Like a long, lost Love calling from across a foggy sea, I hear you calling to me.
I hear my name coming out of you as though a piece of you is missing. I feel this longing for you that has always been in the deepest recesses of my soul and is now getting louder. Sometimes I want to experience you so badly that I cry at night.
Be still, my soul.
Only you are not a man that I would have known you, but a country, a nation. You are a culture that calls to me as though I know your name and have spoken your language.
I have not.
The only thing I know of you is that you call to me, in the middle of the night, in my dreams, when I hear a song sung out in your language. When I see pictures of your fashion houses and your Palace of Versailles it stirs something within me. I love you but I don’t even know you. But you call me as if I do.
I long to visit you, inhaling deeply of your art and tasting of your history. I want to see the paint strokes of De Vinci on your walls at the Louvre. And walk the halls of the Palace of Versailles that your great Louis XVI walked.
Has my love for you always been there?
I believe so.
I believe that I was born with a piece of you in me that I must return. What do I have that you need? What do you have that I need? Is there someone in you that needs to hear what I have to say? Is there someone there that needs something that I have? I feel as though you are missing a piece of your country and that piece is me.
Sometimes I think that I was born on the wrong side of the sea.
I dream of you when the north wind blows and the winter frost stings my ears. I dream of you when I taste the sweetness of a red grape. I dream of you when I see your Eiffel tower so strong and proud. My ears long to hear your language being spoken into them as though life will not be full without it. My tongue yearns to eat from your market place. The souls of my bare feet want to tread upon your vineyards.
You have always been within me. There, hidden in the deepest parts of my soul. Could my love for you come from the knowledge that you are the fashion capital of the world? Perhaps.
Why do you call to me?
What is it that I have that you need? What is it that I can contribute to you and your people?
“Come away with me,” I hear a whisper upon the warm breeze. “Come away with me,” again and again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop wanting to see you for myself and not just in the movies. What is it about you that intrigues me? Is it your French renaissance that I want to know of?
When I was young and wild you were there calling me. Now that I am mature and wise you are still calling to me.
I have to be careful thinking about you because when I think of you too much it makes me want to sell everything I own and go to you.
I must go.
One of these days I will come to you. One of these days soon this longing will be fulfilled. Soon, I will be on an airplane with you as my destination and I will touch down on your rich soil and drink deeply of your presence.
Outwardly, I blame it on my gypsy roots but inwardly, I know it runs deeper. I know that my Creator placed this longing in me for a reason and I must go and find out why.
Even though your voice, France is the loudest, there are others that call to me as well; Italy, Ireland, and England I hear you, too.
My heart beats for the nations. My heart beats for you. It always has and it always will but until then I will send my letters to you in hopes that you will read them and know that I hear you and I am coming soon.
All of my love,
Angela B. Bowland
Author of More Than a Mud Flap
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