Le Pere Jordan

It's been a "Journey" since I've felt I had the freedom of time, or the mental bandwidth to write anything. The fact that two years have passed since our last trip to France, that ended in a Medical Evacuation back to the US, is hard to fathom.

I now feel slightly guilty saying that there are some positive aspects to our life, in view of everyone else's  struggles.

My husband will always be "The Artistic One".

When friends ask him what he's up to, he  speaks about painting and possible upcoming art shows. His easel, paints and a fresh canvas are still where they were in our family room/Art Studio, although I have moved things over a bit to facilitate the passage of TAO with his walker frame.

He no longer paints or reads. He sleeps a lot and then sits and watches TV from the kitchen table. When it's not too hot we sit on the covered patio and watch the wind move the tree tops and the dogs run the fence to bark at delivery drivers and people walking by.

As I sit with him, I share videos, from my Facebook feed, of silly cats, redneck creative transportation solutions and familiar regions of France.

The image above is a stained glass window he designed and had made for our French house. The character "Old Mr Jordan" gave TAO hell seventy-plus years ago when he let the cows wander into the wrong field. He also sat in the barn with him in winter and carved wooden clogs, while telling stories about the village. I've heard more stories about him than of TAO's father.

TAO had sketched this image, which we still have,in pencil, long ago. You can see the rolling hills in the distance. The fence line takes your eye where the Artist intended.

When discussing subject matter for this tall bathroom window, I thought this image would honor a World that meant so much to TAO and be relevant to the surroundings.

The house is under offer. It's unlikely we'll ever go there again.

TAO's eldest daughter has been fantastic, shouldering the responsibilities of finding and making arrangements with an Agent, a Notaire and even going to the Department of Construction Permits to have them give the final signature on a project that was completed a decade ago.

She's had all of our paintings moved safely into storage for us. I told her to let her siblings choose any that they might like for themselves and to give away any furniture and household stuff that the potential new owners didn't want.

The one thing I wanted to remove and keep was this window. Unfortunately, the craftsman that came to try to extract it found it was installed in a way that can't be undone.

We now have a small chip of blue glass as a souvenir and these beautiful photos, taken by she who would be my Step-Daughter, if she were younger and I were older.

 

Getting a Life

After whining a few weeks back about the emptiness of my personal life, I have recalled several lessons that I had previously learned and somehow forgotten.
Diagnose Problem then choose a path towards a Solution, even if it involves lots of little steps!
I made an appointment for an introductory visit to Curves. I had some preconceived notions about this exercise program especially for women. Just the word "Franchise" brings all kinds of Time-Share, hard sellathon, marketing people to mind. I wasn't sure if it was going to be cultish and God-driven. What little brain I have resists washing quite determinedly.
There were quite a few suspicious-seeming questions to answer at the beginning of my visit. "What were my goals?" answer: fill some gaps in my life and improve my health and fitness so that I would be around to live it. "Did I want to give them the names of three friends they could contact who might want to join?" No! I intend to make new friends as part of my membership.
I was given quite a talk about the benefits of their methods. There was a lot of smiling and eye contact being beamed my way by perky and ever so enthusiastic Mimi. Introductions were broadcast to the women who were working out at that time; less scary than all the New-Girl days I experienced during my school life, but a bit awkward all the same.
I was shown how some of the machines function. Loosely arranged in a circle, there are different apparatus to work on different muscle groups with a bouncy pad in between each one for cool down, jogging in place activity. The music is rhythmic, along the lines of Abba's Dancing Queen, and every thirty seconds a flight attendant wanna-be voice says "now change stations". You complete the circuit twice, which takes thirty minutes then do some additional stretching and "Voila!"
Surprising myself, I signed up. Surprising myself, I love it.
There is none of the boredom of being on the same stair walker for an interminable, uphill hike to nowhere; none of the cattle market appeal of spandex clad bodies just dying to hook up with one another; no side by side isolation, because the human next to you is reading a book and wearing ear phones. In short, it's a social and friendly environment I can drop into or out of at any time during the hours of business, work up a sweat, chat a bit with a whole new pool of potential buddies and go home with a red face and an endorphin rush that remind me of my disco days.
My other small step in the right direction is that I have signed on to volunteer at a non-profit that does therapeutic horse riding for disabled children, and some adults. I went to the orientation last Saturday and start as a side-walker or horse leader on Friday afternoon. Each rider has three people to keep them safe, one leading the horse and one walking along each side. There is a designated "talker" so as not to overwhelm or confuse the rider. The "talker" repeats the teacher's instructions and helps the rider carry them out. Being the designated "Non-Talker" will be a good lesson in self control, until I can be trusted to do no harm in another role. I practiced a bit of non-talking at volunteer orientation, as the person in charge of our group "taught" us to groom and saddle a horse.
When I schedule stuff for myself I can be waylaid or dissuaded by other duties. When I promise something to someone else, nothing stands in my way of keeping that commitment. So it will be something good that puts me close to horses and their people. I also hope to learn something and, again, meet new people.
I used to say that horses were my vocation and people were my hobby. The path forward seemed so clear and straight back then. Like everyone, over time, I've experienced some forks in the road. You make your choices and you live them as best you can. I have recently realized that I had lost myself a bit along the way.
I have the feeling I've got a new map with some new choices. Over hill and dale is fine with me, just as long as there is forward momentum.

Blackberrying by Sylvia Plath

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving.
Blackberries big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat with blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go choughs in black cacophonous flocks-
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting,protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal