"How I Missed Those Loving Arms"



I'm home. Thank the heavens. For one who hates to fly, I've been doing a lot of it lately. From France to England to Eastern Canada, and finally to our home on the West Coast. My body is tired. Yesterday, first day back, I limped around, unpacked my suitcase, curled up on the sofa and read, while Rob worked his last day on Night at the Museum, Part 11.

In six days, we leave by car for California for yet another niece's wedding. Around the first of November, we will hop a plane together (for a change) to rest in our French house until after Christmas. I'm excited. Rob hasn't seen the renovation and I'm looking forward to his response.

I call myself a traveller (English spelling, not American), a nomad who is happiest on the road with a load of good books. I love alighting in a foreign place, exploring, enjoying new sights and different food, and writing about the experience. Lately travel, for the most part, has been about house work.

Our plan to retire to France and travel the world was based on our Canadian house selling at a good price - one that would pay our debts and give us a comfortable income until we die - but houses aren't selling unless the price tag is ridiculously low. My realtor sister says that buyers are making low-ball offers - some under assessed value. We're in a quandary. Do we sell low, pay off our debts, bank the rest, and work for another a couple of years to make up the difference? We would have to rent when work is available. Or do we carry the debt, rent our house, and work for another couple of years, renting a smaller place ourselves when necessary? If we don't sell, how long will it take the housing market to recover? Nobody really knows the answers to these questions.

*****

There is so much I could say about this past week but I find myself reluctant because during this week, my blog has been praised and criticized. Praised by a stranger. Criticized by a loved one. What to do? I would like to write an anonymous blog that could not be traced to me. Is this cowardice? Yes.

Although some may not think so, I think that I'm too kind in this journal. I don't lie but I don't tell the whole truth, or rather my truth, for I fear hurting someone I love. But keeping my big mouth shut goes against the grain, does nothing for my writer self. I know I repeat myself but I keep thinking of Saint Teresa of Avila who told her close friends "to disillusion me with the truth." She wanted to know herself. I would like to have her courage.

*****

The last week in France disappeared. I left the house perfect, ready to dazzle Rob when we return. I stopped in Toronto (as I've mentioned) to attend Amie's wedding.

I was surprised to hear that this particular niece was getting married. She is not a traditionalist. She has never tried to please, and is the most outspoken and caustic of my siblings' children. She does not lack intelligence. (I see none of these qualities as negative.) She loves books. Her choice of husband also surprised me. Tommy is the son of a Finnish Mormon. His father's closest friend (who I met at the wedding) described Tommy's dad, Ilmo as the closest person to Jesus Christ that he's ever met. "There isn't a kinder, gentler, more generous man on this earth." Although I have never had a long conversation with Tommy, I would say he resembles his father. He appears timid, modest, not volcanic like his beautiful bride.

Amie says they met at a bar. She was to be his friend's date but Tommy and she sat and talked the night away. The second time they met was also in a bar. She told him that she was in a foul mood. "Let's dance," he said. And they danced the night away. They arranged to go to a movie together. Amie says the film destroyed all her illusions about love. When they left the theatre, she burst into tears and couldn't stop crying. If you can't believe in love, what can you believe in. Tommy comforted her. I believe in love, he told her. And with that statement, she realized that she was falling in love.

*****
I arrived in Toronto exhausted, after being awake 24 hours. I slept poorly the first night. The next evening was the wedding. The evening after that the celebration. I went home with Gill and Durant and Gill and I had a day and evening together and although she was working, we still had time to catch up and play. Early, early the next morning, I took a train to Port Hope so I could visit with my son Michael and his love, Mackenzie. Although struggling financially - Michael is now enrolled in full time studies as well as doing web work - they are happier than I've ever seen them.

It was a whirlwind visit. Early, early the next morning, my father drove me to the train station and I caught a train back to the city. It was a glorious hot day and I pulled my suitcases through the streets of Toronto to the subway to the airport and home.

She'd follow Tommy anywhere...
She's in love with the boy

On the way home, I stopped in Toronto for Amie and Tommy's wedding (sounds like a country and western song to me.)



So much to say about the last week but until today (I'm with Michael) I have not been able to use my computer and as I have only a few hours to spend with him and Mackenzie, and my mum and dad, I'll tell more a little later this week. (I fly home tomorrow.)

Skip to My Lou

Don't know why a nursery rhyme comes to mind. My first two pages describe the work I've been doing. If they bore you, skip to the third.

Ma belle-soeur et l'amour de sa vie

I woke up at 4 am, made myself a cup of tea, opened my computer, and noted that it is August 31st, Kathy and Richard's wedding day. Kathy is my sister-in-law or, in French, my belle-soeur, translated beautiful sister. I imagine that she will be beautiful today in an Eileen Fisher flowing dress with organza overcoat. I imagine that she will be happy at her small wedding, surrounded by their children and grandchildren but I imagine her happy mostly because she is marrying the rather extraordinary man she met through an internet-dating-service a few years ago. Richard is one of the most inquisitive, industrious, generous, talkative, and intelligent man whom I have ever met. (See Richard's website.) He asked me once to tell him about Kathy's other men because he didn't want to make the same mistake and lose her. I have also noticed their kindness to one another. (The older I get, the more I see that kindness is the most important ingredient in a loving relationship.)

Kathy is Rob's younger sister and although she often comments on how he tortured her when they were young, and although they are not in touch often (which surprises Richard who is constantly in touch with his family,) there is no lack of love between them. They are similar in their down-to-earth, no nonsense approach to life - could be the Maritime in them - and their love of books and family. I admire too Kath's intelligence and organizational skills (something I lack in regards to the home.) I remember when we were raising our children, she'd be up, dressed, beds made, house cleaned, and be cooking one of her famous cheesecakes, while I'd still be wandering around in my housecoat. For the longest time in Vancouver, she was the only family I had and she was always there for me - taking the children when I went to see Rob on location, letting the whole family move in when we were between houses, organizing our extended family get-togethers, listening when I needed listening to - oh dear, there is so much I could say - but as I sit here thinking about her and the actions she's taken throughout our relationship, I see she is as extraordinary as Richard. I am happy that they found each other.

Last year, when Richard came to Vancouver - our first meeting - he stayed with us, and Rob introduced him as his brother-in-law which amused Richard.

Today Richard officially joins the Young clan and both Rob and I - I say with a grin - think he'll fit right in. Welcome, good man. We will celebrate your marriage with champagne when we meet in California, early October.




I have inserted here a picture of Kathy and Rob (lower left) and our combined children.

Milestone Birthday

My eldest child is thirty today. He wants no fuss or hullabaloo. How can this be? He was raised by a mother who loves celebrations. In my mind, turning thirty is important. On my 30th birthday, this young man was seven months old. I was never a baby person but after his birth, after falling in love with this child from my belly, while still reveling in my capacity to create such a perfect human being, I decided I wanted a dozen more. I had yet to discover how much time, physical and psychic energy, and yes, money it takes to raise a child. But the gifts given and lessons learned from this child-now-man continue (as well as from my other two.) I am often overwhelmed by the size and scope of dividends that I receive. Non, je ne regrette rien.

I wish him everything his heart desires, including many dazzling moments of happiness this coming year.

"Ain't No Cure for Love"

When I am depressed, I wallow. Yesterday was one such day. It began when I went to Mr. Bricolage for sandpaper and spoke to one bitch of a saleswoman who refused to understand my French... My bleak mood continued until the evening when I spoke to Rob (oh, I love the sound of his voice) and then sang along with Jennifer Warnes "I've loved you for a long long time" from her Famous Blue Raincoat" and ate my solitary dinner watching "Captain Corelli's Mandolin".

This morning, I feel better. Started my day with a phone call from Marlene, went to La Place for coffee, and sat in the sunshine, writing in my journal.

Susan is 81 years today and tomorrow Brendan turns 30.

I hate myself when I complain about the little things when I have so much to be thankful for, and even though I know this when I am sunk in misery, there are times when I just can't pull myself out.

I meant to blog earlier this week on last week's village fete but somehow time escaped me, though I did write about it in my journal so I will copy a bit about it and then continue to the present time.

Susan and David whose house backs onto the Esplanade where the music stage is set for the summer fete, left town for five days, and I promised to keep an eye on their garden and water when necessary.

"I am down in David's garden, drawing water from the well to feed the baby tomatoes, squash, and onions though there is really no need as it had rained a little very day. But a promise is a promise and I was worried that too many tomatoes had ripened and would go to waste...

I had decided the day before that I would get out of my hermitage and lead a healthier existence and participate more in the life of the village (which I call mine.) So in the evening I strolled through the Esplanade, bought some saucisse and frites and a glass of wine and sat listening to the music. But I was alone, felt out of place in the chattering crowd and, after a short while, went home to bed.

The next evening, I was wide awake at 10 (unusual) so I took another stroll through the Esplanade where a Spanish group were playing. The lead singer, a very pregnant young woman, had a great voice so I sat and listened with a French neighbour. It was an evening for the older folk (the night before was disco music - loud and horrible - and this band cooperated for most of the evening with traditional French songs which moved many in the crowd - some who could hardly walk - to hit the dance floor and move in unison which reminded me of the dances I'd attended in Northern Ireland. I think it a shame that dancing does not play a greater role in North American - especially for an older crowd.

I am missing my friend Clare this summer who was always willing to go down to the garden with me and my Gill, who always pulled me to the dance floor (and made me eat healthily and regularly.)

I am obsessed with getting my house in order...."

This week is a blur of fixing and painting but there were two occasions that I got out of my old clothes and ventured into the world - both happened on Friday - and both cheered me considerably.

On Friday morning, Bedding and I drove into the country to see an art exhibit that Susan had arranged. Susan went with Carol and a friend of Susan's drove with her mother. We met at a small auberge for lunch (famous for its bread soup) and then went to the home of Bettina von Arnim (the great great great (don't know how many greats) granddaughter of the writer by the same name. The Bettina who met us at her driveway, with her floral trousers and patterned over-blouse, roughly cut hair in a fringe round her face, no makeup, looked (to me) more like a farmer's wife than an artist who had studied in Berlin and Paris, has held many expositions, and has two studios filled with everything from small metal sculptures created with found objects, to mirror boxes, to watercolour and oil landscapes, to six large, rather humourous oil paintings of figures with huge hands. When I mentioned the eclectic range of her work, she laughed and said that she did not like to repeat herself. I liked the woman and loved her art. (Wished I could have afforded one woman in blue. 5000 euros, she said. Next year, I responded.

In the evening, I was invited to Ruth's for dinner - Ruth is the woman at the far right. She also is an extraordinary artist but her milieu is music. If I remember correctly, she played a viola but now performs with a violin and on occasion, plays a small accordian (for fun.) (She pokes fun at me about my taste in music - country and western. I just have no class at all.)



I love Ruth's energy, her quick smile, sense of humour, intelligence, and her directness in our conversations about love and living. Ruth has also recently had her home renovated. A second house (that used to be rubble and water-logged) is now linked to her main quarters through an arched opening and a short flight of stairs.

A long, long, narrow, ancestral table is set with a long white tablecloth in her new dinner space. Candles are everywhere. (A woman after my own heart.) I open the champagne. Susan and David arrive. Carol. And Francis. We sit and Ruth serves us a seafood opener - salad with a mousse, scallops, and prawns - followed by a paella. (Not only can Ruth play a mean tune, she can cook.) Red wine flows as easily as the conversation. Ruth brings out a fruit torte that she serves with a thick sour cream. Again delicious. I look around me. There is a German, Swiss, Scot, Irish, English, American representative.

I had a wonderful day and evening so why I turned miserable the next day, I have no idea.

I'm All Over the Place

and see that I must slow down and take some time to organize and prioritize.

After writing this statement, I stopped and began making lists. And Sunday disappeared. 

(I did go to market in Gaillac, fill several holes in the floor, scrape small areas caused by water damage and re-paint these areas, do several laundries, and speak to Rob - I walked around with my computer with its built-in camera and showed him our house in the light. And I watched Charlotte Gray in the evening. The line that I remember is "Of these three which, in your view, is most important. Faith, hope, or love. Charlotte answers "hope.")

I'm finding it hard to write at the moment. I think that I've left it too long. But I think too that once I get going I won't be able to stop. Is this true? I have no idea. 

I would like life to be more generous. I would like it to allow me to finish one project at a time. At the moment, I would like to have this house finished to my satisfaction so I could write. But life isn't like that. When one project is finished, another will rise up and demand attention. 

So write, damn it, I whisper over and over to myself. Sit down and write. 

I'm reading, as I mentioned before, "Literary Seductions" and the criteria for inclusion, is that the author must be obsessed by writing, must not be able to not write. Nin and Miller, for instance, could hardly wait to finish making love, so they could write about the experience. 

I remember once, a long time ago, that writing came easy, that I'd be vacuuming, for example, and suddenly I'd be hit with an idea, and I'd turn the machine off and scribble furiously. I have not felt so compelled since, though I have ebbed and flowed. 

I want to both live and write. 

Friday night I sat on Susan's balcony with two American poets - one a long-time friend of Susan's - and as Susan and David were going out, we found ourselves alone. Sue was knitting and drinking red wine and Julie was drinking red wine and smoking when I arrived. They invited me to join them and share their wine and dinner of zucchini soup, duck breast and pickled beets. 

These two women were boisterous and fun, spoke of their misadventures traveling together, and their future plans. I have no idea where the wine and time went. At one point, I asked what they thought of Sharon Olds. Sue dismissed her. Julie said she liked her earlier work but found her repetitious. I said that I loved her work. Had they read the poem about her husband leaving? No. I didn't speak of Olds pact with Satan. And so the conversation died. 

I always find it strange when someone I like, doesn't like what I like - though why I find it strange, I don't know. It happens all the time. But not with poetry. Or am I deluding myself? Or have others deluded me? It doesn't really matter.

I am restless though not unhappy. I did find a few moments of pleasure, swimming in a friends pool and going out for dinner with Carole from Carolina (who turns 80 next year) and tells the best stories. 

SISTERS IN PARIS

Paris

I am here, waiting for my train down south.   

Flowers and Cake

I have had an almost perfect couple of weeks since I last wrote here.

My Gill came home and we spent most of her precious week together. Her second day, we went to Victoria for the day as I had to see a printer about a book that I've just designed. The sales rep was very kind, showed me a selection of books that the company had printed so I could choose paper and cover stock (and I picked up some tips on layout too.) She also explained at length the formatting process and all the pertinent info I would need to get the material to her.

The proof should arrive today and although I did none of the writing, I feel as if it's my creation though it isn't - all the pictures, images, and words came from others.

On the way back to the ferry, Gill and I stopped to see my nephew, his love, and their new baby - Aliyah. The baby is lovely, peaceful, a gentle disposition - funny how one can tell that even at a week old - and I have never seen Thomas and Mariah (especially Mariah) so content. The few times that I've been around her, she has been serious, rarely smiled. This evening a smile never left her lips.



My time with Gill flew. She cooked breakfast and dinner for Rob and I. We walked, shopped a little, had our nails done... can't remember all we did but it was over too quickly. On the way to the airport we stopped at a medical clinic as her ears were bothering her, both of us  hoping that the doctor would advise against flying and we'd have a few more days. No such luck.

Later that day, I received a cake - not any old cake but a Diplomat from Notte's Bon Ton - from Marlene and I proudly admit that over the next few days, I consumed over half of it myself. No wonder my belly is softly rounded. ("You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." And though not really a sweet seeker or lover, I do love the rich butter cream filling of this cake.)

Later in the week, my eldest son took me out for a dinner and I experienced for the first time Cakebread - not a sweet - but a rich fruity cabinet sauvignon from the Napa Valley - a real treat and one I could not afford myself. ( I'm not whining - in a less than a week I will be in my beloved France and will just have to put up with Gaillac vintage.) This Cakebread wine is so elegant that the wine steward opened the bottle at the table and then carefully poured it into a decanter. 

Saturday morning, as I was heading out the door to help my sister pack for Europe (she was leaving that evening) Rob stopped me and told me that I looked beautiful. Strange. He so seldom compliments me that I had to look at myself in the mirror. Wish I could see what he saw.

I wrote the above yesterday morning and typed it here today, intending to continue but I think I'm coming down with something, feel very very tired, and so will nap instead. 

Play



My friend Penelope was in town last week for a court case. She was angry at the way things went. She thought she had a good case but said that once in the courtroom, it felt as if the decision had been made before the trial. She was angry at herself too for being flustered when told that the afternoon - her time - would be cut to less than two hours. (She was only told this when she returned from lunch.) She'd flown all the way from the Yukon to be treated so unfairly...

Penn and I met at York University, first year theatre arts - nearly 40 years ago - and we've been getting together once or twice a year ever since. Why do some friendships last and others fade away? Although asking this, I remember that Rob and I got together several months ago with a friend from Ryerson - must have been over 35 years since we'd seen Allan. He took the photographs at our wedding. I felt awkward at first - wasn't sure the man in the lobby was him (less hair) but within minutes, it was as if no time had passed.

Penny's visit was a gift. (She hates to have that "y" on her name now - I think of it as an endearment.) I took several days off from my work and simply played. We went for a long walk on the beach and after, happened upon a wine tasting that we both enjoyed (first time I tried $80 a bottle wine), shared an amazing fish dinner at an outdoor cafe, and the next day, we went to see King Lear on the beach - an updated version (set in the near future) with music and chorus. I forgot at times that it was a tragedy... and I had forgotten just how tragic the ending is.

The next day I dropped Penn at the airport and I went back to work for a day.

Tuesday was the finale (hopefully) to Maggie's relationship with the slimy man who locked her out of her own house. She has only been allowed in once with his lawyer present - to itemize all her and their material possessions. But the dreadful man to whom she is still married would not allow her in to collect all. He said that it would be too traumatic for him and named me as her representative. I think he wanted to hide things. (When I asked him towards the end to walk through and see if the movers had packed everything that belonged to her, he refused.)

Maggie and I showed up at the house together. He came down the walk looking angry but she quickly said that she had to give the movers instructions. When the three arrived, they were wonderful - first of all, they took the wicker couch from the porch (that was hers) and sat it on the grassy boulevard beyond the sidewalk - public property - for her to use and there she sat and read. He - the horrible he of her past - went and sat with her several times, brought her diet cokes, and wanted to know yet another time why the relationship had failed - though he instigated the break - he must be extremely thick.

When things were to be split in two or rather, shared - like the baking dishes - he chose and gave me the leftovers. When I complained that he chose the best stuff, he called me petty - didn't recognize the projection. He's a mean-spirited, unkind, self-indulgent, power-hungry, sneaky asshole and I had to bite my tongue more than once to keep myself from lambasting him.

The worst moment was when I was stuck in the attic with him, dividing Christmas decorations. He asked why no one in the family had called him to get his side of the story. I said not a word. He asked what my mother and father thought of him. I said they were angry. And then he proceeded to tell me how unethical my sister is - basically because she would not put his name on the property she had owned before the marriage, and later signed it over to her son. I said not a word but I thought plenty... I wanted the stuff out before I let loose. But I never let loose. In the end, I was exhausted, wished him a nice life and left.

For the next few days, I played through some of our interactions in my head and came up with all kinds of smart things that I could have said but didn't. Why is it always after the fact that the right things come to mind? Though I doubt that any words would have got through his thick head. He blames Maggie for everything. He sees himself as the victim. In reality, he's a small-minded, mean, vindictive little man who isn't willing to take any responsibility for the breakup.

Before I left, I could have hurt him. I could have said that his first wife is "ecstatically divorced." His second common-in-law partner thinks he is a thief. And my sister thinks he's pathetic. But I didn't. I couldn't hurt anyone in this way - but he would have deserved it... I am just thankful that my beautiful, generous, ethical, fun-loving, vivacious sister is finally free of him.

THE WAY WE WERE



At 5:30 this morning, he rolled over, groaned, and muttered "Happy anniversary."

I'm barely awake.

"Will you bandage my shoulder," he asks.

"I didn't think I'd grow old with you," I reply, forcing myself awake and watching as he stumbles across the room, naked.

It's Friday, the 13th.

38 years ago we were married.

Every time I mention the number of years we've been together, I am congratulated. This irks me just a little. Do we deserve some award because we've stuck with each other for so long?

Perhaps we do. We've been through some tough times together and, without revealing our secrets, I doubt many couples would have lasted.

Why did we? Should we have? We both say that we don't believe in marriage (though, when we say this, many of our friends laugh in our faces.)

THE WAY WE ARE



He'll admit he has trouble communicating though, with time, he has grown better. Just the other day he sent me an email with three words "I love you" and three exclamation marks.

He's said that I drive him crazy though how I do not know.

We don't cling. We don't tell the other what to do. We let each other be. We think little of being apart for 2 or 3 months. We even think this freedom enhances our marriage.

I love watching him when he doesn't know I am watching - when he's sleeping for instance or when he's at his computer, head bowed nodding to music. I like seeing him singular, not in relation to me.

I like to think of myself singular, not in relation to him.

When I am around my parents, they squabble a lot. He tells her she should get dressed before noon, not listen to politics, get off her computer. She tells him he's inappropriately dressed, should not be working at 86, shouldn't fall asleep early evening and then roam the house in the wee hours. (I gently suggested that they let each other be.)

Rob and I seldom squabble. We seldom tell each other what to do. I cannot depend on him to make me happy. (Oh yes, I can tell him what makes me happy. And likewise.) I'm happiest when I make my own plans and do what I like to do - not always easy - especially for a woman who is financially dependent. But I see here that this is one of the reasons I respect Rob. He never lords it over me because he makes more money. He never makes me feel bad about taking off and enjoying time alone. And over the last few years, he's been telling me that he too likes to be alone - so I laugh when he says that it's unnatural to sleep alone. (I like it both ways.)

I do not want to be considered a success because I've been with the same man for so long. I do not consider myself a success for this reason. (Do I consider myself a success? That'll be the subject of another blog.)

I do feel fortunate to be with a man who is most often gentle and kind ("tell me when I'm being an asshole," he says.) I really appreciate that money has never been an issue between us - especially as I was raised in a household where my father controlled the purse strings and, to this day, I doubt my mother knows how much or little he has.)

While I was writing this blog, a big bunch of exotic flowers were delivered - from him to me, with love.

After arranging them in 2 vases, I ran out to run some errands. All the while, I kept wondering how to end this blog, how to tell him that, though not all is perfect - what is? - he's the nicest, finest, best man I've ever met. Is this true, I ask myself? I think long and hard and I decide, yes - he's unique, amazing really... for a man. Oh, I don't mean to be flippant - but I trust him. I'd trust him with my life. I guess I have trusted him with my one wild and precious life. And so I end this blog on a whimsical note: I like the idea of growing old with him.

My Old Vancouver Home

I have always loved my little house with its unpretentious air. It never mattered that I didn't have the time to paint inside closets, clean the eaves, and weed the garden. As long as my bookshelves were full, candles lit the table, and my children were well, I was content.

 

I pause here. Is this true? No. I thrive on discontent. But there have been moments of real happiness and those moments, in my mind, always involved my mind - when I was stimulated, thinking, learning, and felt competent, useful, needed. (A perfect house was never a priority.) 

Or when I was traveling. I didn't travel - or not much - until my fortieth year and since that time, I am happiest on the road. I love traveling alone. I loved traveling with Gill. Once - when she was much shorter than me - we were Italy and because of a series of circumstances, we found ourselves on the road and I did not know where to go. 

"Pisa," said Gill.

"Verona to see Romeo and Juliet's balcony."

And so we went, staying in cheap little hotels and once-in-awhile splurging on something better, usually something with one star and a bathtub.

Where am I going with this early morning blog? My mind is drifting. I was going to write about our house... the house we have lived in for 25 years. No one wants it so far. The other day a couple came to look at it and were in and out in two minutes... and I took this personally, knowing that I was being stupid. And now all I can do is find fault with it - the scratches on the floor, the musty smell in the basement, the area until the eaves that is rotting... and the garden where all that our friends helped us clear is once again pushing up through the soil. Damn dandelions and blackberry bushes, I curse as I take time off from the work I'm doing on my computer to try and show a cared-for property. 

I know that I've got it all wrong, that this is an exciting time, that we will look back and laugh at our angst and aggravation - when we are living our dream. 

When is the big question? 

And so I force myself to stay put, work, make a bed, weed the garden. 

I fear that we are stuck, that no one will buy our house and that we'll go further and further into debt, and that I'll never be organized and at peace with myself. 

I laugh here. I am alive. How dare I complain? I am alive. I love my life. And yet, I smoke. 

Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer came down on her head...

My thoughts are racing as I sit here and write in a small coffee shop, enjoying my morning coffee.  A man with a dog sits at the next table and we have a brief conversation. "I'm doing something wrong," he mutters. "I'm too busy." I tell him that I know what he means.

I realize that this is the first time in a long time that I have written in my journal.  I see that I will have to force myself to take time out and write out my discontent. 

I feel so much better. 

Catching up, once again

I hate to just state the facts but that's all I seem capable of at the moment. On Wednesday evening, I will be back in Vancouver... and hopefully soon after, I'll be able to write something more reflective.

LEAVING

This time in Montmiral - two weeks today - has been much to quick but I have done what I came to do and happy about that - if it weren't for these damn butterflies in my stomach. Sometimes I think I am to much of a coward for this world. I take everything to heart. I found it difficult to complain to the builder about the small imperfections because he has done so much more than we expected and the house truly is magnificent. And he also did thoughtful things - like set up the beds so we would have a place to sleep when we arrived... And he is proud of his work. How can I squash him with complaints or so my reasoning goes?

And our house in Canada... why haven't we had at least one offer? Oh there are a hundred reasonable answers but I don't want reason, I want someone to love it and pay our price. Rob told me this weekend that he will bury a statue of Saint Joseph in the backyard. This will insure that our house sells. (What happened to my sensible man? It is strange that he is embracing superstition.)

And I'm feeling a little bad - oh I just stood and looked out on the terrace - two pigeons are kissing each other on the next roof - I'm feeling a little bad about love - not keeping up with my correspondence - because there are friends out there who I love and who I haven't written. And I know that actions speak louder than words.

I know I worry too much... my thoughts are drifting here. I recall a coincidence - a news letter I received from "Carrie and Danielle" on Friday. (That's another story.) And in it, they spoke of butterflies. I shall quote them:

"Embrace the jitters. Butterflies are a sign that you’re alive and expanding. If you’re not feeling the flutters it’s just not that important to you.

Every time you feel the adrenaline whirl, imagine that you have wings and breathe that rush into your spreading wingspan. Think of it this way: your nerves are reminding you that you have what it takes"

I like their positive spin. Oh if life could only be that easy.

Anyway, must pack and do the hundred little things that must be done before I leave.