. . . the quiet of Winter . . .

I am sitting at my desk in my basement studio, which opens out to our backyard. I can see the dead rose bushes, still vining across the trellis, the brown patches of herbs; lemon balm, mint, sage, rosemary. The little red balls of the rose hips adorn the wild rose bushes, and it gives a holiday charm to the mostly dead brown sticks.

The compost pile is covered in white, remnants of the foot of unseasonable snow that fell a week ago. You never know here in Colorado, what the mountains will bring - and a November blizzard is not unheard of.

I am taking time to notice. Notice the sky when I walk. Notice the magnificent maple tree next to our hot tub when I soak. Notice the shadows it makes across the dry grass. I try to connect to the plants in our yard, not just as their caretaker, but as beings who have a say in this world. My herbs give me such joy, and I try to thank them with a little ritualistic walk around the yard several times a day. 

Yesterday a friend asked me if I was making art. "No" was my answer.  Are you writing in your journal?  "No."

My creativity lately has seemed dormant, but really it has not. I have been knitting, cooking, cleaning. I have been teaching every morning from 3-6 AM, English to Chinese students who sit at their desks on the other side of the world. I made a bunch of paper snowflakes to decorate my teaching space, this is as arty as I have been this last month. (photo to follow. . . . )

I also have been making soap for holiday presents, writing cards and wrapping things in pretty paper and ribbon.

And I have been resting. The amazing tiredness that sends me napping, and shortens my walks, worries me, but I can't think of a reason for it, so I am trying to honor what my body wants. Sometimes it wants carbs and sugar, and I try to curb that in, but truthfully lately, I've been enjoying chocolate and bagels. (gluten free!)  I am hoping once 2020 starts I can find the motivation to eat healthier, and less.

and you, dear reader? Anyone who is still here? How are you?

. . . France . . .

Empty seat next to me on the plane to France, blessing.
Heat wave, hotel, find the TGV, packed in like sardines, sweat.
Arriving by bus to Aix, Mount St. Victoire peeks at me from the bus terminal like an old friend.
Villa in the sun.
hot.
hot.
hot.
My over-indulged American self will be without A/C in the hottest month ever recorded in France!
Hike with the dog in the woods.
Hike to get groceries.
Hike to catch the bus.
Hike into town to wander the streets I loved and knew 3 decades ago.
Hike to meet my glorious neice from Nice, two days of non-stop catching up with some good wine and food.  Bliss.
Lay in bed in a pool of sweat.
Sweat more.
Shower often, but mostly sweat.

Teaching from the Villa works! Hallelujah!

Dear 90 year old upstairs neighbor comes to chat each day. I enjoy hearing about her life immensely and she compliments my French. VICTORY!

Family I lived with 35 years ago comes to have carefully orchestrated lunch that I spend the week planning. (trips to seafood guy, trips to bakery, trips to wine shop, trips to market, trips to cheese guy.)  Lunch was exhausting, heat-searing temperatures, but conversation lively and successful.

Owners return, and I am off to the next gig!

NANTES - 105 degrees, hottest day in history. Landlord's helper takes my suitcase, buys me a fan, gets me set. I could kiss him!

Teaching is fine, cat is adorable, apartment is cozy, but HOT HOT HOT.

Food.
Wandering medieval streets filled with tourists, cafes, food, restaurants, shops, more food, cafes, some medieval buildings, a cathedral, a fortress, gardens, food!

I am in deep danger when I realize the croissant stand not 10 feet from the front door to my building sells bags of freshly baked croissants 6 for 2 euros 50.  Croissants become my main food source. I triumphantly prove that I am not allergic to Wheat, I am only allergic to American Wheat which is soaked in glysophate, a chemical outlawed in France.
I gorge on croissants.
Heavenly buttery wheaty croissants.

Several lovely visits with locals - my landlady has me for an apero and I hold my own in French for the 3 hour conversation!
GO ME.
Lunch with a Japanese woman married to a French man, so many things to talk about, I love hearing about her bi-cultural life. A drink with the "fixer" Hamish who has taken good care of me, outrageous life he has lived.

Riot police.
A riot.
"Where is Steve" banners plastered all over town explain the Nantoises anger at a young man knocked in to the river at a music festival where he has drown.
Tear gas.
People running and screaming.
My eyes and throat burn.
A cloth to the mouth and I run back to my apartment, which is unfortunately in the direction of the violence, since it is in the ancient, pedestrian part of old Nantes.
Safe in the apartment, too full from croissants, tired of the heat, I check prices to fly home early, via New Jersey, so I can see the new grandbaby born two weeks ago, prematurely.

YES, I score an affordable ticket through Rome.
I leave in a few days.
I frantically rearrange my teaching schedule so I won't get fired, ask a few parents to cancel classes, and start packing.

One more bag of croissants to remember my lovely time in France.
and I head home.

Empty seat next to me on the plane home to the States. Blessing.

Hello Magic Muse, I have missed you!

I took my mom to see the movie "Yesterday." (Fantastic, sweet movie, go see it) and when we got home we watched Ron Howard's documentary "Eight Days a Week" about the Beatle's touring years. (Fabulous movie.) In both movies, the stress on creativity was shown, weather famous and successful or not, our creative process can really be interrupted by life.

In my case, I am coming out of the biggest life changing event I have ever faced. I have always needed creative work, I drew and drew as a kid, in high school I took ballet and dance, guitar lessons, and painted and drew. As an art major in college, I was in creative heaven as painting became my actual academic work. Then, feeling the need to earn a living, I got a second undergrad and then a graduate degree in architecture. But while writing my architecture thesis, I actually started writing a novel on the side, I simply needed the creative outlet to stay sane! (That should have been a clue about my upcoming aborted architecture career. . . )

Through decades of jobs and kids, I always had sketchbooks and visual journals nearby. When we moved to Colorado, I plunged into painting, had some some shows, and 3 years ago published a book about whales illustrated with my collage art, which I think is the best work I've ever done. I took a job teaching English 4-8 AM on line, which gave me my days free for art.

Then, the accident. My daughter was in a life threatening car accident. In the hospital for 7 weeks, then the long process of healing from a traumatic brain injury. BOOM, our lives were different. I had to keep the teaching job (medical bills!!!) But something happened to my creativity. It took some time off. My psyche was busy reevaluating everything in life. They always talk about near death experiences rewriting our lives, this one did for me. I just couldn't or wouldn't or didn't, I don't know which, paint or draw or do any creative work. Even my visual journal lay dormant.

Then thinking about these two movies we watched, although not at all about how tragedy interrupts creativity, had a glimpse of where I finally am now in my creative life. Both showed that life events can block us. I am happy to say I am taking a 6 weeks reboot to kickstart my creativity. My daughter is fine, and after 20 months I am able to step back and let her live her life independently again.

In a week I am leaving for 2 dog and cat sitting jobs in FRANCE! Two weeks in the South in Aix and four weeks in Brittany in Nantes. I still will be teaching online there (gotta pay those bills) but it is a chance to reconnect with drawing and painting (or whatever flows.) That little fat cardinal watercolor up there happened last week, I finally picked up my paints, and out he came. Then a friend (love you, Shell) told me she had been seeing cardinals lately and she loved it. Yes, that is the spark I needed to light the fire. That is how art makes connections and gives us meaning. The little cardinal showed me again the joy of creating something that speaks to others we love.

So France, here I come! I will be inviting the creative muse back into my life. The Universe, it turns out, does give us what we need. Trauma can move us forward, although certainly not fun or anything we seek out. I am so filled with gratitude for the outpouring of love, the evidence of the power of prayer and shamanism through the last year and a half, and I understand now that fallow times only make the fields more fertile.

France, HERE I COME!

. . . pages from journals past . . .