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There is an ambiance of timelessness,
of scenes reenacting themselves again and again, with only the attire
of the characters or the names of the lovers changing. She is an
enchanted place, with an energy that promises a little magic for
all who are open to receive it. Whether it is love, God/dess, culture,
or self that you are searching for, there are answers that the "city
of lights" can shine truth on in the unlit parts of the soul.
For years, a silver heart locket hung
around my neck, as sure as the sun rose and set. I took to wearing
it religiously in the months after my mother died, and it became
my most prized possession, the one material thing I was sure I could
not survive without. I cherished it as my amulet and was sure that
its composition of my mother’s picture, quartz crystal (for
a healthy and flowing chi) and amethyst (for psychic ability and
dream revelation) would serve as a magical combination to protect
me and keep me moving on the higher spiritual path. I meditated
on it; I centered myself through it, and allowed it to rest on and
protect my heart chakra, the center of my life force. When I lost
it, a few steps away from the Eiffel Tower, on my second, and unplanned
trip to the "city of love", I knew that I had lost a piece
of myself. Only months later would I recognize it as the sign that
it was: it wouldn’t be the last time that I would leave my
heart in Paris.
The grand finale of a whirlwind three-week adventure backpacking
through Europe during a break from my studies in Holland landed
me in Paris, unexpectedly. I had been there just two weeks before,
and was sure that visiting Paris once in a lifetime was going to
have to suffice, let alone twice in two weeks. However, some friends
I'd met up with in Barcelona a few days before were eager to head
there and after two out of three of us had all of our money and
credit cards stolen, we were happy to get just a little closer to
the security of university life in Holland.
Dirty, tired, and broke, we hoped Paris would treat us well with
only three days left until school came back into session. When I
lost my beloved locket on Paris' city streets my second day there,
only Halloween night of the fresh millenium could provide a day
draped in such an incredible magic that I would soon forget my tribulations.
Since my early teen years, I have felt
an uncanny connec-tion to the late Pamela Morrison. She was Jim
Morrison’s, front man of the legendary rock band, The Doors,
beloved one; the one person who could reach the core of the man
who did not allow anyone to get there. She could sail through his
sea of words and music with surprising ease and pave paths through
his poems that he did not know anyone could follow. I fell in love
with her essence, and felt strongly connected to this obscure historical
character, a woman who was just a shadow of a star to the public
eye. For Jim, though, she was the center of the universe. For me,
I was drawn to her life inexplicably; nevertheless, the pull was
too strong to deny.
I don’t mark much off as "coincidence", and I have
never preferred to take the pragmatic approach to life comprehen-sion.
To me, there was a piece of Pam Morrison kicking around inside of
me, screaming at me to remember our past together. She was the one
who somehow managed to get my poorly funded 21-year-old self, from
the back streets of New York suburbia, to the Champs-Elysees. She
was the one who wanted me back at the place where her and Jim had
spent their final days together in their Parisian apartment, where
they had planned their escape from the drugs and fame that had disillusioned
them back home in the US. They had smelled the magic in the Parisian
air, and were sure that it would save them, would provide the answers
to the problems in their lives, which had spun wildly out of control.
Pam was the one who had found her brilliant lover’s cold body,
dead in a bathtub at 27-years-old; her trembling hands forced to
dial the phone for help. Left alone in Paris at age 22, she was
surrounded by a language she could not understand, facing a new
life she could not live alone. She joined him in death five years
later. The piece of her in me wanted to find her soul mate again.
It only made sense to look for him where they left off.
On Halloween day, I entered the cemetery at the Pere Lachaise, and
found my way along the cobblestone paths to Jim’s headstone.
I brought a single flower and thanked Jim for the wisdom of his
words and inspiration of his music. I also asked that his spirit
be eternally united with Pam’s, for all my life I had also
sought my soul mate.
I found him later that night.
In another twist of fate, I ended up in the Oz Bar that eve-ning;
its name could not have worked better if I had written the script
myself. I had gone through a strange Wizard of Oz life parallel
with some girlfriends in my later teen years, and I had only discovered
recently the truth behind clicking my ruby red slippers together
(well, technically they were big black boots). I was slow to give
up on my dreams of there really being a wizard of Oz, though, if
not to get me home, to make a home with. I knew now there was no
magic man to help me find what only I could discover, but I wouldn't
mind having someone to skip down life's yellow brick road with.
My wizard was, sure enough, waiting inside of Oz.
I liked the way Paris played with me; the way she guided me through
the magic of her streets, as fairies might guide one through an
enchanted forest. I understood why newlyweds consecrated their love
here; why models knew they had gained stardom once their slender
bodies strutted along Parisian streets; how senior citizens fulfilled
their lifelong dreams while strolling amidst the magic of Paris.
Amongst demons, goblins, angels, and monsters, there was a fairy-tale
romance brewing in Oz. There was a sense of immediate recognition,
and instant connection. My love recalls the otherworldly feeling
that came upon him when he first laid eyes on me and how he exclaimed
instantaneously to his best friend, that "the one" had
just entered.
We met that night, we danced that night, we reunited two souls that
had searched the world for each other, and had found the only setting
that could have suited their reunion to its full justice. Only in
the "city of love", on the "night of lost souls",
in a bar called Oz, could we have fallen into each other’s
arms again.
That’s why it was so hard to believe that I was leaving the
next morning to live in Holland, and that this man who had touched
my soul to such a degree, would be forced to live caged in a memory.
I sat for two hours waiting for the train to Holland in the Paris
Nord train station. I fumbled with the business card he had given
me as we walked out of Oz, staring at his scribbled name, Jerome,
that identified the essence I was completely captivated with. This
was an encounter like never before, and I had initially resisted
even taking his number, as not to taunt an unattainable destiny.
"Oh sweet Paris," I thought, amazed by the beauty she
had offered me: the incredible history, the awe-inspiring ambiance,
a glimpse of true love. "What are you doing to me?" I
wondered as I strolled along the platform awaiting my departure.
I had kissed Paris, my first true "French kiss", and I
knew deep within I could never kiss as sweetly again.
I tried settling into my studies and new life in Holland, forc-ing
his pounding memory to the back of my head. The whole thing was
irrational - we were living a country apart, soon to be an ocean
away when I returned to the States in just two months. I tried to
forget, but still held onto his phone number in case Paris should
ever show me a path back to her. Like Gretel, I had left my own
trail, only my breadcrumbs were streams of dripping hope and unfulfilled
love. Deep inside, I couldn’t help feeling that I needed to
find my way back to a part of me I had left behind. I couldn't help
looking for the yellow brick road back to Oz.
My girls from home, my most magical sisters with whom I had discovered
the Goddess’ divinity, visited from New York three weeks after
that fateful Halloween night. They were decisively not leaving Europe
without experiencing Paris, and provided me with an excuse, funding,
and the womanly magic needed to find my way back.
He remembered me 21 days later, the second my first "hello"
carried through the phone, and agreed to meet us at the train station.
I knew there was something remarkable in that alone, in the instant
recognition that we kept experiencing. We bought our train tickets
a few days later and I prayed ahead to Paris to prepare her finest
night for us.
He picked us up and drove us around, playing tour guide, while the
city showed off her prettiest face, only in competition with Jerome
for my attention given to captivating beauty. Being with the girls
I had roamed the streets of American suburbia with, in a point in
our young lives where we could trade the scenery of shopping malls
and parking lots for one of the most beautiful cities in the world,
filled me with hope and the amazement that comes only with dreams
fulfilled.
I never left him that night; I couldn’t stand the thought of
losing one moment next to the man who made my pulse race and my
lungs struggle for breath. I allowed the Parisian moonlight to watch
over us, entrusted her to be our guide as I laid in his arms; content
with nothing more than his breath besides me, my lips against his
and the embrace of strong arms that I wanted to hold and protect
me forever.
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Let’s swim to the
moon
Let’s climb through the tide
Your reach a hand to hold me
But I can’t be your guide
It’s easy to love you
As I watch you glide.
We’re falling through wet forests
On our moonlight drive.
-Jim Morrison (from "Moonlight Drive") |
I felt
something I never felt before as he brushed my hair back off of
my face, stared into my eyes with the deepest in-tensity, and gently
kissed my forehead, making his mark of sincerity and love. I woke
up the next day, like a child on Christmas morning, so hopeful of
what this union would bring.
I spent the day with the girls, and we, of course, took some time
to visit Jim. It was only natural to pay respect to the past and
acknowledge the future that we were being blessed with.
"This time, we’re going to do it right, baby," I
thought as I kneeled at his graveside.
Later that night, I watched my friends’ eyes twinkle, compli-menting
the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower above us. Seeing the unmistakable
look on their faces of dreams accomplished, and observing their
glowing auras that only Paris could fully illuminate, I knew that
she could never be a foreign place to me again. She would be a part
of me always, as I had become a part of her. In her never-ending
storybook, of artists and lovers and schemers and dreamers, I slid
gracefully onto one of her pages.
Jerome and I continued to nurture the spark we had felt, ignoring
all of the logical factors that could not override our desire to
set this love on fire. Sure I was in Holland, four hours away, with
both of us having obligations to work and school. It didn’t
matter. Yes, I was returning to the States in a little under a month.
We didn’t care.
We had weekends, and a phone, and a love that had tran-scended lifetimes
to be together. A difference in location could not prevail over
the closeness of our hearts.
I returned to Paris by train, a few weeks later,
confining my emotions to an eternal prison of words as I wrote in
my journal:
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The anticipation
The beating of hope
Pounding incessantly
My breath
A battle…
And just like a play
Or a dream
That I’ve screamed for
All of eternity
The challenge
Stimulating
The possibilities
Emulating
A prayer in the flesh
And the poet’s fingertips
Drip with desire
An eternity
Of ammunition
Acquired
With the reunion of lost souls. |
This trip coincided with the second year anniversary
of my mother’s death. I thought back to that day I lost my
locket, and felt sure my mother’s spirit had worked with the
magical Parisian energy to displace it from my neck. I was not supposed
to leave Paris before I received what it was I came for.
I knew as I lay crying in Jerome’s arms over the loss of my
mother, that the tears he shared with me were only made possible
by truly sharing our hearts. I could have cried forever, amazed
at the blessing of such love being offered to help replace a love
that had been lost.
I sprinkled rose petals on the Seine River, asking the water to
carry them away, praying for our love to be carried over the land,
to keep it flowing, alive, and emptying out only into something
of more magnificence, as our lives would end only to pour out into
the ultimate reunion of our cosmically intertwined souls.
I sat in Notre Dame cathedral praying for my mother, for my lover,
and for help in understanding and fulfilling what it was that I
was supposed to do here. As I contemplated my mission, an idea of
life’s underlying purpose became very clear to me: I was to
do nothing more than to practice wisdom and compassion. I needed
to do nothing more than to live, love, and learn. I could envision
Paris winking at me from above the spires of the grand cathedral,
as I bowed my head in the little church pew.
Paris quickly diluted herself from overwhelming grandeur to the
coziness I found in my man’s apartment. Little by little, it
became my own, photos of us sprinkling the décor, my tooth-brush
finding its home in the bathroom, my slippers becoming the footwear
of choice as the hard wood floors became a secure and familiar place
to be walking upon. Much of the adventure I had initially sought
when I first entered Paris continued in the amazing exploration
of my lover's and my own soul, and the amazing force of love we
had found between us.
After my studies in Holland were finished and I had returned to
the US, flying across the ocean back to Paris became more of a return
home. I was coming back to a part of myself rather than a romanticized
city. I had learned to internalize the romance, had internalized
Paris’ gift to me. It was no longer a place I needed to hold
in my hand for it to be real. I felt amazed by it all, by the richness
of the life being handed to me. I wrote:
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Like a pauper’s daughter
Given silk sheets
I lay in my princess bed. |
I have but one story, am yet another "American
in Paris", and am but one of those from all over the world
who have contributed chapters to her never-ending book, but one
more who has added a vibration to the orchestra of lives that composes
the Parisian heartbeat.
I moved to Paris last summer to live with my soul mate. We have
an apartment conveniently, and completely accidentally (at least
on our behalf), located two blocks from Jim’s grave at Pere
Lachaise.
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She lives on love street
Lingers long on love street
She has a house and garden
I would like to see what happens.
-Jim Morrison (from "Love Street") |
A palm reader in Rome, a week before I met Jerome,
told me that I was going to write a book, something I had long aspired
for. He explained it would be a romance novel, which I had laughed
at, at the time. With some inspiration from the "city of love"
and love itself, it’s not such a far-fetched idea anymore.
I am living the story of the fairy tale princess; my soul wants
to share our story with all of the world, and I have a feeling Paris
does, too. She loves playing the starring role and is actually quite
good at it. Perhaps I will begin my first novel sitting amongst
the mausoleums at the Pere Lachaise, inspired by both the peace
and quiet and the fans that still, decades after his death, make
the pilgrimage to visit Jim.
As for my heart locket, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned
up one day when Paris is in one of her more playful moods. But I
don’t view it as a loss anymore - I view it as a gift I gave
to a very dear friend, an offering of my amulet to contribute to
the continuance of her perpetual magic.
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