Higher Inspiration
The French baguettes are piled high on the table in front me and the air carries the smells of baking bread and yeast. Bakers in white aprons scurry to the shaping tables with vats of dough which they turn into long skinny loaves. Carts stand full of rising bread as other bakers propel the risen dough into the ovens. There is a long line where I stand to buy a warm baguette. As I wait patiently, I hear the peel of bells out beyond the oversize tent that houses the Festival of Bread. I peer out and am awestruck, again. Out there, standing guard over the front courtyard where the festival is taking place, the two towers of Notre Dame de Paris frame its sculpted portico.
Our morning walk took us on the bridge across the river, to the Île de la Cité, and around the back garden of the Cathedral. Locals and visitors sit at small tables at the corner café, some in conversation, some taking in the flying buttresses that gird Notre Dame. Hawkers want to sell us souvenir keychains. Children are playing in the playground right beside the church, and the pigeons are hopping around, hoping to find an errant crumb. The parade of tourists is unending. We sit on a green wooden bench and people watch, as some stop along the riverbank to take photos. But what pulls us the whole way around to the front of the Cathedral is the smell of baking bread. That’s how we discover the Festival.
Now that I have our two baguettes, made by the best baker in France, tucked under my arm, we make our way to the tent doors, step out into the open square and stare. Just as we made our pilgrimage to the bread, now we make our pilgrimage to the church doors. From the bright light and the noisy square, we enter the quiet penumbra of Notre Dame. The only sound we hear is the shuffling of feet as we join the other pilgrims walking counterclockwise around the perimeter of the nave. Each time we enter this historic structure, we are again struck by the height and lightness achieved in the building of this stone monument. Our eyes are pulled up to the heavens by the pillars and arches. And the stained glass windows seem so fragile and ethereal next to the solid stone.
Some pilgrims stop to light a candle or say a prayer. Most just look up. Our feet are firmly planted on the stone floor and yet we feel transported to another realm. The hushed space carries the stories of untold numbers of people bringing their joys and their pains to rest here for awhile. In this place, the hard work of artists and builders, of artisans and architects, of laborers and analyzers is gathered as one symbol of human genius. That it has lasted these many years is a testament to its universal appeal. As a work of art, it connects to something deeper in me, maybe a yearning for beauty, for something that takes my breath away and carries me beyond the petty daily things that I get bogged down with. It gives me comfort in an uncomfortable world.
One week ago, as I was finishing my taxes, a four word message from my sister bleeped across my phone: “Notre Dame en feu!” My heart caught in my throat as I watched the flames. And I cried as I heard the singing in the streets of Paris. As I see the rubble by the altar, I know that rebirth will come. May Notre Dame de Paris continue to inspire our higher selves to good in the world.
