Today would have been my father’s birthday. Very often it fell on Father’s Day, giving us even more reason to celebrate. My dad was a special man, and not because he was mine but because he possessed one of the kindest and most generous hearts, was filled with wit and humor, was immensely intelligent, and loved people, all of them. Most of all, he adored my mother and his two children. He and my mother met in London and fell in love instantly. Three months later they began their life in the Hamptons. Marrying later in life, he never suspected he’d be a father. He was one of the best.

We lost him to a terminal illness 27 years ago, yet not a day passes in which I don’t think of this sweet man and know that he is with me. My dad was American, a New Yorker, but was deeply devoted to both France and Italy. I know on an instinctual level that he has been guiding my life, watching over me as he had done since childhood. When I moved to New York City to start my adult life, he was with me. When I traveled the world for 13 months, he was with me. When I met my Italian on the street in Soho, he was with me. When I feel doubt or fear, he helps to relieve my mind. As does my beloved mother in the living, so does my father in his passing.

My father continues this journey with me now, sharing my life between Paris and the Italian Riviera, two places that were very close to his heart. I know that he is smiling from above, pleased to see his daughter living as he would have liked me to, by my heart. And sharing this life with a soulful man very much like him. I’m certain they would have adored one another.

My dad was a writer, and the joy I feel in writing is shared with him, connecting us on an even deeper level. I like to believe he sends me words when I need them. And shares in my achievements.

For all of you blessed to share this day, and all the days to follow, with your fathers, enjoy! And those whose fathers too have passed, know that they are always with you.

Recently I was looking through old family photos and stumbled across something my mom had saved from my elementary school years. A photo of me being creative; drawing, designing, making something; my favorite past time as a child. Along with the photo was a typewritten note from my teacher. I blushed upon reading it! Was I really such a joy, and with so much wisdom? Little did I recall. The same way I don’t remember all that much about my childhood other than that it was mostly a good one. It’s true that family always meant a lot to me.

Rereading this made me think about how honestly and purely we know ourselves as children. It’s the time in life when we are free to be, and to become, without thinking too much about what any of it means. Born to artistic parents, I followed suit with a creative mind of my own. This freedom to express was what provoked me years ago to start designing bags, to start writing (even if initially only for myself), to step off the corporate ladder and instead follow my own path of travel which eventually led me to Paris.

These words from a teacher who has so many years later left an impact, are what I will reread whenever I feel doubt or confusion as to who I truly am. This little girl knows.

Who where you as a child? Has this impacted who you are now? Let us think about when we were young…

One of the hardest parts of living in Paris, is not the attitude of the French nor the language and cultural barriers, but the distance from the one person that means the world to me (other than my Italian of course). My mom. I used to be able to hop on a train and be at her doorstep in under 2 hours, a quick jaunt on the LIRR from NYC to the Hamptons. I miss that. Equally, I miss those rare days when she would come to NYC for business and the day would end in one of those magical mother daughter encounters. For a moment, NYC became ours to share. (I will always smile when I pass Bloomingdales, our chosen meeting place.)

During my ‘formative years’ beginning at age 15, she was my sole parent, not an easy task with 2 kids in tow. I am grateful that my mom always supported my decisions, to study abroad, to move to New York City… even to travel the world. “You know what is best for you,” were her exact words. And to move to Paris, knowing she would see me less, but most importantly, knowing that I was happy.

Every day I look forward to sharing the pieces of my life with her. Trials, successes, random thoughts and musings, all if it. It is the words of my mother that always seem to bring clarity, though sometimes I may resist them. Stubborn traits run in the family? After all, who knows us better than our own mothers. And simply, she makes sense.

It is also for my mother than I began to write a blog, and continue to. During my travels in 2007 it was she who I wanted to share my adventures with (and anyone else who was willing to indulge in my journey). And now here in Paris, on those gray days when I don’t feel inspired, I simply think about my mom and how much she looks forward to my thoughts and experiences. And I write.

For these many reasons, and simply because I feel eternally grateful to have been raised by such a wonderful, warm and wise woman, and to have her in my life, I dedicate this blog to my mom. Also, it happens to be her birthday and I’m a big fan of surprises. Since I can’t be with her in person, (though soon enough we shall raise a glass), a virtual celebration will have to do.

Happy Birthday Mom!

I no longer celebrate the life of my father on what is known as ‘Father’s Day’, I celebrate my father every day. A man equally strong and sensitive, private and personable. Coincidentally his initials spell DAD. He is with me in my daily musings. We observe the world with a shared vision. He celebrates my triumphs and consoles me in moments of sadness. Whenever I feel confused or uncertain of my path, I turn to him, this wise and knowing man who uniquely understands me. I am his daughter after all.

My father is omnipresent, yet I miss him dearly. It’s been almost 20 years since he passed away and I feel grateful for every day I spent with him, in the living. As the years without him now outnumber those with him.

It’s my father that filled me with the desire to write, to feel, to love. (My mother too has always been an advocate of following the heart, and for her I am constantly and forever grateful.) Exploring and understanding the world was also passed on from father to daughter.

It is through my father’s constant presence in my life that I always feel safe. I too, am convinced that it’s through my father’s silent guidance that I met my Italian, someone I know he would have been proud to call a friend. One glance at my father’s impressive collection of books ranging from French philosophers to American classics, and my Italian was certain they would have spent many a late night immersed in conversation. I have no doubt.

Today, as I do often, I reflect on the man I am proud to call my father.