Twenty-seven years ago today I became a mother. I was enthralled at first. I kept looking at his small body in awe (though he was over 9 pounds): I had doubted that my body could create a human being.

Rob and I ran to him everytime he whimpered and hated it when he cried. We nearly drove ourselves crazy trying to take care of him. So, after several months, when a friend asked if I was "just staying at home", I angrily replied that looking after a baby was the hardest work I'd ever done. (I wasn't writing in those days.)

We measured him when he was two years old because we were told that that would tell his adult height. We figured he would be around five feet but he is closer to six. Who is this young man?

My oldest son, in my estimation, is an intensely private individual so I will not got go on at length about him. He has also told me that he doesn't want to mark this day in any special way.

But it is also my birth day as a mother and I love birthday celebrations. So I am sitting here at 5:30 at night with a glass of wine, thinking of my son, thinking how grateful I am....

I am having trouble writing these days. I am having trouble doing everything but, as I write this, I see I am full of nonsense. I am always doing. Since I returned from Los Angeles, I have driven Rob to airport, worked many hours at store and on orders for holiday, have had the deck power-hosed, and am slowly putting our house in order. I have neglected it horribly, not for two months but for more like two years, no more - the Mexican tile floor hasn't been waxed for three years. As there are only so many hours in the day, I have simply not had the time is my excuse. There is too much else that I want, need, to do.

Writing, for one. Bah humbug. I hate writing at the moment. I call myself a writer but I am a fraud. Oh yes, I write in my journal. I occasionally write this blog but I do nothing, nothing, toward earning a living as a writer. And I am sick of the guilt. And I am fed up with my procrastination. I am not a writer. And yet I would like to be but how to find the stamina, the resolve, the dedication, the time?

Oh yes, I have been wallowing, big fat lazy wallows, and I have to remind myself that I encourage others to wallow. I think it good for the soul. I think one must wallow till one is fed up with oneself, until one can laugh at one's exaggerations. I am nearly at the point of laughing...

What I want most is to be excited about life and there have been times, with my writing, that I have been excited, but these moments are rare and I can't remember the last time I felt this way. I find myself holding back, analyzing too much, not putting what I want on paper. I'm sick to nearly death of my passionless state, of my moaning and groaning, of my little white lies when someone asks me what I'm working on and I pull something from the past just not to look a fool. I'm working on nothing, nothing.

And then, last week, or was it the week before, I was at Banyan Books, exploring the discount table, and found Roger Housden's"ten poems to change your life". I waivered at first about buying it because I knew and loved six of the ten poems but I thought "what the hell, it'll be nice to read someone else's interpretation" and so I bought it. (I returned yesterday and bought three more copies.) I have just finished it and intend today to start back at the beginning for I felt something stirring inside, a small spark, a confirmation that I still have fire in me somewhere.

Long ago, when I first started writing, I wrote, much to my amazement and horror, "I spread my legs and exposed the blood of a woman." I nearly edited the sentence; it embarrassed me so. (Thank goodness, I know a good line when I see it.) Since then I have become more outrageous (outrageous for me) with my writing. And it has become easier to write that which shocks my inner censor and my mother. (Oh will I ever grow up?) I love writing that is grounded in the body, that isn't high brow, that is accessible to all. I love when the body is used as a metaphor for nature, writing that speaks of the body - every square inch - and reveals that attitude to body, whether it be joyful or shameful, carries over into world view.

So I am reading Housden (who I am now in love with) and he includes a poem, formerly unknown to me, by Galway Kinnell called "Last Gods" and it is so delicious and erotic, I become excited. And Housden's explanation arouses me more. The poem, unexpected from the title, is about love making, touching, tasting, eating (oh yes... the author, according to Housden, reminds us "how entwined the acts of eating and making love are, both of them an entering and being entered.") But it's the simplicity of Kinnell's language and his unabashed delight in the animal body and the mingling of two bodies, and how he aligns it to the pleasure of the gods that sets my head spinning. Listen to the beginning of the poem:

"She sits naked on a rock
a few yards out in the water.
He stands on the shore,
also naked, picking blueberries.
She calls. He turns. She opens
her legs showing him her great beauty."

I have never heard the vulva (that Housden mistakenly calls "vagina") being so lovingly described. The poem gets better and better and makes me wonder how I could ever think it ugly (oh I remember, my mother told me it was) and how sex is such a gift (is gift from the gods too corny?) and how we (notice the person shift) are not free enough, open enough, joyous enough.
I once wrote an essay - I have no idea where it is - about love-making and I noted that how we are sexually with another tells all about the relationship. If we are hesitant, silent, shy, agressive, in bed, we are most likely the same with the other in all aspects of the relationship. The one informs the other. I wonder about a world that is more often than not afraid to speak of the body and its "private" parts (unless pornographic), that is even ashamed of them - and unfortunately this applies to women more than men. This can't be good for the soul.

Los Angeles Fashion Market

Los Angeles Fashion Market
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

Last night I flew in from Los Angeles market where Helen and I had been searching out fashion for holiday and resort. Rob met me at the airport and I swore that I would not get on another airplane until the next LA market in two months.

I'm tired of travelling. Rob, who hasn't been anywhere since we returned from France last year, leaves Tuesday for New Brunswick to visit his mother and then on to New York for five days of fun. I jokingly suggested that I meet him in New York and he agreed. But it was a joke. I need to say put. It was two weeks today that I returned from London, Paris, Castelnau de Montmiral.

After so much travel, after the events of this summer, I feel the need to go into a cocoon.

Early mornings in Los Angeles, while Helen and most of the hotel guests slept, I would take my journal and sit out by the pool. My writing, for the past few months, has been mostly in my private journal and takes me back to when I was a flat-chested little girl with a bowler haircut standing rigidly, staring into the lens of a camera. (So many memories are triggered by photographs.)

The serious little girl was very very good or so say her memories, confirmed by her mother who tells her that she was her easiest child. She knew how to please. Manipulate comes to mind but I think this unfair. A child does what she must to be loved. Again and again this word "love" finds its way onto my page. What do I mean by love? Accept, listen, understand, embrace, adore. It means thinking the best of me even when I cannot. As an adult, it means not molding or betraying myself, speaking my mind whether I am rejected or not. Again and again, David Whyte's lines run through my brain: "anything or anyone/ that does not bring you alive/ is too small for you."

I am fifty-six years old and still struggle with the idea that one must behave, conform to the rules of polite society, to be loved. (Does this sound silly or trite? So be it.)

My other life

My other life
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

Saturday evening, Helen and I caught a train to Seattle. All day Sunday, we looked at clothing lines for the holiday season and resort. I've learned that I have a good eye for fashion and having Helen to yea or nay what appeals to me makes the work less stressful and more fun.

Over the next few days, I will be doing paperwork from the market and from the summer writing workshop. On Thursday, I leave for Los Angeles.

But I plan to take it slow and easy. Rob has finally finished work and I want to spend some time with him as he leaves for New Brunswick and New York a day after I return.

Loving Arms

Loving Arms
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

I love this picture of Gill and Marlene together. Reminds me of a few lines from an Alden Nowlan poem:

"... it's what we all want, in the end,
not to be worshipped, not to be admired,
not to be famous, not to be feared,
not even to be loved, but simply to be held."

I'm still missing Gill. I wish I had been there to hold her after fair Hugo bid her farewell. (The young man must be mad. No. He is young.)

I am thankful to Marlene, Ursula, and Gill for making my dream of a writing house for women in France come true, for a third year. They are never a breeze, these workshops: they take a lot of energy, psychologically and physically, but they are worth it. And this year, I am extra grateful, as Gill was in the picture. It took me more years than I care to admit to appreciate the love and support of women. (When I was Gill's age, I preferred the company of men.)

When Gill was tiny, perhaps four years, I remember her toddling behind Susan on a grassy hill in France, on the look out for wild flowers. I was thankful that such an extraordinary woman was part of her life. I felt the same way when I looked out the window and saw her, leaning against Madame Rouge's garage, Marlene's arm around her.

***

I must run and shower. This morning I will atend my first Plum meeting in several months. At six this evening, I take off by train, with Helen, to a clothing market in Seattle.

A STORY
BLAME IT ON JETLAG

"What do I feel," the woman asks herself.

She sits on a log by the water early morning, watching two brave souls in swimsuits jump into the icy cold. She has been up since 4 a.m. when she had to find a flashlight to light her way to her garden house.

She thinks she could update her live journal but can't think of anything to write. Still, she tries: "I have been home three days.... Blah, everyone knows this." She has done little since she returned even though there is much she could do. There are papers on the diningroom table that were there two months ago when she left. Her husband and son tell her that they have not been home much. They have not eaten at the table since her departure. In fact, after throwing too much rotting food from the refrigerator, they stopped buying food.

Earlier, she had walked to a local coffee shop, bought coffee and a muffin (no croissant alas) and sat reading Naomi Shihab Nye for she thought, since reading Winterson the week before, that poetry might ground her. After ten hours in the sky moving across eight time zones, even Nye's words do not help.

"How do I feel." she asks herself again.

There is a flutter in her stomach. Every time she leaves her city home and flies to her village home and returns, she wants to bring something... something tangible, back with her. She is not sure what. She only knows that she breathes easier there, that she runs less.

She wraps her arms around herself and rocks. She is mother and child inseparable. Several weeks earlier, when feeling ugly and grim, she had imagined roses blooming inside her body (though this was something she would not write about.) This was another of her secrets.

At one time, she had too many secrets. She was so weighed down by them that she had to let them go, one by one, until she was light enough to climb up on tables and dance.

But new secrets are weighing her down and she doesn't know if she has the courage to begin again and open up. She recalls a quote a friend sent her: "... and the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom..." (Anais Nin)

"Damn it all anyway," she thinks. "I am not a rose. I am 'as common as a field daisy.'" (Mary Oliver)

She becomes cross with herself. She would like to throw all the quotes stored in her brain in the garbage and rely on her own words, her own wisdom, her own voice even if it means using third person. And she wonders if there is anything original about her. Who is "I" she wonders. "Is there any eye." She cringes at her spelling. Too cute, she thinks. This is not the way she likes to write. She wants to write from the body, from an earthier self. She is afterall the daughter of a daughter of a farmer.

She has been home three days and she has allowed herself to do as she pleases. She eats, sleeps, no matter the hour. She cuts blackberry bushes but not the ones with berries. She scrubs the refrigerator until it sparkles. She redoes every display in "her" store until it pleases her eye. When she looks through the doors into these spaces, she feels content. For a moment or two. She worries that she is too flighty, that she will never get down to the serious business of writing.

Last View of Paris

I'm out once more in my house in the garden in Vancouver, though the blackberry bushes have grown so that they blocked my path and I had to use clippers before I could find my way down. How strange to be home in my other life, sharing a bed with a man, the man who has shared most of the intimate moments of my life.

Arriving last night, when the huge bird landed, I felt an excitement surge through my body. I passed through immigration quickly. My suitcase was one of the first on the carousel. I sped through the doors leading to the public area, searching for the faces of my two guys. There they were, smiles as big as mine. Big bear hugs. It felt as if I'd been away for a year, not two months.

Driving from the airport, everything looked so big, so new. I have so many images that I have not recorded from the past few days - leaving Gaillac, waving to Gill and David, sitting in the local train, so many tears running down my face that the man checking tickets forgave me for not having one (the ticket machine in Gaillac was broken), sleeping with three strangers in the overnight train to Paris, walking through Parisian streets, dragging my bag, to find Shirley at her hotel, catching the Eurostar to London, and Shirley and I endlessly walking there.

Two images of these two cities stay with me. The dancing, joyous Pan, at the entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. The mythic Richard, "Coeur de Lion" standing outside the grandiose Westminster parliament in London.

I feel torn as I always do when I arrive home. I love the south of France, my sleepy little village, the quality of food and wine, the quieter, less hectic lifestyle. It feels more romantic, more earthy, more poetic there. But I weep most because I left my daughter, which is as it should be at this time in both of our lives but still it tears me apart. And it is beautiful here but more important to me, are the people I love - Rob and his wonderful arms, Brendan, my first son, who I adore (though I adore all my children) and especially our impromptu conversations about life and art. And my friends, whom I will see soon. But now I want to catch my breathe, muck about, doing little, mull over the summer, and do a little journal writing.

Once again, I'm leaving on a jet plane (but first an overnight train to Paris and then the Eurostar through the scary chunnel to London), returning to my Canadian home to see my guys and friends. Part of me is singing and part of me is weeping for it's almost time to say goodbye to my daughter and to the south of France. There was not enough time... and I will miss Gill so...

And yet it seems forever since I've seen Rob and Brendan, Helen, Vaughan, and Wenda...

I'm not thinking too clearly, never can when I must tie a thousand ends and pack my bags, so unless inspiration hits in the next twenty-four hours, I'll deal with the practical and not worry about writing (though Shirley and I thought we might find a cafe in Paris and pull out our notebooks. And then there's overnight in London...)

Travelling Companions at the Mediterranean

Travelling Companions at the Mediterranean
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

The first sight of the Mediterranean and we all cheer. Shirley is driving. We head towards Narbonne Plage, miles of sandy beach and Gill and Rowan are more animated than we've seen them. This is what they have been wanting - hot sun, white sand, and dips in this famous sea. (I think I want to dip also but when I wade in later, it feels too cold.) We stop at the tourist office and are told only one hotel has a vacancy. It isn't beautiful but it is cheap and directly across the street is the beach...

Our two beauties go to their room, don their bikinis and are gone to lie in the sand. (Later they tell us the wind is too strong and sand keeps covering them. They move to the rocks.) Shirley and I, hot and sweaty from driving, sit in a restaurant under the hotel and drink a beer - and then fetch water, lots of water, fruit, and croissants for the morning.

Later that evening, the four of us look for a restaurant and decide on one in the middle of town (actually, we let Gill decide), not one along the tourist strip, and eat well, the ambience better than the food, but still the food is more than adequate and the desserts, much to Rowan's glee, are superb.

I, as usual, fall into a deep sleep immediately while Shirley tosses and wakes with each truck, motor cycle, baby screeching in the restaurant below.

****

The next day we leave and drive to the next town, Gruissan, and again are lucky. We find a hotel, directly across from the beach. (The four of us are in one room but again the price is right and the beach calmer.) Gill and Rowan hit the beach and Shirley and I walk, then sit in the hotel's restaurant and read and write, hoping the other two of our writing group are writing as in Vancouver it's Saturday morning, our meeting time. Too bad we didn't think ahead and tell them and write to a common theme. No matter. We wrote.

Later that evening, we drive into town and found - or rather Gill found - a restaurant on the street called "Entre terre et mer" - and though the wind blew and we were cold, the food was superb, and we felt decadent and blessed.

*** (I think this blog a mite boring, a travelogue.)

The next day, Sunday, was market day in the small town - see picture - and Shirley and I once again sat and wrote and then wandered the streets with Gill and Rowan.

We drove home the slow way via Castres and had a picnic of bread and cheese, apricots and apples in the gardens of the Goya museum and then strolled through the museum. What kind of creeps me out, yet fascinates me are Goya's sketches - a series on human follies and another series on war - grotesque people doing crazy things.

***

On Monday, Shirley and I went to another town for a literary lunch with Susan who loves good food, aligns it to the pleasure of orgasm, and it was pretty damn good but my memory is failing. What does an orgasm feel like? Afterwards, we sat in Gaillac's large park and talked about our latest writing projects... lots to chew on...

***

and the next day, Tuesday, today, we went to market in town in the morning and though we intended to sit in the square and write, it was too crazy - too many people to greet, too much noise... but we did manage to steal away before lunch and write again... and all afternoon, in the 38 degree weather, we have been writing and editing, sewing and doing laundry.

Oh yes, thoughts are brewing in this heat but I'm melting. More later...

Shirley brings Vancouver to me and news of the plums and our Saturday writes. I am happy to have one of my writerly friends with me. Last night, we went to the Vierge, after a Gill nicoise salad and eggs, tomatoes, bread and wine; after sitting with Susan and David, Hannah and Adam, and their sweet albeit noisy boys; after a trip to Albi where I found a white layered skirt on sale - the one I'd been looking for in Paris with Marlene.

So we wandered through the dark ancient streets, that always make me think of the past. What would it have been like to be here five hundred, eight hundred years ago? I imagine women in long skirts, crisp white blouses worn high on the neck, and men in armor. (A villager told me that there was sometimes two or three families in each room of each house but not, I doubt, in the house of Susan's son Adam where Louis XIV once slept.)

And we passed by Bedding's house and as her window was open, we yelled up, and she joined us at La Vierge, and then Ruth surprised us on her evening stroll and sat with us. While Shirley talked to Bedding, I spoke with Ruth who is always sparkling, always alive. And as we talked, we looked up to the sky, bright with stars and a round full moon. Ruth spoke of men. She says she wants one from Mars. And she described a book she has just finished about extraordinary women who could not live in this world - like Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton - and their craziness, their inability to adapt the inner turmoil to the outside. She told me of a young woman who wrote a novel and submitted it to a juried contest, and when she had waited long to hear if they liked her story, she jumped from a building and killed herself. Her father wrote to the jury to withdraw her novel as his daughter was dead. And the man, in charge, curious, read it before returning it and thought it good - the story of a young woman who jumped off a building and died.

So we sat the Vierge and talked about turmoil and art. Ruth spoke of the angst she feels before a performance. She never knows if she will be in the right mood to give her best. (She plays the viola.) We spoke further about our own feelings, our own perception of ourselves, that can differ a great deal from the way others perceive us.

After midnight, we all walked down the hill and up into the village. Ruth and Bedding said goodnight and Shirley and I, feeling good, returned home, poured ourselves a tiny liquor glass of armagnac. It is a curious lovely world here and I am proud of it (though how little it has to do with me) and happy that Shirley can share it with me.

Today, we will drive to the Mediterranean, without hotel reservations or particular village in mind. I love these adventures. Back Sunday.

Drupaceous Wenda

Drupaceous Wenda
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

Happy Birthday Wenda!

I am racing the clock. There's fifteen minutes left on your birth day to post you a greeting, send love and hopes that this year will be your best one yet.

(Please forgive my forgetfulness. Yesterday I thought your birthday was the 17th and I'd missed it, even though I read your blog. Muddled is me at the moment. And then Shirley did arrive (and the handsome young man with my debit card with her) and told me that no, today is your birthday so we forced ourselves to drink a lot of wine together to celebrate your day.)

Now's there's two plums here, two there... and all we're going to do here is write and write - drink a little more wine, take a trip to the Mediterranean to write - in your honour.

Happy Birthday, dear Wenda. I hope your day was wonderful.



If anyone wants to read some fine writing, visit
"Daring to Write"

I'm anxious tonight. I decided to stay at home and send a handsome young man to pick up my friend Shirley at the airport. Hope she won't mind. Time is so much more precious the older I get and I hate the drive to the airport and besides I'm a terrible passenger. Ask Rob.

I've been reading Mary Oliver. Jeanette Winterson reminded me that poetry helps when one feels lethargic. I read it when I cannot alight. In an interview at the end of "Lighthousekeeping" Winterson says, when asked if she ever considered writing poetry, " no. Poetry is the thing that matters to me more than anything else. I use it like caffeine: when I'm tired I'll have a shot of poetry. I always carry it with me; I look for that exactness of language, that sensitivity and feeling. But I won't write it because I have decided that my experiment is to use those poetic disciplines and work them against the stretchiness of narrative."

The young women (so hard not to call them girls) - Gill and Rowan and I went to Toulouse yesterday. We shopped a little together, ate lunch, and then they took off to look for clothes. I went to Habitat. When, I wonder, did dressing for the house take precedence over clothes for the body? I bought some Egyptian cotton sheets and plum-coloured towels. Then I sat in a small park and finished "Lighthousekeeping."

Winterson is not one of my favourite authors but I like her. Her stories are off-beat, often difficult to follow, but I always find myself writing out a passage or two. The one that appealed to me yesterday, that I tucked a bookmark into, reads as follows:

"But today, when the sun is everywhere, and everything solid is nothing but its own shadow, I know that the real things in life, the things I remember, the things I turn over in my hands, are not houses, bank accounts, prizes or promotions. What I remember is love - all love - love of this dirt road, this sunrise, a day by the river, the stranger I met in a cafe. Myself, even, which is the hardest thing of all to love, because love and selfishness are not the same thing. It is easy to be selfish. It is hard to love who I am. No wonder I am surprised if you do.
But love it is that wins the day. On this burning road, fenced with barbed wire to keep the goats from straying. I find for a minute what I came here for, which is a sure sign, that I will lose it again instantly.
I felt whole."

I often don't know how to live this extraordinary life of mine but there are times - and I warn you, they are often maudlin but they don't feel so at the time - when someone says "I wish you could stay longer" or "I want to spend time with you" or "I like your energy" or even "I love you" that I feel whole.

So I sit here reading Oliver's "The Black Snake" and worry only a little that I gave the handsome young man my debit card and my code (such trust!) and hope that he doesn't take my last euro cent and disappear without picking up Shirley. I am looking forward to spending time with her.

"I'm hot." And not in a sexy, wenchy, here-I-am-guys-come-and-get-me kind of way. The sun is beaming down too hard these days and it's slowing me down, making me feel like an old woman (though Gill feels the same way), and I wrote a nice long juicy blog yesterday, probably the best I've ever written, and it disappeared just before I pushed the publish button. You can imagine the words that fell freely from my mouth. And then I sang what appears to be my theme song these days "Can we start again, please" (from Jesus Christ Superstar.)

It's still early. At 9 this morning, I sat in a cafe with a cafe creme (after bathing, brushing my teeth, spraying perfume, putting on my wench top - perhaps the reason for the wenchy thoughts above - and my layered skirt) feeling content, unhurried.

Last night, Gill, Rowan and I went down to Lyn's garden for a barbeque. The folk gathered were my age or older. I feel myself a little out of place in these social gatherings, not sure why, but among the people I met was a man, who looked like a "lost soul", his eyes seemed timid, almost afraid. He told me about his wife, a Parisian, who left him after 35 years of marriage, about his job as a computer programmer, that he was forced to leave the same year (apparently all who were over 58 were given mandatory retirement.) This was three years ago, he told me. That's not long ago, I told him. He said that he is not allowed to work now, that his former company pays him a small wage. How can you bear it, I asked. It's alright. I play tennis three times a week, I paint a little...





After the picnic, I drove to Gaillac to pick up Joe, a friend's son, who (my friend) is one of the most gentle, kindest woman I know, who rescued me more than once when my children were young, whose husband has helped both Rob and me with our business. I haven't spoken to Joe - the same age as my eldest son - for years, so it was strange to be waiting at the train station near midnight, to greet a towering young man, to bring him home, serve him beer, and talk. He is lovely, easy going, and has just taken off with Gill and Rowan to the lake.

Earlier this morning, Rob called from the film set (11:30 p.m. Saturday night his time) and told he that three friends in the film industry had died this week. One was fifty. I remind myself that life is precious.

Two days ago was Bastille Day. Around ten in the evening, Gill, Rowan, and I set off, on foot, for the lake, to watch the fireworks and dance. We walked because I didn't know if we had enough gas in the car to make it home safely. (I can hear Rob laugh. I have a tendency to let our car run low on fuel.) The fireworks began and finished before we arrived though we did see them in the air, and when we arrived the music was blaring and people were dancing and the girls/young women immediately joined them. I sat at a table and watched. I love these country dances where everyone who is mobile (from two to seventy) is swinging hips and arms, tapping feet, singing, squealing to the music. Women dance with women, men with men, and everyone appears joyous.

I did dance a little but it was late and I was tired and I had danced the night before.

The three of us - Rowan, Gill, and I - had driven to Campagnac for an all night market with live music - the same band that had played for the writers in the town square last year. The pizza man (called Denise, with accent on first syllable), father of Harold and Hugo, was singing wonderful French ballads. He is as charming as his sons, as roguishly handsome, and Gill and Rowan and I danced (not on tables) together until the group put away their instruments.

You might have noticed that I have only written about our evenings (except for this morning.) Since Marlene left by a late train for Zurich, and, an evening earlier, Ursula, waving her white handkerchief from the old fashioned train window... I have been doing a lot of thinking, a lot of writing in my journal, not dressing till nearly evening, puttering, sewing drapes... A writing workshop, whether it be body/soul or autobiography always takes me inward, exhausts me, and so I am not pushing myself at the moment to push boundaries, to give away my secrets, here or anywhere. Not at this moment...

Writers in Castelnau de Montmiral

Writers in Castelnau de Montmiral
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

A snapshot outside our house, after our last morning session. Unfortunately, you can only catch a glimpse of Ursula's lovely face. Within half an hour, all but four of us will have left the village.

I scream, you scream, we all scream, for ice-cream
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

Several hours later, Marlene, Ursula, Gill, Daniela, and I explore Albi and give ourselves a much deserved treat. I love the look on my face.

Ursula and Marlene indulge too.
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

It's been a long hard week and thank goodness my beautiful daughter recorded our group feast or you might think I'd disappeared.

I'm still absorbing this BodySoul writing week so it's difficult to give an overview.

On Friday night we gathered at the "Light" house for our final feast prepared and served by Gill. We began on the terrace that leans over the Esplanade - a stretch of grass, sand path, and trees that runs along one length of the village with a view over the valley, so soft and senuous that it always reminds me of a woman's body - talked, nibbed tiny saucisses, brochetta, and deviled eggs, and sipped some delicious wine - white or rose or red. We are a quieter, more serious group this year but the six of us with Marlene and Ursula and Gill too, though she was not a part of the workshop time, have grown close, are comfortable, easy with one other. How could it be otherwise when one writes one's thoughts and reads them aloud. I don't think anyone apologized for the quality of her writing but some (myself included) had to swallow hard to read where her thoughts had roamed to. One memory from my childhood appeared that I have never told anyone, was particularly difficult to tell but I did. I did.

After the appetizers, Gill called us to a table, set once again with our sunflower gold tablecloth, and served a tomato and mozzarella salad and fresh bread. She told us she was going to give us one dish, one flavour, at a time, French-style, so we could savour each one. Next we feasted on a ratatouille made with the help of Susan in her kitchen. My mouth, throat, thought themselves in heaven. (Writing this I am reminded of Susan's words from many years ago: "The two best things in life are food and sex and people don't talk about or enjoy them enough.") Then a chicken smeared with pesto and feta, the juices soaked up with more bread. Gill then cleared the table and set a caramel mousse cake, topped with tiny berries and miniscule pears - a masterpiece from a French bakery - at one end and cut portions onto plates, added French ice-cream, and each one of us let the riches melt into our mouths. Oh la la. And those, who desired a savoury, finished with cheeses and more bread. Need I mention the wine that accompanied each course?

The meal was followed by poetry - each person read or recited - and music and dancing on the table. This night everyone had her turn to everything from "Dance me to end of Love" to "I'm a Red-neck Woman" (when two especially sassy wenches climbed up and strutted their stuff (not me.)

Saturday morning we had our finale session. How did I feel? Sad. Happy. Grateful. Another ending and I realized that I'd come a little closer to understanding myself... This individuation process, a la Carl Jung and Marion Woodman, is too slow for me at times. I want all now, get impatient, don't want to deal with the fear, sometimes feel ridiculous, but I know, especially when I look at Marlene and Ursula, that this is the direction I want to take. A line from Mary Oliver comes to mind, that goes something to the effect that when I die, I don't want simply to have visited this world.

I want to say that this intensive was unlike any other that I have participated in, that I spent too many sleepless nights, and explain, but I cannot. What happens inside an intensive is confidential... Marlene and Ursula were more than wonderful in their teaching and listening, and more than generous with their time. Me too. As onsite administrator, I did everything I possibly could, to make sure every woman felt at home in my tiny, lovely village.

I must end here and try to be more religious about writing this journal, in the few weeks that follow before I return home.

I shall write quick entries for the week as the BodySoul writing workshop is now underway. Last night Gill prepared and served the welcome feast - fresh pate, olives, and saucisse for starters, green summer salad, turkey cacchatori(?), rice, green beans, fresh fruit, cheese, and chocolate.

Ten women sat around the table (one had to cancel due to a leg injury) that Gill had set with our fine French damask tablecloth in sunflower gold (with sunflowers and daisies in vases), and cloth napkins folded like lotuses, eating, drinking wine (though water seemed the preferred libation) and talking, followed by a welcome from Marlene with course details and a few words from Ursula. I talked briefly about the town and day-to-day details.

And so we begin our second year of body/soul, our third year in France. Though the last few days have been hectic with pickups in Gaillac not happening as smoothly as former years due to late flights and missed trains, and minor house problems, I think all is in order now and I can breathe easy. Gill, who spends most of time in the kitchen, is surprised at how long it takes to make, serve, and cleanup after a meal - though she is doing an extraordinary job - her presentation tres chic. (Susan said when I arrived that my daughter is a much better cook than me. "And so is your husband." I love it when she is so blunt. (And now I have every excuse to stay out of the kitchen.)

A Poet is Born

A Poet is Born
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

Happy Birthday Vaughan,

Hope your day is wonderful. Do something just for yourself. Do something out of character. I'm thinking about you. Here's a poem by James Tipton:

THE DAY I WAS BORN WAS THE DAY
I began to fall in love with everything,
and particularly with the light,
with how it waved to me at dusk,
with how it rose after a summer rain
into the heart of that little [girl].
with how it curled deep
in the centers of flowers,
how it lived in little jars of honey.

I remember the day in the abandoned orchard
when the Angel of Light stood beside me;
and I remember the wild and lovely light
that wrapped itself around certain women,
so bright I could no longer see them;
I remember the light that lurked in language,
and I remember how much I loved words,
wanting to know them well before I spoke,
although I did not speak until I was three years old.

I remember how painful it has always been
to appear to be like others, how hard
I have had to work to dance in that world;
and I remember how much I loved
to be alone, and I remember
new leaves in late spring,
and corn smiling, and bees,
and the little creek I carried home
and tucked in bed beside me.

Even now, I find a few certain strangers
who come to me with light lingering
around them before they speak;
and when I leave them I remember that light,
and sometimes a piece of conversation,
with you, for example, about Costa Rica, and Peru,
and Spanish learned outside of schools.
I had to stop talking with you then,
or I would have given you everything I have.

Picnic in the Park

Picnic in the Park
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

Yesterday I wrote a long blog about the heat - it had risen as high as 38 degrees - about the artists who came here to paint the illuminated landscape (Cezanne and Van Gogh and even a Canadian, Jack Shadbolt), about the writers who came two years ago, shed every item of superfluous clothing, and wrote steamy tales (myself included), and about me here now struggling to move, do anything, and feeling like I'm accomplishing little. But the whole damn entry disappeared before I could post it. This new computer is more temperamental than my old one.

I told about going for coffee on Tuesday morning, sitting beside the farmers and artisans who were having coffee before setting up their stands, and holding small conversations in French. I bought the pizza man a coffee as I've been trying to talk him into playing his music for the workshop feast on July 5th. He is a wonderful musician as is his son who serenaded Gill on the street outside our house. I spoke to the restaurant owner/chef who will cook the feast and he offered to make something special as the writers will be eating at the restaurant most nights and will know the menu too well.

And I wrote about dusting, sweeping, vacuuming, polishing, waxing in preparation for the workshop and Gill, in the "Light" house, doing the same. I noted that we come from a long line of Irish women, wives of farmers and weavers, who took pride in a clean house; about how I dismiss such activity as menial but, in truth, love the look and smell of sparkling furniture and floors; and how my mother always said that "cleanliness is next to godliness". She was raised a Quaker, went to church twice a week, was not allowed to wear makeup, drink, or dance. But, she once told me, that she would sneak out, put on lipstick when she was out of sight of her father's farm, and attend dances. She said they were a god-fearing people but I think that they were a father and husband fearing clan, based on her sneakiness around her and my father.

I wondered about the voices inside my head - do they stem from generations of housewives who, before my mother and grandmother, could neither read nor write (they signed their marriage certificates with a X), who worked their "fingers to the bone" (my mother's expression), and who believed, like her, that life is not about fun but about responsibility. Am I fighting them when I rouge my cheeks, hold a glass of wine to the heavens, and climb on tables? Or is it their husbands? The whole damn lot of them were too dependent on the good opinion of others. And how did they really feel, deep inside themselves, about all that work and no pleasure? They could not even speak of their bodies without shame.

Well, that was the gist of my lost entry.

Last night, after a hard day's work, Gill made a picnic and we drove down to the lake and set our salad feast on a picnic table and ate from plastic containers. There were hoards of teenagers roaming around the grounds, having a barbeque, celebrating heaven-knows-what and playing music (good music Gill informs me.)

So we, today, will take care of last minute details for the workshop. Tomorrow we go to Gaillac market. As I sit at my small desk looking out over the garden with coral flowers, I feel, with relief, that the day is cooler. From the front of the house, I can hear the garbage tractor ( a tractor with two small trailors that weaves through the streets) driven by a robust Frenchman with one top tooth. (A picturesque detail of French country life.)

I look forward, in just two days time, to the arrival of Marlene and Ursula, and half a dozen women from Canada, the States, and England... and gathering in "the writing room", our salon, and talking and writing, writing, and writing... the third year of a dream.

After posting this blog, I opened a book to the following poem by Judith Duerk. It seems appropriate to this entry and a discussion I have been having with Vaughan:

"If I am so perpetually terrified
of being called a bad girl,
so externally blown about
by the winds of my inner judges,
that I must cling to any authority
that grants me marginal approval,
then I risk that I might never, ever
turn towards that within me
that guides and orders my existence,
that lets the truth of my life emerge.
Oh Grant me courage to become myself!"

It's Sunday and I just awoke. Last night was so warm that I went out and sat on a small stone wall, across from our house, and talked to Lucette, my neighbour who speaks no English. I am hilarious when I try to hold a conversation in French. I learned the language at university and try too hard to be grammatically correct. I notice that Lucette, like me, talks with her hands, in an attempt to be understood. Thank goodness for hands. (I think of Marlene in Paris unable to resist Rodin's. In a week, she will be here with Ursula, preparing to begin another writing workshop.)

As I sit with my neighbour, Gill leaves the house looking beautiful and Lucette comments on the lowness of her jeans and the shortness of her top. Gill laughs and pulls her sweater higher to expose her belly jewellery that looks and shines like a large diamond. Lucette does not see the beauty of it: she asks if it hurts her. Gill, smiling, striding, leaves us and soon after Lucette wishes me bon nuit.

I go inside wondering what to do with myself. I could paint. I could read or write, take a bath, but nothing appeals. I know restlessness is supposed to be good for the soul but I can't remember why.

The night before, Gill and I went to see the fire of Saint Jean (Joan of Arc?) - a huge teepee of logs, roaring at one edge of the village. Small children ran wild with plastic cups trying to catch the sparks, none of whom, even when they get too close to the flame, are cautioned by parents. Helene wove in and out of the crowd serving the adults plastic glasses of white wine. Rosetta offered a tray of brioche. Tinny music roared from a bad speaker and Gill and I sipped from our glasses, swayed, and tapped our feet. I was not brave enough to start dancing though I wanted to.

I noticed Lucette and our English neighbours a few feet behind us and turned to talk to them. While I flipped back and forth from English to French, Gill disappeared and I eventually spot her with a group of friends, leaning on a tall lanky dark-haired young Frenchman who sets her heart a flutter. Earlier, we had eaten outside at the new restaurant in the central square, laughing and talking, walking away arm in arm. I am so glad to have this time alone with her but I saw that our mother/daughter evening is over, and so I bid all good night and wandered home alone.

Again, a restlessness surged through me. I couldn't alight. I have been puttering, doing a number of small jobs to make the house nicer, to fill my hours, to avoid writing. A few days earlier, I decided to paint one small room. I felt this urge to add colour to the house: all is white, virginal, and I want something strong, vibrant, surrounding me. (Where are you Rob when I need you? But I spoke to Rob last night and he told me that he is working long hours, he nearly fell asleep at a stoplight on Georgia, that he wouldn't have time to spend with me even if I were in Vancouver. And I know that relationship exists not - or should not - to fill a void but to share a fullness. )

I don't feel full. I feel empty. And yet I know this isn't true. I just do not like me when I am full of self-pity, tears, to name a few… and yet when I spoke to a friend the other day, told her that I had been on the verge of tears for several days, she said that I was lucky. She hasn't felt like crying for some time… and I keep thinking of her words and know she is right but still I get confused. (You are too stupid to grasp anything, a voice in my head says. You are wallowing. Snap out of it. Look at where you are. And I look out the window and I see the garden green and lush below and, on eye level, glorious coral blossoms - though I am too ignorant to know what they are - and then there is the sun, the glorious hot sun, illuminating the stone wall that was built over 800 years ago. I smile though I am not cheered. I want to pound my head on the windowsill and knock some sense into myself. )

Why do I think that I must (a warning word) be full of bliss all the time because of all I have? This, in my mind, is very Canadian, though I am Irish, I remind myself. Every Irish woman or man is allowed melancholy. I do not want to be a "happy carrot." (Oh sometimes, I do.) And then I think of Saint Teresa who writes in no uncertain terms that it is hard work to conquer oneself.

I want to ask forgiveness for the smallness of my thoughts on this blog but my self will not allow it. (I even wonder if I sound pretentious when I separate the word “myself.” But since i appear to be unable to distinguish whether I am or am not, bad writing from good, I am going out for a walk in the sunshine. Perhaps I'll leave the village and walk past the sunflower fields. (A miracle happened. When I arrived these signature flowers were short and closed and now many are in full bloom.)

Dining in Paris

Dining in Paris
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

I spent three nights, two full days, in Paris - in my eyes, the most magnificent city in the world - and returned Sunday evening. Marlene and I had intended to sit in cafes, write in our journals, follow in the steps of de Beauvoir, Colette, Nin, Sartre, Miller, Hemingway, Joyce, but we didn't. We walked until we were exhausted, till we could take in no more of the architecture with its fleur-de-lis decorative twists, wrought iron balconies, numerous memorials, churches, museums, and expansive public gardens.

I only wrote as the fast train, the TGV, left Paris to take me back to my small village in the south. My legs ached. I munched on a baguette from a stand at Gare Montparnasse. We had left our hotel early morning, walking down rue Vivienne, past the Palais Royale, crossed the courtyard of the Louve with its glass pyramids and jokingly said that we would say we had passed through the Louve quickly as who would come to Paris and not enter its hallowed halls. We strolled through the Tuileries - a broad avenue scattered with classical sculptures - and crossed the Seine on one of the numerous bridges to the Left Bank. Looking down, M pointed out a lone man, saxophone in mouth, playing for no one in particular.

I stopped at the D'Orsay and Marlene continued on to the Rodin museum. I had only an hour and a half to peer at paintings by Degas, Gauguin, Monet, Manet, Renoir, Cezanne, Van Gogh - famous images of poppy fields, sunlit cathedrals, naked women, self-portraits, blood and battles - but loved seeing the originals, especially the nudes - no skinny model bodies - all with voluptuous abundant flesh. Head full, I left walking briskly, to meet M at eleven in Rodin's garden that is lined with his sculptures. (We had strolled through it a day earlier, admiring the artist's way of sculpting sturdy bodies with over-sized hands and feets. M felt compelled to place her small hand in the larger one of many of the statues.)

The night before, we met one of Marlene's colleagues from the institute in Zurich, at Cafe de Flore where Simone de Beauvoir and Sartre met most mornings and evenings to write, and then her friend, a vibrant Parisian led us to a "very French, inexpensive" restaurant near the Sorbonne where she used to eat when a student there. We ate and drank hearty French fare (steak, pintade, and frites - the best I've had anywhere in France) as the sweat poured down our brows.

Oh I could go on and on... I haven't even mentioned the Musee National du Moyen Age that houses the famous tapistries of "The Lady and the Unicorn", Shakespeare and Company where we both threw coins in the inner wishing well and... I can't remember all the sights but how I love listing the names of art, sites, and people (past and present) who haunt and have haunted this city... I feel like a hick from the country, childlike, in awe, but M too must have felt this way (though I must not project with a Jungian) as numerous times she would look me in the eye and say "Yvonne, we're in Paris."

I love Paris. (I know writers are supposed to exclude the obvious but I don't give a damn. I love Paris. I love Paris. I love Paris. I love my daughter who will live in this city, who I will visit in this city.

And so I have been back in Castelnau for a day and yet did not have time to update my blog as yesterday afternoon, Ramona and Don, who married ten days ago in Vancouver, arrived for an overnight visit. We (the three of us) drove into the country to a nearby winery, admired its restored Pigeonniere (sp?), tasted a few wines, bought a few bottles, and then returned to thow together a salad, and wrap bread, cheeses, glasses and cutlery for a picnic.

Oh la la - Susan and David who had invited us to picnic were shaking their fists at us: we had kept all waiting. - but they calmed when they saw our basket of food and bubbly. We drove, in three vehicles to the Causse (an elevated stretch of land.) There were eleven of us including baby Sil who, at one year, crawled here and there over the picnic spread making any attempt at civilized dining impossible - but still the food - a collective effort of onion torte, homuus, green salad, cheese, fruit salad, and chocolate cake - was delicious. After eating and drinking, we took a walk through tall grass towards a red setting sun, where we found ourselves a feast for mosquitoes, and so returned, packed the remains, and as a closing ceremony, swung Sil - much to his glee - in the emptied table cloth.

Today, after visiting Castelnau's morning market and eating pizza for lunch, Ramona and Don left to continue their honeymoon travels. Before leaving, Don, a food critic and travel journalist, interviewed Christian - the town's pate man whose penchant for jokes, command of English, and excellent pate made him a worthy subject. (Don needs a show within days of arriving home.)

So there you have it. Life is full of culinary delights. Gill leaves soon for a music festival in Toulouse where she will spend the night with friends so I think I will lay down my head and recuperate.