I have felt at peace with myself over the past few months and I wonder why. I am still the same scattered restless person. What has shifted in my psyche?

I think about a recent conversation with my father who said a person is nothing if she or he does not believe in God. I responded, "I am a good person." I do, for lack of a better label, call myself an agnostic, still I am not nothing.

More than one friend has told me in the last few days that she loves me...

My precious daughter sent me some lines in response to a past entry: "If Marion Woodman is right, do I feed myself gourmet and spices, because my mother offered me such a spicy, rich life?"

And the man I have lived with so long, after standing on the street with me in the early hours of the morning, said that he felt such a rush of love for me...

I am even receiving kind words at work. Last week, a stranger called me and asked if I would consider a career change. She had been in the store and liked my style and manner.

Such a rush of compliments - is this why I am feeling so at peace with myself? Do I/we need others to tell us that we are lovable? And is it a sin to repeat their words? I was taught that one must not have an inflated sense of self. I don't believe I have but I am on tricky ground.

Kate, in her live journal, spoke about promoting herself and how interior voices started taunting, asking if she wasn't "being more than a little egotistical."

I pause here, in this entry, and wonder why I am writing what I am writing. I reread from the beginning and see my father's statement and feel this pain in my heart. Am I writing this to prove that I am not nothing? Is there a child in my heart who wants her parents to think that she's somebody? And I think of the old Frank Sinatra song, "You're nobody till somebody loves you."

So is it God or Love that makes the world go round? Or are they one and the same thing?

Here, I think myself a bit of an idiot for thinking in songs. Am I going to be hit by an enormous complex that will drag me into some bottomless pit of despair? Am I abetting her/him by writing this entry?

I have no more time for thought. I have to leave for the courthouse in half an hour. I have been called for jury duty for the fourth time. Doesn't seem fair.

After a week of not posting an entry, I feel I must especially for those who live far away and check regularly for a new post. The only problem is that I have little to say and think, these days, that I have little to write about that's of any interest to anyone but myself. I have just read Gill's last entry and am a little envious. She is always on the run, meeting new friends, eating and drinking up a storm.

What did I eat this weekend? Although I like eating well enough, it is not a passion. Often, I grab anything for the sake of filling my belly. (I think of Marion Woodman who said something to the effect that we treat our bodies as our mother treated us.) Oh to be like Gill who will throw spices into anything and come up with something extraordinary. She is like her father. Rob loves cooking. On Saturday, after I worked all day, I came home to a meal of spiced red snapper, tiny potatoes, and asparagus cooked on the barbeque. On Sunday, after working again, I came home to a meal of turkey burgers, cooked again on the barbeque, with a baby leaf salad. And I did moan and groan with pleasure as I ate. I do appreciate good food. But Rob and Gill are passionate about the cooking and the eating. They love taking cooking classes, learning new techniques, and aren't afraid to improvise. I am not a bad cook but I follow recipes exactly. I am not creative in this area.

Where does my passion lie? Passion. I love the word. I love the feeling. I look at this sentence and dare myself to describe the feeling of "passion." (Interesting that passion comes from the Latin "passio" and "pati" meaning "to suffer".) I feel passion, excitement in the pit of my stomach - like the old cliche, I feel butterflies fluttering. My heart beats faster, louder. Sometimes my fingertips hum. I smile. Sometimes laugh. I feel good in my skin. I want to dance. I often add a twang to my speech. I feel alive.

Where do my passions lie? A little devil whispers in my ear "in beauty. You love beauty. You love beautiful paintings, rich colours, sensual fabrics. You love abundance and exuberance and flamboyance. You love those who love with spirit, with joy, with laughter, with excitement. You love being stimulated by a good book, kind words, kisses and hugs. You love music that makes your feet tap and your body sway. You love to be alone where you can sing your heart out and not feel a fool. You love vast amounts of time and space to play. You love writing and playing with words. You love feeling light and unencumbered. You love conversation. You love editing another's words. You love ideas. You love giving and receiving compliments but only those that are sincere. You love truth and pushing boundaries."

Interesting what switching to second person can bring up. Might be kinda silly but I love silly too. Often I try too hard to sound intelligent when really truly all I want to do is say what I want and not worry what others think.

That's it. I'm alive.

I wrote the following in my journal Sunday but then found my time was tight and couldn't type it into my blog: I had to be at work by noon. I don't know what's happening to me. I stay up late and rise late and I hate it. I miss my wee morning hours when I can think at length and not worry about time.

On Sunday, I was restless, tried to find a poem to calm me. Every one I found - I opened poetry books at random and read the lines - were tales of blood and murder. This happened three times and so I stopped.

A long time ago I went to a lecture on sexuality and the woman professor said that the only real sin is taking another life, stopping it in its tracks.

On Thursday evening, I met my plums, writing group, downtown SFU, to hear Rachel Rose, a poet speak. When she began to write poetry, she said, she believed that anything that happened to her was hers to tell - no matter if it hurt another or not. Now, she is finding it more difficult to tell her truths as she wants to be kind.

I have written this public journal for around three years. Sometimes I dare myself to tell that which I don't really want to tell. But I close my eyes and push the "publish" button because I want to become a better writer. I want to tell those things that others don't tell... I don't know if non-writers understand the pain that comes from pushing boundaries.

I continue to think about returning to my novel, allowing myself the title of writer. Sometimes I think I am too attached to the title and not ready to earn it, not ready to dedicate myself to the work involved in taking my shitty first draft and bringing it to life. Am I lazy or overwhelmed?

Last night (Saturday night) Rob and I went to a friend's birthday party (another 50 year old) where I spoke to two women who I have seen rarely in the last dozen years. We all precised our stories, what we'd been up to, since we last met. I spoke of my work at the store, then my writing. Afterwards I wanted to flog myself. Why did I mention my nearly non-existent writing? Did I want to impress them? (This is not who I want to be.) Or is it me who is more impressed with the writing than retail? Or/and do I think that speaking about writing will take me back to it?

Another interesting thought came from the conversation. I said that I must work, must earn, to feel autonomous. One woman understood. The other did not. The former works and feels somewhat the same as me. The latter does not. Who is happier? I don't know.

This whole past week, during quiet moments, I have thought about tolerance and about the quote I mentioned in last Sunday's blog about respecting another's choices "not agreement or admiration but an honoring of choice" . This drove me to search the internet and I found a Harvard University site that tests for unconscious biases:
Project Implicit. There is a number of different categories and I have done two tests so far. One says that I unconsciously favour young people over old people. I would not have thought this and, of course, it may not be true but I will watch myself in this area in the future. The other said that I have no unconscious biases involving straights or gays. I didn't think I would.

I have just finished reading "The White Rose" - the only novel that I have started and finished in weeks - and I'll give you the Amazon link. I enjoyed it. Light reading but filled with interesting information about roses, history, specially Jewish, and I find I like such novels where I am not only given a good story but also information on subjects that I know little about . I choose novels by unknowns to me for various reasons. I chose this one because the author is wife of Paul Muldoon, the Irish poet, who I heard read at UBC and who I liked very much. Yesterday, while sneaking a read - I felt guilty as I could have been doing something "productive" - I found a passage where the author used her husband's name "Muldoon" as an example of the type of man a good Jewish girl should not marry. I liked her playfulness and this caused me to write in my journal: "Who do I have to be to proud of myself?" Food for thought.

Now I shall begin my week, still in my pjs at nearly noon.

:

EVERY SUNDAY...

Gill, Karyna, Nancy, and I write about food. Gill in Paris. Karyna in Montreal. And Nancy and I in West Vancouver. Every Sunday, we take turns choosing a food, a sweet morsel, and describe the experience. Today, Nancy suggests (or what I understand from her opaque words,) that we push our boundaries, and taste "the sweetness of unexpected kindness".

Marlene, in her live journal, writes of working with fairy tales on a symbolic level and quotes Gertrud Mueller Nelson: "We always think that we have to be superhuman and then berate ourselves for failing that expectation. So that's why we have symbols and rituals... They are there to remind us and help us and ground us... As always, the Word must be made flesh - our sterling gestures turned to human, loving acts..."

And Mahala sent me a photograph of her father and herself, when she was young and "felt loved."

My mind skips to another blogger, Sky, who a few weeks back wrote about her mother: "Sometimes we must let go and let those we love live the lives they choose, silently and with respect for the choices they make. Respect - not agreement or admiration, but an honoring of choice... "

I have no idea where I am going with this entry.

Yesterday, at around 5 or so, in the morning, our house went black. The electricity was gone. And I, in my little house in the garden, luckily had a flashlight. I went into our big house (in comparison to my little as it is far from grand) and had a shower with the flashlight, on the counter pointed towards the bath. Rob woke.

Usually in the morning, we say good morning, kiss, make coffee, and go to our respective rooms and computers, but without electricity, we could not follow this ritual so we dressed and went out for coffee and talked... and Rob, in his new cute, funny, little "Smart" car dropped me at work. I was warm but Rob spent the day at coffee shops and the library as, without electricity, our house grew colder by the hour. At 5 p.m., he came to the store and I finished my work and we went out for Indian food. We picked up a couple of logs for the fire and went home. The lights were on. The house was warm. We laughed and curled up on the sofa and watched a movie though a part of me was disappointed...

The night before, we went to our brother-in-law's fiftieth birthday bash at a rich man's club downtown. Rob ran a slide show of Bill's life. We ate from a table, filled with hot and cold appetizers, and I danced and danced. Now sometimes, more often than not, I feel self-conscious when I dance in public but not this night. I felt wonderful. Afterwards, I wondered what were the magic ingredients - why did I not care if I made a fool of myself or not. My parents were there and usually when they are around, I am more guarded, more my childhood self... but on this occasion, it didn't seem to matter.

For some reason, I felt beautiful, full of life and wit. I wore my fancy Christmas clothes - velvet and silk. I had had my haircut and streaked that day. And this verges on embarrassment. This is my third haircut in a six weeks. I want to feel good when I look in the mirror... And I did that night.

Oh February, February... I am not too fond of this month that seems, in my memory, to be always dark, wet, and dreary though there are signs of spring - green shoots in our garden. And as always, I must do a load of paperwork for the taxman, and complete summer orders. Meanwhile, our house shows signs of real neglect. And I do like order... and this blog is as scattered as my head.

Marlene ended hers with another quote and I think, I'll steal from her: "Freedom... is not being rid of responsibilities; it is being free of random shoulds and oughts. Freedom doesn't dwell in randomness but in conscious choice."

So today, though I work for five hours and my parents are coming for dinner, I chose to write this entry. I now choose to clean my dirty house a little while I ponder Nancy's request that I taste the "sweetness of unexpected kindness." I don't think myself unkind but I am a woman who likes her words simple (don't laugh), and clean and true, and her coffee with only a few granules of sugar... my mind flips to a quote from this summer by Mary Oliver - something to the effect - "as common as a field daisy... I don't want to end up, simply having visited this world."

Enough.

SHOPPING

A lot of women, probably more so than men, love shopping. I don't. I jokingly said to a friend that's it's strange I have the work I have when clothes have never been my passion. She said that's probably why I am good at my job. I don't have to own everything. And I have discovered that when I really love some item, when I want it - and surprisingly these items aren't many - they inevitably sell the moment they're in the store. I wish there were more sure bets. I tried this coat on, designed by a young Japanese designer who flys to Hawaii to have her fashion produced, and liked it well enough. Ethnic is in for summer but I probably won't order it as I can't imagine a particular customer coveting it.



So this is what I'm up to at the moment - pouring over photos and colour swatches and trying to decide what women want for summer and with every line, every item, trying to imagine a customer, usually more than one who will want the style. And then I have to choose colour. I drive myself crazy, trying to decide.

So the traveling to market is finished until the end of March. Thank goodness. I want to stay home for a while. This past weekend was spent in Seattle. Helen and I drove down and my mother tagged along. While the two of us when to the Trend Show, my mother shopped. Now's here a woman who loves shopping. She tells me she had a wonderful time. And I loved having her with us. My parents are in town until next Tuesday and I want to spend time with them but a lot of the orders I have to write, have to be faxed before this weekend so I feel a little frantic.



I am the sweet young child, sitting on my mother's lap. My older sister sits on my father's. During the trip, my mother said that nothing is or has been as important, to her, as her children. This surprised me for some reason. Not that I doubt my mother and father love their large brood, but that we were the most important thing in their lives. When I was growing up, they often seem distracted by politics - both were passionately involved at the municipal and federal level - and we their children often felt sorely neglected. But is this just the egotism of the child?

How do Rob and my children feel? A friend once said that I must do what I want without regard to my children's wants, as this is my life. They will have their own. And I set a better example catering to my own needs than catering to theirs and neglecting myself. This gives them permission to do the same as adults...

Oh dear, no more time to think on this. I must run, am taking a friend for a radiation treatment and then back to the orders and then, I think, my parents are coming for dinner.

I DIDN'T LEAVE MY HEART IN SAN FRANCISCO



Have you ever been so weary you want to laugh and cry at the same time? (Kate probably knows this feeling, trying to juggle one young son, a new baby daughter, and a writing career.)

I'm back from San Francisco and except for one sunny afternoon when Helen and I rented a car and drove to Sausalito to see one of our favourite clothing lines, San Francisco was all work and little pleasure.

But there were moments like this one that were fun:



Mario works for Neetu Malik who reps for Cynthia Ashby and both are wonderful, delightful, professional, and a pleasure to work with. Neetu is always more than generous with her time and advice and feels like a friend. Although a number of reps know I am a writer, she is the only one who has asked to read my writing. I sent her a selection.

Tonight, after a meeting, I stopped into visit my parents at my sister's house. My father mentioned my blog and also noted that I sometimes used unsavoury words. How strange. I didn't know he read me. I sent the link at the beginning of my public writing and since I heard no comment, thought he couldn't connect or whatever. I don't invite comment on this public journal because I don't want to worry about who is reading me. I don't want to edit myself for approval. I want to write from the heart, from the gut. I want to tell my truths, whatever they are. I don't want to sugar coat anything. I believe if we can tell the truth, or the truth as we see it at the moment, that our truths will change, that we will evolve, become more compassionate, even more intelligent human beings. Why is this so difficult?

My sister asked me, this evening, if I ever felt like a loser? I said yes. She said that it was foolish but that's the way she feels right now. I hugged her more than once. Useless to tell her that she was far from a loser. Her husband stepped in and said: "How can you feel like that? Just look around you." Her three lively children were playing games. And they are beautiful. But she is tired. I remember especially the time in France, when my children were little, and Rob was still working in Canada, when I was exhausted after a day of care-giving, and I would sit on the steps with a glass of wine. My neighbour, Monsieur Aurel, told me that the villagers thought I was courageous. I love Europe still because you are not reminded of your blessings when you are low. You are allowed to feel what you feel.

I am tired. And yet, I know that I have to keep on going. I have to prepare several orders from the market before I leave for Seattle on Friday, where I will look at more damn clothes, and then settle down and try to finalize all for summer in the store. It's a hell of a responsibility. Am I over dramatic, I ask myself. It's only a store, only clothes. Is it important what we decide to put on our bodies? How important?

Am I thinking crazy thoughts? A friend told me that, through my buying for the store, I feed the idea of beauty. I want things beautiful. Interesting, to me, that I keep returning to this theme.

Hopefully after this stint of work is finished, I will have time to relax, enjoy, write. My aim is to be more balanced.

Today, my eldest son will fly into the heavens and land in Vancouver this evening. Tomorrow morning, my parents will fly into the heavens and land in Vancouver mid-day. Tomorrow, early morning, Helen and I will fly into the heavens and alight in San Francisco for the summer market. I am afraid of flying though Rob tells me that more people are killed each year by donkeys than are killed in plane crashes. Even so, I say a prayer, though I'm not religious, when anyone I love or I fly.

Since I've returned home, I've spent nearly all of my energy on the store. I did get my raise so I should be happy. I am but it was a struggle. I would like to be calmer, more self-assured. I know that I work hard, that I am good at my job. I surprise myself on how much I know about retail and how clearly I think. I always examine a situation in terms of self-interest and ego. Am I doing this, saying that, just because I want to be right or because I believe that this is best for business? This pleases me. So why do I become so offended when someone who is not so thoughtful, queries me? I think that whoever should trust me, know that I come from an objective self. One of the nicest parts of my fight for recognition and a raise over the past few days, has been the support I have received from the women I work with. They tell me over and over how valuable I am ... but then I worry that I think too much of myself. Is this true? I roll my eyes. Of course, someone else could do the job as well or better than me, but it would take some time to train her or him.

So for now, I shall work and try to be calmer and more methodical about my work in the sense that I will try for a better balance. My ideal would be to spend a third of my waking hours doing retail and earning an income, a third writing, and a third enjoying life - time alone for walks and ruminating and time in the company of those I love, giving them my undivided attention.

Home Again

I am still too stunned and travel weary to think straight let alone know how I feel being at home after Paris though I admit that rushing hot water, heat that turns off and on with the turn of a dial, a big washer and dryer that doesn't take hours to complete cycles, and a house in the garden that's all my own, are heaven. I feel as if I'm in the lap of luxury though by North American standards, we lead a modest life.

Yes, I am more appreciative of the comforts of home, though since arriving back Wednesday evening, I have worked at the store three days - Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday...

At this point, I paused in this writing, feeling so exhausted, I couldn't put another sentence together and went back to bed. I slept over two hours and had the most intense dream about a Body/Soul Intensive that included men. The nice thing about afternoon dreams for me is that I remember them.

And so I have worked three days out of the four I've been home... and really I enjoy my work, enjoy the women, enjoy making a pay cheque; but buying for a store is difficult enough without being criticized for every item that doesn't sell and this is what the owner has been doing since I returned. On Sunday, I told him that I had had enough of his negativity. He stopped and laughed, said he would never understand women and clothing. I have asked verbally and today, in writing, for a substantial pay raise though, I feel, a fair one (being ridiculously underpaid) and I have stated clearly that if I don't get in, I'm leaving. Given my boss's present state of mind, I may find myself without a job. In some ways, this would be a relief: I give too much time and energy to the store.

And I do WANT to write my novel. While I was away, I read Susan my "Shitty First Draft" and she laughed and said it is good, very good. And if you know Susan, you know that she never praises unless she feels whatever is praiseworthy. I keep thinking of Sartre saying "We do not do what we want..." and I ask myself why? And am I a stubborn enough Irish woman to prove this intellectual wrong?

Oh dear, I feel a little lost at the moment. I do so want to be able to continue the routine I began in Paris - the roaming without a destination, the following of whims, the pausing to write in cafes, the following threads of thought. I want to teach myself self-discipline, glue myself to a chair, and write no matter the outcome.

And here my thoughts once again turn to beauty and Maisel's question "are you afraid of beauty?" Are you afraid of creating something that is not beautiful? Are you afraid? Always and forever.

And so these are my muddled thoughts. I think my New Year's resolution will be to do what I want.

Oh, before I sign off, I received an email yesterday from a woman, a writer, a lover of poetry, and I think her live journal well worth reading. Here's the link: "East and West at every turn...".

Paris au revoir,

For now. Rob says he would only come back for a week at a good hotel. I'll come back for longer and I think now, if
fortune allows, I'll come back alone. It's not that I don't love the man I'm with. It's not as if we tied each other down but
Paris, I think, is a city that one can lose oneself in thought for days and nights on end only if one is by oneself (though I wouldn't be against one week with Rob and we did have some spectacular moments together.)

I feel as if I have only begun to know Paris, have only begun to find a routine that works for me. But realistically, to live here, even simply, costs a bundle unless you're willing to work hard, like Gill, for a song but with a small apartment, room really, and some meals thrown in.

I don't have time this morning to continue about beauty as I said I would in my last entry except to mention the beauty I/we were with last night. My/our daughter. She towers over me. She walks straight and tall and is often thought to be much older than her nineteen years. She's a thinker, a nomad like me. She loves to laugh. She writes with an openness that steals my breath. She is tough and determined: she will fulfill her contract for a year as an au pair even though it is much harder work than she imagined.

I know I irk her at times, especially when I suggest how she can solve a problem or two. She tells me that she has all under control. And she does. She is more willing to stand up for herself and fight her battles than I have even been. This trip has
shown me that she is a grown up, that she no longer needs me for the day to day. But we can talk and I can mention a writer or poem and she gets it. We can spend hours in a lingerie department and ask each other's opinion. We can walk down the street arm in arm, or even holding hands and feel loved and supported. Oh dear, I feel like weeping. I am going to miss my blond beauty.

In my last entry I said that Paris has been a disappointment. I take that back. Paris is absoutely breathtakingly beautiful. I just have to look up at its massive, gold-gilded, iron balconied buildings. Or wander aimlessly to receive a history lesson: the other day I was walking down a street and passed a building that said Marcel Proust lived here from... to... (I can't remember the dates, great scholar that I am.) And I wandered further and found a park that a young architectural landscape artist designed over two hundred years ago with a pint-size pyramid, smaller-than-life coloseum and Greek columns. Yesterday I visted the Cemetary of Montparnasse and came across the gravestone of Sartre and de Beauvoir. She died six years after her long-time lover. How do they do that? Bury her on top of him? Or leave a space beside him?

I came across a museum that I didn't know existed and saw a Jean Louis David exhibit. The picture of Marat, dead in his bathtub remains with me though there were Rembrants and Botticellis and a number of works by other famous chaps.

Another day in the metro, a young man entered my car and started reciting poetry and then offered a manuscript of poems (a self-published bundle in his hand) for 12 euros. I would have bought one if I had understood and liked his poetry. And several times muscians have entered and played a guitar or accordian and if I like their music, I put an euro into their hat.

This whole trip has been a series of ups and downs and often I find myself moaning... Oh how I hate doing this. I will not let the negatives outweigh the positives. Brendan caught me once and said how can we complain when we are the envy of our friends. We are in Paris. (Reminds me of Marlene when one of us would stop mid-step and tell the other the same - We are in Paris - and we'd both grin.)

I love Paris most of all because it keeps me thinking... Maisel says somewhere in his little book that Paris is a city of ideas and that is where the writer should put his or her energy - not in visiting monuments and storing up a load of useless facts. "throw yourself into a week-long, month-long, or year-long exploration of some striking idea."

And so I carry around the little book I mentioned in an earlier blog, "On Beauty and Being Just." It continues to be dense and convoluted but every once in a while something appeals strongly to me like the idea that beauty, be it a picture, poem, or person, brings us alive. Reminds me of: "Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn/ anything or anyone that does not bring you alive/ is too small for you." (David Whyte) There is also the notion by Scarry, the author, that beauty equates to fairness - its double meaning - and fairness to justice.

Usually, at least once a day, I take myself to a cafe, order a cafe creme, and sit and read and write notes in my journal. Depending on my mood, I read Scarry or Maisel. One day I am reading Maisel and he mentions beauty! And I am taken by this particular quote: "Beauty puts reality in stark contrast and sets the bar very high. If you are not writing, it is therefore important to ask yourself the question: Am I afraid of beauty?"

to be continued...

I wrote this entry early morning in a small cafe:

I am in a state of nerves, the same state that I have been in since we got off the subway at Chateau Rouge with its noise and crowds and litter - I don't feel safe - and head to find our rented apartment.

Rob finds the street, the entrance, and we look at each other. We are both hoping what lies beyond the second door is better than the scene before us. The person who is supposed to meet us, give us keys, and show us the apartment is not there. We wait fifteen minutes and I leave Rob to find a phone and call the agent. I get an answering machine and leave a message before returning to the dismal doorway. I guard the luggage while Rob goes to find sandwiches and make another call to agent. He is more successful. She will arrive within the hour.

We stand at the door munching sandwiches waiting. A born-again-Christian Frenchman leaves and questions us. "This happened several months ago," he tells us, before launching into a monologue about the sad state of the world.

The agent finally arrives and shows us through the doors, across a litter-filled courtyard, up five flights of stairs, and opens the door. The apartment is clean, Ikea furnished, but miniscule: there was supposed to be a separate bedroom but the bed is tucked into an alcove with sliding rice-paper doors. The bathroom is so small that one has to manoeuvre around the shower base (with mildewed curtain) to reach the toilet.

Brendan and Gill are not so disenchanted. In fact, Gill would love to have an apartment this size.

We stay two nights, two sleepless nights, and know that we have to leave, that we can not live in such restricted space even for a week. I email the owner in Australia and tell her that we aren't comfortable, that her advertisement was misleading. No response.

We move to a hotel near Gill while we wait to hear from the landlord. She finally responds and offers us less than a third of our money back. She also said that her advertisement didn't say "seperate bedroom" (spelled wrong). I cut and paste the sentence from her ad and request more money. (I don't want to antagonize her because something is better than nothing so I don't include pictures Rob took of entrance and courtyard.) She is sending a cheque to our home address.

In the meanwhile, I telephone about another apartment. The French woman says that we can inspect it the next day (yesterday) that her daughter, who is a student in Paris, is staying there but can stay at her boyfriend's place. Rob and I arrive at the appointed time and are greeted by Anais (a sweet young woman who resembles our niece Sarah) and she shows us the space. The living room is larger than the other apartment. There is a good size bedroom, full bathroom, and gourmet kitchen. It feels like a home. The building is old but elegant French and there is a lift. Across the street is a small park. We agree to take it the next day for the last week of our holiday.

I hate to say it but Paris has been a disappointment. I know my view is coloured by the robbery and the apartment problem but still, it is so damn expensive and there are too many damn tourists. Perhaps my mood will improve tomorrow when we are finally settled.

During the day yesterday, before the apartment appointment, I walked along the Seine, stared at houseboats that reminded me of Anais Nin's stories about living on the river. I kept walking with my despair bound in a tight little knot in my stomach. I found myself across the river from the Grand Palais. I paused. My first thought was to keep walking but I forced myself to cross the river, to go to the museum. I had been reading Maisel earlier and a quote from Sartre stuck in my mind: "We do not do what we want, and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact." I had wanted to see the "Melancholia" exhibit at the palace since I arrived and more, I wanted to prove Sartre wrong. And what could be better for wallowing than viewing others' despair.

The museum is closed Tuesday. I was near the Champs Elysee so I walked that broad avenue that reeks of affluence, stopping for a meal of moules et frites, and another chapter of Maisel.

Every where I go, I peer in hair salon windows, still wanting my sassy French haircut. I have decided that I when I find a place where I like the haircuts of the hair cutters, I will make an appointment.

Happy New Year, every one. May we all have a wonderful 2006. May we be healthy and happy, wealthy and wise.

I know I will be wiser. I won't let the little things that bother me slip by. I will fight my insecurities. I will vocalize my discomforts. And I will dance and sing my praises and pleasures.

On New Year's Eve, we moved apartments - out of the swanky 16th arrondisement to the more folksy 18th. Don't be deceived by the closeness in numbers. The two areas are very different. And I might feel more comfortable in the 18th if it weren't for several problems.

But first let me mention New Year's Eve. After a spicey dinner prepared by our sweet daughter, Rob and I climbed the steps and hill to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur. The streets were crowded and the restaurants and bars full. Rob stopped for a rum crepe from a small stand before we followed the crowd to the church. The hills in front of it were full of people gazing toward the city. We found a spot and gazed too, not knowing what we were looking or waiting for. Most people had glasses and bottles of champagne. Alas we didn't bring ours. Numerous young women in tiny little glittery tops and bare arms wandered in the cold cold air, high on happiness and alcohol. Midnight struck. The crowd cheered. The champagne bottles blew their corks. And everywhere couples hugged and kissed. And then the fireworks began - shooting stars of coloured lights filled the sky. I felt happy. Rob and I walked down the hill, arm in arm, went back to the small apartment and opened our champagne and toasted the new year.

On New Years day, Rob and I went to a small brasserie and had a perfect brunch. We took the metro to the Louvre but alas it was closed. We walked to the George Pompidou and explored the exhibit called "The Big Bang" - that represents, to my mind, the major shifts in art in the art world. One of the first rooms we walked in, for instance, featured several of Picasso's cubist works. Another room had a number of paintings by the Abstract Expressionists and Surrealists, such as Jackson Pollack, Ellsworth Kelly and Kadinsky. And then there many rooms filled with the incomprehensible to me - florescent light bulbs, vertically placed on a back board (haven't a clue about its meaning but being a good student of art history I know that, at this point, I should pull out my history books to find out what was happening and read up on the artist, etc. etc. but I am not curious enough. And then there were rooms about sexuality that should have intrigued me but were more repulsive than erotic. A nude couple, for instance, mannequins complete with pubic hair, stood gazing at each other but not with looks of love or lust but with anger, perhaps even hatred. I suppose the installation is making me think...

Afterwards we wandered around the Marais, ate Italian ice-cream, stayed out as long as possible before heading back to our pocket-size apartment... don't think I want to get into my list of complains. I will say only that I will never never ever again rent an apartment from the internet unless someone I know recommends it.

There's something about the French - a perfectionism - that makes me feel inadequate. My nails are often chipped and dirty. My hair is messy. I seldom wear makeup. And everyone calls me Madame. I know it is a courtesy but it makes me feel old.

Rob is wiser. He took advantage of the perfectionism. He went to the most famous barber in the city to have his beard trimmed. The dapper little man sculptured his facial hair with a straight razor. It is perfect, every hair cut exactly the same length, close to his face. I am impressed. I would love to have my hair cut very French, very sassy, but I am shy and a little at a loss about where to go for the transformation as the last time I did this I paid too much and was disappointed. (Every time I see a hair salon, I peek in the window and observe.)

But most of time I forget that I am not perfectly coiffured and manicured: I just have to look up a building - say, the National Assembly - or down a long treed avenue and I feel a shiver of pleasure. This is why I'm here.

On the metro, at a cafe, on a park bench, wherever I stop to breathe - I read snippets of Maisel and so far he hasn't said anything new but I like his writing and focus on Paris. I followed one of his suggestions yesterday to the D'Orsay. Get there early, he said. Check out the main floor. Look at this Manet and write some. Go to the top, admire a Van Gogh and Gauguin - no matter that they didn't like each other - and write some more. Obviously Maisel didn't visit Christmas holiday week. When I arrived, the lineup went round the building so I went to a nearby cafe, thinking that once the museum opened, the crowd would disappear. No such luck. When I returned, the line was longer. And even though snow was falling, my feet and hands cold, and I have little patience for queues, I decided to wait.

Forty minutes later, I was inside. I wandered down some steps to a statue of Sappho, figure reclining, eyes downcast - the poet in angst, through a room of Millets - country folk in fields, to the Courbets. I like this painter, one of the first Realists. One painting, "Origin of the World," a woman, minus head, legs spread, continues to intrigue me for many reasons. (It is so unlike all his other work.)

I did dutifully go to the top floor but there were two many people gawking at the Van Goghs and Gauguins, so I ignored these mad men, and found myself in a less crowded room with Renoir. I love his painting of poppies - so light and lovely. But I find his work, for the most part, a little too sweet. But this time, I noticed, in several lesser known works, that the flesh of many of his female figures was unnaturally red... but the jostling and rudeness of the crowd was getting to me so I left to meet Gill.

I have decided to wait till next week when the children are back in school and most of the damn tourists have left (hopefully)
to visit other museums.

The last few days Gill and I have walked so many streets. She is showing me all the little boutiques she thinks I'll like - good research for the store and my next buying trip. And Rob and Brendan take off on their own, exploring different areas. Although all our feet are tired, we are stimulated and happy except we're getting poor quick - this is an outrageously expensive city to visit.

Mistletoe, Wood Stove, and Moi

CHRISTMAS IN PARIS


Mistletoe, Wood Stove, and Moi
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

We might have spent Christmas in the south of France beside this wood-burning stove but instead, we took an overnight train to Paris and found ourselves in a warm, spacious, modern Paris apartment thanks to the generosity of Gill's employers.

Christmas day was lovely. Small gifts of chocolate, guide books, jewelery (designed by Gill) and a breakfast of pastries and then a walk through Luxembourg Gardens. I show here a picture of me in the gardens, vain creature that I am, because it is the only one in which I have a big smile and don't like an old bag.


In the evening we went to an old-world French restaurant, founded sometime in the 1600s, where Voltaire, Rosseau, Benjamin Franklin used to dine. The food was amazing. The company the best. It would have been perfect if Mike had been with us.

Boxing Day, we all had had enough of family togetherness and went our separate ways. I caught the metro to Galleries Lafayette hoping there would be an enormous sale. No luck. It was open and mad with shoppers but their winter sale doesn't start till January (after I leave, damn it.) So I left and wandered down streets until I came to the Tuileries Gardens, changed course and headed toward the Louvre. Too many people. I found a little cafe where I read my novel and ate a salad; and continued to walk along the river until I came across a WH Smith bookstore - I kid you not - and there spent a good hour or more. I bought three books.

The most extravagant is called "A Writer's Paris: a guided journey for the creative soul" by Eric Maisel. In the introduction he says: "To travel to Paris for two weeks or six months and to actually write during this time is to change your relationship to your writing." I don't intend to do anything foolish, like devote myself to writing every minute of the day but I do intend to read a bundle, journal, and walk.

LEAVING ON A MIDNIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS

We're packing our bags, cleaning, and getting ready for Paris. I thought I wasn't, for the first time, sad about leaving our village but this morning, when I looked over the valley hidden in a soft mist, the ground and trees covered in a thick frost that looked more like snow, I wondered at my heartlessness. It is so magnificent, this fertile wine country, even when frozen.

Still, on Christmas Eve day, we will be in Paris and in a warm apartment. I want to sing. And though it won't be like any Christmas we've ever spent, I'm looking forward to a long stretch in my favourite city (with my valuables worn in a secret pocket, inside my coat.)

I'm throwing on a few more pictures from Christmas past. We're all sad that Mike won't be with us. He's hibernating in the small village of Cobourg, Ontario, near my parents, with Mackenzie, his love.






(This year only Mike
took me seriously when
I asked for a photo with
the white-bearded chap.)

CHRISTMAS OVER THE YEARS

I do love Christmas or aspects of it - the mistletoe and holly, the lights, the music, the loving messages from friends, the food, and oh yes, the clinking of glasses... we shall celebrate with sparkling wine from Chateau Mayragues tonight in Susan and David's warm house. Susan's son, Adam and his two boys have just arrived for Christmas. Ruth is coming over with her viola so she and David, on his cello, can play Christmas carols. How lovely. Tomorrow evening at one minute past midnight, Rob, Bren, Gill, and I are taking the overnight train to Paris - 1st Class - there are times and this is one of them, that decadence is called for.

This year, we are finding it a little difficult to be jolly, to get in the Christmas spirit, because we're too damn cold but still I shouldn't complain: it is beautiful here in the south of France. Yesterday, Rob, Gill, and I went to Toulouse, ate lunch at our favourite quiche place, and then separated to work our way through the crowds to find small gifts for neighbours and each other. I stopped in Place de la Capitole to watch a young man, pretend to be a sculpture, until a child ran up to him and tossed a euro or two into his purse. Then he came to life, played a harmonica and juggled five white balls for a minute or two before returning to his static pose, waiting for the next toss of coins.

The children made me think of Kate who became a mama for the second time on Saturday. She gave birth to a little girl, Mary Christina - a millionaire's family, says Rob. Gill and I danced around the livingroom in celebration.

Rob and I had four Christmas' as parents of an only child before our second son arrived.





And then another four years, until Gill joined the family. She wasn't impressed that first Christmas with the man with the white beard.



What can I say? I am finding it difficult to write these days. This morning, I felt sad reading Gill's blog, thinking of her aching, wanting warm arms, while I am within reach. I am too self-absorbed - a poor excuse for a mother, I thought for a moment or two - but I know, really I do, that I cannot (could I ever?) know when my child is unhappy and needs to be held. When I told her that her entry made me sad, she apologized. I asked her not to apologize. I would prefer, she writes what she feels.

But my mood these days is not unlike hers. That damn robbery in Paris still haunts me. If only, if only... I think at least twice a day but the crime did lead me to tell Brendan and Rob that I smoke. I couldn't stand the idea of being sneaky and underhanded, like the shit that stole my personal property.

Speaking of shit, I'm been reading some pretty tacky novels lately but the other day, I grabbed a book from the shelf and I have no idea where it came from. It's called "On Beauty: and being just." I thought it looked like a good car read so tucked it in my bag when we went to the castle for lunch with Susan and David. I wasn't immediately impressed but this morning, something in Gill's blog - perhaps "life isn't always kind" - reminded me of a passage in the book and I've searched until I found it:

"Proust, for example, says we make a mistake when we talk disparagingly or discouragingly about 'life' because by using this general term, 'life,' we have already excluded before the fact all beauty and happiness, which take place only in the particular: 'we believed we were taking happiness and beauty into account, whereas in fact we left them out and replaced them by syntheses in which there is not a single atom of either.'

Here's a picture of a particular moment - all the food and wine I could consume, with folks I love, in a fairy tale castle.

The Exotic South of France



For some reason, it sounds exotic: "Oh yes, we're spending Christmas in Paris, after spending several weeks in our home in the south." But the reality is far from it. This is an exceptionally cold year and, as my neighbour so bluntly said (in French) "your house is a house of summer." There's no central heating and though we have three electric heaters, we can only run two at a time. We depend on our two wood-burning stoves for warmth. But warmth can only be guaranteed (and only in two rooms) if there is enough wood. Brendan ran out before we arrived and started buying sawdust logs. A few days ago, we bought 75 more and we're going through them too quickly.

A man called yesterday and told me in French that he would arrive "vendredi entre onze heures et midi." I understood enough to know that he's coming Friday between eleven and twelve, but I did not understand whether he is coming to clean the chimneys or deliver wood. I hope he is the wood man but the other would be fine too. We do need the chimneys cleaned. Our former tenants were slack and didn't have them cleaned before they moved and now, if we have a house fire, our insurance won't cover it.

In some ways, I feel as if I'm still working. I have spent countless hours on the internet, to a number of people, at the store, and also to several of our vendors. Though sorting out a few problems has taken much thought and energy, I think my job, in the future, will be less frustrating. I have also spend some time dealing with our home and business. Now I want to relax and enjoy.

And there have been moments of pleasure. Brendan and I spent a morning in Toulouse before meeting Rob at train station. We visited Albi together and enjoyed elegant food in an elegant cafe. (I was surprised and impressed to find that Bren ordered a dish and had no idea what he ordered.)

And we have been to market in Gaillac where Rob and I both bought a pair of slippers from a man off a trailor for 15 euros. Now, isn't that too sweet?

And one of our finest moments was driving through the countryside - it is as lovely in winter as it is summer and though I still prefer summer, there is something magical about the near frozen landscape - it's almost like looking at a black and white photograph - and it was such fun leading Rob to Chateau de Maraques where the owner photographed us amid his barrels and poured us a taste of sparkling wine and several reds. We bought 3 of each, nine bottles total, for all our celebrations over the next few weeks; and if there is any left we will carry a few bottles back to Vancouver.



When I see photographs of myself and Rob (or most people) I am shocked at my size. I don't feel little. (Note my fancy
beret that I bought in a hat shop in Albi.)

So time passes... on Saturday, my dear Gill arrives; and we're all looking forward to her presence and her cooking. Now, if only Michael could fly across and meet us in Paris, our family would feel complete.

Oh, it has been too difficult to write. I have been consumed with anger. Mostly towards myself. Who in their right mind would carry a wallet full of money and credit cards in Paris?

And then I am struck with a cold that does not allow me to think clearly, that keeps me awake at night. I cough and rasp. I am a fountain. I am Rudolph.

And then I hear from the store. They are playing with changing my idea for the finale of the Advent Calendar. I am struck with anger at their stupidity. I can't sleep. I think all is ridiculous. Especially me. Why am I doing a job where I am not sufficiently rewarded or appreciated? I am about to quit, to walk away.

I am Atlas (or so I imagine.)

I have just read "Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles" by Jeanette Winterson and the one paragraph that grips me reads as follows:

"The ancients believed in Fate because they recognized how hard it is for anyone to change anything. The pull of past and future is so strong that the present is crushed by it. We lie helpless in the force of patterns inherited and patterns re-enacted by our own behaviour. The burden is intolerable."

And then amid all the heaviness are Gill, Brendan, and Rob. And though I can't quite escape my weight, these three, in their individual ways, help me to see my worth more clearly, to laugh at myself, to become lighter.

What can I say? I am in Paris, my beloved Paris and I am angry. I had four hours sleep after more than 35 awake and still my mind and body won't let me slip away and dream.

I stepped from the Roissybus, in front of the magnicent Opera building and within five minutes my wallet was gone - all my credit cards, debit cards, and cash. And to add to my anger, I was carrying more cash than I usually do. But I didn't know immediately that the young woman who bumped against me, or rather my knapsack on my back had, in an instance, unzipped my bag and taken my fat little wallet.

I'm glad I didn't know in the beginning because I wandered the street and found Cafe de la Paix where I was to meet Gill. I looked in the door and there she was - how confident, beautiful she looks, I thought, as she talked to the bartender. I went in and watched her for a minute. Gigi, I said. Gigi. Gigi. She continued talking to the Irish man (ah yes, they have infiltrated Paris)
and finally she heard me, saw me, and leaped up and gave me a big hug. She had a drink. I had a glass of wine. And we talked and laughed and then I reached in my bag to pay for the drinks and no wallet. I panicked, searched all my bags but it was really and truly gone. And every since I have been talking to myself, asking why, why, why, why did you take so much cash (300 euros), why did you carry all your visas... and so on and so on. But the good news was that I didn't put the bank draft I brought for our French bank account in my wallet which I usually do.

I did call Brendan and Rob and the store who had my numbers and all is cancelled (though the thief, I think, had already spent 3000. And I have to try to get a driver's license today for the car I am supposed to rent Monday. And Visa wants a police report so I will do that today too, after I try to access funds from our French account.

There is nothing I can do beyond these things and after I do them, I want to forget and enjoy this wonderful city with my daughter.

Years ago

Years ago
Originally uploaded by Barbara Y.

I've not much time. Today is the big event at the store and I want it perfect, elegant, and delicious, in true Leslie spirit. I have hired a young harpist to play. She is a student of the woman who played at Leslie's bedside, the night before she died. I am thinking it will add a heavenly touch to the fete.

Helen and I are preparing food soon. I must run to the store within the half hour for the ingredients.

And my head is spinning also about the departure tomorrow into the skies, moving closer and closer to the wee girl in the photograph.

Au revoir for now. I shall write again from Paris.