Times flies. After my last "sick" entry, I thought I should write briefly.

I moved in first gear for several days, after my "cleanse." Food had little appeal. Neither did leaving the house so I lay around and did little. Yesterday, I felt almost normal. I drove to St. Antonine de Noble Val with Bedding and her house guest. I was surprised to find that Sunday market was as crowded as in summer though it was a summer-like day - the sun was shining and I was too warm in my long-sleeved cotton pullover. We separated at market and so I wandered alone picking up several varietes of olives, a half dozen white nectarines, perfect petite zucchini and red peppers, lettuce, and several bunches of purple grapes. We met for lunch and then drove back to Montmiral by Penn and Bruniquel - other hilltop fortress towns, through a landscape of varigated greens on rolling hills. Once again, I sighed and thought about how much I love this place.

I threw together a lentil stew for dinner as Susan and David were joining me. Today, I am cleaning and preparing two bedrooms - the two bedrooms - for two couples from Vancouver who will stay for several days. I shall move into the attic and brave the bats. A week today, Rob arrives.

I have been thinking about me and the voice inside my head that is eternally dissatisfied with me. I know this to be a cruel voice that expects me to be something beyond human. I wonder if I will ever make peace with it. Time is running out.

A couple of days ago, a friend who Rob and I recently had dinner with in Vancouver had a stroke. It scared me so. (He's fine at the moment. Sensation is moving back into his left side.) And I thought to myself that I, we, are now reaching a certain age when we will lose friends or perhaps even the other.

A wiser voice says - oh, I know it is common - do what you want to do now. Don't knock yourself about. Enjoy.

The phone is ringing. It's Susan who is trying to find some good reads for me. "Do you like Henry James? I have a book that describes his agony...." We finish the conversation and I put down the phone. The sun is shining on the small cafe table in the attic. I look out the window over the slopping speckled roof tiles to the fields beyond. Nothing urgent has to be done. I close my eyes and listen to my breathing.

The thing about writing these blogs is that I expose myself and ever since I was a little girl, I have been guarding myself - though I imagine some don't think so - but I hated English as a subject, especially when asked to write about my life. I didn't want anyone to know too much about me. I am still finding it an effort though I know I have come a long way since I decided to try and write for a public.

And these are my small thoughts on this amazingly beautiful day.

I am in our little house in France. Alone. My body gave up on me an evening ago. Whether it was something I ate or pure exhaustion, I woke in the middle of the night in pain, my stomach heaving. I ran to the washroom, knelt by the bowl, and a fountain of partially digested food shot from my mouth. How does this happen? Not often in my life have I vomited and it always surprises me. What force in the gut takes over and has the power to push all out the way it entered?

I washed my face and stumbled back to bed. I awoke twice more during the night and the same thing happened - only less violently. Even water wasn't allowed to stay put. I slept till two the next afternoon and had just enough energy to put some clothes on and walk carefully down to the store at the foot of the town to buy bread sticks, chicken noodle soup, and coca cola - the only three things that I know are good for a rebellious stomach.

After eating, I slept till eleven the next day, or today rather - a miracle as six hours is usually my max. I feel a little light headed and look a little rough but my stomach is calm so soon I will shower and drive into town for groceries.

The highlight of this low time is that I began reading "Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing" by Helene Cixous. She uses language in such a unique way that I found myself whispering yes, yes, yes and immediately want to attack my manuscript and let my pen fly without letting that damn censor cut me down, make me doubt my lust, my love of words...

Today I'm catching my breath, packing my suitcase once again, and this evening, flying to France. It's been a crazy few days here in Toronto, visiting my family who don't live close enough to each other for casual drop-ins. So I've been on the run...
on highways, cities streets, and country roads, in cars and trucks and subway trains.

I was going to copy out a play by play of my going-ons from my journal but I think it would bore you and I'm still digesting those moments with family that call forth so many emotions and memories. (I will do this in France. By tomorrow evening, I will be tucked into my bed in our ancient village. Hopefully there I will dream and remember my dreams... )

At the moment, I am overwhelmed by my family - they have been so fantastic to me that I want to hug them again and write all sorts of mushy things about each and every one of them and sing their praises to the heavens - but again it would bore you so I won't. I have seen my mother and father, my middle son and his love (and met her father), my sister Gael, her husband, and daughters - who win the gold medal for their generosity, my Alice-in-Wonderland daughter and her room-mates, my older sister, Stephanie and her husband , my brother and his daughter (who drove over 1 1/2 hours each way to my parents to surprise me) and my preacher uncle, Jim.

So many personalities, so many conversations... is it any wonder that I'm overwhelmed... on the first dreary rainy day since I arrived?

Incongruous

Handsome Dude
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

So why did I post this picture? I don't know. Nice arms. Big hands. Charming smile. Looks like the man has depth...

I should be showering and finishing packing and I will have to soon force myself to complete these last few chores before leaving on a jet plane. I have been so busy that I haven't even written in my journal. I finish one task and another one calls. And so the last week has disappeared with an outing here and there to visit dear friends.

This week Toronto. Next France. I'll try to write more soon.

SUMMER HOLIDAYS

SUMMER HOLIDAYS
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

Today I will meet with a woman who doesn't know what I've been up to all summer and so I decided to show, not tell.

What to write about? It's been a week since I last blogged and yet, when I look back on my week, I can't think what I have been up to that's worth relaying.

But I have a friend who stopped blogging for a month. Every day I would check if she had published a new post but no, no, no all month long. Until yesterday. And I sigh with relief. I like reading my friends. I feel a part of their life even when I am too far or too busy to get together.

I think of police interrogations on tv shows where a cop asks a suspect "what were you doing on the night of August 28th, 2006" and the suspect immediately replys "that was the night that I went to The King's Head with my pal Joey. We drank a couple of beer and then I went home and watched the Twilight Zone.

I have to look at a calendar - preferably one where I have noted my appointments - and so I check the past week.

On Sunday, Rob and I took Gill and our eldest son out to a restaurant to celebrate his birthday. On Monday, Rob left, with a large suitcase, to shoot a week in mission and Gill and I went shopping at London Drugs. Tuesday night - Gill's last night in Vancouver - she invited a bunch of friends over and we ate salad and pizza. It blew me away to see her friends who I have known since grade school, standing around, wine glasses in hands, chatting like adults. Oops, they are adults.

Wednesday morning, I drove my fair daughter to the airport and off she flew to Toronto to begin her second year of university. It wasn't so difficult seeing her off as I will join in her Toronto in less than two weeks. In the evening, I went to dinner at a petite French restaurant with my friend Helen and then on to Bard on the Beach to see Troilus and Cressida, a little known play about men and war. The director chose to set the play in the deep south during the civil war and I for one, disliked this. I know it worked on the movie Romeo and Juliet but I found the cast of many characters - some actors playing more than one role - speaking old English, with southern accents, confusing. And the womens' roles- not minor characters usually (for example, Helen of Troy and Cassandra) - made minor. If I were Shakespeare, I would have given the women more lines, more influence over the men but, as I write this, I see that I am unrealistic. Even with the war raging at the moment, women have next to no influence or say.

Thursday and Friday are a blur. Friday, I didn't dress till five when I had to run out and get groceries. For two days, I organized paper - changed most of our monthly bills, on the internet, to paperless accounts so we will receive notice anywhere in the world. I also made appointments for the car to be overhauled, for the carpets to be cleaned, for Rob for a chiropractic session and held several meeting for potential work... and cleaned the house and did mountains of laundry. I know myself well and, if I don't do all this now, it will not be complete before I leave for Toronto on the 12th.

Oops, I also began sending out invitations for Rob's 60th birthday in October in Greece. And still, I have much to do.

This recounting of my week, to my mind, is drab. Didn't you have an interesting thought, I ask myself. A few. When all seemed too much, when I was filled with angst, when I wanted to lambast myself for not revelling in my extraordinary life, I thought of Joanna Field, how in A Life of One's Own, she explores happiness and speaks of - I cannot remember her terms - of something like wide and narrow vision - how to zero in on what is in front of oneself - how to focus on it so nothing else exists. For me, when I am on top of things, this works. Narrow your focus, I tell myself. Narrow it, so those nagging voices in your head, have no room. Nothing is important except the task, the sight, the person, in front of you. Listen hard...

I have also been thinking about change, just how difficult it is to change, to alter one's way of doing things. And yet it is possible, I know, because I have changed over the years. Sometimes it happened slowly - through thinking, thinking, thinking - until one day I woke, and saw that something had shifted without me realizing the process. I was where I wanted to be.

And sometimes change happened with an epiphany, that felt like a flash of light entering my body. (The image I see here, is a painting of the Virgin being impregnated by the Holy Spirit.) Oh, such a wondrous liberating experience. I want more epiphanies. I would like to break old habits and feel strong and free. I want to put into effect what I intellectually think is necessary for my well-being but can't cope with emotionally. I am speaking about trusting myself and doing what I feel is good for me, no matter that no one else understands. I want to feel tough enough not to mind negative feedback. And yet I am still too fearful. Be patient, I tell myself...

And so my week has passed...

TWENTY EIGHT YEARS AGO
A CHILD WAS BORN



Twenty eight years ago, I became a mother. I would not have said that I was mother material. I did not idealize babies. I never went soft and mushy around infants. I hadn't dreamed of holding a child of my own - a concrete expression of my love for another. Being the second child of six, I knew babies were time-consuming and demanding.

And yet, when we decided to have a child, when that child materialized, I found myself loving him beyond reason. Rob too loved being a parent. We used to say that if we were suddenly millionaires, we would have a dozen.

And yet, our first son was not easy. Every morning when I fed him, I learned to hold him at the side of the bed so he could projectile vomit across the room. He never slept when I needed him to sleep. I would often lie beside his crib and try to lull him away with soft words. Often, we both ended up in tears of frustration. When he started to crawl, he went backwards. One day, he just stood up and walked. This has always been his way. It's as if he does all his learning inside his head and when he's perfected whatever, he gives it outward expression.

And yet, he was the most accident prone of all our children. He became so used to the Emergency room that, on the way, while I cried, he would ask if he could have cake from the vending machine.

When he started school, one teacher telephoned me and demanded an interview. She didn't know what to do with my child. He never competed with others. Indeed, he never tried to better his best. At the end of the year, she said that he would be an independent happy adult.

Throughout his school years, he did what he wanted irrespective of what was demanded of him. If he liked a teacher, he worked. If he didn't, he skipped class. (Interesting that his opinion of teachers was often mine.)

He loved theatre classes. One day he returned from school, threw his fist in the air, after telling me that he had won an acting award, and yelled "I'm great." I stood in awe of him - not because he had won an award but because he could feel so good about himself and express it.

Today he is twenty eight. It is difficult to write about him because he is a very private individual. He never chit chats. He has grown tall - much taller than we expected a child of ours could grow. He is thin - too thin, I sometimes think. He is neat, precise, in dress and manner. Sometimes we have long sensitive creative conversations. At other times, I feel a wall and don't know what to say to him. He appears less concerned about the good opinion of others than anyone I know though as I write this, I think he may have a match in his father.

I can't believe I once dressed him in a sailor suit. It must be because Rob once wore one.



And so I sit on the day of his birth, thinking about this son, how he has changed, how he has challenged and changed me. I love him and wish him happiness.

THE WEDDING



This is the cake that has been my passion for the last week. I gave it my best, and though not perfect and not quite what was requested, I am not displeased with the result. Many praised it before and after it was served. Thank the heavens.

My niece's wedding on Saturday was one of the most exotic I have ever attended as she chose a man whose family is East Indian and so the festivities had a colourful Eastern twist. Unfortunately I missed the groom's party on Friday night - as that is the only time, a la Martha Stewart, that a cake can be decorated for maximum freshness - when all the Westerners wore exotic Indian dress and the women danced with candles on their heads, and anyone who desired could have hands and arms painted with Mendhi patterns, and special rites of passage were performed.

The wedding took place in the Roundhouse in Yaletown. The room was decorated with orchids and candles, and larger-than-life, black and white photographs of the bride and groom, Sarah and Rene. Guests, as they entered, were serenaded with sitar and tabla music and then the ceremony - without reference to religion - took place. I listened to the words carefully, as I am prone to do, and I was impressed with their lovingness and sincerity.

My niece, looked like a Jane Austen heroine in a light taupe, strapless gown, with breasts pushed high - sexy and chaste at the same time - with pearls dropping out of her dark hair at the back. She cried and laughed throughout her vows, holding tight to Rene's hands who was handsome too in his dark suit though his white shoes and pink stripped socks added a roguish edge.

I was surprised that my niece, a modern woman with a career, chose to take her love's name though she told me that she will be addressed as Ms not Mrs.

The evening was a seamless blending of cultures with music and food to satisfy both tastes. At one point, one dark-skinned woman in an extraordnary silk pleated costume performed two dances and a little later, a troop of men with colourful headdresses and costumes danced with what looked like wooden daggers.

And then everyone danced - women with women, men with men, women in saris, women in western fancy, and men, for the most part, in suits and ties, some with creative touches - and so we spun and swayed and clapped to the music - both Indian and Western - until midnight. The wine and laughter flowed while little girls in fancy party dresses ran and played amid the dancers. Afterwards, we old folk took taxis home and the younger crowd went with Sarah and Rene to their hotel for drinks in the bar.

It has been a crazy week as Gill and I did not have time to catch our breath from travel before being thrown into a whirlwind of celebrations, but I did have moments to become reacquainted with my mother-in-law who was an easy guest and didn't seem to mind my absorption with cake; and my niece from California, a dark haired beauty, also a writer, a journalist student like Gill, a vegetarian (who fell off the wagon and ate chicken at the wedding feast), who is full of spirit and life. She noted that it is strange to be thrown into a crowd and find many who share the same features, both physical and mental.

And so my niece Sarah is married. There were three other weddings around the Roundhouse Saturday. And I wonder how their marriages will differ from those of my generation. Or if they will differ...

And now, I must tend to practical matters as I will return to France sometime in September, via Toronto to see Gill settled, and then on to Greece for Rob's sixtieth birthday. I love travel and adventure but still, I would like my world to slow down a little so I can gather my thoughts and dreams.

What can I say? I'm home but still feel I'm living a dream.

I'm not sure what I did my first few days. Gill and I went shopping for food, I know, as the cupboard was bare.

On Sunday, Rob and I went shopping again as we were having a Young family feast that evening (though Gill and Karyna did the food preparation and presentation.) While Rob went to the airport to pick up his mother, sister and her love, I straightened, laid the table, and cleaned upstairs. (Thank heavens for Mackenzie who had the main floor spotless or I would not have been able to do it.)

I was shocked when I saw Mother Young. It's been nine years since she was last here and the jump from 77 to 86 is considerable, more so, as she battled with cancer last year - or was it the year before? She has shrunk in size but when I talk to her, she is the same. I have always admired her. She has never, or so it appears to me, been caught up in appearances. When Rob and I started living together - around 37 years ago - Rob called her. She was happy that he wasn't alone. I didn't dare tell my parents: I pretended to be living with his sister.

So the Youngs gathered at our home. Sarah, the bride-to-be, not blushing but beautiful and her fiance Rene, also beautiful, and her youngest brother. Her eldest arrvied just before midnight with his daughter. Our house was full.

On Monday, Gill, Mother, Kathy, Richard and I met Sarah, Rene, his mother and sister in India town for lunch and costume shopping for the Garden Party Friday evening.

On Monday evening, I drove Michael and Mackenzie to the airport. Mackenzie's father is very ill and she is sick at heart. She adores him so and is willing to confront her fear of flying to be at his side. And Michael, my middle child, who has a tender heart, is going to support them both.

Michael tells me that he will not be missed, in all the flurry, but I beg to differ. He and Mackenzie are missed already by more than me.

On Tuesday, Gill and I shopped for wedding cake items and then attended a shower for the bride in the evening.

Since then, I have been consumed with wedding cake planning and preparation. I want to produce the most beautiful wedding cake ever. (It appears that I like to add pressure to myself, even here.) This afternoon and evening, I will be decorating and pray that no mishaps will happen, that it will come together perfectly, beautifully.

I think that making such a cake is like writing a fine story. First one produces the outline, the base, then edits, cuts each layer so each tier is balanced, and then polishes so all is perfect in form and matter for public consumption.

After the wedding Saturday afternoon and evening, I will return to my prose.

Wish me luck.

Gill and I are home.

Yesterday morning we arrived by taxi at Heathrow, Terminal 4, with no knowledge that the airport was under terrorist alert.

Hundreds of people with carts of luggage were lined up outside the building, blocking the entrance. A young American woman, who had been at the airport since seven, filled us in: A terrorist plot - on the scale of 9/11 - had been uncovered the night before. Eighteen arrests had been made so far. All domestic and European flights were cancelled. Many to the US had been put on hold. No one was allowed hand baggage.

I panicked about my laptop. Would it survive the voyage in my suitcase? I had also splurged on an especially fine bottle of Armagnac in France (that was thank goodness in a heavy cardboard box.) Would it survive or explode and possibly wreck my laptop? I carefully planted both in my case, cushioned by clothing, and prayed, wondering if I was a fool not to have disposed of the alcohol. (They both made it.)

When our flight number was called, we were allowed into the terminal, given a small plastic bag for our wallets, passports, and tickets. Gill was not even allowed her lip gloss. We lined up for our boarding passes, watched our valuables being thrown on a conveyor belt and then went through security where everyone - including a woman in a wheelchair - had their body patted down.

Gill and I walked around the Duty Free area stunned with no appetite for food - though we had intended to eat before our flight - nor any for the hundreds of gift items permissable on the plane (no fluids or creams were allowed.)

Though I was relieved that our destination was not the US, I felt an ounce of fear that Canada might be considered too close a neighbour and also be a target.

Everyone was subdued. There was no noisy conversation, laughter or bickering. No one appeared angry - though all had lost the priviledge of safe keeping delicate items. Even the overhead monitors that were not updated to show late departure, received little more than a comment or two. I have never seen such a large group of people so patient.

I stood for a while looking out the large window, watching the planes line up, speed down the runway, and take off into the air, half expecting an explosion.

Finally two and a half hours late, our plane took off. I breathed a little easier when it levelled and the seat belt sign went out. I held Gill's hand through two patches of turbulence. A nervous flyer at the best of the times, I wondered if this flight would be the killer.

I cannot describe my relief when the plane touched down in Vancouver.

So we are home, blissfully home for a little while.

LONDON TOWN

Yesterday was a whirlwind. Early morning, Gill and I went to Starbucks for coffee and internet, and then on to a fitness club (our hotel has priviledges) for a swim and steam bath, and then (puff puff)on to hairdressers' for an English cut (hate mine), and finally into Camden market passage for an Indian vegetarian lunch. We hardly had time to catch our breath before we were underground, catching tube to Leicester Square for half price tickets to Dancing on the Street and then on to do battle with the crowds on Oxford Street, while eying what's new and great for fall - oops forgot I am not in the fashion industry anymore.

For the first time, I find myself liking London. Usually I sigh and say it's just too crowded, too busy, too fast, too dangerous but this time, I am enthralled. Could be because so much revolves around theatre, art, books, and cafes.

Dancing in the Street gave us a taste of the Motown era and its stars - Diana Ross, Little Stevie Wonder, The Temptations, to name a few. Gill, who should be too young, knew practically every song (is she her father's daughter?)and, at one point, both of us were dancing in front of our seats (along with half the audience.)The lead - oops can't remember his name - had a great voice and his ad libbing helped hold the musical together (no story line - only a string of songs.) At the end, he ask all, if they enjoyed the performance, to tell 750 friends to buy tickets because "I don't want to go back to the States until that man is out of the White House." He received a standing ovation.

Afterwards, though I could hardly keep my eyes open, Gill dragged me to a China town for a quick bite and then down into the underground and back to the hotel where I collapsed...

And so we begin our last full day...

Hi there everyone,

Gill and I are homeward bound. We are now in London at our swanky hotel - in fact, we are at Starbucks down the road from our hotel, as internet there is too expensive.

We arrived yesterday afternoon. Early evening, we went to Leicester Square to check out what's happening at the theatres - lots. We are still debating what to do this evening. And after, we wandered down Charington Cross road, in and out of book stores. (I only bought two), ate at a little Italian restaurant, and then wandered some more - through Chinatown, up to Picadilly Circus. Oh the bright lights and the people. London, appears to me, to be the most crowded city in all the world.

Gill just left to return to our hotel. Today, we hit the Tate Modern and Camden Street market.

Anyway, we are safe and looking forward to home.

Love to all

Last night Gill made a wonderful dinner (starting with a green salad flavoured with strawberries, plums, and goat cheese) for Bedding, Susan, David, Alina - a young Russian violin player who will be studying in Paris this fall - and me. At one moment in the evening, when Gill was preparing caramelized apples, she and Alina were whispering and laughing in the kitchen. A delight to the ears - two young beauties, one light, one dark, excited about life.

Later in the evening, I introduced Mary Oliver to our guests. No one except Gill and I had heard of her.

The evening was more than enjoyable yet when I woke this morning, I was gripped by fear and despair. I see it as self-sabotage. I look in the mirror and don't like what I see.

Speaking of mirrors, I have had several illuminations over the past few days. I am going to quote from my journal.

If I believe that I am doing the best I can and that every other person is doing her or his best, then I will be happier. I will be more accepting of self and others.

I recall one man who had a happy marriage. When asked his secret, he replied that every morning he looked in the mirror and said to his image "you are no great thing." In this way, he kept his humility and silently, or not, was grateful to his wife for spending time with him.

In "Enchanted April", one woman who was disenchanted with her husband one day realized that she was "stingy" with her love and so put all effort into being generous. Her marriage became a marvellous thing.

I pause here. Within my marriage, I have often felt a failure. I thought I lacked the key to his heart. If only I could find the right words or gestures, he would open himself to me, be able to express his love. I wanted to ignite him. I see now that there are no magic words or gestures: I am not a magician. He is who he is. I cannot change him. He does the best he can.

This is difficult for a woman who believes in pushing herself to express all in words, who indeed loves words, who knows their power.

Many many years ago, I met a man who shared my passion for words. After several meetings, he sent me a letter describing our conversations. What astonished me was how well he listened and observed. He quoted me, described my facial expressions and body language. And then he said that he had not asked me to make love because it would have been "too conventional", a married woman "profiting" from the absence of her husband. I laughed out loud at the word "profiting" but admit that I was pleased: I had never thought of myself as desirable.

I pause here again. How could I not have know? I am a married woman with children. The only reason that I can come up with is that I am no good at subtleties. I need words to know what another is thinking. I hate guessing games. Oh yes, I can project my own thoughts but they are too often wrong and I am seldom generous with myself. Silence frightens me. I have a vivid imagination and within it, I project my own feelings of despair.

At the end of his letter, this fellow lover of words, said that if his words didn't offend me, I was to write him about my past, my dreams, and fantasies. I sent him a thank you note and thus began around two years of correspondance that can only be described, in Henry Miller's words, as "a literary fuck feast."

I cannot even begin to describe the pain and pleasure the letters caused... and the relationship ended badly but never, ever, neither then or now, did I, do I regret the experience.

Two days ago, in the village, after so many years, I saw the man and his wife sitting on the steps of a friend's house, smoking. My heart started pounding. I swallowed my fear and approached them. They smiled at me. I smiled and kissed them on each cheek. Within minutes, I was calm. We sat and talked, catching up on each others' lives. At some point in the conversation, I thanked him for his writing and presence in my life. "You woke me up." He seemed surprised though I really do not know how he felt. We left it at that.

Strange is it not, how a stranger can move us, cause turbulent emotion, force us to assess everything that we have ever believed about ourselves? His letters caused me to expose a person that I didn't know existed inside of me. I liked that person.

Several years after the "affair" ended, I read Rosemary Sullivan's book on obsessive affairs of the heart. She explained, if I remember correctly, that such relationships are important. They provide a mirror to both parties - a mirror in which both are magnified to twice their original stature. For a woman especially, this is a gift as she most often thinks of her self - her looks, her talents - as lesser rather than greater than they actually are. And though it is necessary for the mirror to crash, for the individuals to come back to earth, it is always with a more realistic picture of their capabilities.

And so it was good to sit and talk to this couple, to see the attraction, to not feel the old tugs at the heart, to say thank you and bring all to a kinder conclusion.

Every morning I try to take a little time (sometimes a great deal of time) to pull myself together through writing. Usually as I have noted before, it is in the attic overlooking the valley. The other day, for a change, I went to La Place and sat in the restaurant with a cafe creme.

I was sitting there scribbling in my journal when I looked up and spied a middle-aged man peeking through the curtains of his hotel room window. He must have seen that there were people all about and, nonetheless, opened his curtains wide and stepped out on the narrow balcony in only skimpy white underbriefs.

Scandalous. Has he no shame? And I look down at my notebook and ask myself the same question.

Is it inappropriate for him to stand on the balcony with practically nothing on - a hairy, smallish man, proud in his skin like a modern day Napoleon? Is it inappropriate for me to tell my crude thoughts? What do I mean by "crude"? Raw, undeveloped, unrefined.

"Leave it to others. You are not good enough," that damned defeatist voice in my head sings loud and clear.

Why am I not good enough? "Because you are the daughter of a daughter whose parents were dairy farmers - though admittedly they were not poor, were honourable, even kind, generous folk - but, don't you remember, you checked the records, before your grandmother, her mothers were illiterate, signed their marriage certificates with an "x" - and you with only an undergraduate degree - no great thing in this day and age - think that you have an original thought in your head?Don't make me laugh."

And so it goes... how many damn times I have said these things? (Please stop reading if you are as tired of me as I am.) I know I defeat myself. I have no excuses now. No job to consume my energy. No overwhelming responsibility. I am free to do as I please and so I will push myself... or attempt to be honest through my writing. Originality be damned.

At the moment, I have two channels of thought cursing through my brain. One is inspired by Virginia Woolf's "Room of One's Own", and the other is inspired by the arrival of my daughter.

Is it all right, I ask myself, to be so dependent on the written ideas of others? Why not? Everyone starts somewhere and why not with the familiar? There is nothing wrong with placing oneself on solid ground before taking a flying leap.

I think of my/our daughter who is a flying leap from her father and me. She is such an amalgamation of the two of us. I stand in awe of her (as I do of all our children.) And yes, I must admit that I am envious that she is nineteen years old and has done so much in her short life. But I see also that it is us, her parents who have encouraged her and helped her in practical ways to live her dreams, gain her experience. She said that, after living with a family where the parents work too much and have little time for their children, that she values hers more.

I see also that I can learn from her. It is high time that I stop defeating myself and move ahead with what I want to do or I will die full of regrets... "there comes times - perhaps this is one of them - when we have to take ourselves more seriously or die..."

Gill and I have only a week to enjoy the south of France together. We have so much we want to do. Yesterday, we went for a women writers' lunch in the next village with Clare and Susan. The food wasn't bad - some courses even good - but the company of these women was superb. No small talk. Lots of laughter, hearty conversation. Today we go to a dinner party. Tomorrow Gill will make a feast. Saturday we will go to the festival at Vaour. All this activity steals my breath. We both want to relax, enjoy, contemplate... and yet, I feel tired, can't sleep at night - last night a bat flying round my room kept me awake till after three.

It seems we are on a merry-go-round and though all is such child's play, light and whimsical, still we are a little dizzy with all the activity.

Today my baby girl arrives, though she is more a babe than a baby. An older French man called out to me on the street the other day and asked when she is arriving. "Elle est tres belle. O la la." I agreed. And half the young people in the village are counting the hours, as is this old dame. My daughter is simply and utterly lovely.

I have prepared the house and placed yellow roses - thanks to Clare - in the dining area and her bedroom. I have bought a bottle of vodka, lots of apples and bananas and yoghurt. And though I have loved my time alone, I am content that she will share the house with me. I imagine we will meet up at the strangest hours - both of us horrible sleepers - and will talk and talk and talk...

A week Monday, we leave for London. I was despairing at the cost of a hotel as even the tacky ones were around 70 pounds (150 CAD) a night but then I tried Hotwire, an American company though I wasn't sure that they had rooms in London. They do. Hotwire has the best hotel deals. You have to reserve and pay, knowing only the price and area and assigned number of stars, before you know the hotel name. With trepidation, I did this and found for 79 USD a night, Gill and I will be staying at the Hilton in the Financial District (very central). We are both excited. We would like to see a couple of plays - one at the Globe if possible - and do a little sight-seeing and shopping - and then fly home and fall into the opening ceremonies for Sarah, my niece's wedding on the 19th.

Life is good. I am so fortunate.

THREE CELESTIAL VIRGINS



It is so sultry hot in the south of France. Reminds me of the first year of the writing workshop when some women tied wet scarves around their necks to keep cool. We all wore fewer and fewer clothes and then dispensed with undergarments all together. With each passing day, the writing grew steamier. I remember one plum sitting like a buddah naked in the attic; and the restless sleepless nights, so draining that even the nicest of us cursed to the heavens.

This month, July, is similar - someone said, though I don't quite believe her, that one day the thermostat burst at 50. Each day sweat pours down me and it is difficult to find the energy to do anything. I find myself more frustrated than lonely - although there have been moments of extreme loneliness - one night I was in tears. But, for the most part, I am content albeit restless. What I am trying to do is observe myself without passing judgment, and see when I am most content, happy even.

My journal is full of random notes. I have had four books going at one time, each lying in various corners of the house that I go to at various times of the day. In the morning I am always up in the attic - the only time that it is cool enough. I love it here. The view is so gorgeous and whether it is time or place, my writing flows. In the afternoon, I am down in the writing room or rather, salon, as it's the only place cool enough to think, read, write notes. I am usually content at these times.

On Sunday night, I went down the hill, out of the village, with David to learn how to water his garden. (He and Susan have left for a few days.) I felt as if I had stepped back in time. David showed me how to throw the bucket down the well and then pull it up, hand over hand, by way of a rope and a single pulley. The water is then poured into a jug and, in turn, poured onto rows of squash, zucchini, carrots, beetroots, tomatoes, lettuce, and herbs. I am such a supermarket baby that I squealed when I saw a carrot pushing its way from the ground.

Last night, Clare and I returned and while she watered, I pulled up bucket after bucket of water. It took around an hour of steady work. We both agreed that though it was fun, we would hate to be obliged to go every evening: market vegetables are so fresh and inexpensive here that we hardly see the point in trudging down the hill to do a hour's labour and then trudge back up while the sun bakes us. Tomorrow, she - a true friend - has offered to return with me. We are going to go early morning in hopes that it will be cooler.

After our garden adventure, I was invited to Clare and Basil's for dinner. I think Basil thinks I don't buy groceries, don't eat much at home which isn't really true though I seldom eat a sit-down three course meal. Perhaps it is that I have such a hearty appetite when I'm there. Clare had prepared crudites - assorted cold vegetables - earlier and Basil waited for our return to fry the duck. I supplied a local red wine and it was an easy, perfect meal at the end of a day that was still hot, even with the door and windows open. We sat and talked for another hour or so and I only left as I saw that it was eleven and I wanted to catch Gill before she went to sleep. (This is her last full day of work.)

It was fascinating seeing Basil and Clare relate to each other. In fact, I have been observing many couples here, complementing and colliding, in order to figure out why some marriages appear harmonious and others miserable. (Rob noted once or twice that I have unrealistic expectations for a marriage though I have yet to be convinced.)

I love it when a man or woman is playful or tender with his or her mate. It distresses me when one dictates or lectures the other, as if he or she were a child. It's not that I expect all to be lovey-dovey all the time but I would believe in the institution more if I heard more couples uttering as many kind words as words of condescention to their love.

One report (I can't remember where I read it) insists that married men are the happiest people in the world, single women next, followed by single men, and married women alas are the least happy.

I have read Leonard's "On the Way to the Wedding" twice and am still thinking about it. She speaks not only of one's marriage to another but of one's relationship to one's creativity.

I am catching a glimpse of when I flow without fear of reprisal, in pleasure, happiness even; and where I struggle, what frustrates me, stops me cold; and my contribution to either state. Leonard insists its an ongoing battle.

No great conclusions about anything. But my daughter arrives Sunday and I am content.

happy birthday sweet plum



today I went to Toulouse for you* read rilke on the train only remembering halfway there that you love nature* so I put my book down and looked out the window and admired the trees... for you* when I arrived, I stopped in at a Brioche Dore and ate a abricot croissant (calories be damned: it's your birthday)* and proceeded to my favourite shoe store, Arche, that carries the most comfortable shoes in the world but alas I couldn't find any that suited me, let alone you* I stopped in at Habitat (similar to Ikea only better) and bought a little milk jug on sale for 92 euro cents so I will have one when you decide to visit* and on to Gallerie Lafayette where I selfishly bought a rolling knap-sac for me* I ate a healthy lunch at Tarte Julie and thought of you reciting "The Journey" by heart* at the end of the day, I went to an English bookstore and bought the new Sebastian Faulks that I will give you when I see you though I might read it beforehand* and so your birth day went* and the lovely thing about it is though my day is gone, yours is just beginning

happy birthday my friend* hope it is joyous* and the beginning of a wonderful year

Gill sends her love too

I notice it has been a week since I last wrote an entry and the longer I wait, the harder I find it to talk about what I've been up to. Not much really. Lots of thinking down the same old routes that make me as restless as hell. I need to look at my life from a different angle. Difficult. I was reading Mary Oliver this morning, a poem she wrote about Robert Schumann and she notes "how the mind clings to the road it knows" and though it's fine and dandy to stick to the familiar - feels safe - there is something stultifying about it as well.

I like change. I call myself a nomad. I love new sights, new places, but what I love most is being anonymous, being where no one knows me, no one expects anything from me; but having written this, I think that it is not other's expectations or what they ask of me: it's me who offers to do, to give. For instance, two Danish builders were in town last week, finishing some work on a house. They dropped in because there is some work Rob and I want them to do in our house. They were in frenzy to complete the job and didn't have time for the final clean-up before their flight. Guess who offered?

Part of me likes the part of me that is happy to help another and feel useful. But this is difficult too because often people, myself included, find it difficult to receive, feel an obligation to return the favour.

Besides cleaning a stranger's house and musing about my universe, I have had several social moments that brought me pleasure. One night, Susan and David came over with David's younger brother and his wife, who were visiting from Scotland, for bubbly wine and appetizers. George's wife, Sandy is Peruvian, full of life and mischief, smart too. And I especially liked it when she said she thought her husband "the bee's knees." [Do bees have knees? But how nice to hear one of a partnership praise the other.] And then Ruth, who is a classical viola player, dropped in and I worried the background music - Joaquin Phoenix, John Prine, Leonard Cohen - might not be to her liking but she said that she loved it - "mine is so boring... no words." And I have to believe her because later in the week she invited me to a Rock & Roll concert in Gaillac that unfortunately was cancelled because of a sudden wild storm.

This past Saturday all the town was decorated with paper flowers for an Italian wedding. You'd think you were in Italy, not France, with all the Italian visitors in town - talking loudly with exuberant hand gestures. Early afternoon, a crowd of them - perhaps a hundred, dressed beautifully, stood outside the Mairie's office, and began applauding when the groom walked toward them, looking very classy in his dark suit and cream waistcoat. And then the bride appeared on the arm of her brother. She looked like Cinderella going to the ball in her long cream satin dress, covered in antique lace. Bare shoulders, over-the-elbow gloves, satin ribbon and flower around her neck, and long veil, trailing behind her.



After they were married by the mayor, they moved into the church and were married by the priest. [In France, church and state are separated. You cannot just be married in a church though you can just be married by the mayor.]

And though I say, quite openly, I do not believe in traditional marriage: it doesn't work, I enjoyed watching this solemn young woman walk proudly into the square on the arm of her handsome brother - her father was killed in a fluke accident several years ago - and felt I was watching a fairytale - especially after reading "On the Way to the Wedding" twice.

Tonight, I am attending another magical event. I am going with Carol of Carolina and David and Susan to see a classical concert on the grounds of Chateau de Mayraques even though I know next to nothing about classical music - I think it Mozart and Britten who will be played. I simply love the scene, the chairs in the huge garden, under the night sky, people-watching and dreaming.

FRENCH MEN

During my life, I have been madly passionately in love with three French men - at different times, naturally - and none of them live or have ever lived in my village.

Are they the world's best lovers? No! (But of course my experience is limited.)

These days I don't think much of men. Not quite true. I think of one who is far far away, working too hard.

Tuesday is market day in Montmiral and so yesterday, I stepped out of my house, out of my precious solitude, to visit the central square and wander. For some strange reason, I took my camera. Unlike my daughter, I am not much of a picture-taker.



The first French man, I captured is George. He has been working at Le Bar forever - or ever since I arrived in the village sixteen years ago. I don't know if it is my imagination or not, but he hasn't changed a bit. My first dozen years here, he was always stern, abrupt. I thought he didn't like me or, at least, didn't like foreigners in his village. But a few years ago, his attitude changed. Now, he kisses me on both cheeks when I arrive each year: and, on occasion, I'm even given a smile. He posed for this picture.



This is Christian, the "pate man" who lives in an old house below the village where he produces various pates including an excellent foie gras. He is the only French man here who speaks almost perfect English and who loves flirting with women - all women. Once, he told an English matron that a particular pate would bring her ecstasy, then an orgasm. She bought the pate. Today, he holds his hand up for the camera and says "Foie Gras for gay-pride" - whatever that means. He gets away with a lot because of his accent, his boyish smile.



Denis or the "pizza man" as I called him for years has just had his wild gypsy hair cut. He tells me it is cooler on these stinking hot days (over 38 degrees yesterday) and this handsome devil - father of Harold who worked at the new restaurant until this year and Hugo, Gill's last summer love - not only cooks a mean pizza but is also a musician. He just happened to be playing with his group in the central square, a few years back, when a writing workshop was dining and the music, oh so very French and upbeat, had all the writers dancing for hours, even when it began to drizzle then pour... nothing could dampen our spirits that evening. It was magical. After posing for this picture, Denis told me that his group would be playing in Campagnac this Thursday evening. (I talked Clare and Lysiane, who were ordering a pizza, into going with me.)

Clare told me that she wouldn't have the nerve to go round taking pictures of people. I am surprised. I didn't think it any big deal and Clare does many things that I wouldn't dare to do - but these are her secrets.

After the market, I returned to the house and didn't leave it for the remainder of the day. I was/am restless. I read "Letters to a Young Poet" and spend hours answering questions that Rilke poses. I am aware that this month will pass too quickly and I might have to return home still not knowing what I want to do with the rest of my life.

A few mornings ago, I woke from a dream with the thought "I have to buy a horse." I remember nothing about the rest of my dream. Now why would I need a horse? Horse power? Energy? Yes, I do need more energy to think clearly, write, find a job... For fun, I checked out on the internet what a horse symbolized in dreams. "A Horse - especially a stallion - may symbolize sexuality." I had held, in my mind, the image of a sleek brown stallion...

I know I am in an enviable situation. I am in the south of France, in a thirteen century house, where any day of the week I can find a market and buy the freshest fruits and vegetables and cheeses, or visit a vineyard and buy wine for a few euros a bottle, or drive a short distance to a large air-conditioned supermarket and purchase whatever.... I have enough good friends who I am free to visit when I am need of company. My neighbours across the way, with an extraordinarily beautiful garden even gave me their key - they are away for a week - so I can sit amongst their flowers and wile away the hours.

So why am I so restless? Every day, my mood changes. If one day my writing flows, the next day I sling around not knowing what to think. I want clarity. I flip through books - my poets and psychological texts - and try to make sense of my life and find a new direction. Helen Luke keeps coming to mind. I reflect on her discussion about humility (and Rilke too uses this word) and think how difficult it is to be humble when one is fighting for a different kind of life. If words have the power to "pluck you,/ leave you naked..." will I, naked, be able to defend myself in the larger world - especially if my opponent is clothed?

What if someone yells at me "You're living in a dream world. Life isn't life that. You can't sit in your ivory tower and expect all to agree with you. You can't put a roof over your head and food on the table with dream analysis."

Even thinking these thoughts make my heart sink. Every few pages of my journal I write: "I have got to think of a way to make money."

"she was feeling her way down in the dark."



Yesterday was a strange heady day. I was sweeping the walk outside when the post woman handed me a parcel from Amazon. Only two days earlier, I had ordered three poetry books and they had arrived - Cohen, Rich, Rilke. I was so happy. I need answers to questions and who better to reference than these three? (But I have to tell you here that poetry puts me in a weird space. I feel as if I am a figure in a Chagall painting, floating above the earth.)

And so I rushed to the attic with my precious books and began with Rich. I read her "the school among the ruins" from cover to cover. I love her honesty. I love her comments on language.

And then I made a leap of thought and began to write in my journal: I must return to virgin land. [I paused here.] Have I ever been a virgin in the ancient sense of the word? At what age was I violated, forced to lie, forced to be something or someone I'm not? For the sake of love.

When you read me, what do you think? Pretentious bitch? Stupid fool? Poor dear? Brave Woman? I do not want to know. I invite no comment on this blog. I want neither praise nor condemnation. The first might push me to manipulate for more, the latter might crush me.

I write for me. [Is this true? I mentioned "blog" above.] I want to write whatever comes to mind, to be, who I am.

Why I wonder is who I am such a frightening thing?

Why at times do I groan at what appears on the page and tell myself to tear it up before anyone sees?

I think of Kate saying I use too many quotes and I'm glad she told me. I wasn't aware that I use so many. I see that at this stage I need back-up. If some famous person agrees with me, I can't be that fucked up.

My father and mother say that I use "bad words". And I do. It's the defiant part of me that wants to weed out the polite, the proper, the holier-than-thou reader. If you don't like my fucking language go read Miss Manners.

Under the surface, I feel such anger - at myself and those who want me to be something I'm not. Or is this a projection? Why should I expect anyone to love every part of me when I don't love every part of another?

But I do love respect adore, turn tender soft sweet with some whose imperfections then appear, in my mind, perfections.

What I want to do this month is let myself go on the page. I want to make writing a lover. I want it to free me, ravish me.

I write these words with my brave pen. Now I feel fear. Why? I don't want to sound a fool. I shall swallow this fear and see what happens.

In one prose piece, Rich writes a "Mission Statement" about an organization whose purpose is to abolish cruelty, destroy despair. Language is a major concern
"because of its known and unknown powers
to bind and dissociate

because of its capacity
to ostracize the speechless

...to nourish self-deception

...for rebirth and subversion

because of the history
of torture
....against human speech

Anyone who writes knows the power of words. In "The Exact Moment I Became a Poet", Paula Meehan writes "Words would pluck you,/ leave you naked,/ Your lovely shiny feathers all gone."