Paris. Paris. Paris.

When I first arrived to Paris I wasn't sure where to go.
There were so many different streets and the signs were in a different language. How did one ever get around here for a daily life?

As time continued, every Morning became more and more beautiful with each new sunrise.
The language was still foreign and not many knew what I was trying to say.
I tried to write down what I felt, but no one wanted to listen right then. They were busy.

I watched a women at a Cafe' a few days ago and she intrigued me. She was cloaked with beauty; Not beauty from the face or clothes, but from what she was doing. With her little black pen and navy blue journal she simply wrote and wrote. I once watched her for 2 hours. She glanced up every few minutes and then would write. I was fascinated by this and wanted to know what she was writing about. How was she receiving her inspiration? God? Herself?

After about the seventh day I decided to walk over and sit by her I asked if she was enjoying Paris but nothing come out of her. She simply glanced at me with a smile and started writing again... The man next to me leaned over,
" She's busy."
"Busy? She's only writing... can't she stop writing and answer me?"
The man smiled. I think he knew I had never been here before.
"Paris is where you taste it. Where you drink it up till the last drop is gone. Paris is not a one time event; but rather a lifetime of travel. You cannot visit Paris once and expect anything, you have to continue until there is no more resistance. Until you are the only one here and everyone becomes your inspiration. She's busy."

The story of the women changed my visit from that day forward. Each day held new possibilities and new reasons to be inspired. I knew what streets to turn on and which ones I still needed to explore. The signs no longer confused me. I started to understand their language; their purpose of life.

My little black pen and navy blue journal became my purpose. 

Thank you Paris. Thank you for everything.