I have been a bit of an odd bird in my thinking about time lately.
Yes, I understand it is loopy and more jazz than Bach; a message heard loud and clear while sitting on the Pyramids in Cairo in 1992.
So maybe a birthday is a good moment to not resist the spiral nature. I am calling on you, fifty-two…
It is forever humbling to live in Provence. These old stones have seen the like of a me before, no matter how unique I might believe myself to be (and I do).
We talk and walk, our drinking thinking feeling human-ness. We love and fall but rise trying.
“Try to reflect today,” a friend said. So I did but I am not really sure if I am younger or older than the breath before.
Honestly, I have never felt that I was terribly good at being an adult.
As proof, four weeks ago, I flew over the handlebars of my bicycle after a simple second of not paying attention to the car too close, my linen pant wrapped around the pedal tight.
My wrist is broken and it is the right wrong one.
So far, my cast has not begun to itch but my head has.
With all of these summer hours laid out before me, inactive but pulsing, I wonder.
Although I am ashamed to admit it, it can happen that I miss the ease of my old life, exacerbated by the stunning knowledge of how few people there are, now, to stand by my side when in need.
I scratch in wondering if this is what everyone feels, not only just me.
And yet, upon awakening on August 11th, there were lovely messages that said “we are glad that you are here.”
It warmed my blood and after coffee I thought that perhaps the not knowing that has been running the show for us since 2020 could be put aside for awhile.
Happiness was to be had.
And so I went to eat at my friend Coco’s restaurant. She wrote on my cast without asking.
I saw art that not only surprised me but delighted as well.
Tears fell that were purely of the happy variety. For this heart that holds so much.
The freesias and roses given perfume my apartment as the late afternoon light pours in, insisting.
And yet, feeling held, I can say clearly that I dearly hope for change in my daily life, which is not the stuff of Provençal dreams as often as may seem.
I wonder if this broken wrist was in some way no accident at all but a slide back to the Pyramids. A not gentle form of asking, “Really Heather, what could be next?”
What an odd bingo we play.
Listen, listen. I know these words are sparse but how long it takes to type them with my left hand.
So much so that maybe they are evaporating before your eyes.
Back to the beginning then. Back to the began.
As always, thank you for being here.
With love from Provence,
Heather
