Energy

I have to roll my life around days of energy and days of lack of it, the unpredictability of it all drives me mad. Plans get shoved aside. This does not suit this former Type A personality of mine.

Pain is also up and down. Today I took two doses of pain killers with a shrug and a WTF. I despise pain killers, that buzzy wuzzy feeling does not suit me. But my energy for the day is fairly even and not in the dumps. So these small mercies I am so grateful for. It is only in the shortfall of things we normally take for granted that we recognize with joy a taste of their re-emergence.

Grandgirl is now living in Paris. She and her partner visited the grave of Van Gogh and sent me this beautiful postcard and mentioned how much I would have loved the town and place he was born in.

I am so glad we are a postcard sending family. When I am out of town I send many. And even throughout the year if I see one that is interesting. I think the internet has stolen that beautiful tradition for far too many.

She also sent me a photo of what she sees when she looks out the window from her desk.

Living the dream, indeed.

In the absence of pets in this pet free building (why, oh why?) I concentrate on my plants and yes, of course, talking to them.

These started as tiny babies given to me by Daughter when I moved in. I had a massive repotting recently on a good energy day.

And my African Violets (how I love them!) sit on my windowsill and take turns in blooming. 

That white you see outside is dense fog. I woke up to it this morning. I'm one of those weirdos who loves the fog and the foghorns which I am hearing right now. Warning all the ships and boats out at sea to be careful. Though I am sure radar has made all the difference.

Sunday Smatterings

Two words I don't see anymore and I am sure the two generations in my life don't know their meanings.

I remember a counterpane on my grandparents' bed.

What a wonderful word.

coun·ter·pane
/ˈkoun(t)ərˌpān/
Learn to pronounce
nounDATED
a bedspread.
synonyms: bedspread, cover, coverlet, throw-over, blanket, afghan, quilt; More
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There was crockery in their simple homemade cupboard beside the open range.

crock·er·y
/ˈkräk(ə)rē/
Learn to pronounce
noun
plates, dishes, cups, and other similar items, especially ones made of earthenware or china.
synonyms: dishes, pots, crocks, plates, bowls, cups, saucers; More
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My daughter's cat Mango. He has a full time job catching mice and shrews for his bosses, the local crows, who scream and yell at him if they are not happy with his overnight haul. He crashes out during the day, exhausted. The odd time, he talks back at them in a strange chirpy language they seem to understand and they shut up. We like to imagine what he says.

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The last time I was in Paris I took this picture from the wee balcony of our tiny hotel. Some pictures bring back a flood of memories. This one does it for me.

La Bohėme

~~~~~~~~~~~click on photo to enbiggen~~~~~~~~~~~

One of my favourite operas is “La Bohėme”.

I may have seen it five times, I may have seen it ten. I lost track.

Each production has captivated me.

On many levels.

The story: Love found. Love lost. Love extinguished. Love grieved.

Paris. 1896. A garret. Rooftops. Chimneys. Students. Mimi.

This past spring, 2009, I took a picture of Paris garrets from my room.

And I imagine the Italian composer, Puccini, composing the beautiful music based loosely upon a few stories about French students and a gypsy, living only in the Bohemian Paris of his imagination.

And I hear, like the echo of a dream, my father singing the famous Rudolfo aria from it while in the perfect acoustics of our small bathroom in Ireland: Che Gelida Manina: “Your tiny hand is frozen”.

Now and again, as the picture above flashes up on the slideshow in my sidebar, I think of all of this.

And it all makes a strange and lovely sense.

Je Regrette Paris.

Picture is of an early morning street around the corner from the small hotel on the Left Bank in Paris.
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I’m finally writing about Paris. I wanted to be sure, you see. Sure of my feelings around this trip of 8 days to Paris which was an addendum to the 9 days in Dublin. A dream, right? Well, not for me. I was ready to leave her after 3 days. Really. So lock me up. I may need my head read.

The picture above shows exactly how I felt there. Empty. Wanting to be back here. Or in Ireland. Anywhere but Paris. But I pretended to my friend. Who doesn’t read this blog and has no interest in my writing. I said to her it was wonderful. How great to be back there. But I should have left my Paris memories of 40 years ago alone. Not open up that lovely Gauloise and Chanel scented box and toss all the mementoes on to the rubbish heap.

I was bored. There I said it. Bored. Me. Yes, the Musee D’Orsay was beautiful, I dutifully snapped photos, visited all the paintings and sculptures. The weather was gorgeous. The food, h’m..alright. I ho-hummed cruising the Seine, walking the Champs. All the while mouthing, well, white lies. Thing is I’m never bored. Ever. But when with someone else and I feel obliged to pretend, the sound of my own voice ringing falsely in my ears gets boring. How could I tell her? It’s her favourite city in the whole wide world. She could stay there forever. She likes to pretend she’s a real Parisienne. I’m a tourist there and anxious to get home whether to Ireland or to Newfoundland. I live in beauty all the time. I do not have to seek it elsewhere. Would that be the reason?

And everything was so, so expensive and I was just beginning to resent that by the time I left. Why spend huge money on something you’re not enjoying? Several thousand dollars all told. That I would have loved to have spent in Ireland.

Paris, Schmaris.

There. I’ve said it. Out loud.

To Look Forward~

Inspired by Gaye's post, I was reminded of my father who had always maintained that life was never worth living unless you had something to look forward to.

And I said to myself after I read Gaye's post, I am one lucky woman. I have so much to look forward to this year!

Now I should make clear that I am very much an advocate of living in the moment, and I do. I am terrifically present in each and every moment of my life and savour each day, good, bad or indifferent as the treasure it is. To be healthy is a bonus. To hang out with my daughter and granddaughter as we did tonight was such fun, chewing over some stories, some books, some films, some websites and the dire condition of our little planet. And eating lobster bisque. My father taught me: one never drinks soup, one eats it. One never cuts a bread roll, one breaks it. I could make a book of such admonitions. But I'll spare you.

To look forward~

Me: I have my Annual Ladies' Brunch this Sunday. It starts at 11 and finishes oh, maybe at the other 11. We sit around the table and nibble away at all the goodies and entertain each other. And it's like that old saying: the Irish never have a conversation, they just sit around and monologue at each other. And what's wrong with that, pray tell? Not that everyone's Irish. I count my daughter as Irish as she was conceived in Dublin. My 92 year old friend was born in Donegal but emigrated to Canada when she was 4. But she still counts her numbers in Irish. And some of the rest are Irish born but most are from England or Scotland or Canadian. One was born in the U.S. in New York as her parents transitioned from London, England to London, Canada.

To look forward~

And then in early May I head back to Newfoundland, I love that road trip, with all the snow gone and the days longer and the trees bursting into green song, and the first sight of the ocean in New Brunswick springing up blue on the horizon as the dog raises her nose to the window and takes a huge lungful of the ozone. Me too.

To look forward~

And then in June, and this is the big one, I'm going to Dublin to spend some time with a very sick friend and after that, after that, I'm going to Paris.

Paris. It's been over 40 years since I left her. Has she changed? Did she move anything on me? Do the dogs still poop on the footpaths? Is her wine still cheaper than her Coca-Cola? I'm going to miss her Gauloises that I used to smoke so languidly in her cafes avec mon cafe au lait. (If I'd continued l'affaire with Mr. Gauloise I wouldn't be going back, now would I?) And her Seine, still filthy? And her Versailles, still breathtaking?

Oh, I do go on. I'll stop now.