Kind

 'Loneliness is not a longing for company, it is a longing for kind. And kind means people who can see you who you are, and that means they have enough intelligence and sensitivity and patience to do that."                        ~ Marilyn French

What do I mean by "kind"? Someone I can talk to and not feel foolish. Someone who thinks as I do - not judging by looks or wealth. Someone who has the same sense of beauty, who loves art, museums, theatre, parks, water bodies, flowers and birdsong. Someone who laughs and cries, who is open and honest. Someone who takes the time or makes time to be with me. And most important, to my mind, is someone who truly listens. 

Once, years ago, I tried to define "love". I researched, read dozens of books and, in the end, I decided that listening to the other kindly, not mockingly  is love. 

Sometimes I talk and talk and talk and suddenly realize that I have not ask the other how their life is going. This happened the other night with my sister Maggie. She is the sister who all my sisters turn to in crisis. She listens. She takes care of us when we cannot care for ourselves.  I paused my monologue and asked how she is doing. I took care to listen and not let my thoughts roam. Maggie didn't jabber but was casual speaking about matters big and small. I learned more about her day-to-day and health concerns. I felt closer to her.

This reminded me of women in the Wild Women Writing circle. Sometimes one or another pours out her heart when reading her writing and my heart responds. I feel so grateful that she has the courage. This also makes me feel bad because I don't often read. I am afraid of sharing me, afraid of sounding like a broken record.

The other day, an ordinary day, I burst out crying about Rob. I have no idea what prompted it. The grief lingers. I think I have reached a calmer place, a place of acceptance, and then I find myself angry at him for leaving me with all the day-to-day responsibilities and not being around to help me make decisions. He was always more sensible than me, more grounded but he, in turn, turned to me for help - usually when he wanted to have fun, spend a bit of money and needed permission. He told me once that he felt that he wasn't allowed to have fun. He had to be responsible. 

I meander, I pause and have a cigarette, and don't immediately take care of what has to be done. I know. I know. I eventually do. But the workload has doubled since his death and I want things completed lickety-split. But often here, there are issues not within my power to complete immediately. I am trying to learn patience. 

Slow down, you move too fast, you gotta make the moment last. I am writing in the bar with Virginie. There is such comfort here. I relate to her more than anyone in the village. She is still so young, an artist at heart - such a lovely heart. I told her that perhaps she should take a quarter turn (advice from Helen Luke) and view her life from another angle. Perhaps I should too. 

"May I have the courage today/ To live the life that I would love,/ To postpone my dream no longer/ But do at last what I came here for/ And waste my heart on fear no more."  ~ John O'Donohue

Wild and Free

An excerpt from Rapture by Linda Hogan

How worthy the being

in the human body. If,

when you are there, you see women

wading on the water

and clouds in the valley,

the smell of rain,

or a lotus blossom rises out of round green leaves,

remember there is always something

besides our own misery.

I am very good about wallowing in my own misery. I want to be wild and free. 

I want freedom of movement, freedom for my body. I know if I ignore it, it will rebel. It will demand that I not insult its intelligence: "own me, adorn me, celebrate me. Now. While you still are capable of movement. Move to the music that has you stomping your feet, extending your limbs, twisting your torso. Twist and Shout. The Tennessee Waltz. Waltz me to the End of Love."

I think of Rudolf Nureyev and his perfect body, executing amazing leaps and pirouettes - until he couldn't. Towards the end of his life, he performed a young Apollo at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver. He faltered often, nearly fell. A woman in the seat in front of me, sobbed. He was forcing his audience to confront his mortality. At first, I thought it undignified of him to display himself so. Later, I thought him courageous. 

I hide myself and don't dance because I am embarrassed by my flesh, my less than perfect moves. I am self-consciousness. Who do I think I am? And who cares? 

I remember seeing Clarissa Pinkola Estés speaking in Vancouver. She was adorned in a full skirt, tight belt clinched at the waist, and gypsy blouse. She didn't hide her abundant flesh. Her lips were painted bright red. I could see that she felt good in her flesh. How I wanted to be like her. And I thought of all the women that I assisted in the boutique. It was the larger fleshier women who liked themselves the most. And I liked them too. There is a comfort being with such women who are unashamed, unapologetic about their bodies, women who are wild and free. How delicious and inspiring. 

I want to be that kind of woman. I will never be younger, more beautiful than I am right now. (How difficult this is to write.) I give myself a stern talking to: I think you will be happier, Yvonne, not tearing yourself apart and celebrating your body while you still can. Now dance!

I wrote this during at my last writing circle meeting and I remained silent, unwilling - no unable, to speak. I am too often like this. 

Non, Je ne regrette rien

The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.   

This quote from Mary Oliver pushes me to attempt to write a lyric essay about love. I fear that I am not up to the task, that it is too grand a topic, but I need to give it power and time. In Marlene's last two writing circles, I began. This is an amalgamation of my two writes. I begin, knowing that this may be rearranged, or deleted but I am excited - the ideas are starting to come:

Rob 

In your ratty old dressing gown, you walked into the kitchen and held out your arms. I walked into them. You drew me close and held me tight to your belly. I felt so loved. 

The love I shared with you was not saccharine sweet, not a fairytale romance. 

You died a tragic death. There is a beginning and end to our over-fifty-year love affair. 

This morning I stood looking out the kitchen window, coffee in hand, admiring the wisteria with its violet blossoms. When we were young, still students, we would read Leonard Cohen's poetry and make love. I remember one morning, I was to meet a friend but Leonard had us lusting so,  we couldn't pull apart - even when my friend was hammering at the door and I had to smother my laughter in your chest..  

My lady can sleep Upon a handkerchief Or if it be Fall Upon a fallen leaf.

I smile at this memory and, from somewhere out of the blue, I start humming "Bird on a Wire". 

I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch

He said to me, "You must not ask for so much"

And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door

She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"

You are the beggar though you never begged. You had more than you dreamed possible. I was the whore asking for more - not gold or silver. I wanted more dialogue and more intimate moments. And somewhere along the line, I stopped asking for more. Did I stop too soon? 

I learned to live as you lived, doing my own thing. You were so sure of yourself, so self-contained. Your love of music was, to my mind, your true love. (I shall add mention here of his sound work and awards.) Mine was writing. (Anais Nin story?) But I was never as sure of myself as you were. 

My heart breaks as I recall a scene from Charles de Gaulle. We had checked in for a flight to Toronto and you became violently ill. We went to the airport medical centre. You thought that I would leave you there and fly away without you. How could you think this? Did you not know that you were loved?

Okay, I have begun!

Tempus Fuit

There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.

— Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

I wake this morning pensive. Not an unknown state for me. I have not written here since January and so much has happened as I have travelled thousands of miles. I have spent time with my precious daughter and her family. A hundred glimpses of beauty. I have been to Paris working and have at least gleaned a dozen. I am home dealing with house issues in a language that slows me down and has me crying for help. Happiness descends when I accomplish some mundane task - of course, it is fleeting - but I feel proud of myself. And I continue to write with wild woman who remind me that I love to write and seldom allow myself the time." I need to work on this. 

I do allow myself time to wine and dine and also zoom with friends and family. And I love these times and know that they are important for my well-being. I think of Stella Brown, a fine artist - I pause here to pull "Stravinsky's Lunch" from my bookshelf - and her biographer Drusilla Modjeska writes "If her life teaches us anything, it is that more than one thing matters, and maybe in the end it is the conversations we have - both in love and in art - that will come trailing behind us through those pearly gates." 

I read the quote from Woolf again and wonder if she is right. Is life just "a series of insignificant moments"? Is happiness "a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto"? Do I feel "a profound loneliness"? At times, yes. I pause and think. But no, I do not feel a profound loneliness often. I feel lucky to have what I have. Below, a few glimpses of beauty.  

 

On the Tip of my Tongue

From somewhere/ a calm musical note arrives/ You balance it on your tongue,/ a single ripe grape

(I love these lines - read by Marlene. I must ask her the author.)

I am still sad without Rob. No music drifts down from the attic. The jasmine incense no longer burns. No ear to listen to me ramble. No driver when I go to town. I must choose my own fruits and vegetables. I cook without imagination. It lacks his thoughtfulness, his love of experimentation.

We would drive hours each summer to the jazz festival at Marciac. Jazz was Rob's true love. And yet he wanted me by his side. He would carefully choose performers who sang as he knew I loved lyrics. I felt this was a gift. He was sharing something that brought him joy. We would sit at small cafes and before the waiter could bring our drinks "a calm musical note arrives".  

Small bands of musicians roamed the town. They erupted everywhere.

For the most part, we lived peacefully together and apart. He worked. I worked. We were both constantly in motion. But at the end of most days, we'd sit and eat together. Sometimes, he would yell down the stairs that dinner is ready and sometimes, I'd begrudgingly leave my desk and sit across from him.

Now I worry that I wasn't kind enough. 

 When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern. ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Gift from the Sea

My sleep is disturbed. I sleep for two hours and wake, perhaps have a cup of camomile tea, light a cigarette, leaning out the kitchen window, looking over the messy tangled garden below. Sometimes I weep but never enough to water the garden. And then I fall asleep again...

This post is a little aimless but it pleases me. Here, I am free to say what I please. "Dare I disturb the universe?" 
I think something is gelling inside of me and it's on the tip of my tongue.

Curriculum Vitae

 I have been working on this forever, practicing Louise DeSalvo's "The Art of Slow Writing", and trying to mimic Lisa Mueller's poem "Curriculum Vitae". She is much cleverer than I am. At the last moment, I changed to present tense. 

I have decided to move on and do one for Rob. I might return to this some day. I really like some lines and am uncertain about others. 

Curriculum Vitae

1. On a green isle, razed by bombs, hungry for coal and potato, I am conceived for a house.

2. Cows low and milk in my grandfather's barn, as I slide out of my mother, underweight and ravenous.

3. I gain, nourished by her big fat Quaker family until my grandfather laughs at my father. He retaliates by crossing an ocean with his elder's first daughter and only grandchildren.

4. In the country of strangers, my mother weeps rivers.  My father sends his family back to the old country.

5. My mother runs free while her sisters coddle my sister and me.  Months later, her conscience pricks: women belong beside their husbands, she says. She wore out her welcome, my father says. 

6. Another sister is born.  We move house. Another sister, another house. The pattern repeats itself. 

7. When I sprout breasts I understand that lust, not houses, makes babies. I am appalled.

8. My body extends and grows graceful in a room with mirrors and barres. I share my first orgasm with a dancing teacher.

9. I fall upon books by clever women and leave family and small town for a university sprawl. 

10. I meet a quiet man whose arms and lips stir my blood. Although I have sworn never to marry, I break my oath. 

11. Long days writing advertising. Long nights in household drudgery. I trade my quiet man for a room of my own and a piano bar. 

12. A year passes before he slips into my bed and leaves his scent and a love letter. I succumb and we have one, two, three children.

13. While my quiet man is making a name for himself, no one calls me by name. 

14. Escape to sunflower fields and grape vines. While the children school, I school: in open-air markets and small cafes,  I read volumes and fill notebooks. A letter erupts into a literary fuck feast.

15. Home to old routines. In the back garden, my quiet man builds a writing house. 

16. Lessons in humility. Up and down, round and round on the carousel of time. Three small beings grown tall, independent and leave. 

17. I turn 60, then 70, and celebrate with cherry blossoms in Japan.

18. An evil virus roams the globe killing whoever wherever. We lock our door, sharing wine, conversation, and music across balconies.

19. In Morocco, the unimaginable happens. My quiet man falls down seven mosaic-tiled steps. After 53 years, death do us part.

20. The sound of silence. I dissolve and reshape, like cumulous clouds, not knowing what form to take in my final act.

Courage Kindled

The last days of the year were filled with fun and games, good food and wine, and sitting cosy, watching movies in our matching pjs (a gift from Brendan and Jane). We chose a lemon tree (no evergreens left) and decorated it with Christmas ornaments, got stuck in a muddy field in Mary's car - heavy with wine - and were pulled out by a tractor. 

We drove to Castres to dine at Cuq en Terrasses (a gourmet feast) and to Causades to visit a hat store for Jane. The last day we spent in Toulouse, eating at Entrecôte (a favourite) and then onto La Halle de la Machine with giant Minotaur and Dragon that moves, breathes fire and scared poor Seb. Ten days passed in a flash and my family left to celebrate New Year's Eve in London. I welcomed in the new year by myself.  

FOR A NEW BEGINNING

by John O’Donohue

"In out-of-the-way places of the heart,

Where your thoughts never think to wander,

This beginning has been quietly forming,

Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,

Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,

Noticing how you willed yourself on,

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety

And the gray promises that sameness whispered,

Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,

Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

And out you stepped onto new ground,

Your eyes young again with energy and dream,

A path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear

You can trust the promise of this opening;

Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

That is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;

Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

For your soul senses the world that awaits you."

I've been trying to write a blog for the new year but the wonderful ideas and sentences that form in my head never quite make it to the page. I am always afraid of appearing too simple, and of becoming so vulnerable that I curl into a ball and die. (I always had a flair for the melodramatic.) 

Still the fear I felt when I read my last proprioceptive writing exercise about my shattered heart was as real as the childhood fear of monsters under my bed.

I would like to "find ease in risk". I think my biggest problem is that I haven't been writing and am out of practice. Easily remedied. I have begun. Since January 1st, I've set myself the task of writing for 15 minutes, after my morning coffee. And yes, the writing is pretty simple and I do write the obvious but my friend Susan once told me that this is my gift. 

On January 1st, I wrote "I wish to grow old disgracefully like Billy Connolly. I wish to be kinder to myself but not bullshit myself. I want to feel freer about asking for help. I want to face my fears (here I go again) and do it anyway. I want to stop being so self-effacing. I want to love myself. This reminds me of Brendan's question of many years ago. "Would the people who love you love you if you were stupid, worthless? And underneath this thought is the thought that I smoke to remain a bad girl, a rebel who doesn't want to spend every minute trying to be perfect." 

And so the new year begins...

I am trying to establish new habits. I am learning to ask for help. Before Rob died, I simply yelled up the stairs. Now, I must ask an outsider. So be it. 

I do not want to live a small life. I must give up - for now - trying to find the perfect word, sentence, transition and just write. 

HAPPY CHRISTMAS

 

Opening my mouth

 I feel my life has grown small since Rob's death. I have not published many words as I don't want to share my grief, my anger, my confusion. 

Marlene, dear friend, mentor invited me into her wild women writing circle. I wanted to join and yet I was frightened. Sometimes what comes out of my pen onto the page is too raw, too childlike, and I'm embarrassed. And I feel ridiculous that I am embarrassed. I have regressed and donned my solid coat of armour. 

The writing circle - women from around the world - excites me, inspires me, calms me. I am beginning to feel that I belong. Several weeks ago, the topic was poetry. I am not a poet. I chose the easiest form, the Elfchen or Elevensie. First line has one word, second has two, third thas three, fourth has four, and fifth has one. 

Mouth

Grows rusty

Fear robs voice

Leading a small life

Sob

Mouth

Rust forming

Frog croaking angrily

Is escape even possible

Hell

Mouth 

Sweet lips

Refusing to open

Fear has frozen words

Help

Frog

In throat

Refuses to leave

Mouth slowly forced open

Escape

Rust

Corrodes jaw

Jaw needs oil

Oil squirted between lips

Freedom

Mouth 

Grows rusty

Silent too long

Life becomes more difficult

Speak

I am not impressed by the above but when we split into pairs and I read, the other woman laughed and said you have to read these. "They're funny."  (I wasn't trying for humour but I was the first to read - otherwise I might have chickened out.  

Towards the end of the session, one sweet woman said that this is what she's here for - to hear other women's voices. 

Paris for Spring 2026

I wrote a summary of Paris for the store and posted on FB

 I returned to Paris first week in October with my sister Gael, photographer extraordinaire, to explore what's new and exciting for next spring and summer. As tiring as it is, Fashion Week is also pure pleasure, especially as LeslieJane believes in slow fashion and insists on filling the store with original creations from small ateliers. 

We visited the Palais  Brongniart and Tuileries Garden - beautiful spaces in their own right but for one week, they house an exclusive number of new designers.  We also walked the streets to storefronts and showrooms of those designers we have come to trust.

Be prepared for colour, vibrant colour, from such designers as Barbara Lang, Manuelle Guibal, La Fee Parisienne, and Epice. If you love orange like I love orange or rich green in its many variants, or blue too from baby to navy, they're the premiere colours for spring. 

Our Japanese designers - Vlas Bloome and Guptiha - offer a softer subtler range of colour in linen, cotton, and silk fabrics - so meticulously woven and constructed I consider them works of art.

My personal desire is to be a wilder and bolder. I want to mix and match and clash colour and pattern and designer.

I loved the film "Midnight in Paris" where many of the literary and artistic figures of bygone days came to life. I love how today's Parisienne woman tie a scarve and swing a bag, looking so put-together and confident.

I would like to say a special thanks to my sister who lent her eyes and enthusiasm to yet another Paris adventure.

Happy Birthday, Gill

 

Gilly, born 40 years plus 3 days after her papa, is a beauty who loves to dress up or down (sometimes to her father's chagrin) but she is unashamed, fierce and proud. Most important - to me - she is super smart, loyal, generous and loves with her whole heart. She loves me with a love that I sometimes think that I don't deserve but, perhaps I do. Like me, she is vulnerably human with an equal measure of sassiness. Thank the heavens, she has her father's sense of humour, his love of music and cooking, travel and so much more. She is my sunshine.

Happy Birthday, my precious daughter

The Wild Zone

 I am waiting for myself. I am waiting for something, some place to reveal itself where I can be me, a singular me, brave and free, wild - how I love this word - untamed, feminine, a woman of a certain age. I will not claim wisdom or experience. 

I have had my bursts of wildness and they have been exhilarating and terrifying. I felt as if I was jumping into a void, not knowing where I would land. I want another burst. Will I land on soft or hard ground, into light or dark? I wish for some beautiful place, an Oz of sorts - bright flowers, gold and gold dust, diamonds and pearls, emeralds and rubies everywhere - a walk down the yellow brick road. Fanciful. I do not want to think of a cold, dark, horrible space with growls and roars where I might be some beast's dinner. The only beast that I want to hear roar is me, without reserve, I'd like to do a little dance, without inhibition because at my age, I don't want to give a fuck. Yet, I don't want to offend anyone (or so I think at this moment). 

I want another wild person to mirror me, encourage me, challenge me. I want to soar, fly without measuring distance. I do not want to be careful. I do not want to feel obligated. I want to be kind. I want those I love to know that I love them. I want to be original, not a copycat. I want to love what I am doing, no holding back, no embarassment, just a wonderful acceptance of self, a permission to be.

How do I begin? I have already begun. I don't want to think that I'm at death's door - that's how I've been feeling for the last two years but enough is enough. I don't want to spend the rest of my life preparing for death. I want to move a little quicker. I want to magically be able to sing and not told to shut my mouth. I want to do something, more than one thing, that I've never done before. I want more fresh air, more sunshine, more art. I would like to sweep in front of my house. I would like to cook better meals for myself. I would like to ask more questions.

Am I asking for too much? I will not apologize. 

My life

 “I have been increasingly conscious, for the last 10 years or so, of deaths among my contemporaries. My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption, a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate — the genetic and neural fate — of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death.

“I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”—Oliver Sacks.

I am filled with gratitude. I had an operation yesterday for my hernia. It was a little scary - all the protocol at the hospital - but everyone was so kind, especially the male nurse who put the needle in my hand and the anaesthetist who said he was putting the potion in the tube and a mask on my face. Breathe deeply, he instructed. I disappeared on the fourth breath and woke up in the recovery room. Soon after, I was wheeled back to my little room where Brendan was waiting. I faded in and out of consciousness until I was told that I could dress and go home. Voila. I can see the tiny scar above my navel. No bump. It's been tucked back in place. 

I had a restless sleep but am told that it is the result of the anaesthetic. I don't mind. The feared operation is over and now I can get on with my life. Fingers crossed. 

I've fallen in love with PÁDRAIG Ó TUAMA. This poem is called "Facts of Life":

That you were born/ and you will die.

That you will sometimes love enough/ and sometimes not.

That you will lie/ if only to yourself.

That you will get tired.

That you will learn most from the situations/ you did not choose.

That there will be some things that move you/ more than you can say.

That you will live/ that you must be loved.

That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of/ your attention.

That you began as the fusion of a sperm and an egg/ of two people who once were strangers/ and may well still be.

That life isn’t fair.

That life is sometimes good/ and sometimes better than good.

That life is often not so good.

That life is real/ and if you can survive it, well,/ survive it well

with love/ and art/ and meaning given/ where meaning’s scarce.

That you will learn to live with regret./ That you will learn to live with respect.

That the structures that constrict you/ may not be permanently constraining.

That you will probably be okay.

That you must accept change/ before you die/ but you will die anyway.

So you might as well live

and you might as well love.

You might as well love.

You might as well love.

Experience the Impossible

I must look old as strangers offer to help me with my suitcase and rise to give me their seat on public transportation, but in my mind, I am young. Yes, I tire more easily and don't climb ladders. I cannot lift heavy objects and my fingers, affected slightly by arthritis, cannot open tightly sealed jars. Still, I do not feel decrepit.  

A quote by Albert Camus that I like:

The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. Inside this aging body is a heart still as curious, still as hungry, still as full of longing as it was in youth.... Never stop your goals and dreams. Travel to the places you dreamed of. Experience the impossible.

Rob's tragic fall taught me that time should not be taken for granted. It's precious. So precious. 

I watched two TED talks recently that are significant to me - more on this shortly.

https://www.ted.com/talks/alua_arthur_why_thinking_about_death_helps_you_live_a_better_life

https://www.ted.com/talks/katrina_spade_when_i_die_recompose_me

I am scattered, trying to find my way. 

"You must go in quest of yourself, and you will find yourself again only in the simple and forgotten things. Why not go into the forest for a time, literally? Sometimes a tree tells you more than can be read in books… "    —Carl Jung

Yesterday, I took Sebastian to Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park (London) for a forest camp. The park is wild and beautiful albeit eerie - like a scary setting in a Halloween movie - and reminds me once again of my mortality. 

And yet I feel content and so lucky to lead the life I'm leading. I flew from San Francisco to London a few days ago after spending time with my daughter and getting to know my youngest grandson. Six months after my last visit, he talks in complete sentences and we can communicate. He is one smart cookie with a mind of his own, and being two issues an emphatic "no" often. Gill is a gentle mother and only stern with Wilder when it is absolutely necessary. 

I love my daughter and she loves me and cannot imagine the world without me. 

 

I apologize. This once again is a simple blog. I spent a few days with Seb, my middle grandson - another charmer with a mind of his own - and Brendan and Jane who are dear to my heart too, and I have just repacked my suitcase to begin the trek back to France. This time, I am hitching a ride with a friend. We will take an overnight ferry and then drive for hours. 

Seaside, California

 

                                                                                             
 

I am slowly finding the rhythm of Gill's family - at times frantic and how can it not be with a curious two+ year old here, there, and everywhere? He is the apple of his parents' eyes, and is so damn cute that the world is his oyster, gaining smiles wherever he goes. He is also a handful with a mind of his own and when I'm in charge, he needs my full attention to keep him safe.

I observe my daughter. She is a good mother, wife, daughter, wellness coach and business owner. A whirlwind. I would like her to slow down but she cannot so I've been doing what I can to help but it seems like too little and it's making me anxious.

This week Wilder's schedule changes. He is in daycare four days a week so I should have time to complete what I need to do in regards to my own life and finances. I need help but I think I need to wait until I am in Vancouver and can talk to my accountant and bank people. 

I am weary of travel and yet I catch so many glimpses of beauty that I don't want to stop. I have to glue myself to a chair wherever I am and plan so I am not so scattered and have more interesting thoughts.