Author: Heather Robinson

The optimists garden

I walked out to the garden the other day, just because I missed it so. As I rounded the corner, I was surprised to find it empty. No Francis 1 (who is seriously the spitting image of the late French actor Fernandel) grinning at me crookedly or Francis 2 herding his Irish setter away from the fallen apples, no Olivier hammering away to enforce his raised beds or Clément adjusting his round glasses on his nose while giving me a quick nod.

Rather it was just the plants and the earth; all were sleeping. I felt as if I should tiptoe across the spongy grass for fear of disturbing all that lay still and quiet. The lowering clouds overhead further dulled the sound until it felt as if I were wading into a sea lined in feutre. When I arrived at our plot, I immediately noticed that our gate, which had already been barely hanging together, had given up trying and had sighed its slats down to the ground. No weeds perked up peskily through the layers of compost covered earth. I checked our new plot as well and it too was a blanket swept clean yet devoid of color. I could not even hear the birds sing – they always do, it is a joyful cacophony – and I wondered if I had somehow slipped into a ghostly dimension of someone else’s garden.

But here is where I write: “And then the sun came out.”

And then the sun came out, sneaking behind the gray, pushing it aside and spilling down all around me. I shook my head, giggling for no one, because there it was again that message that has been chasing me around ceaselessly*: “perspective, perspective, perspective.”

For that self-same garden (yes, I realize that for most people there is not really a self there but just ask the Balinese and see what they say) was instantly transformed into the realm of the beautiful. The tiniest details started fighting for my attention, “Over here,” “Look at me!” You know how they do. And I noticed that quite a lot of preparation for what was to come had taken place since my last visit. Save for the plot across from ours (whose young owners had their first baby at the end of the summer and so have other things on their minds), each garden had been cleared and primed. Some – notably those of the gents mentioned above – were still producing carefully chosen winter produce that the sun’s rays would light up with a spotlight ta-dah.

Unlike our sloppy pile of boards, several new gates had been built – one to resemble the door of a village house with a mail slot and a note asking “No ads please”, so eco-friendly, and another – well, this one stopped me in my tracks – that labelled what was inside as Le Jardin de L’Optimiste or…The Optimists Garden.

I looked back to our plot with its sprigs of garlic tops and fanned leeks waiting for their harvest and I realized that each garden could be called the same. For what we are all growing, along with what should be a fair amount of vegetables, herbs, fruit and flowers, is nothing short of the blue-winged miracle of hope. At that moment, the birds raced overhead and began to sing.

Thank you all so very much for your many, many kind comments and emails after my previous post about our recent car accident. I was incredibly moved by them and am truly grateful (and proud) to have such an amazing community here. Merci…

…et gros bisous from Provence,
Heather

*Just a curious little aside: my first instinct was to write that it was a message that “had been chasing me around flaglessly” until spell-check raised a suspicious eyebrow and informed me that it wasn’t a word. Perhaps it is all those years of reading Shakespeare (and those of you who have been here for a while know that I don’t hesitate to make a word up from time to time) but I am convinced that it is indeed one. Thoughts?

Moi aussi, j’ai besoin de toi

We were laughing, my friend Madame L and I, as the train pulled into the station. The sun had come out as a great gift after we had passed a wonderful afternoon together in Nimes. She had invited me to lunch as a post-Christmas present and we were full and content. Once boarded, I played with a tiny toy dog held in the lap of an impeccably dressed tourist who chatted in Chinese with his partner. The light dashed in and out of the car and so it took a bit of time for me to notice the note finger-drawn on the window across the aisle, “Moi aussi j’ai besoin de toi.” A little heart punctuated the sentiment as the scenery whisked by.
Remi picked us up and I was surprised to see that he was driving the BMW instead of our old Saab. “I thought it would be more comfortable for L,” he explained. We dropped her off in our tiny village and then headed into Avignon where Remi picked up his repaired computer and wedged it into the back seat. It was dark already and the traffic was heavy with those heading home from work. We were keeping to the speed limit of 70 km/h on the main road, talking about something or other when, at about seven yards ahead of us, a car turned and drove into us head-on.
The movies get the details right. Time did that drunken stretch. I said, “Remi” and then either did or did not say out loud but thought, “Oh my God, we are going to have an accident.” And this part I know was silent, “…and it is going to hurt.” Then I was lifting my head up from the airbag to see the other car spinning until it was ten yards away facing the opposite direction when another fishtailed, barely missing us and sped on. There was smoke and so Remi said first, “Are you ok?” “Yes.” “Get out of the car, now!” And I did but I fell as my bag had been between my feet. I picked it up and then sank into the meridian’s triangle of grass as to a found island in the Pacific. I was unhurt. 
Now, this is where things get interesting and why I wanted to tell this story (whether or not I will hit ‘publish’ is another matter). I looked up to see the other driver, a very young girl, trying to limp in my direction. Her face was a blur of blind fear. And then, Remi was at her side and another man too, we’ll call him the military man, for that is who he is. He had been right behind us and used his training to act, immediately. He stopped the traffic and came to the girls aid, helping her down on to the grass and keeping her conscious by asking her questions about her hurts. Out of nowhere appeared a woman who looked so familiar to me, dressed all in black. She immediately knelt down to listen to the military man’s instructions and propped the girl upon her bent knees. She consolled her endlessly. And at some point she turned around and saw me. “Were you in the accident too?” I answered thickly, struggling as my French floated to the surface. She gave me one hand to hold while she used the other to comfort the girl, who it turns out had only had her license for a few months,  her first car for three. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she told us, “I didn’t see you. I didn’t see you at all.”
Out of the shadows, so many people arrived, “Have you called an ambulance? Is there anything that we can do?” Assured, they would receed. Within minutes, I could hear the sirens wail. I wanted to tell the girl that they were coming but I didn’t know her name and was still deep in shock. But I watched as the firemen arrived, a truck and their ambulance, as it works in France. They immediately sped into action to help secure the site, spot lights blazing, but already the military man and Remi had moved the girls car off of the road. The police arrived minutes later, then the municipal police and started their investigation. The military man’s wife fetched a beautiful wool throw from their car to wrap around the girl as she was lifted onto a guerney.  She was taken to the hospital and I am happy to report is now at home, with no broken bones but just bruises as her face had smashed into the windshield, this despite that she had a seatbelt on and the airbag released. The impact was that hard.
The clean up crew arrived at the same time as the depanneurs, the tow trucks. Already, the woman in black had started to leave noiselessly but I called to her. Earlier I had asked her, “Are you an angel?” Her response was a slow head shake no. She came back and we held each others hands and locked eyes, “Merci…merci beaucoup.” She understood that I meant more than I could say. I would repeat the phrase to the military man and his wife. They had all stayed so long, so selflessly. The firemen and the police were so efficient and present. I also thanked the head fireman, who is a professional, somewhat of a rarity as so many are volunteers in France and told him how impressed I was by how cleanly this had all rolled out and how much willing help I had witnessed. As one final proof, the tow truck driver offered to take Remi and I to a nearby fast-food joint so that we could wait in the warmth for our taxi to take us home. One more thank you to him for doing what hadn’t needed to be done.
The next morning, I woke up feeling groggy and with a pain in my shoulders and chest from the airbag. But I looked in the mirror and thought, “I am fine.” I couldn’t believe it. So much chance (and Remi’s quick reaction in turning the car at the last minute) had helped us and the girl. If we had been in the Saab, as we should have originally, then we wouldn’t have had airbags and where would we be then? And if I was fine, what did that mean?
Then I remembered that little not so secret love note left on the train window. “Me too, I need you,” is how how it translates. Or “I need you too.” And I do. All of the kindness that we were shown helped us through something truly frightening. How those words had either shown dark or glowed bright depending on the background of the scenery that whisked by, how delighted L and I were by the simple beauty of them. We are all in this together, we all need each other. That matters, it makes a difference. And we do too.
Moi aussi, j’ai besoin de toi.

The blue rooms – part deux

Today is the Epiphany.

Perhaps it is because I have only had one cup of Earl Grey but I am blinking drowsily. Truth be told, I am sliding into Winter Brain, although the temperatures are calling me a blatant liar with a high of 52°F forecasted for today. The sun has just broken out behind weeks worth of clouds and I am tap-dancingly grateful for this has been one of the most unlikely sleeper seasons on record. As there has not been enough cold in the Alps, there isn’t the pull to create the Mistral winds that fold back the blanket across the sky. I am keeping an eye on the one magnolia blossom that opened her bloom three months ahead of schedule, hoping that her sisters won’t follow suit. They must be tempted…like I am to take my camera and chase after these bright lights with a butterfly net before they disappear again. 

But I think that I will stay put and watch it from my window instead, just as I have been following the saga of the swallows that are fighting over the bird food ball that we have tucked into a crook of the olive tree. For despite the weather, my body knows what January means and so the blue of this second room on the first floor of Anthony’s house feels just right. No, not blue for sadness (like the brilliantly voiced character of “Inside Out” – if you haven’t seen it already, it’s amazing) but blue for calm. 

On a few of my friends blogs, “reinvention” has been the new buzz word and it has left me subtly surprised. For although “Necessity is the Mother of Invention” (thank you, Plato) and some of us have no choice but to start over from scratch (I’ve done it), I am dubious when it comes to anything whispering of “a whole new you.” We need who we already are. I am more inclined to peaufiner or keep adjusting if I can, working on both the personal projects and modus operandi that are already en route. Quietly. In the past,  there have been midnights which were ushered in with the banging of pots and the trill of my Dad’s old trumpet. Not this year. Granted, I am also really aware that tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of the terrorist attack at Charlie Hebdo.

So what is the Epiphany? As in the religious signification, not the spine-tingling realization nor the galette des Rois almond pastry with a surprise hidden inside that is served in France today. Let’s see…it is several things…but to (over) simplify, it is ancient, a celebration of the Adoration of the Magi in Western Christianity and of Jesus’ baptism for Eastern Christianity or sometimes both together. There are many different manifestations of this holiday all across the world and until very recently, it was often considered as important as Christmas itself.  However, in Medieval times, there also existed Twelfth Night, which was then a period of rollicking tomfoolery as portrayed in the eponymous play by Mr. William Shakespeare, a time when holiday greenery was burned in case evil spirits were lurking there. Perhaps it is best to go to the source? I am drawn to the etymology of the word from the Greek, epiphaneia which is the verb “to appear” and signifies “to reveal” and also “manifestation.” Interesting. 

So, we have something or someone existing, something brand new arriving. Yes, I start to see what my friends mean. Old customs and current traditions are often closer to each other than we think. Then as now, we keep on keeping on, each in our own beautiful way, like the fluttering of the birds or the peace that a blue room brings.

Speaking of new, a sneak peak of one of the first additions to the new old house, below, in the adjoining bath to this blue room…can you imagine? I can. 🙂


If you have missed the introduction to Anthony’s house, you can find it here.



And here is a lovely song that I heard on FIP  yesterday:
Well…if you feel like sharing…where are you at right now? 
Do you feel like hibernating or jumping out of a cake?
Do you have goals or just some clear ideas of things to look forward to?
Because…as you can see…(and this is the follow-up from the previous post)…

…the door is open. All we need to do is walk through…
Cheers,
Heather

Open, up

I could see it before I could feel it. The blades of grass were dancing in such a way that I had to blink and then remind myself that no hallucinogens had been willingly consumed for breakfast. But they did it again, a kind of hopping and bending over each other, a pause. A dazzling bright green. The trees took up the cue and then I felt a cool pressure on my cheek, like a Grandmotherly reassurance of, “There, there, all will be well.” The breeze seemed to be everywhere all at once and yet without a specific direction of destination. And it was soundless. I felt the hairs rise on my forearms but not from fear but rather recognition. These were the winds of change surrounding me. After what has been a challenging year and one filled with great sadness and hatred in the world, I closed my eyes, flooded with relief at their arrival. Let them blow. I hope to push them on to you. Open and up we go.

And so it is a New Year. 
I welcome it and I am sending out to you and yours my deepest wishes that it be wonderful, full of wonder, wonderful. 
With much Love from Provence,
Heather

The blue rooms – part one

My friend Anthony kindly placates me in calling it “your room” – well, at least he does when I am present – for he knows it is my favorite in the house.
A quick left at the top of the first floor landing and the space opens up like a dove being set free from a cage…out towards the elongated windows whose shadows ripple with the bumps of the original glass… through the French doors and on to a wrought iron balcony overlooking the garden, one where I can picture myself balancing a tea cup on the railing while my other hand clasps a long silk kimono, chin aloft.
If this room were indeed mine, I would line the walls with bookcases filled with every kind of book imaginable and pile up faded Persian rugs on the floors. I wouldn’t need much more in the way of furniture than what is already there, save for a matelas for the Empire day bed, a hidden stereo and maybe a tinkling Louis XV chandelier just because the light would be – so – very – pretty. 
Without falling into the tattered traps of Miss Havisham, I could be quite content in such a space and might never need to leave.
But for Anthony, this will not be his “only” room for they found that it connects directly to a smaller bedroom through a door that had been sealed off for quite some time. Wisely, the former occupants left the key for the lock on a peg for future use. Isn’t that something? Of course, these days we would have tossed it into a drawer somewhere only for it to be lost for forever. I suppose, when you live in such a house, you tend to think on the long-term.
This little corner of the house also has its certain charms. It wasn’t until I leaned in close to the remains of the geometric wallpaper that I realized that it was Cubist inspired and had been of a very fine make. Now, little is left and the wild stripes of the ancient glue have zebraed the walls in somewhat of a mix between Kelly Wearstler and Keith Haring. For now. Something tells me that this patina might not stay and the sad sink centralized between the windows might come down – even while I can imagine someone long ago quietly washing their hands in it while gazing out at the sky.

Today is an imagination day. Or a day to “fill the well” as Julia Cameron instructed in “The Artist’s Way.” So Remi got out one of his many photography books and I read an article on the life of Ellsworth Kelly; interestingly there was enough overlap in the subject matter so that we were able to have a nice exchange. But I have also been listening to the various birdsong that vibrates through this tiny village and delighted in a lone violet that had been forgotten on the walking path. 
Are you taking time for yourself this week? The year is winding down.
Thank you for all of your interest in Anthony and his partners amazing renovation project.
If you missed the initial post, you can find it: here.

With my Best from Provence,
Heather


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