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The patina of my Secret Provence, part two

Saving the best for last. It is my squirrely side, the part of me that puts this or that away for a certain time, often undefined in my mind. But when it arrives with a click, I smile inwardly broadly.

And so yesterday evening, after a fit of Ikea runs and practicality…

…we started to unwrap the Art.

Our pieces are not precious…

…the value they have is personal.

But oh, how I was thrilled to see them again even after so short an absence.

Happily, they are not worse for the wear after their short voyage.

It is delightful seeing them with new eyes, in a different environment. Wipe the slate clean and start again.

“Welcome to your new Home,” I whispered.







Have a wonderful rest of your weekend everyone…

The patina of my Secret Provence

While I was visiting my family in the States, I would occasionally think about Provence and my life in France in order to try and regard it with the blessing of remove. I was surprised by how much I longed for the region itself, for the land and its life. Certainly, it has taken root in my heart and not necessarily due to its more obvious charms, of which there are many. No, just as I used to visit certain paintings in the museums of Manhattan so often that I began to consider them as friends (including several Van Goghs whose landscapes would later become a part of my daily life in Arles), so too certain characteristics here have wooed my attention and become dear to me.

 Chief amongst those is patina, the glow of time’s way. I missed it’s imperfections dearly while in Michigan and wondered if its presence gives one a certain permission not to be brighter, faster and stronger but just to be. There is such psychology in our surroundings. I am fairly certain that I have written this before but patina is forgiving. And I love it for that as well as the sheer beauty present within “I endure.”

I know that quite a few of you are impatient to see our new home but she is not yet ready for her close-up. There is a point during every move (and I have been through so many – eight in Manhattan alone, including one that I accomplished solely via subway) when things get much worse just before they get better and we are right in the thick of it. Remi is downstairs sanding the parquet floors and I will have to tackle the boxes in the dressing room as neither of us have anything clean to wear. Each morning I still wake up bone tired, my head in a fog. But oh, how it is worth it. In the quiet of the evenings, I light the candles and we both listen, trying to decipher what the house is telling us to do.

So for now, I hope that you will be contented with two posts featuring some of the details of our new village. I took these photos quite some time ago – long before we had found our house – and have been saving them for our arrival as something of a promise to myself.

And now we are here. Painting and creating traces that will one day become patina of its own.

Have a wonderful beginning to your week, everyone…

Finding and leaving Saint Didier in the Vaucluse

“Should we stop?” Something about the village of Saint Didier had called our attention. Perhaps the steeple puncturing into the milky blue toile overhead. We pulled over and organized the dogs before heading out to explore. It is always a slow process – similar to tasting for spices while cooking – of garnering the temperature and will of a new environment. My camera was in hand and I started looking so intently that I didn’t realize that our conversation had shifted towards something important. “You aren’t listening to me,” Remi said. He was right. I stopped clicking and looked at him, at that face that I crossed the ocean to be near. And the elements of this one little town with some certain charm softened and no longer seemed so important to take home in my pocket. A dog barked repeatedly behind a gated wall. Kipling’s ears pricked forward and Ben plodded up to me with a slow wag as a sinewy woman filled up a plastic bucket at the fountain that we were perched on. She gave us a stare as hard as her boney arms. It was time to go. We gathered ourselves up and inwards, somewhat sheepishly and folded back into the car, tourist-like and wandered on, energy sorted both for Saint Didier and between ourselves.

We have moved and it went swimmingly. Thank you for all of your good wishes…

Opening one door, preparing to close another

 

 Bonsoir.
And I do mean “Hello there,” said shyly, timidly, for I haven’t been very present and yet you all have been extremely gracious and supportive.
It has been an unusual Summer. And it isn’t finished yet, so I will beg more of your patience for a little while longer – say two weeks or so – and then I will be so very excited to return to regular programming.
For you see, we are moving. Out of Arles but nearby. To a village that I hope will remain my secret. But then again you know of it already, as I have referred to it as My Secret Provence several times in the past.
Sometimes a certain place calls to you and won’t let you go until you make it your own. It took us almost one year but that is what Remi and I have done. We stopped looking for houses and started focusing on the where. No, we didn’t buy but found a rental that makes me say, “Hello House,” each time that I walk in the open front door. I smile broadly as I open up the shutters to let the light in.
You will understand when you see it. But not yet. No, I won’t share until we are moved in. I am funny that way.
Until then, can you stand by me a little longer, even if I am silent? My trip to the States ended up being longer than I had planned and so now, despite fierce jet-lag, I am thrown into the thick of packing and renovating before the moving date of the 21st. I am honestly not certain how much I will be around before then. But please don’t go away, for a quiet slice of the real Provence awaits you…yes, it still exists…
Do you have your hand on the door handle? I do, all while looking over my shoulder with much Gratitude. Arles will always be here for me but now we are certain and ready to start a new adventure.
For those of you that are wondering, yes, Remi and the boys are doing just fine and were very happy to welcome me home, albeit one in transit. No more to say about that, I am looking forward.
For there are good things ahead, I feel it in my bones.
Have a wonderful weekend. Toast the Summer for me, will you? 

In the thyme field

It was our final morning at the mazet and Remi and I were both trying to gear ourselves up for the tasks of packing and cleaning before returning to Arles. The tension from Kipling’s escapade the night before still clouded the air. “Let’s go down to the thyme field,” Remi suggested. 

We had never seen anything quite like it, despite our many years of living in Provence. An actual field of thyme in bloom. 

And they weren’t the scraggly dusting of herbs de Provence that we find in the Alpilles but rather perfect bouquets that popped out of the ground as if a magician had pulled them out of a hat.

We sat down in the midst of it, each with our own cutting tools and slowly began to recueiller, to gather up our harvest.
I have long had a theory, a little private knowing, that the true scent of Provence is not the much ballyhooed and beloved lavender but her quieter cousin, the earthy thyme blossom.

Ben and Kipling agreed with me.
Our found treasure made returning to Arles all the merrier. We had a gift that would keep giving fresh memories of our time in the quiet countryside. In the days that it took for the buds to dry, the perfume kissed the tips of our noses.
It was Remi who thought to gently shake the bouquets over an open basket as we had seen done with grains in Africa. We spread them out again for several days, occasionally sifting the lot with our hands until they were ready, ready to be packed into sealed jars where they will bring summer breezes even when the winter Mistral howls.
A bit of simple happiness that lasts…
…until it doesn’t. 
But we know that thyme field will keep blooming year after year. Blooming for us, blooming for no one but there, ephemeral and yet true.

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