“Poetry” from Paris

It’s been quite a morning and afternoon here. That tie that binds, well it got to me for awhile this morning . . .

And Mom and I were having a fine visit, rich/deep/meaningful/honest and very heartwarming and encouraging.

But, I had omelets to cook, so I snapped out of my tie bind (nope, never will) enough to do this:

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It’s a small plate, mind you, and it’s full of veggies, and that’s Mom’s. Mine was no better/no worse, and yes I have eaten luxuriously on this trip and will do penance later. Hey, I could “go forward” tonight at church and ask for prayers—deliverance from a luxuriously hopeful life, full of increasing joy, abundant in so much goodness from our benevolent Father, made all the more real because of that tie that binds . . .

Hey Self, stop it, this one is supposed to be about “Poetry from Paris”.

Yeah, so after breakfast we showered off yesterday and put on today (how do you do it God, keep making these days? It is awesome; please continue!) and went shopping with purpose until it was time for lunch. And—I did not know this, that Paris has a subway system—we ate at Subway (I saw several interconnected by a highway system) where we met my sister and my niece. My niece was a 4-year-old when I last saw her and I called her my meta-four, because I was doting. I wrote something for her and left it with my sister to be read to her when she is maybe 14 or whenever she will understand any imagery there. It might happen. Or it is lost somewhere, which is okay sis.

“Frisky-five” and I walked across to a treasure trove full of antique vendors and roamed around while she held onto one of my fingers and I found a very nice coffee cup from 1945 and she found action figures and some old keys.

After that Mom and I went here:

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There’s Mom and she won’t mind, but I will tell her that she is now on the internet. [And if she does mind, I will remove this, so read faster than I can type:)] This place—not at all to be sexist—is a man’s playground. I came out with awl I could carry: a hardened steel awl of a quality I admire and suitable for punching steel or leather, and for use as an icepick. I really like the tactile qualities of fine tools that will last as long as my earthly body will.

Then we went to the apothecary where we learned that the owner is off pursuing a doctorate in homeopathy (not in Portland at our school there, shoot). I have a high regard for this practice and a higher regard for those who know much more than I do. I wish to learn more and to practice more and to live in it more . . .

And then Mom and I were heading home when I saw it, and we just had to stop. I have not seen such a place in well over a decade and Mom said it had literally been a few days since she had entered this place, so we were in accord as we pulled into the poetry palace.

Fantastic, all that I found inside, but even the entrance had a poem above the gigantic doorway. I was able to memorize it quickly because I am amazing that way, and I recited the rhyme as we went through the sliding doors. Here is the poem:

HOBBY LOBBY

See what I mean? Two words, each of which is full of meaning! I did not see any evidence of any political lobby, but it could be well-concealed behind the HUGE display of July 4 decorations. And as for the “hobby” portion of the poem, well, believe me, aisle after aisle after aisle of meaning unfolded before me. Like this:

Boundless, this tie that binds, and unfettered, this grace that extends everywhere all the time. Thank you Father for your myriad gifts.

I think I will leave this wifi zone at Starbucks where I had this:

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Nice, beautiful actually, I told the manager who said that this was her third “undertow” ever. “Oh, and you brought your own glass.”

Yes.

I did.

The poetry palace had it on clearance for $1.00.


All photographs “Boundless” © 2018 Timothy Waugh

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