quiet

Good morning., a photo by cocopuff1212 on Flickr.

After a weekend with house full of people, sitting alone in the kitchen feels strange, and the quietness of this place is unsettling. My son was heartbroken to see his cousin leave, and I am wondering if I need to do something special to cheer him up.


Thanksgiving was early this year, and we have a full week before Advent starts. I am working through the piles of towels and sheets to wash, and between the loads, making trips to the garage to get our Christmas things out.

I know I am six days ahead, but I find myself saying, "O come, O come, Emmanuel."

shelter

Moved furniture around today, and this piece finally went up on the wall., a photo by cocopuff1212 on Flickr.

A house is a shelter, first and foremost. It keeps us dry and keeps us warm. It would be nice if it isn't too small, great if it's prettily decorated. But its most important function is to shelter us from the elements. To keep us safe.

I am grateful for mine, and taking care of it is my way of saying "thank you". I can't imagine ever hiring a housekeeper.

lost

Leaving. (Gare de Lyon Paris), a photo by cocopuff1212 on Flickr.

I lost the pendant I bought in February in Paris.

I was subconsciously aware during our dinner that the chain was caught in the scarf I was wearing, but it didn't really register. It wasn't until the scarf got twisted on my neck and I tried to adjust it that I realizeed the pendant top was gone. By then we were halfway home from the restaurant, walking on a dimly-lit street.

We looked around, on the sidewalk and in the grass surrounding it. A young couple pushing a stroller and a gentlemna with a dog stopped and helped us look. I walked back to the restaurant, looking down as I took every step, and even went inside to look and ask. No luck.



I have often thought about where lost things go. I wonder if there is a space in the universe where lost things congregate and share the stories of how they ended up there. Do they know that they're missed? Are they lost if we don't know that we've lost them?

I hope someone finds my pendant top, and cares enough to wear it or give it to someone who might enjoy it. Then it isn't really lost; it may be lost to me, but not to the world.

When we decided it was time to stop looking, the young mom who helped us look said, "Well, you just have to go back to Paris." If only it was so easy.

Paris is no longer a two-hour train ride away.

october.

Clouds in the sky, leaves on the ground., a photo by cocopuff1212 on Flickr.

September zipped by while we were too busy unpacking and trying to settle. I don't even know what happend to July and August -- I don't think they existed for us this year.

We are, in any case, in our new home. Our own home, surrounded by our own furniture, our art, our books. We have new routines, new friends, new issues to tackle, new advendures to make.

Here are some of the things I am excited about:

1. My desk faces the window (for the first time ever!), and the view of the trees outside is just what I need. Writing now is more meditative than it has ever been.

2. Lots and lots of great Asian food. And I don't mean just the restaurants (although there are plenty). My next door neighbor is Korean, and he just brought over the first batch of the kimchi he made the other week. I had a big spoonful, not even with rice but just plain kimchi alone, and it was mmm, mmm, MMMMM. The only sad thing was that I didn't have any beer to go with it.

3. We have family, relatives, and old friends to look up. We've lived the nomads' lifestyle for several years, and while we met many interesting people and made many good friends, it is always a treat to reconnect with people with whom we share the earlier chapters of our history. I feel home now, rooted and comforted.

The morning air is chilly these days, and the leaves are starting to change colors. We've already gone apple picking, and are looking forward to visiting pumpkin patches and having freshly made apple cider. We'll do the hay rides and corn mazes, too.

This is where we are, this is our life, here and now.

What a lucky bunch of scarecrows we are.

last call

No.8 rue Godefroy, 6eme., a photo by cocopuff1212 on Flickr.

We have visitors until Friday morning and we move to a hotel Sunday afternoon. The movers are coming on Monday. In the meantime, my son has two birthday parties to attend over the weekend.

I'm not sure how busy I will be during the next nine days, but I'm pretty sure I won't be spending much time on my laptop, so I decided to go ahead and post something quick in case this becomes my last update from Lyon, France. It probably will.


I took this photo this morning while walking toward Parc de la Tête d'Or. The building, No.8 rue Godefroy, 6eme arrond., has always stirred my imagination.

It's a rather grand building, standing all on its own on a tiny block with no neighbors. There is a big gate separating its courtyard from the street, and on the northern side, there is another small garden area, gated and fenced off from public.

All I can see of the inside is the ceilling lights on the second floor, and from the look of them, I know that the space is currently being used as a business office.


I fancy this building to be a mansion that once belonged to a very wealthy family but had to be sold off due to unfortunate circumstances. The harsh fluorescent lights I see through the windows are like cheap, ugly lipstick on an elegant lady -- they're incongruent, they don't belong with this beautiful building, and they make me sad.

I wonder who built, owned, and lived in this building. I wonder what happened to them. I wonder how many servants they had, what food they ate, what they wore. I wonder how many babies were born here, and how many deaths had to be mourned.

I am, of course, romanticizing. Now, if I was fluent in French, I could go to the Archives de municipales de Lyon and try to find out the history behind the building.

Alas, my French is too limited for that kind of project. It's too ambitious an endeavor anyway, because I have only nine days left in Lyon.

memories to take home with me

My last purchase at Les Puces., a photo by cocopuff1212 on Flickr.

I went to Les Puces du Canal for the last time yesterday.

I wasn't looking to buy anything -- my niece was visiting for the weekend and wanted to go to the fea market; I thought it would give me an opportunity to say good-bye to the lovely people I've bought some wonderful things from during the last three years.


I used my very limited French to explain that I was returning to the U.S. permanently, and that I was grateful for the opportunity I had to get to know them. I wanted to tell them that I would take care of the things I purchased from them, but my French failed me there.

I don't think it mattered. They seem genuinely touched that I would come and say hello for the last time. They all wished me luck with the move and with my new life back in the States (I'm pretty sure that's what they said).


Until yesterday, I'd been a little worried that some of my fragile Puces finds wouldn't survive the transatlantic voyage. I thought I'd be heartbroken if something broke in transit. But I realized yesterday that what I treasure about these things are not the things themselves but the memories and stories that come with them -- memories and stories of these wonderful people and the absolutely delightful place that is Les Puces du Canal. Even if something broke, I'd still have the memories to carry and stories to tell.

And there's no price tags on memories and stories. That makes this painted box, for which I paid only 5€, a truly remarkable bargain of the century.

down in the courtyard

As the party winded down and some of our neighbors began going upstaris to their homes, I looked up and saw a small piece of sky, in dark hues of blue-gray with smear of pink.

A warm, early-summer evening, spent with good food and good wines, chatting, laughing, relaxing.

I thought I would be happy if time stopped and I just stayed here forever.

snowed in (home, sweet home)

We've had an interesting week!

Nine days ago, our upstairs neighbor's water pipe froze and burst, flooding our flat literally like waterfalls through our recessed ceiling lights and tripping electricity. The fire department shut off the water to the entire building, and we were out of running water for more than 24 hours.

No electricity in our flat meant the boiler was off, which meant no hot water, which meant no heat. We were having -10℃ weather and could not not have heat, so we had to move out. We ended up moving to a friend's flat nearby, then to a hotel room in the 6eme, and then to another friend's flat in Presqu'île.

Five days after the flood, we finally managed to get an electrician to come and inspect our electric system, and were able to turn the electricity back on to get heat back in the flat. The musty odor was still awful two days later, but we decided to move back in. We are currently camping out on the living room floor as the smell in the bedroom area is still very strong. We want to have an expert evaluate the damage and make sure we don't have a mold issue before settling ourselves back into our bedrooms. But we're home. Warm and comfortable.

Home, sweet home.

During this past week, the thought that kept running in my mind was just how lucky, how seriously lucky, we have been. We were getting ready to go out when the water burst our ceiling and started coming down, but we were still home and caught much of it in buckets and pots (we deployed everything we had). Had we already left -- we would have been gone for 3 hours -- the damage in the flat would have been much more extensive, because the water was coming down so fast I was emptying the buckets every 2 minutes.

We were also lucky in that we didn't have any direct water damange on any of our furniture. I shudder when I imagine what would have happened if the flooding occured above our beds or, heaven forbid, our piano.

While we were playing nomads, one of our friends took our dirty clothes to her house to wash them for us. Two moms at my son's school packed his lunch because I couldn't. The friends who accommodated us couldn't have been more generous. Yes, this was all very inconvenient but it was no hardship. Some people don't even have a warm place to sleep in, and we have so much more.

Now back in our own flat, my son is loving sleeping on an air mattress on the living room floor because "it's fun, it's like camping, Mom!" School is closed due to snow today, so he gets to play video games even though it's Tuesday (normally video games are allowed only on Wednesdays and weekends). He's happy.

I've gathered all the books I have on Paris, and I'm putting sticky notes to mark the shops and cafes I want to visit when we're there next week. I think hot chocolate is calling me from the pantry.

These are the things we do when we're snowed in. At home.

Life is good.

beginning

The year 2011 was a difficult one for me, on many different levels. But it was also a year of personal growth, with moments filled with appreciation and gratitude. I'm not sure whether everything happens for a reason, but I know I can learn something from everything that happens, and take that with me.

If things move along as expected (warning: sometimes they don't), we will be wrapping up our stint in France and heading back to the U.S. six months from now. It's a beginning of another chapter! There's a lot to think about and prepare for, but when I do, I get all tingly with anticipation.

So here's to the new year, a fresh new beginning. I feel blessed to be here, looking directly forward. I will take my steps, one at a time, with my head held high.

wish

Wishing everyone a warm, comfortable Christmas, and sending my thoughts to those who are hungry and those surrounded by danger. Special prayers to people who are facing this Christmas for the first time after a personal loss.

May the message of the season lighten your load and lift you up.

christmas listening 3

 

 

 

It was cloudy and dark this morning. And windy. Very windy.

I was waiting for the light to change. The bridge was shaking because of the strong wind. Pedestrians and cyclists hurried past me, trying to keep themselves from getting blown into the vehicular traffic. From the comfort of my own car, I watched people walk, leaning heavily into the wind and holding the collars of their coats. Then this song came on my car stereo.

I thought about the friend I just said good-bye to, quite possibly for a long time, if not for good -- her family is leaving France. I also thought about the two-and-a-half years that have gone by since we moved to Lyon. Six more months and then we leave.

People come and people go. We are part of that migration.

 

  

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint! And surely I’ll buy mine!

And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

We two have run about the slopes, and picked the daisies fine;

But we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine;

But seas between us broad have roared, since auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand my trusty friend! And give us a hand o’ thine!

And we’ll take a right good-will draught, for auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

 

It's a beautiful Scottish traditional song. Above is just one version of the lyrics, and not the exact words sung by James Taylor.

Yes, I'll take a cup of kindness yet, but not for the sake of old times. I'll take my cup for here and now, becuase that's all we've got.

little hands

I was at a fund-raising event on Saturday, staffing one of the craft tables for the children and taking photos.

I love watching children create. I love watching the serious expression on their faces while they are at it, and the obvious satisfaction they feel upon finishing a project, no matter how small it is.

I do have a few things I'd like to say to some parents, however.

First, stop telling your children to "put that over there, this over here, it's crooked, that's way too much glue." It's their project, not yours. They know what they're doing. More importantly, they like what they're doing. So let them be.

Second, please do not tell them to "look at the camera and smile." That so spoils the moment. For the children, and for me.

Thank you for listening.

christmas listening 1

 

I have about 90 Christmas albums in my music library. One that's currently on heavy rotation is this one by James Taylor, and this is my favorite track. 

 

a thankful heart

Today I'm thankful for...

Our home.

Freedom.

Hands to hold.

My five senses.

Protection.

Memories.

And for all that I can hold in my hands, and in my heart.

I'm wishing everyone a good Thanksgiving, wherever you might be.

chocolate guilt

 

Pure Chuao, 55% cacao dark chocolate.

Regular plain Bernachon chocolate bars are 6€ each, but this one is 7.50€. For a 150g bar of chocolate. That's $10 for 5.3oz. of chocolate.

It tastes like heaven, and I don't mind the price -- it's a pleasure I don't indulge in often. I just can't help wondering if the cacao farmers were fairly compensated.

these stone steps

The staircase of our 19th-century apartment building is made of stone.

More than a hundred years' worth of footsteps going up and down have worn away the stone's surface to a gentle, almost organic sheen. When I take the stairs, I think of the people who walked here before me. Who were they? What were their lives like?

Our building does have a retro-fitted elevator. We live on what would be the Amreican 6th floor, and luckily, it has never been out of order when I come home with wine bottles and laundrey detergent. But it does break from time to time, and when it was broken earlier this month, it took them -- whoever they were -- 10 days to fix it.

During those 10 days, I thought of the gentleman who lives upstairs from us every time I walked up to our apartment. I thought of him when I was going down, too. You see, he uses a mobile chair to get around. I have seen him down in the entrance hall taking several steps, but he needs to steady himself on the railing when he does. If the elevator is out of service, he cannot possibly go out.

Then I thought of the people who lived here before the elevator was installed: people who had trouble moving about, people who were confined to their apartments, people who didn't have the hope to hold onto, for the day "when the elevator is repaired."

How oppressive that must have been. My heart ached at the thought.

The day I came home after an errand to find the elevator working, I was relieved for our upstairs neighbor. I felt lighter (I know that's silly), and it looked as if the inside of the building got brighter (even sillier). I decided to walk upstairs instead of riding the elevator. 

Taking the stairs one step at a time, I couldn't stop thinking about how the world must have remained dark for the housebound. A broken elevator is just an inconvenience for me, but for someone like my upstairs neighbor, it is a broken connection to the outside world.

I now take the stairs whenever I can. I am doing so for the past residents in this building, for the people who would have wanted to go outside and take a walk but couldn't.

I walk their sadness out of this building with me. When I come back and walk up five flights of stairs back to my apartment, I am walking in their stead. I do this every day, hoping to lift up the ghost of their memories.

it's a happy sunday

 

It's a beautiful sunny Sunday, but allergy symptoms have me stay indoors. I've changed bedsheets, done three loads of laundry, and ironed two shirts and a dozen napkins.

But it hasn't been all work, either. I've also caught up on blog reading and done quite a bit of pinning. Now it's time to play some games with my son.

Happy rest of the afteroon.

P.S. Happy Mother's Day to those in France!

dream

Someone was speaking to me from heaven this morning.

plum blossoms

Seasons repeat, and spring is coming.

A ray of light, bringing a bit of hope.

lumière

From a French city famous for its lumière, to people in Japan.

We are lifting you up.