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."

I am sitting in the attic and the rain is falling so lightly that you have to look closely to see it is there. (So refreshing after the 38 degrees yesterday.) I feel at peach... oops at peace. Funny the difference one letter makes. (The peaches here are like none I've ever tasted - sweet, succulent, perfect.)

Last night I went for dinner at Basil and Clare's and they also invited Jean Francois and Julie Aurel who used to be their neighbours, mine too when I lived in Basil and Clare's house that first year in France. I like the Aurels very much, especially monsieur I must admit, because that first year he took it upon himself to teach me about the French, their customs and philosophies. He is a banker but he had (probably still does) one weekday off and often on those days, when he wasn't caring for his bonsai, he would invite me into his house for coffee and talk and talk and sometimes, I would not want to be there as it takes so much energy to listen to another and more when the conversation is in another language and one must translate each word just to get the gist of it.

And so he would tell me about the proper etiquette to use when eating a tiny tiny bird (one lowers one's head under the tablecloth) or how it is generally accepted in France that husbands and wifes have affairs though neither must talk about it. Discretion is all important. (Though he never ever made a pass at me and so I believe, he enjoyed talking to me.)

He gave me so many words of wisdom. Once, when I said my house was dirty and I must go and clean it, he asked me "what is more important? A clean house or a good conversation?" Another time, he wanted to show me a bull flight. He loved the fight between man and beast and made it sound so noble, I was almost convinced. Still I told him that I didn't want to see it. I could not bear seeing either animal gorged. "How can you renounce something that you have never experienced," he questioned.

Jean Francois appears to love life and when I mentioned this to him, he smiled and said that when he was a young boy, he had an illness that almost took his life. Ever since, he is thankful for every day.

But what I like most about this man (shallow me) is that he always shows his joy at seeing me. No matter who is around, he picks me up and swings me and tells me that I am fair and that I haven't changed a bit since we first met (and that was sixteen years ago.) How could one not like such a person? And our joke is always that the year of both our births, 1949, was a very good year indeed. Last night he said that it was a dry year and the grapes aged to perfection and were turned into the finest of wines.

And so last night, we sat round Basil and Clare's table (me between the two men - Clare's choice) and we ate a multi course meal slowly and with each course, a different wine was served.

We began with olives and cashews and a sparkling wine from the region.

Next, we had an excellent foie gras, served with a sweeter wine as its complement though I wasn't fond of it.

Then a gazpacho with red wine. (Basil has been buying wines from the region for years and tells me that at long last some are now ready for drinking.)

Basil then served a roast beef that had been rolled in such a way that each slice was a perfect circle, perfectly cooked (for me) with some red but not dripping; a half head of roasted garlic (the whole head had been sliced in half and so appeared as a flower on the plate); and baby roasted potatoes. Another decanted red wine was poured into each glass.

This main dish was followed by a salad, cheeses, and yet another red wine.

We finished with a fresh cream and apricot cake, prepared by the town's Patisserie, and a very bubbly champagne.

You'd think that we'd have all been rolling under the table with so much food and drink but this was not the case. The meal lasted three hours and though there were many wines, only a small quantity of each was poured in each glass, and a copious amount of water was also drunk. It was a feast that need I say, I enjoyed immensely.

Today, as the rain pours - it has become bolder and bounces off the sky light in the attic where I sit at Gill's cafe table - I am still content. I dream of ways to live this month that will benefit me. I have decided to follow David's example and create a schedule for myself that will include times for thought, journal, dream analysis, writing to see what it feels like, to see if routine will help me find a direction, keep me content.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to a friend, a writer, who was born on Canada Day in Vancouver, quite a number of years ago though not as many as me.



And since I don't know her birth name, I will not name her.

Too often, I measure my words as I measure ingredients for a recipe - to the exact quarter teaspoon - though everyone knows the best cooks are those who experiment.

And so for your birthday, my friend, I am letting myself go. I haven't dressed yet and it is after noon here. I began celebrating your birthday at 8 a.m. this morning, though it is not quite your day in Canada. At first, I thought that I should just send an email but it didn't feel enough... there is a voice in my head that is always saying why make public, what should be kept private? But if I listened to this voice, I would write nothing and you are the one who is always urging me on... write, write, write and so I have been writing writing writing trying to think of something original to say, something beyond "have a great day. I'm thinking of you. Hope this year is your best yet". These words would be sincere enough but groan, I've said them too many times and I would like to be more creative (though tired words and repetition are effective from time to time.)

For two hours, I have been searching poetry books, reading them from cover to cover, trying to find the perfect poem for you as you love poetry as much as me. And you, unlike me, are a poet. (What difference this makes I don't know. One can love something and not be its creator.)

Have you heard of Paula Meehan, a Northern Irish poet? I especially like her lines:
"O somewhere there is a beautiful myth of sorting,
of sifting through a mountain of dross to find the one seed
whose eventual blossom is such would make a god cry."

And D.H. Lawrence. In "Moral Clothing" he writes:
"Offer me nothing but that which you are, stark and strange.
Let there be no accommodation at this issue."
(I think this is what we both aim for in our writing.)

And Mary Oliver who Marlene introduced me to so many years ago. The first quote I wrote from in her classroom was "You do not have to be good... "
(Why does some of the best writing come from socially unacceptable thoughts? I dare you to do something "bad" today.)
And since it is stinking hot here today - I have changed from my clothes back to my night gown - I will give you some lines from "The Summer Day", that make me feel good about wiling away my hours...

"I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass...
how to be idle and blessed...
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

It is now after 5 in the afternoon and you are probably just rising. Happy Birthday. Have a great day. Hope this year is your best yet. With love, yy

Today I took my coffee out to the Esplanade as the sun was rising - a perfect red circle of light. Does this mean it will storm later? "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in morning, sailor's warning." But it is not the sky that is red and although early, I can already feel the warmth. I am happy that I am moving into our house today to begin a month of solitude. This is not to say that I was miserable at Susan and David's. Okay, I was but not because of them but because of my cold. I liked sleeping in the curtained alcove and waking to the sound of David's cello. It strikes me that I can learn something from him about discipline (already suggested to me by Vaughan.)

Last night I was invited to dinner at my/our house by Shannon and Jim. The place looked lovely, the table sat with placemats and cloth napkins, a basket of bread, a small dish of olives, a plate of cheeses. Jim had prepared eggplant parmesan and it was delicious. They enjoyed the house, they said. The shallow kitchen sink was not a bother but they agreed with Rob that a balcony overlooking the valley would have made their stay idyllic. When will this happen, I wonder. Lewis has already called Rob with plans that feature a deck and the living space will be arranged to emphasis the architecture and use wasted space... all his suggestions sounded wonderful when he walked me round the house but now, I fear the cost.

I settled into the house this afternoon, did laundry, went to LeClerc, picked up a new printer, thinking installation would be a snap. No such luck. I had to email Brendan and then talk to him through ichat. Two hours later, the printer works. Is nothing simple? I realized also in talking to him that this month will be the first expanse of time I've had alone since I had children. I am looking forward to it. I fear it. But I want, need, this time. The sweat is pouring off my brow. I am wondering if this summer will match the one we had three years during the first writing workshop.

That's it for now. I shall climb into clean sheets and read.

I thank the heavens that I feel myself today. It's morning and I have just had my coffee sitting on a bench on the Esplanade. There is a slight breeze and though it promises to be another hot day, this morning is comfortable. I feel so lucky as I look over the rolling hills of the valley below, my head clear for the first time in three days.

I only slept three hours last night, tossing and turning, trying to sleep but not reaching it until after four a.m. (What could I expect after sleeping half of yesterday away.) Every half hour or so, I would turn on the light and read. I finished "The Blue Flower" by Penelope Fitzgerald, a tale of the life of the romantic poet Fritz von Hardenburg (later called Novalis) who fell in love with a twelve year old, Sophie von Kuhn, who he called his "heart's heart" his "true Philosophy." She was such a child, an innocent who laughed at the poet's fancy words but liked him well enough and agreed to marry him on her sixteenth birthday. (She died two days after her fifteenth.) There is another woman, a confidant of Fritz, closer in age, more his intellectual equal, who loves him too (or so Fitzgerald insinuates) but he only has eyes for Sophie. And then Fritz' brother, Erasmus, also falls in love with Sophie. Unfortunately Fitzgerald does not always supply dates but sometime after Sophie's death, Fritz becomes engaged to another and though, in a letter to Friedrich Schlegel, he writes that an interesting life awaits him, he adds "Still, I would rather be dead." Three years later he dies of tuberculosis.

After trying for sleep again, I picked up "The Secret Self 2: Short Stories by Women" - there is a bookshelf beside my bed with only good books, no trashy novels, so I am forced to read literature - and read two stories, one by Kate Chopin and another by Katherine Mansfield.

I am starting to panic that I will be awake all night so I again try for sleep without luck. I play on the internet. Finally I fall.

I appear to be living in a dream world but I like this world where anything is possible. (I must be feeling better.)

A few days ago, I finished "On the Way to the Wedding" and a passage, a quote by Rilke keeps returning to mind. (Kate says I quote too much but I love quotes, giving credit to others for my leaps in thought. Or it could be that it is my insecurity that pushes me to quote - shows you out there - that I am not a complete idiot. Whatever. Kate added that a blog is like a graduate course: everything is allowed. It's a great experiment.

Anyway, the quote by Rilke that won't leave me alone is this:

"We must assume our existence as broadly as we in any way can: everything unheard-of must be possible in it. That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter.... But fear of the inexplicable has not alone impoverished the existence of the individual; the relation between one human being and another has also been cramped by it... only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation to another as something alive and will himself draw exhaustively from his own existence."

I love this quote. I love the permission it gives me to dream my dreams and to discount nothing. At this time of my life, when I seek direction, I think this important. On Friday, I move back into my house (and as much as I love Susan and David and their bookshelves,) I am looking forward to a month of solitude to think my crazy thoughts and hopefully come up with some sort of plan, an outline even, of what I want to do with myself.

Oh dear, I am miserable. My eyes are sore, my nose is red and running, and my head feels as if it were in a vise. For the past two days, all I've done is sleep and take mega volumes of vitamin C and cold medicine. The first night of this damn cold, David made me a pitcher of hot toddies and I slept eight blissful hours. Tonight, even with the same remedy, I've only slept two and am wide wake.

Meanwhile I am capable of little. I've read a book of Chekhov short stories but I find them depressing. What I wouldn't give for a good cheap read and for this cold to be gone so I can enjoy my few days with Susan and David.

I left two of my favourite females in Germany.



Susan and I arrived in Montmiral not last night but the night before. Yesterday was filled with the practical - grocery shopping and laundry and though I did write a blog, I was moving too slowly after so much driving to type and post it... so I will take you back to yesterday, Sunday.

I woke to the sounds of the Cello - David is practising his scales in the next room. I am content to lie and listen after days of travel. Susan and I had such a sweet trip... first, our time with Kate and her family. Though we had planned to rent rooms in some little inn, I am glad we ended up staying in Kate's apartment. It allowed us to catch more moments of conversation with Kate and more time to hold her precious Mary, talk to young Brian, and discuss soccer with John (can you believe it?)

The visit was too short but still it was good. I adore Kate. She is strong, forthright, intelligent; a thoughtful, loving friend and mother; a crusader of women's causes; an extraordinary writer. I see her - so much younger and taller than me (though I never feel these differences when by her side) - with her wild strawberry blond hair - as a woman warrior or perhaps even the goddess, Artemia. (Don't you love it, Kate? Yes, you are magnificent.)

Susan and I left mid-morning - onto the autoroute again (groan) and drove to the German border, stopping in the town of Breisach on the Rhine where we walked through the town, up a hill, to a Gothic church. A gold reliquary, under the main alter, caught my attention. It was beautiful but gave me the creeps. I wondered what part of what saint's body lay inside. Can you imagine cutting some loved one's body into pieces so many could share his or her remains?

We left, drove over the Rhine and into France - my geography improves with travel - and onto Colmar - a large city with many winding, one way streets, trying to find an Etap hotel, one of a chain that exists all over Europe, that Kate suggested. Every Etap hotel guarantees a simple, clean room at a more than reasonable rate. The one in Colmar cost us 39 euros. After showering, Susan and I walked to a small Alsacian restaurant where the food was adequate but would not have impressed my gourmet daughter (and did not impress my fussy friend.) Still we sat outside and felt perfectly content.

The next morning, we went to the Unterlinden Museum, formerly a Dominican convent, dating back to the thirteenth century. It was gorgeous. We went into the main entrance, paid a small fee, and then walked through to the inner courtyard - a square of grass, shrubs, and flowers, surrounded by a granite arcade - my dream house, I told Susan. But the best was yet to come - inside was Grunewald's famous Isenheim Altarpiece. It's strange studying art history from slides and then confronting the actual work. Sometimes I'm disappointed but not here. There is something about German art that is so blatant, harsh almost: the centre panel of this polyptych with Christ on the cross does not try for delicacy. Christ's wounds are ugly, gapping, bleeding; his crown of thorns, is sharp tipped, gouging his head; and his body, large - over twice the size of the other figures - is a deathly colour, almost green, with sores everywhere.

Oh there were so many great pieces, art and sculpture, both horrific and beautiful - one of Saint George slaying the dragon (at which Susan said, she can't help herself. She always feels sorry for the dragon) but after an hour or so, we hit the road again. Enough of large cities, autoroutes, I told Susan, so we drove through the Alsace on small country roads, rich in vineyards, famous for its Reisling until late afternoon, we stopped at a small auberge in an itsy-bitsy village. The inn had just changed hands the week before and the new owners, a young couple - the woman very pregnant - showed us our rooms that were simple French country - the same price a the Etap - and provided us with a dinner, made from products of the region, that even Gill would have approved of.

After sleep, a good breakfast of croissant, homemade preserves and cheese, fresh orange juice, ham, sausage, and coffee, we were in the car again, driving, driving, past Rodez, Carmaux, Cordes, and then blessedly home safe.

I feel such a sense of accomplishment, driving from Albi in the south of France to near Frankfurt in Germany, along the autoroutes where drivers often do 160 kph. I wonder if this would be any big deal for a guy. (I can imagine Rob saying better her than me driving - I am the worst passenger in the world.)

Germany is so different than France... but how to explain without generalizing... guess I'll generalize... The Germans appear hardier, squarer, taller than the French. And kinder, less formal, more straight-forward. Thez "schloss" their words - and this is not the right word to use, I know, but there is a s that rolls off their tongues that is beyond me. And although German is a sister language to English, I have trouble understanding the simplest words, except for "gud morgan" (wrong spelling) and danke that the whole world knows.

Susan is travelling with me and we thought we'd be over two days on the road but the autoroutes were so direct and fast, we made it in less than two days. I called Kate fearing that an early arrival would throw her off but she said no, come today - Kate always makes me feel welcome and loved - even with two babies - one three year old and a six month old - and a writing career.

Susan and I took the family out the first night for dinner at a German restaurant set in a garden and I drank beer with John and found that the Germans love potatoes as much as me. The second evening, Kate and Susan made a Bulgarian dish - Brian's favourite. During the day, we walked through the town, or rather the old part of the town with classic architecture - or what I, ignorant, think of as classic - wood posts exposed, surrounding squares of white plaster, windows with boxes of trailing roses. It is a lovely place. Another observation is that, on the streets, unlike France, many men go topless exposing their hard lean chests - or is it just the hot hot days, unusual I hear for this time of year. And many people, lean over to Mary Christina, Kate's baby, to win a smile. She is a beauty, a cherub, who is perfectly content to have Susan and I in her home - smiling and smiling, one of the happiest babies I've seen. Kate said that she doesn't understand the emphasis on nuclear families: hers is so much better behaved when they have guests.

On Monday evening, Kate and I drove with Brian and Mary to Frankfurt to try and catch some of the soccer fever that has caught this city. (When Germany won a game yesterday, the town of Langen, where Kate lives, was filled with the sound of honking horns. Cars, store windows, house windows, have small German flags waving in the slight breeze - man, is it hot. I am forever asking if it's me or the temperature. Both.

Anyway, we parked miles from the river, the centre of Frankfurt, and wound our way through the city streets to the river bank where soccer fever was evident in the many little ethnic food stands there - most with television screens so no one could miss a game. Unfortunately, we had waited until Brian finished kindergarden and the excitement was at a low, and he was tired and the baby too (oh I remember those days) so we climbed onto a river boat/restaurant and I had another beer (quite unlike me) and a famous german pretzel (more like a skinny bagel.) By the time six o'clock rolled round and the next game was to start, Mary was screeching and refused to be pushed so Kate and I took turns carrying her and Brian, exhausted, climbed into the stroller. We eventually took a taxi back to the car.

What else can I tell? I'm loving being with Kate and her babies and Susan. During the days, it's only females. In the early mornings, I've been taking off by myself for coffee and reading and writing... Oh dear, I haven't mentioned much of the guys -I suppose because they're gone all day. John to his work. Brian to school. When they arrive home, they're both tired. John is also a soccer fan so the television goes on and he watches whatever country is playing. Brian plays by himself or with his sister, though we caught a little time yesterday evening when we went toy shopping.

Today, Susan and I will go to Frankfurt to look at museums, Kate will work (how she does all is amazing) and tomorrow, Susan and I hit the road to find our way down to our village. We will go slow and easy this time.

I am at Susan and David's house, sleeping in an alcove in a room that looks out over the Esplanade, a room where I spent many happy hours at Susan's feet, talking about everything under the sun. I look out the window and there is a thick mist over the valley. Shannon and Jim, our guests/renters arrived yesterday afternoon. (I thought they were to arrive the 15th but Shannon tells me it was to be the sixteenth.) How strange to see Shannon on the streets of Castelnau in her LJ clothes. I knew her as a customer at the store first and then this wild affectionate woman began inviting me to her home for feasts that she and Jim often prepared together. (I took them to the large grocery store last night and Jim was in heaven - Shannon tells me that he loves food stores as much as she loves LJ.) She also has taken a few courses with Marlene so I find our interests in Body/Soul collide as well.

I cleaned our house till it shone. Before they arrived, I walked through each room thinking how beautiful all looked. I even waxed the dining room table. What is it about a clean sparkling house that makes me feel so good? Perhaps Basil was right when he said I missed my profession: I should have been a cleaner. Susan has noted to others that I'm very good at laundry... my mother and all my mothers before her would be proud. How I wish I could make my writing shine so well.

This morning, Susan and I leave for Germany. David will drop us off in Albi at the car rental place and then, my older friend and I will hit the road. All I have to do is drive. Susan will navigate. She has planned the schedule, the "interesting" places where we will stop for the night. I think she has me driving up to eight hours a day... so Kate, if you're reading this, Susan is not following MapQuest's route that you so kindly sent. Heaven knows when we'll arrive at your doorstep. I'll call you en route, and let you know where we are...

And for my family and friends who like to know what I'm up to, I'll blog again at Kate's - she made me last time so I imagine her, stick in hand whipping me into shape once again.

So many years later...

Our Wedding Day
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

"ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING"

Thirty-six years ago today, we married. I can't remember if Rob used the conventional four words - will you marry me - or not. I remember laughing and agreeing. I also remember the next four days walking around muttering under my breath - you fool you said you'd never marry what are you doing tell him before it's too late - but then it came to me like a flash, an epiphany (something that has seldom happened to me) that to marry this man was good, very good, and so we were married some months later in an Unitarian Church by a washing machine salesman (another story.)

Why was I so certain that he was the one? I knew I loved his arms, his lips, his voice but why tie the knot, commit till death do us part? I sometimes think that it would have been easier and better not to marry. Simone de Beauvoir says her life with Sartre was richer because she refused to have a conventional marriage - too easy to fall into conventional roles.

I don't like marriages or any relationship where two must do everything together, where one may want to do something, say travel, and the other doesn't, so the one doesn't live her or his dream. I especially hate marriages where the husband is lord and master and the wife is servant - no less, a slave.

There have been times - though very few - where Rob has played the male dominance part and sneered and derided me but he is not above apologizing and later, when calm, is open to discuss whatever.

I had this idea once that people come together out of lust yes but also to teach each other: I am interested in this, you are interested in that. We will broaden each other's world by coming together (no pun intended.) So I will go to a jazz concert and you will attend a ballet. You will talk about your passion and I will talk about mine. Maybe we will become passionate together or not and, if not, it is a pleasure to see the other totally absorbed. (I have stood in the doorway to the office and watched Rob with his headset leaning back in ecstasy listening to music... and I feel such a surge of love for him.)

Susan once said that one's mate/partner/love should be one's best friend in the sense that she or he encourages the other to live her or his dreams - no matter if it excludes the other.

I wonder sometimes, if some think, that leaving one's partner for an extended period of time is dangerous. He or she may find another. He or she may find that living solo is better for his or her work and creative endeavours. And there is always the fear that the other may have a serious accident and be lost forever. (Damn it is me who thinks these thoughts.) But these things could as easily happen at home. When I went to France the first time, when I went to Northern Ireland, everytime I leave, a voice in my head asks how I dare leave my man for so long... but it is my voice, not Rob's. And it has become easier. I know, at this time in my life, that I cannot live long stretches with anyone. I need time alone to explore my heart and soul so I can decide what I need to do next without worrying about the other.

In one of his books, James Hollis asks how we can expect to know another when we don't even know ourselves and yet it is only in relation to another that we catch a glimpse of self (though sometimes I don't like that self.) He advises us not to ask of another what we must do for ourselves - and I assume this means loving and respecting ourselves and tending to our own needs - difficult at the best of times.

As far as what we must do for the other - we must love that he or she is other, a mystery.

So to my mysterious other, though your silences sometimes frustrate me - that perhaps speak of my frustration and fear of being silenced - I still love your arms, your lips, your voice. As you can see in the pictures below, I loved your anniversary message so much that I copied you.

See what Rob started
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

LAZY HAZY DAYS IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE



I'm here in the south, listening to Joaquin Phoenix, all by my lonesome. The sun has been shining since I arrived and though I've been out a little - like the casual picnic at Monestieres above - and to market in Gaillac this morning with Bedding where I bought some fruit and vegies and calla lilies, I've hardly left the house. I've been reading a lot, thinking too, and though I have yet to decide what to do with the rest of my life, I am content. So far. I haven't spent this much time alone for ages and so I am playing house, cleaning here and there, dancing to my favourite songs... nothing profound to report.

This evening I've been invited to dinner at Susan's and David's where I've promised to dance an Irish jig when David plays the Irish Washerwoman on his cello. I said one glass of wine might jog my memory and help my performance.



David has loaned me a car, a very old car, though he warned me the clutch isn't up to much... so I doubt I'll be travelling far... even a little worried about taking it to Gaillac.

Not much inspired reporting here, fear I am still jet-lagged.

Am in the middle of a book on travel writing and my favourite line so far is: "A vivir que son dos dias" that the author translates to "Live it up: Life lasts just a couple of days." What if we lived always thinking this? I might try for a few days.

Gill and I together

she's here!
Originally uploaded by gill.

I love this young woman. (When I look at her, I see her father's lush lips.) I spent a few days in Paris with my daughter. What more could I ask for? My favourite girl/woman and my favourite city. She met me at the airport - bright smile, big hug - and helped me with my bags to the train, to my hotel. No mishaps. Sigh of relief. I left my belongings in the small, oh so French, parrot in the lobby, hotel and we caught the metro to Palais Toyko for dinner... amazing that I still had energy after my flights but by the end of our fish feast and a shared bottle of wine, I was too exhausted to explore the "flesh" exhibit and Gill led me back to the door of my inn.

Next day, we met and went to a street market. I'd forgotten how lush these markets are - stand after stand of exotic and domestic fruits and vegies (we bought white asparagus and artichokes), spices, cheeses, sea food... the only thing that made me avert my eyes was a lovely wicket basket filled with pigs' ears. We bought lunch and dinner, dropped for the latter in her fridge and strolled to a nearby park for lunch. I wanted to dance on the grass and yell out "Marlene, I'm in Paris."

Later that evening, we carried bags of food and wine on the metro to Ari's, a friend of Gill, where Gill prepared the meal for us and another young woman, Assia - a bubbly beauty who tells us she had bought her "dream dress" at a morning market. She pulls it out of its bag - a frothy, shiny, strapless, pink confection with bubble hem. She puts it on, twirls, and can't stop smiling. She tells us she is going to wear it everywhere. I imagine her wearing it to the most inappropriate places and smile too - oh how did I get so old... we sit in the garden/patio with rockery wall, rose bushes (two are in full bloom) and dine by candle light. Of course, the fish, the asparagus, mayonaise dip, artichokes are delicious as is the peach cobbler and ice-cream that Ari served.

The next day, Gill and I decided to hit the big department stores but oh so many people and so much stuff that we tired fast, found a bookstore, bought some light reading and headed to the Tuileries (I love the name - reminds me of tutus and ballet dancers) where we sat in a cafe in the park and read for a hour or so. (One of my favourite doings, especially as Gill sat across from me.) Later that evening, I went to Gill's apartment where she fed me again and we sat talking, talking... and then said goodnight, goodbye for a time. It could well be several months before we see each other again. How strange to be leaving for the south without her who has always been my travelling companion. I will miss her.

Au Revoir Vancouver



In just a few hours I'll be taking off into the sky en route for Paris and Gill. I've said my goodbyes to the women at LJ. (They treated me to a lovely wine infused meal the other night.) This morning Marlene treated me to petit dejeuner in a small French cafe. I hate goodbyes so don't dwell on them. The airport farewells are the hardest. Rob will have to bear my tears.

Still, I am happy to leave for my beloved daughter and Paris. In four days, I will head down south to our ancient house. I plan to read and think a lot, to drink lots of wine and eat lots of cheese and visit with friends. In several weeks, Susan and I will take a quick trip to Germany to see Kate and her guys and meet her new daughter.

Must finish my packing. Au revoir... wish me a safe journey.

GOING TO THE COUNTRY



Been gone four days to the country with Rob, my sister Gael, and her spouse Larry. I'm not used to doing a couple thing - travelling married - and hearing and indulging in couple dialogue. It was an interesting few days.

We picked up Gael and Larry at the airport and drove straight to the border, along Highway 5 to La Connor, and straight to the hotel that we had booked online - thanks to Zoe, Larry's GPS (Global Positioning System) that the guys agreed was better than a wife - a female voice that gives directions, never gets angry.

Our hotel was quaint and lovely, and best of all, empty. A young woman, Amanda was at the reception desk and couldn't have been more helpful. Only trouble is she couldn't find an open restaurant in town and it was only 9 in the evening. We ended up going to the grocery store and buying Italian sausage, bread, cheese, salmon and cream cheese and eating picnic-style in our room. After, gracious Amanda bent the rules and let us climb into the hot tub.

The next morning we explored the town, a lovely restored artsy-fartsy place with dozens of little shops and a great book store and then caught the ferry to Port Townsend. Our motel, on the water, had a glorious view - that's it - and though we whined a little, (and upset Rob who had made around a dozen calls trying to find us a character hotel) we had to stay put. It was an American long weekend and everything was booked. In the evening, we went to Pete's Place - a fine dining and jazz place where locals drop in and play their music. It was surprisingly good.

The next day, we headed to the Shrimp Festival in a little town perhaps an hour from Port Townsend - and Zoe again directed us with the men singing her praises - think I was getting a little jealous of her calm authoratative voice and the fact that the guys followed her instructions. The fair was pure country - the picture above taken on the grounds - and the highlight of the day was the belt-sander race. Before we arrived I didn't know what all the fuss was about. I had images of guys running with a hand sander. Or perhaps, I thought, there are planks of old wood and the guys had to sand them down. Whoever did the best job, won. (Rather sexist of me, I now realize. Perhaps women too could be aroused by these nifty little hand tools.)

At one end of the field, across from a stage where country music belted out, I found out what belt-sander races are all about. There was one long plank of wood with grooves and two sanders were lined up (the sanders had been altered with wheels and decorated with stuffed animal heads - i.e. one was a devil, another a bunny - and then placed at one end of the plank where a miniature traffic light was placed. When the light turned green, the two sanders took off and raced down the plank. The crowd was warned that this is a dangerous sport and mustn't stand at the far end as some sanders had taken to flight in past races. It took hours to set up and after one race, we realized that we could not stand so much excitement and left. But not before, we had tried the crispy spiced shrimp done on the barbeque and Rob, through cunning and perseverance, was able to get the recipe from one tight mouthed chef. Oops, I nearly forgot, the huge block of french fries we shared - mostly my sister and me. I find she is as passionate about potatoes as me.

The next day we drove to Port Angeles and caught another ferry to Victoria. When we arrived in Canada, the sun was shining, the flowers lining the harbour were in gorgeous colourful bloom, and our hotel - also booked online - was perfectly located and spacious and wonderful. Sigh of relief. We wished that we had spent two nights in Victoria and one in Port Townsend.

All in all, our mini vacation was revitalizing. I especially liked the three ferry rides. And enjoyed the company. I don't see Gael and Larry much and both Rob and I agreed that they are fun people. And it was good to get reacquainted with this sister who's around seven years younger than I am. At one point in a bookstore, I saw a poem that reminded me of my dad and I called my sister over. She agreed that the poem caught Dad's spirit. I hugged her. It was nice having someone who understands where I am coming from...

And another interesting happening was the married dialogue. At first I was annoyed. One of the couple would say one thing and then the other would correct him or her.

For example, one such conversation went like this:

Larry: What time do you get up?
Me: Around 4:30 or 5.
Larry: Wow.
Rob: No, you don't. You've been getting up later than me most mornings.
Me: That's not true.
Rob: Yes it is.
Me: I am not going to fight with you. (In a voice so angry, I scared myself - and the waitress.)

I went outside and paced. I was angry, I saw, because Rob was mostly right. I had been staying up later and later the last few months and so sleeping late. So why are you so angry, I asked myself. I don't like being corrected, I say in a whiny voice. I always liked the fact that I woke before everyone else. I saw that Rob was acting as my conscience, forcing me to tell the truth, or recognize the truth. And me, who wants so badly to know myself, should have thanked him for making me aware that my habits have changed.

Still, I hate it when couples bicker in front of others. And we were all guilty of this, at least two or three times, during the weekend (I say without pride.) But I'm happy that I thought this through and for one, intend to change or hopefully catch myself at it. Why is one so sensitive to the remarks of the one that she or he loves best? Should we not correct the other? Is it really important that I haven't been getting up as early as I'd like. Or Larry exaggerates the time sequence in a story? Or... or... Not really. But this weekend's dialogue was productive: It gave me a chance to think this through.

And we ate well, drank good wine, and laughed a lot together. And I bought half a dozen good books...

THE MORNING AFTER MY HAIRCUT



I had my hair chopped off yesterday because I wanted a change. It looked better after the hairdresser blew it dry but this picture, taken the morning after, shows that it can weather a pillow. I have been told that dreams of hair represent persona - the image I present to the world.

Lately, with the giving up of work, I have been at a loss. I do not regret leaving: I couldn't work in such an unhealthy environment but still I feel defeated. Nothing excites me. I have to change something and although I know it's not outward appearance, my hair is a beginning, a symbol of intention. In her article "The Eye That Cannot See" Woodman writes of the force that paralyzes a person. She calls this force "Death Mother" because it can throw a person into despair and immobilize her or him. I have been working with Woodman's ideas about Death mother (and Negative mother) all week and still do not feel clear enough to attempt a simple explanation - perhaps another time - but I have allowed myself the luxury of two months in France to think on the subject and hopefully decide on where next to put my creative energy.

I have been playing, in my little house in the garden, for hours and hours these past few weeks, playing with ideas through writing, telling myself that play is important. For the first time, in a long time, I have time.

What if everything in the world is backwards? What if play is more important than work? What if one should feel guilty about not playing? What if one played first, then worked?

What do I mean by play? Nonsense, dancing, drawing, singing, writing - everything that serves no purpose beyond itself. (I pause after writing this. There is purpose to all these activities but that is only realized after the doing.)

What do I mean by work? Drudgery, repetition, that which pays cold hard cash, that which pays for play. Necessary? Yes. Both.

Although the outpouring of words feels good, I wonder about copying even some of them here for others or - more difficult for me - reading them aloud. Why do I hate to read my writing, especially the raw stuff I write on Wednesday evenings? No trust? Fear of sounding like a fool or, in other words, fear of what others will think? Or is it stinginess... not willing to share my thoughts? Perhaps it is a combination of all these reasons.

I don't know how to finish this entry. Am I being too artsy-fartsy? - that's negative mother at work. So I'll dare a little more of her wrath and copy from my journal:

I am somebody - no more or less that anyone else - but I have lost my voice. Wrong Yvonne. You have a voice: you just have to find the courage to use it. Death mother be damned or put to service. You need your energy or you may as well be stone, dead. Again Medusa appears - the woman who dared to love a god. Humans need human love.

Funny Helen said that "people make too much of sex. It's a small part of life." Rob disagreed. To me, it is an important part of life - a sharing of oneself - a way to love oneself - find oneself in heaven. And to let go, really let go, when so much constrains us, is a route to freedom. And though one can drive oneself to orgasm, there is something stronger, richer, more liberating, more earth shattering, when one can hand oneself over, offer oneself, let go, and trust oneself to another. That would first take acceptance of oneself.

MOTHER'S DAY THOUGHTS



Before I had children, I said that I would like to experience pregnancy but not motherhood. Being the second child of six, I knew that babies were demanding, contrary, ungrateful little monsters who could manipulate and push their mother to tears. They would interrupt her work and leisure and, while young, she would never have a moment's peace.

And then at twenty-nine, for some reason, I changed my mind when Rob suggested we have a child. When I heard I was pregnant, we danced. When our first son was born, we were the cliche doting parents. I couldn't get over his hands and feet, his round belly, his tiny penis and scrotum - a miniature human being. How could my flawed body create something so perfect?

We decided to have another, then another - 1978, 1982, 1986.

Before I had children, I thought myself grown up. Calm, efficient, quiet spoken, in control. When I had children, all hell broke lose. I found myself little better than a fish-monger, screaming and shouting for any absurd reason. One night, I remember sitting on the front porch crying because I couldn't get the baby to sleep. And once, in a rage, I slapped my precious baby. When he looked up at me and told me to use my words not my hands, I despaired. How could I sink so low? Having children humbled me.

When I didn't have to change their diapers, spoon-feed them, brush their teeth, I thought my life would be easier. No such luck.

During their early to mid-teen years, all three tested my patience and questioned my rules. I could not get away with, "Do it because I say so." They pushed me to question myself. "Why should he or she do this or that?" If I didn't have a good answer, I changed the rules.

When Gill wanted to study abroad and it wasn't financially feasible, all she had to say was "I wanted to see if I could make a dream come true" and I found a way.( I am proud of myself.) And if it weren't for her dream, I would never have returned to my homeland for an extended period of time and gotten to know my relatives.

My children have taught me that I am capable of listening wholeheartedly and loving unconditionally. They have pushed me to be fair, flexible, and follow through on my promises. They have shown me my flaws but also my better qualities. As they've grown, I've grown. I like myself more because of them. I thank the heavens that I had them. All three are extraordinary individuals and each one has went out of her and his way today to make me feel loved.

Oh dear, I have been avoiding writing this public journal. A friend pointed out that my entries aren't as rich or deep as they were, say a year ago, and I know this is true. I think it is fear of revealing myself to certain people who I know judge me. This makes me angry. I hate that I am such a wimp.

In trying to sort myself out - letting go of my work - I have been reading "The Pregnant Virgin" and I came across this quote: "This is who I am. I am not asking for your approval. I do not have to justify my existence."

Sigh. I wish I were made of hardier stock. I crumble too easily. I betray myself too often. And every time I betray myself, I hate my weakness more. This is no good. As an excuse - or is it something more - I am confused. I have been warned to not tell anything that would hurt my soul but, for me, not telling or silence, is the worse offense.

This reminds me of a paper I wrote on Maxine Hong Kingston and Mary Meigs, in which I quote Meigs: "Silence, for me, is bloated with threats and fears; there is no way of fighting it, and the fact of it, both enclosing and assailing, makes me want to rage and accuse. I have spent most of my life sealed in a self-imposed silence, affronting the silence of others."

I can't remember how far back it was that I said that I want to write about the things that others don't write - the things that people are too ashamed to speak of, those embarrassing little secrets that eat away at our insides - in the hope that this would release others to speak of such things. I think that it was Jung who said that we lead small lives if we keep to ourselves. I am full to the brim with other people's thoughts and words. And years ago too, I wrote that I have this grandiose idea that it is my turn to give. And the only way I know how is through my writing. How long will it take to shake off the fear of self-exposure and get on with the task? Or am I even capable of living up to my own idea?

In an effort to be more open, let me tell of my days: On Saturday, I went into the flower shop to buy tulips for a friend.

(Tulips are my favourite flower. In Persian myth, the first tulips sprang up from the drops of blood shed by a lover, and was the symbol of avowed love.)

I couldn't decide whether to buy two bunches of elegant vanilla-coloured tulips, or one vanilla and one rich red. I ask a woman who works there, who is also a customer at LJ. She laughed at me and said, "This is priceless. The buyer from LJ is asking my opinion on colour. Just a minute. There's someone who will want to meet you. She loves the store." I stood there not knowing what to say or, rather, finding it impossible to say "I no longer work there."

I fear my friends are sick of my tears and depression.

One friend tells me that I am honourable staying on, doing the fashion show, teaching the mechanics of buying, after being treated so shabbily. Another tells me I am a fool. Another says enough. You are hurting your soul by lingering.

What do I think? I am honourable and selfish. If I had simply walked when the last offense happened, I would have left the store - the place where I put so much of my creative energy - in a bad state. And selfishly, I know I have to withdraw slowly, leaving every thing in as good a shape as possible. Cold turkey would have bothered me too much.

The gift Leslie gave me was her trust - and she trusted few. And with her trust, she taught me that I too have an eye for beauty. We worked well together for the most part. She was never condescending. She taught me well.

On the third anniversary of her death, I printed a picture of her, framed it, and put it in the store with a candle. Will anyone remember to do this on subsequent anniversaries?

I suddenly have free time so I am reading more. I just finished "The Mermaid's Chair" by Sue Monk Kidd who is best known for her novel "The Secret Life of Bees". "Mermaid's Chair" tells the story of a middle-aged woman/wife/mother who returns to her childhood home on an island because her mother, a religious fanatic, is ill. She is secretly happy to escape her own home, though she loves her husband. On the island, she slowly unravels the facts about her father's death by accident so many years before, the reasons behind her mother's silence and mental illness, and, in the process, discovers truths about herself and her marriage. She commits one sacrilegious act and later comments: "It wasn't that I rued what I'd done, that I wanted a reversal of some kind: I would not have taken back the way my.... had impregnated me with life, with myself, the hundred ways I'd been broken and made larger. It's that I saw the effect of it."
Though not a literary treasure, I enjoyed the book immensely.

This morning I am down at the beach. My heart is pounding. A cup of Seven/Eleven coffee is perched in the sand. No, it isn't great but it will do. I still feel like shit about my job. I should be rejoicing, I tell myself. But there is little joy in me. It appears my inner self still wants to wallow. Oh, sad, corny self, get over it, I say.

I was talking to an old friend the other day and I quoted Mary Oliver:

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on."

The world goes on. I had a job I loved. It's over. (Or will be in two days.)

I went to a short book review course last Saturday. I found myself lacking, couldn't put three sentences together. And a hellish voice inside me smirked and said, "You call yourself a writer?"

Last week, I returned to Whistler for two days with a good friend. I love the silence there best, the beauty of place next. When we arrived, I immediately sprawled out on a bed in one of the guest rooms of my sister's house and read a book by Anne Giardini called "The Sad Truth about Happiness." It held my attention - a mystery sort-of with literary references. The story is about a young woman, calm, intelligent, who fills out a questionaire that her roommate wrote. Each answer gives a number of points and somehow the total tells the date of one's death. The young woman learns hers is fast approaching. Her life changes with this knowledge. She has too many sleep-deprived nights. She attends lectures, dates three men, and then she - the most sensible of three sisters - commits a crime. I become frightened, put the book aside, and my friend and I head off for a walk to the village and, though exercise is not a true love of mine, I enjoy the company, the walk through the forest. Later, we share a simple dinner and then I finish the book. Would I recommend it? Yes, though I found the ending lacking. What is the sad truth about happiness, I ask myself.

On Sunday, I attended a Dialogue meeting, based on David Bohm's model. And it is silence again that I find myself loving. And the idea that when one in the circle of mostly-strangers feels compelled to speak, she or he speaks and the words go into the centre to be taken up by another, or not. Surprising to me, this works. There is no small talk. Everyone speaks from the body, with excitement over the proprioceptive process and I found myself relaxing, my breath slowing down.

Afterwards, I walked to Jericho beach to attend my niece's 7th birthday party.

I look out at the water. All I hear are the waves. And though I know I am lucky, I have so much to be thankful for, I still can't calm my heart... what is to become of me?

MY BABY AND ME



Gill left on Friday morning. I watched her blond head as she lined up for security. I watched as she walked through the electronic contraption that rings if you have hidden metal. I hoped she would turn around and give one last wave. My heart was aching. And then I couldn't find her in the crowd. Oh how I love that girl/woman. All day I followed, on the internet, her flight to Toronto, then Montreal, then Paris, relieved that every landing and take-off happened on schedule but, more importantly, that the plane still existed, that she was safe. The next morning, I received an email from her. Although her heart too ached leaving, she was happy to be back in Paris - "home to my independence," as she wrote on her blog. Oh I love her so.

I was never the kind of woman who ached for children. I was twenty-nine when I had my first child. It wasn't love at first sight. After he was delivered to me, by caesarean section, I was put under and didn't see him until the next day. When the nurse brought him to him, I was shocked at his size - 9 lb. 2 oz. - and declared he wasn't mine. The nurse checked our wrist bracelets and said that he was. He couldn't eat the first few days and so the doctor sent him to intensive care where I would visit him. It took a few days to fall in love with him....

Surprisingly to me, I found that I loved being a mother, though even with my first child, I knew that motherhood wasn't enough. I returned to university and one course at a time, I worked toward my undergraduate degree. Gill was in my belly under my gown when I waddled up to the podium to received my rolled document. I framed it and hung it over the stove to remind myself that I had a brain in my head.

Over the last few years, all three of my children have left home and returned and left and returned... and I don't where I'm going with this blog... As my children sort themselves out, I find I am sorting myself out. I am a knot of emotions. And yet (trust me to thing of a country and western song) I have friends who love me...

Having a tough time right now... hopefully soon I will be more coherent.

HAPPY EASTER SUNDAY

Thank the heavens. I woke early today and have slipped out to my house in the garden. All are asleep except my daughter. Just like the old days, we met this morning in the kitchen, both of us in white dressing gowns. Gill arrived home on the 10th and we've been almost constant companions. Michael and Mackenzie returned last night after doing a week housekeeping stint at Helen's so all our children are back under our roof. Later afternoon, we will sit down with family and friends and eat turkey and a vegetable feast prepared by Gill and Karyna. I keep slipping and calling today "Thanksgiving."

On Friday night, Gill had a barbecue here for all her friends. I helped her prepare. Rob did the barbecuing and I served drinks for a while. And then sat under the stars on the patio/balcony with a number of nineteen/twenty year olds and talked. It was lovely to have the house full of young people - and strange. I've known most of the guests since they were in kindergarten and now they all tower over me.

In between running around with Gill, I've been writing late summer orders for the store. I am still feeling an ache, a void, as if my heart was being torn from my chest. I tell myself to stop being melodramatic and then, in the same breath, tell myself that I have a right to my anger and grief. (All of it came pouring out on Wednesday night at Marlene's when I wrote to the question "What am I trying to feed into the possibility of being?")

On Monday, Gill and I are going to slip away overnight to Whistler to my sister's cabin/house. We were going to go to Seattle but decided that we were sick of stores, that we simply wanted to be together alone in a beautiful setting. Oh I am happy to have my sweet pea home. She will return to Paris in less than a week to complete the last quarter of her au-pair-dom that I think will be easier after this home coming.

When I was a little girl, we moved houses at least a half a dozen times before I left for good. Gill is the only one of my children who has only lived in one house. This truly is her home. (Someone told me once that the less places one has lived in, the more stable the individual.) When I was a little girl, my mother would buy all her children - five daughters and a son - at Easter, a hollow chocolate egg that I think she bought at a department store where someone, with an icing gun, wrote our names. I loved these eggs. And so, Gill and I bought an egg for everyone who is coming to dinner tonight. I plan, like my mother, to ice on each one a name.

YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY BABY



This picture of me was taken nearly fifty years ago. Last night I celebrated my birthday again at Walter's - a house full of memories for me. (There is a larger-than-life painting of Leslie in the kitchen.) What a wild and wonderful evening it was. That demure little girl sitting on the steps let loose. There were two friends from my past - Roz and Alan. (Roz and I used to work together, as copywriters, at Woodwards, then Everygreen Press.) And there were many women from my "old" work place and, let me tell you, those women know how to turn country and dance and sing up a storm. We were rowdy, yes, and wild - and it felt like a letting go of all the tension I've been holding and tears that I've been crying the last few weeks.

I received some beautiful gifts and cards. Shannon, a customer of store who has become a friend, quoted Mary Oliver in her card, "Listen, are you Breathing just a little and calling it a life?"

I'm beginning to breathe...

On Friday, I got together with another bunch of rowdy women, at Shirley's, who cooked up a storm - or rather a lamb stew with lentils and lots of other goodies, including a chocolate cake (Double Dave baked another for my party last night - eat your heart out, Marlene) and we talked and laughed and played a little Dolly Parton - don't know what's happening. Are all my friends succumbing to country and western? Gotta admit, I fell asleep three times during the evening... the fashion show for the store took place in the afternoon. (I think it went better than well. I wrote a story for it - until 11 pm the night before - and a fashion consultant at the show said she had never heard anything like it - all the shows she's attended only had boring descriptions of clothes that nobody listened to.)

And I stayed the night at Shirley's, only discovering, when I returned the next day, that I'd forgotten to tell Rob that I wouldn't be home. Poor guy, he didn't know how much trouble one small woman could cause when he married me nearly thirty-six years ago. We don't see much of the other these days. Never do when he's on a film. The hours are long and wearing - more wearing than his woman, I hope.

This morning I talked to our daughter who is staying at a hotel in Charles de Gaulle airport. Tomorrow afternoon, I shall wrap my arms around her at Vancouver International and bring her home.

All is well.

I removed my letter of resignation from this blog because I was worried that a customer might google LJ and read it. I think this inappropriate. I blogged for my friends, to put them in the picture, not to disrupt a business that is going to go through a period of readjustment.

In response to my letter of resignation, P sent a long email (and as Richard, our house guest told me, my letter begged a response.) The gist of P's email to me was that my letter to all staff members "twisted" the facts and that I was taking food from the owner's refrigerator (his metaphor.) LJ is their store and they can do what they want. His letter made me realize that there is no hope for reconciliation. I cannot work for them. I think I was hoping, as again Richard pointed out, that I could continue doing the work I love.

P and W and I had a meeting at my house yesterday morning. Richard sat in the background to help me stick to my resolve to leave and to act as a witness. We three were nervous and, at first, spoke of everything but, the reason for the meeting - my leaving and the period of transition. I finally found my courage, or what little I have, and opened the discussion to the buying. P and W said that they are going to do it. I said that, over the month of April, three days a week, I would show them what I do as I write the orders for fall. After this month, if they need advice, they can make an appointment. (Richard didn't hesitate to me that this was stupid.)

After P and W left, I said to Richard that I am a whimp. He said yes. But he kindly added that he could see my love for the store. (I like this man.)