The Earth Rises in Paris

Paris greeted us with sunlight that danced over the rooftops, a crisp autumn breeze, and the kind of sky that makes you look up and smile. It was one of those days that already felt like a painting — soft blue tones, drifting leaves, and the hum of the city moving gracefully below.

To top it off, our hotel had an unlimited supply of pink marshmallows in a beautiful glass jar — I couldn’t resist, and neither could Alena! We stuffed those marshmallows into our mouths, looking like chipmunks with nuts in their cheeks, but we didn’t care. We pretended nothing was there, and the pink sugar rush filled us with childlike happiness.

Our next visit was to Gustave Roussy Hospital, a place of remarkable care and humanity. Early that morning, we went straight from the hotel to the hospital, where we were welcomed by the event organizers and a group of doctors. Before meeting the children, they invited us into a small conference room to share how they cared not only for their patients’ physical needs, but also for the emotional well-being of both the children and their families.

I was deeply touched by what I learned that morning. Parents were encouraged to cook meals for their children in a shared kitchen — bringing the comfort of home into the hospital. Teenagers were given rooms where they could paint on the walls, decorate, and express themselves freely. I could feel how much the hospital believed in healing the whole person — not just the body.

That day, we were working on our Spacesuit, Earthrise, and Dreamer Spacesuit projects. I sat beside a little boy who was focused but quiet, and although my French was limited, we managed to communicate through smiles, gestures, and laughter.

He studied the Earthrise photograph carefully and began to draw. But when I looked at his artwork, I realized he had painted the Earth like the Moon — gray and cratered, lifeless. I gently leaned over and said softly,“C’est la Terre… et ça, c’est la Lune. This blue planet, Earth, is our home.”

He stopped and looked at me with wide eyes. “C’est chez nous ?” he asked. “Oui !” I smiled. “Chez nous.”

Something shifted in him. His expression changed — wonder replacing uncertainty. He quickly took his eraser and began again. With pencil in hand, he started drawing the Earth, then the surface of the Moon, and himself standing on it, with his spaceship beside him, looking back toward Earth and the International Space Station in between.

The entire drawing was done in pencil — soft, delicate contour lines — except for two small touches of color: himself and his spaceship. Those tiny bursts of color glowed with meaning. It was as if he had placed light where life existed — a quiet statement that even in the vast silence of space, our dreams carry color.

When Nicole came over to see his drawing, he ran to her and wrapped his arms around her in a long, joyful hug. For that moment, he wasn’t a patient — he was an explorer who had just found his place in the universe.

Reflection — The Color of Courage

As we left Paris, I couldn’t stop thinking about that little boy’s drawing — the quiet landscape of pencil- gray, white space, and those two small bursts of color: himself and his spaceship. In that image, I saw something profound. The gray was the uncertainty, the distance, the struggle.

But the color — that was life. That was courage.

He had placed himself in the vastness of the universe, tiny yet luminous, standing proudly on the Moon, looking back at Earth — his home

with the International Space Station between them. It was as if he had drawn his own bridge between humanity and possibility.

That image stayed with me. I carried it like a lantern, reminding me that color — like hope — doesn’t need to fill the whole page to change its meaning.

As Nicole, Ian and I packed our toolbox once more and prepared to travel to Cologne, I knew that our journey was nearing its most delicate chapter.

In Moscow, I had seen courage; in London, imagination; in Paris, belonging. But in Cologne, I would witness something even deeper — the gentle rebirth that comes when art becomes healing itself.