In a forest. . . .

More words from my journal.

May 4

Writing is very often difficult when we think nothing seems to come. Yet a writer, any artist who is true, can only try to frame what arises, take the the gems and the crap that falls into your hands and treat it for what it is before it passes on to something else.

I am in a pine forest in the Alpilles just south of Saint-Rémy, eating lunch between English lessons. Normally, that is to say up till about 2 months ago, I would be at La Grosse Galine with my ex-boyfriend's family I had tried to adopt, sharing lunch and circular conversation. I had hoped that even after the "I can't be your boyfriend anymore" talk that I would be able to continue sharing the Monday lunch hours with them while he was away at work. For whatever reason, maybe I was now a freeloader, someone felt awkward, I cannot say, but the last time I was there, A. in her delightful and well brought up manner uninvited me back for the next week's lunch. So subtly did she say it, insisting on forwarding my mail to Avignon because "it's so much more convenient for you," then inviting me to return at some unspecified future occasion, that only after I had returned to work did I realize I was not to return without explicit instructions to do so.

I at once admired her skillful coercion and detestd her for it. Betrayed! I thought, Do I not exist outside of the relationship I shared with their son and brother!? The short answer is yes, but to be fair to my adversaries, I should qualify what I have said.

I now know that it was a show of refined manners, not coercion, to ask me to kindly see the door. I cannot presume to be welcome in their home today just because I was yesterday. Whether knowingly or not, A. did me a favor, handing me two hours of every Monday to follow and saying, "Take back your life, go be yourself." Truthfully, I was never myself in their home. Being an individual who is probably quite far from self-actualized liberation, the surroundings of my environment play enormously on my spirit, pushing and pulling me. Where I had once stood a straight and true tree in a forest of my peers, the winds of this new climate started to bend me over. I sought not the light of truth or sustenance above my own head, but only to evade the gusting new windI encountered, bending down to lessen its force and hopefully I would not fracture. Now I feel freer, I have been handed back to myself and what a lovely chance I have to sit in the woods among the pine trees, themselves bent as they protect me from that same Mistral, whispering to each other, anicca, anicca, this too shall pass, this dance of wind will blow away and we will again stretch our limbs as we seek the sun above with clarity and strength as the old think trunks have learned to do.

Feeling pretty good about myself and the world, I gathered my things and went back down to the school to finish up my work. As I motored north to Avignon the wind pushed back determinedly, yet I made it home where I emptied my pockets, finding that my wallet had taken this chance to test the strength of my serenity by leaving my pocket unannounced. I scanned the road all the way back to Saint-Rémy where the boulanger had picked it up in front of her shop after I left, the Mistral scattering fifteen euros to the wind, what lucky person caught it? I was so thankful to have gained the time back I might have spent canceling credit cards and getting replacements that I celebrated with a pain au chocolat. Light hearted and relieved, my scooter chose this moment to ask me to slow down by refusing to go past half throttle. In the face of all these lemons I am rethinking my trip to Italy. New plan, walking. It took Julia sending four rapidfire emails to convince herself that it is indeed an excellent adventure. I think I will call this Rome-Avignon journey "The Schism Trail". Little to carry, no scooter to break, lots of time to savor. Life gives you lemons, you make limoncello.