Tis my Birthday


Gutsy Old Me

Yes, I have danced on tables. This picture was taken in France on a white-clothed table in the new hotel restaurant, one summer day, during a writing workshop.

I am astonished at how brave I am. And I love that though I am no spring chicken, I am not above being crazy. I love that this is not above my dignity. (What dignity? some may ask.) Dancing on tables has always been a symbol to me - that though I feel a fool, I believe that every table I climb on brings me closer to a certain freedom - the freedom to do and not worry about what others think. This reminds me of a letter my friend Susan in France gave me a long time ago and which I keep by my desk. I shall quote her:

O YVONNE
LETS LIVE IN A FOOLS PARADISE
LETS PRAISE FOLLY
AND PRACTICE IT
AT LEAST YOU HAVE FORCED ME
TO THINK ABOUT - BY YOUR COMPLAINTS -
WHAT A BIG THING BEING A FOOL IS -
THE BIGGEST THING
IN THE WORLD,
THE BIGGEST WE CAN ACHIEVE.

I WISH I HAD THE COURAGE
TO BE A FOOL.
AT LEAST YOU HAVE
TAUGHT ME WITH ALL THIS
CLAMOUR TO SEE CLEARLY
THAT THIS IS WHAT I WANT.
IT'S ALSO WHAT I RESPECT IN
OTHER PEOPLE,
REALLY RESPECT.

BEING HAPPY AND HAVING
THE COURAGE TO BE FOOLS
IS VERY MUCH THE SAME THING.
LETS BE HAPPY.

Susan has given me a lot of courage over the years. Happiness is no easy thing. But how
I love it. I want more and more of it and if it means climbing on more damn tables, so be it.

I feel so loved today...

And since it's my birth day, I'm allowed to be self-indulgent (I do this every year) and say nice things about myself. And my daughter has also done it for me: Gillian's website

The other day, I had my hair cut and streaked. I like it. And in an hour or so, I am going out with my mother and Helen to have a manicure and pedicure. And later in the day, I am going out with my longest friend Penelope and her love and her parents. And, and... tomorrow my family are having a party for me. I love birthdays (even my 59th.)

A Breath of Fresh Air

I've come up for a breath of air. The two major projects I've been working on for months have been made public.

our house

and

Marlene Schiwy Website


And though I consister myself an excellent cleaning woman/house painter, I am less sure of my website abilities (though I did have help from both my sons) as Marlene's website is the first one, I have attempted.

And, in the end, although my writing has been put aside, I see that I loved the work. If anyone asks me how I feel about what I have accomplished, I will most likely say that I am pleased but both projects are far from perfect. (Oh, that old addiction to perfection is hard to lose.) But in my heart of hearts, I feel that I have outdone myself. Both shine with the care and attention I've paid to detail. (Of course, I am speaking of appearances, especially in regards to the website as it was Marlene who provided the content and images.)

The first public Open House of our home was on Sunday, Easter Sunday, and though the real estate agent said that it was well attended and that there were three couples who were interested, there were very few cars on the street and even the mall down the road - except for several stores - was closed so we will have two more Opens this weeks (meanly I will have to be especially clean and tidy) and hopefully get some offers. I know I expect miracles - a quick sell - but I do so want to get to France and get back to my writing...

On Saturday, I will turn 59 years - my last year in my fifties. I hope it is a good one. I really really hope this...

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I'm hoping and praying that this is the year that dreams come true.

Today a photographer will come into our home and take pictures of the house we have lived in for 25 years. Later in the day a sign will go up on our lawn. I'm hoping that the luck of the Irish will be with us and it'll be a quick sell. I'm hoping that a young couple, like we once were, enters and falls in love with it, as we once did, and wants to raise their family in it. (Before us, another couple lived in this cottage for 25 years and raised two children.) It is humble house without pretension and even though we have borrowed furniture and rugs to jazz it up, it is what it is. For three months, Rob and I have been working at clearing and cleaning and I like the result. There is no clutter, nothing or little superfluous in it, and I see that this is the way I want to live from now on.

And far away, across the ocean, our other home (oh, we are so lucky) is almost ready for us. Here's a picture of the roof terrace (without the beams removed.) As the town sits atop a hill and we have one of the highest houses in the village, we will look out over luscious vineyards and glorious sunflower fields. Rob dreams of barbecuing here. I dream of sipping wine and reading poetry under the stars.



Speaking of poetry, I thought of an especially lovely one - one I once quoted for another friend - when I was looking at Facebook and checked out some pictures of a sister - the sister who was locked out of her house by a man. On Friday, the court ordered that he let her in to get her "stuff" and half the stuff that they bought together. And though he gets the house (unfair), she is glad to be rid of him.

This sister has blossomed over the months, since she was locked out. She's become a sassy, sexy force... and I love her spirit.



Here's a part of the poem for her (by Olga Broumas, called "Rumpelstiltskin"):

Did anyone
ever encourage you, you ask
me, casual
in afternoon light. You blaze
fierce with protective anger as I shake
my head, puzzled, remembering, no
no. You blaze

a beauty you won't claim. To name
yourself beautiful makes you as vulnerable
as feeling
pleasure and claiming it
makes me. I call you lovely. Over

and over, cradling
your ugly memories as they burst
their banks, tears and tears, I call
you lovely. Your face
will come to trust that judgment, to bask
in its own clarity like sun.

Yeah, Maggie.

I must run and set the scene for the photographer. I imagine it will be an emotional week - one in which strangers will enter our space and examine all we have with critical eyes... but all we need is one who has the same aesthetic that we have...

I can't believe...

that two weeks have flown by since the first garden party. We did have a second "gardening" party to clean up the front yard and a number of good souls, who were free and able, returned. We had forgotten the little stone steps that lead up to the higher end of the garden and the cottage-y stone wall that runs along one side.... we had to pay for another load of debris to be hauled away.

We're piglets - no doubt about that but do I regret all the time that I spent doing other things - like writing? Not one little bit. But I do like everything spic and span. Reminds me of the poem "Woman Enough" by Erica Jong:

I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.

And in these two weeks the interior of our house has come under scrutiny. I have painted the entrance hall, the stair banister that Java uses as a scratching post, the interior of my little house in the garden (now virginal white), and laid a floor in the downstairs washroom. I took off one afternoon to be with my father and woke at 5:30 the next morning to take him to the airport. (And whose bag was searched because he was carrying 100 silver half-dollars of mine to sell.)



I had a discussion with my accountant who wanted us to pay 40,000 (yes I have the zeros right) right away. And I was on the verge of tears and my stomach was doing somersaults when I spoke to my father and then a friend accountant, who told me a way to waylay that ghastly amount. (And I wonder why our new accountant didn't think of this way herself. And I am sick to almost death of accountants. I was not impressed when I received her first bill the next day for 2,900 with no explanation, just that grand figure. And I find myself fuming that this profession does not account for their billing. Why can they/he/she/whoever just ask for a sum without an explanation. Rob notes his hours. I have always noted my hours. Our builder notes his hours... )

And beyond, repairs and money, there have been a few precious moments. Rob came to me, wrapped his arms around me and said that he could not go through this without me. My eldest son rescued me one night and took me out for a fancy dinner. It felt so good sitting across from him, talking, eating a perfect filet, lyonnaise potatoes, and asparagus, drinking a superior red wine in a crystal goblet, in an elegant restaurant. Those few hours took me away from the drudgery of house work... but that's not really what's important - what is, is that this son wished to be with me, treat me, and tell me of his life. Of course, not all is perfect - whose life is? - but he is happy work-wise. He has found his self-respect in his job.

And my other son, the younger, will turn 26 tomorrow. (The elder turns 30 this year.) The birthday boy is the little one in my lap.



He was such a joyous, loving, mischievous, talkative little boy. He engaged everyone in conversation. This picture was taken in Mexico when Rob was working on Rambo, and everyone in the hotel would smile and greet Michael by name, even the guards with their rifles who stood outside the hotel's gates...

Yet underneath his joyful clatter was a serious scared little soul who was always questioning his place in the world. I have a poem that he wrote when he was nine or ten on my office wall:

I am special
I wonder about life
I hear music..
I pretend that life is normal
I feel alone
I touch the stars...
I hope that I am loved
I am special

And I wondered at the time, as I wonder now, how he could question being loved... for he is so lovable and kind and sensitive... and creative and intelligent and thoughtful. He really is. He has begun re-organizing his life lately, is taking more university courses, is working towards a new future... and he sounds happy.

And so this coming year, my son, I send you much love and gold dust (my friend, Kate knows how potent this can be) so you will be happier, even more successful than your wildest dreams.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICHAEL