I have quickly come to cherish Sundays in Paris. For one simple reason, love. Sundays in NYC, following the sacred ritual of brunching with friends, were most often spent solo amidst the masses, shopping in Soho or sitting in Central Park reading or dreaming. I think too, of the countless Sundays during my travels. Regardless of the continent I inhabited, endless hours were spent in observation (often considered sight-seeing) as the world became suddenly still. Sundays, as I well recall in my childhood, are a day to spend with family (or friends who in the case of my previous life in NYC had become family). Now here in Paris, I feel the warmth of family. It is only he and I, but that is enough to provide the feeling of home.

Today, in our sacred Sunday tradition we woke up to the late morning sun, radiating light from an inviting sky. Most often clear and bright in it’s winter chill. A savory brunch in the Marais, which has become quite a trend in Paris. A late edition of the ‘International Herald Tribune’, much more manageable a read than my esteemed ‘Sunday NY Times’ (though indeed I do miss the Travel and Styles sections to name a few). Upon walking to the Seine to admire the serenity and the awe-inspiring views, we stopped for a moment of reflection at Church Saint Gervais. As though invited through divine intervention, we entered the setting of a performance combining poetry, painting and music. Within this scene illuminated only by candles, I could understand words not phrases, emotions not meanings. Yet, in all it’s abstract obscurity, the experience was deeply enchanting. The flutist sounding the melodies of birds as images of clouds and sea projected above the altar. It is upon such an impromptu path that life most naturally reveals itself.