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I took the garbage out just now. On the corner, there is a giant old house with a walled-in garden. Sometimes there are birds singing and that was the case today. So I stood really still, tilting my head upwards, craning my neck to look past the waves of bamboo and into a new-leafed tree. “Magpie?” I wondered. But I don’t really know their calls and could see nothing so I simply stayed and listened to the melody. It was insistent. A refrain repeated over and over that could have been titled, “Joy” but for all I know that winged one was just complaining to his neighbors. I realised that the sun was touching my skin, that it was warm, that I was just fine without a coat or woollen anything. It felt good and I was lifted, me, just there, in the middle of the street.

The wind has been busy and the rain overfloweth to the point that the Rhône threatened to come into town. The fête foraine, or amusement park, set up just on the other side of the rampart wall from where I live, decided to leave early because of it, much to my relief. I prefer birdsong to adolescent screams, no matter how filled with wonder they might be. My box of an apartment is quiet again while the world is breaking into being outside, over and over and over. What difference this is from the covid lockdowns where silence was everywhere and a warning. One that left its imprint on me. I am different now than I was before in more ways than I can count, fingers and toes included. 

Yesterday, I finally rolled out the red antique carpet that my ex had dropped off a few years ago; practically the last that I have heard from him. It’s funny how fifteen years can be so easily swept underneath. He left me the carpet and a coffee table from Rajasthan, perhaps because they reminded him of me, of the life we had together, for that was where we ate for the first three years of living together. The rug is heavy and worn. I dragged it into place and was not prepared for the scent of my dogs that arose, both now deceased, their golden hair still stuck in places along with a dried up cockroach who had come along for the ride. I told myself that it was ok to cry if I wanted to, but I couldn’t. My tears would have been like the river and swept me off to sea. I got out the vacuum and opened the transom above the door instead, uncertain as always.

My current companions apartment down the way is tiny but it has a tub to sink in, plus views to wish upon and a small yard. In French we would call it un jardin, a garden, although nothing is really cultivated in it beyond new memories. I have just gotten back from some time there, time suspended as in parentheses, as if the world was on hold again. The last evening, my sweetheart encouraged me to get out and go for a walk. I grabbed my phone to have a camera that would make me look at the light. The light and growing things, things that are new. This person stepping gently so as not to crush the weeds and wildflowers was me but she was who? I don’t really know or at least am not as certain as I once was. So very, very much has happened I must be not the same, but different, musn’t I? 

I am not sure if I will keep the carpet. If I can just make it only memories about my sweet pups Ben and Kipling and not the representative weight of an elegant past, then maybe. I can admire the deep ruby color, like the wine I no longer drink and walk upon it barefoot, imprinting anew. For here or in my boyfriends garden, there is love as well. That word stops everything in its tracks, doesn’t it? Things may well get worse before they get better on our planet blue but happily, luckily, that one word is still here – never the same but different – and it sings like the Magpie, true. 

All that I have
done:
I danced on bars
and climbed the
Pyramids at sunset,
Have kissed movie stars
and refused their further
advances,
Drank next to Keith
Richards and walked
past Mick Jagger
in the park, under snow.
I have cried deep
with relief from
finding
a twenty on the pavement,
knowing then I could
eat, but fed a homeless
man and his dogs during
the Covid lockdowns
because I had lost a home too,
a big one, and not
only
in my heart.
I went on expeditions
up the Niger River
and down the Amazon
as if it were normal
because that is how
everyone around me behaved.
I kept so many tears
and plentiful awe close
to hand, to write;
Because the Taj Mahal
is really something, at sunrise.

Love and love and
love.

I have died
while playing the role
of Cleopatra and shed
the veils of Salomé on
a New York City stage.
So I can put myself
in your shoes
or combat boots
for I have survived
treason and
bankruptcy, moral and
monetarily held.
There is nothing,
not a dime, coming in
for my retirement.

So I rub my eyes
red, dry from too
much drifting,
this breath of in-between.
A January seeming
says “look back” with
an encouragement that
leads me to books.
Look what I have
done and ready
my stretched limbs for
coming Spring.
One not for youth,
a tender time of
petals pushing,
hoping for the surprise
of blossoms, yet
expecting none.

All that I have
tried, and what I know
only I have done.

***

Wishing you all a Happy 2024,

With much love,

Heather

Just down the street from where I live, there is a hole in the ancient fortified walls that opens on to a tunnel, the Passage Oratoire. If you cross it, a wobbly cobble stone path leads you to the heart of Avignon, even to the Pope’s Palace, le Palais des Pâpes.

There must be hundreds of people who take that route most days, on their way to work or Les Halles or shopping. It is a locals thoroughfare. And yet, how few would acknowledge the seated thin man with legs tightly crossed, over one another, his head nearly always tucked deeply into a time-browned paperback. Perhaps this laissez-faire was due to the two massive Rottweiler mixes perched on each side of him, despite their rubber muzzles. His own personal gargoyles. A folded baseball cap turned on its belly was hap-hazardly left as far away from the dogs as possible, the less to intimidate and there was often a few shiny coins within it.

And yet this man, although often completely drawn into his thoughts (or perhaps because of it), had a regular relationship with quite a few of the passer-by. That was easy to see. Eventually, I too became one of his “regulars,” overcoming initial shyness to ask how he was doing, what his book was about. I would offer my hand for his dogs to sniff and soon they would see me coming before he did, their stubby tails thumping. More than once, I was left with deep scratches on my wrists from their jumping hello’s but that is ok. It was up to me to pay attention to their weighty affections, not them.

The man’s name is Cyril.

I understood and respected that he didn’t want to tell me too much of his story. That he was on the streets because his dogs were his life and they are not welcome in the shelters. Also that he was here, far removed from the many panhandlers on the main street of la Rue de la République because he didn’t want any trouble for the three of them. I never saw him in a state where he appeared drunk or high and he finally gave me the hint that what would be really helpful was food rather than money so that he didn’t have to go to the stores and risk leaving his dogs alone outside. He showed me frightening wounds from dog fights when things didn’t go well but would wave fingers in front of his face as if chasing a fly, “Oh, I will be fine, I have had worse,” followed by a toothy grin. Once opened up, he would show a confident, if chortled, laugh.

And then the COVID lockdowns started. At their most extreme, we were limited to a one-hour walk per day within a one-kilometre radius of our residence with signed “attestation de l’honneur” in pocket always. The Passage de l’Oratoire was empty.

However, at this point I had already started bringing him cans of ravioli or lentils and sausage, usually at around a cost of one euro each plus ten for the dogfood when he needed it (and he would say, “No, I am good,” when he did not). I wasn’t the only one. Someone else had given him a portable stove which he kept at his camp, just over the wall. I remember how proud he was the first time that he showed me his temporary home: “I have fresh city water that comes out of a tap from the parking garage and bushes for privacy. This is public land but the cops won’t bother me here.”

Cyril prepared me for how to visit. “Give me a shout, call my name before you come so I can hold back the dogs.” And I can tell you, the first time that he decided to let them run up to me freely without muzzles, I sucked in my breath and hoped for the best. He would come ambling down the incline towards me, barefoot and those few minutes of chat made me feel human, so much less alone. Our banter was simple but real. As it got colder, sometimes he would just stick a tousled head out from his tent and I would leave the sack for him to retrieve when he could. Always a thank you or at least a wave of appreciation was given.

The temperatures dropped as they always do right before Christmas. So I went to H&M and bought him the thickest fleece jacket that I could afford. Along with the usual offerings, I had put together tupperware boxes to share of what I had made for myself for that night, the 24th. I was so excited that I was practically bouncing as I made the walk to his camp.

Immediately, however, I knew that something was different, something was very wrong, so much so that the air crackled not with cold but as if it had been torn open. Cyril saw me staring, my bags at my sides and started to scream at me. “No, no, no. No more!” I couldn’t tell if he was pacing or stamping the ground but the dogs were growling at me from a distance and I started to be afraid. “But it is Christmas! I have…” I gestured…”I will just leave these…” but I could not finish my phrase. He was again, yelling in a high pitched voice, “NO! I don’t want ever again! Go!” The dogs were starting to make a slow slink towards me.”Gooooooooooooo!” He was howling, his face twisted. I realised that I was in danger and backed away.

I cried when I locked the door behind me at home. This was a mental breakdown that I had witnessed. I knew that I could not call for the paramedics because of his dogs or the risk that they would be taken away from him if he was hospitalised. I cried when I returned the jacket and the cashier asked no questions. I still have some of the cans in the back of my kitchen cupboard. The rest I have given away.

He was gone once the lockdowns were lifted, his camp cleared out several months later. I have only seen him once since then and again it was the dogs who recognised me first from quite a distance. I changed my path, respecting his wishes.

We can never know what others are going through or how they (or we) might behave given a change of circumstances. I am still so grateful for the exchanges that we had. Brief as they were, they were filled with resilience and light. Livelihood and shared concern.

For Cyril, I hope that he is well wherever he may be and that his dogs continue to give him much love and hope.
There is a part of me that feels certain that this is true.
Somehow.

It took me many months to tell this tale.

If you would like, you can hear me reading this post here:

A video that I posted on Instagram from that period:

*****

if a light
burns
i
will find it
stumbling
foot forward
nose to the
air
billowing
below
my blindfold.

my many
floundering. ways
but
ceaseless days
of
searching
have kept
my senses
sharp

a mother
yet not
with child
i lean
on
the connecting strings
another life of
listening
for
that giving
harp

****

If you would like to hear my reading of this poem, you may do so here:

I miss you all. I miss writing and sharing all that I love. Such an incredible community you are. These are strange times, still, for so many of us. All the more reason to be grateful for what is real.

With much Love,

Heather

Aaah, I may be a few days late to the Thanksgiving feast but gratitude still reigns supreme in this quirky heart of mine. Valiant of stomach, I hied myself through a bristling Mistral wind to see my friends at a wonderful restaurant, Première Édition, here in Avignon. I actually hadn’t been given any choice in the matter as my food-writer friend, Marc Fournié, told me simply that I had to try cheffe Aurélie’s chicken. Yes, Marc, ok, twist my arm, but…I was in a conundrum. For I had also seen something on this week’s menu that especially tempted “les papilles,” aka Yee Olde Tastybuds.

As gluttony was inherently excused in honor of the celebration, after a brief discussion with the cheffe and her sous-cheffe, I went full monty (all while keeping my clothes on).

For what I really had come to try was the pita. No, not the college dorm version of yore for it was not cardboard stiff but outright pillowy, even though it had been just barbecued “à la minute.” When it arrived, I lowered my face far nearer to the plate than sheer politeness would allow to take in the perfume of the creamy goat cheese, cooked raclette-style and…truffles. Truffles. Just let that word roll around on your tongue a bit and even if you have never had the pleasure to try these particularly pungent fungi, you might get a whiff (pun-intended) of how luxurious they are. All of this was hidden under fresher than fresh greens from the Alpilles (and knowing Aurélie they might have been picked that morning). I would bite and savour slowly, on repeat.

As I did, with the arrival of patrons a mounting cacophony of gossip and laughter ensued at the surrounding tables. “Jonathan?” I asked of the co-owner/reliable charmer, “Do you know what I hear when I listen to everyone?” “Well, I don’t have the time to hear them myself, really…” “No, not word-for-word but in general,” I interrupted. “I hear contentment, people letting go and relaxing. You know, that doesn’t often happen in France…not quite like this.” He nodded. “A happy face,” he responded. Yes, a happy place too.

Alright, then now on to the afore-mentioned stand-in for the big turkey: an even-finer chicken. One that comes from the farm of “Elisabeth” and of course is as organic and cossetted as they come, served here with deep cooking juices, a citrus ouzo oil, along with mandarine shiva mikan (don’t worry, I had to look them up as well). As if that wasn’t enough, on the side was a bowl of corn polenta that was truly more like a porridge that I wanted to close my eyes and have my Mom spoon-feed to me, even at 53.

Food is such a delight. Isn’t it? Literally, like Turkish Delight, which I first read about in “A lion, a witch and the wardrobe” and was startled to learn as an adult that it is actually something that exists in the world. When food is this deeply satisfying (or as dynamic as in the cooking of Florent Pietravalle in my previous post), we are not only eating other people’s thoughts, we are eating their dreams.

So perhaps that is why it was especially perfect to finish with something so simply lovely as my dessert. I did try to convince myself not to have it. I did. But Jonathan assured me that it would “help me to digest” my previous indulgences (insert snort of laughter here) and Marc had also insisted about this so here we go: pear and tea-infused sorbet with mandarine keraji flakes (shrug), whipped yogurt and candied crunchy hazelnuts. As if I needed to say anything possibly more than that. Sweetness rendered.

And it was doubly so, as a lovely young person stopped by my table on her way out. She told me that she recognised me and loved what I put on Instagram. As she turned to go, I nearly blurted out, “Wait, wait, tell me more please!” Isn’t that beautiful? I might have blushed but shh.

So here we are at the end of the meal. Jonathan had brought me my espresso WITH my dessert without any judgement. The music was good, the cacophony rendered into a lullaby symphony. And while I was sitting there technically “alone” – the chair across from me, empty – the feeling during the entire meal was that I had been anything but. Not only was there the very palpable “bonhomie” extending from everyone at Première Édition but also all of my personal loves, right there beside me, right up close in my heart. They are great company.

It has been a hard time – sorry, hard times – for my tribe. My wonderful man L would have been with me if not for having just contacted COVID (again). I have been going through some things that are not appropriate for me to talk about fully but he has unfailingly been my rock. The tougher the times, the more solid he is. If that doesn’t make you want to do a turn about, what does? My family were there with me too. There is so very much on the table (again, sorry for the pun). And yet they still joke when needed and listen with the same sincerity. I try to do likewise for I love them so. I have had an unimaginable gift of reuniting with a nearly lost for forever friend. And yes, there is all of you. I did declare as much via Instagram on Thanksgiving but there are many of you that have still held on to this blog, no matter what. Forgive me if I have tears in my eyes as I type that for “my heart overfloweth.”

It is certainly lovely that there are happy drops on my keyboard just as I am grateful that my belly is full after such a wonderful meal. I don’t take any of it for granted. Not one tiny bit. It is never too late to say thank you, so to everyone at Première Édition, my love, my family (including those gone) and my friends known and unknown all over the world, I do.

Be well, stay safe and be kind,

Heather

“Heather, just sit down and write.” “But I can’t. I no longer have the words.” “Yes, you do. They may not be the perfect ones-” “I used to be such a good writer.” “-but they will be good enough. Just sit down and bring the keyboard closer, Ok?”… “Ok.”

I have been trying to decide for weeks if I was going to share this with you. This time that is both a sucked in, breath-held silence and yet a roiling internal volcano. There are moments when the fires burn through me just as with others I am struck immobile by the weight of loneliness upon my shoulders. I try to rally and usually fail even while knowing the treasure of being truly loved. It is a forever, no ever time.

Let me go back a bit.

As many of you know, when I decided to stay in France after the surprise of my separation, it was tough. No-one would hire me save for finally a job as a receptionist at a hotel and that was only due to a favour called in by my ex’s new companion. I worked hard, really hard. It is the only way that I know how to work. The first day I showed up in a Prada jacket that was quickly ruined from sweat stains under my arms. I was the oldest person by far, save for a Night Auditor who is roughly my age, has been there for 25 years and is untouchable. And so I felt that I had to do extra to try and find my way (if not to fit in) amongst my colleagues who were half my age, who could have been the children that I never had.

I have a list somewhere on my computer of all of the comments that mention me by name on websites such as Tripadvisor. “Every hotel should have a Heather,” says one. I remember the person who told me to make that list “for one day, in case.” He lasted two weeks or so, maybe three and moved on to easier pastures.

I didn’t. Although, I started at the hotel in July of 2017, it became official that November. My bosses were kind about my insomnia and I only work evenings. When I was hired as a professor at the local university, they switched my contract to 35 hours a week instead of the normal 39 so that I could do my Friday afternoon classes. But that same director forced me to resign from teaching when he felt that it was overly taxing me. Either the teaching or the hotel. I had no choice but choose the latter for financial reasons and more importantly, for my visa to work in France. I miss the sound of the classroom, my playing jazz much to the bewilderment of the kids creeping in to speak my language, English. There were no rules, I taught what I want how I wanted. It was a first attempt at my trying a to work a job in my way and it felt wonderful.

Of course, things and people and society change which each breath we give but both the arrival of Trumpism and COVID accelerated a movement of “each person for themselves” that came so quickly and so assuredly that I think that we still haven’t really seen it for what it is. Or perhaps are beginning to do so.

Was I lucky that I was supported by the French government during the lockdowns? Absolutely. But when the hotel first opened afterwards, I was often the only employee present on the property at night. I felt scared. I once confronted a drugged up man who was inches away from me, behind the reception desk, looking for the cash drawer. Times felt desperate. Clients, after so long in seclusion, seemed free to say whatever came to their minds with politeness discarded, not even an afterthought.

As with all of my colleagues, I took and took and took their disrespectfulness. The pointed, jabbing fingers or the inappropriate “tu” instead of “vous” in French or Americans yelling (or sometimes crying) over a lightbulb out in their room. About things that were largely not at all under my control. It came down to an evening where a Brazilian woman became ferocious because she had been assigned a handicapped-equipped room (for those not in the know, they are often the biggest). For some reason, she took it personally and demanded another room. We had none available. She began to scream. “What is wrong with you that you gave me this? Why? Is it because you are fat and ugly that you did it?”

I walked away and hid in the kitchen for a few minutes to catch my breath. She was still at the reception when I returned and became so violent that I had to threaten to call the police. My boss was amazing when I got through to her and told me what to say. One of the chefs from the kitchen came out to stand next to me, protectively. The woman left and the next day I went to Italy for a planned break with my honey.

But something had snapped. And it wasn’t just that one incident. If the word that is most often used to describe me now is “resilient,” it is for a reason. So in Italy I ate and ate then drank too much while L tried to find his way to me. I looked to the stars over the mountain where we stay, trying to find a reason or meaning and in a way, I am right there still.

With the insistence of my psychologist, my psychiatrist (yes, I have both) has put me on work-leave for burnout. That started in mid-September and it is now the beginning of November. I see my psychologist once a week and have done a lot of reading about my current state, where I am permanently in “fight or flight” mode. Survival. Tired and wired. Which brings me back to that initial conflict of feeling that I described.

I have gained a lot of weight during this pause. It is as if my body is preparing an outer shield for battle. And yet it makes me ashamed, just as I feel for being on sick-leave, so that I often don’t want to go out in risk of being seen by someone I know, even though a bit of contact would do me so much good. Next week I won’t accept the invitation to an art opening that I would love to attend as there is too much risk that my ex will be there. This despite my current companion supporting me and loving me, exactly as I am, which is new and gratefully received.

So what do I do while I find my way, yet again? On a good day, I try to wipe the slate clean. In forgetting these current, strange circumstances, I look at my surroundings like the tourists that I cater to and try to be glorified. That is what these photos mean to me. I am also reading a lot about what I am going through as if I could translate my mind to my heart. There is more than it is wise to share here but the stakes are high for me to stay in France. May this beauty hold me, carry me and sing me to the next certainty. Or a feeling of long lost and then retrieved agency. Until the next I know when.

Local is as local does. This might explain why Florent Pietravalle, the 34 year old chef, wears his star lightly and seems perhaps even more proud of his having been one of only a handful of chefs in France to have received Michelin’s Green star. This recent award is a celebration of chefs who are truly dedicated to taking their commitment to working with regional producers to the next level and to promoting sustainability in all of its forms. The kitchen of La Mirande goes far beyond the now cliché idea of having an on site garden towards creating obviously but not obvious opportunities such as growing their own mushrooms in the wine cellars, which can then be distributed (and sold) to the surrounding cooking community at large.

It is exactly through this tightly bound network that I had the great pleasure to first meet Florent. The French BBQ pitmaster (and character extraordinaire) Carlos Bear suggested that I taste the delicious slices from Roman piazzolo Sandro of Côme à Roma, who quickly became a dear friend. When I found Sandro and Florent in conversation over a crumb-lined table there one winter afternoon, I shyly introduced myself and took my leave. When I questioned Sandro later, he gave an Italian shrug and suggested the possibility that they might collaborate together one day.

Enter COVID and the French government lockdowns. While it was too expensive for many restaurants to open for take-out given their large staffs, Florent forged ahead with an idea still quite new in France and certainly for a Michelin-starred chef. Over a series of twelve weeks, he would invite a series of uber-creative chefs to reinvent or elevate an example of the comfort that we all longed for. Street Food. Perhaps because I knew so many of the other chefs, I felt completely at home in the underground kitchen. Each week, I would stride in (masked of course) and watch the team work, joking with Florent all the while. Somehow, I was welcomed as if I had always been there. Honestly, that once a week visit and accompanying bites of deliciousness (a “hot dog” made from locally-sourced trout and topped with crackling roe is just one example) really helped me to get through an otherwise lonely and challenging time.

It left me with the hope to “one day” try his “real cooking” in the formal dining room upstairs although I very well knew that it was beyond my near minimum wage means. Happily, I received an unexpected windfall and even better, my Mom was able to travel again. To top it off, our meal would be celebrate her 75th birthday. I called or texted absolutely everyone I have ever known even vaguely linked to La Mirande to ask for a reservation. Although clearly already booked, they made room for two American redheads. It was set.

While both my Mom and I have eaten at such establishments in the past, on the day, we made a pact that this go around, our only objective was to be completely ourselves and simply enjoy. And so I sported a massive smile as I strode through the silently opened front doors, so delighted to see all of the server’s, barman and sommelier who I had come to know in their street clothes during the Street Food series entirely metamorphosed and ready for the service to begin. We were seated at the table closest to the kitchen. I ordered the menu in six services, as well as wine accompaniments for me. As the first of several surprises, two coupes of one of my favourite champagnes, Billecart-Salmon rosé, were offered as we were considered friends of “la maison.“

And then we were off, somehow both whisked away into Florent’s imaginary world and yet entirely rooted in the Provence so perfectly represented on each plate. I will let the photos speak for themselves. Ingenuity, curiosity, virtuosity in technique, these are all qualities that Florent possesses in his cooking and we are all the luckier for it. Long after the actual dégustation, I can summon the taste and the feeling of being present on that glorious afternoon. The flavours and textures were somehow both subtle and yet bright, as if drawn with a Fifth Dimensional pen. 

There is a story in my family that I love. My Dad did his best to take my Mom to Paris when funds afforded. And this was quite a trip in the 70s. From Michigan to the City of Light. Now, as the tale goes, we used to think this happened at La Tour d’Argent but my Mom now wonders if it was at Lucas-Carton. Regardless, both were institutions of la gastronomie française at the time. Staid business men surrounded them during their lunch, chewing silently in between deals. And yet, when the serveur brought my Mom her main dish, she clapped her hands with glee at the beauty on her plate, a bright green of spring that she had never seen before. It must be said that serveur slid into a smile at the sight. However sly it was.

My Mom and I had several such moments during our meal. For isn’t that what is to be hoped for? To not only be delighted but to feel wonder too? We stayed very late and laughed and laughed. Yoann Dell, Florent’s second in command, was kind enough to take us down to the cellar to see the afore-mentioned freaky mushrooms and other curiosities. We rose back into the light of day, eyes blinking and lips still smiling wide. 

At the end of it all, once your bill has been paid (which might make you give a short cough on first view), you are presented with a treasure map. One to take you back to the beginning. It represents our unique corner of Provence and on it are dotted the farms and places that raised or caught the elements that are orchestrated at the Michelin-starred restaurant of the La Mirande Hotel in the shadow of the Palais des Papes.

Thank you, dear Florent and all of your team. You have given my Mom and I a moment that we will never forget. But even better, a friendship between us. I believe in you. Keep going. This is your calling, your destiny and how beautiful it is to be in the midst of constant creation?

And artist is as an artist does…

*****

So…sometimes we make mistakes. I don’t know why I couldn’t find the courage to publish this a year ago…why “perfectionism” has held such a shadow and depression too, but today…starting to come out of the darkness also means really appreciating all of the Beauty that I have lived and do. So here we go, Florent. I really wanted to write an article about you for the American press. Maybe I still will someday. “Stars” do not define us. I know that all too well from when I was an actress. And my beautiful Mom is 76. She teaches me well. May we all take inspiration in, wherever we may find it.

I woke up this morning
Hungry
For Beauty
At this
New turn
Around
The sun.
So I set
Out with
Eyes open.
“It’s what keeps
Me alive,”
I later told.
A truth or
Faith of what is
Wrung
From this existence.
The promise
Of baby figs
Hidden
Under stained glass
Leaves.
The tremor
Of his voice
When
He is laughing.
Just
A sky. Or wind.
Any old one.
The finding
And holding
Of these
Is
The most blessed
Job
that I
Have ever done.

****

****

Written quickly on my 53rd birthday. I wish that I could make my photo smaller! But I am still a wide-eyed dreamer, there is hope still. I am in love, my family is wonderful, my health pretty ok and you are my friends since a longtime now. Thank you for reading, always.

With Love,

Heather

August
is the dust
That hurts
The throat
That
Once roared
a lion.
Quiet, we
Stand stupefied
beside a mannered marionette
Magnified
By some sort of
Nothing horizon.
No savannah
To sprawl
Urban pools
To call
We lie
While denying
All our Best.
Supermarket express
then we we wait
On the corner boulevard
Tough fruit
Stone peaches
rolling in mouth,
Hot lion
On a billboard,
just above, preaching
we nod,
Hot lion, hot lion,
yes.

****

I know this is a different style of poem/ writing for me, more feeling than literal. But I wanted to share it, so here we go. There is so much going on right now that goes beyond a calendar season. Will we be able to stand up? We have been hit so much and constantly with tough news. I believe in us and Hope we will cleave cleanly the false from the true.

With Love

H

I have been fighting against Perfectionism for most of my adult life. My Dad pushed it upon my Sister and I so much that it is still a knee-jerk reaction to try and please or “do it right” out of fear that it was the only possible way of being loved.

That began to change when I left behind my life in New York City and started to travel. I had no idea what I was doing, I could know longer incarnate the peculiar glamorous role that I had scripted for myself and carefully curated. As that facade cracked open, I began to see less tightly and more lovingly, including, slowly, towards myself. And when I moved to Arles in 2005, I was surrounded by a forever echo of that awakening. Wabi-sabi couldn’t be more prevalent in this wondrous old town and that is precisely why I love it so. Complicitly, it let me be, well, just me.

And so if I announce here the title of “One Perfect Day,” it is packed with caveats gallore. I mean, rather simply, a series of events that felt absolutely right for me, all packed into less than 24 hours. How good to breathe without the fear of the current state of world affairs shortening my breath but rather to just be present, minute to minute with hope in my heart.

The day began officially once the coffee had kicked in, as per usual (I am not held accountable for anything that comes before). And it was greatly needed as I was rising early for once, half-stumbling, half-running to take the train to Arles. For I had a job to do, yes another beyond finishing after midnight at the hotel where I work evenings as a receptionist. It was to be only my second walk since COVID had struck but I wasn’t nervous, only content. And when I met the women I would be walking with, I could see the curiosity in their eyes and knew that we would be a good fit.

I am so proud of my historical walks in Arles. That particular ‘p’ word is one that I use rarely, a leftover from the other self-exclusionary one, perfectionism. But I worked hard while preparing them and still continue to do so as our notion of what history is actually evolves along with the galloping advance of science. I do my research but I also laugh – the walks are the best of both worlds between my previous careers as actress and journalist. The biggest challenge is that I simply cannot ever shut up until my guests eyes start to glaze over and then I know that I have gone too far. 2500 years of history is a lot to swallow in one go.

As this was a whirlwind of a walk at only a scrappy hour and a half in length, that never seemed to be the case and it was with warm thank you’s (and even a smattering of applause when I finished) that I walked away with a glad heart. For it had been some time since I had really done my own private walk of Arles, just for me. So I had to restrain myself from dashing to favourite streets, each packed with endless memories or anecdotes. It was a “Best of” for this once girl who was lost in Arles. Then found. Then lost again.

I arrived at Cocorricco (named after the French version of a rooster’s crow) nearly exactly at noon, which is considered quite early in our beautiful Provence. Their menu of the day appealed and I crunched through my spicy spring roll while burning my fingertips, then slurped up the sauce of my vegetable stacked fish, finishing with a crack of bread and a second glass of rosé. Satiated through and through, I left the rough and ready Arles for the winding streets of a more elegant Avignon.

Home again, I slept for hours. Such a luxury unto itself. A sleep without troublesome dreams to touch me. With a knock at the door, my Honey had arrived, smartly dressed as he likes to be. I followed suit (although not quite literally, a swaying dress instead) and was soon tottering the most dangerous cobblestone street in Avignon while balancing on platform espadrilles. Dinner at Le Vintage was like a little “Welcome Home” party. I have written about them often over the years and they have not slipped in their hospitality at all. Sebastien, the owner, had put a bottle of my favourite Famille Perrin Côte de Rhône to chill in advance of our arrival. I shyly introduced these old friends to my handsome companion and it felt natural, simple, real. We ate well and heartily for that is what Le Vintage does best and were delightfully surprised to find out that when the bill came, there was none. And yet, there was no time for long rémerciements for the tick-tock was clicking and we were soon off…to the Opéra.

It was to be his first classical music concert and yet we were both equally excited. The headliner of the bill was Jordi Savall, whom I had long wished to see play live. Surrounded only by two other musicians, with grey hair and beards all, he brought to life le Moyen Age effortlessly until there was no longer a sense of time beyond the rise and fall of the notes. We leaned forward on the brass railing, drinking them in. Later, I curled my head against his shoulder, never closing my eyes. I listened with a gilded appreciation, like the massive chandelier winking in the dark overhead.

The concert and dinner had been a surprise on my behalf and yet the evening was not yet ready to be done. “I don’t know if this will work, but are you up for trying one more thing?” I asked as the crowds swirled onto the Place de l’Horloge. He nodded with that smile that never fails to make me swoon and we were off, down a tiny path hewn between the rock solid foundation of the Palais des Papes.

He had often heard me speak of La Mirande. This five-star hotel and Michelin-starred restaurant had won my heart from the first time I had dared pass through its glass doors. “Is it still possible to get a drink?” I asked at the reception with what I hoped was a winning grin. It was. We settled in to a settee for two not under the eaves of the atrium but in my favourite dark corner of the plush satin-walled bar. And we had it to ourselves. Nary a guest in sight. As we sipped, we quieted. With hands entwined, all that was left of this One Perfect Day was the most important aspect of all, beyond Beauty or History or Culture. One that arrived naturally and entirely on its own. It was – and is – our Love.

My Mom would be

the first to tell 

you 

that I am being 

overdramatic.

That 91 kilometres

is only 

56.488 miles.

And that the breadth

of his kiss

(and kindness)

should carry 

me

from here 

to there.

(easily)

But when tonight

I opened

the door into

darkness

yet again,

I wondered how far

I felt

from being alone,

or rather,

how close. 

I wanted just to

be held, as

we do.

Tight, tight.

For a bit of reassurance

on a certain midnight

that tomorrow

would, most likely,

be 

better. 

It’s nothing, I know

it is less than anything

in complaints, merited.

So I will be 

quiet

with my wishes.

I won’t tell you

or anyone,

least of all, him

how very 

much

I would have liked

that he could

have

somehow been

here

then, as in, now.

(me tied to 

him and him 

to me,

arms and legs jumbled,

sleeping peacefully.)

*****

A new poem. Missing my sweetheart and Arles. These photos are from a recent visit where I was fixed on seeing what has remained instead of changed. Yes, I am not only dramatic, but a nostalgic girl as well.

With much Love,

Heather