Journaling . Chapter One

While in Paris, I took a taxi to a baking class I had booked through Patisserie a la Carte. Chef Severine, a petite lady who fortunately spoke English, taught us how to make French patisseries and Madeleines, that small buttery-melt-in-your-mouth French cookie shaped like a seashell. It was great fun and a wonderful experience. Best of all, Chef Severine packed our baked goods in a little box to take home, guaranteeing a delicious dessert later.

After the class, I looked for a taxi back to my apartment only to learn taxi drivers were on strike (it’s a French thing). Since I didn’t really know where I was, I stopped in a bakery and asked for instructions. They happily said, pointing, “Just keep going down there by the Seine”. Off I went, hoping, in the right direction. After a few winding streets, I stopped at several places, asking again for directions to my apartment by the Seine. The French were very amicable, so I shared one of the Madeleines with everyone who helped me find my way home.

Trips are never over; they are in our memories forever. I smile every time I think of how lost I felt when I didn’t know my way back to the apartment. How kind everyone was, how they appreciated the cookies I shared. Now, when I bake Madeleines in my kitchen, I am transported back to those happy times in Paris, dreaming of my next trip.

You can find easy recipes for these cookies on the internet; including https://bakerbynature.com.

Baking in Paris

Collage Art is Journaling

"The whole of Paris is a vast university of Art, Literature and Music." - James Thurber

To me, collage is like journaling in pictures rather than words. I don't really start out to make something "pretty" but just let the love of cutting out pictures guide me. There's no end goal. I started this piece on a morning when I didn't really know what I wanted, rather than "needed", to do that day, part of the "retired" syndrome. So into the studio I went. The words "Get out of the house" kept popping up in my mind. Then when I saw the houses, an image I seem to be drawn to often, in an old catalog I knew that I had to have them in the collage. As I kept tearing out pages in magazines that "spoke" to me it prompted the other sentences. After assembling the collage and pasting it into my journal book, I realized this Get Out Of The House collage was a message to myself. Something I need to listen to. And I knew that I had to also add the words, to cement them in my mind.

Over a year ago, I was visiting my son and granddaughter in Wauwatosa, I made an early morning trip to one of my favorite bakeries, Molly’s Cafe. Molly has a cozy bakery filled with numerable delicious baked cakes, bars and cookies, perched on cake stands on top of stacks of cookbooks. It’s one of my favorite hangouts when I am there. Across the street from Molly’s is Christ the King Church. I noticed it because, one, it’s pretty, has a school and, two, it’s the same name as the school my children went to when they were young. On this day, I thought I’d see if it was open although churches are usually not open during the week. After enjoying my pastry and coffee, I crossed the street and went to the side entrance of the church, tugged at the door, gently because, to my surprise and delight, it was open! Happy days. I walked into the cool, quiet exterior. It was empty except for an older lady sitting in the back. The church has that newer look about it, not like the baroque ornate churches of Europe, but there was something about the space, light and simplicity of it that drew me in. I walked to the front, the traditional cross over the alter flanked by flowers. Then as I looked to my left, there, in an alcove, was small statue of Mary with a stand of candles before her. Perfect. I’d go say a prayer, asking her to say ‘Hi” to my mother, and light a candle, which I did. I sat there, quietly, feeling peaceful and heard.

Then I noticed the Stations of the Cross in niches in the walls along the sides of the church. Often these scenes are carved from wood, but these looked like intricate bright paintings, so I moved closer to see what I was really looking at. The scenes were not bigger than 14 x16 inches and each scene was made up of tiny, tiny pieces of mosaic glass, which was why the colors were so vibrant. The bodies showed muscle, movement, the clothing looked like velvet, they were such dimensional real scenes. Everything seemed to stand still as I stood in awe before each beautiful image. I felt like I was in the presence of holiness.

After a long look around, I returned to the niche with Mary in it, the candles burning softly, to say thank you and goodbye. And I realized the image was not the Virgin Mary at all, but St. Theresa! Oh well, I’m sure she will give Mary my prayers, as they are all up there together anyway. Or down here… in every breath we take. What a lovely, serendipitous morning to add to my memories of being brought up Catholic, visiting churches, baking for my fellow students and appreciating the art that is inspired by our search for the miraculous holiness of life.

My family came to America shortly after the war, leaving behind relatives, friends and a way of life. It was the most difficult to say goodbye to my grand-mother, Oma, who was one of the kindest, most loving people in my life. When I grew older, I would make many trips back to Munich, Germany, to visit her. Although Oma didn’t speak English, and my German was limited, we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. We often played Scrabble together, Oma adding German words to my English words. We laughed when our words became enmeshed and made no sense at all.

My Oma

"Although Oma didn’t speak English, and my German was limited, we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. We often played Scrabble together, Oma adding German words to my English words. We laughed when our words became enmeshed and made no sense at all."

Holiness of Life