For over 20 years, I’ve been longing to visit Paris. I’m not sure what was so compelling about the city. Perhaps it had something to do with losing my French father when I was 23 years old. I yearned for what he never gave me. I thought I'd find it in Paris.

I was in Paris on a "Writers Tour" with Cynthia Morris, a life coach from Boulder who coaches writers. I was hoping to find my Muse. We were there to visit the homes and hangouts of the expatriates who went to France in the early 1900's to explore their creative freedom. My son-in-law's great aunt, Janet Flanner, was one of those writers. She wrote a column for The New Yorker under the pen name of Genet. While I was there, I kept finding feathers on the ground. My muse told me it was Janet who was dropping those feathers for me.

After a bit of a rough beginning (severe jet lag) I settled into my room at the Hotel La Louisiane in the de Saint-Germain-des-Pres neighborhood for 10 days in the City of Lights.

Each day after the morning adventures with the group, I'd come back to my room, take a bath in the very deep bathtub, prop my feet up and decompress for a hour or two. Many of the people on the tour with me were from Denver and Boulder so hearing stories of familar places made me homesick for Colorado. I lived in Denver for many years before moving to California in 1987. My stay in Paris contained some mind-blowing experiences as well as some pretty desperate moments. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

At a cocktail party one night in an exquisite home right under the Eiffel Tower with American writers living in Paris, I felt as if I was starring in a movie. I had to keep telling myself. This is real. You are here. You are one of these people — an American writer in Paris. Contrast that experience with a 2-hour episode when I was so lost I couldn’t find my way back to my hotel. Common sense tells me now I could have hailed a cab and ended my misery quickly. Didn't even occur to me in the moment. Cynthia said we'd have meltdowns. I had a few.

At the Auberge Pyrenees Cevennes, a fine French restaurant, I spotted a book entitled, "The Essence of Style, How the French Invented High Fashion, Fine Food, Chic Cafes, Style, Sophistication and Glamour." That pretty much sums it up.

At the Pere Lachaise Cemetery, after visiting the graves of Gertrude Stein, Collette, Oscar Wilde and Edith Pilaf, I saw tombstones with my family names on them — Duclos and Laurent.

On a more practical note, the Parisians don’t pick up their dog poop. That dirty job is left to the street cleaners who are out there early every morning in their green vests with their green brooms cleaning the streets. I feel for those poor French bulldogs who have to poop on sidewalks. How humiliating. I saw homeless people begging for money outside the cathedrals. One was dressed up like a priest, prayer book and all. Every morning as we gathered to begin our jaunt for the day, the same homeless man was there with his dog and his grocery cart full of his precious belongings.

On my last night in Paris, we took a boat ride on the Seine. What a delightful way to end our time in Paris. I really wanted to be in love that night. So I just bundled up in my own arms and told myself that in God's time — not mine, I would be in love again — not like I was at 22 with Howard, but a more mature love based on growing together spiritually.

Back home now in California, the box I live in (my home) doesn't feel suitable anymore. It smells like an old museum that contains a history I don't want to live in anymore. My first instinct was to rent a dump truck, pull it up to the front door and hall everything to the dump. I am exploring these feelings through writing.

Paris has made me want more of the finer things in life. I've made a promise to myself to visit art museums in San Francisco, go to the Pacific Coast (ocean) once a week, to have more gatherings with friends, take more risks; and simply live my life more passionately, sharing my open heart with more people.

"It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with, we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it." Anasis Nin

Stirring Things Up

Traveling stirs up your life. No doubt about it. It's similar to what life coaching does. It offers new perspectives on life — perspectives you would never imagine on your own.

A life coach doesn't live with your saboteurs and therefore isn't limited by them. A life coach can see your life as pure possibility. That's their gift.

Hiring a life coach is like getting a tune-up on your life. Early on in a coaching relationship, you and your coach get current on your values. Are they yours or inherited from your family or culture? We poke around and see where your life needs a little oil or grease to have it run more smoothly.

We also look at systems that are not functioning at all and see what it would take to have the whole life be a well-oiled, well-maintained machine. Sometimes that may mean exploring the soul work that has never been addressed.

Sometimes it means taking steps to end something that no longer serves who you are or who you are becoming. Sometimes it may mean moving to a new space that more represents who you have become.

Sometimes it means setting aside time for a creative life that will make life worth living. Sometimes it may mean facing an addiction.

Creativity is a calling — an expression that can only come through you. Don't deprive the world of your creativity. The world is badly in need of the nurturing that creativity breeds.

I don't know what will come of my trip to Paris. I do feel an earthquake starting to form in my deepest self. I used to change everything on a whim. Now I explore change thoroughly. Perhaps a bit too thoroughly.

That's something I'll have to explore with my coach the next time we meet.

For more information about the trip to Paris, visit www.originalimpulse.com. Click on Cynthia's blog and read about the trip and explore the photos taken in Paris.

And by the way, I recommend stirring up your life a bit. Hire a coach or take a trip. Get a tune up.

Reconciling with The Catholic Church

The only thing I wanted to do on that one Sunday morning in Paris was visit a Catholic Church and hear the Mass in French. So I followed my instincts and entered the small church near my hotel. The minute my butt hit the pew in front of the Virgin Mary, the organ music started. It was as if Mary was saying, Welcome home, Pauline.

I left the Catholic Church and my Catholic God when my husband died in Vietnam 38 years ago. I was clear at the time there was no God.

I proceeded to live the following 25 years without a God. I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s really hard work and really frustrating.

In the last 15 years, I’ve discovered a new God but my new God doesn't frequent Catholic churches or hang crucified on the cross. I don’t know what compelled me to visit this church — perhaps a desire to make amends for the resentments I’ve held against the Catholic Church for so many years.

As I sat there looking up at the Blessed Virgin, I remembered my wedding day when I knelt in front of Mary and asked her to grant me a happy married life. I remember the song that was playing — On this day oh beautiful mother, on this day we give thee our love. Near the Madonna fondly we hover — trusting—

Mary didn't hear my prayer that day. Howard died in the first year of my marriage.

Years after Howard’s death when I’d visit my mom, I’d attend Mass with her, but I never participated in the sacrament of receiving Holy Communion. I never felt connected to any of it. I was simply honoring my mom’s religion.

That Sunday morning in Paris, as I sat there weeping, I asked for forgiveness for blaming the Blessed Mother for Howard’s death. I asked for release of my resentments and a soft heart. I wandered out of the church back to my hotel — thinking how odd that I had to come all the way to Paris to reconcile with the Catholic Church.