Lost in Arles

Love like this - a visit with my Mom

2021-07-11T13:01:00.000+02:00

I have a favour to ask of you.

This is a really simple post. And long, so please feel free to get whatever sounds wonderful to accompany it...

I just hope for one thing...

Will you share my joy?

I believe you will see why that is important to me...

My Mom turned 75 on June 2nd.

Her fabulous husband, Leonard, my Buddy, gave us both the finest of gifts in the form of a plane ticket.

On faith, my Mom went ahead and bought it, even though it wasn't yet clear when Americans would be let it. It was divine timing and what they could afford.

I don't know what took over me when I saw her through the other side of the glass doors after two long and tumultuous years. For I started jumping up and down with my arms up-stretched in the air, a V for victory to be united again. "Mom! Mom!" I yelled. As she came through, I ran into her arms and held her so tightly, crying hard with relief to see her again. My beautiful, amazing, elegant yet hysterically funny Mom.

We ushered her off to a sea-side café as she had requested a glass of rosé and a tangy lemon crêpe. The terrasse was incredibly loud, the casual cigarette smoke burnt our nostrils and yet it seemed so appropriate. She was finally here. Her version of the exaggerated Frenchy face came out quickly. And so we laughed. When she got stuck getting out of the car when we arrived in Avignon, we did so too.

And yet she never wants to waste time with jet-lag. It simply does not bite her like the rest of us.

And so I should have know better. That she would pick up again even that first night.

But it still surprised me that she wanted to ride on the massive Ferris Wheel, 50 yards high, that has been installed for the summer a few steps from my apartment.

Many of us have inexplicable phobias. Since childhood, mine has been precisely to be in such unsecured heights. And yet I can her refuse her nothing. I breathed through it and remembered what it was like, at nearly 52, to lean on my Mom's shoulder for assurance and comfort. It worked.

And so it would continue to be.

My Mom knows Provence well from having visited over the years. Often she would be dragged to and fro to see lovely sights but this time was far different. All she / I wanted to do, especially amidst the strange and still present spectre of COVID, was just to enjoy. To connect.

And so we gathered our days around what we felt like eating. We would talk until 2am and sleep late. Again, my Mom has always been a wonderful traveller and yet something that touched me so much this time was how willing she was to adjust. While I was obsessing over her every word ("Fries, Mom? You said fries? I will find you the best fries in Provence!"), she was content to just roll with what was on hand and to accept, graciously what was offered.

I will write another post about one very special meal that we experienced to celebrate her birthday but my Mom and I are the same in that the most elegant does not necessarily bring the most joy. This is, after all, the woman who has the best food radar that I have ever seen...who will sweetly lead me down a snaky alley in New Orleans for no other reason than if she feels there is a wonderful snack to be had.

So happiness is as happiness does and one of our most perfect meals was at the invitation of my dear friend, Sandro.

I know that not all of you are on Instagram but I write about him a lot there. He is like family to me, along with his beautiful companion Valentina and his business partner Pasquale. As the feeling is mutual, Sandro took it as rather a matter of pride, I think, to invite my Mom and I to lunch. He saved one of his two tables outside and spoiled us with organic Prosecco and the best pizza in the South of France. All with so much laughter and joking on a gorgeous little mini piazza, it was delightful. He and my Mom have that exact same super fast sense of humour that I am so jealous of...so now she is a part of Sandro's family too. Such an incredible sense of quiet but deeply felt joy.

(Mom, if Leonard is upset about this photo, I can testify! )

And then we went to Arles.

It was surprising to be back there. My heart yelped a bit. But it was the only place that my Mom had specifically asked to see and so we went. Oh my, to be "home" again.

Of course, I had prepared many foodie suggestions...but after a surprising shun at the Hotel Voltaire (by someone I know on top of it), we were mounting the side of the Arênes when we saw a gorgeous plate pass by at a café that I had always given up to be a poor touristy compromise. We both took notice and looked at each other, food radars blaring. And this is how we discovered Saveurs et Terroirs.

It's an interesting but a long story. The main idea is this: that the owner got tired of pandering to tourists and started to cook again. I would have never have gone there previously (think blue slushy machines) and yet we did and the experience was so charming, in no little debt to Jamel, our server. He took me aside as I was paying and said, "It does my heart good to see a Mom and a daughter so close. It is not everyone, you know." I know, Jamel, I do.

I ran into many old acquaintances and marvelled over recent additions, such as the spectacular Museon Arlatan, which has been closed for an eleven year long renovation (and it is definitely a must-see).

While we were eating the lavender honey ice cream at Arelatis, my Mom plopped a fluffy feather on my head, as one does, and more silliness ensued. Afterwards, I called Taco et Co, a long-standing tuk-tuk institution in Arles to take us out for a swoop around the new star, the Fondation LUMA.

Yes...my long-term readers (who are about 90% of you!) will remember this project, one that I have been following since 2007. With my ex, we opened our gallery in anticipation of its arrival. Alas, way too soo. I will do another post on the LUMA because there is much, much to share (even if my Mom and I arrived the DAY before opening!) but the Frank Gehry designed tower did not disappoint.

Despite some of the new arrival hullabaloo - as sadly experienced over snobby and poor service at the Hotel Arlatan (some of you will remember that my old house lines their pool) - Arles is always Arles and honestly my spirit really did leap at the return. I understand why I have been avoiding it because of past pain but the future is pushing forth and through.

Could I live there again? Could I find a job to welcome me at my age despite this ancient cit's newfound hipster status?

We talked about all of this. Where am I going. Over delicious plates in gorgeous environments.

"I understand why you are here, Heather," she said. "Other people don't but I do."

It stopped me cold. I love her so. I wonder if what I am doing is for the best for me or not.

It is love like this that makes you appreciate simply being alive.
I haven't always, in this past year, or at times have struggled mightily with the idea.

But with my Mom, my family, my heart rings true.

She has changed, you know.

Always a great beauty, she is less worried about her looks and it only makes her more beautiful.

She is more relaxed and it puts everyone around her at ease.

A woman good in her skin, as they say here in France.

Her joy ...how could I not laugh? How could I not try to make her laugh in return?

This rare moment of just us two, a mere five and a half days together, was monumental in its perspective shifting in my heart.

Yes, she kept being so wonderfully funny despite the rats at our hotel the last night in Marseille. Yes, rats! I stomped after them on the terrace even while the waiters were shamelessly trying to pick me up. France through and through. From beginning to end.

Just look at her here. That last morning at the airport and still delighting over one final (very good) croissant.

My Mom was the first to show me how to overcome very difficult times after my Dad's passing and she still is such an incredible inspiration today. 75 never looked so good, it's true...but such a truly fine heart is ageless.

I love you so much, Mom.

****

And so my friends, the favour that I asked of you. To just share the joy.

Did you feel it?

How I hope that we have had this together.

And will continue to do so...

Thank you for being here,

Love

Heather

One of the most beautiful apartments in Provence, home to two of the most lovely people...

2021-05-16T20:17:00.000+02:00

"We want to throw a feast, just for you."

My wonderful friends, John and Camy Cooney, proposed me this. The know very well how I have been struggling with my day job and that it has been breaking my spirit down. Also, that I am literally exhausted. And so they invited me to their sanctuary in Apt, overnight, to breathe, let my hair down and laugh with this couple who I love so much.

And yet it was my first time to visit. Well, these past few years have been complicated because of COVID and my friends have been rightfully precautious. Like me, they are private people who are not out "looking for the likes" (aka Instagram) but have a genuine appreciation for our Provence. When we first met in 2019 over lunch at my beloved Le Violette, I knew as soon as I sat down at the table that these were people with whom I hoped to be in contact with for a very long time.

I wish that you could have seen my face as John pushed open the heavy, ancient doors to their apartment. I stepped into the light, literally and was beaming. I know my décor here well in Provence, the codes and traces whisper or shout. We, too, are old friends. I could not believe the creak of the wooden floors, in patterns only built for royalty in the South, where such adherence shown through architecture is most rare. Certainly as in the former entry to the oldest part of the building, which has been transformed to one of the most romantic bedrooms that I have seen anywhere, so much so that my hands shook in taking the photos of their incredible ciel lit polonaise.

Admittedly, my hands also were a bit weak as we sat down to lunch at 3pm (after a problem with a bus that did not arrive, this too is Provence, also handled with such grace by my hosts). I had to cup my coupe with both hands as I am a redhead who needs to eat! But oh, how it was worth the "effort" to sip a fabulous Moët et Chandon, the first in many years. Equally, it has been quite a moment since I have braved oysters after a troubling incident. These along with the meaty shrimps bordering along gambas, were divine.

As the bubbles rised before the food fully hit my belly, I made a declaration: "You know...you two should be complete and utter assholes." Please forgive my language but I know our expat community well. Take a peek down at the photo of them below. They are beautiful, if not rich (as they insist) then wise investors, both with amazing careers, so deeply funny and real. And they have this apartment too. Just look at it. And feel the good, great vibe.

After a twilight sieste, we finished off our dinner of lamb in pesto with "crack" potatoes (I dream of it all still). I laughed so hard and forgot my hard job. At one moment Camy and I were lying on her bed and we giggled over things never to be shared elsewhere. I crossed the garden to my very own room and slept for once, the sleep of kings. Or queens.

A feast so well done in such a welcoming home...or kingdom.

As long as we know each other - and I hope that it is for the rest of our lives - I will never forget this.

Love you both.

Me, the eternal insomniac...I literally had not slept so well in years.

They spoiled me until the very last moment...taking me to the bus.

We waited for its arrival without so many words as many had been said.

I forget why I am here. You reminded me, my friends.

With Love from Provence,

Heather

Writing a Love Letter...for me.

2021-04-11T20:13:00.009+02:00

My darling, my most beautiful,

It is the middle of the night. I should have been in bed long ago but I cannot help but write.

For you see, I want you to have these words. And only letters they might be, scratched out with a long-tipped pen and yet they are indelible, something that you can keep.

Forever. Like a locket around your neck. Or a perfume on your skin.

Do you remember? I want to tease you a little bit, to play a trick, to see how far back your memory goes.

For I can see you now as you were then. When nothing of life's disappointments and surprises had not yet touched you.

What joy shone from your eyes. Do you remember what that felt like? That one odd summers day when you let yourself dance in the rain because it was the only thing to do?

I do. Pure and whole and shining brighter than the sun under those drops like diamonds because wonder filled your body, young and lithe.

So alive. This is still who you are. This will always be who you are.

I have a favour to ask of you. Just in this moment, can you put your hand over your heart for me? Either hand, no matter.

And now, what does it feel like if you close your eyes and listen? To hear with your ears, yes, but also with your emotions. Because I am here for you, as you breathe, to hold anything that arrives.

Those disappointments and awkward moments. The things that you lambasted as failures. I know. They made you want to hide but no chérie, please don't.

Because when it all comes down to it...our bodies may change, our hopes and desires...but what is at the base of all that is your heart, our heart my dear one.

We may gain too much weight or lose too much. Our bodies and eyes, those captors of dreams, may sag. But we do not.

Can you hear me, my love? Can you feel me embracing you as needed, exactly as you are?

You deserve no less, for despite your challenges and growing even when you thought that you had passed such an age, here we are.

I need you to take care of yourself, in the big and the small. Yes, we once walked across Manhattan in a snow storm to buy ourselves the only gift that we could afford at Tiffany's because we knew we deserved it and wear it still. It was Valentine's Day and there was no lover in sight.

Yes, when we can we spread the best ointments on our skin as a gesture that is hopeful to continue. We listen to jazz.

How it moves me when you, the best of me, hears me singing Sarah Vaughan.

I am writing this letter to promise you, my one of all ages, that I love you.

Not only the idea of me, the one they tend to fall for, but the real entire.

I will ask my last favour but pay attention even if it seems too simple. We both know that life is rarely such and yet, possibly, oh so giving. Can you, my dear, upon waking say (either out loud or to your inward heart) five things that you like about yourself? Can it become a ritual that you create everyday so that no one else defines you but you? For there is infinite delight in your waking, each breath.

Just like the dawn I find before me now.

How beautiful you are. I close my eyes knowing this to be true.

I love you.

-Me.

A song to listen to.

*****

My Mom, who is biased but not as much as you might think, believes that the above is one of the better things that I have written.

Admittedly, I was relieved to hear it as this was a commission from someone whom I have incredible respect for, Victoria Fantauzzi, one of the co-founders of La Bella Figura Beauty.

“I have never felt that we’re just a brand. We’re educators, artists, environmentalists and women with vision. We don’t isolate ourselves into believing that we only bring one thing to the table. There is a diversity of talent within our company and I think that's what it takes to build a team. We’re a library of resources and I want to reflect that into everything we do.”

I love her above quote and I most certainly do think of her as an artist. I was moved to tears by smelling "Love" one of her current trilogy of perfumes, Love, Loss and Lust. She and her partner Karen King search the world for the very finest ingredients for their products. It is who they are.

I first connected with Victoria through our mutual friend, Jamie Beck, who is a muse for the house and the inspiration behind the brands best-selling (as in each batch is sold out within 24 hours) illuminating rose oil. I watched an Instagram live between them and wondered who is this whirlwind Victoria?

So, yes, I was deeply moved when she asked if I could write a love letter. Of course I could and when I sat down to do so, I instinctively understood that what she was asking for was actually a love letter to myself. My friends...this was no easy feat for me. I have been through so much, my confidence has been so beaten down.

And yet, I found that if we all listen deeply to the heart of who we are...well, that goes far beyond the surface of whatever particular changes or personalities we might be inhabiting at the moment. I spoke to the truest of myself here. And I know that person to be good.

These photos were taken with wonder in my eyes on a random spring day.

May we all feel that when we can.

*Those of you who have been reading me for a long time know that I never do sponsored posts. It was I who asked permission to share this letter with you. *

I offer such love as hope to you on this new moon which is all about new beginnings.

It is never, ever too late to begin again as long as hope lives.

I believe in myself as I do in the blossoms, in the changing sky and that is a start.

With much Love from a luckily expanding heart,

Bisous from Provence, springing eternal,

Heather

Flowers like warriors

2021-03-11T19:42:00.000+01:00

She was walking towards me like a soldier. So upright with two greatly wrapped packages of flowers clasped within her right arm tightly, an orange Hermès scarf (the signature colour of the maison) hung in loose folds, perfectly aligned to shroud her cashmere kissed neck.

"Bonjour," I began with a friendly head tilt...Already she was surprised, ready to stride by this unknown person but she glanced at my Sonia Rykiel bag, a totem from another time and so allowed my gaze as such to settle while I continued in my most carefully articulated French, "Excuse me, but where did you buy those flowers?"

You see, I was in need of such flowers because I was in need of Spring. Hungry for it actually and nothing that I had in my current pharmacy - no music, no spices added to eggs, no charming flirtation would do.

She again eyed the clues of my outwardly presentation to see what what would do as an introductory phrase. "Well. There is a man who sells these. I think that he as already left his usual spot. On the Place des Corps Saints..."

"Oh, the kind man with the cart?" I exhaled with a bit of a relief. She looked again at my handbag once more.

"Yes." Pause. "But he must be gone from there by now. If you are lucky you might find him in front of the Rue de la République. Perhaps in front of Sephora."

I found that latter bit of information a bit dubious or worse, an insult. Something of a worm on a line to an American fish in warm water. But, after a quick merci, I followed the bait to the store (with a gaggle of sparkly face masked adolescents waiting in front due to COVID) but he was not there. Without success and yet curiosity lifted, I continued on towards his usual address. I am not often wrong with my instinctual GPS.

And yet, no. But yet, yes? For out of the corner of my eye (quite literally), I spied a swirl of colour, floral through and through in a side street two steps beyond.

Think of his cart as if it were a very large dining room table, one punctuated with iron vases holding nothing but the most glorious flowers. He is a known figure in Avignon. As he does not have the expense of renting a shop, he can offer so much beauty at a lesser price, all while reeling it around, charming the passerby.

Surprisingly, his cart was pushed up entirely against the entry of a Creole takeaway shop. Reggae was pulsing beyond the counter. He was chatting busily with two other customers, both female, already clutching bouquets. Each were sipping out of tiny plastic cups.

I took a turn around the cart, sizing up the options that were available in equation with my desire. I am a white flower woman usually as they bring me much needed peace but on this day his light pink roses gave me the bisous that I needed them to.

"Can you forgive me for interrupting your coffee break long enough so that I might buy this bouquet?" I offered. I know very well in France, even after all these years, that I might well be met with a very hard refusal. A "non."

"You could but as I am not drinking coffee that would be complicated." He offered this calmly but his two other clients began to giggle.

"It is Ti-punch. Do you you know it?" he asked. Indeed I did, having tasted it in Cayenne in the French Amazon. It brings quite a hit, that spiced rhum. And true, sometimes we need this particular heat now, in some form or the other. A swift kick of feeling to remember and not to forget.

While I declined his offer, I held within me that gesture of kindness as I headed home, roses tucked down-facing under my arm. So big as to be superfluous and slightly preposterous. "These are Liza Minelli roses," I thought. "End of a long show hardness...yet still here." Then I hummed a bit from "Cabaret." It might have been, "Maybe this time."

The paper rustled, the thorns pricked. There was a barely perceptible waft of the petaled perfume.

Once in the door, I cut the package open and it felt like I was doing the same to my heart. These flowers like warriors, coaxing me forward. Not yet towards hope but just on to the next day when that might seem a little less of an insult to the current state of affairs. A stern statement of pink propaganda propped in an antique vase.

Each morning upon waking I glance over to their shadowy forms in the half dark to see if their heavy heads have fallen. Not yet, not yet, not yet. And so I pull myself up from under the covers to make my coffee. To start the day and so doing, begin again.

You can hear an audio recording of the above post: here.

This seems such an incredibly odd moment as we accept that we have been through an entire year of COVID and that we are the very lucky ones to have survived. For many of us, we are only really beginning to understand the heft of that now. Plus all that we have lost - or no - otherwise.

There are no simple words that can make anything right again save our intentions which may drive us.

Please, I ask of me and of us all...may we find our way to believe. In such small moments, we strengthen an undeniable truth that there is still good to be found. May we try.

Soon to come, gently, maybe or not...we can ask what we might have gained.

With all of my love to you.

Be kind, be safe, be well. Be you.

- Heather

Delicate strong

2021-03-01T20:17:00.000+01:00

Delicate. We are as delicate as this bud. I forget that sometimes as I warrior on, that my body is what is actually advancing me through on a very literal level. No matter what my emotions or intentions, my body does the work.

A few evenings ago, it was raining softly, the pavement sleek and glistening. My foot slid across a steel manhole cover. I lost my balance and slapped to the ground, hard. A tiny woman, bound in black, dropped her groceries and came to me at a run. I stared at her, incomprehensibly. "You must get up now," she stammered. "Let me help you up." She offered her hands. They seemed detached from her body but willing. I gave my head one long shake, gasped a breath and took her fingers in mine.

She offered to walk me to where I was going but thankfully the shock was fading, my wits were returning, albeit surreptitiously. I declined, thanking this stranger profusely for the kindness of connection. Of one human being looking out for the other. And then she was gone, disappeared into the veil of rain.

Again a breath, stronger this time, one that allowed me to take stock. My right knee was burning but my jeans weren't ripped, my right wrist was throbbing and there was a cut on my left palm...but that was it. No real damage. It was just a fall, finally. I fished for a tissue in my pocket and patted at the blood.

My favourite security guard at the grocery store greeted me with his usual elbow bump and reassuring smile. I don't know his name, nor he mine but over this past year we have grown to having a quick check-in upon seeing each other. In the worst of the first lockdown, to ward off fear, we would build up each other's confidence by saying, "We are still alive!" And yes we are, still. What grace, what gratitude lies within that now. Sometimes he will wink when he says it. Somehow there is an understanding between us. We both sense that we are, for different reasons, lucky.

Coffee, wine and cheese...the French necessities. I could not leave without them and began to limp slightly as I made my way home. It was not until the next morning, pausing on the steps up to my mezzanine, that a deep twinge made me rethink what it is to have health and how incredibly challenging it must be to live with physical pain on a regular basis.

"Thank you, my body."

It was a sort of prayer. Thank you for all that you have seen me through. When I have fallen to the floor from heartbreak, my heart/our heart did not stop to beat. I got up again. So while we may be delicate and capable of bruises, how too we can sing, readily with the sweet sap of spring. Arriving.

Hello my friends. My apologies for those of you who come here for the photography...there is more coming! I just have not dealt with it yet but it has felt really wonderful to start taking photos again. For now there are words and well-wishes within them.

I am sending much Love and Gratitude.

May we stay strong and loving and kind.

Heather

Blackened gold

2021-01-15T21:40:00.002+01:00

The gates were open, then brutally, closed.

My burnished heart had sung to you; longing despite the heavy weight of memory.

There was a willingness to risk even while uncertain that nothing can last beyond what is inherently broken.

I tried. Freedom, I tried to not say "Good" nor "Evil." To have empathy, to live compassion.

"Don't point the finger. Do not lay the blame."

But my eyes cannot take back the violence that I have witnessed, one incited under a vile guise. I replay the tapes incessantly.

Beating, laughing, beating.

This is also who we are. But not who we have to be.

The ultimate division is not moral, finally but a chasm within our collective humanity warmed and waiting.

"Love" is no liar but now I remember "Hatred" - that fire-breather, roiling, so quick to claim.

How many tears I cry in the shadow of the gallows.

My soul is blackened gold.

Bitter yet bright shards remain.

You may find a spoken version of this post here.

And please do see below.

Thank you for reading this far.

I was deeply inspired to write this after the attempted coup of January 6th not only after finding one burnt out window in the streets of Avignon but more by one of my favourite stories by a great teacher, Tara Brach:

"The Golden Buddha: Remembering Our True Nature

One of the stories I’ve always loved took place in Asia. There’s a huge statue of the Buddha. It was a plaster and clay statue, not a handsome statue, but people loved it for its staying power. About 13 years ago, there was a long dry period and a crack appeared in the statue. So the monks brought their little pen flashlights to look inside the crack — just thought they might find out something about the infrastructure. When they shined the light in, what shined out was a flash of gold — and every crack they looked into, they saw that same shining. So they dismantled the plaster and clay, which turned out to be just a covering, and found that it was the largest pure solid gold statue of the Buddha in all of southeast Asia.

The monks believed that the statue had been covered with plaster and clay to protect it through difficult years, much in the same way that we put on that space suit to protect ourselves from injury and hurt. What’s sad is that we forget the gold and we start believing we’re the covering — the egoic, defensive, managing self. We forget who is here. So you might think of the essence of the spiritual path as a remembering — reconnecting with the gold . . . the essential mystery of awareness."

We may feel burnt (I have honestly been very down and I am worried about the days to come) but we still have light within us.

I am holding on to it tightly. And will try to share it forth.

With great Love and Gratitude,

Be well. Stay safe. Be kind.

xo Heather

Swans

2021-01-03T20:11:00.001+01:00

I stepped onto the bridge. The sky was grey, the air cold but humid. My hair was sticking to my scalp under my wool bonnet. I folded into myself, boney arms dangling and walked out midway to gaze.

This New Year's Eve, I was longing for a view.

How it felt to breathe in openness after having been so constricted. These months which passed without passage. But the summit of the Mount Ventoux in the distance was shrouded in fog or perhaps falling snow. So I inhaled and let my eyes go soft with lack of focus. It was definitely not the first time I had found myself here. A kind of cure. Or a cure of kindness, much needed.

This past year, 2020, was my year of Solitude. The Great Battle of Isolation, one could say.

How do I dare to make a comment of it when so many have lost so much more than I?

And yet, there were times, in all honesty, when I felt that the pillars of the necessity of my existence had crumbled. I stayed for community, for my beautiful family foremost and the tiny gleams of searching that let me believe deeply that I was not done yet.

Everything is relative. We choose to forget, or to remember, all the time.

What is astonishing is the part of our hearts - my heart - that signals the beauty of life no matter what. How it keeps our blood pulsing on. If we are so lucky as to be able to pay attention to its call.

So that particular afternoon, I lifted my gaze and focused.

And there, just beyond, floating underneath the last arches of the broken Pont d'Avignon, I saw two white sparks. My eyesight, which had always been impeccable until this year, made me question but yes, there they were. Two white swans. A pair for life.

There are never, ever, swans upon this stretch of the Rhône.

And this, finally, was the recognition of what I had been listening to since the Solstice. Initial whispers to be heard of a shift and yet of something, finally, moving as strongly as the current of the river rushing below. Light like hope amidst all uncertainty. All inhumanity. Such a contrast against the shadows love brings.

Will those swans, with their exaggerated elegance but also biting, occasional mindless meanness...will they get us through?

I took them as a beacon, quelconque...perhaps, you shall too.

If you would like to hear my recording of this post, you may find it: here.

Well, my loves. We are still in this and yet I am so hopeful.

Let's keep looking for the moon amongst the clouds.

Every day, if we choose, we can be grateful for whatever little bit of good there is in our day.

With Love and Gratitude, always...always, always.

Be safe, be kind, be hopeful just because you can.

Love,

Heather.

Not even a mouse

2020-12-23T16:30:00.001+01:00

This Christmas.

It doesn't look like it usually does, no matter how we might try. The carols are being sung, the lights glow, electronically. Often with no one to see them. And yet there is much to be found within the bouncing rebound of tradition when little else makes sense. Whether we are Christian or not, we all have our own examples of celebrating a spark of light in the dark. After the Solstice, we stick to a path of a possible through.

Are you not moved by our collective efforts to rally, now? I am. Something of a mustering mustard of Hope. Bitter, yes, but real...tangible if bitingly so.

I wander the streets of Avignon and when they are empty it strikes me with both relief and regret. When they are full, it worries me. To the maskless surrounding I want to ask, "How long do you think this will go on if you continue so?" But I don't. Confrontation is complicated.

I know this from not only how our societies have pitted themselves against the "other" but also how - over these many months - I have talked to myself.

Peace is to be cherished, whenever possible. In its own way, it should be stacked like logs on a fire inversible. One which prints us like a photograph from the inside out, where all that is negative or missing comes to light.

Yes, I am alone this year for the holidays...not even a mouse to scratch my door.

But it is what I am realising, more and more. The importance of my own inner quiet, within, to find stillness, a perspective which offers solace for all that I have felt this year. To forgive myself over and over and over for all the moments when fear was the victor or to champion when it was not. To try to give myself love, regardless.

Also to shoulder shrug the same love to you, the unknowable you, always. How strong must one be to do so? And yet how willing most of us are, despite our differences. We are endlessly more than we realise.

I haven't been able to buy the presents that I would wish to offer. Nor drag home a tree.

Simplicity is my greatest gift. A simple heartbeat. I breathe it in moments of awareness with a whispery exhale of warm sent out against cold. Life floating free.

Despite my solitude, what immense gratitude I feel. It is its own, different fire. So in my golden bubble, I listen to old favorite songs and light all the candles in daytime. As this is France, I let myself indulge in wintery delights but also have bought baby hyacinths that promise me that growth is possible. Spring comes nonetheless.

Within this true and utter quiet - a pause in my life while so many are still biting through deep loss - I try to imagine a future based upon what I still have. It is the very precarious material of Love that is left to build upon this year and into the next. We are all of us in this suspended somewhat so, even while our hearts, our very real hearts, amazingly, if occasionally, dare to dream. On we go.

How I mourn for the 1.72 million gone.

As we search for what is possible in this very particular Christmas...the best perhaps is that we may come home. No judgement, no fear, just home. Wherever that may be. For me, this year that is within my heart.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. If you can, hold you and yours ever so tight.

You can find a spoken edition of this post: here.

I have bought myself wonderful food, have been gifted some as well. Yet look at this sculpted angel that I bought recently. Isn't this who we all are? Rough paste, wings and hope.

If you are reading this, just know that you are loved. At least by a redhead somewhere in Provence.

And that is always a start.

With infinite Gratitude,

Heather

Walking out of Lockdown

2020-11-19T20:52:00.000+01:00

It was the simplest of decisions. Instead of turning right, as I always did at the Porte Saint Dominique, I turned left. Within these three years of living in Avignon, I have never walked that particular path lining the 14th century fortified walls. But the light beckoned and if I have held tight to one important rule, it is to follow the light whenever you can. Roll in it, may it heat you, let it stun your eyes.

This second lockdown feels both ambiguously different and yet numbingly the same. But admittedly, having an idea of what to expect has been truly helpful. I know where my pitfalls lie but also how to divert them. While staying very safe, I stretch the laws when needed, just as I pay attention to any back brain whispers before they hurl into tantrum howls. For I can't let myself go back to that first set state, one that scared me (says one experienced with depression). And yes, I had happily begun to claw my way upwards exactly when this quarantine was announced.

After a few weeks of feeling pitched at sea, I inhaled deeply and dug out my old tool box, which has served me well in days gone by. Within are items that remain a part of my daily routine, such as making gratitude lists. But I have also made a "schedule" of such quintessential tips as "make bed immediately, change out of pyjamas." It is written in black ink with large loopy letters and is displayed prominently. Delightfully, I am rediscovering others that I haven't touched in years, such as three pages worth of journalling in the morning before that Pavlovian reach for my phone. It feels so comforting to write while knowing that no one will ever see my scrawly wanderings, my thundershow doubts. I do well to not think before I put the pen to paper. "Just go, Heather," I tell myself instead. "Go."

It feels the same on my daily walk. As with the previous quarantine, we are allotted one hour per day and are allowed to stray no farther than one kilometre beyond our habitation (I have personally decided to define that as a radius, which offers innumerable possibilities). Yes, we need to have a signed "attestation" at the ready, although I must say that I do not see police patrols now. None at all. Regardless, I move. In the beginning, I could handle no more than a lumbering stroll. My lungs are still achey from being sick in March, whether it was indeed COVID, or not. But with time, I find that my pace is increasing in spite of my intentions. My feet dance in a straight line. I feel hungry to be outside of my own four walls and while I have no desire to think, it feels so delightful just to see. Just that, to see.

And so back we go to the left-hand turn. The light is at its peak - a dripping honey that edges towards amber. It clings to the cream stone rempart walls, pulling out each crevice, including the mysterious symbols left behind by each stone-cutter as a means to get paid. So much history, resting solidly, darkened only by the shadows of the last-leaved trees and pedestrians stretched out like spaghetti on their meander towards home.

Again, I don't know this territory, not at close range and so every few paces leads to a clip "aha" as well as the occasional pause to pull out my phone. The non-existent "click." I am used to people looking at me questioningly, wondering what on earth I am trying to capture. Later in my walk, an elderly woman bangs the shutter at her windows purposefully as I fixed upon the scrabbled layers of paint on her building. It was as if to say, "Off you go, you have no business here."

Ah, but you see? I do. I most certainly do. Every single second that I am rooted in the present - not shadow-pulled towards the past or worrying about an impossible future - keeps me sane. Or at least largely so. This is what freedom feels like. Just to walk and breathe. La liberté that no quarantine can steal. My heart beating, drenched in the warm light of autumn, heals me and holds me like nothing else can.

On we go.

My goodness, it is complicated.

One day at a time.

With Love and infinite Gratitude,

Stay safe. Be well. Be kind,

Heather

Ps. Well this is a bit odd...a little of one-hand clapping. But. Unfortunately, it makes me rather sad. It would appear that Mailchimp suspended my account without any way to recover it. So it would appear that from several thousands, you, my friends are now in several hundreds at most to get notifications of posts. If I am not mistaken, it seems as though only those of you who have a Google or Blogger account are contacted. If anyone wants to chime in about this, please go ahead.

And better yet, if anyone has truly solid advice as to how to get me onto another platform without losing ten years of posts (I am petrified), I would be happy to listen.

Bisous. xo

Return to the harvest

2020-11-12T01:48:00.000+01:00

"What is this, some not even winter night? When we are all looking at each other with neither surprise or delight? We are holding our own souls tight."

So, where are we? Where am I? Yesterday it helped me enormously to go out and walk to look for the leaves green who don't lie, at least not on purpose.

Just a week before, I was back in the harvest. And that action of bringing something to fruition felt like nothing as simple as hope. One that came unbidden, not forced.

It was at their house. Yes, my friends at La Mas de la Fourbine who saved me more than once before, quite literally, and yet here I was again, back in that bed so soft as to give promise...at least of dreams, for once a restful night.

Back to this bedroom and this joyful family.

Today, I had a thought of young Juliette demanding during a break, "I like it when you make your legs like that," meaning mine crossed like Buddha and her sitting in the middle that was left. I would love to watch her do that simple manoeuvre of pulling herself up towards me with one hand and a book in the other while trying not to wonder too much what is the beauty to be a Mom. I would correct her quietly, as she sounded out the words but not every time that she made a mistake. Sometimes, it was fine to listen to that otherwise confident voice testing out the sounds, learning in live time.

During the days, I would pick at the olives so quietly. I was most happy when I was inside the tree.

I would rotate the swampish green fruit between my fingers and marvel at the perfume. Picking without thinking, time rotated from between "until lunch" to "until sunset." And then, we were done. We folded up the nets that had been placed under the trees in the near dark with wispy exhales that reached up towards the cold, stubborn stars.

I would have stayed another day if there had been more to be done. Another week, another year.

And now those treasures, fought for with a declaration of, "No olive left behind!" (that was me, on the first morning, a bit giddy) will be pressed and strained until they have transformed into something else entirely. A briny, initially spicy, oil. A promise of something that will continue to change and develop over time.

I know that feeling. I know it well.

As there was so little to take this year, R and N relied on their friends to do the picking, a traditional provençal style affair. And I would chat and smile with these strangers, instigating conversations. Curious. Stealing a laugh when I could. How different an experience from when I last participated in 2016, a period when I could barely understand the pain as it ripped through my body, let alone the challenges to come. The trees held me up then. I hid behind my camera. Don't see me. Don't see me, please. My hosts were generous in their carefulness.

Will I always be one, or two days behind of believing again, truly? Sometimes. But not always. In those recent few moments I felt rooted with that balmy earth. I wasn't as desperate for the light of the moon as usual. The sun felt rather good.

I suppose the point of this story (remembering it once again) is that I am still here. I have grown. And although I am still not able to forsee the possibilities, I can start to feel them coming. Or hear the door creaking on its hinges as if begging for a push.

That moment with my friends preceeded, directly, the US presidential election. In the joy of the past few days, with the dancing in the streets, it feels like a harvest of another sort has also taken place. How I cried to see humanity...win. Despite what lies ahead. I kind of know where I am, as a person and as a person of the world. My community. My family. And hopefully, there will also be more kindness and love towards my struggling self.

That one still to be completely refined. May I rest inside those branches in peace.

May we all, each in our own way.

With Love, always,

Peace and peace and yet again,

Heather, somewhere in Provence

A toast to ten years

2020-10-24T13:22:00.002+02:00

It was my favorite kind of moment.

A storm rolled out of nowhere and the rain came pelting down, mere seconds after I tucked myself inside my front door. A little laugh caught in my throat at the joy of it, that escape from being drowned. And yet, the sun was dogged and quickly burst through despite the continuing pour; skies exuberant, clouds la vie en rose. Such is the life in Provence.

"A toast, " I rallied. "A toast to my good fortune." And so I skipped up the steep steps to my kitchen and opened up a split of champagne that a guest had given me at the hotel. It was, admittedly, something that I had been saving in hopes to share with someone special, for it was a good bottle. But oh, I am learning - and forgetting and learning again - that I am most certainly worth the bubblies, the gifts, the good meals, the love, all just for myself.

Boots kicked off, I stood in the open doorway and watched the rain battle the sky. But of course the light won. How could it not, while I held champagne in hand? With the coupe just under my ear, I could hear the static of popping, like a shell to the ocean. A car swivelled into a parking spot across the street and the young man stretching out of his car looked at me quickly, then away. "Yes, this is me," I wanted to reassure him, "a bit of an oddball, a bit of a beauty. Me."

You see, I am talking about that kind of moment.

When all of the relentless noise and doubt is tamed by hope and breath.

I had it, tonight.

A week ago, a dear friend called me out for the negative talk that I was casually spewing about myself. I can do that, as a kind of blanket cover (not a shield) when I am feeling self-conscious. That digging to hear, "Oh no, of course not, Heather, don't say that, you are..." But she didn't take the bait. Instead, she pulled me aside and in a tone beyond stern, she vocally shook me: "You have to stop doing this to yourself. It isn't making anything better." Just as the following day she would admonish, "What kind of message do you think that you are giving to women when you say such things?" (i.e. "I am old...I am fat...I am not pretty anymore) "What kind of message are you giving to me?"

I thought about that on the train home, holding my breath, socially-distanced. Also that these words came from the same person who had surprised me by buying my Birthday lunch, hence, a real friend. Tough love can be true love. Hot tears descend my cheeks as I type. They aren't sad.

What kind of message do I wish to give? To myself? We define ourself by our thoughts expressed. We can release wings or build cell block cages. Which is it to be?

I now see growth not as that perpendicular ascent that we (certainly we Americans of my age) were taught at school. University then hopefully marriage plus children and career. A home. Cars then better cars. Savings. I have known none of that by name but the first and the second as its own version of something real, until it wasn't. Does that lost love haunt me still? It does. Am I scared by the lack of the rest? Often. I have no net and sometimes I would just like to rest, confident.

Ten years ago to the day, I started this blog because I was truly lost. Then, it was in Arles. After what still remains to be one of the most difficult years of my life. My Dad's death, losing the first house that actually felt like a home, the gallery with it. But you see, despite my fear, I am a fighter. So I started this space as a way of climbing out of the well. Just me writing to me, trying to make sense of all of the emotions that rattled my cage on a daily basis.

But then, you arrived. You know who you are. I cannot name you all. I don't know how most of you found me. Probably through links from lovely women such as Vicki Archer and Sharon Santoni or Ann Mah. It was so fantastic how we supported each other then, as now.

I know - as they say too - that I have the best reader family. But I truly do. I win! We win. We do. I actually was recently stunned when I was shown statistics proving how loyal you are. And yet not in the least surprised. Because between us, it has always been about what is real. We can't do it any other way together.

Do you remember when I was so scared to tell you about my separation? When I was convinced that I would lose all of you and yet you ALL stayed? You, my second family, have been through everything with me...or more acutely, we together have been through so much. Such incredible happiness when I shared with you the immense history of Provence, the day to day delights of such a life, the pain, losing Rémi, losing Ben, starting over, beginning dating again and my efforts at building this new life, on my own. For me.

And with you as well. I know that I am looping in a circle around my learning and my growth. And yet, I feel so held by your love. That loop is, nonetheless, moving in an upward spiral. Can you imagine that? We have never met and yet I love you and you (I believe) love me. My ex did not think that it was possible for me to have real connections and friendships with you. Over and over again, you have proven him wrong. I have slept on your couches when I have had nowhere else to go; I have eaten at your tables.

So while in some ways I feel right back where I was ten years ago in my questioning, I know that is a good thing. It is just another twirl forward. I don't doubt you for one second. And I promise to keep trying to doubt myself less too.

With the last drop of champagne, I toast us for these ten years spent together. Cheers. I raise my glass to the now sapphire sky.

And on we go.

With all of my Love and Gratitude,

Heather

What dreams are now...what dreams are next?

Two little circles

2020-09-21T19:06:00.001+02:00

I have two little circles on the top of my thighs.

It took me awhile to understand why they were there, like sombre dots in a Seurat painting.

Until I put my fingers to fill their place.

And I realised that I have been holding my body so tightly that this is what it creates.

Bruises. Two dark plum bruises.

Of fear. Of desperation. Of clinging to my own body so much as a resource of faith.

And I am barely holding on.

I am so tired.

And yet we do not have that luxury to lay down our heads. Not in the least.

I wonder of my elders, is this the exhaustion of vigilance when we are at war?

And what will it be if we fail?

That question is bitter, overripe on my tongue.

My fear is a pickpocket.

In our ignorance of what we actually can do or not, lies the vaccine that we need.

We are so used to everything being easy. This is not easy.

Can we look for the answers?

Can we be our own silent revolution before a violent one strikes?

I rub the taught muscles between my eyes and wonder.

My God, can that tiny sliver of a moon deliver us to where we need to go?

All in the beginning

2020-08-24T20:58:00.005+02:00

Hello, here is another word story that I improvised for me, for us. I hope that you will listen:

https://soundcloud.com/heather-in-arles/all-in-the-beginning-1

****

Just a few things in the postscript...

I realise that this is a sentimental post.

But not only.

Hopefully, you will remember that I do not often let myself revisit such territory.

When I do it is for a reason.

I had a surprising invitation to a pool party yesterday at an outstanding property with welcoming new to me friends. I am not usually able to attend such events and so was all the more delighted that I did. My host, J, mentioned in a mail today, "I like what you said about the singletons. I think marrieds have no way of knowing (or sometimes choose to ignore) how hard life can be in general when you are single, particularly when trying to make a life in a foreign country." Agreed.

And today in communicating with my Sister (you would all love her so much) about this post I asked, "Can we appreciate who we were and be strong enough to look forward with an open heart?" And she responded, immediately, "I think we can! Maybe the best is yet to come?!"

Yes, Robin. We are always all in the beginning.

A lovely song to listen to for this post.

We are all so delicate and so strong at the same time. How can that be?

Yes, of course I wish I didn't always ask so many questions but my questions buoy me.

Let us keep repeating on what gives us hope.

With Love and Gratitude from Provence,

A very tired but still curious

Heather

Beauty is and women do...51

2020-08-15T21:43:00.000+02:00

How, for this moment, I am happy.

I recorded something last night, yes, one minute into my birthday. It was supposed to be the post in its entirety. I am really loving doing these spoken word moments. I can choose more how to present myself, my voice, momentum. You can find it here and I hope that you will listen:

Heather, a birthday at 51

As I have said before, this experience reminds me of when I was acting, save for that these words are not make-believe, they are mine. I have nothing to hide behind, nor do I want to. And if I am writing more it is because that I hope to express that so much more was behind those random c's and d's and f's. We are not our own failures. ;) Nor our successes. ;) All around there are forces, so strong if only we pay attention.

This year, I have been searching for an interesting man, one to hold my attention and my body, one with whom I could begin to lay a foundation of trust. Someone who would not care so much about my (important) weight gain. As my dear friend L, lightly chided, "Doesn't this take up so much of your time?" I thought about it.

Breathing hot air into a vacuum. Yes, it does, and as I have written about largely here this year, my personal isolation during the pandemic has marked me more deeply than I could have ever imagined. In blatant honesty, there have been thoughts of "Oh, I might never move beyond this." But...ah...wait...

A few days ago, one of my most benevolent guardian angels sent me a text. She thought it just might be my birthday and so coaxed me from my bed (where I was laying exhausted as work has been hard like a rock but that is another story) as there was a surprise in front of my door. A big bouquet, spiky and original, something that only someone who has paid attention could have offered.

As it is her building, I climbed the stairs in my nightgown, bouquet in one hand, the other glissing the wooden railing, racoon-eyed with yesterday's makeup. She welcomed me and we spoke. At one point, she gently coaxed me to repeat, "I am OK, " but I only could do so with tears rolling down. Stupid, great salt tears.

Skip to the day after and the same guardian angel. She was going to host lunch at one of my favorite houses in the world...quite a few of you would recognize it. And she invited me along to swim and eat and laugh. How could I say no?

Her two other invitées are 88 and 89 respectively. And while turnrd out to be a pre-birthday party for me, they were so kind about the fact that they had lived entire lifetimes beyond my tender age. M and A are completely authentic and my guardian angel remains a pinup. After lunch, I splashed and hid in the corner of the pool under the bougainvillea while they spoke of literature and politics, but lightly, lightly. Afterwards, we all fell into a delicious silence. "A" fell into a light doze and none of us teased her for it upon waking.

Once home, I thanked my angel profusely, but there were still surprises in store for me.

(I am tempted to stop here, to split this into two posts but no, that is not the point that I want to achieve, so forgive me that this is long.)

Because, you see, I actually did have a lovely birthday on the day itself, too.

I have mentioned previously the delicious accumulation of friends in the virtual world that have led to what I consider "real" friendships. It has taken me years to grasp and I am still unravelling it, this delicate cord, silken so strong, between women who have the courage to say, "I love you, I believe in you," even when we have not met in person.

You do not yet know of Tanur (I give her full name as I intend to speak of her rather fabulous guest house soon here, Les Sardines aux Yeux Bleus) but she is someone with whom I had an immediate connection. I had told a few people that I was prepared to pass the day alone as I had in previous years. But wonderfully, she was free to join me for lunch at my favorite restaurant Le Violette (which I have written about often, including here). We speak so honestly together, straight to the bone, as if we had known each other for years. The lunch was astonishingly good. It truly was! And to top it off, Corinne, aka Coco (a dear friend) and her lovely assistant Sonia (whom I adore) brought out their perfect dense chocolate cake lit with a candle singing...in English...happee birzday to youuu. At the end of the song, they kissed me through their COVID masks on either side of my head. I made a very specific wish, laughed and was in Heaven.

When I went to see what we owed, Coco seemed angry. She did that Frenchy thing where she waved her hand in the air in a flutter. "I was going to treat you to lunch but someone beat me to it!" "What do you mean, Coco?" "Bah, this woman called during the rush of the service saying she wanted to buy you lunch!" "Coco, no one knows that I am here. Even my family doesn't. I had said a couple of days ago that I was thinking about it to one person but..." Light bulb moment. She showed me the email. Someone who kept it in mind for days and called the restaurant to offer me lunch on my birthday just in case I was there. Someone who has a million things on her mind and to do list every day. Seriously. Just in typing this, those tears return. Save that this time they are not stupid, they are Love.

Tanur and I did the ritual of digging through the brilliant Collection Lambert. Oh my goodness, the Cy Twombly's. They elicit a gasp out of me every time. It felt comforting to explore with a fellow creative. I sat on the floor of my favorite installation and for the first time...the neon lava spoke of life's vitality, far more than doom. We parted only when I needed to go because friends at work - all of whom could be my children because they are so young - collaborated to offer me a massage at a local spa. The tiny but very strong girl surprised me and I floated through the streets afterwards, a bit drunk on Zen.

Upon arriving home, I was able to connect with the Leo Trifecta, albeit separately. Yana was at dinner on her first night of a well-deserved vacation. She lives in Greece. I want to live in Greece too, although I have never been there. And yet she wanted to Zoom briefly, and her smile like fire so calm, so present told me, "Yes, you are lucky." She is SO strong. But so is Beth in Chicago; the other corner of our three and when we spoke she was absolutely radiant. I can't hide under that kind of light.

And so I told her about what I was truly thinking. "All of these amazing women have gone out of their way to treat me with kindness and respect. They know my path, my story and yet they talk to me as equals. Why? Why is X surprising me with lunch? Why are you here?"

I still feel like such a fallen woman. An overweight "ratée" working as a receptionist in a problematic hotel - this despite what I have accomplished before. But where I am currently at is far, far from where I once was. In material means. And Beth didn't hesitate in her response. "We see YOU. We see you for who you are."

Oh.

Her face was beaming as she said so, half a continent away, so how could I take it as nothing other than the truth?

I am accepted. And I feel held. Not by a man. Although I would not mind that too.

But today I light up this tender heart for these beautiful women. Exceptional women, truly. Guardian angels, successful in a way that I can't imagine in the literal sense, let me love you so. I haven't had many women friends since I have lived in France and now I have them all over the world and they are incredible. I am honored to be a part of your family. It is just that simple. Thank you for being the best gift a girl could wish for..

With the gratitude of the lava that turns the Earth, your friend lost and found,

For sale: a charming home in my Hidden Provence

2020-07-27T15:35:00.001+02:00

I love this house. Dearly. I have spent so many moments of joy (and tears too) here with my dear friend Louise and her companion, Wolf. And now, it is for sale!

It is a real Provençal village house. Large in scope and yet intimate with its lovely and very private walled garden. It has been exceptionally well renovated and the care that was put into that process is evident throughout.

As with all of the best homes in the region, there is a fluid sense between indoor and outdoor.

I have never felt anything but "at home" here. How many meals have I taken at the massive stone table (yes, just as at Peter Mayle's original home)? How many nights when I was house-sitting did I stare up at the stars? Many, many indeed.

And while the home is inherently elegant, this is not the "bling bling" Provence but rather a truly authentic one where you can get to the heart of this beautiful region. Quietly, you will be on the insider track while the hordes overrun St. Rémy. For this is my Hidden Provence. Many of you will remember that phrase. It still rings true.

But let's go inside...there is much to discover.

Directly off the garden is the living room, which is just as delightful in summer with the perfume of jasmine ever-present as it is in winter with a crackling fire in the Renaissance period and delicately carved fireplace.

The Art Deco tiles are a grounding presence of the open neutrality to the "pierres froides" of the walls. I love the difference in textures, the rough solidity of the ceiling beams. This is a really adaptable space and great for everyday living as well as special moments. I rang in New Year's Day this past January in this wonderful room!

Under the stone entryway is the condensed kitchen space. I love the patina of the floor! Louise, who is a phenomenal and accomplished cook, has effortlessly whipped up many a feast here.

Shall we go up the central staircase? Past the hall, currently lined with books and used as a small office, there are many delights to be found.

What do you think the niches in the stone were originally for? Louise uses this charming feature to showcase various bibelots. Were letters stored there? Documents writ in ink? I don't know...let's turn right.

Isn't this room gorgeous? To me this is the elegance of Provence personified. There is even a touch of Paris too with the high-ceiling and covered beams. The light pours in...all year around.

It is just as spacious as the salon on the ground floor and so very welcoming with its warm wood flooring.

Louise has used this as a formal sitting room and yes, I remember well the very first time I clinked champagne glasses with her here. I could have been a bit over-whelmed but her welcome and that of the house itself put me at ease.

This room could also very easily be used as a bedroom for there is not only amply closet space but also an attached bath...

...leading onto this large suspended terrace. How lovely would it be to take your first coffee of the day here? To say goodnight to the moon at night before going to bed? Again, as you can see, privacy reigns...

But come with me, let's go up the stone stairs once more...

Past the landing a massive wooden door opens up to a "havre de paix"...

I defy you not to sleep well in this bedroom. And this coming from a long-term insomniac! To me, this is a perfect example of a cocoon.

The wide-plank flooring, the stone, the beams, the light...

And there is a bonus space! One that Louise and Wolf use for storage but it easily has potential to be more...an atelier? To paint? To dream? A special room for naps after too much summer heat?

Well, this is my fault entirely for not capturing the bath correctly. It is just great and far bigger than it looks. Let's just say that I had a bit of rosé at lunch. For these are the happy times that this house inspires.

Could you put in a small bassin in the garden for dunking? Perhaps. How pretty that could be next to the very unusual and striking "calade" a traditional Provençale stone design. This one happens to be beautiful and rare.

And so where is this haven exactly? Well, I am not telling except for those who are interested! But I will say that, exceptionally for such a small village there is a grocery store, a great butcher shop, day care, grade school, a post office, a pharmacy, a nurse who will come to you and a physiotherapist.

Those of you who know Provence already will be impressed by that!

Are you seeing stars yet?

Here is Louise's description:

Charming Provençal house in a village minutes from Arles, Avignon and the Alpilles with the TGV train line (2 and a half hours to Paris) at a 15 minutes drive. 130 square metres (1400 square feet). Large reception with Renaissance fireplace. Magnificent staircase leading to bright salon and bedroom with high beamed ceilings. Possibility of second bedroom and attic that could be made into an office or atelier. Southern exposure, large balcony and private walled courtyard. Equipped kitchen. Master bathroom, WC/laundry room. A haven of peace for lovers of old stone. 285,000 euros

If you are interested, please feel free to contact Louise directly at: dowll8@yahoo.ca. She is Canadian and so, speaks both English and French. Plus, she is just a lovely human being.

And if you feel more comfortable contacting me, that's fine too. I know and love this house so well. And just to be clear...I am sharing this with you because I believe in it. I will get nothing out of this beyond the hope that I am helping one of you find their dream home. :)

With so much Love and Gratitude from this beautiful Provence,

Be well. Be safe. Be kind.

Heather

Saturdays are difficult

2020-07-19T00:30:00.002+02:00

This is my post today. Call it spoken word if you want. It was created as an improvisation because the ideas came too quickly to write them down! It is a short piece that you can find by clicking below :

https://soundcloud.com/heather-in-arles/saturdays-are-difficult

I hope that you will go to listen. It means a lot to me. These times are challenging in different but important ways for us all. Let us not underestimate our emotional challenges as well, whatever they might be.

I believe in us.

Please know that I miss you and love you.

With gratitude,

Heather

"Be safe and be kind." as says Edgar

Falling and beginning again

2020-06-20T20:50:00.001+02:00

I was writing in my head while doing the dishes. "At times, I don't know if I am going to survive this. To get through." I stopped scrubbing as I realised with a bit of a shock but also a laugh that I haven't. The me that was before all this began is...Changed.

Now, I am not talking about the essence. I proclaimed that a little too forcefully recently in a friendly text exchange: "I know that at the center of my existence I am a good person, generous and kind. That much I am certain of." It is my refrain when the world becomes doubtful. No, I am talking more about the fuzzy outer layers. Personality, if you will. Ego. Tastes and preferences. Perspectives and preconceptions. A matter of trust.

Over and over, trust. My lips are sweaty against my folded knuckles, I take a moment to breathe in and out, loudly, over that word. It has been four years, four years since my couple imploded and yet I still have trouble putting trust in a man. And to trust my choices and attractions, me who usually considers myself such a solid judge of character. To trust that I am worthy of a good man, a clear strong love. Why do my eyes tear up to write that? Because my heart was hurt this week in the trying. And how long will it be before I finally heal myself? This too, I know is up to me.

I have written about the impact of the months of imposed solitude and isolation have had on my psyche but it was premature. Just like any trauma, the after-effects are still rolling out. Often, I find myself walking through the streets, finally free to do so with hunched shoulders and lowered head, as if hiding. Sometimes, I will chide myself, "pick your head up, Heather. Stand tall, you have nothing to be ashamed of." But I can't always do it. Sometimes, I feel ashamed.

It has not even been a month since George Floyd was murdered. Do you remember feeling that shock in watching the video for the first time? Trying to comprehend what was happening? That moment when you understood that you were watching a man being killed? I do. That too, broke something in me. As has the incomprehensible police brutality, the unsparing hatred screaming, the relentless provocation of a man so insensitive to the world that he could propose to stage a rally in America's most racism ravaged city on Juneteenth. Through my spirituality, I had previously come to the point where I thought that "good" and "evil" were mainly religious constructs. Now, I question that as well. To not have trust - yes that word again - in the morality of humanity? That has changed me too.

I am in a state of parenthesis. What is to be filled in between the ( and the ) I do not know.

Listen, this is not sad. This is, again, not about me really. It is just that if I feel that I am no longer the person that I once was, either four years or four weeks ago, it is just a further reminder that we are all constantly in a state of more forceful change than we realise. As in Buddhism, there are the waves that flow through our lives but we are not those surges and hollows, we are the sea. We are the sea itself. Perhaps it is helpful to remember that if we can.

I may not be entirely sure of the "who" of I am right now but I very aware, on this Summer Solstice of...of?...my aliveness. I have a voice. I have this heart that cares too much but that is what it is. If I focus, I can wonder what trust in this time would feel like...in my own body, where can I sense it? In our collective society, where can I antennae tap out something to lean into? ... Again, I put my head into my hands, I massage out the "lion's wrinkle" in-between my eyes and...the only answer that makes any sense at all is Love. It seems completely paradoxical given all that I have written above but the only thing that I can trust in when all else is broken, falling and yet beginning, is, Love.

There is nothing that burns brighter in our human existence. Yes, it feels a bit like coming home, of an evidence to think so on the longest day of a very long year. In journalism, it is a cardinal error to repeat oneself. I am entirely aware that I am doing so, constantly, in these posts. And yet if it is because I continually do so to side with Love, on that I will stand.

Happy Solstice, everyone.

I have done a recording of this post. I am enjoying doing them, so thank you for your encouragement!

You can listen to it: HERE.

Within the above text, I have also included a lot of links to other posts, mainly recent but also with some from the past that might be of interest to my newer readers (thank you!).

I have been listening to this gorgeous rendition of Martin Gaye's "What's going on" non-stop since my friend Trudye send it to me. Including while I wrote this post.
May it bring courage to your heart as well...

As always, I am so grateful for your presence.

Do you realise that we are coming up on ten years?

And what is incredible is that most of you have been here from the very beginning.

Through so many highs and lows.

On we go...

As Edgar says, "Stay strong, stay safe, be well, be kind."

With so much Love from Provence,

Heather

Living history

2020-06-09T15:25:00.001+02:00

I walked with my friend Kenza and her little sister, Jade.

Both are young enough to be my daughters.

I stood for Leonard Wells, my Mom's husband and one of my best friends, My Buddy.

I watched as people of all ages mixed and chanted.

"No Justice, No Peace!"

At one point I cried. After taking a knee.

But this isn't about me, it is about us all.

To feel us united, all over the world.

There was a lot of blatant racism in my Dad's side of the family.

When I was 15, I punched him in the chest when he pushed me too far.

I am the end of this particular line of the family.

And I am proud to be able to say, "This stops with me."

It may only be the beginning, but it is a start.

This is living history.

Black Lives Matter.

On the way home, I counted 13 police vans in front of the Sous-Prefecture.

We can march, educate, donate, sign and vote.

Every voice counts.

And each silence does too.

"The change begins within me, the change begins within you."

With much Love and Gratitude from Provence,

Heather

Up to us

2020-06-01T15:48:00.001+02:00

In some ways, I feel right back at the beginning.

Those first few days of realising that we were in for the long haul with COVID 19 and that we have no idea how it might end.

So gripped in fear that I am paralysed by it.

Spending hours upon hours scrolling social media and the internet to try and get information, to try and understand.

As if it were possible to comprehend all of the pain and anger, the division and violence that has occurred since the murder of George Floyd.

It has been almost a week and the police brutality that I have seen has broken me.

But it can't.

For if we still have far to go with this pandemic, it is nothing compared to the battle of dismantling racism. Racism, inequality, which is stitched in the fabric our Western and capitalist societies. Someone is always "better off" than the other, that is just "how it is."

It is why so many have been blind to their own beliefs for so long because they were literally born into them. It's too close to see.

And it is too close. Too close when police officers shoot a peaceful protester in the face with rubber bullets or Taser or tear-gas a young girl.

It is too close when members of the press are fired upon and arrested.

When politicians incite not protect. When they do nothing to quell or unify. Or simply nothing at all. "Let the fires burn."

Several times this week, I have wondered if there are elements to what is happening that make it similar to what it must have been like at the beginning of the rise of Nazism. So many events in so little time and the public cannot handle it, so they simply side with the easiest "solution." The winning party. One with plenty of propaganda, whether it be fact or fiction.

Even while humanity falls apart.

We can't let it. We can't. Not again. Not again and again and again. And again and again and again.

In an exchange with my friend Patricia this morning, she asked: "Where are the voices of strength and guidance?" and I responded, "Who is going to bring us all together again?"

Which brought about another idea that had been rolling about in my brittle brain recently, that of President Barack Obama's comment during one of his recent graduation speeches: "“If the world’s going to get better, it’s going to be up to you."

It's up to us. No one is going to help. There is no "leader" in sight. Please don't turn away. I know it is painful and frightening but nothing near what it must be for the black community who lives through cultural, societal and economic discrimination every single day because of the color of their skin that they were born into. That is not a choice.

But how we move forward collectively is.

I don't know what that looks like but I do believe that it is possible.

And that is the most hope that I have felt in months. Perhaps I am too naive. But if the pandemic has taught me anything, it is that there is much good in this world. We can unite around a cause and we can find each other through love.

Please. Don't think, do. The change starts within me. The change starts within you.

****

If you have not yet listened to one of my audio recordings of my posts, this might be a good one to start.

You can find the english version: here.

Pour mes amis francophones...je suis désolée, ce n'est franchement pas au top, mais voilà: c'est ici.

****

HOW YOU CAN HELP

Sign a petition:

Justice for George Floyd on change.org

#JusticeforFloyd on act.colorofchange.org

Donate:

Official George Floyd Memorial Fund on gofundme.com

The NAACP Legal Defense Fund

Black Lives Matter

Communities United Against Police Brutality

The Minnesota Freedom Fund

National Bail Out Fund - Free Black Mamas

Educate yourself:

Black Women Radicals and AAFC Solidarity reading list

"Algorithms of Opression" bookclub via womenscenterforcreativework.com

"On becoming anti-racist" on cupofjoe.com

I thought this was very much worth the watch. Truly helpful:

Trevor Noah speaking on recent events.

****

These are, quite obviously, my personal emotions and thoughts. I realise well that I might be misinformed no matter how well-intentioned. So please, feel free to respond in the comments or by email.

It just felt necessary to do something on top of what I have suggested above.

Something to try and get to a more positive place so that I can continue to take action.

Continue to learn.

For days I did not write because I again felt as I did in this post at the beginning of the pandemic.

How could I find the words to contribute? That could move us forward? Then as now...

"I have exactly the words that I need.

They are:

I miss you.

I love you.

Are you ok? "

Please let me know how you are and what your experience of this terrifying time has been.

With much Love and Gratitude,

Heather

****

This post is dedicated to Leonard Wells, My Buddy.

These first steps

2020-05-25T13:38:00.001+02:00

I wish that I could say that I really knew what I was doing. Except that I don't lie to you, so I can't.

Yesterday morning, when I woke up...I felt literally pressed flat. Like a paper doll. And it wasn't just that weight that I have felt in my lungs since I was sick. Oh fuck, I really have been fighting against it for so long. But this isolation, so extreme, is one tough battle.

And yet I wrote the first of my twice-daily lists of gratitude. Five things that I knew to be good. Yes, even then and now. I do it everyday. No matter what.

Can you imagine that just seconds after sending off those thin, thin needles stitching appreciation, words of hello came scrawling across my screen. Exclamation points included. It was my dear K, checking in because she was in town and happy to meet.

So, what does that mean? I sent a text back to see. As this was her very first foray outside during the duration of the lockdown, we felt at ease to spend time together. And so we did. Take out sandwiches and social distancing by the empty fountain at the Place des Corps Saints. Under the shade trees, we talked for hours. I started to breathe into my full shape again. She admitted that she was no longer sure how to be social and I knew what she meant for I had already experienced that as well.

A few days before, I had received my first invitation, also via text. My friend V, who lives on a péniche, or barge on the Rhône, invited me over for une verre. Oh. I held my breath in thought for a moment. What is right? Was it worth it? I knew that we would be outside, so the risk was fairly minimal. I also knew how much I was suffering internally. And so I said, yes, yes, thank you. Merci.

I followed his directions over the bridges and down a dirt path until I arrived to this boat abracadabrantesque. Something of a gentleman's pirate ship. His cat, Manouche, was on guard. Truly, right at the end of the gangplank, me voilà, eyeing me skeptically. I did my best to be quiet and not overtly seek approval. I failed. Of course. I am a dog person.

V led the way to his upper deck which was dusty with lack of use. He briskly wiped down a table, brushed aside fallen leaves. It surprised me as this was exactly where I would want to be. Always. Sleeping, eating with only this open panorama for my eyes. I perched on the folding chair a bit shakily, aware of the sweat stains under my arms from the brisk walk on top of nerves. Everything seemed too expansive and contracted somehow.

Down below he went and returned with the pop of a champagne cork.

I wasn't sure what to say to him. Suddenly, my french seemed more stunted than usual. So, between my jangly-boned outbursts, we were quiet. And it felt wonderful. To just let the river flow. It stretched out languidly, with confidence. The light shifted into subtleties. The trees sighed. Or...that might have been me.

Admittedly, I was willing to own my awkwardness. It was ok. It is. So many months of solitude have gone by.

I left as the clouds started to blush. It felt a bit bumbling of me as I did, excusing my departure although there was no need. Overly thanking him for that moment of peace. For a brief moment, I wondered if he was going to kiss me. He didn't. Just friends then. And safe. So, good.

This new not normal. Until we find ease, it will be touch and go. Maybe.

Tonight, one of my anges gardiens, invited me up to dinner on the roof. It was just us two ladies. And the sun did an exaggerated show; a slow, swan song as we each spoke of our respective...past. The Rhône, just beyond the fortified walls, seemed to carry our words away as needed. Others were left like scattered stars below the table where they fell. Venus rose, bone white and benevolent.

While D went to bring up pears poached in sweet syrup, I traced the echoes of a burning sky that spoke to all that we feel in this moment. I held my breath and silently laughed with joy when she returned, carrying a tray with candles, burning. Burning, to light up the dark.

These first steps. They feel so new. Will we arrive?

If you would like, you can hear an audio recording of this post: here.

Je suis désolée, mes amis francophones, il y a tante des idées que je ne sais pas traduire cette fois si.

It's Memorial Day. I sat with this post for a while before publishing it.

I am sending such gratitude for all of the men and women who died in battle.

This is not the first day of Summer. It is a day of remembrance.

I will finish with this photo. It is of my main lettre d'attestation that I used for taking my "sanity walks" during the lockdown. Normally, we were supposed to fill out a new one each time that you went out but I am old school and liked the idea of having a document that was a testament to my First Steps into the unknown but with belief in my heart.

So much Love to you all. Truly.
As Edgar says, "Stay strong, stay safe, be well, be kind."

Heather

Brighter on the inside

2020-05-16T20:34:00.000+02:00

And now, now that I have the choice to move, everything feels all wrong.

I don't know how to explain it other than stating it really simply: I am scared of le déconfinement.

Since Monday the 11th, my region in France is largely back to "business as usual." Not completely. Restaurants and cafés are still closed, larger stores and movie theatres. My job. But the rhythm has completely shifted. I could feel it building in the days beforehand like a heartbeat thumping louder and louder in my chest.

"Liberté!!!" was scrawled largely in posts all across Instagram on Monday. The energy felt desperate. It made me angry, confused.

Where do we go from here? Do we stay in? Do we go out but carefully? I have long been a believer of the first but I have been listening to those who lean towards the second. If I fought hard to stay in France it is also because I admire and adopt the French joie de vivre, literally translated as "joy in living." "Will you never go to the farmer's market again? Really? Get fresh food? Support our farmers?" So I did, gloved and masked but I did. And how sweet the first cherries taste, how tart the tomatoes, the grassy perfume as I break them from the vine.

Is it worth it?

That is the question that I asked a friend of mine (at high risk) who was considering taking public transportation into town to get her hair done. Is it worth possibly dying over? Asked in that manner, the answer seems obvious (or so, at least, to me) and yet it is now a question that we can potentially ask ourselves throughout our day, every day.

It feels like lead, like kryptonite. So I am going to have to learn to live with this indecision to be able to feel free in my heart. Because I don't want to be frozen. Now more than ever I want to live. Of course I am going to want to support my friends when their restaurants re-open. Am I really supposed to not start dating again for a year or two? I cannot begin to express how much I long to be held, to make love. And yet this is just as basic a wish for pleasure as my friend's. How do I balance the conflict within me about this? Literally, how do I do it?

Yesterday, I needed to go to the pharmacy and when I stepped up to the counter, I could tell that the two beau gosses who run it were happy to see me. Their smiles showed in their eyes above their surgical masks. So yes, it felt good to be seen again. But after, as I made my way down the main street, I was so saddened and nervous about the throngs on the sidewalk all around me. The vast majority were not masked, nor social-distancing and I felt like a fool - albeit an intelligent one - as I dodged and weaved, waited and waived strangers past me in an ungainly dance.

It is exhausting, this permanent state of alert and I felt so relieved to come home. These four walls that have protected me and have been a haven. Despite all of my dreaming, it feels brighter on the inside. I know that I can't stay in here forever and I truly don't want the world to become my enemy. Our world I love so dearly. So, maybe tomorrow I will go to buy peonies like I have promised myself that I would. As part of the lucky ones still here, I have to continue to find my way as I go. With anxiety, with forgetting through laughter, with burnt flecks of hope or judgement despite my best intentions.

For now, I will take what I can. Please help me stay present and enjoy what I can.

****

I wrote this a few days ago and yet again, it already seems quite dated. Elements are colliding swiftly here, each person in their own corner, yet overlapping as we open up. Yesterday, I felt too penned in and so made the quick walk to the L'Ile de le Barthelasse which looks back upon the Pont d'Avignon and the Palais des Pâpes. From my isolated patch of fresh cut grass I watched from a distance the groups of students laughing, smoking weed, playing music. So many people. And yes, very, very few masks. We will see how it goes and what as individuals we are willing to risk. Each person will make their choice and I am really trying to shift away from judgement. It serves no one. I see that now. But the emotional terrain has been bumpy. It is deeply uncomfortable. Will the land that I so tentatively put my foot upon hold? These past few days have felt like breathing lightning as I wake up to change, without choice. I try to understand the well and the why of my decisions and dreams. In talking to my Mom last evening the phrase came burbling out, "It's been two months since I have been touched by someone."

It has been two months since I have had physical contact with another human being.

Is it worth it to take the risk? In the long run, it might be too risky for me not to try.

Thank you so much for all of your positive response for the audio recordings. So I will continue them for the moment when I can.

In English, you can listen to it: here.

J'ai fait une traduction à la pif pour un ami, on peut le écouter (malgré les fautes): ici.

I just read this article in The Atlantic on how "quarantine fatigue" is real and that pandemic shaming is pointless and found the perspective to be quite helpful.

Let's enjoy what we can.

Please stay safe, know that you are loved and hold on to the good things.

With bisous from Provence,

Heather

Invisible indivisible

2020-05-09T11:54:00.001+02:00

My Mom has long said that when I was very little, I was known to go up to everyone and anyone, to say hello. Being infectiously friendly is and apparently always has been, a key trait to this redhead. I remember being in the alley behind our house in Michigan after having recently arrived there, so that would be at about age 7 for me. I was picking blackberries, purple-stained hands. Suddenly, there was a group of girls my Sister's age walking down the way. I might have told this story before. I introduced myself and then marched them up to my Sister's room with a swift knock on her door. Susan, one of the ensemble, is to this day one of Robin's best friends.

That was the first time that we had made a major move and it would not be the last. Every four years or so, my parents would announce that we needed to "have a talk" and I always knew what that meant. Off we would go to another part of the country and slowly, I lost that will to befriend, tired of always being "the new kid" who had to prove herself all over again. Eventually, I went so far as to dress in what was considered "radical" fashion at that time...new wave, punk, goth...just to confirm what seemed already evident, that I was "other," someone not meant to belong.

I tried to do so with pride. To be adolescent is to wear a mask lightly.

But that sense of separation created such loneliness. There is an inherent discord within not feeling being appreciated. As if it were bad to be uniquely myself, topped up with a heady longing to be loved. As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in the poem, "I am prayer again,":

"It’s here in all the pieces of my shame that I now find myself again.
How I yearn to belong to something, to be contained in an all-embracing mind that sees me as a single thing.
And I yearn to be held in the great hands of your heart.
Oh let them take me now.
Into your hands I place these fragments, my life, and you my God spend them however you want."

Why am I writing about this now? Beyond the beauty of Rilke's words (and please, feel free to exchange "God" for whatever suits you), I have been rolling in the shadows of this seeming distance as of late, during this time of isolation, this pandemic. It has been since March 14th that I have been alone, so for nearly two months. I thought that I would be fine as I am used to solitary living but I did not take into account all of the interactions during my workday that buoyed me. I miss them.

One evening at the hotel this winter, a couple that I had been chatting on and off with for days came to the reception desk. Somehow, they started to speak about their religious beliefs and forcefully. Quickly, I understood that they both were trying to convert me to Christianity. The wife was more insistent than her husband, himself a preacher, who said something important. "What if this job is exactly where you are supposed to be for now? You are very talented at it and the difference that you make in people's lives...Perhaps that is enough? That you are celebrating the gifts that were given to you by God? To make others happy. To connect."

I thought about that for a long time after. And it echos with me now, in my empty room. What if? What if he is right?

I share these thoughts with the ghosts of the past. The issues not healed, having been ignored. In these days and nights, I find myself incapable of hiding from them. Grief, fear, anger...they have all arrived one by one, and rarely politely. I breathe through them, I feel where they are lodged in my body, I try to handle myself tenderly, with grace. This moment is a definite opportunity, or a demand, to heal those wounds once and for all. Sometimes, when I cannot take it anymore, I walk. But even then, in the abandoned streets, I am too aware of the massive space all around me.

I want to be seen again, to be recognised for who I am. In this time, often, not always, I feel invisible, indivisible from the hidden as we hold on, each in our own home. The lockdown will start to ease up in a few days time in France but the issues that have arisen will not so quickly be forgotten.

All I can ask is that we be aware and share for each other. As we can. I am not sure if we will ever approach others as openly as we once did but we can hold space for that desire to connect and not separate. Because of course that separation is only illusion. Can we remember to belong? To once again belong to ourselves and to each other? It could, quite clearly, give us all the force to go forward, in so doing, through love.

****

Valèry, one of my recent French readers, has suggested that I do a simple audio recording for all of my posts, not only as for the recent collaboration that I did with Rémy Deck on "So far to go through". He said that it helped him to better piece together the meaning and that the sound of my voice added to his understanding. So here we go, as a little test. I would love to have feedback if this is of interest. You can find it here: Invisible indivisible recording.

****

I had a really amazing discussion with my friend Mayra a few days ago. We have followed each other on Instagram for years and have written each other quite a bit but I was especially delighted when she suggested that we have a video chat. It changes everything. In the course of over two hours, we both cried (actually, I flat out wept) and laughed and recognised each other as old friends, newly found.

Something that we have both been concerned about recently is the emotional impact of this pandemic. On Instagram, Mayra has created @pauseandremember which invites us to take time each day at noon to mourn the lives that have been lost due to COVID 19 as well as to share the grief of their loved ones.

For my part, given that this is Mental Health Awareness Month, I want to help break the stigma of those who are suffering emotionally during this crisis. It is easy to put shame upon depression during this time, with thoughts such as "who am I to be down? I should be grateful to be alive. I am being ridiculous." While the truth is that all feelings are valid and are to be respected. As someone who has struggled off and on with depression my entire adult life, I fear that the repercussions of this crisis may be far-reaching indeed.

So, just in case anyone might need it:

En France, SOS Dépression, 24 heures sur 24, 7 jours sur 7, appelle gratuit.

In the States, IM Alive Crisis Prevention with trained responders available to chat at any time.

****

So let's do our best to stay connected. Be well, be safe and be kind.

With great love and gratitude from Provence,

Heather

golden hour

2020-05-01T21:00:00.000+02:00

I paused in the frame of my open front door to gaze up to the sky. Black clouds were dancing with white, having appeared out of nowhere. Instinctively, I reached up towards my head, pulled off the Hermes scarf wrapped around it, "just in case", and locked the door behind me.

Phone? Check. Signed Attestation form? Check. Mask and gloves, yes those too. But tonight I also carried an empty plastic sack and a pair of scissors in my pocket. I was going on a mission.

We all have our guideposts that are helping us through. Good habits or less so, to shape our days during the lockdown period of the pandemic. I turn towards others, frequently, when I become overwhelmed by the news of the world, the death rates or even the pounding of my own anxiety. Because there is help to be found everywhere, or nearly, if we look; for it is disguised in many forms.

My friend Jamie Beck (I call her my friend Jamie, although we have only met twice, for that is how I think of her in my head) is an internationally acclaimed photographer who has shot for such varied clients as Cartier, Disney and Google. She and her chronically handsome husband Kevin (who is equally brilliant), along with their "so lovely as to not actually seem human" fairy child Eloise are living in nearby Apt, after having an about face from a distinctly glamorous life in my former home of NYC.

Like me, they are in a town, and in an apartment. This, during lockdown, presents challenges.

However, Jamie did not back down, or cower, or binge-watch through the afternoon (of course that would have been perfectly acceptable if she had). On March 14th (three days before the official start of lockdown), she made an announcement: "I decided today to take the power back from losing work, losing freedom, losing support, and get into the studio to commit, to as long as this crisis has a hold on us, and create one original piece of photographic art each day."

And so she has. She has called the series "Isolation Creation" and has invited fellow artists around the world to join in with their own works. Her pieces are of breathtaking beauty and deeply imbued with poignance. With the materials that she has on hand, she creates, carefully constructing and then photographing dioramas of a complexity that would impress the Dutch Masters. And yet there is a lightness of spirit to them, for this is Provence after all.

Desperate times call for desperate measures and so she and Kevin will go out "foraging" in the one kilometre radius that we are allowed on our daily walks. Now...I originally was taken aback by this idea. Were they really snipping away on public land? Yes. So does that mean, perennial good girl that I am, that I could possibly do the same? Yes.

I admit that it took me a week to get up the courage. On my evening "stay sane" strolls, I would spy out wildflowers and weeds that were pleasing to my eye. Yesterday, I took the plunge.

When the first raindrops started to fall, I begrudgingly wondered if life was teasing me for "breaking the rules." But I crossed the massive, now empty municipal parking lot, heading towards my goal. With each step, the rain increased. I could see it in the puddles, that became pebbled with each beat, hitting faster and faster. "I should probably turn back. I can do this another time," I thought. But a quiet voice answered, "It is only rain, Heather. Go on."

At the first snip of the magenta hued buds hidden behind a fence, I knew that I was right to have continued. I carefully laid their lacy frames in the sack for fear of breaking them. They had been my primary objective but I stood to trace my steps backwards, slowly stopping to cut free a jangle of grass with drooping pods, thick ropes dotted violet, delicate butter yellow blooms and a sheaf of green wheat.

With each breath, the rain came harder, until I could hardly see. I was wandering through a downpour. And yet the sun was shining so brightly through it all. Somehow the moment was so...completely unusual that I felt ecstatic. The golden rain, the stolen flowers, my white linen shirt stuck to my skin. What could I do but lift my face up with ridiculous gratitude? I wanted to laugh, to skip, to run.

And suddenly, a memory, a very early one, came surging from my head right to my heart. It was of a little me dancing around in the rain on a summer afternoon, carefree, so long ago. There I was, on the patio of the same house that my Mom had grown up in, deep in the Ohio countryside. I had long since cherished that memory, held it dear as a "before" of pure innocence. And yet here I was, feeling exactly the same at 50, in the middle of a crippling and heart-breaking pandemic. Elated.

Light is possible. Beauty is possible too. This crisis does not negate the eternal.

I smiled at the others that I passed (at an appropriate social distance) on the way back to my apartment. We had all been caught out in it and nobody cared, on the contrary, it did us good. Once inside, I laid the flowers on the tile floor, poured myself a glass of wine and looked at their individual grace.

With a gentle thud, I plopped down on to the floor next to them, getting up only to fetch a vase and free some little strangers who had unwittingly come along for the ride. I positioned each stem with the idea that I had in my head, making adjustments until I was pleased. This is no ikebana but a rough and ramshackle arrangement. I thought it fitting to how I felt in that moment.

Imperfect. But alive. And free.

****

Each day on Instagram, Jamie features a "roundup" of the artworks that have been submitted for the series. So far, over 200,000 submissions have been received. How absolutely amazing to have moved so many people to create at one of the most frightening moments of our lifetime. In addition, she is giving a proceeds to her sales to support other artists through the Foundation for Contemporary Art's COVID-19 Emergency Grants Fund and has so far raised over $10,000. Honestly, when I read that (in this article which also includes an interview about her concept and process), I cried. It is just so beautiful.

And obviously, please give yourself a wonderful treat by going to discover the Isolation Creation series that is for sale on the website that Kevin created practically overnight to make this happen:

https://jamiebeck.co/

I have already bought Day Seven (the print was only $50 and is of remarkable quality) and would definitely like to buy Day One to accompany it (that is, if I still have a job to go back to! Still no news on that one!).

While I have attempted nearly every art form, I do not find my joy in the visual arts (beyond photography). However, the Isolation Creation series has inspired me to get back to writing again. And that, along with one unforgettable golden hour spent in the rain, has brought me no small amount of Joy.

****

Stay strong and be safe. And as my friend Edgar reminds me, "Be kind."

With much Love and Gratitude from Provence,

Heather

PS. I am getting a lot of feedback that many of you are unable to leave comments. I made an adjustment to the settings and so hope that will help. Thank you for your lovely emails!

So far to go through

2020-04-27T19:19:00.000+02:00

Today's offering is a poem. I am honoured that Rémy Deck, a brilliant musician and composer, offered to score my recording of it. That is to be listened to first, if you please, and then you can find the transcript and an explanation below.

Heather in Arles · Poem - That's enough, now

****

I am judging myself every day. Whatever I am, whoever she is, not enough, not right.

Compared to those who are scared to feed their families, am I a fool because I fear for all?

We are in a new hollow. Deep, yet, with not knowing.

I can barely type, my fingers heavy on the keys. And I cry with anger over the impossibilities that are being shouted in my country as certainties, regardless of the additional lives that could be lost.

Of course, it does not matter, now, who is doing the "better job" in this crisis for it is up to us, globally, to do the best job, as a community, whole.

So, me, and you, let us think to put our ego thinking aside...that continual train that says, "No."

It would seem as though while we cannot help but to listen blindly to our world leaders (some of whom are doing whole heartedly well while others are shouting out through the dark) we most certainly can listen to ourselves. Instinctively, we know.

What needs to be done. What is not being done nor taken under hand?

As this goes on, I cannot imagine that anyone but us will actually make the change for things to be better.

Can we do it?

In the midst of our every day, every night grief, can we pay respect to all whom we have lost in saying "Ca suffit." That's enough.

That's enough, now. That's enough.

(and yet we are so far from done)

****

A few weeks ago, Ruth Ribeaucourt sent me an article entitled, "That discomfort you are feeling is grief" . It was an incredibly helpful tool at a time when we were not yet speaking of universal grieving but it has come back to me today in acknowledgement that one of the primary steps in processing it is...anger.

I wrote this poem last night because I was so angry that I couldn't sleep. It is anger that has such amplitude that at times, I turn it in on myself. So without, so within. Anger that somehow, despite all conceiving, my home country has a dangerous president who did nothing, is doing nothing when his country is deep in crisis with nearly 50,000 deaths already reported with more to come. Who casually suggests disinfectant injections - which are most-likely lethal - as a possible cure for COVID 19. That a financial bailout is readily available for large corporations while people like my Sister struggle around the clock to keep her small business afloat. And what about the family featured in This New York Times article , who do not know how they are going to eat and whose daughter is vomiting because they can no longer afford her much needed medication? That there are people getting in line at 4am for food donations and will have to wait six hours to receive them?

How is this possible? How? In the so-called world's richest nation? We have to speak up. This has to stop. That's enough. We can do so much better than this.

****

I know that perhaps this might strike you as a rather dramatic post but this situation is dramatic.

Do I stick to my belief that at the essence of all is our need to connect through love?

I do. But I still believe that our voices of disbelief and regret need to heard.

The other posts in this series can be found here, here and here.

With deep Gratitude from Provence,

Be well and stay safe,

Heather

The cage of vulnerability

2020-04-22T20:20:00.001+02:00

So here we are. Right in the middle of it. Maybe. Because, honestly, none of us has a clue as to what is really going on or how long this pandemic will last. I am not a news bandit, never have been, but I listen to the wires of the world to try and hear what my fellow human beings are thinking...let alone, what decisions their governments are taking (sometimes on their own) for us.

One of the tiny but yet important things, belonging to the hum and thrum are these discussions. Amongst you, amongst me and all over the world.

It's both odd and not - everything is to me, actually, in this moment - but I mean specifically what we are saying to one another during this time.

Do you see it? Or am I alone? But I am having conversations that are achingly direct. Usually, we would warm up to this sort of opening, at best, over months.

And yet here we are.

Virtual friends that I have never seen in person, nor have heard their voices, have suddenly offered a shared agreement to be open, a sort of grace.

And that feels scary in itself beyond belief.

So here we are.

What is amazing, is that we are all so rock bottom dollar, that we have given up the game of (fortune and fame) to just admit, "No, I don't know what is next. And I am scared."

What a difference this is, you know?

Our collective, western society has been droning on for so long, "I got this." "I got this." It is the engine behind what we were taught to be.

And yet, of course, we have been thrown to the seas; monsters are knocking at the door...caving it in. Choose your metaphor.

What is beautiful...and yes, it is hard and unfair to talk about beauty within this ongoing breath of death...but. But...there are, and have been a lot of exchanges that are...beautiful. Tears shed and words broken like bread.

As we struggle on, day by day...we speak.

Some yell, but most speak. And often, in so doing, they rattle the cages of their vulnerability, whispering what they would never dare to otherwise.

These moments seem to be the building blocks of our future.

Or could be.

"I can't do this anymore." "I feel alone and I am tired of it." "I don't want my life to be some form of bullshit just because society says so." "I am not going back. I am not."

What I am hearing.

To say, listen. Listen. Listen, can you listen?

(We can be all of the things we did not think we were capable of.)

****

To ribbon up my two previous posts, a Leonard Cohen quote - one that I have cited here before but seems especially appropriate now: "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."

****

It's interesting. I wrote this nearly a week ago. And yet, the waves of emotion and thought are rolling through our cultures so quickly now that it almost seems out-dated. Not in terms of pertinence, but what it feels like our current state might be.

Remember, it serves no one and nothing to push your feelings down. You will only have to deal with them later. So please...you take care of you. Keep the door on the cage open, if you can.

Perhaps because it is Earth Day, I feel grounded in something that is both hopeful and yet has an angry fire behind it burning. One of urgency. For I am convinced that this pandemic is an outward mirroring of our destroying the planet. Somehow.

And that it is not too late to change.

Slowly, I want to take a deep breath and lift my eyes...up.

I am sending my deepest condolences to all that have lost loved ones and friends to COVID 19.

With love from Provence,
Heather