Check (Reality), please!

I certainly have been doing a lot of complaining recently. I am too cold because we don’t have heat. I have to buy too much at the Franprix because I don’t have a French ATM card yet and there is a minimum for credit cards. My baking is limited to stove top and microwave only. Worst of all, I can’t speak on my mobile as much as I would like too due to the ridiculous time constraints compliments of over-priced plans. As I was in my flat today, molding almond pate into hearts for store-bought cupcakes that I was bringing to a women’s day shelter, I was irritated that I was a hostage to my overpriced load of laundry that was cycling in the building next door. I thought about calling one of my friends in the U.S., but it was too early due to the six-hour time difference. I was about to open my book, The Guy Not Taken, by Philly’s own Jennifer Weiner, to give myself another dose of the words I love and miss ("Friendly’s," "Walnut Street," "Rittenhouse Square") when I heard Larry King start to speak. Whereas typically I would tune him and his bad tie out, I became more attentive when I learned it was Sean Penn. Penn has taken the strife in Haiti on personally, and it was very apparent by his demeanor and commentary. He alluded to the fact that Americans are used to a lifestyle that the Haitians will never comprehend, and that it was now that we needed to step in as it was just the beginning of the worst for the Haitians (rain season starts in two weeks). It was as if he could hear my thoughts, as his commentary was simultaneous with my intense dream that Franprix would start to carry dryer sheets, as I dreaded the static-laden, starched clothing that was going to greet me downstairs. I sat there, appalled by myself. How have I let the little things get to me in a way that has affected my being? How could I be so thankless and shallow that I am concerned about something as trivial as Downy?

I spent the rest of the time in between my laundry and my departure to Les Coeurs des Femmes trying desperately to find a way to help the Haitian victims from here in France. As expected, the sites were in French, and would require being able to speak the language. As I felt another self-pity party creeping up, I quenched it quickly with a spoonful of Nutella -- a quick reminder that the French are not too shabby.

As we tied ribbons around roses for the women in the day shelter, I learned about modern day bondage through one of my fellow-AWG members. She was explaining to me that H&M and Zara both get their cotton from Uzbekistan, a country that forces its children to pick cotton once they reach a certain age. Slavery was a thing of the past, or so we thought until Haiti reminded us that child slave labor is still very much alive and profitable. And sick. With that thought lingering in my mind, we headed over to Les Coeurs des Femmes, where, as always, the women were welcoming, excited, and grateful. We learned that their shower was not working, and that most nights many of the women are on the street. As I watched them chat and delight in our Valentine’s goodies, it hurt to think that so many of those women would be cold, scared, and alone tonight. For me, it would be quite the contrary, and yet I still have the nerve to complain. It was a minor victory for me being able to communicate with one of the women -- in German, but communication nonetheless. She was very excited that I was from the United States, as I am sure that for people that have little, the U.S. seems like a promised land.

Of recent, it has felt that way to me as well. Finding Febreeze yesterday was like winning the lottery, and walking six miles to the library yesterday to return a DVD, only to find it was closed, caused disdain of which the situation was not worthy. In America, that would not have happened. In America, I would have been able to get what I needed, anywhere, and in cases at Costco if I so desired. Places don’t close. If you have a hankering for peanut butter on Christmas, you simply head to the grocery store -- which will be open and busy.

Yet upon further inspection and reflection, the picture came into focus. I am spoiled. I come from a place where things are taken for granted, and are not thought through. Last night as we were at a book reading, a woman had the nerve to answer her phone, and then chat on her phone during the presentation. Country of origin? America. We lack a necessary self-awareness and replace it with an unnecessary self-righteousness. Now, this is certainly not applicable to all Americans, but as someone who is guilty, I am allowed to make such generalities. And yet, as I did yoga this evening on my flat floor, and could look up between crunches to see a picturesque Parisian skyline, I was more distracted by the dust bunnies that seemed to multiply as I was downward-dogging. Instead of being in the moment, I was elsewhere, distracted and irritated. As I lay there in shavasana, I focused long enough to hear the instructor say that the highest practice in yoga was self-acceptance. I thought about that for a moment, and decided that it was now or never. Self-acceptance starts with acceptance of the situation you have found yourself in. After the day I have had, how dare I think any differently? I live in Paris with my soul-mate. I am healthy, youthful, and determined. I am going to make it, and in the interim, help others to make it as well. Self-acceptance, as my ultimate goal, is going to take some real effort. But what have I to lose but a bad attitude and a few pounds (that would be from the Nutella I am going to stop using as my crutch)? Namaste.

Click here for more images from Coeur des Femmes.
Click here for more information on the Jenkins-Penn Haitian Relief Organization.