Compassion. The word rolled around my head, and I decided to let it wash over me, as I turned over in bed and pulled the cover up under my chin. It had been a long night again of tossing and turning and disturbing nightmares, and I sleepily opened my eyes.
In waking hours, with so much to do in Paris, it was helpful to get lost in the daily commotion of discovery. But at night, I was still having fitful sleep.
The light was slightly streaming in between the cream colored drapes, pulled tightly closed. It was Saturday, and the room was luxuriantly quiet. I could hear no banging noises outside, and my head sank into my smooth pillow in rested equilibrium.
Pas de bruit. C’est magnifique. The lack of noise was magnificent.
I wondered how much of this quiet time I could enjoy, desperately hoping the construction crew would magically vanish on Monday. I rolled onto my side, pulling my knees up in a fetal position and nestling my cheek into the softness of the pillowcase. I noticed the acute muscular sensations in my thighs and calves from my last yoga session. I inhaled and exhaled and decided to attempt meditation.
I tried to clear my thoughts. Meditation was never easy for me as restless as I am. There was always somewhere to go or something to read or listen to that was more gratifying than meditation. But I had entered a new life situation. Anxious questions no longer clouded my head in an analytical spin since I left my relationship.
It was just me, and I was free to kindly allow myself to rest and catch up on sleep this Saturday morning if I wanted to or for my body to simply relax into the meditation and enjoy the silence. I remembered my yoga teacher’s instruction the day before that we all be kind to ourselves.
Breathing was key in these moments, and I expanded my chest with the air of silence and let it out in a gratifying exhale. I thought of work and heartache and home and hunger, saffron flavored aperitifs, and gold-flecked eyes, until I drifted off to sleep again.
– Chapter 20, Give It to Paris
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