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Here is a little addendum to yesterday’s post and I hope that those of you that are thinking, “Get back to the Provençal Christmas preparations already” will bear with me. 

Your comments always push my thinking to the next step. It made me realize that beyond the outer, physical expressions of the roles that we play, what is more interesting to me is the idea that there is a unique fire within each of us, one that waxes and wanes at different stages in our lives but frequently glows strongly in our youth (whether we were rebellious or not). And yes, like many, I tend to idealize that stage in our lives and the fearlessness that comes from not knowing any better. But what I had forgotten is the importance of those that let their fire burn bright even once they do know the consequences. I am referring not only to my response to Vicki Archer, who is increasingly creative on her blog French Essence but also to the numerous inspiring women that I have in my life both online and in person. Courage has no expiration date.

So if the fire within me feels dimmer than it has in the past, yes, it most certainly is a sign that I haven’t fully accepted who I am at this stage of my life. Which leads me to a question that came up yesterday while talking with my Sister, Robin (whose birthday it is today. Happy Birthday! I love you!) that she encouraged me to go ahead and ask. For those of you with children, did you feel that personal fire within you expand in having them? Knowing that it is passed on within them? Perhaps I am mistaken but for women like myself who haven’t experienced motherhood, the transition towards middle age seems to take a greater effort. It is something that has to be wrought rather than arriving on its own–or is that obvious? Any thoughts?  

I was letting my mind wander yesterday as I am want to do and a little question popped into my head: “Where have all the freaks gone?” Now, that was the question but I should explain the context. I have been thinking about youth and the roles we play while groping our way, sometimes literally, towards adulthood. How we find our little slot, our niche and stick to it ferociously as if the world is spinning so fast, if we aren’t firmly attached to our identity, we might just fly off it.

I was a Goth. No really, I was. I gave my personality over to a very romantic darkness, one that had absolutely nothing to do with anything sinister. No, I would read Byron and Yeats and Shelley and wonder why I couldn’t be a vampire with eternal life to roam the planet endlessly through the night. That sort of thing. And I dressed the part. Ripped stockings, black satin Victorian jackets. A lace veil that when I would wear over my face would frighten away even solid New Yorkers. Silver rings on each pale finger, many of them in the form of skulls. A bright red slash across my lips and kohl-lined eyes in homage to Louise Brooks. Only my hair, a brighter red than its current shade, remained untainted in accordance to a promise that I had made to my Mom. But I would shave it or push it up, pull it down over one eye, brush it into a Marie Antoinette and powder it white. What fun I would have. Dressing up in a vintage three-piece from Saville Row, with high heels, an elaborately carved cane bought in Cairo and a leather top hat placed just so. I turned some heads.

What was this imperious need within me to express…something like a scream of life? Something huger than human, more than “I exist!” because at that age, our skin crawls with the knowledge of being. True, I was most certainly an outsider and so not “normal” but wasn’t it something we all felt each in our own way? The epic surge of an athlete, the proud swanning of the beauty across the cafeteria? There is something desperate about it, the extremes of youth. 

And so where have all the freaks gone? What happens afterwards? For me, the transition was fairly natural. As I began acting, I had a more solid outlet to express those large feelings and needed to be more flexible in my appearance professionally. It just sort of fell away, was already nearly gone in the photo below. But I wonder sometimes about someone like the wraith-like Todd Ballantyne, who was so admired and feared with his hair over-dyed and over-sprayed until it seemed like it would break off at the points. What did adulthood make of him? How did normality over-take him? Or did it? Is it just the weight of our existence, the everyday bumps and bruises that eventually makes us smaller? That smoothes down the edges.

There is nothing today that would give the slightest hint to my former appearance. Save perhaps a proclivity towards wearing black. 

Cheers! The other evening I was invited to partake in the opening of Provence Prestige here in Arles and so yes, a tiny kir was in order. After all, these Provençal know how to do Christmas shopping right. No Black Fridays here! Ah, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t crowds. Over 30,000 visited last year during five days and peak periods can be shoulder to shoulder. Why the fuss? There are 150 booths to discover, all selling the very best of “Made In Provence.” Perfect for Christmas gifties! 

So what can we…dénicher? What little treasures can be dug up?

Libellule, a shop in Saint-Remy, had a gorgeous stand filled with so much coziness for the home. Who wouldn’t want to snuggle up in a soft baby alpaca blanket? Brun de Vian-Tiran has been manufacturing such luxury items in Provence since 1808. There are even soft and stylish throws for the puppers! Ben just might be finding one under the tree…

Although the packaging left much to be desired, I was impressed by the quality as well as the concept behind the products presented by Senteurs du Sud. The company only uses organic products that are bought directly from the source and under ethical conditions. Their Scent of the Month collection includes a wide range for the home and body, with a different perfume to reflect the very distinct months here in Provence. Colline, or hill, for the month of May, would be the olfactory suggestion of my previous post! Their eau de toilettes are based on natural essences, something increasingly rare in our synthetic society. I am also looking forward to trying out their line of Argan oil products–especially for my crispy winterized hair.

Yes, all of this is nice enough but then there is the…Food Hall. Whoohoo! My friend Claire stacked up on madeleines for the holidays, some stuffed with chestnuts others with figs. Foolishly, I resisted and missed out on a future Proustian moment, to be sure.

We also were crazily charmed by every single item at Rue Traversette. We very well might have tasted each of their modern vintage spreads–chestnut and clementine was my favorite! Baby carrots preserved in cinnamon vinegar with honey? Yes, that too. It may sound funky but it is all made with a simplicity that just plain works.

But the choices were endless–raviolis from Royan, anchovies from Marseille. As Remi had driven six hours to go to a photo shoot and back, I brought him home a bottle of wine, andouillettes from the Luberon and a sun-dried tomato mozzarella spread. Needless to say, he smiled.

Claire and I were among the last to leave. With more time on my hands, I would have asked the price of the charming fruits confits in the shapes of tiny croissants and pain au chocolat. Ah, maybe next year! 

If this is indeed the beginning of the Christmas season, then I must say it is off to a fine start…

I was in need of a view. Arles, despite its charms, can be claustrophobic. Closed in by Roman walls and an old-fashioned mentality, it can feel almost like living on an island. At times I need to move beyond the barriers to breathe. 

We all have our magic places. Whether it be the fort made under the dining room table or a solitary stretch of beach on the other side of the planet, there are certain spaces that just make us feel at home with ourselves. 

I know how lucky I am to have several such spots right here in Provence. Areas that resonate beyond beautiful. 

We only had a bit of time. Remi had worked all day and at present I can count the moments of the sunset on my fingers and toes. So I asked for a sure thing, rather than go exploring. A certain lieu that never fails to put a smile on all of our faces.

There is a trail that starts just before the Dalmeran winery in St.-Etienne-de-Gres, one nibbled on by the rains and rough with rocks.  But at the first turn, the ascent opens to a sweep across the Vallée du Rhone. And then I can let out a long exhale. 

Already a creeping feeling of something mysterious mounts at the back of my neck. Moss-covered steps lead up to a cave dwelling that has housed who knows how many way-ward travellers, shepherds and bandits. And yet there is nothing frightening here.

Time to keep moving on, to make the most of the lingering light. Ben has bounded ahead, with his most  frenetic bunny hop, back paws swinging side to side, ears flapping. He turns to egg me on and up.

Once I make that last push to arrive at the back of the church, I always do the same thing: sit down on the grass and watch. The light, the birds flying over head, Ben rolling on his back in delight.

Remi is usually taking photos. Me too. But then I settle in and let the quiet wash over me. Always, always that gift of…peace. 

I know that I have said it before, but it bears repeating how grateful I am to have you all here. For the connections that we have made and the happiness shared.

I am feeling especially blessed this year actually. For my wonderful Remi, my charmer Ben, my beautiful Sister and my adventurous Mom. For our health and that the wheel of fortune seems to be creaking in to a turn. We just might make a special meal tonight but if not I don’t mind. The warm glow in my heart is all that really matters on this special day.