I avoided God through countless hours spent in cathedrals and monasteries all around France listening to my parents’ depiction of devotion and sacrifice in the Middle Ages. I preferred the safety of the postcard stand in the narthex and the timid lights of candles, 10 cents for a prayer heard and received…”Get me out of here!”  I avoided God while practicing with the church choir and dreaming of mass-free Sundays and late breakfasts. The sound of the guitar in those icy walls never warmed my heart to His presence.

I swapped God for the race to success and the whirlwind of London’s financial markets.  Professional achievement filled my heart with pleasure and left my soul unsatisfied. I swapped God for the careless attentions of men who never tried to know me, for the mirage of a carefully decorated interior that never reflected the wildness of my most secret hopes. I spread my wings away from home and yearned for the wind that would lift them to new heights. I did not know that it had to blow from within.

I heard God whisper in the generous smile of my future husband, in the giggles of my sweet children as a mighty wave of love changed me forever. I heard Him whisper as I held my father’s hand on his hospital bed, and watched in wonder as four days of closeness erased years of discipline and distance. I said goodbye on a freezing January morning finding comfort in the belief that he would remain by my side,  proud witness of my uneven steps towards Grace.

I cried to God when the images sent by my battered brain frightened me more than the roaring in my ears, when the endless spinning made me wonder if the world would ever be a safe place again. I cried when I lost Myriam and Maman and woke up at night surrounded by shadows that painted my future in a pallet of anger and despair. I could not make sense of the blows that left me utterly broken. I didn’t know then that tending my wounds would allow my spirit to start talking. My tears did not fertilize a desert. They gently moistened my soul and let hope find a corner in which to rest.

I thanked God for the relief of walking unsupported. I thank Him for the opportunity to find out who I truly am, and for the loved ones allowing me to follow my heart. For showing me how illness and struggle open onto creativity; onto words and the journey to write them. I thank God every day for the miraculous world around me and the love that I receive with every breath I take. For the chance to spread it like a cloud of endless energy reaching the ones in need of what I can give.

I know God when my eyes are closed and my body is filled with golden trumpets, when the song in my heart explodes in a harmony of fulfilled desires and renewed joy. Or when the wave of grief floods my inner light with doubts and blame. She is with me when my unanswered questions threaten to shatter my heart, when I meditate, or when I wrap Christmas presents. I know God because I choose to feel His gentle touch in my every moment. I know God because I’m alive and I pay attention.

And may you feel too that you belong in the Light. Merry Christmas to you all!

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

[I could not upload the picture, so please click on the square to see it and if you know how to fix the problem, do contact me. Thank you!]

A tremor colors the dryness,

a voice cuts through the gale:

“This one belongs to the journey,

should she choose to believe.”

A bell chimes in Heaven,

a shadow calls her name.

If death is not a beginning,

why do we reach for the sky?

A wave crosses the desert,

a shiver moves the plains:

“This one will taste the harvest,

she will carve the bark of faith.

A message’s dawned on her sorrow,

her task throughout the land:

 “This one is marked for greatness,

should she choose to believe.”

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

Photograph taken in Eygalières, France (courtesy of Francine Godet © 2011)

I wish you a healing voyage through the rainbow.

The thousand colors of hope.

A myriad of blessings.

I wish you a quiet awakening to the many splendors

that your heart beholds.

The true gift of your soul.

May you abandon worry’s cowardly disguise,

and remember the many faces

of your deepest longings.

May you grasp the sureness of the moment,

and taste the divine freedom

of living without fear.

Let your spirit soar high above life’s limitations.

You are your own inspiration,

your own guide.

Let love’s light wash away the old patterns.

Stand, peaceful, in God’s presence,

and meet the promise of each day.

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

You are inspiration and flesh.

Capricious prelude to an adagio of desires

and a cacophony of needs.

You are the proud crescendo rising:

powerful solo and perfect arpeggios.

Virtuoso behind a mask.

You are the time sensitive fugue.

The wild tempo of happiness and fame,

the pop melody of the merry.

You are the broken chord, the endless drop.

The symphony of the wounded.

Disenchanted aria and shadowed brilliance,

an unsought yet necessary pause,

a breath that won’t be silenced.

The chant dawning away the ebony hours.

You are the leap of faith and resilience.

Childlike composer of the present.

Cautious maestro of tomorrow.

You are the suspended bridge to eternity.

An ode to death beyond loss and fear,

the pure evensong of the rose windows.

You are the immortal beloved.

A full harmonic orchestra. A Divine ensemble.

The glorious Alleluia of humanity.

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

… Danse pour tous ceux qui ont peur (dance for all those who are afraid)
Danse pour les milliers de cœurs (dance for the thousands of hearts)
Qui ont droit au bonheur (that deserve to be happy)
Résiste (Resist)

[from the song “Résiste” by Michel Berger (1947-1992)]

The Regiment of Ardennian Rifles (Régiment des Chasseurs Ardennais) is an infantry regiment in the Belgian Armed Forces. It was my Dad’s home for most of his military career. Its emblem –a wild boar’s head- hangs on my living room wall cast in a small tin plate. Its commanding motto is printed in my heart and brain: “Résiste et Mords” [‘Resist and Bite’]. My siblings and I grew up in the shadow of this untamed beast. We bit our tongues more than once and resist, we did. The temptation to be different. The lure of foreign battles. We became good army boars, dutiful and resilient, showing respect and obeying orders.

Resistance is not very popular these days. Resistance to mutating germs threatens to wipe off mankind. Resistance to insulin is spreading faster than sweet jam. “What we resist persists”, we’re told. From negative thoughts to illness. We’re to get in the flow. We’re to let go and let God if we have any hope of being showered with life’s material and spiritual riches. Surrender is the preferred choice. The path of least resistance promises to be the 21^st century highway to Heaven. Forget about biting anyone. It’s just not done anymore.  Love is the answer. We strive to connect and hold hands with our fellow men.” And I’m all for it. Indeed I am. But I can’t help wondering about another kind of ‘resist’. The kind that moves us beyond the war zone and the casualties. The strength that propels us through life’s trials and losses. The deep need to venture past what we’ve been taught is acceptable or proper. The desire to shake the darkness until it explodes into a myriad of hopeful stars. Have you ever felt this surge of resistance?

When my father passed away my Mom assured me that she would do everything she could to survive without him (quite a feat after 56 years of marriage). She hugged me tight and declared: “I’m going to be ok. I resist but I don’t bite.” Her simple statement reminded me that the wild boar personifies warrior spirit, fortitude, and leadership. He’s strong and intrepid. He faces challenges with bravery, refusing to yield. My mother was not to win her fight against loneliness; she had no bite left in her. She capitulated to emptiness and depression. In her name I’m now choosing to bite into life with renewed enthusiasm and a ferocious appetite. In my father’s memory I accept the mission to stand for what is honorable and true. It is time I graduated from army to wild boar. Because when we resist the temptation to remain amongst life’s predictable or wounded, we persist. And when we step forward into the unknown and fight for our happiness, we prevail. Only then can we surrender to the power of love, to the simple beauty of being alive.

Dare to resist! Dare to find out who you are, to disobey, and to claim proudly the reason you’re alive. Choose to combat your inner demons and to become a warrior of light. Show courage and determination. You will make a difference in the world when you dance to your own tune and bring hope to those who are too afraid to do so.  Life needs you. Don’t give up or in. Accept the invitation of the wild boar: Resist and bite.

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

I’ve fallen in love again. And it feels wonderful. The smile is back on my face. I’m not walking on clouds; I’m skipping on the kitchen floor and humming my favorite tunes. I tease my husband and drive the children crazy. It’s love, I tell you. LOVE.

I can hear you from here: “Poor Maryse! Too many years in the dark. Too many struggles and losses. She’s finally gone gaga. She’s going to pull an Elizabeth Gilbert (author of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ and ‘Committed’) and vanish to the depths of Brazil, where dashing Osmar will teach her the rudiments of samba and caipirinha.” I can see your texts: “Have you gone mad? What’s happened to you? What about your responsibilities? WRITE BACK ASAP!”

I’ve read enough about rebirths in Himalayan monasteries or in the slums of Calcutta to know that I had as much hope of finding renewed excitement and meaning in my New York suburban home as of seducing George Clooney on my next flight to Belgium.  So where is this buzz coming from? What is the source of this happy electricity coursing through me? I had neither the strength to haul my cargo of grief and fear to the other side of the world nor the energy to practice the wonderful self-help exercises I collected over the years. When blizzard conditions shut down my inner airport, all bets were off.  And yet it’s happened. In the lonely waiting lounge, with the gates to sunnier skies temporarily closed and my ticket to happiness thrown in the nearby garbage can. It’s happened. I haven’t found the love of my life (it actually found me some 20 years ago). I have re-discovered my love of life.

It does not involve a huge trip to the outposts of my personal desert. It does not ask that I leave my family behind. All it takes is the decision to LIVE. I repeat: all that is required is my active choice FOR life. Beyond crying spells and panic attacks I now offer my life the gift my children receive everyday: unconditional love. It does not make the pain disappear. Fatigue and anxiety are not gone. But in the space created for love, optimism and light are growing strong. Laughter and music have found their way back into my heart and their rhythm signals a new departure: it’s time I focused on all that is good. It’s ok to dream again and believe in the future. Guess what? My health is improving too. Permission for takeoff finally granted. Phew!

This re-found love lightens my step and refreshes my soul. It lifts me up so that I can touch the sweet clouds of my own infinite possibilities. It makes me fly and soar with two feet firmly planted on the (kitchen) floor. No need for Osmar and the liquor. My positive choice for life is a daily happy fix. I’ll be the one taking my husband and kids to Brazil. We’ll dance the samba together. And we’ll send you a text: “Landed safely in love. With life. With each other. ”

My deepest thanks to Brad Yates, my EFT coach/wizard (www.bradyates.net) who encouraged me to write this post and to Gary Blier at ACT (www.advancedcelltraining.com) for his codes and patient care. You are both doing the work of love and helping me regain my health and my life.

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

Let today’s heaviness and pain rock you into acceptance.

Life whispers, “You’re a beautiful child, dear to my heart.

Seek to trust this mysterious and eternally shifting dance.”

Find comfort in the caring embrace of the ones you love.

Let the silence bring forth your deepest fears, your buried longings.

From the stillness will grow the blessings you feel undeserving of.

It’s a lie no longer convenient, a reality no longer becoming.

Find strength and courage in the wisdom of a battle well fought.

Let your victory conquer the bitterness of the price you paid.

The new you is worth much more than you ever thought.

Believe in her. And in the powers that came to your aid.

Glory in the peace and beauty of who you truly are.

Let the grace inside guide you to a clearing, a just respite.

Every day that goes by is a gift to share, a call to take part

in the unfolding of your dreams, in the rest of your life

Maryse G. Copans © 2010

Don’t worry, I haven’t awakened into a ‘Disney’ production where bookshelves teach me how to make the perfect Belgian waffle. I’m referring here to a miraculous kind of happening that reminds me of a movie I watched a long time ago: “The Love Letter” (Hallmark Channel – 1998) tells the story of a young couple who fall in love even though they live 100 years apart. They ‘meet’ and communicate through letters that travel back and forth within their shared desk (an antique for him by then). It is a touching tale of feelings that span time and geography. A lovely reminder that the heart knows not of human boundaries…

…Friday, October 15.  9am sharp. The doorbell rings. It’s here at last! My mother’s old secretaire –and most cherished piece of furniture- has ended its long journey across the Atlantic Ocean and a sea of customs paperwork. As it gets unwrapped, a hint of blue catches one of the movers’ eyes: ‘This has just fallen out’, he smiles, as he hands an unmarked envelope over to me. My heart races. My hands get clammy -only yesterday I was fantasizing about getting a message from my mom. The stuff that only happens in movies- I take a deep breath, open the blue sheath with trembling fingers, and take out the card. A cute little lady is carrying flowers and a ‘Happy Birthday’ message: “My loving thoughts are with you today, sweet Maryse…” My mother wrote these words for my 2009 birthday and forgot to mail them. My sisters who emptied the desk in Brussels confirm that they never saw the card. It must have slipped inside the wooden shell and found its way out for a perfect delivery. Not an old bill, a wrinkled photograph, or Christmas wishes to a friend. A card addressed to ME! Blessing the day her precious desk arrives in my home, whole and ready to start its new life in America. Blessing me. I’m floored. I’m touched beyond belief…

…Saturday, October 16. 3pm. My son rushes into my bedroom, victorious. He just spent long minutes on the floor, mirror and flashlight in hand, de-tangling a silver chain that was stuck in the secretaire’s front right leg. It is intact and it turns out to be the perfect match for the diamond heart pendant that’s sitting in my jewelry box.  My dad’s gift to my mom to celebrate 25 years of happy marriage. How can it be? How can a lost chain hide in a desk, cross the ocean, and reappear as a special gift to me the day before my parent’s wedding anniversary? I’m now sobbing. My heart is bursting with gratitude.

There was always a special bond between Maman and me. Mostly silent as she was not prone to emotional displays. Her apparent distance made me doubt her love many times, and her passing last May left me feeling lost and abandoned, as her dementia never gave us a chance to voice all the unsaid. It’s hard to describe the healing power of her note: It’s a love letter from Heaven, much dearer than if it had been left for me while she was still alive. Mysterious yet familiar forces have brought it to my safe keeping when I need it the most. Its magic transmutes infinite grief into eternal hope. It sings, “Be free. Be happy. I’ve always loved you and I’m with you still.” The comfort that wearing her heart pendant with its original chain brings to me is beyond words. I am not abandoned. I am full of her love for me. Yes, a desk has been talking and giving to me and will be doing so for the rest of my life as I stay connected to my mother’s spirit who’s writing the most beautiful tale of affection and support.

Maman’s secretaire has a life of its own. This is no romance movie. It’s the true and never ending story of a love journey hallmarked in both her soul and mine. It’s my story.

PS: ♥ October 17, 2010. Chers Maman et Papa:  ‘Joyeux anniversaire de mariage!”♥

Maryse G. Copans © 2010

Je me souviens de jours sans danger.

Etés paresseux et crèmes glacées.

Jeux d’échec; parties de dominos.

Cardigan fait main au porte-manteau.

Saisons au ralenti; des heures sans souci.

Puis le réveil sonne, l’école commence.

Une classe après l’autre, pas de chance.

L’amour se cache dans les réprimandes,

Les sourires, les mercis sur commande.

Souvenirs de septembre. Enfance mise à l’ombre.

Je l’entends: “Choisir, c’est renoncer!”

Un avenir pré-enregistré

dans des images de manque, de frayeur.

L’espace et la liberté, des leurres.

Je décide. Je m’enfuis. Je renonce aussi

aux ‘tu devrais’, ‘il faut’, ‘sois à l’heure’.

Mes enfants le respirent: “Ecoute ton coeur.

Le chemin est court, la joie, fragile.

Le présent n’est pas un rêve futile.”

J’enseigne une autre leçon. A ma façon.

Choisir? C’est chanter sa préférence.

Remercier le ciel d’avoir la chance

d’explorer, de grandir. Se tromper.

C’est accepter la vie telle qu’elle est.

On s’envole souvent. On trébuche de temps en temps.

Je me souviens de fines crèpes sucrées,

d’un tableau noir,  dessins à la craie.

Je garde la tendresse. J’oublie la peur.

C’est le choix qui écrit mon bonheur.

Le passé est un tout. Douloureux et doux.

Maryse G. Copans © 2010

I was born in 1963 the year JF Kennedy was assassinated. I was only a few months old when it happened and I obviously do not remember a thing. My mother used to say that everyone she knew, herself included, never forgot where they were and what they were doing when they first heard the terrible news. I know the feeling. Today is September 11, 2010. Nine years ago the World Trade Center twin towers fell in a wave of terror and blood. I was clearing the house for the cleaning lady. Life was good and orderly. My father called me from Belgium to alert me to the latest events of the morning.  I would not speak to him for days. The phone lines to Europe would go dead shortly after our conversation. I turned on the TV and watched in disbelief as the highest buildings in the city collapsed into an inferno of heat, dust, and screams. We were lucky: my husband was home that day, the children, safely in school, and none of our friends were killed. It was a pure and cloudless Tuesday morning. A perfect late summer day. Squirrels and chipmunks were busy looking for food and burying it for the winter unaware that, a few miles away, people were being buried in glass and metal, never to hold their children again, never to call their parents for their birthdays and anniversaries. They were incinerated against their will. Nine years later it’s sunny again and I remember. We have a new president, the children are now teenagers, and my parents have passed away . Hope and pain live on. A song by Sting plays in my head. “On and on the rain will fall, like tears from a star, like tears from a star. And on and on the rain will say how fragile we are, how fragile we are.” I used to hum it without thinking much about the lyrics. Rain, tears, fragile: a good mix for a lovely song. We are fragile: we get hurt, we get sick, and we die. We do cry. A lot. Sometimes. How many of us are crying this morning? How many will light a candle tonight and pray?

I’m crying and I will light a candle in honor of the losses we all suffered that day; in honor of the losses we sustain as we go through the process of living. A child leaving for college; a pet dying; friends moving far away; strangers murdered by terrorists. As I watch the harmless flame flicker I will salute in my heart the courage of human beings who choose life over and over again in the face of adversity. We are not fragile. Like glass, we break if mishandled, but we are inherently strong and resilient. As we glue back the pieces a new shape emerges: scarred but determined to move on. “I tell you, the things one does in order to have fun and/or to stay alive” writes my mother-in-law who lost her husband seven years ago and has since re-invented herself through ballroom dancing. Yes, indeed, the things we come up with to get ourselves back in the flow, to re-connect with the good in and out, all around. I write and hug my children. She dances and makes macaroni and cheese and fruit pies on holidays. Some garden, walk, or sing. Others sit and breathe, spend time with friends, or study. The list goes on and on. We remember and we shed tears. We remember, we feel the sorrow, and we heal.

By the end of 1963 the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” made it to the top of US charts. The British wave of youth and music had engulfed America and the world. Life went on. Tonight, as I hold my husband’s hand, I’ll offer a silent prayer of peace and comfort. I’ll acknowledge the grief and give thanks for the abiding will to embrace joy. And I will go on to hum a new song: “On and on the tears will fall, like rain from the heart, like rain from the heart. And on and on, the tears will say how strong we all are, how strong we all are.”

Maryse Godet Copans © 2010