Recently scrubbed like a naughty child, sand-blasted and cleaned of the scars of witch-burnings, wars, and industrial pollution; she now stands before us, glorious as she once was 800 years ago. Imagine the joy the people of Paris once felt, watching her rise-up over the course of almost 300 years.
Woodworkers, stoneworkers, surveyors, designers, wheel-wrights, gold and silver and black and copper-smiths. Labourers, cooks, porters, teamsters, drivers. Men and women and children; horses and oxen. How many generations devoted their lives to this monument of human beauty, sacred beauty.
That she is beautiful is beyond doubt. Perhaps the only architectural wonder to be honoured as the main character in a novel. How much I enjoyed reading this last winter on cold nights and cold days; and how often I wondered how many people only the know it by name (or at best by the Disney animation). Such a wonderful story. That she is sacred beauty is beyond doubt.
From the outside. From the inside. From the four directions. In the rain, watching the gargoyles wake up. Sitting on benches. Lying on the floor, looking up at the glasswork placed between slender and graceful lines of the many gothic arches.
Listening to sounds: echos, music, chanting, doors opening and closing, footsteps carefully approaching sacred places, clicking cameras of touristik visitors.
But especially the play of light and shadow dancing on walls. Imaginings thousands of pilgrims over the hundreds of years, trekking across France and Europa, wearing-out millions of shoes and boots along the way. How many worn out wagons, broken-down cartwheels, broken wine bottles, broken hearts. They just wanted to see for themselves this splendour of Notre Dame Paris.
And all this was before bishops signed death warrants. Before priests signalled to light the fires under how many women; dangerous women who knew how to bring babies safely into this
world, who knew how to use dandelions and other plants to relieve the suffering of people, who dared to look directly at the wonder and magic of this world of basic good-ness. For how many different reasons, and for how many different women was the torch set to the twigs beneath their feet and dresses. In Europa, maybe 5,000,000 women. Ror example, Jean D'Arc in front of Notre Dame Rouen. Not so different from the exterminations of modern times. Look at Victor Hugo's story: of Quosimodo sweeping down from the bell towers, snatching Esmeralda away from the hangman, taking her to a safety place inside Notre Dame. And the crowds booing, robbed of the spectacle long promised to them.
But for me, the real reason for trekking halfway around the globe to Notre Dame de Paris was to offer "A Bowl of Tea for Peace." For it was at Notre Dame University in Kyoto that I met so many young people, inspiring people: Yukiko, Yuko, Mariko, Mariko,Yukina, Makiko, Yuri. Together we studied something beautiful and profound about Japanese culture. And also the exceptional honour to open the Notre Dame Tea House, with the University president as first guest. Such events must be appreciated. Such things must be marked in a grand way.
And it was marked in a very grand way. Yuko Takaoka, now living with Pascal and kids in Paris, was one of these young people.
Together we offered "A Bowl of Tea for Peace into the Four Directions," our gift of Kansha, appreciation, inside the belly of this great beauty, this great place of sacred world, this place of great human suffering.
Now fresh and newly restored, may she never again witness such low level human activities--people killing people, guns pounding away at the city and children around her, bombs falling and shattering the few pieces of original coloured glass. May she inspire the many visitors and pilgrims to just say "NO" to all this madness. May the dark ignorance of sentient beings be dispelled.
And may you also enjoy Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo, and Disney's animation Notre Dame.
