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I know a woman who often doesn’t wear her glasses on purpose. She admits that, “I don’t necessarily want to see everything clearly.” I pondered if that is denial or a form of protection but gave up trying to shuffle between the two. It is a wildly rebellious gesture in the frame of an otherwise play-by-the rules type of personage.

Do you remember half-shutting your eyes as a child and walking around with your arms out-stretched, rediscovering the known while you felt your way into the fuzz? Or even shutting them tight to let the sun burn stars onto your eyelids? We too then, weren’t so desperate for everything to be utterly outlined with a thin blade of black line that can often willingly fall into “Look Here. Believe This.” Maybe it is just a question of time. Now, we rush through without enough to blow smoke rings or briny bubbles, made out of all that is half-known. Lucky then–lucky then?–a keeper sweeps our steps from under our feet while we go, leaving a softer focus, a quieter show. 

I love to see synchronicity coursing through the internet, giving little zaps as it zips along. Fellow Provençale transplant Vicki Archer of French Essence asked the question today: “Do you take photographs in colour waves?” Beh oui, I do and some of my very favorite posts have come about from that line of sight. Not to mention, in the “Great Minds…” category (a-hem), I had already planned to share these emerald tainted photo slices. How do you like them apples? 

These were all taken on the same afternoon of our farewell luncheon in the Luberon, as I sucked in the sun with sweet contentment. Little did I know that they would end up being an Ode to the Spring that Never Came. Ooh spring, why do you hide? Why must I must painfully try to explain your absence like an unfaithful lover? Or something like that. For we have had nothing but rain and the temperatures are the coldest that they have been in years (“Je crois depuis les 1800 et quelques,” decried the gentle lady on the quay with her blind bloodhound baying at her side). Yesterday, Remi and I took a rare break at a café for our first “Monaco” of the season and the waiter announced that the temperature had dropped eleven degrees (Celsius) within the past two days. No wonder everyone was a-chooing around us. And sure as shootin’, when I took the pups out thirty minutes later, the sky chose that precise moment to open up and let go. Merci! 

Everyone is cranky, even Kipling, who is tired of me towel-drying the disco crimps on his ears. 

And me?

I am positively green. Green with what I will let you infer…all while wishing you a Bon Weekend…

The words just kept on flowing out. 

I was excited to be making the cross over with a blog acquaintance and her friend from the virtual world to reality, especially as it had popped out of the big blue. A little shy too because I am sometimes. And so the words kept coming out in an overflow, covering and revealing.

As grateful as I am for all of my contacts with the online community, I miss the simple joy of delighting in girlfriend time, especially with such a lovely and engaging duo. The expat community in Arles is tiny dots and so it is extremely rare that I sip San Pellegrino with women who speak the same language, have the same cultural references and laugh at the same second with an acknowledgement of a certain play on words. Face to face, seeing flickers of expression, I realize that many French women that I know keep a far more steely control and that the exchange is based more on dialogues than volleys.

This difference brewed like a wealth of communication in comparison on this particular rainy afternoon. A casual reassurance rested somewhere next to the straw on the table between us by just being present.

A bit like sunset up on the roof that spills the brim of its cup. And so were my words, pulling a string of scarves out of a silk top hat, to chase from red to pink to gold. Stories to tell and be heard. For once I will try not to worry if it was too much.

I woke up wondering. I remember that I am lucky but also that I feel what I know. A sugar sort of bittersweet overflow.

It is hard, nearly impossible, to think that we adopted Kipling four months ago. The scars tracing his belly where his horribly large intestinal hernia was repaired have healed and his coat has grown back fine, although not yet to his proud puffed chest of before. I see the time passing when I look into his eyes, those eyes that were closed tight to near slits with fear when we first met him and are now, only now, really open. Open with trust. It is beginning. And it feels wonderful. 

Remi and I still have peace to make with the fact that someone could abandon such a wonderful one. 

When he sneaks under the table at lunch and rests his head on my feet, I know that it is something that he did before, in his previous home. When he looks up at our bed with longing, I know that too is something he knew in his other life. So then, why?

It is a question I am trying to let go of as the now begins to balance the weights of his past. I see him learning the ropes, again, with us. When we are in the country, how proud he is when he remembers to come back to us as he will go far so far ahead, at times too far, in big circles to the side so that we wonder if he was used in hunting to flush out game. And certainly, he licks his lips at our towns pigeons and strains to reach the cats. He is no angel…

…nor devil either. We call him coquin or rascal, it was Remi who started it, just like he was the one to choose Kipling for the adventure of it all. For who knows what happened during those ten days while he was waiting for his owner to come out of the shopping center? His front teeth are broken, making it nearly impossible to know his age–did that happen then? But he has, amazingly, retained a sense of humor, one he is only beginning to show. He would make a fine poker player. 

All I know is that he remembers. I believe he would follow us to the ends of the earth. 

And Ben? Not to worry. Ben has all the love he has ever had…

…and is discovering what it is to have a copain to boot. For the first time. Learning the ropes. 

It is never too late.

Mais oui, you did not think that I could end there, did you? Really? No. Because you see…well, I am calling out to mes amis français…oui, je sais que vous êtes la grâce aux statistiques même si vous ne me communique pas! Vous êtes nombreuses en plus…Are there any of you who would be interested in adopting this fine gentleman? His name is Lou and although he is ten, he is in fine form…Just think of all of the love that he could give! Look at that perfect Golden smile…I know that he is a special boy and if I didn’t live in an apartment in town I would go all Bruce Weber and adopt a brood. For their love is spectacular I have to say….Camille, who told us about Kipling says that he is a sweetheart that gets along with everyone and everything.

If you are interested in having more information about Lou, please see: Here.

Many thanks to my friend at teamgloria for mentioning Kiplings adoption today. You can see her lovely portraits of her friend Richard and his Golden, Diego: Here.

For those of you that missed it, I guest-posted on the lovely idea of “Provence Time” chez the brilliant D. A. Wolf’s “Daily Plate of Crazy”: Here.

And for my friends in the States that are commemorating Memorial Day, I was deeply moved by the tribute that my friend NK wrote, especially as she is par norm a brilliant comedic writer so this is all the more surprising and beautiful: Here.

Am I the only one that talks to trees? I don’t think so but just the act of tip, tap typing that question makes me realize the oddballity of it. 

But I believe in them. As in have Faith.

We spied the row of oaks outside of Simiane-la-Rotonde and were drawn to them, moth to a flame.

“C’est les centenaires,” Banco, the owner of La Buissonade, our cottage rental explained. He knows. He walks this land every day with his dog at his side.

 

Centuries old. 

So much life has passed by its bark, so many storms and flitting butterflies.

The sun was starting to slide as we found the path that lead to them. A path they lined, that had once lead to somewhere. A home, a chapel, a forgotten village.

The largest oak looked even more alive than it was, as if it could wrap its branches around me with a wap and I’d be gone. So I told it thank you for standing guard, solid strong for all of this time…

…here where the wild things are.

I want to extend a sincere thank you to all of you that responded to my previous post either in the comments or by email. What an amazing community and I feel grateful to be a reason for such fine minds to come together.

Wishing you all a wonderful weekend.

UPDATE: Hello there! If you are seeing this on Sunday, I am delighted to be guest-posting over a the truly amazing D.A. Wolf’s “Daily Plate of Crazy” on the idea of Provence Time…liking that concept? I thought that you would!

The link is Here.