There was a sheen on the rooftops as I opened the shutters. A finger-snap click of cold on my cheeks from the air. Something had shifted towards Christmas, or as close as a Christmas postcard as we tend to find in Provence.
Out with the dogs, Kipling turned and dashed through the grasses, frozen overnight, with manic energy. The shadows tinged blue, broken underfoot. My laughter burst into wispy trails. I felt my lungs expand, bright, as the sun cut through the fog draped on the tops of the mountain on the other side of the Rhône, where I knew that it would be dipping down into the prehistoric graves dug deep into the rock of St. Roman. Old and new, light and darkness blending then, as it does, until the frost began to melt. So I doubled back to get my camera, as I do, exchanging the lenses to my 55 macro so that I could lean in closer.
Looking, I forget where I am. I know that doesn’t really make literal sense and that is why I find it intoxicating. Just a little bit overwhelmed by beauty, that kindred swoon. What a gift it is when our heart beats so hard that the pulse dances in our wrists. For whatever reason.
This is my beribboned box, quite possibly the only that I will open.
It appears that this will be my Year Without a Santa Claus, a holiday as in discordance with the past as all of the 2016 that has come before it.
I know that I am not alone in bubbling up questions of why and how this season. What constitutes full and meaning. Maybe not the only one who is not listening to carols as they are a bit too memory laden this go ’round. Because it has been a confusing time for so many as the moon will tell you if you listen.
Pourtant, I am certain that we are all still somehow searching with childlike impatience, as there are so many presents to enjoy. It may not be typical. And there might not be a tree. But they are most certainly there.
I leaned in. The crystal shards and liquid diamonds reflected hope, dotted and strewn. I balance in the midst of them with crackling knees that are wet in the dew, in good health; being creative, the breath that continues to breathe me. More than a bit lost still, yes, admittedly, but determined. I will find my way. Purpose will come but how lucky that I love and am loved. And that is as good as any traditional mistletoe kiss. This is me, condensed.
Lifting my head, I had to squint from the switch of focus, a line extending from the dance of the minuscule outwards to the far distance. Two forms are engulfed in the last of the golden mist. They are so far on the horizon as to already be in 2017. The corner of my lips lifted slightly as I looked forward to the unknown, in and beyond what the next 24 hours might hold.
With much Love and Gratitude to you for your kindness and continued support throughout 2016.
You are still here. Merci avec tout coeur,
H.
Thank you for the beautiful photos – an inspiring gift. I hope 2017 will be a wonderful year for you.
Even so, may you find moments that are merry and bright. Thank you for the gifts of your words and photos.
Warmest wishes.
You captured the winter jewels in words and photos wonderfully.
Merry Christmas. Joyful New Year.
Despite the uncertianty, I love the hopefulness of this post. Happy New Year, dear Heather.
Heather, Etsy is an excellent idea! Calanders and cards and more!
Indeed there was a Santa Claus!
Heather,
Happy holidays and a very Merry Christmas to you my friend. I hope that you are well! You ahem been in my thoughts and prayers and I have wondered how you were, but my travels to Argentina and preparing for the holidays have prohibited me from sending you a note.
TAKE CARE of YOURSELF first and foremost! I have been exactly where you are now, trust me, you will survive and you will be a different and better version of ourself no matter what happens.
Sending you a hug and hoping that the magic, beauty and love of Christmas does visit you in Provence.
xo Elizabeth
Hello, Heather writes and photographs a beautiful blog. Lately there have been a few changes in her life, and she is finding and forging a new path after an accident. Do stay and enjoy her beautiful Provence, and prose. Not only does she share her beautiful photos but her beautiful life.
Merry Christmas Heather. I usually only "lurk" being way much older than other bloggers……… I love your photographs, your column and your dogs. Dinah Washington was a most beautiful singer, hard to top her. I admit I had a few weepy moments. I do love your columns, thank you.
hello..I'm a new reader, looking for blogs about living in France, and French life in general. I have read back into your archives a bit, but I cannot figure out what you are writing about… writing with so much innuendo, this must be a closed readership for a few friends "in the know"? Very lofty,complicated prose with hidden meanings unless having exclusive knowledge. Oh well.