Tongues of Fire

Today was the first "real" day of my stay here in France. It is a holiday here -- Pentecost Monday. Having grown up in the church, I had a vague recollection of what Pentecost was, but I'll admit I looked it up today to be clear. Here's what Wiki had to say about the day:

The biblical narrative of Pentecost is given in the second chapter of the Book of Acts. As recounted in Acts 2:1-6:

And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place. And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. And there were dwelling at Jerusalem Jews, devout men, out of every nation under heaven. Now when this was noised abroad, the multitude came together, and were confounded, because that every man heard them speak in his own language.

Strangely, today was oddly windy, a strong breeze whipping up just after lunch and tossing the palm fronds in the trees above my class as we sat at the park to discuss Edith Wharton this afternoon. I had to sit on my papers to keep them from being torn away by the wind's gusts, and the students fought to keep their hair from their faces. The wind was pleasant, though (again, perhaps, this is in the spirit of Pentecost?), and we all agree we were happy for its presence, which kept an otherwise very warm day mild enough to enjoy.

We talked, as I said, about Wharton's story "Roman Fever," assigned because Wharton lived here in Hyeres and her gardens above town are now a public park (one I intend to tour next week, as I missed our group's tour last week). We also talked about an excerpt from Anthony Doerr's beautiful memoir Four Seasons in Rome. I have to admit that I have fallen head over heals in total love with Anthony Doerr's writing -- all of it. His story collections are among my very favorite collections, and so when I picked up this memoir of the year he and his family spent in Rome I expected to love it as well, and was, happily, not disappointed. The section I chose to share with my students focuses on the way being in a new place lifts the veil from one's eyes, so to speak -- that is, it makes you see anew. When the routine is broken, the habits dropped, one is forced to pay attention in a way not usually possible in "normal" life. He writes with precision about the details of his life in Rome and encourages readers to see the miracles we usually take for granted.

In preparing to discuss this with my students I considered what miracles I have recently seen (the obvious one, of course, is the health of my youngest child after her bout of pneumonia two weeks ago, but for the sake of keeping the mood of the class cheerful and perhaps not too personal, I didn't dwell on this as my class example). I chose to think small and obviously. I spotted, for instance, a throng of swallows flying in their knotted formation above the town square this morning as I sat alone (heaven!) and sipped my very lovely grande creme and ate my pain au lait (bliss!). The birds knitted themselves into tight, rowed ribbons, then unwove in what seemed a pre-determined pattern, their many bodies in the very blue sky making a single body that shrunk and expanded, shrunk and expanded as I watched. Of course, I've seen similar sights at home, but I really spent time watching this one -- because I'm here, and the skin of routine which usually clouds my vision has been peeled from my eyes; but also because I have the luxury of time to simply watch and pay attention here--a luxury I could have at home, but more often than not forget to take.

I also told the students that here, to me, communication seems a kind of miracle. My French is really so terrible, and most of the clerks and waitstaff I've encountered at the local shops and cafes either don't or won't speak English, so the most I can expect is a transmission and understanding of the most basic bits of conversation. "Hello. I would like a big cup of coffee. Thank you. Have a good day." Etc. Speech in a foreign tongue is robotic and impersonal. It's a relief to make it through a single sentence and get to shut up again. But yesterday, when Finn and Vivi and I set out on a walk and happened into a little boulangerie for a quick drink, I felt that tiny crack of real understanding open up between myself and the young cashier. I apologized for my French.

"Vous parlez Anglais?" he asked me.

"Oui," I told him, determined to keep speaking in French. "Je suis Americaine. Je suis desolee, mais mon Francais, c'est terrible."

He laughed. He said, in broken English, "My English is not too good neither."

He smiled, I smiled, we both laughed for a moment at our shared inability to communicate well; but in the laughter, I realized, we were communicating better than I've been able to communicate with anyone else in town since arriving here. Oh, look at us, our laughter seemed to say. Aren't we a sorry pair? If communication is, as I'm seeing now, not just conveying necessary information, but rather seeing another person clearly and being seen yourself, then in our laughter we communicated perfectly.

I thanked him for his help (in French), and he thanked me for my business (in English), and that was that, but the whole exchange struck me later as somewhat miraculous.

What a lovely thought for this Pentecost Monday, n'est pas?