Fantôme d’égout

So, our plumbing backed up a few weeks ago – and if you’re wondering why I’m just now writing about it, that’s because it’s taken weeks to get it resolved…or at least mostly resolved…ok, somewhat resolved. 

This is France.

It all started on a Saturday about three weeks after we moved in.  I had slept in (delightful!) and when Bobby came in to wake me, he declared that we stunk.  Literally.  I tried not to take offense (I swear it wasn’t me!) and adjust to this new reality.  I sat up, took a deep inhale and yup…pas bien!

From our days RVing, we had learned about “grey water” vs. “black water”.  Grey water is what comes from your sinks and showers.  Black water comes from your toilets.  We were lucky – our smell was a lovely combo of both. 

We played detective walking around the house for days trying to smell where it was worse, where it was better.  Then the terrible smell took on a life of its own.  It seemed to migrate around the house.  Appear all at once and then be gone hours later.  The master bedroom, the guest suite, the powder room, the TV room.  You’d walk into a space and be hit with a wall of stench.  No question, we had a funky poltergeist!

There was much confusion by our handyman as to the source – the showers and bath drains? the toilets and bidet? the (large and disgusting!) sewer access hole in the ground outside of our bedroom?  As it turned out, the main plumber was on vacation – for some undisclosed period of time.  So, they put caps on the shower drains and we ran hot water in the pipes for hours.  No dice – we still lived in a porta-potty.

Then one day Bobby and I started poking around under the house.  There is an apartment down there with rooms that extend along the length of the building.  When we moved in, most of these rooms were closed off.  But this day we decided to venture in.  We opened the second to last door and a thick rancid smell nearly knocked us over.  And there in the corner were two large clear buckets full of brown water from a leaking grey water pipe.  The pipe had been wrapped in electrical tape…like that was a good fix!?

Next, we had a new plumber come in (as the other one was still apparently on holiday) and we ventured again into the dark underground.  He took one look at the situation, shook his head and uttered the famous French word that works great in all stressful situations: “Putain!”

Whomever plumbed this house years ago had no idea what they were doing…pipes run this way and that, things that drain typically with gravity’s help were going up an incline.  It wasn’t even clear if there was a sewar access or a septic tank.  (C’mon…really?)

The plumber and I set about uncovering and opening up access points all around the foundation.  At one spot, he opened a cover and a cloud of tiny flies “des mouches!” exploded out followed by a black water stench that sent us reeling backward. “PUTAIN!”  (I joined in on that one!)

I’d like to say that with the discovery of the sources of both grey and black water stench, repairs thus commenced immediately and the problem was neatly resolved. 

But again, this is France. 

It’s been a few weeks, but after a little back and forth (and some strongly worded emails) repairs are now being made and we were slowly bidding goodbye to the funk phantom. 

All of this made me think of the funky ghosts that I carry around in the dark underground spaces of my life.  The places that I have buried deep in rooms that I hide from view. 

We all are taught to keep these places hidden.  And we pass this terrible advice on to our kids:  stop crying, don’t yell, you get mad way too fast, you’re ok – you’re not hurt, stop grousing and smile for this photo.  Maybe not always, but I’ve said these things before and then grimaced at myself. 

Anyway, I’m pretty good at covering up my wounded messy places.  I dress them up like the proverbial pig (no offense…I love pigs) and tuck them behind a calm smile and some good old fashioned hustle. 

Unfortunately, the pain then shows up when least expected…like a splinter that sits just under the skin.  One bump up against something or someone and the pain cries out.  Maybe I honk at the driver in front of me, maybe I am impatient with my child. 

The truth is, if I keep covering up the breaks and pain points in my life, they never heal.  It’s only when I peel back the manhole covers, open up those locked rooms, and invite some light and air into the dark places that I can see where the wound really is.  Maybe then I can be tender with these abandoned places, clean them with love, and listen to what they are trying to tell me. 

My teacher, Mia Togo*, encourages us to lean into this darkness, not to shy away from it.  She always says these messy and dirty places form the fertilizer to grow our most incredible transformations.  As she puts it: “No mud, no lotus”. 

Brilliant – and so true.

And so with eyes and heart open, I venture into my own darkness to see what I can find.  It’s always a strange, funky journey.

Let’s just hope that, back here in France, our house’s funk phantom finds a new place to haunt for a while.

Bisous,
Hanna

* P.S. Mia Togo’s work is incredible – check out her work and courses at https://www.miatogo.com/