Perhaps God Speaks French

Perhaps THAT is the problem.

I used to speak it fluently. In fact, in high school I wrote a thirty page term paper IN French. Now, I am hard pressed to say much more than, Je suis tres fatigue et mal a la tete aussi.

Translated: I am very tired and sick in the head as well.

We all know joie de vivre.

But, there are months when it sits more background.

This has been a rather challenging one involving navigating the parental unknown. We made an appointment to see our pediatrician this afternoon to talk about some difficult decisions we are trying to make.

My instinct before we went was that it seemed a bit ridiculous for us to let him dictate our decision. But I talked myself out of this with thoughts like it is important to trust someone. 

That being said, the New York Times just published an article this weekend systematically dismantling our notion of where certain emotions are felt in the brain.

So the one thing we know for sure, is nothing is for sure.

Certainly not one doctors’ opinion. I am always dubious of my instincts despite the fact they are nearly always right.

Turns out his approach was condescendingly binary. You either do option A or you are doomed. Hmmm.

Seems a bit more complicated to me.

And I am suspect of any answer that honors only one approach. Without asking any questions. Delivered with a generous amount of condescension.

It is of overwhelming concern to me our western medical field’s need to label everything. To make a clear cut diagnosis and then approach everything from that singular point of view.

It treats the diagnosis rather than than the human being.

And yet, when lost, we see direction.

Ellen Bass wrote a wonderful poem called “Asking Directions in Paris”, in which she plays with this notion of trying to figure out where we are going on less than even a rudimentary clue.

Asking Directions in Paris

Où est le boulevard Saint Michel?
You pronounce the question carefully.
And when the native stops,
shifting her narrow sack of wine and baguettes,
lifting her manicured hand,
you feel a flicker of accomplishment.
But beyond that, all clarity dissolves,
for the woman in the expensive shoes
and suit exactly the soft gray
of clouds above the cathedral does not say
to the right, to the left, straight ahead,
phrases you memorized from tapes
as you drove around your hometown
or mumbled into a pocket Berlitz on the plane,
but relays something wholly unintelligible,
some version of: On the corner
he is a shop of jewels in a fountain
when the hotel arrives on short feet.
You listen hard, nodding,
as though your pleasant disposition,
your willingness to go
wherever she tells you,
will make her next words pop up
from this ocean of sound,
somewhat the way a dog hears its name
and the coveted syllable walk.
If you’re brave enough, or very nervous,
you may admit you don’t understand.
And though evening’s coming on and
her family’s waiting, her husband lighting
another Gauloise, the children setting the table,
she repeats it again, another gesture
of her lovely hand, from which you glean
no more than you did the first time.
And as you thank her profusely
and set off full of groundless hope,
you think this must be how it is
with destiny: God explaining
and explaining what you must do,
and all you can make out is a few
unconnected phrases, a word or two, a wave
in what you pray is the right direction.

I try to remember the unexpected discoveries and distinct character found down every wrong side street I have ever taken in Paris.

Because everyone has a different way to go.