I slept but sporadically. I want to go in a thousand directions and my mind is churning. One step at a time, I tell myself. Make a list. Answer correspondence. Sort out three months accumulation of bills and letters. Update my dream file. Find the few pages I wrote on "Shitty" for tomorrow's Plum meeting. Continue my account of the past week.

I would like to spill my guts on the page, as is my way, but find myself constrained as Marion several times said that what happens during the workshop happens in the safety of the temenos (sacred place) and is not to be discussed. But the brochure for public consumption notes: "In these intensives, the leaders create a supportive space where each participant can access and use her own individual dream imagery to discover her authentic self and speak with a free, open voice. Art and mask-making offer space for the unlived energy (the shadow) to emerge through the body, psyche, and voice." In the release form, they also note that the intensive is educational, not therapeutic but I feel it is both.

There were twenty-seven participants and the majority were psychoanalysts and therapists. One woman said that what you gain in the week would take over a year of psychoanalysis. This is new ground for me but thanks to Marlene's "Circle", I was better versed than I thought in Woodman's and Jung's ideas. I pushed myself as far as I could and though often I fell into my usual despair of not being intelligent enough, tough enough, too self-conscious, too constrained in body and voice, I feel in my gut that I did just fine and left with a clearer idea of what I have to do to be true to my self. Is that too vague?

A little voice inside me says "tough." I still have too much to absorb to speak plainly. And I have yet to go through my copious notes, look up poetry references, and collate dream information from the workshop. I wish there were more hours in the day. I've been up since 4 a.m. It's 10:45 and I'm still in my flannel night-gown and have done nothing practical. (How deliciously decadent. I'm going to savour the next few days while I still can blame my inaction on jet-lag.)

I'm home and oh so tired. I was able to turn my computer on Tuesday evening when I arrived and pick up the fifty emails that were sent during my time in England but then my computer died and I could not find my North American plug so I couldn't respond, couldn't blog, couldn't do anything electronically that evening or yesterday. It was a relief: I wrote my jet-lagged thoughts in my journal. And last night I went to Marlene's for her Jungian Women's Writers Circle to study Helen Luke. I could hardly keep my eyes open and what dribble I wrote. Judy sitting next to me said "You're so funny, Yvonne." Funny that I don't think of myself this way but I've been told this once or twice this summer. Guess it's time to rethink myself. No. This is what I did during the two writing sessions and most intensely during this past week where all I had to think about was my self.

How did my friend Kate put it? "Welcome back from a summer of becoming you." The process started in France and continued in England. I find the lost cause is not so lost. I filled half a thick journal with notes and thoughts, turned inward, chose to be silent most often when "class" was out and yet still had time to become close to my Rumis (room-mates) as we called ourselves. Now that was strange. I have never slept with three strangers in the same room. After one night, several complained of my snoring - all I drank the entire week was water, tea, and coffee Rob will be surprised to hear - but after that and the introduction of chocolate as a before-bed snack to my diet, I apparently snored less and we laughed and talked together, and I found myself - when all were tucked in their beds - reading them my stories.

In my wildest dreams, I have never imagined myself doing what I did that week. I have never worked and pushed myself so hard. I have never eaten so well or so regularly. I have never swum naked in a pool with other naked women. I have never been so self-indulgent for such an extended period of time. My moods swung down and up. I was not alone. After the final dance was danced the last morning, I sat and cried. (And to top it all off when I left, I left my new coat and silk dressing gown behind. This is not like me.)

I called Rob mid-week and he jokingly asked if we were wearing masks and jumping into water. He was not far off.

We met morning, afternoon, and evening. Every morning Marion lectured on some aspect of the conscious feminine followed by dream analysis. In the afternoons, we did voice and body work and then painted or wrote. Every evening was a surprise. Oh I would have liked to have run away and hid at times but I kept telling myself to belief in the process. How could I doubt it when three such extraordinary women, Marion Woodman, Mary Hamilton, and Ann Skinner created it and have been leading BodySoul intensives for thirty years?

Oh dear, I'm fading. I'll continue tomorrow.

Two days in Paris. Now I'm in London. Strange how some people are afraid of travel, others are in awe: "You were in Paris? Now London? Alone? Tough life!" No sympathy that I had to lug a heavy suitcase through the streets of Paris, up and down three, four, five dozen flights of stairs in the metro, find a hotel I've paid for and never seen, catch a bus to Charles de Gaulle, arrive at Heathrow, find London's metro (no, now it's the underground), remember to speak English, find another hotel (booked again on the internet) without a map...I found it.

The hotel is alright, clean, firm bed, disgusting carpet. I can live in it for two days because it's cheap London-standards - £39 but a small attic room with shared toilet and shower, though it is up six flights of stairs ( the young woman at reception helped me carry it up.) I'm not really complaining. Today, I visit Charington Cross Road with a young friend. Books, books, books (must remember the weight of my suitcase.)

I was so tired after finding my room and managing my suitcase that I went to a nearby restaurant that looked decent, called Goya, a Spanish tapas bar enticed by Rob's reports of Spanish tapas bars and the "spicey potatoes" item on the menu. Fooled again. The potatoes were not spicey at all and this made me miss Paris, not that I ate at gourmet restaurants but the food wasn't fried,was flavourful enough, and I could buy a pichet of wine for next to nothing. Not so here.

I woke at what I thought was a respectable hour - 6 a.m. - showered, dressed, went down for my English breakfast only to find that I hadn't switched my watch to English time and was an hour early. I took to the streets, found where my bus leaves tomorrow morning (just around the corner) for what Rob calls my "transformation." "Will you still love me after you're transformed?" he asked. I am not feeling glib. In reality, though Marlene and Ursula reassured me, I am apprehensive. I've even thought - these last few days - that I'm a lost cause, not suited for this workshop, not ethereal enough. But damn it all anyway, I am fifty-five years old with my "course roots in the earth" and I'll not let a little fear stand in my way. I'll do it come what may.

What more can I say? I loved Paris and only had time for a taste. I phoned Rob and asked him to ask Helene if she knows anyone in Paris who would like to trade their home for one in the south of France or even Vancouver. A month would be ideal. And I phoned Gill and asked her if she would like to do some shopping in Paris for her 19th or 20th birthday (you'd think I was made of money) and she said "19th."

Oh I did do a little shopping in this amazingly wonderful sexy city. I bought a coat because I was cold and the thought of a week on the English moors made me think it a smart decision. (Okay, I first asked my financial advisor if I should buy it or not, and Gill said "go for it.") I also bought a cosy pullover, a gift for Gill's birthday, one for Marlene's, and had my hair cut French.

One afternoon, I sat in a small brasserie people watching. An older couple sat across from me. No conversation. And I thought, "dear god, don't let this happen to Rob and me - old and nothing left to say to the other." And then a young, elegant, beautiful young man sat down beside me. He spoke on his cell phone twice. Once in perfect English. The second time in perfect French. Okay, I was mesmorized. I thought of a friend who told me that it's easy to get laid - it's all in the glance that lingers too long. And I thought as I sat there, making sure I didn't look him in the eye, that I have no desire for such sport. It would be more embarrassing than fun. I must be old because I think that good sex doesn't just happen (or at least it hasn't for me the first time new person.) Yes, it's all in the head, I think as I sit there; but then again,it's also in the hand, in the mouth, etc. etc.
(This was me in Paris -lily white, pure in body if not in thought. I smile as I type this.)

So tomorrow I'm off to Plymouth to the Moors and I doubt that I will be blogging again until I'm back in Vancouver a week and a day from now. What can I say? Wish me well.

I have just been sitting on a bench looking out from my village feeling rather sad that I won't see it again for who knows how long. In an hour, Rob and I leave for Caussade where he will put me on a train for Paris where I will wander the streets for two days before catching a plane for London. I sound like a jet-setter but feel like a small woman who is going to have struggle with a big suitcase on and off trains.

Several years ago Gill and I went to Greece with Helen. When we were in Santorini, our hotel was down twenty, thirty, forty steps and I became so angry at myself for bringing so much - my suitcase was ridiculously heavy - that I threw an enormous temper tantrum in our hotel room and threw every item from my suitcase around our room cursing each one as if it weighed down my soul.

I lay in bed beside Rob this morning rubbing my nose in his back - I am such an animal - telling him that I was drinking in his smell as I wouldn't be sleeping with him for a while and he laughed. (I said that I was trying to be poetic. Why does it never work? I will miss this man who teases me like crazy, who says he's not my father, who has grown more tender towards me over the last few weeks.)

But enough of this soppy stuff. I have written more of my fairytale but no time this morning to type it. If I can, I will continue at an internet cafe in Paris. If not, you will have to wait. (Life is so simple some times.) Au revoir.

I have so few mornings left in Castelnau de Montmiral. I have just been doing a slew of dishes from a dinner we had last night with James and Rachel Waugh, Lyn, and Susan. It was a good evening, full of wine and conversation but, as usual, I left the table early and Rob entertained our guests (although Susan, as is her habit too, went home before I lay down.) I am in my organizational, tidy-up mood. On Thursday morning I leave for my beloved Paris.

Here, for the lover of fairytales is Part 11 of mine:

When King Monogamy returned, the queen told him, with real tears, that the child was lost to them at birth (which wasn’t far from the truth) and her husband, not a bad man for all his boringness, wept with her.

Meanwhile her trusted servant carried the babe through the dark night, indeed through many dark nights, hiding when the sun rose, until she came to the sea that Vivacia had described, and paid for her passage and that of the child with jewels, not THE crown jewels but with precious stones nonetheless, on a stately ship.

When the captain of said ship, spied the dark beauty, carrying her precious bundle as if it were crystal, and noted how their passage was paid, he ordered the maiden and child be placed in a cabin next to his where he could watch over them; and before long, because of his kindness, was told of the queen’s servant’s mission – to find a safe home for the child until her mother, under some guise, could have her transported back to the castle.

The Captain, who was young and dashing, fell in love with the gentle servant and thus another fairytale began but the tale that needs to be told at present is that of the child. The story of the Irish Sea captain and the Persian maiden will continue at another time.

When the ship landed, the captain and the maiden (who turned woman during the voyage) found a earnest god-fearing young couple who desired a second child so they could rent a house (this was post-war times) and so were given charge of the queen’s lovely daughter and a handful of precious stones, accepting that her real mother might want her back at any moment.

Unfortunately this never came to pass. Vivacia, hiding again in the garden one night, was stung by a number of bees and died.

The baby, quiet by nature, was so different from the couple’s own daughter who was loud and demanding, that the man and woman favoured the child who had come to them at night. They also expected, it must be said, that they would receive more riches when the child’s presence was requested at the royal palace.

When they heard of the queen’s death, they decided the child who had been called simply princess was theirs, named her Barbara, and used the last of their wealth to cross the ocean to the new world.

The couple never told their fair-haired second daughter of her origins but at night Barbara would dream of castles, brightly coloured silks and satins, and flying carpets and knew in her heart that she did not belong to the people she called mum and dad, and, if she was very good and quiet, her real parents would one day reclaim her and take her to live in a palace.

In an hour, I'm off on an overnight adventure with Susan. We have not seen nearly enough of each other. Writers tend to hibernate I think.

I said yesterday that I might tell a fairytale. I don't know if this will bore you to tears but I'll give you the first part. I began this story in the midst of the second writing shop and although I took the exercise seriously, what came from me was downright silly. Saying this I have a feeling that it will take a serious turn. I have not polished this story nor do I intend it. Once in a while a writer has to have fun.

The story grew from an idea that I had as a child (a common one I hear) that my parents were not really my parents. I was a princess from an exotic land where carpets flew and genies lived in bottles. For some reason, my real parents had to give me up but one day they would come for me.

Part One

Once upon a time, the raven-haired Vivacia, who just happened to be queen of Persia, gave birth to a girl child. Under other cirumstances the tiny, fair-haired beauty would have been adored but the queen knew as soon as her husband, King Monogamy (or Monotony as he was called behind his back) saw the child, he would know that two dark skinned, raven haired people could not produce such a child and he would banish mother and babe or worse still, throw them in the rat-infested dungeon where they would die a slow and painful death.

This wasn't all he would do, Vivacia knew. The king had brought from Ireland, the only fair-haired male in the kingdom - a tutor for their son - and would naturally assume the young man was her lover which was, in fact, the case, although their affair had happened innocently enough.

Vivacia slept little during the hours her husband favoured for dreaming and often walked, under the stars, in the walled garden where the Irish man too often wandered, reciting verse by Yeats, Thomas, Joyce, or others from his homeland. She loved hearing his soft lilting voice, watching his long lean body, shoulders slouched with the intensity of his thoughts - so unlike her husband's rotund figure and booming bass - that she would hide behind a favourite oleander bush so as not to distract him.

One evening, the young man, needing to relieve himself, stopped in front of the queen's bush, and pulled from his trousers, a soft tube similar to the crown jewels but much prettier. When Vivacia saw it and his intention, she was so shocked that she jumped up and revealed herself and reveal herself she did more than she realized as she wore a thin night dress that was transparent in the bright moon's light.

They stood staring into each other's eyes and then sighed in unison as if giving into the inevitable, joined hands and found a sheltered spot to explore the other's treasures. And thus this became their habit.

When Vivacia's belly begin to grown, she feared that the child would be his but hoped beyond hope that the few occasions in which her husband had demanded her presence in bed would produce another raven haired child.

Alas as soon as she held the enfant in her arms, she knew that she had to act quickly. Her lord and master, away on a hunt, was due back in two days or, at the most, three so she gave her precious daughter to a trusted servant and bid her take the child across land and sea to the emerald isle, home of the child's father.

The air is cold. I know I repeat myself but the mornings feel like fall; the afternoons like summer. I dress for middle weather and never feel just right. I'm growing a little tired of telling what I'm up to here in a landscape that continues to appeal even with the sunflowers dropping and brown.

The most exciting thing that has happened lately is that for the past two days, Rob and I have driven down the road to Herve's farm and spoken about the French language. Herve has recently retired from a teaching position. He also, many years ago, taught French in a Scottish university. (He is Helene's first husband.) He lives on a large estate with two gites. One holds four people, the other six. He makes a decent income from the two but needs to supplement it now that he isn't working and is thinking of teaching French to English speakers from around the world and is looking for a way that not only benefits him financially but that pleases him aesthetically. He loves literature and poetry and song and wants to incorporate the three in his teaching. He also told us quite bluntly that he is lonely and would like to share his large house with four bedrooms. (The second Helene left him in November.)

He and Susan are coming for dinner tonight and Rob and I are supposed to have learned by heart "Le Corbeau et Le Renard", a French fable. I'll be lucky if I get the first four lines right but it is a fun way to learn. Speaking of fables, I'm thinking of publishing my fairytale on this blog. Maybe tomorrow.

I have not been able to write this public journal for a few days. I’m not sure why although it could be that I see my time is drawing to a close – less than two weeks and I’m on my way to London, then Plymouth to the bodysoul workshop, and I must arrange many practical details.

This morning, I was sitting on my bench at the edge of the village. The moon was just a sliver and there was a streak of red across the horizon. Fall is the air. I had already spent an hour on the Internet trying to find a cheap place to stay in London. (It’s both easy and difficult to make a reservation online: the big problem is that pictures are deceiving. I could be booking and paying for a real dump or I might be lucky.) I am frustrated. I wanted to write so much this summer and feel I’ve accomplished little in this department.

Two nights ago, I finished “Dancing in the Flames” and I keep returning to the last few pages, trying to digest and understand what several passages mean to me. It’s funny that I can hear something, read something, that I know on some level but somehow it doesn’t resonate until, all of a sudden, it hits me in the gut.

For instance, in the Woodman/Dickson text I keep thinking about the idea that “If quantum physics tells us anything, it is that reality is indeed in the eye of the beholder.” Linked to this, I jotted down the passage where the authors noted that Wolfgang Pauli, physicist and Nobel laureate, “recognized… that the unconscious drives – perhaps more than our conscious ego – govern much of our interaction with the world and our interpretation of it.” It follows then that I have to find a way into the unconscious if I am ever to understand the forces that gag and tie me, and those that will direct me in a positive direction.

I am still dwelling with relationship issues. If nothing else (although there is much more) Rob reveals me to me – more in my responses to him than my actions. For instance when we went to Toulouse, I wanted to make a game out of finding a cheap hotel and was prepared to walk for hours until I found exactly what I wanted. He hated this adventure. It wasn’t his idea of a good time, trouping around the city in the heat, with an overnight bag in hand; and although I tried to stay light, I finally gave in, at a hotel where I neither liked the atmosphere or price. And then I was angry at myself for not holding onto my idea and snapped at Rob that I did not want to go for coffee with him. A few minutes later, feeling like a complete imbecile - or perhaps, feeling like a spoiled child is a better comparison - I explained my anger and we went out for coffee.

Interesting that I tell this. Another passage at the end of “Dancing” goes:

“Making a commitment to another is really an illusion, a way of holding. In the end, it is to no avail. Making a commitment to our deepest Self however pulls us into life and opens the door to others. Love carries a great responsibility to go where life leads, to be where life resonates. If we have no passion for our own life, we will constantly seek it vicariously in others. Seeking a greater realization of the Self is the only commitment we can really make.”

After coffee, we separated and went our separate ways. We both found two hotels that fit my description – too late for this visit – but we’ll both be happy next.

Last night we had Sue and Leon Light, Bedding and Susan, and Ruth for dinner. I cleaned the place from attic to ground - having guests is a great motivator: the house needed a good scrub.

Ruth made a leek pie. Bedding a German plum tarte. Sue and Leon brought champagne – the real stuff – I made a ratatouille tomato sauce for pasta, and Rob made the salad. The evening was easy and delicious.

I'm sleeping later these days. I'm remembering dreams. I feel almost quiet inside.

I have begun a scrapbook of my writings, dreams, and thoughts of this summer. I am surprised as I copy out my proprioceptive writes: they are much more coherent than I thought at the time.

The air has changed in the village. It is fall in the morning and I wear a sweater to La Place to have my morning coffee and write in my journal; but by afternoon, the summer returns and I must strip down to almost nothing (it's been in the mid thirties this week.)

Ruth, the musician, is usually sitting at another table, eating her croissant, drinking her "grande creme" (coffee with hot milk) and reading a newspaper when I show up. We never sit together, never intrude on the other, although this morning I stopped briefly at her table to thank her for the appetizers, champagne, and house tour she gave Rob and me last night. Ruth is full of charm, lightness and laughter. This morning I told her that I like her, that I sense something kindred in her and she says that it is a shame that we don't share a common language. I say this may well not matter. When one in not proficient in a language, one must reduce ideas down to their simplest form and so are clearer (or is it that I am not good at explaining myself?)

Last night at Ruth's was delightful. Rob and Bedding were there too and Ruth showed us her house or rather, two houses. One is under construction and although they are beside each other, one has not been used for years. The living house, formerly owned by a carpenter, is built on many levels, and Ruth has transformed the patio at the back with a small bamboo fence, palm tree in the miniature garden, and swinging hammock that made me feel as if I were on a South Seas island. Both of her houses and her future plans for them (she plans to join them at back and have a concert hall) are wonderful as is she. Although a few years older than me, Ruth is like a young girl in her enthusiasm.

After our time at Ruth's, Rob and I wandered down from the town to the garden of Rachel and James Waugh on the invitation of Alice, their daughter who I have known since she was nine. Alice, granddaughter of Evelyn Waugh, plans to return to the town for six months next year to write a novel. She is here visiting with two young male friends, also in their twenties, and both Rob and I have been enjoying their youthful company. Also included in the garden party are Helene and her daughter Laura and grandson, Guillame; and Elena, Bedding's daughter, and her love, Martin, and their enfant son, Sil. Oh yes, and Fred, as he calls himself, the American version of Frederick, who has travelled widely in Canada and the U.S. and who likes to entertain in both languages. So we all sat under the stars and ate salads and spoke mostly in French. Although I said little and left early (as is my habit, early riser that I am), and went home to dream of babies, waking when Rob returned at midnight, the evening was more than enjoyable.

Today, Rob and I will go to Toulouse, to wander and spend the night. Our mission is to find a really cheap hotel, not too sleazy, clean, so we can explore the city, eat dinner, and find out if any nightlife - hopefully music - exists in this fourth largest city in France.

I have tried for two days to publish a blog but it isn't allowing me.
I am going to try again by splitting what I wrote in two. Perhaps
I'm being too wordy.

Yesterday Gillian started a public journal called Confessions of a Young Woman.
In it she asks if she can be honest and ruthless: "Is it dangerous to post my heart and soul this publicly?"

I have asked myself the same question many times and I think, in most cases, that being open might feel dangerous (more often frightening) but it's good for the soul. I feel this even more stongly after the two writing workshops this summer where I understood, perhaps for the first time, that reading aloud one's raw thoughts, exposing oneself, saying, in a way, that "this is who I am" pushes one's boundaries, is liberating in the sense that when I admit to my "small" thoughts (often those I call pathetic) I learn that such thoughts exist in others and so am kinder to myself.

Now having said that, I don't know how to continue.

"Your thoughts these days are too private," I tell myself. "They're too filled with scenes from childhood." Do I have to make all public? No. I do not have to tell all but I do want to write about some issues that I feel are universal. (In this realm, Nancy Mairs is my hero.) I'm not trying to be fancy, far from it, but there are things that we - okay, first person - I don't talk about - that were forbidden in childhood - that need to be talked about. At present, these taboos are relationship issues and money.

These taboos are unhealthy. I was raised in a house where anything that happened, especially discord, between family members was to be kept quiet. Outsiders were to think that we lived in perfect harmony. In fact, my parents were vicious and cruel to each other when they fought, which they did often, and most of their fights were about money.
As a child, I hated their raised voices. I cowered in corners, thinking that they would hurt each other, especially when my father threw things (but, as far as I know, he never physically touched or hurt my mother. I realized, a few years ago, that after they got their meanness out, they were nice to each other.) Still these battles made me shy away from fighting.

Rob and I seldom fight. When he arrived back from Spain, he was unhappy. He said that we had grown apart, that we lived separate lives. He saw this (or did) as negative. I see it in a positive light. We are different people. I do not want to live in his pocket or by his side, day after day. I want to do things for my Self by myself. And when we come together I want both of us to be tolerant, if not agreeable, to the things the other chooses to do. Encouragement would be good. Support even better. Susan, once said, that if married people could look on each other as friends, marriage relationships would be healthier. One would encourage the other to live his or her dreams.

Why is this so difficult? Simone de Beauvoir said she refused marriage and children and in doing so her life was easier than women who accept one or both. With the titles "husband" and "wife" come prescriptions for living together and I think these so called prescriptions or remedies for two are out of date. Why, I wonder, is it more difficult to talk to Rob than a female friend. And I realize as I write this that we are too important to the other, and so both of us are defensive with the other. I say "you think this" and he says "you think that" until I want to scream "we have to stop thinking for the other." Because, quite often, what he thinks I'm thinking is not what I'm thinking. And most likely I am wrong too. But to find out what we're projecting on the other, candid conversation is necessary.

And both of us are trying. I am watching myself, speaking carefully, making sure what I say is what I feel and not colouring any thought to make me sweeter or slant it for his approval. I am taking a deep breathe when I feel my ideas are being ridiculed. (Note, the "I feel".)

And we're liking each other more. The other day I bought a new perfume called "In Love Again."

My other taboo is money.

Rob wants to work less, to write. I think this wonderful. But when he says "we must budget", I feel defensive because I hear my father's voice. To say my father was frugal is an understatement. He hated spending, loved saving (not necessary negative) but what was bad was that he kept my mother on a strict budget. If she wanted more, she had to beg or borrow while he never asked her if he wanted something - even big-ticket items like the Jaguar he bought when he already owned two vehicles.

As I write this, I realize that I'm feeling my mother's anger and helplessness. No need. I work and earn and Rob has never in our life together ever questioned me about the way I choose to spend "our" money. I wonder if it's present guilt (although guilt may not be the right word) that is making me uncomfortable when money is mentioned. I have just done something larger than I've ever done: I've accepted a space in the Marion Woodman Bodysoul Intensive and the cost is 1600 American dollars (thank you Vaughan).

As I get deeper and deeper into "Dancing in the Flames", I feel somehow that I'm moving in the right direction. "It takes great resolve to enter into the darkness of our own chaos, to give up the familiar path and begin to trust our own experience."

Where will I take you with this blog? I have been so lost in thought lately that my brain is brimming over and I'm not quite sure where I will alight. I've been thinking mostly about self and relationship, each one separately and then together. Bett said to me before leaving something to the effect that I should know what I want, be clear. Why is it so difficult to figure out what one wants, needs, for oneself?

Between thoughts, I have been reading "Dancing in the Flames" by Marion Woodman and Elinor Dickson in preparation for the BodySoul workshop. Yesterday I underlined several passages:

"Self-knowledge comes through a relationship with and a commitment to something or someone beyond one's self, beyond the gratification of one's personal needs." This also reminds me of James Hollis who said that we need an Other to know ourself. (Trouble is we don't always like ourself with an Other.)

"Perhaps, we will have to face the darkness, walk out on the moor alone at nightfall, or dive to the bottom of the sea before the old ossified ego bondaries can be shattered to make room for the dance." The BodySoul workshop takes place on the moors and, as I understand it, it's about losing ego boundaries. This is scary business. Am I ready? No matter.

"Beneath the mature persona of the ego lies the child's imagination, which fears being devoured by the wolf or the wicked witch. If we remain trapped in fear, we will never know the treasures of the dark. Being catapulted into the underworld is a common mythological theme, found in almost all cultures. The descent is undertaken either voluntarily, in search of a deeper goal, or involuntarily, when the abyss unexpectedly opens. The potential in either case comes from the fact that ordinary ego perceptions are shattered; cracks occur in the well-crafted persona. Through these cracks emerges the possibility of something new."

This excites me. I am stuck, set in my ways, foggy, meandering. My only certainty is that I want to write rich open honest text and I will do what I have to, even put myself in scary places, to achieve this goal. I think, as I wrote in my Anais Nin piece, about writing that "[t]his is where I belong. This is what I should be doing."

I am surprised at my last few sentences. I didn't think I was certain about anything. They make me realize that I did move ahead a little in my commitment to writing, over the past month. The study of texts, written by intelligent women, the proprioceptive writing, the dream work, the movement, the reading of my own work, the encouragement, even the communal feasts and dancing were... I pause here. What am I trying to say? I felt as if I was living in a different world in which thought, poetry, writing, dancing, play were respected, taken seriously...

I stopped here to have a conversation with Rob. I found myself defending the writing workshops. It's not that he thinks that they are without value, it's just that they disturbed his place here. He admits this. But I found myself measuring my words, trying to find the right ones so he'll understand. Or was I trying to find words that wouldn't make me sound stupid? I want his respect. No, I want more. I want him to value what I value. Is this possible? Does it follow that if he respects me, he will trust that what I do is also worthy of respect?

Damn it all anyway. I am so confused. If one knows at a gut level that something is more than worthy should one have to defend it to whoever? Yes. Why not? (I think that one should try, in any way possible, if the listener is important to the speaker.)

A few years ago I wrote a piece about the value of play: Here's a few lines:

"Playfulness is a volatile, sometimes dangerously explosive essence, which cultural institutions seek to bottle or contain in the vials of games of competition, chance, and strength, in modes of simulation such as theater, and in controlled disorientation, from roller coasters to dervish dancing…" Although play is "out of mesh" with the day-to-day ingredients needed to sustain life, Turner asserts that it enriches and may even, in its oxymoronic fashion, be advantageous to future generations: "Yet it may happen that a light, play-begotten pattern for living or social structuring, once thought whimsical, under conditions of extreme social change may prove an adaptive, 'indicative mood' design for living."

I am back in Castelnau de Montmiral after two days in Toulouse. I did write my blog and will now copy from my journal and publish. But first, I will note that I received an email from Gill this morning. She in her room at Ryerson, feeling a little jet-lagged. Rob mentioned that it is 34 years since he was at Ryerson and I am surprised at how the years have added up and how fresh the memories of the beginning of our "friendhship" remain. We used to talk for hours and hours about the future in his small flat on Admiral Road. He said he wanted a simple life - a good job, a wife, and children. I wanted a life in the theatre, full of travel and excitement. We decided we weren't compatible. And here we are, over three decades later, talking about compatibility, discussing once again how we want to spend the rest of our lives.


August 30th: I have just talked to Brendan in Vancouver. He is off tomorrow to Toronto to meet Gill, arriving from London. He will help her settle in at Ryerson and then he's off to New York for a week's holiday. My children have literally taken flight.
(Earlier today I spoke to Marlene of this, saying that I feel a void and mentioned Carolyn Heilbrun's idea that the only plot for women is marriage, death, the end. She said that the void could be liberating. I can write my own life.)

Yesterday was Marlene and Bett's last full day. In the afternoon, Marlene and I took off for a walk into the country, past farms, and roadside trees laden with plums and pears - many already too ripe, scattered on the ground. As no one appeared to be picking and enjoying them, Marlene quickly filled a small bag. On the steep incline up to the village, she discovered a fig tree, reached up to sample, and a ripe sexy globe fell into her hand. She said that she had never tasted one so good. She picked some more for Bett and Rob.

The fig always reminds me of a scene from "Women in Love" where Rupert describes the proper and improper way to eat the fruit.

"The proper way..../ Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied,
heavy-petalled four-petalled flower....
But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in
one bite."

There are many more juicy verses aligning the fruit to female genitalia.

In the evening, Bett, Marlene, Rob, and I went to a concert at "Cobweb Barn" and although Rob said it would be country and western "what else do you expect to hear in a barn" - the program included classical music, opera, and tango - more in keeping with the barn that wasn't a barn but a beautifully restored old building with high ceiling adjacent to a fancy house. I thought the concert amaturish but great fun and afterwards the crowd - many more than the organizers expected - stood outside, ate morsels of savouries, prepared by the hosts and musicians, and drank boxed local wine. We ended the evening in Gaillac at a pizza restaurant in the central park.

August 31: The women of Toulouse are much sexier than in Vancouver. I sit in a sidewalk cafe after a lunch of salmon and pasta, a small pichet of rose wine, and an espresso, observing passerbys. The women, no matter their age, dress stylishly, swing hips and look pleased with themselves. Heads turn. At home, I feel invisible. Here, I feel more attractive, seen, a woman who has lived a lot of years but who still has some left. Reminds me of Samuel Beckett's lines that go something like: my best years may be hone but I wouldn't want them back, not with the fire in me now.

I blew kisses and waved Marlene and Bett off this morning. I did the same send-off as I did for my younger girls/women. We travelled to Toulouse by train, shopped, stayed at the same hotel in the same room, and even ate dinner at the same restaurant. Bett and Marlene are both smiling broadly, happy to be returning home, counting the hours, when they will see their beloveds. And I am happy too, I admit. It was a pleasure having them but now I want time alone to reflect on the workshop experience, time to do some writing, and time with Rob.

After they left, I returned to our hotel room and took my time, showering, blowing my hair dry, putting on makeup (a rarity), and then approached the city centre, by a different route than I usually take. I discovered museums that I didn't know existed, and a Paperie with a huge selection of journals (Bett and Marlene would have loved it but better they didn't see it - they left carrying too much) and I bought several, and new stores where I bought a long velvet skirt - to wear on the English moors during the Woodman workshop.

Rob picked me up at the train station in Gaillac early evening. And so we start again - together without children.

I disappeared for a few days and now am having difficult alighting. Yesterday I went with Bett to gather lavender that she'll plant in her garden in Canada. Later she, Marlene, and I went for a drive in the country to Bruniquel, another bastide town with a grand chateau and lovely gardens, and then on to LeClerc for a last grocery shop before Bett and Marlene leave on Tuesday. We have all, I think, retreated into ourselves a little.

I keep thinking of Gill.

On Thursday afternoon, I took Shirin and her to Toulouse by train. They left me to shop at their skinny-girl stores and I wandered and met them for dinner. We stayed in an old hotel across the street from the train station. Friday morning early, Shirin left for Barcelona and Gill and I spent the day together, walking, shopping, and talking. It was lovely and poignant. Where did this young woman come from? She said that she's been waiting since she was twelve to start her own life and she is ready, excited, and I feel like I'm the mother left although I know the time is right.

As Gill's life changes, so does mine. I know - is it age or experience that tells me? - that now my work as caretaker (giver?) is done, and I sort out how I want to live the rest of my life, that hard times are ahead and even though there will be exhiliarating moments, they won't be easy. Mary Oliver's great question comes to mind: now what are you going to do with your one wild and precious life? How long do I have?

I'm up and down these days. I want to feel excited about my life. And I am thrilled about being given a space in the Marion Woodman workshop in England but am also apprehensive. After studying Woodman's texts so long with Marlene, I wonder what it will be like being in the presence of one of my heros - a national treasure, icon, woman, crone, writer, and a person who I am in awe of? I don't know.

This psyche/amour business is scary. Where will I take myself that week in England? I have no idea but, as Brendan told me when he was leaving to live a year in England "I am more scared not to go, than to go."

Tonight, Rob, Marlene, Bett, Susan, David, Bedding, and little old me are going to a concert (classical music not country) in a "cobweb" barn on a meandering road, deep in wine country and thus close to my heart.

Tomorrow, I will be the mother once again and take Marlene and Bett to Toulouse for an afternoon of shopping, a dinner out, an evening in the same hotel that I stayed with my other girls - most likely in the same triple room - and then help them onto a airporter in the morning. I will not say goodbye.

They'll fly into the heavens as I return to Castelnau and Rob. Who knows what will happen?

"Tempus Fuit" A small sign over a gate at Monestieres where the most extraordinary Mise au Tombeau resides.

I have just left my friend Susan's 77th birthday party to post a Happy Birthday to my son Brendan who is 26 today. Happy Birthday dear Brendan. Time really does fly. I hope your day is happy and at least one surprise, real surprise, comes your way.
What words can I send that have meaning for you, man of few words, who thinks hard. Rilke. You said you liked this poem.

"You see, I want a lot./ Perhaps I want everything:/ the darkness that comes with every infinite fall/ and the shivering blaze of every step up."

I have too much emotion these days. I post my love and respect.

End of workshop. Gill leaves in a day.

Hopefully, will fill in more details in the next few days but didn't want to forget Brendan.

The workshop is over and I am tired but content with what I have accomplished over the past few weeks.

I know I have not been keeping this blog up to date but it has been impossible. I have hardly sat down except when the workshop was in session and even then, we were involved in movement, both of body and voice. This is new ground for me. I have become used to exposing myself on paper but when asked to do it aloud, using sound and body rather than words, I felt inhibited, self-conscious, frightened even. The first day we incorporated movement, I missed the cues (much is done with the eyes closed so one can move into one's private thoughts) and I felt like a traveller on a train who had missed her station and was beside myself with grief, not being able to move or express myself.

There is something so private also about the movement and sound sessions that I will not write at length about them. They feel in a way like the "red tent" where women go to be alone, to think and tell their stories without fear of reprisal. Delving into the psyche is scary business and one, or me, rather did not realize how constricted I am until I started this work. Now it is over, I see how far I have to go. (I wonder here if I am making any sense.)

We had a night of open readings and I read "Apres Anais Nin" and "French Letters" and one writer told me that I was "brilliant." Compliments are difficult for me. I note also how hard it is for me to talk of myself in a positive light. So much easier to put myself down. But there is a whisper inside my brain that says "yes, you can write... too many people have told you so... but don't get too cocky." I am lost here.

I want to write so badly it hurts. I want to speak out in a loud confident voice. I need to. "Is this all about you?" a voice in my head asks. Yes, I respond. "Selfish creature" but something else is coming through. I need to do exactly what I am doing if I want to take my writing further.

By the end of the week, there was a true closeness amongst all - one for each Other - and for me, respect for all. We had - every last one of us - to some degree, laid ourselves bare.

The last morning, I asked Marlene if I could read "So Much Happiness" by Naomi Shihab Nye. She said it was a perfect beginning to the last session: "Since there is no place large enough/ to contain so much happiness,/ you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you/ into everything you touch./ You are not responsible." I felt so full.

I am awkward with tender feelings but I feel such tenderness for Marlene and Ursula who led the writers through articles, poetry, meditations, movement, sound, who listened with "rapt attention", who held us together so tenderly.

One moves into a strange space when one does such work. I still feel quite vulnerable.

There are not enough hours in my day. This second session - body/soul writing - leaves me little time for private writing like this blog as I am also doing the administration work. I love both. What can I tell you in just a few words as we start early today in the new hotel in a glorious old room with large terra cotta tiles, high ceiling, windows that open to the La Place, and Bett and I will soon have to lay out a breakfast of hardboiled eggs, yoghurt, croissants, juice, fruit, and good Italian coffee with steamed milk for all? In just a few days - 2 1/2 - the ten writers plus Marlene and Ursula have grown quite close though we are a hodgepodge of personalities and ages. The writing and movement are responsible and perhaps, Tuesday evening worked some magic.

That night in the town square, we gathered for dinner at the new hotel. The chef gave us a choice of salmon or lamb - both unbelievably good - and as we sat eating our salads, then main course, and of course drinking the local vintage, by chance, a group of musicians began playing across from us. The town folk gathered around the periphery listening. The music was wonderfully lively and oh so French, and Patricia, with her wild Latin blood, finally could stand it no longer and pulled me into the central area to dance. Soon more and more of the writers joined us including Dorianne and Natalie - both ballet dancers - who linked hands with two young village girls. Within moments, we had all linked hands and were dancing in a long stream around and around, circling and recircling, dipping under a set of arms, then another, again and again, until we were delirious with happiness (including the two little girls.)

At some point, we returned to our table for dessert, and when finished and while waiting for the table to clear, I asked the owner, the chef's wife, if I might climb on the table and dance. "Bien sur". But there were two wilder women than me at our table (can you believe it?) and Dahlia and Anna climbed on before the table was clear (which the owner and a waitress raced to do when they saw what was happening) and so, I climbed up and we did a dance of three. I have no idea what we looked like but I felt like one of the three Graces. And my beautiful daughter arrived at this moment and gave me a big grin.


As table tops are slightly confining, we returned to the centre and danced and danced until the rain began to pour, and then Dorianne and Natalie - high on either happiness or wine (perhaps both) continued in the rain - an improvised ballet. Dorianne was doing pose turns around and around the well while Natalie gracefully leaped and moved like some water goddess.

The evening was extraordinary and the writers thanked me as if I were responsible for more than just the reservation.

I must run now but have a bit of news. I am on a cloud. Although seventeenth on the waiting list for the Marion Woodman bodysoul workshop in England at the end of the September, I have been offered a space and have gratefully accepted. (There's no stopping me now.) And while I was riding high on happiness, Marlene had a call (I would imagine from the Marion Woodman Foundation) and she and Ursula were asked if they would assist Marion in a workshop in the spring. They too accepted.

It's early early morning and I'd like to put down words that were written over the past few days before we launch into the body/soul writing session.

Yesterday a new group of women arrived and unfortunately I have yet to meet two because they were stranded at the airport as I did not receive their email. Hopefully they will arrive this morning and not still be upset.

Everything appears to be moving too quickly for me to settle and type this public journal each day. Rob, Gill, and Shirin were supposed to be leaving for Spain today but only Rob will go. Gill and Shirin have not been well (Gill was on and off feverish for two days) and so I took them to the doctor who prescribed four medicines. Although feeling a bit better, they will move into Susan's bottom rooms today so they have freedom to move about and not disturb the workshop.

August 15th

The first session has ended and as I stop to catch my breathe, I am pleased with what has been accomplished: every writer who attended the Life Writing session is content.

The last half day, we wrote jumping from an image that summed up the past week's experience. Marlene, for the first time, joined us. She described the evening before, when all of us walked up to La Vierge and sat on her base under the night sky, bright with stars as the perfect place to be in the company of women.

(Strange, Rob said last night, after an evening barbeque in Lyn's garden that the celebration felt too feminine for him.)

Ursula's heart was so full that she expressed her feelings through body, head, arm gesture, and facial expression. Bett chose a series of images and then alit on the blue kitchen bowl, full of soapy water. I, like Marlene, chose the night sky at La Vierge and then, through some leap of thought, recorded a conversation between Ursula and I in which she told me that I write well and I returned the compliment, not out of politeness but because I do love the way she records her images. Something made me look her in the eye and I asked, "Do you believe me?" She said "no." I asked why I should believe her and she said "Because I said so."

Marlene becomes a little impatient with us all comparing our writing and dismissing it. I have been thinking about this. My plums and I have discussed it in the past - each one of us wondering why the other three allow us to be part of the group. Why is this? We do not think our individual writing without merit but the first raw outpouring is like a new born baby in that it is difficult to see his or her beauty when fresh from the womb, wrinkled and covered in blood, not quite human (or too human?)

I wonder if we need this self-criticism to be more objective in the editing process.

But something strange happened to me in regards to my writing this week. I forced myself to read aloud, no matter how ridiculous? trivial? bad? I thought my spontaneous flow as I wanted to put myself on the line once and for all and expose my smallest thoughts. Interestingly more than one person complimented me and said they wished that they could write like me. This shocked me. I am so messy, I think, and still I caught a glimpse of my power as a writer.

Last night we celebrated Kay's 84th birthday and Marlene, Bett, Ursula and I wore our Isadora Duncan dresses. Ruth, a friend of Lyn, a musician, brought her accordian to serenade the elegant birthday woman.

Picture this - twelve women, two men, in Lyn's garden that borders on a sunflower field and a vegetable patch. The village is perched high in the background. Ruth sits behind a tree-like bush, some yards away, playing her accordian and the music drifts over us, sitting, standing, sipping champagne and wine, around a long table. Marlene and Ursula, in olive and black matching dresses, shawls on shoulders are standing to the side speaking quietly in German. Rob is at the far side of the garden laughing with Lyn who is crouched over the hibachi cooking salmon. Gill and Shirin, both gorgeous in their mini skirts are serving miniature squares of shrimp, vegetable mousse, and meat balls, all on little sticks. The stars come out as the sky darkens and Marlene and Ursula pick up candles, globed in glass, break into "Happy Birthday" accompanied by Ruth on the accordian who has joined them, and I present the cake "poire au chocolat" to Kay. I felt as if I was in a scene from a D.H.Lawrence story.

August 14th

Our last full day was yesterday and in the evening we celebrated with a dinner at the Light house, prepared by Christine. I admit I was a little worried as she is working full time in the restaurant in the new hotel but she came through beautifully with poached salmon, ratatouille, citron-flavoured rice, salad, bread and steamed pear, covered in chocolate and nuts. After dinner, I climbed on the table and struck a dancing pose hoping that would constitute another step towards freedom from convention.

After eating, all of us wandered down to the Esplanade and up to the Vierge to sit on her base and watch for shooting stars. Afterwards, we returned to the Esplanade where the Chipendales (yes, one p) were performing to raucous music. The first two numbers were performed ty two scantily dressed young women and then Zorro appeared on stage, flinging his cape, strutting from one side of the stage to the other in a mask that came half way down his face with slits cut for his eyes (reminding me of Erica Jong's "zipless fuck.") He chose one woman from the audience to sit on a chair middle stage and danced and gyrated around her, slowly removing his clothes while some of us - Ramona, Bett, and I got as close as possible. (Bett, who does not stand on ceremony was dancing earlier by herself, shameless in a low-cut polka dot top. Marlene, who had left early to prepare today's lesson, was also a flussy in her red stretch lace top that looked as if she wore nothing underneath. And me, I was sedate as usual.) The strip-tease was hilarious and strange. The Esplanade was full of families, small children running and the town's older matriarchs, sitting front row centre. I wondered who had chosen the evening's entertainment, part of the four day village fete for the annunciation of the Virgin.

I slipped into bed near one in the morning and woke at five, dressed, and drove Kathy to the train station, returning for our last half day. Time eludes me.

I am so pleased. I awoke at 4:30 this morning and have time to think, to blog. Today is the last full day of session. Tomorrow is a half day. I am a little tired. If someone asked me what I have been doing, I'd say "I don't know. Writing. Looking after people" and still wonder where the time goes.

Yesterday, I set the alarm for 5, responded to emails re second session, boiled some eggs for the breakfast that is served every morning here, left the rest of preparation to Bett and went for coffee in the village square and read the articles on autobiography to be discussed this day, went to Mayor's office at 9 for photocopies, returned to write.

For the last few days, we have begun the morning in silence as we did last year. This feels a little strange as the writers arrive, pour themselves coffee, and sit and eat without saying a word. But it allows us to move into ourselves and it's easier to write. At 9:30, I light a candle, Marlene starts the music - the proprioceptic way - and we begin writing from a Rilke's poem "You See I Want A Lot" that Marlene has left on each seat.

I copied out the first verse: "You see, I want a lot./Perhaps I want everything:/the darkness that comes with every infinite fall/and the shivering blaze of every step up." And then began by saying that sometimes my list of wants depresses me, and though I am blessed in material ways, I want to be "unconflicted, serene, but would this make a happy carrot? I suppose, in a way, I am happy with the darkness I walk into, the tears that fall, the lumps in my throat, and the aches in my gut, and the thoughts in my brain that go round and round tormenting me until I slow my breathing and write it out." I end on a cheeky note. "Another voice gets me in trouble sometimes but how I love it. The sassy, moaning-groaning, racuous cowgirl voice that ain't afraid of them there 'course roots in the earth.'" (Mary Oliver) I read my musings as does everyone. A discussion of autobiography follows.

At noon, Bett and I drove to Cahuzac for food for dinner and fresh fruit for tomorrow's breakfast. Afternoon session began at 1:45. Marlene begins with another Mary Oliver poem and Ursula leads us through a meditation and movement exercise that in turn moves me to write about dance. But I find myself every afternoon struggling to write. I am definitely a morning person.

Immediately after, I left with Ramona and Marian for the Caves de Tecou, a local winery, where we sampled and bought some wine for the reading get-together.

After a quick drive through the country, we returned in time, to collect some cheese and head to the Light house for the readings at 5:30. It surprises me that only Bett, Ursula, and I read our own stuff. The other writers read favourite or memorable passages from other writers.

We return home for dinner. Marlene has feeling a bit off all day and lies down. (Today, she is feeling better or so far so good. I have my fingers crossed.) I begin the salad and Ursula takes over, placing onions, cucumber, tomatoes, eggs, and ham in her artful way into a large salad bowl. We call Marlene and Bett and sit with this and bread, and finish with apple tartlettes.

Bett and Marlene do the dishes. And though the village fete begins at 10 this evening, all of us are too tired to wander over to the Esplanade for even one dance. Perhaps tomorrow, we will go after the group dinner when the Chipendales (I kid you not) are performing.

The last few days have passed quickly and there hasn't been much breathing space or time for journaling. I met trains, introduced people to village on the 7th; shopped for feast on the 8th with Marlene, Bett, and Ursula, and did a run into the country with Ramona for wine and champagne. In the afternoon, Rob, Gill, and Shirin left for the jazz festival and their jaunt to Spain, graciously leaving the house open for writers.

Four of us prepared the feast for the welcome dinner. I put my beautiful French tablecloth on the table and set a bowl of sunflowers in the middle. Ursula made a green mixed salad look like a work of art in the large Morrocan bowl that Helen gave me. Bett made garlic potatoes. I stewed zucchini Susan-fashion and and set all on the table with pate, cheese, bread, fresh fruit and later a peach tarte. To the side of the table, I set a large bucket filled with a huge bouquet of pink and violet blossoms interwined with greenery - a gift from Ursula and Bett.

Everyone loved the abundance. And Lyn, who attended the workshop last year, joined us. She called it a bribe which it sort of was as I ran to her at the last minute and ask if she could pick up a writer in Gaillac who was arriving late and she did. But still, she sat at the far end of the table and was a welcome guest.

We are small eclectic group this first week. There's Kay, tall, elegant, a former journalist, 84 years old, who wishes her writing more literary. She apologizes too often at first. She has nothing to apologize about. She writes beautifully and after two and half days is reading without prefacing. Marian, another writer from Vancouver, with tossed curly blond hair, a traveler, bright, high school counsellor, appears (to me) most at ease with her emotions and her writing. Ramona, founder of the Writing Centre at UBC, fellow lover of wine and cheese and more, appears in awe of the village and countryside. I have no idea how many pictures she's taken. She told me when she arrived that doesn't read her writing but she lies. Kathy is in the same house as Ramona. She is from Toronto, a nurse, and learned about the course - oh dear I can't remember - either from the paper or internet. She is soft, quiet, brave, amongst strangers and she too reads her work.

Ursula, Marlene's friend from Toronto who will assist her next week, is one of us this week. She is lovely, so lovely, soft, generous, and can she write? Yes. It's easy to see why she and Marlene are friends. Sometimes I have to rub my eyes when Marlene is facilitating a group of writers. She is composed, eloquent, generous, kind, and weaves some kind of magic that pushes all to move beyond their boundaries.

And then there's Bett and me. Bett extends herself to help me, setting out the breakfast table, running for croissants, brewing coffee, cutting melon, clearing and cleaning and more and worrying too much that she isn't efficient. She's also a woman who doesn't mince her words, writes like a poet, and has a huge heart.

So we have been sitting, writing together for two and a half days and grow more comfortable with each other every minute. The weather is cooler than last year. Last night, Clare, my friend joined us for dinner at La Table Sommier in Gaillac, a restaurant that serves food to complement the wine. (Oh dear Shirley. I can never remember what compliment to use.) It was a lovely evening, sitting under the stars, sipping champagne and or wine (Clare and I behaved ourselves with one glass a piece as we were the drivers), and eating, eating, eating...

Today was a half day. This morning we wrote from dreams and I had a small epiphany that pleased and exhausted me. I will talk about it again but this is my catch-up journal and my head is too full. In the afternoon, when four of the writers took off for Albi, I slept.

I feel so good this morning. The air is fresh and a cool breeze blows through the window. After cooking in the heat for the past few weeks, this is heavenly. Marlene can't believe how comfortable it is.

Yesterday, I finished all my chores, checked Bett and Marlene's flight - no delays noted - and left for the airport, driving carefully. Rob doesn't understand why this particular route scares me so much. He says drivers in Vancouver are worse. But drivers in Vancouver don't do 140 kph around the city, nor do they change lanes in a flash.

I arrived half an hour early only to find that the plane hadn't left Frankfurt due to mechanical difficulties. My two weary friends arrived an hour and an half late.

And then Ursula, Marlene's friend and assistant from Toronto, who had been traveling in Germany, and who was to have arrived at eight in the evening was also delayed and arrived well after midnight.

No matter. This morning the house is full of women's voices and I am content... and Marlene, wild chocolate woman, lover of song and dance, brought four Isadora Duncan dresses in ruby, green, violet, and black for Bett, Ursula, herself and me, so we can look the part and raise mischief together at the end of each session.

As Marlene and Ursula discuss the workshops, Bett and I picked up Kay, our oldest writer, at the train station. At three, we will return for Marian. And Ramona arrives this evening late.

And so begins the second year of writing workshops in the south of France in the village of Castelnau, in our home. All is well.

It is Friday, early afternoon, and Rob and I have been into Gaillac to market where I bought some lovely yellow flowers to make the house pretty. In just a few hours I will leave for the airport at Toulouse to pick up Marlene and Bett. I am almost ready for them. I want everything perfect and of course, it never is but still, I come as close as I can.

Yesterday, I scrubbed and oiled and waxed and the main floor of the house shines. Gill wrote me a note in which she said: "I walk into the kitchen and see an abundance of fruit. I go into the bathroom and the sink shows me my reflection. The house looks beautiful. My mother darts around the house dashing down to clean up dirt. I crave words with her but my mouth is dry."

And further in the note she says " Did you know I have your hands? I've always been fascinated by my own hands, and the other day I made the connection. Our veins poke out and they seem focused and alive, a tanned goldish colour. They write, they move, they poke, they prod; they pick at the remains of salad from the bowl. It will be hard not to use mine in trying to nurture you or give you pleasure: unable to make you a salad or a sandwich to bring down to your little house."

Why have I been graced with such a daughter?

Yesterday morning I woke grumpy and yes, I admit, hung over and slightly miserable and the voices in my head were ugly. Rob and I went to a dinner at Christine and Stan's the night before with a another couple from the village and Stan's dad - a charming fellow from Newcastle. But the problem was the woman of the other couple. I find her loud and abrasive and why I should try to debate with her about money is beyond me. I was no match. I hate myself when I become emotional and can't find my neutral voice. I sound like a fool, no worse. I sound stupid and if there is anything I don't like to sound is stupid. I embarrass myself. I wish I could learn to keep my big mouth shut. (Where are my friends, the people who understand me, who can put into words that which I can't when I need them?)

But that was only a small note in the day. I had too much to do to dwell on small minds, small matters.

I am organized, I think, for the writing sessions. The house is ready. The pick up times arranged. The mid week feast arranged at a local restaurant. The breakfast croissants arranged.

I am so looking forward to the company of women writers and being forced to apply myself. I have been too scattered, too absorbed with other tasks.

I have been lax writing my journal, feeling that I am boring, my writing disjointed, lean. I am receiving the most pleasure from cleaning, preparing for the workshop. What does that say about me?

What can I tell? The days have been hot, hot, where every step taken is an effort. Yesterday, Bedding and I went to Toulouse to IKEA for curtains, and odds and ends. (I thank the heavens for air-conditioned cars and stores.) In the evening, Susan and David came over for an easy meal of Toulouse saucisse and salad. Today, they leave town for ten days. Susan for the Aude to stay with friends who own an ancient tree farm, back to nature folk who don't believe in water flowing from a tap indoors or even porcelain toilets. David for his university in Sterling.

After dinner, Susan and I climbed to La Vierge. It is so lovely sitting on her base, even when the evening is hot. The virgin's outstretched arms provide a certain comfort - a good place for women I think. When Susan leaves, Gill and Shirin arrive and ask me if it's normal to be disillusioned by men at their age. They were invited to a barbeque but their date didn't show. "We've been stood up," they tell me. Soon after, Michael - son of Basil and Clare - appears with a bottle of champagne. He is their wayward date and redeems himself by saying he has been looking all over the village for them.

They leave together and Clare appears. Susan sent her, at my request. I love Clare's company. She is yet another friend who doesn't mess with niceties, who speaks from the heart, who makes me laugh at the absurdities of life. She is also a fine poet, who is married to a difficult man, has a mentally challenged daughter, and has just been through a year of chemo therapy and radiation for breast cancer.

And so we sit under Mary until Rosetta, a neigbour, former mistress of the mayor, arrives with a fellow. They are shocked to see someone there so Clare and I, our sacred spot invaded by this man, wander down to the bar for perrier - two bottles each. Will any of my friends believe me when I tell them that it is too hot for wine?

The night became wild. The sky was filled with flashes of lightning and thunder and then then the blessed rain came. Hopefully our days will now be cooler. (I ran up to the attic - the girls were still out - and found that only one corner of their space was leaking. Not bad after the last episode. Hopefully Stan will return to fix it.)

This morning I went to my favourite bench at the edge of the village, coffee cup in hand, and looked over the landscape that was obscurred by fog. It reminded me of the opening scene in Brigadoon - a magic land that is only accessible on occasion.

Today, Rob and I will buy fresh fruit and vegetables in the town square. I sit writing at the Bar, sipping a coffee, as the local farmers and artisans set up stands. Christian, the pate man, passes and blows a kiss my way.

The days pass so quickly and I feel I am doing little but know this isn't true. This morning I rose early - at four - to have time for my thoughts, correspondance, and writing. This is the only time of the day, I am capable of focusing.

Rob, on the other hand, is writing up a storm and tells me he has 87 pages of his novel written. How I envy his ability to concentrate.

I find moments of delight scattered through my days and nights. A few evenings ago, Rob and I went to a classical concert - two violins and one cello - in a small church in Vieux, a neighbouring village. We ran into our new neighbours and both were apologetic about complaining the night before. Thank goodness. After the concert, we went to Lyn's balcony and drank champagne with these neighbours - though it was late and way past my bed time, I felt I had to make the effort.

Yesterday, Bedding and I worked on the wood room, cleaning (hard work) but are transferring it into another guest room and an office for me. Our house is strange - four floors - but with only two closed bedrooms. Eventually we will convert room to a proper den but, for this summer, swept walls, painted floor, and curtains will make it comfortable and usable.

I also visited Francis Meadows, a woman who lives in Paris, works as a legal translator, and who has lent me her house for writing workshop and wanted to give me a tour and instructions. She hopes that the writing school will replace the art school. She is also the first person I've spoken to who praised Frances Pratt of the Painting School of Montmiral. She came here in the late eighties for an art course and feels, thanks to Pratt, she learned a great deal about drawing. She also respects his art. I liked hearing this because, to me, he appears a pompous fool. It's a shame he comes across this way, especially now knowing that he is not a charleton as an artist and teacher.

Later in the afternoon, Gill and I went to Gaillac to grocery shop. We're trying to catch a moment here and there - just the two of us - as she will fly directly to Toronto to start school at the end of August and it could well be Christmas before we see each other. She is an extraordinary young woman. She has been having disturbing dreams about being inarticulate and not being able to communicate with Rob and me, and so wants to make the time to talk.

Still it suprised me that she wanted to accompany Rob and I in the evening to a barbeque in Lyn's garden - a steep climb down a hll at the foot of the village. It was a lovely evening. Lyn cooked sardines and saucisses on her small Hibachi. There were nine of us - our new neighbours (who I grow fonder of every minute), Francis Meadows, Mureille (a French woman, quite nice who speaks French slowly that we can understand), the three Youngs and Gill's friend, and Lyn.

Today is market day in Gaillac so in a few hours, Rob and I will drive to town to shop for fresh fruit and vegetables.

I have to teach myself to write anywhere, under any situation. I am not always happy in the laundry room. My favourite spots are a park bench in the Esplanade or at the cafe in town, or any place where there is nobody I know. (I wonder why I am so difficult.)

The days pass quickly here. A few days ago, Rob and I went for a long drive into the country with Susan and David. I have no idea where we ended up - some distance from Saint Antoine, at an old chateau, owned by the Armagnac's (the most wicked potent drink in all of France - my estimation - and one I adore.) Susan had made reservations for lunch and so we were seated in an old world dining room, plates on walls, sunflower yellow tablecloths, elegant candle sticks, cloth napkins, and were served, attentively and abundantly, a five course meal that began with pate, ended with profiteroles, and included all the family wine one wanted to drink, for the price of 21 euros a person. I was so content that I fell asleep on the drive home.

Later that day, I dropped in to see Clare, and Basil offered me a glass of wine. (I was polite and accepted.) I think he did this, not out of generosity, but in order to torment me. He was in a contrary mood, fired questions, and then mocked my answers. I told myself to remain neutral, not to cave in, but, in the end, I failed. Finally I had to leave (in tears.) Clare followed. She told me that Basil only attacks those he loves. Bullshit.

The next evening, we had Stan and Christine for dinner. We - Rob, Christine, Stan, and I - sat in the salon while Gill and Shirin prepared the meal. They were playing their music, happy, singing, chopping, and frying, when our new neighbours - an English couple who bought Colette's house - came over and requested that we turn the music down. I was stunned. In our four years of owning the house, we have never been asked to turn down the volume. (The next day I apologized to my next door neighbour, Madame Rougee, and she laughed and said that it didn't bother her a bit: "the young must play" she told me in French. I told her that we had upset the new owners and she was surprised. "But it was early."

I am so pleased that she was not disturbed. Unfortunately, I don't feel so kindly about the new folk. He is a retired professor from an English university. Another one in town! But they seem nice and I will not let this one slip of judgement (on his part) colour the future.

Later in the evening, the man who loves to torment - Basil - and Clare came over and joined the party. The men stayed up stairs and had serious conversations about roofs and such, while the women danced downstairs - not on tables - but we did move into the street for several songs. Sometimes, joy cannot be contained. Even with persnickity neighbours.

Today, although I have every intention to write (as I am doing at the moment), I began my day at Susan's. She hasn't been feeling well - pain in the lower back - and worries that she will never live without pain again but this morning, she said she was feeling better and so I climbed into bed with her and we talked, as we did in the old days, when I was living in the village - about books and relationship, writing and relationship, relationship and relationship - and she said that it would be nice if we could drop the relationship business and get on with the hundreds of other subjects that are far more interesting. Yes, yes, yes, I tell her and we do for a time. She had just finished Rose Tremain's new book "Colour", lent it to me, and I finished it yesterday. It's not great literature but a good story and there is a section that we both enjoyed about a Chinese man and his wife who calls her man "a connoisseur of love." And we found ourselves once again discussing that fearful subject.

Today, early morning, the birds are loudly chirping outside the window, and I await Gill's call. She and Shirin are returning from Amsterdam. I imagine that this trip - the first one that she has taken by herself - has matured her. What must these two young women, so far from home, have felt as they wandered the city where Anne Frank hid, wrote her famous diary, and where one can walk into a cafe and order marijuana?

Rob and I have been alone in the house since Gill left Wednesday night and I find myself growing calm. Yesterday Stan (partner to Christine) came over and replaced forty tiles on the roof and added a bit of mortar here and there. I hope we are now leak free.

In two weeks, less two days, Marlene and Bett will arrive. I have sent out schedules for the two writing sessions and look forward to getting down to the business of writing and learning what body/soul is all about.

After a year away, I am slowly attacking the house and cleaning. I want to take all the curtains down, wash and iron them, shine windows, wash and wax floors, scrub as I imagine servants did in the olden days. Strange that this fills me with pleasure. I am not one of those woman who keeps a perfect house. In fact, I think it a sign of intelligence if one doesn't have one.

Yesterday was so warm that I found it difficult to do much - although the temperature was not near that of last year (or is the heat just an excuse?) Rob says "Relax". We're on holiday. I say "I'm not. I have a lot to do before workshop begins." But I don't really - just small jobs here and there. Still, I could not alight and only cleaned the attic and all its little windows in preparation for Gill's return.

After a run to the large supermarket in Gaillac, I wandered the village, sat under shady trees in the Esplanade, and read an easy novel called "The Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman". I think Dolores must have left it. It's about a woman, in her late forties, whose husband leaves her for a younger woman. And the author has the audacity to have her main character not only lose her husband to this woman, but her job. Amid all the cliches, I found myself liking the main character and sympathizing with her bewilderment. The woman had no idea that her husband was so unhappy and so examines scenes from their life together in an attempt to work out where she failed him. Note the "where she failed him." This is what the majority of women would think, I think. It's pathetic. One person cannot be solely responsible for another's happiness or unhappiness. Intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I fall into the same trap. "If only I could find the right words, the right actions, my relationship with a particular person would be wonderful."

***

I stopped here as Gill just called from Gaillac and I jumped in the car and left to pick up two rather tired looking young women who, once in the house, went immediately to bed. On the ride home, I learned that they had fun. The hostel was in the red light district but they liked it immediately because when they walked into the lobby, lots of people were standing around, talking, smoking dope. They went to a marijuana cafe and had "the best meal" they've ever eaten. They saw a live sex show (I've never done this) that was weird. But, best of all, they are home safe. This tells me that I don't have to worry about my daughter away from home. She is responsible.

Today, if Susan is better (she had a kidney cold yesterday?) Rob and I are driving into the country with David and her to some little inn for lunch.

I wrote this yesterday:

This morning Dolores flew to Dublin – her first time ever flying alone. Last night, we met Clare – another Canadian - at La Vierge (The Virgin) at the point of pilgrimage, overlooking the village and then walked to the gite of Helene, a French woman who will house writers during the writing workshop.

We spoke, for the most part, of relationships and sex. To use Dolores’s words, women are brilliant when they get together. They are not afraid to tell their smallest thoughts. They do not fear being misunderstood. They do not fear being decimated.

I do not want to desire anything. I want to accept what is. (Reminds me of a poem Bett sent me once by Denise Levertov “A Woman Alone.”)

Tonight, soon, Rob and I will drive Gill to the train station in Gaillac where she will travel to Toulouse, catch an overnight train to Paris, and then another to Amsterdam where she will meet her friend, Shirin. These two beautiful young women will spend several days there, doing as they please, before they catch trains back to Castelnau. Yes, I am a little worried but what can I do?

Today:

I received an email from Gill. She is safe in Amsterdam with Shirin. Sigh of relief.

I have been doing laundry – sheet after sheet. Cleaning. Sorting.

Not writing.

Reading “The Bride Stripped Bare”, a book Bett recommended. Oh la la. A rather interesting novel by “anonymous”. The author says it is a mix of fiction and non, a tapestry of her life and her friends’, an expose of women’s fantasies. She found the freedom to write by telling herself that she need not put her name on the book. A way to outwit her inner censor. She says it’s really the story about a woman finding her voice.

Tonight, Rob and I will eat a hopefully fine meal in the square with Lyn Gambles and watch a theatrical production.

I have been writing in my private journal but am having a difficult time deciding what to put in my public one. I remind myself that I want to speak of my life as it is, not some watered down, sugared version.

Last night we had the most magnificent storm. Thunder roared and lightning flashed into our bedroom window and then Gill came in because rain was pouring into the attic room where she sleeps. We ran and gathered pots, bowls, and plastic to catch the water and now must find a roofer to readjust the tiles and cover the holes. This may sound simple but finding any labourer here is a problem.

When Rob and I went to Albi yesterday to buy a sofa and chair (yes, we did it), a man in the store said that nothing is easy in the south of France. Yet when I went to the hotel and spoke to the woman about the movement room for writing workshop, she was more than obliging.

My cousin Ken left Monday for Northern Ireland but Dolores, sweet woman, his wife, was so sick vomiting, she couldn’t return with him. Only today is her colour back. We will drive her to the airport tomorrow morning.

For the last six months, I have not been able to cry so when I started a few nights ago, I felt almost relief.

I have long known that I do not, cannot write with others around no matter who they are – and all that fill the house at the moment are loved and I enjoy spending time with them but I need some hours alone, with door shut, where I know I will not be disturbed and can pour my heart onto the page.

This has been impossible until today. Several days ago, Rob said that he felt he was a visitor in “my house.” I felt such a pang of guilt but when I thought about it, how could it be otherwise? He has only been here for a week - not this Christmas but last. I have spent hours, days, months here the past few summers painting walls and ceiling, varnishing floors and stairs, buying furniture, arranging all to my taste. No wonder he senses that this house is more me than him.

There is more, says the selfish one.

No matter how many visitors I had, the bedroom was always mine. Now I must share it with a man whose physical presence is larger than mine. We move in. He takes part of the shelves, part of the place for hanging clothes. The first night, he climbed into bed on the side where I had slept, shut the shutters when I had left them open, and placed his computer smack in the middle of the desk where mine had sat. I felt displaced. And yet, what was the poor guy supposed to do? It is his place as much as mine. I hated my resentment and felt like the bitch from hell.

And hence his comment that he felt like a visitor in my home. Oh dear. Rob thinks me fierce and strong and doesn’t see that I strangle on my words at times. This reminds me of Margaret Atwood’s story that I described a few weeks ago “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything.” This doesn’t work for me any more. Yet still it is difficult.

For the next couple of days, things grew grimmer between us and finally we had a screaming match where I said that I hated him at the moment. (At least, I said "at the moment.") I don’t think I’ve ever said this to him before. He said I didn’t understand his point of view. I said I did but he didn’t understand mine and on we went until I began crying and couldn’t stop. Dolores, bless her, said that, at least, we can talk to each other.

And it did clear the air. And I am happier sharing "my" space. And we bought another desk today and put it in the laundry room where I prefer to be as he sleeps late, and so another conflict is resolved. (Damn it, I miss my little writing house.)

Funny, when we were furious at the other, we both said that we hated marriage and all the damn compromises it entails. But what is the answer to disharmony within a couple or do we need it and the passion of hurling insults and truths to find out what we really want and need?

Anyway, one can even be out of sorts in the south of France. How dare I? Think I’ll open a bottle of wine.

I am in my village in France. It has taken several days and much effort to re-establish internet connection but, at last, I can communicate with the world beyond this ancient town. I am still weary from travelling half way round the world but, as I sat on my bench this morning, overlooking the valley of softly flowing hills that I have compared to a woman's body, I am content.

My neighbour, Colette has moved so there was no bouquet of lavender on my door to welcome me nor no lush garden to look out on from my front window. (Oh dear, I am always using the possessive adjective "my" and Rob says he feels a visitor in "my" house. I will try to remember "our".)

It is hot, almost as hot as it was last year - around 33 degrees - and I have bought three fans - one for each bedroom - and all can be moved to workshop room, if needed. Last night I was so comfortable, I slept eight hours straight - a miracle for me.

My cousins, Ken and Dolores, from Northern Ireland were here to greet us when we arrived. It was a pleasure to get caught up on news from that fair island where Gill and I lived a year ago. They are lovely, easy people to be around. Yesterday, Ken bought two sets of boules so he and Rob can play in the Esplanade with the other men of the village. (Note, I did not use "old" in front of men and will refrain from stupid jokes about men and their balls.)

The sun became hotter as I sat on my bench that overlooks buildings that have been standing so long - many from the thirteen century. I feel so blessed that I can lead this other life.

I have not managed yet, though I will today, to sweep my front walk, or portion of the street. My neighbour, Lucette, an old-fashioned woman in her seventies or eighties, will disown me if I don't. Last year, she gave me an old broom as a reminder of my duties as a resident of the village. I can do anything I please as a foreigner but this one chore is considered obligatory if I wish her good graces.

Today, Dolores and I are driving to Toulouse to shop. The sales end July 25th and I want to buy a few odds and ends for the house - like a second set of sheets for the beds - and a sofa for the workshop room if I can find one, I can afford. It isn't compulsory but would be nice.

Ken and Dolores leave early Monday and I have decided to enjoy my time with them and then get down to work cleaning and preparing for workshop.

Gill is happy to be here and often I forget she is around. She is enjoying her solitude in attic and her friends in the village though I should tell that she has made several amazing dinners for us all - fresh salads, vegetables, meats, and cheese - while the roughest work I've done is open a bottle or two of wine (oops, another obligatory duty.) My taste buds are dancing.

I feel so guilty when I don't write that I will scribble a few lines. I am almost ready to leave on a jet plane this evening. I'm excited, even about the travel as Rob and I are going business class for the first time, thanks to points. I have yet to pack but as we don't leave till this evening, I have time. At the moment, I am doing laundry - changing the sheets on beds. Am I crazy? I think it's a family habit. My Auntie Isobel told me that when she and her family went on vacation, she would scrub the house, change the sheets the day before and then not put the pillow cases on till the morning so all would be fresh when they arrived home. (Her husband thought her "away" in the head.)

I have been a whirlwind this week. All the fall and holiday orders are finished and I even managed to put together picture books for each month so the staff will know what is coming. I have organized French writing workshop, as far as I can via email. Another woman registered on Friday. I expect she won't be the last one but now, at least, we have minimal people for first week and more for the second week. It's strange. At UBC, Marlene's classes are always full and most often there is a waiting list but travel is costly and I imagine that's the deterrent.

On Friday evening, Rob, Bren, Mike, and I went out for Japanese food and then Mike showed us his new place. I think it perfect for him. It's on Cordova in the old "Roach Clothing" building. The first floor has huge silk-screening presses, and the second floor is let by Mike's landlord, a musician, and film maker, and the third by another individual. The flat was advertised as "a New York style loft" and, to my mind, it's what the artist's apartments in Greenwich village must have been like. It's huge - 4000 square feet - and Mike's room is large enough to hold his bookcases, easel, bed, desk, and sofa. The only thing I didn't like is the bedrooms, to the back of living space, don't have windows. But the living room looks out to the street and has huge windows, three sofas, an enormous television, three guitars, large paintings, an enormous wheel (?). It's casual and artsy and Mike is pleased. We met his landlord - a fellow slightly younger than me - but not the other tenants, one of whom is a dominatrix (sp?) and is planning to make one of the back rooms into a dungeon. Mike is a little tired of the jokes around this room mate but I told him to shrug them off. I hope he's happy there. The rent is a lot less than his former apartment and he says now he has enough money to have some fun. (Once, when he was in high school, Mike had to write an essay on something he valued, and he wrote about "fun". I like his attitude.)

And I'm hoping, I'll find some of the riotous kind in France. I love the countryside, the people - many who have become friends - the language, the food, the wine. It shouldn't be too hard.

I suppose I should pack though I'm not taking much. I left all my summer clothes there last year, though I'll need a few for the days, we spend in Paris (where we'll meet up with our amazing daughter. It hasn't even been a week and I miss her.)

I will probably not get back online until mid-week and hopefully then, this traveler will have a revelation or two.

Beautiful morning in my city. Sky is blue. Birds are singing. I should be doing a hundred things in preparation for leaving but I thought I'd write a few lines here so those who have patience with me and return each day to see if I have been diligent, will find some new words.

Yesterday, I had my hair clipped and highlit. I feel lighter. Afterwards, Marlene and I met and sat down by the water and talked and then found our way to Maureen's fancy townhouse for an elegant dinner with Shirley and Bett. They are all wild women, especially that trouble-rouser Marlene. You can see in her eyes that she's up to no good - or lots of good (depending on how you think about body and soul.) All these women inspire me with their openness and rauchiness and love of the sensual. Leslie used to say that I overuse the word "sensual" but it slips out so easily and feels like a kiss. Aren't the tongue and the lips lovely parts of ourselves?

I mentioned the book "Nine Parts of Desire" during one conversation and have just searched my book shelves and can't find it. I wanted to find the passage that says woman is the sexier sex, that if man weren't so insecure, he would request, beg even, to be taught the art of pleasure by woman.

One of the pleasures of growing older, for women, in my mind, is that we become clearer, bolder, more verbal about our needs. And we want to express ourselves not only with our tongues but with our bodies. I love a book by Jamake Highwater called "Myth and Sexuality," love when he writes of the "body as an organ of expression - perhaps the most vivid facility for the expression of strongly and immediately felt ideas, needs, and feelings."

"Our bodies live through motion. And thus motion is one of the most important and pervasive means by which we can celebrate living. Our sexuality is part of the life we celebrate."

Highwater studied the ritual dancers of Asia, Africa, South America, and Indian America and concludes that the body has its own "secret language." He notes that "What dance achieves, what play and sex achieve are the same things that poetry achieves. They transform the ordinary into the extraordinary."

More and more these days, I find myself wanting to dance, to feel myself alive. I discovered last year that people in Europe - Northern Ireland and France - make the time to dance, and I'm not just speaking of the young.

In five days, I will be in France. In around a month, my trouble-rousing friends who love to dance and even joined me on a table last year, will arrive. I am hoping we will get into even more trouble this year.

I haven't been doing a lot of anything, moving slow and carefully as I've been feeling queasy and uneasy for three days. I haven't touched wine nor coffee. A small lie. I had one cup of coffee yesterday but it didn't sit well. I've been to the store
and have nearly finished the orders. Hallelujah. And I did manage to make Shirley's Canada Celebration although I wasn't great company. (I promised though to introduce her to Rob and a promise is a promise.)

Funny thing about being sick is that it keeps you in the moment. Impossible to think beyond the thought you're thinking.

Gill leaves for Northern Ireland today. She is feeling a little queasy too but blames it on stress. Over the past few days, she's packed her bags and completed her course registration for Ryerson (with help from Brendan) as well as say good-bye to her friends. She won't be home till Christmas. The house will feel lonely without her. I doubt she knows how much her dashing presence means to all of us.

Mike dropped in last night for dinner and to say farewell to his sister. He's just moved to a new place that sounds like a movie set but I'll tell more later when I've seen it with my own eyes - sometime this week before Rob and I take off next Sunday. But he's happy. What more could one want? He says he'd like to come to France. If this desire was fulfilled would he be happier?

Desire. I should ask Vaughan to appear here as a guest writer and speak of desire - a subject we've discussed much lately.

I have only one desire at the moment. To feel well. I will. Soon.