The Sun Shines On Your Path

INTRODUCTION

“There are two ways to live your life. One as though nothing is a miracle, the

other is as though everything is a miracle.” ~ Albert Einstein

Hope is a flower that never dies.

I came to the U.S. when I was twenty-seven with nothing except a broken heart

shattered in a hundred pieces, and courage I did not know I possessed.

“If you stay in France, you will die,” warned Lena, a psychic tarot reader

recommended by a friend and one of the many physical angels sent to me by

God/Source/All That Is who graced my life on that fortunate day in Paris.

“Everything is blocked here for you, but if you leave and go far away on the other

side of the ocean, the sun shines on your path.”

I knew that what she said to me was true. I was already dying, and Lena seemed

to know I was standing at a major crossroad.She saw that my heart had been broken

when I was twelve andtold me my lonely childhood had ended abruptly and I’d become

a lonely adult from one day to the next.

Although she did not tell me the reason why, for me it was sufficient.I knew that

she had the gift of vision and that I could trust her information.

My father had just passed away from a heart condition.His illness had been a

taxing burden on me for a few years and, after the initial shock subsided, I experienced

his death as a great relief.Nothing can hold me back anymore, I thought. I have nothing

else to lose.Already against the wall, my soul implored me to take the risk--to dare to

live.

Challenged to trust that the net would be underneath me as I jumped over the

precipice--and it was--I am grateful I heeded the call.Thanks to God/Source/All That Is,

I was given a second chance. I am proof and a humble witness of the grace and mercy

of God, of the Universe, the Multiverse...It saved and transformed my life.

My intention in writing this book, my memoir, is to help others know that we can

overcome personal obstacles, turn our challenges and life experiences into

opportunities to awaken, and be a gift to the world.One of the greatest gifts to offer

someone in the middle of a struggle is hope.

My story, testimony and testament to the power of the human spirit to change,

transform, and resurrect from the ashes as a phoenix, depicts my personal odyssey of

faith and awakening, my own hero/heroine's journey.Contributing some of my

personal story and how I overcame with the help of spirit, always, and angels--physical

and non-physical--can give people, I believe, the hope and inspiration to keep going.

I believe we are all on this wondrous path if we can accept it, answer the call of

spirit to get out of our comfort zone, and take the risk to remember who we are and who

we came here on earth to be. We may accomplish all things if we believe and if we ask

for help.If we chose it, we are never alone, and I believe absolutely that as we change

our life, we change the world, one person at the time.

“Ask and it is Given,” as the title of the book by Esther Hicks who channels the

entity called Abraham says. As an author it’s my desire to use my story as a light in the

darkness to inspire others to understand that adversity can not only be overcome but turned into an opportunity to polish ourselves into the diamond we are all here to become.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

My Mother

“The loss of the mother to the daughter and the loss of the daughter

to the mother is the essential female tragedy.” Adrienne Rich

My mother wanted me.She wanted a daughter, and at forty-five years old she

welcomed me, her second child, into her life and into the world.

My mother was my first love, the first tremendous love and joy of my life.I adored

her in every way.I loved her body, her smell, the softness and scent of her skin.I used

to tell her how beautiful she looked and how wonderful she smelled.

I remember being about twelve years-old, standing in her bedroom, she

bedridden with cancer, terminal at this point, looking old, only skin and bones, with the

typical swollen belly.I recall looking at her, telling her how much I loved her and how

when I was older, I’d take care of her and never leave.

School is over for today. I can’t wait to get home and see my mother.I run the

whole way.It will be only the two of us for a while until the others arrive and disrupt our

time together.I open the door, out of breath, throw my school bag in my small room,

take off my shoes, and hang my coat on the rack.

I fly down the long narrow hallway to my parent’s bedroom where my mother is

lying in bed, lately always sleeping, resting.When I walk in quietly, she opens her eyes,

she’s been waiting for me.I kiss her on her cheeks, she holds my head on her

heart.She looks frail, thin, and in a lot of pain.

I ask if she wants a massage.She always says yes.I go to the bathroom to wash

my hands, then put her favorite record on her turntable--lately it is Albinoni’s “Adagio.”

Growing up, I remember my mother listened to classical music in the house before my

father returned home from work.For years after she died, I couldn’t hear this music

without breaking down, especially the “Adagio.”

My mother turns over on her tummy with difficulty, and I climb gently on top of

her.I pull her nightgown up to her neck and carefully start kneading her skin. My hands

move expertly across her back, firmly stroking, pulling, and cupping to make the blood

rise to the surface. Instinctively my hands know what to do.My mother breathes a sigh

of relief.I know she feels the love I give her.

When it is time to stop, I kiss her all over her back, as if to soothe the areas I

might have caused any pain.I pull her nightgown down and hop back onto the floor.For

a moment, after she turns to lie supine, she looks lighter.She holds my hands in hers

and kisses them.

“Merci ma cherie,” she says looking straight into my eyes. “You have wonderful

healing hands, just like my grandmother Miriam who was a healer.”

She asks me about my day at school.I tell her I have a writing assignment and

that I’m not sure how to do it.I’m always anxious it won’t be good enough, and my

mother reassures me: “N’ai pas peur, n’ai pas peur (don’t be afraid), I know you will do

well.Go write it and come back to show me.”She believes in me, she thinks I’m

special.

The house becomes noisy again. My father and my brother Robert are home. I

let them have their private time with my mother.I go to my bedroom to do my

homework.My father will prepare dinner and afterward my brother will do the

dishes.Just before we gather for supper, I will go get my mother and make her walk up

and down the long and narrow hallway for a few minutes as she holds onto my arm.

“Tu es mon bâton de vieillesse, ma fille,” she tells me, gently translated as “you

are my cane of old age, my daughter.” I miss these intimate moments with her.I am

starving for them.I know that pretty soon it will all be over.

A few weeks later, she left me, alone in this cold chaotic world, shaken by this

devastating earthquake that derailed my life and left me demolished for years,

desperately trying to reconstruct my personality.

On that first day of spring 1968, around noon, this stranger, my father, comes

home and collapses into my arms.It’s the first time I ever see him cry.

“It is finished,” he says, “your mother is dead.”She was only fifty-eight years old.

The rest of the day I have no feeling, I am numb.The muscles of my jaw start

tightening up in an iron grip.At the age of twelve, I knew she was about to die and leave

me.I had dreams telling me so.She’d been sent back to the hospital in Bordeaux where

we lived at the time.

From her death on, for so many long years, I remain poker-faced in the presence

of others.It’s business as usual.Only at night, in my small bed, do I allow myself to

cry.Not even at school do I inform my teachers or classmates.Nobody has to know.It’s

my own personal inner trauma and devastation. No one would understand, anyway…

Maman, you know I forgive you.I understand now you had to go. You probably

had no other choice in your unhappiness.Did I pray to God every night to heal you, to

keep you? Back then, I blamed God for having taken you away from me.

For years I never spoke about my mother, the love and joy of my life taken away

from me too soon by death, that inner monster which ravaged my gut and my heart.

I wrote this poem in 1992, after looking at a photo taken by my father of my

mother holding me, an infant, in her arms.

In My Mother’s Arms

I am in my mother’s arms

She holds me tightly, softly

I feel warm, comfortable, safe

I can sense the intoxicating perfume

Emanating from her neck

A scent I already know

A delicious feeling of pleasure

Envelops me

I am whole and complete

Wallowing in her smell

It’s bright outside, almost too bright

My eyes are half closed

My father is taking a picture of us

My brother is also there

Sitting next to my mother

He is excited

Nothing can perturb me

Not even his piercing laughter

As long as I am in my mother’s arms

I am not hungry, not tired

I am in Heaven

Lying there against the soft cloth

Of her white and blue cotton blouse

Against the warmth

Of her tender and firm breasts

I am happy

I want it to last forever

Cars running in the street

Dogs barking

My father’s voice calling us to focus into the camera

Nothing can alter this moment of bliss

I know through my senses that my mother loves me

Everything else revolves around that love

I Am the center of my Universe

I Am God

CHAPTER TWO

March 20, 1968

Aunt Lilie comes back from Paris by herself this time.She’s visiting us again,

here in Bordeaux, in early March.She’ll be with us for “an undetermined stay,” my father

says. She and my Uncle Albert had just celebrated Christmas and the New Year 1968

with us.

Christmas was a special time for me. I loved the attention they gave me, and of

course the presents.It was nice to feel like I had a family for a change. We don’t see

them often because we live in different cities. Uncle Albert, my mother’s older brother, is

my favorite uncle. I know he and my mother love each other.

During this particularly special holiday, my mother’s extremely ill.I remember the

picture Robert took of us all at the dining room table on Christmas Eve 1967.He’s

seventeen and I am twelve.My mother sits in her white bathrobe; she does not get

dressed much anymore unless she has to be driven to the hospital. She wears a tired

smile on her beautiful face, which looks gaunt now.

We all stand behind her, surrounding her.I’m between Albert and Lilie, wearing

my brand new yellow and brown dress, and the three of us hold each other close.My

father stands by himself, pipe in his mouth, looking like the stern colonel he is.Albert

and Lilie leave right after New Year’s Day.

I love having Lilie here with us.She cooks for us and her feminine presence warms the house.

Albert works in Paris, and my father’s working too. Robert and I are at school.My

mother’s in the hospital. Every day I come home for lunch since we live close to my

school. My father does too. I really appreciate having Lilie here, as I feel I have an ally

in her. I need her to lighten up this house. I’m afraid of becoming uncommunicative and

emotionally repressed like my father and brother.

I miss my mother. I have not been allowed in the hospital very much.On that

particular day, finally Lilie takes me to see her.Monsieur Bernard, my father’s chauffeur,

drives us there.It is a quiet, sunny, cool mid-March day. There’s a beautiful field of

redpoppies on the hospital grounds and a bench facing it near the entrance. I am to

stay on the bench while my aunt goes in first.

I stare at the gorgeous flowers, waiting. Lilie comes back at last to fetch me.In

her hospital room, my mother is sleeping, her eyes closed.We can’t stay too long. I kiss

her goodbye on her cheek and hold her hand.

“We have to go,” says Lilie, even though we’ve been here for only a few minutes.

On the way out of her room I notice on the floor by her bed a bucket of urine with blood

in it.

A few days later I’m waiting for my father and Lilie to come home at

lunchtime.It’s March 20, 1968, the first day of spring, and the coldest day of my life.

That very morning Aunt Lilie says she has a gut feeling she should go to the hospital

immediately.She calls my father at work to ask him to send Monsieur Bernard. Lilie’s

the only one present to hold my mother’s hand as she takes her last breath. My father’s

been called but gets there too late.

Lilie stays on with us until after the funeral. I’m dressed in black, just like

everyone else. There are a lot of people in attendance. The Army Chaplain officiates, as

my father’s an officer in a high command post in the French military. It’s another

representation day—I have to behave like an adult, people are watching.I promise

myself I won’t cry.After the service, the family is positioned to receive the long line of

condolences.

So far, I’m doing pretty well with all these people I don’t know coming to shake

our hands and express how sad they feel for us.I hate it. Thank goodness Lilie is by my

side.Then comes Monsieur Bernard. As he gets in front of me to hug me, I see the

tears in his eyes, and I can’t help it, I break down.

I know how much my mother liked him.The last few months before she was

admitted to the hospital, he used to drive her and escort her for her blood transfusions

and whatever else they did to her. My mother had told us he was very gentle, driving

slowly and carefully so she would not feel the bumps on the road. Occasionally he

drove me to my classical guitar lessons also, and I knew him to be a kind man.

Sometime after the funeral, or perhaps just before, Lilie takes me to an

amusement park.Although sad inside, I cannot express my emotions.Numb, all I can

do is ride in the bumper car, allowing it to bang mindlessly into whatever is in front of

me.

Later on, much later, I read somewhere:“God will break your heart so that you can contain God."

CHAPTER THREE

Blood and Revolution

It’s after my mother’s gone, in the late spring of 1968, that the blood

appears.She’d told me this would happen before she passed.

“You’re becoming a young woman and soon you will have blood come once a

month.”Home alone in the afternoon the day the blood comes for the first time, I realize

in the bathroom I am bleeding. My heart starts to race and, panicked I think to

myself:“What do I do now?I’m not prepared!”

I stuff toilet paper inside me and have the illumination to talk to Madame

Michaud, our housekeeper. She comes twice weekly to clean and prepare delicious

stews for the three of us.She lives in the same 1800-style apartment building as us

across the courtyard with her elderly husband.Often on Sunday afternoons when

there’s nothing to do and I am bored, I visit their tiny place and play cards with

them.That’s where I learn to play poker.

Her husband, a retired sailor, swears a lot, but is kind to me.I trust Madame

Michaud and confide in her.So, the afternoon of my first period, I rush over there,

hoping she’s home. I swirl down our one-story marble staircase, open the heavy glass

door leading to the courtyard, run across, and climb the stairs to her tiny apartment.

“Madame Michaud!” I yell, out of breath. As she opens the door, her three-year-

old granddaughter by her side, I blurt: “I am having my period!”

She sits me down, disappears into her bedroom, and returns with a bag of

washable napkins made of cloth.She shows me how to put one on with two big safety

pins.

“Thank you, Madame Michaud, see you soon!” I walk back home somewhat

relieved, but then begin to wonder: How I am going to tell my father?I’ve never had an

intimate conversation with him before!

When he returns home and starts getting things ready for dinner, I say quickly: “I

just got my period and Madame Michaud helped me with it.”That’s it.End of story.

The next day I have to go to school with this contraption under my skirt.It feels

very strange.In class, the teacher asks me a question and I must stand up to answer,

as this is the rule.As I rise from my seat, I feel blood gushing out as if I am

hemorrhaging. As I make my way to the infirmary at the break, I find out I am.There’s

blood all over me--welcome to womanhood!I’m embarrassed as my father is informed

and he takes me to the doctor.

“Your daughter has to remain in bed for a week and take this medication to stop

hemorrhaging,” the doctor says. As soon as we get home, my father puts me in bed and

gives me my medication.He takes this very seriously, as he’s concerned about my

health.Robert comes back from school or from wherever he’s been and is surprised to

see me in bed. Now I’m doubly embarrassed. I don’t say anything--I let my father handle

it.

During my illness, Madame Michaud comes every day when no one is home to

check on and attend to me, which is really nice. Robert’s much nicer to me, not scaring

me in the dark hallway or telling me monster stories.Certainly, he’s not beating me up

right then.

Five years older than me and usually very mean to me, Robert often enjoys

scaring me sadistically by telling me gory stories and humiliating me in front of his

friends