and rain will make the flowers grow

Since I cannot be in Paris this Spring, I opened up a bit of Paris into my heart last night. If you'd been here, you would have seen me silently singing along to Les Miserables at the Opera House in Boston. As with most things French, I adore Les Miserables. Never has a musical touched my soul in the way these songs do. I felt myself shivering with goosebumps as Javert hung off of the bridge over the Seine, or when Eponine walked in the dark seeing the trees full of starlight. I can envision myself climbing up onto the barricades, or waiting to hear news of those students in battle.

I've seen Les Miserables a number of times, starting from the age of 13. With surprise, I've noted that each viewing brings a connection to different characters. I identified with Eponine as a child, now my heart beats along with Cosette and Marius. My mother identifies with Fantine's songs for her daughter. I suppose it is a reflection of the stage you are living in.

I took Josh to see it for the first time a few years ago, and when one of my dearest friends told me she'd never been, I jumped at the opportunity to see it again. It is a bit silly, considering that I could sing you the musical from start to finish, but I still find myself breathless as the gunfire starts. Even a cold that forced me to blow my nose through applause and loud songs couldn't keep me away.

I hope one day I'll be able to pass along my love of musicals to a child or children. I suppose in those moments my character identification will shift again, perhaps to Jean Valjean. For the first time, I found myself tearing up at his sorrow over Cosette's new love.

She was never mine to keep.
She is youthful, she is free.
Love is the garden of the young.

Heartbreaking. Isn't that the hardest part of having a child?

For the rest of today, I'm sure that I'll be in my office humming the tunes. Do you hear the people sing?