Does my Heart Work? – Paris

I must confess I am one to moralise a bit. I research and write about humanism and compassion. I dine out on the social justice issues of our times. I am a passionate couch activist. As I gaze out over the glorious views from my house on the hill, nursing a hot drink and with ready access to a full fridge. There is nothing like going to one of the world’s major cities to have your actual humanism – prejudices and naivety and all – shoved in your face.

I arrived, bleary eyed in Paris yesterday morning after over 30 hours of travelling, at 5.45am local time. Greeting is far too generous a word for the reception I received at the reception of my hotel. My worldly goods stuffed into a corner of a miniscule office behind the desk of Mr Charming, I set off into the humid, rainy Paris morning, awaiting the availability of my bed.

A spring in my step, the lightness of no longer shouldering my worldly goods, nor my (first) worldly problems for a day, I navigated the stunningly efficient Metro system into the city where I planned to wander aimlessly, going where the whim took me, for a whole day in one of the most famously adored cities of the world. What bliss!

By the end of the day, a four hour bike tour under my belt, and after scaling thousands of steps amid thousands of fellow ‘pilgrims’ headed for Sacre Coeur (‘Sacred Heart’ Cathedral), that other ‘house’ on the hill which I had chosen to sleep near, I was wrecked.

Despite being charmingly accosted on my way up the hill by a very persuasive African who tied five Euro worth of artfully woven cotton around my wrist, promising me good fortune and ‘Akuna matata’ (‘no worries’ – which I quoted back at him when he tried to charge me ten Euro for the privilege of his two minutes of wisdom and cotton), I managed to make it into the Cathedral in time for Vespers. I pushed my way (nicely) through the seemingly endless South American tour group who advertised the details of their tour on matching fluorescent cowboy style banners around their necks, made my way into the ‘for people who pray only’ section, trying to look very Catholic (whatever that looks like), and flung myself gratefully into a pew to soak up the cool, and the ambience. The world-class, stunning vocals of the nuns drifted over me (I found myself wondering if they had to audition for nun-hood these days), and my mind stilled, my breath slowed and I found myself not just feeling like I should, but actually wanting to pray.

Transported by the song and by the enormous embrace of a glorious, golden Jesus, arms outstretched around the dome on which he was painted above the nuns, I found myself praying for forgiveness for the many times I had walked passed beggars that day. There was one who had even called out and said hello to me and I had pretended not to understand.   There was one at the doorstep to the Cathedral, hands outstretched as thousands of us crammed through the doors ignoring her, preparing to light a candle for our souls and donate to the good works of God and His servants. It was my fear at what might happen if I pulled out my purse in the midst of the throng, I rationalized to myself. It is true, I had felt scared walking the streets of Paris alone, bag clutched to chest, trying to walk purposefully and not look too much like a tourist (who am I kidding? They even spoke to me in English before I managed to open my mouth half the time). But I had also felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the poverty, the grottiness, the peeling buildings, filthy pavements, rubbish-strewn roadsides, the homelessness, the evidence of alcohol and drug abuse, the evidence of crime, the evidence of our animal nature when the streets and underground sometimes smelt like a human pissoir, and overwhelmed by the many, many demands for my money. Some just begged. Others were artful about it, striking up a tune, for example, on the train in which we were trapped from airport to city centre, and then handing around a hat with an imploring smile. Others were entrepreneurial, selling bottles of water when the sun shone, then whipping out ponchos and umbrellas when it rained. I was halfway through being thoroughly ripped off in the purchase of fakely branded sunglasses outside the Louvre when the guy with whom I was haggling suddenly scooped up his goods in one swift, well practiced manouevre, and upped and ran off, responding to the call of his mates – the police were coming. I was left with my unpaid-for sunglasses in hand, wondering what to do. So I prayed for the fellow whose sunglasses I had walked away with too.

And then I found my prayers and my transcendence being interrupted by my irritation at the people around me. Some behind me were chatting loudly, hundreds still moved around the edges of the Cathedral, whispering loudly en mass as the nuns continued their service, and people all around continued to take photographs despite the very clear signage asking them not to. I wondered how on earth the nuns could share their sacred worship with these ungracious, gawking, gabbling tourists. I marveled at the compassion that I imagined they held for all living souls, in all our humanness, those women with their sacred hearts. And I chastised myself for my irritation and righteousness.

Paris is a city of contrasts. A melting pot of diverse cultures, skin colours, education, world-views, wealth, health, sexual preferences, all paraded before you, out in the streets for all to see. Except I get the feeling the locals stop seeing after a while. They can’t afford the daily overwhelm or guilt trip as they step over, around and past bodies in various states of suffering, on their way to and from work each day. It reminds me of when I used to work in inner city Melbourne. I barely even noticed the homeless people being cleared out of the sheltered entryways of the buildings of a morning, ready for we suits to enter our kingdoms of paradise. When I then went on to study social work I did a placement just a few doors down from the Rialto towers where I once had worked, and all of a sudden I was exposed to a whole world of people who had been virtually invisible to me beforehand. 

And then you look up, and the shabbiness and human sea is replaced by glorious row upon row of uniform, iconically Parisian housing, tree-lined, florally-edged boulevards are aligned neatly, radiating star-like outward from the centre point, that most famous of phalluses, the Eiffel Tower (or as my children said when they visited Paris at 3 and 5; what’s is called? The Awful Tire?). Triumphant arcs and triumphant architecture abound, along with statues, bridges, domes, drama and plenty of gold. These many grand and golden monuments of this magnificent city have some stories to tell. Many were actually either beacons of a once war hungry culture, or monuments to monstrous wealth, greed and power. The likes of which once led to revolution. The city’s next greatest phallus, the obelisque at the centre of ‘Place du Concorde,’ is supposed to be a symbol of harmony, in a place that was once home to such bloodshed from the guillotine that the cattle and horses refused to go there, and the guillotine itself kept sinking into the muddy earth below, so soaked was it with human blood. The obelisque was a gift to the French from the Ottomans who, having conquered much of Europe, were suffering from lack of popularity and trying to a buy a few strategic friends. They had stolen it from the Egyptians. The Egyptians ask for it back on an annual basis and the French, claiming that they were not the ones who stole it, and that it was a gift, refuse to give it back. And so it stays, at the centre of harmony square. The recently crafted peace sculpture with its view across to the Eiffel Tower was made of glass, to demonstrate the fragility of peace. It has been smashed by vandals.

So, humanism. I have defined it in the past as our highest human state born out of our instincts towards peace, love and compassion for our fellow species. I am forced at the end of this day of conflicting sights and emotions though, to sit in this place of prayer with my own violence, judgment, righteousness and ego, in amidst so many other displays of these very human qualities. As with the fragile peace monument, my own glass ideals have been smashed by the violence of mind bending, eye opening travel. Theirs was made of reinforced glass. I hope mine are too. The light looked quite pretty coming through the cracks. 

As I leave the Cathedral, I hear a shout behind me. I look back to see a uniformed ‘keeper of the peace’ angrily shoeing the beggar lady away from the doorway of the house of God. I feel a tiny bit better about myself. And I walk away into the Paris night with ‘no worries’ around my wrist.

Intellectual Disability

I ran a workshop the other day for a bunch of super inspiring, super diverse women with disabilities.  They ranged from women born with severe physical and intellectual difficulties, to those with invisible intellectual disabilities in able bodies, to those with acquired brain injury, to those with profoundly able and insightful intellects, with bodies that seem to have somehow put them on a different rung in society.  I learned way more than I shared with them.

I am always struck by the power of my preconceptions when I am as moved as I am by workshops like these.  It was the same when I worked with women in prison.  What is it in me that is expecting something other than the inspiration I receive from these women?  To have our unexamined prejudices dispelled through that powerful connector – our shared humanity – is a powerful thing indeed.  Perhaps it is not just the shaking up of my world experience, but the experience of witnessing strength and courage in the face of enormous hardship which rocks me on these occasions.

This most recent workshop was on presentation skills.  The women were to deliver a speech in the second half of the workshop about something they were passionate about.  My job, during the first half of the workshop, was to grab their attention and try to distract them from, and prepare them for the speech-making part.  My personal passion is people being free to be themselves, expressing themselves from the depths of their being, and living and making life choices from that place.  So, often when I’m asked to run a workshop, if it is appropriate, I usually twist it to come back to these core themes.

Later, as I watched the women one by one, each in their own way, get up, gather their courage, breathe deeply and bare their soul to the room, I was reminded of a transformative moment I had had at a conference years earlier.  Conferences in my experience are not usually places of transformative moments.  This was one sinking into the disappointing basket as I sat through endless Australian and American academics presenting their analytical, black and white, humour-less findings on ‘happiness,’ and how to achieve it.  Something about that entire premise now grates on me but at the time I was gobbling up the idea of consuming and graduating in happiness.  Someone must have the five-point plan out there!  It must have been starting to wear thin though and I found myself thoroughly uninspired by the conference until the very last moment.  A troupe of dancers with intellectual disabilities took to the stage for the last session.  As they danced, the complete, unfettered joy and pride in their faces and the utter presence and commitment they brought to their movements was mesmerising.  Tears falling freely, I turned to my companion and said: “and we call them intellectually disabled.”  Finally someone in that conference was making sense, and truly speaking to the theme.

I worked with children with intellectual disabilities when I was a teenager and I always loved their capacity to wear their heart on their sleeve.  I must have been responding to the yearning in myself to shake off the blanket of intellectualism which was being so earnestly fostered in me at the time, and to respond equally freely and fully from my heart.

I didn’t share these stories with these workshop participants but I wanted them to know that their voices were worthy, deserved and needed to be heard, and that they could inspire others with their vulnerability and courage.  I played them Sarah Barielle’s song Brave:  “you can be amazing, you can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug… you can start speaking up.  Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do.  When they settle ‘neath your skin.  Kept on the inside and no sunlight. Sometimes a shadow wins. But I wonder what would happen if you…Say what you wanna say…And let the words fall out…Honestly, I wanna see you be brave…With what you want to say.”  It all feels a bit clichéd writing it out here now but with the beat of the music, and with smiles and superhero costumes, and a bunch of awesome women, it felt pretty fantastic.

And then, all my clichéd, peppy, pre-prepared ‘how to’ workshop bit done, I sat back and nursed a lump in my throat as these women grounded me in the truth of their existence.  They had been prepared for this task and had taken on the challenge and prepared themselves well.  There was shaking, there were tears, there was momentary verbal paralysis. One woman whose physical and mental capabilities had been robbed of her in an accident struggled to form words as she radiated to us her pride in being able to walk and talk and be independent.  I thought of my yearning for more career opportunities, more pay, more free time with and from my kids, and wondered at how trauma and being stripped of everything we think is important, can remind us what is really important.  She had no self-pity, just smiles for herself and for all the others in the room.  Another woman was almost non verbal and had been unable to contribute during the earlier part of the workshop, yet she made her way to the front, claimed her space on the ‘stage,’ and shared photos of her family with us, with great feeling.  Another woman shared her passion for photography.  Her photographs were complex, unique and stunning – giving her a profound voice which she otherwise struggled to claim in the world.  The very last woman to share her story was a woman whose disability wasn’t clear to me although at face value she had some mild physical difficulties.  She spoke powerfully and articulately of her frustrations at being labeled as disabled, rather than acknowledged for her abilities, and of her passion for the rights of people with disabilities.  Here was a women, I saw, who could represent all these other beautiful voices, of these women and others, who she mixed with, worked with, and knew beyond their disabilities, and who was not herself disabled by prejudices and preconceptions like mine.   I hoped she had been listening to the words of the song and that she would go on and say what needs to be said far and wide.