A Witch and a Promise Paris Style
Wandering through memories, magic, and unexpected lore.
I woke up in Chartres on my second-to-last morning in Europe. The city was still damp from the night’s rain, the cathedral’s silhouette resting quietly against the dawn sky. My bags were packed, but I wasn’t ready. Not quite. There was one last thing I needed to do.
I wandered back to the labyrinth.
It felt like an unspoken promise—the perfect closing note to a journey that had begun with another labyrinth, miles away at a castle in France. There’s something poetic about that, isn’t there? How life threads these subtle patterns, how beginnings and endings find a way to mirror each other, tying everything together in a way that only makes sense in hindsight.
Step by step, I traced the labyrinth’s winding path, my thoughts drifting through the past six weeks:
The surreal sight of a polar bear in the Black Forest, like something plucked from a dream.
A train ride spent painting mushrooms and swapping stories with strangers.
The endless textures of Europe—cobbled streets, ancient walls, weathered doors—each one a siren song to my artist’s eye.
The rain-soaked midnight in Chartres, standing alone in the square as colors danced across stone, feeling completely, utterly alive.
These weren’t just moments. They were pieces of me now, woven into my framework, small but significant rearrangements of the self.
That’s the thing about travel. You leave searching for something—answers, inspiration, a sense of direction—and you return carrying things you never expected: new ways of seeing, of feeling, of being. And somehow, all of it has to fit into that one carry-on bag. At least that is my version.
I had one more night in Paris before heading home to Pittsburgh, carrying a strange mix of gratitude and unease. Would the life I left behind still fit the version of me that was coming back? That’s always the question, isn’t it? We step away, grow in ways we can’t fully see, and then we return to familiar spaces, unsure if they’ll recognize us—or if we’ll recognize them.
But I’ve learned this much: life isn’t meant to be static. We aren’t meant to stay the same.
So, I’ll carry this journey forward, letting it shape the spaces I create, the art I make, the way I move through the world.
One last step forward on the labyrinth’s path.
And then, one last train ride to Paris.
Hello Again, Goodbye.
In 2017, I spent the summer working as an art director at a camp, managing six art studios—painting, arts & crafts, woodshop, fabrics, ceramics, and jewelry. If I remember right, I had twelve staff members from all over the world. I think we’re all still Facebook friends. Not gonna lie, though, that summer was tough.
I had just lost my husband. I needed to get away. I was offered the job because I’d worked there years before. So, I took it. Then I tried to back out. Then I just had to show up.
It was a hard summer. I was still in the thick of grief, and I would be for a while.
Flash forward to today—I’m in Paris, meeting up with one of my staff from that summer. She’s flying in from London just to spend the day with me. Her flight is late. It doesn’t matter. We hop on the train out of Charles de Gaulle, heading into the city.
Paris welcomes us with sunshine and a crowd we try to avoid. I let her lead the way. We catch up on life—her things, my things, my film work, my trip, all the things.
We’re too impatient to wait in lines, so we wander. We land at the Louvre, thinking we’ll go in, but never do.
And then, memory folds over itself.
Rewind to 2014. I was married. My husband and I had created The Globe Squatters, two artists house-sitting our way around the world. We had just finished a house-sit in a little French town near Normandy. Now, we were in Paris.
Standing outside the Louvre, people-watching. He sits on the stairs. I stand a few feet away, admiring the architecture. He’s taking photos. I feel a drop on my head.
“It’s raining,” I tell him.
He looks up. “No, it’s not.”
I run my hand through my hair and look at my palm—covered in pigeon poop.
He laughs. Says it’s good luck. Takes a photo of me in that moment.
Flash forward again, to today. I convince my friend to reenact the moment with me—then and now. She humors me. People stare, trying to make sense of what we’re doing. It’s a moment she won’t forget. A moment I won’t either.
Looking at the photos, it’s clear: things have changed. Some differences are obvious—other differences aren’t so obvious. they are inside the framework of my soul, head and heart from living, adventuring and losing.
And yet, here I am. Living. Breathing. Believing in the power of connection.
A slight detour: to understand the weight of the next moment, you’d have to read my other post: Just a Zipper.
It’s no mistake that right after this reenactment, I found a zipper pull. It felt like something beyond me at work—a message, a nod from the universe. My friend and I had tapped into something bigger than ourselves, and the response rippled outward, circling back in a language only I could understand.
I live for these moments. They remind me that life speaks in symbols, that signs are always there for those who choose to see them. Some might call it coincidence. I call it magic. A map to history, ancestors, lost loved ones, and moments yet to come. I follow the signs because they have never failed me. Because they are clues, left by the unseen world I walk within.
The journey isn’t on any map—it’s one we create as we go, guided by intuition, experience, and forces we can’t always explain. For me, signs are proof that the world is alive with meaning, that I’m on the right path, even when I question myself. And I do, daily.
Even as I prepare to leave, not knowing what’s next, I know this: the world will never lose its beauty to me. I will keep following inspiration, intuition, and the burning curiosity that drives me to discover, uncover, and revel in life’s mystery.
And then, I’ll do it all again.
Euro for Your Thoughts?
Have you ever returned from a journey feeling changed? How did you navigate that shift once you were back home? Drop a comment—I’d love to hear your stories too.