home to France

It’s too late to write. What am I doing? The white glow from the computer is the only light in the room.  My mind is full. I think I’ll go back to France for the night. Come along for the ride if you will.

The flight is long. It always is. Not in hours; in anticipation. I listen to the voices around me and do my best to nod, pout my lips, and keep quiet. I want Les Francais to think I am one of them for as long as I can. When I have to speak, I do my very best accent of oui and non.

I look out the window and see it approaching. Butterflies. The wheels descend. We touch down. Immediately, I feel home.  My heart feels a certain peace, there is a warm rush in my gut and I smile. 

I walk outside and feel the sun on my face, drop my bags and just stay still for a moment. The sun seems a little warmer here in southern France. I look about and smirk at all of the small colorful cars I love whizz by. Even the street signs are more gladdening to me, with bright blue arrows instead of our stodgy rectangles. 

I get to my flat in the village, up a winding cobblestone street. The shutters, a shade of turquoise are wide open letting in the balmy mistral winds, the floor, a terracotta mosaic is beauty understated. The patisserie is down a charming fleur framed block, and la fromagerie is down another. Café’s line the streets, never seeming to close and animals are always welcome at all. Trees canopy me as I walk along narrowing paths and passerby’s really do carry baguettes in their armpits on their way home for family dinner.

I venture out to the countryside and watch as the sunflowers raise their head to sun in the morning and bow their heads in the evening as faithful parishioners. I walk out to the fields and get lost in them, the stalks taller than me. There is an absolute enchantment in being immersed in the reeds, entangled in their grace. In the distance I see the proud, rugged Montagne Sainte Victoire reaching into the heavens with its vibrant, varying hues from limestone, clay, and Cypress friends.

Fast forward to the lavender fields. I can always smell its sweet perfume in the breeze, the thyme and rosemary mélange. My eyes look as far as they can and see only a blur of violet haze, in the tiers of a maze. My hands float atop the sea of buds as my fingers grab a bunch and pull gently. The scent lingers on my skin. My eyes happily squint from the golden sun resting in the cobalt sky, as picturesque as the day Van Gogh and Cezanne painted it. To be under the same sky, shielded by the same sun, walking the same streets is all but surreal.

It is extraordinary here, my sanctuary, my home.

I do not want to go back. Not yet.

But it is late. Next time I will go back to the market place and sit for a moment in the hall of my favorite cathedral...

For now, I must return to my waking life, and leave my home behind. 

xmas morning

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. Love those lyrics. Love the song. Christmas carols in general are lofty in their own right. They ooze a certain magic.

Turns out Boston got a white Christmas after all this year. I exaggerate. The most gentle and slight of snowflakes fall, but see them I do...and one or two is better than none at all.

This morning I'm plagued with deletism. I write, perhaps too honestly...overcome by the Christmas spirit, or...simply me, and...press delete. We are not that acquainted I do believe. I was divulging my Christmas wishes...well, other than human kindness spread through the world like disease, and a peace almost unrecognizable. Yet I withhold my own wishes and prayers as I oft do...for they are my own. And they will come to fruition in due time as long as I hold on to the things I must...and keep my joy bright.

"O Tidings of comfort and joy!"

MerrY...JoLLy...ChriStmas

santa's change up

Today was the day. Everyone would be expecting him. Gosh he loathed his job. He didn’t see the point anyway. There was no gratitude, no real gratitude anyway. No one ever really came up to him directly and said, “you know, you do a fine job, thank you.” For a split second, the thought of not going hustled though his head, but he knew too much was at stake. Begrudgingly, he put on his tattered coat, his hefty boots, and his old headpiece. He thought to himself, I can’t even get a new suit? This one has been around for ages!

There were strings loose and pins sticking out. The material was starting to get itchy. He scratched and scratched some more, then murmuring under his breath, just deal with it, ha! I’ll show them deal with it! Just then, he took off his faded red coat with sullied white fluffy piping and threw it to the floor. “I’m wearing what I want to wear this year!” Chris huffed. He stormed into his closet and stared at his clothes, mostly red, greed, and…and wait…there was something blue hiding in the back that caught his eye. Aha! He snatched the blue dazzler, not caring what it was and pulled it over his head. “Perfect.”

He put his hand to his chin, tapping his finger on it a few times. “And now, pants.” How about these, he murmured to himself, as he pulled out some acid wash jeans. And there Chris stood wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. It wasn’t until he looked in the mirror that he realized what the shirt said, “I’m with stupid.” He, He, He, Chris laughed. He had forgotten the Mrs. brought it back for him when she went to Vegas while the two were on a "break." Splendid. "But I can’t do tonight without my hat," he whispered to himself concertedly. Finishing the ensemble, he placed his his favorite threadbare, red pointy cap on his newly dyed, brown hair. This will be a Christmas to remember, Santa said with effect. I’m doing things my way. I’m shaking things up. 

He took out his polaroid and called for Blitzen.

mojo

It seems of late I’ve lost my mojo. I had no idea the declaration of my sin--the taking of a bedfellow, to Insomnia would cause so much damage to our relationship. Everything is topsy-turvy around the hiz-house, and I’m none too pleased. The hard lesson learned: be careful what you wish for. Though I only asked for brief relief, and I’m quoting verbatim. Mr. Nocturnal and I no longer share the same sofa and Insomnia won’t even glance my way. As a result, I’ve lost my mojo, my words, the very thing that pulses through me, that maintains…me. So I sit and stare at you blank screen, we’ve done our thing before, and inspiration undulates…but it’s not enough. 9:57. Tick. 9:58. Tock. I hear you. It is early. I will wait for you if I must...

------------------------------------------- 

She opened her eyes to the darkness falling and heard the faint whirring motor at her feet. He felt her stirring and clumsily climbed up the middle line of her legs, then her chest, and plopped himself down right under her nose and nuzzled himself in the crook of her neck. She snickered and moved her head to the side, itching her nose from the tickle of his whiskers, and placed her hand on his body, petting him only once before drifting back asleep. What seemed like moments later, he began to grow restless. He tried curling up by her side, almost in a perfect circle, and then sprawled on his back all the way at the edge of the bed again.  But he wasn’t comfortable or tired. He had slept long enough. And just then, his ears perked, sensing someone was coming, could hear footsteps on the the stairs. 

"What is it Wrinkle?" She said startled.

glimpse

“No, no, no, this is how you do it,” and her little body wriggled and shook, mimicking the moves of the Macarena. "Brava Little One," J said, loading the groceries into the car. "Let’s go guys! I’m freezing," hollered another voice already waiting in her seat. “And, that’s not how you do it!”

It is cold isn’t it? Drawing the sides of her inflated winter coat together and whisking up Little One, she softly whispered, I love your Macarena. Little One, beamed. “I’ll show you the whole entire thing later,” and began humming, nun-nun-nuh-nuh-hey-Macarena. AYE-AYE!

"Ughhh. Would you stop!" Snarled Kid. J glanced in the rear view mirror to Kid, smiling big enough so that she could recognize it in the way the wrinkles gathered in the corner of her eyes and gave a wink just for her, then reaching her hand back and placing it on her calf, she gently stroked her leg, calming her. And now both faces meeting in the mirror and a silent pact between them with nothing but the Macarena in the background. AYE, AYE!

conversation clutter

PEYTON: I love this song; can you turn it up? This is our favorite song right now, right?

ME: (Tunes now cranked) Love it. Remember we couldn’t figure out the words but Sara was actually right about them?!

SARA: (Off in her own world…tuning in on the last words…) No! I don’t have anything to write today.

PEYTON: Outburst of laughter and uncontrollable comments.

ME: Silent snickering. Don’t worry Sara. I will check if you have homework.

SARA: (Very defensive) I don’t! I don’t have anything to write!

PEYTON: Still cracking up. No you don’t get it. She was saying you were right.

SARA: No you don’t get it. I don’t have anything to write!

ME: Cracking up. Uncontrollably. Neither of them get it (but a lesson on homonyms is not my aim at the moment).

letter of sorts

Sleep eludes me. Encore. And I say that in my very best droll French accent. I'm not sure why; blame it on delirium. In fact at this stage, all of life's musings seem to blur into a haze. As an act of desperation, I can think of nothing else to do but write to her majesty herself, Insomnia, and plea for my repose, in hopes she will be so kind to grant me even one day of partial shut-eye.

Dearest Insomnia,

Treasured companion of mine, how I know of your intentions. To your disappointment, my every whizzing thought is hardly catchable however. I do believe if we met somewhere in the middle, I would be more productive on the next round. Hear me out? Without you love, I wouldn't be, I couldn't be...my words simply couldn't parade together. It is in your wake I do my work, but your constant and incessant supervision is growing weary and, sadly, our relationship is becoming sour these days. And, if I may, while I'm being honest about matters, Mr. Nocturnal and I have been seeing each other behind your back to make up for your tyrannical ways. I'm sorry. I'm only asking for relief, brief relief...if you could be so kind. Let me close my eyes, let my mind be quiet: no stories, no thoughts, no needing to jump up and write down an idea, no toss, no turn, just still. I have about an hour and half left dear, what do you say...shall we?

Most probably forever yours,

jess

close call

I'm no Ebenezer. In fact, the smell of fresh pine (or even pine candles for that matter) just gets me all Christmassy. But, this Elf on the Shelf business makes me a little wary. For those not in the know, here's the lowdown: A scout Elf is sent to a family via Barnes and Noble, whereupon he or she (let's be politically correct here) is named and adopted. From that moment on, the elf is not be touched or it will lose its magic and cannot report its findings to Santa...namely, whether that child has been naughty or nice that particular day.

True parents, this is a genius tool to manipulate your children into good behavior for 25 days or so, ("ah ah ah, the elf is watching"), but it's a bit melodramatic. Part of the magic of Christmas lies in our imaginations...in the, what we don't see and never do. The reindeer we think we hear prancing on the roof, just missing Santa slipping up the chimney, or cookie crumbs left messily on the plate. Do we really need such an elf? It's cute idea in theory. It's made a bang for its buck...great for commercial America. But flawed in my traditional, perhaps simple opinion.

The other day I took the kids into the mecca bookstore as we often do...to read, chill in comfy oversized chairs, browse.

To what to their wondering eyes did appear? A whole wall full of elves covered in decorative plastic...that's what.

Much to their surprise. No. That's not the word. Shock, stun...and it was then did I witness Christmas spirit almost make a grand exit with childhood innocence trailing behind it.

"Jessica, what's that? How did they do that?" Why is our elf in so many boxes? Why is he in this STORE? Doesn't he live at the North pole with Santa or at a kid's house??!?" Insert nervous laughter.

(Fear sets in. Eyes widen.) They look to me for answers.

And I scramble. And scramble some more.

And I rest my case. But it bears repeating...

It really is our on-the-inside that holds all things beautiful. The things we do not see so readily.

I cleaned up the mess and we made it out alive. Upon return, I gave into the shpeel, gave our elf a hug for good measure and comfort, let them see he's loved and perhaps has feeling (adults are allowed to, fear not). Yet in a world where so much seems to be tactile, it feels good to know at this time all true warm and fuzzies come from somewhere inside, hidden from view...unless of course you're of this generation and are fed the tangible daily concept that $29.99 elves are reporting back to Santa and if you're not "good," he won't bring you any toys...er...Harsh.

"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye." Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince