manipulation, favoritism, neglect and downright abuse.

After years of infertility, she ended up having ten children, out of which seven survived.     Those who survived went on  to become three kings of France and her daughters, Elizabeth the Queen of Spain and daughter Margarite, Queen of France.

Her eldest son ascended to the throne at the age of 15 years, becoming King Francis II, but she did not attend his coronation, due to her grief.    He only survived 14 months on the throne, and then her next eldest Charles IX became king at the age of ten, at which time Catherine became the queen regent.

Charles  was not her favorite son, and throughout his reign was easily manipulated by Catherine, probably in hopes to win more of her love and favor, as unfavored siblings are sometimes prone to do.

During his reign, Catherine was very involved in supposedly trying  to bring about some resolution to the war between catholics and protestants, called Huguenots.    One of her efforts to do so was to propose  her daughter Margarite de Valois to the hand of the future king of France, Henri de Navarre, a protestant.

Margarite,( Queen Margot), who I wrote an article in August of 2012, was already in love with the young Duke de Guise , which incited much wrath with her mother.  In the end her mother had her way and the marriage was set for August the 18 th, 1572, to take place at Notre Dame.

Five days after the marriage had taken place,  Catherine, masterminded,  overriding  her son Charles IX, and  orchestrated the horrendous massacre of Saint Barthelemy, slaughtering over 3000 protestants, who had come to witness the marriage of their protestant king.

Again, some recent historians have said, she only meant to kill a” few” of the major protestant leaders, with the others killed by the crowd’s furor.  This horrific event certainly was a bad omen for Margot’s marriage, as both were completely unhappy with each other, from the beginning, which lead to them being involved in multiple extramarital affairs.

Charles IX did not reign too many years , reportedly dying of pleurisy at age 24. Rumors though, circulated that Catherine had a hand in his demise because she wanted her favorite son to ascend to the throne.

Margot’s continuous extra conjugal escapades was said to have been an embarrassment to the court, especially to her mother and brother, who had become King Henri III. Her wrath against her daughter flew into such fury that on a summer night in 1583, while the entire family was attending a sumptuous banquet, Catherine de Medici had her daughter kidnapped and transported under guard to a prison in the southwest part of France.

While she was imprisoned for over 17  years, Catherine decided to disown her daughter and withdraw her inheritance.  Additionally just to make sure her former sweetheart would never renter the picture, along with political reasons, she is suspected of plotting along with favorite son, King Henri III, of killing her former beloved. Tricked into meeting with Henri,  the Duke de Guise was brutely murdered, along with eight of his relatives at the Chateau de Blois.

Margot would go on to write in her memoirs how much she had suffered from her mother’s lack of love and that she had been also sexually molested by some of her brothers.

Although Henri might have been Catherine’s favorite child, he came to be the most despised king of France.  He was described as ruthless and mean as she.  Public opinion was so against him, that when he was assassinated, France was over joyous, calling his murder an act of God.

Catherine had over 300 hundred females spies in the court, called the Flying Squadron,who constantly reported on all the inside gossip heard in private.  She was known for her very lavish parties, and used these pretty spies to infiltrate and gather information.

Lo be it to anyone  that fell in disfavor with Catherine, as many of her enemies either disappeared or were found ill and died.  At the Chateau de Blois , one can still visit a room of over 327 little wooden drawers said to have been filled with various poisons, that she was suspected of having her master poisoners concoct to do away with those she felt threatened.

Among those rumored to have been poisoned by her was Jeanne de L’Albret, the mother of Henri the IV, who had previously criticised her.  Catherine also had the man who accidently caused the death of her husband murdered too.

Throughout her life, Catherine was very interested in astrology and often consulted her court astrologer, her favorite being Come Ruggueri.   During one of his readings, he told her that she would die someday near Saint Germaine.

She also had consulted Nostradamus, who predicted her husband would die in a joust and that she would out live 3 of her children. Believing fully that there was a possibility she would die near Saint Germaine, which she interpreted as the parish church of Saint Germaine de L’Auxerrois, just across the street from the Louvre, where she resided, she made plans to leave her royal palace for safer grounds.

She eventually retired to the Chateau de Blois, seen in the photo, where she became very ill with a pneumonia like illness.  She asked to see a priest and welcomed the sight of a young priest who administered her the last rights.  When she asked his named, he replied Julien de Saint Germaine!

Catherine de Medici died on January 5th , 1589 at the age of 69, indeed near a Saint Germaine as predicted by her astrologist.  Her death did not bring much sympathy from her populace with a historian said her death was treated with as much grief as  that of a goat.

One can easily blame her narcissism, lack of maternal skills and obviously pent-up anger and resentment on her orphaned childhood, but I have known others who despite their own painful childhoods went on to be kind parents towards their offspring and decent citizens.

Again her emotionally sterile marriage probably compounded by her husband alliance with Diane de Poitier must have further thwarted her into her extreme violent behavior.

Her disturbed relationship with Margarite, who she probably saw as extension of herself, therefore unable to love, left poor Margarite destined to forever seeking love in any male she could attract.  Margarite, also, was the only one who stood up to her, and refused to completely comply with all her dictates, but severely suffered from the consequences.

Her overt favoritism with Henri must have created much sibling rivalry, especially with Charles towards Henri, who he reportedly detested.

All in all she left each of her children with painful childhoods, with her favorite Henri internalizing her pathology as his own, wrecking violent havoc during his reign.

Some latest research has come out linking sociopathic behavior as possibly inherited.  If that is true, one can certainly look at the pathology of the Medicis, but in Catherine’s case I feel her upbringing in the end probably contributed the most.

The problems of peeing in Paris is an old one I would say, dating back no doubt to the very first inhabitants of Ile de La Cité; the Parisii tribe.  Before the installation of underground sewers, I can hardly imagine what people had to put up with; the open sewage flowing through the streets as a way of life, however disagreeable.

At least streets back then were built concave like with the lower center serving as a drain.   The higher levels, next to houses , were called a “haut pavé” and provided a place for people to walk on to avoid the flux.

There was a hierarchy though on who had the right of way on these upper levels, in that the poorer classes had to yield to the elite, (usually obvious by their dress).   The name stuck  to designate those from a higher social class, who had this privilege, as “le haut du pavé”

Even when the king decreed that was against the law to pee in the streets, apparently few bothered to comply.  Finally someone thought up the fine ideal of distributing barrels on practically every corner of the city, which I am sure helped.

In 1834 Paris constructed 478 vespasiennes, named after the Roman emperor Vespasien, who placed urinals in Rome. They were green half-moon shaped stalls with walls to hide male torsos , exposing only their heads and legs.  Parisian men took to them like a duck to water, so by  1930 there were over 1200 of them throughout Paris.

Not only did they serve to relieve full male bladders, but were even secret meeting places for the resistants during World War II, and often for male prostitutes too.  I would say today there exists some sort of nostalgia for these old green pissoirs, that were phased out in the 1980′s.

When I was a student here many moons ago, Paris was dotted with the ubiquitous green pissoires seen all over the city as in the photo, which is the very last one left on Blvd Arago in the 14th arrondissement.    My initial impression of them was rather mildly shocking , given I was from the very prudent country of America, where urinating was always done in obscure privacy for both sexes.

After living in Paris and Europe for all these years, I can now embrace any sort of pissoires with the utmost of thanksgiving.  By doing away with those old standard green pissoires, which were everywhere, Paris  ended up paying the price.  One is still stung with pungent orders of urine here and there, in the metros, and especially today in some of the more disadvantaged  quartiers.

The city within the last several years has provided free toilettes for males and females  and even inaugurated a fine of 35 euros if caught urinating in public, but I guess in the end, it  hasn’t had that much impact.

Frankly it is not a problem with the tourists, as after all Paris is the most visited city in the entire globe, but seems to continue to plague the poorer neighborhoods, primarily made up of immigrants from North Africa, where perhaps relieving oneself in public is more acceptable.

Even the residents and the shop owners in these areas were  complaining and rightfully so.  Some blamed the selling of beer, rather than the out right lack of decency of the perpetrators, who openly urinated on the sidewalks.

French and other European males are not excluded from blame either, though they seem to be in general somewhat more discreet and less apt to relieve themselves in large urban areas, seen more often tending to nature off  highway in rural areas.

This obviously does not always hold true when there is an intense gathering of folks, as when I encountered the rather cute sign, seen in the photo, explicitly reminding males not to pee on the streets, but in WC’s in the village.

It was the fete de Saint Vincent, the patron saint of vintners on a sunny but bitterly cold day in  February, in the tiny village of Chablis.  Merriment reigned high with Chablis flowing everywhere, filling up everyone’s bladders as wine is prone to do.

I remember remarking to one of the vintners, how cute the sign was,  saying that would never be seen in America.  Although he begrudgingly agreed with the message, I later spied him  relieving himself in the parking lot later on!

Maybe you just can’t teach old dogs new tricks!  Hoping to prove that wrong, the city of Paris just recently unveiled her latest pissoirs or street urinals, trying them out in the aforementioned urine zones.   These gray arched units offer hardly any discretion at all, but at least they are functional.

I think their phallic like structure wasn’t done by hazard, maybe as an attempt to get the point across to even the most densest of males.  I don’t mind seeing backsides as long as they are peeing in an appropriate receptacle, so I hope the streets in Paris will now take on a more pleasant smell, rather than l’eau de urine!

Accomplishing and even getting to the top, for some people, does not always lead to a cemented positive self-regard, especially if their self-esteem has been undermined since childhood.   Contrary to what you may think, their accomplishments may not hold the same value to them as one would think.

In some, this may be initially veiled as humility and self-effacement in light of their achievements, shadowing an underlying poor sense of self-worth. Others may project a false persona brimming with confidence.

Humility is one thing that I find refreshingly positive to have in one’s character. Healthy humility actually comes from a sense of self acceptance, not self deprecation, that leads one to not only value their own achievements , but to admire and value those in others too.

When the inability though to accept one’s accomplishments as worthwhile predominates, then it is another thing all together that shows underneath a loss of self-image and esteem, whether it is hidden under a cloak of confidence or not.

Perhaps loss is a misnomer, because generally with these patients, they never were able to build anything resemblance of a stable self-esteem.  This goes back to their childhood and can often be traced to their own perception of themselves during that time.

Because they were never able to feel any real acceptance of themselves; they have used their performance or achievements as a way of trying to instill a sense of self-worth.   This is not bad, nor unproductive per se.  However, it never takes hold, because the foundation was never laid properly to build upon in the first place.

One needs a basic foundation of self acceptance, that generally is formed early on in life.  The majority of our sense of self-worth and acceptance is mirrored back to us with consistency by our parents.  When that is lacking, this leaves the young individual open to forming many doubts and conflictual feelings about themselves as a whole.

There are other contributing variables of course.  Children who are extremely sensitive, or who may suffer from familial discord, depression or anxiety can have a more fragile self-esteem, resulting in more ego centricity, or feeling responsible for events around them.

From whatever factors, all these doubts are usually firmly in place by the early teens and may be intensified by their peer group, creating even further psychic damage.  Teens are by and large very impressionable and extremely open to psychic insults, if their self-esteem has not been solidly buttressed early on by their parents.

Not all teens with poorly formed sense of self-worth are going to retreat into timidity and under achievement and come across as lacking confidence.  Some over compensate early on as high academic,  sportive and  social performers.

Indeed, some of this motivation might be desperate attempts to capture affection and approval from their otherwise negligent parents, who might not be noticing nor  applauding their accomplishments all together.  Worse are the teens, who never get a sense of full acceptance or approval.   Many are  constantly goaded by critical parents into increasingly higher performance and achievements.

Parental expectations for children can be derived from their own sense of inadequacies and especially propagated by parents with narcissistic traits.   Either way, you end up with teens and young adults whose self-esteem becomes dependent on performance and accomplishments rather than self.

This happens much more than you can ever image.  Those people who you admire for all they have done with their life and all the positive personality traits they may have, may not hold the same view you have of them.

It is as if they are completely blind to who they are!  Knowing all they have done and where their accomplishments have led them in life, I find it hard to believe their own vision of themselves can be so warped.

It is truly astonishing when the very people you look up to because of all of their accomplishments will often tell me they fell like a failure and are quick to point out all perceived inadequacies.

Sometimes there is concomitant clinical depression, which certainly contributes to skewing or worsening one’s self image. This must be treated before psychotherapy can be initiated.

It is a very tough and arduous task for these patients and their therapists to establish a part of their psyche that was never completed in childhood.  Actually the task of the patient and therapist is to recreate what parents should have done.

None of this can be accomplished in a few short sessions and often takes quite a bit of time to just lay down the foundation.  Self acceptance is perhaps best modeled by a compassionate therapist, who has worked on his/her own sense of self-worth.

Building upon a cornerstone of self acceptance is a choice to commit oneself to an ongoing task.  It is in some ways learning to mirror back to yourself the appreciation and applause you should have gotten from your parents.  

It always happens each time I return to the states.  I am certainly not alone in this, as just about every long-term expat I know goes through the same process of re-acculturation.

You might think that it is strange for someone who grew up and was schooled in a certain country’s culture would even have to experience such a thing.   It is a phenomena that takes awhile to feel somewhat readjusted again.

When what you grew up with, now feels strange, out-of-place, very different and even “foreign” is exactly what you experience in counter-culture shock.  You are thrown into it, immediately upon arrival at customs, upon hearing announcements  “Welcome to the United States”

The continuous sound of American english around you suddenly seems a little weird at first. Unavoidable mental intrusion from this amounts to being unable to totally turn off the constant streaming of background english as I can quasi do amongst the  French.

Standing in line at passport control, I appreciate that my American personal space is respected again, but feels funny not having someone breathing down my neck as the French do, which I have to admit I have never gotten use to.

invariably when I am in line in France, the normal American personal space I maintain behind another person is always taken as a break in the line to dart through,  provoking questions to the order of “are you in line?’.

Queuing up in America can also be an occasion for others to strike up conversation with you, and this  immediate familiarity, that one hardly ever encounters in France, catches me off guard, however pleasant I find it.

My sweet cousin, who picked me up at the airport in Houston, insisted I needed something to drink and after pulling into a drive through, orders a “medium” size iced tea, only to be shocked with being given an extra giant size cup that held over a liter of tea!  Is this just Texas?

Suddenly, everything looks so much bigger and spacious again, in comparison to Parisian standards.   Cars, homes,  streets, refrigerators, come to mind foremost.  Nothing so far gives any impression of a crippled America or reportedly “shrunk” economy.  Is Houston just an exception?

Boarding a domestic flight to get to St Louis, I am blown away by the blatant casual dress  seen on most fellow American passengers that would shock any French citizen.  Shorts, tee shirts along with flip-flops, baseball caps and neon colored sneakers looks like they are heading to the beach, rather than boarding a plane.

Another typical American trait that I have come to find very annoying is the loudness of speech, which is generally several decibels higher than the French, who prefer to speak in public settings with a subdued voice.   Loud speech is considered impolite in public settings and frowned upon in France.

I was also taken back by the over familiarity and colloquialism, when a simple hello to the passenger seated by the window, before I proceeded to sit in my aisle seat next to him, provoked a southern laced “well, come on in” as if I was being invited into his boudoir!  This was not some hick dressed person, but a suited lawyer who was over going his brief.

Eating in a Mexican restaurant in St Louis offered another stark cultural contrast as to the  lack of manners, and sloppiness of the clients who left multiple paper napkins and pink packets of sweet and low strewn on the floor, which one would rarely find in any French restaurant, even in very modest eateries such as this.

Once again I was floored by the humongous portions of food served, frankly enough for two or three people!   If this is the norm these days , no wonder Americans have overly stretched stomachs.

When I read that Americans are losing the battle with obesity, I can vouch from my own general observation, that is seemingly true.  We are not talking about heavy reared matrons or beer bellied retirees here, but  unfortunately many children and young teens who have crossed the border of plumpness to morbid obesity.

A pleasant observation is the general politeness and slower paced drivers, who are not hell-bent on imitating race drivers, as seen much too often in France, be it Paris or on French highways.  Germans and Swiss are worse though, and down right frightening most of the times.

In crowds, there is much less bumping into one another here, but when it happened, I caught myself blurting out “excusez moi” or “pardon”, like one does parrot style navigating around Paris. I really enjoy the friendliness of local cashiers and clerks , that is often absent in Paris.

What is lacking in flavor in American fruits and vegetables, is made up with eating fresh gulf shrimp, blue crab, catfish and soft shell crabs found here.  American salty bacon, however soaked in nitrites, tastes familiar and good to me.  Being deprived of the glories of French breads and cheeses is tolerable enough but will be one of the first things I will head for when home.

All in all it is nice to reconnect to the American spirit at the source.  The famous American ingenuity, the propensity to think outside the box, the quick smiles, the open friendliness, and the willingness to help find a solution, even when they do not know the answer; rather that just saying,” c’est pas possible”.

Saying hello to someone who you do not know in passing is treated normal, especially in the south.  Likewise, I enjoy being able to mention God or even saying “I hope you have a blessed day” without being looked upon strangely.

There is so much good here, that I find it very sad that, due to the ever-present possibility of violence, I am much more tense in public places, and much more vigilant.   What seemingly looks like a safe and peaceful place to venture here can be in an instant, an eruption of deadly violence. Wanting to walk to the park with my grandchildren was met with much reluctance, anxiety and fear that I never would have experienced in Paris.

Coming home to one’s roots, after being away for a long time, is not needed for me to be reminded that I am American , as I feel well enough americanized despite living abroad for all these many years.   I am certainly not deprived in any way of fellow Americans who are fairly abundant in Paris.

Just because I adore living in France for many various reasons, does not make me in French,  despite having double nationality.  I am proud of  my roots and  very happy and appreciative of my adoptive country and the chance to live in the most beautiful city in the world.

People, despite cultural differences derived from their nationality, are all basically the same and have the same fundamental needs of peace and well-being.  America was built upon an amalgam of various nationalities and still welcomes with open arms those who are oppressed, where each with a determined will and hard work have the possibility to live the American dream.

Living abroad gives one an opportunity to see their birth country in a different light and perspective, than when submerged day-to-day in the culture within one grew up.   For me, that extra gift of insight is a true blessing.

All American expats are in minute ways an ambassador, and whether intentionally or not, hopefully reflect the positive aspects of our culture.  Being open to embrace what is good and welcome in our adoptive countries, and celebrating their glories too, builds bridges rather than divides; and for me, this is what I set out to do spiritually and professionally.

Every once in a while I head out on a Sunday to one of the oldest markets in Paris,  Le Marché aux Oiseaux, that come rain or shine, takes place on Sundays on Ile de La Cité, next to the oldest hospital of Paris called Hopital Dieu, which by the way is a monumental historical building of Paris to the side of Notre Dame,  that merits a post of its own!

I had taken photos before of the flower market that takes place everyday, and the bird market too, but for some reason, I felt compelled to go again this Sunday , even though I had tons of things I needed to be doing in preparation of my flight tomorrow to the states.

Seeing birds and flowers is always a joy for me, grounding me in the myriad virtues of nature at her finest!   I am a joy seeker at heart, and just wanted to take a few more photos, before walking to Rue du Bac to buy some medals and rosaries  for my aunt and grandchildren.

Honestly, I have mixed feelings about any bird market, in that as much as I adore seeing all the pretty birds for sale, I really cringe in thinking about their poor pitiful lives imprisoned in cages.  Then I worry about them being cruelly separated from another birdie friend, God forbid a mate, that they may have formed an alliance with in captivity.

Fortunately for the select few, I do see signs that only couples can be sold, as in the case of love birds and  doves.    I wonder if that should apply to other species of birds but perhaps my birdie friends , who read my posts can inform me!

The Marché aux Fleurs et Oiseaux dates back to 1808.  It was an outcropping from the original Les Halles that had been going on for eons across the Seine.

For those of you who  are not aware of the history of Paris, the main central market of Paris, Les Halles, which was called the belly of Paris, offered everything imaginable to eat and drink.

Ernest Hemingway was one of America’s most talented and prodigious writers, who despite his immense fame, fought many  demons in his life.  Recognition for his writing though never seemed to completely satisfy his ego, as an emptiness within compelled him toward wild feats of thrill seeking as if to prove something he held in doubt about himself.

Offhand , I can’t think of any other family that within only 4 generations, there is a family history of 5 suicides and multiple diagnoses of bipolar illness, personality disorders, alcoholism, sexual abuse, bulimia and transgender issues.

I read his posthumously published book,  A Movable Feast, just before I was to embark on my on youthful adventures in Paris, too many years ago.  I certainly can identify with his love of this sensuous city, and I too, remembering my own innocence here, resonate with his memoirs.

He wrote this  book while he was living in Cuba towards the end of his life.  He was able to put it together after finding  several notebooks of his memories recounting his youthful adventures of him and his first wife Hadley when they moved to Paris in 1921.

I had often passed by where he and Hadley lived on 74 Rue Cardinal Lemoine, and likewise his other hangouts, like the cafe Deux Magots, the Closerie de Lilas, and le Jardin du Luxembourg as seen in the photos.   Some of his descriptions of Paris in the early 20′s remain true today, especially the Latin Quarter, which Hemingway would  easily be able to recognise today.

He was a poster boy of the “Lost Generation”, a phrase coined by his literary mentor and friend Gertrude Stein, who lived across the Luxembourg gardens on Rue Pleurus.  He liked to describe her apartment as being as “rich looking” as his was poor, and often looked forwarded to visiting her, knowing he would be warmed by multiple glasses of potent eau de vie, she always offered.

Hemingway apparently felt his years in Paris were some of his best and happiest.    One senses his nostalgia not only for Paris , but for Hadley, who he reportedly had wanted an apologetic letter to her included in the book, for all the pain he had caused.

His writing buddies  at that time included F Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and James Joyce.    His recounts of Fitzgerald, who had just finished his monumental book The Great Gatsby are  enlightening and well portray the  obsessive personality traits of F Scott, and the early alcohol dependency of both of them.

Ernest Hemingway was born in 1899 in Oak Park , Illinois, a suburb of Chicago,  where his father was a physician and his mother a former operatic singer.  He was the second child and first son in a sibship of 5.

His father was described as  somewhat of a brutish man given to depressive periods and explosive anger; who would beat Earnest with a razor strap.   He was the one who introduced Ernest to the great outdoors and his love of game and sportive pursuits.

His mother for unexplained reasons would often dress little Ernest in girls clothing to extremes.   She was said to be very dominating and manipulative and had little appreciation of his writing career.  Hemingway never was close to her and often described her as a ” hateful bitch”, who he reportedly hated his whole life.

Instead of pursuing university studies, Hemingway started in journalism working for the local newspaper.    Because of an eye defect he was not able to be  an enlisted soldier, but was shipped to the war front in World War 1  in Italy, where he was an ambulance driver.

Gravely injured there, he was nursed back to health by a nurse eight years his senior, with whom he fell in love.  Unfortunately this nurse, Agnes von  Kurowsky,  whom he had planned on marrying, later rejected him in a letter saying she was marrying someone else.  These painful memories were fodder for his famous book For Whom The Bell Tolls.

Returning form the war zone, he started working for the Toronto Star, where he became their foreign correspondent.  Soon afterward, he met and married Hadley Richardson in 1921, and they both set off to Paris that year.    Their apartment on  Cardinal Lemoine was without running water, and without a private toilet  or bath, yet his recounts of their early days were joyous of being together and deeply in love.

In 1923, his first son Jack was born, nicknamed Bumby.   Ernest and Hadley’s life seemed idyllic and full of blissful marital promise, until 1926, when he met Pauline Pfeiffer, with  whom he started an affair.

Once Hadley became aware of his affair,  she separated and asked for a divorce.  In 1927, Hemingway married Pauline, who eventually gave birth to two more sons, Patrick and Gregory.

In 1928, Hemingway’s father committed suicide, which was a veritable turning point in Ernest Hemingway’s life.  Some theorists state that Earnest was consumed by guilt, as he had often wished he could have killed his father, but instead displaced the blame onto his mother for his father’s suicide.

From that time period, one can see a stark shift in his life; becoming a rebellious young man hell-bent on self-destruction through vicarious ways.   He became even more accident prone and suffered from multiple severe accidents, from a broken arm and  facial lacerations, to multiple concussions in the following years.

His restlessness and psychic disturbance plagued his personal life, undermining his second marriage in the same ways as the first.   His inability to maintain marital intimacy would soon become again apparent.

In the late 1930′s, he met Martha Gellhorn with whom he became involved with in another extramarital affair ,  resulting again in a painful divorce from Pauline.  Strangely enough, Martha, like Hadley, was a native of St Louis, and like Pauline, had worked for Vogue magazine.

Soon afterward,  Ernest and Martha moved to Cuba, and they were married in 1940.  History though would soon repeat itself in Hemingway’s inability to achieve any long lasting relationships.

In 1944 , while he was in London during World War II, he became infatuated with another woman named Mary Welsh, whom he reportedly asked to marry only after the 3 rd date and in 1946 she became his 4 th and last wife.

By this time Hemingway seemed totally immersed in swath buckling pursuits of violence and killing, camouflaged as hunting wild game in Africa, a fascination with bullfighting, and finally big game fishing in the florida Keys.

He was reportedly said to have remarked that “I spend a hell of a lot of time killing animals and fish, so I won’t kill myself”.  That statement would be extremely prophetic referring to his future demise.   Hemingway often mentioned his own intentions, in relation to his father’s suicide, saying: ” I will probably do the same”.

In 1954, Hemingway suffered his most serious injuries from two consecutive plane crashes. Having crashed into an African jungle thicket, a rescue plane sent  for him burst into flames, when he butted open the door to escape, suffering from another very severe concussion,  a fractured skull, amongst other  multiple internal organ injuries.

Continuously accident prone, he seemed drawn into dangerous and continuous swash buckling pursuits one after another.  Car and plane crashes, along with falls on his fishing boat left him undeterred, miraculously bouncing  back as if nothing severe had happened.

What was he trying to prove to himself and his world?  He had already been acclaimed as a successful writer.  He even received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954.

Not only was Hemingway’s life  fraught with mental illness, but towards the end blatant physical illness, such as diabetes type 2 and hemochromomatosis that also debilitated him and contributed to his depressive slide.

He and Mary, in 1960 ,were living in Idaho, when his depression took on psychotic features.  He became paranoid, convinced that the “feds” were following him and wanted to kill him.  Despite medication and electro shock therapy, he continued to plummet in a very deep depression, where he felt he could no longer write.

On July 2, 1961 at his home, he committed suicide with his shotgun, finally fulfilling his prophetic remarks.  At first his death was said to have been accidental, and then later his wife revealed it was indeed a suicide.

The  genetic legacy of his father’s  and his own bipolar illness and alcoholism was passed down to his children and grandchildren.   Both sons, Jack and Gregory were said to have suffered from alcoholism and depression.

Gregory, the last born, had transgender issues , but tragically ended up marrying over 4 times, and had eight children, before he finally underwent a sex change to become  woman, calling himself Gloria.

Ernest’s grandchildren have also suffered from depression and bipolar illness, with his granddaughter Margaux  Hemingway, who was also bulimic, committing suicide in 1996.  Her sister Mariel  recently completed a film around her family’s tragic history of mental illness and pathology, even admitting that her father Jack had sexually abused her sisters Margaux and Joan.

When you look at this family’s tormented history, genetic tendencies of bipolar illness and alcoholism were tightly woven throughout.  If ever one had doubts about the strong  inheritance factors of both, this family should offer overwhelming evidence in favor.

Although genetics may predispose us to certain illnesses, how we see ourselves, how we cope with life’s difficulties and how we relate to other people is moulded  from our early relationship with our parents.

Given that Ernest Hemingway was deprived of having any real warmth , affection, and validation  from  either of his parents, one can understand his engulfing need to derive a sense of grandeur from all his machismo pursuits.

All of his over masculized bravado, from running with bulls to his appalling game hunting fetish, makes me think he was trying to feel a sense of power, and accomplishment, that was never mirrored back to him from his father.

Some theorists have wondered if he had gender issues himself, but I feel he was only trying to fulfill an overly macho image adopted from his father to prove what he believed to be a personification of  ”manliness” that his father would approve.

The horrible relationship he had with his mother set the stage on how we would relate to future women in his life.  His abrupt abandonment from his first love Agnes, further fueled his ingrained fears of intimacy, which led to multiple incidences of infidelity.

His chronic accident prone personality probably was his own inner need to self-abuse and destruct, from deep-seated feelings of guilt, and self-effacement, all marvelously camouflaged by his narcissistic persona of bravado.

In the end, his flirting with death won, as he had often hinted of doing so by his own hands, like his father, brother and sister.   For what he was never able to achieve in life with his father, he was at least able to do in death, in a manner he thought his father would approve.

If Hemingway never was able to be faithful to any woman, he was at least faithful to his love and devotion of Paris, who was after all his perfect mistress;  willing to let him go and pursue his other loves in life, but always welcomed him back with open arms.

As Hemingway said, once we have loved Paris, she never leaves us, even if we leave the city to continue our lives elsewhere.  Throughout his life he did return often to his beloved city of light, who to this day still remembers his long ago presence,  like a celebrated adopted child of the city he grew to love.

I leave you with the prelude quoted in his book A Movable Feast:  ”If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris in a movable feast”.

I have written before about the seriousness Parisians maintain about their beloved baguette.  The city of Paris puts on a contest each year to find the best baguette each year.

Contests such as these may uncover some of the city’s talented bakers, who in the past were not known. It can not be described as completely definitive either, because there are many as of yet undiscovered bakers who for whatever reason did not make into the finals.

An artisanal bread baker works each day delivering a product that can vary from day-to-day in so far as taste and quality, even if he uses the same recipe.  This is because air temperature, yeasts and humidity change each day, therefore the baker has to take all of this into account and change rising and baking accordingly each day.

The variability of bread and the difficulty of consistent excellence was learned from talking to the baking professors at Ferrandi, L’Ecole Francaise de la Gastronomie here in Paris, where my son attended cooking school.

They have their own baking and pastry school, producing talented young bakers  who follow a two and three year program.  Most young bakers have been formally schooled, but apprenticeship is still possible, but much less so than before.

So as you can imagine, some degree of luck is  required to  win.  Great gifted bakers will consistently produce excellent bread every day, but may not always have the ultimate best daily.

What is most important is the quality of flours used in making the bread, the yeasts and and of course the savoir faire or experience the baker has.   Forget about making good bread with ordinary or inferior flours, such as you find in industrial baking.

Traditional baguettes are made only with flour, water, yeast and salt.  Very few if any additives are allowed.  Country type breads may use different grain flours, with whole seeds and cereals added, but these are not baguettes.  Same for flavored breads with fruits, nuts, or olives.

This year’s contest took place the last week in April.    It all takes place at the Chambre  Professionnelles des Artisans Boulangers-Patissiers on Ile Saint Louis.

This year there were 204 baguettes submitted.  In order to quality to even make it to the tasting table, each baguette must weigh between 250 and 300 grams, be 55 to 65 cm long and have not more than 18 grams of salt per kilo of flour.

Because the French don’t play around when it comes to bread,  more than a quarter are eliminated from the contest, because they did not meet the above strict criteria.   The reason the level of salt must be restricted is because salt can mask the quality of flours used.

The jury is composed of 15 people.   They are mostly professional bakers, including those who have won in previous years, a few food journalists and amateurs bread aficionados.

Each baguette is numbered to preserve anonymity.  Each juror gets 10 baguettes to judge for which he gives points in 4 categories.  The top possible score is 20.

The baguettes are judged on their merits of baking, the texture and color of the inside crumb, the odour and finally the taste. The process of scrutinization is rigidly adhered to.

Each juror must first observe the baguettes,  cut it,  touch it, and smell and lastly taste each morsel cut.  Through observation, you can quickly get an aspect of the degree of cooking as the  darker crust belies being well-baked.

Touch is necessary in order to judge the crunchiness of the crust, which is considered very important in a good baguette. No wimpy baguettes wanted here!

Those who really know breads, will insist on having a baguette “bien cuit”, by asking for one, knowing that others may not be as well cooked.  Trays of freshly baked bread will all be different based of their positioning during baking.

Cutting allows for visual aspect of the “mie”, or inside crumb.  The color should have a slight golden tint, never white!    Large “alveoles” or holes are considered to be demonstrative of a well risen baguette.

Smell is also extremely important, as superior quality flours and yeasts will develop wonderful aromas in appropriate rising times.  You can not hurry up the rising process as a well made baguette needs a long rising in order to develop taste and aroma.

Taste is of course ultimately subjective, but should be described as tasting almost buttery and nutty and not being overly yeasty.

This years winner is Ridha Rhadher who hails from a Tunisian family and states he has been making bread here since he was 15 years old.  His bakery , Le Paradis du Gourmand is in my own arrondissement, the 14 th.

From winning, he will have the prestigious task of being the official furnisher of  baguettes each day to the French presidential palace d’Élysée for a year.  He also wins 4 thousand euros.

Previous winners have said winning was a great boast of business, up to a 40 % increase in clients the following month.  M. Rhadher has also been asked to furnish bread to the Tunisian embassy here in Paris.

The 14 arrondissement is home to previous winner in 2004 and my own favorite baker, 3 rd runner-up in 2010 Dominique Saibron, who has consistently excellent baguettes.  I discovered him when I lived in the 5 th arrondissement, when he was head baker at the Boulanger Monge.  In 2009 he opened his own bakery on Rue Alesia in the 14 th.

I, unlike the French, do not have to have a baguette a day, so when I do buy one, I am very picky about where I go.  Having said that, I do feel I need to be more adventurous in trying out other bakers, who just might be the next undiscovered jewel.

If the best baguette contest is not enough to satisfy your French bread curiosity, the Fete du Pain in Paris has started too in front of Notre Dame, which I may write about next week!

I was away all last week on the Cote d’Azur in desperate pursuit of the sun.   When you live in Paris,  sun chasing comes from an essential thirsting  for that bright golden globe that likes to tease the city now and then, like an elusive lover.

When I think of getting away, I generally feel attracted like a magnet to the sea.  The deeply turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, from which the Azure coast takes its name is breathtakingly beautiful bordered by lush high cliffs, some that plunge steeply down into the sea.

If you have read my previous posts in the past, you probably already know how much I adore the sea and find being on the coast therapeutic.  When you combine this with the luscious perfumed air around Le Lavandou , you have a powerful combination of healing agents.

For those not familiar with the geography of the French Riviera,  Le Lavandou is a rather sleepy small village on the Mediterranean coast about 25 kilometers west of St Tropez.  It is surrounded by vast chestnut forests to the north and miles of vineyards that produce the famous roses of Provence.

Saint Tropez certainly is larger and has impressive yachts filling her ports, but Le Lavandou feels more rural and pristinely elegant to me.  Their old villages resemble each other though with narrow flowered streets and men playing the popular game of balls.

Lavandou has some of the prettiest beaches in France.  Honeyed colored sand alcoves, some backed into towering cliffs blanketed with masses of colorful wildflowers.  Orange trees heavy with dangling fruit are everywhere, as well as lemons trees too.

Le Lavandou has eleven crescent beaches, along with a small port and an old central village. The adjoining village Bormes les Mimosa is famous for their perfumed flowering golden-yellow mimosa  and for having the summer residence for the French president.

The air is perfumed year around by all sorts of flowering plants and multiple herbs, primarily wild lavender, thyme and rosemary that grows everywhere.  Last week the air was thickly scented with Neroli or orange flowers and the delicate enticing aroma of  the flowering acacia trees, laden with clusters of white flowers , which by the way make delicious beignets.

Further down the coast heading east is Grasse, home to the perfume industry for good reason, as many species of heavily perfumed flowers are indigenous to the whole area.

Walking on nature paths high along the coast one becomes drunk with the redolent and luscious smells that engulfs  you.  Stopping to sniff this flower or plant is part of the immense pleasure to be had for free; divine gifts from nature evoking the poetic side of God.

Eight years ago , I was lucky to discover a very small apartment on the beach, that is practically lapped by the waves, or as the French say; pieds dans l’eau.  The door opens unto the glistening golden sand and the sea is only about 12 feet away at high tide, with the Porquerolles islands in the background.

Fortunately the Mediterranean does not have huge tides like the Atlantic, or otherwise the residence would be constantly flooded! What I love most about the place is hearing the rhythmic swooshing and sloshing of the waves as they crash upon the beach, especially at night lulling me asleep.

I think the sounds are very similar to the likewise rhythmic sounds from the umbilical cord that the fetus hears for 9 months in the womb. Perhaps the sea reminds us unconsciously of that time when we are rocked and bathed in the fluid darkness of the amniotic sac.

For me the waves also signify the continuity of life, as they carry in every atom of water the existence from the very birth of our earths waters eons ago.  The oceanic waves reconnect us to our fundamental core that we too are a part of and in cohabitation with the wholeness of our universe.

The minute crystals of sand could represent humanity and our individualistic physicality and close proximity to each other in populating the earth.   The oceans, like a cosmic bath refresh us, redistributing the sands of humanity and in doing so we are polished like the rocks and shells that are strewn along the beaches.

I love collecting the smooth various shapes rocks that are continuously washed ashore with  each wave, especially the heart-shaped ones.  I often wonder from where they originated and how  many millions of years in took to bring them into sight.

In many ways, we too are like the tides of the oceans.   When the tide of our lives is low, many of us suffer and may feel emptied. yet it is during these very times when the jewels of our inner selves are thrust up by our turmoil and laid on our bare beaches of despair.

And so like the pretty shells  and rocks brought into view, when the tide recedes, we too can discover what had otherwise been hidden in the deep recesses of our souls.   It is through this psychic thrashing, much like the  powerful pounding of the waves, that we become aware of what is really important in our lives.

I always come away filled with lasting memories of the spectacular beauty of the sunsets, the blueness of the ocean, and feel refreshed by all the wonderful perfumed mists of the sea , and flowers.

Driving back to Paris affords me a wonderful excuse to stop mid way in Burgundy so as to prolong my pleasureful pursuits in one of those tiny wine villages near Beaune.  Saturday I found myself in Saint Romain, famous for their powerful red wines in a small hotel, Les Roches, that had a wonderful restaurant.

The chef and his wife were adorably warm and provided  a wonderful classical rendition of the treasures of Burgundian cuisine.  Their speciality,  a tatin of carmelised pig ears with sage sauce as seen in the photo was beautifully executed and mouth-watering delicious. Cheese course with a mind-blowing Epoisse and other regional cheeses made for a delightful end to finish off the lovely red Saint Romain wine.

Before heading back to Pairs, we had enough time to revisit some of those very famous wine villages, where the vines were just showing only a few baby leaves sprouting from their bare wintered branches.

Like the vintner hoping for a prosperous harvest come fall, I too left to continue on my way back home with the same optimistic thoughts.  Revived from my own winter’s dormancy by the sea, flowers and lastly a delectable Burgundian feast!