The Marvel of Mont Saint-Michel

Ahead of daylight on a chilly October morning, we stirred, shuffled into a boulangerie for a petit déjeuner, and caught a tour bus from Paris to Normandy. I slumbered on the several-hour journey. When I woke, this was my view: A dream on a hill–otherwise called Mont-Saint

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Streetside, Paris

The most famous places in Paris–like Le Tour Eiffel and the Arc De Triomphe–are stunning. On any given street, there’s a line of uncommon beauty, too. Symmetrical bliss in design and layout. An eye-catcher in the distance. The city bears the scent of perfume, Vespa fumes and

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A Month in France

I miss France. I’ve never lived there, I can barely scrape together enough French for a sensible sentence—let alone match the language’s dreamy lilt. I’ve only passed through on trips, mostly for pleasure, and once on the tail-end of a business trip. Not nearly as put-together as

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Suicide and Its Unrelenting Stigma

Suicide is an earthquake. Sudden, jolting and catastrophic, it ruptures the lives of those it leaves behind. The aftershocks ripple into subsequent generations. We spend years navigating our emotional landscapes, seismically realigned by chasms of guilt, confusion and regret. We build bridges when we share our grief,

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“You Are, I Am”

Six weeks before my brother died, I had a dream. The ultra-realistic sort, where you stir swearing it happened. I’d gone to visit my sister, Lisa, in Texas. Her house had morphed into what looked like my grandmother’s old home in Ohio–a blurring of lines characteristic of

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