Lay your hands on me

In the past 36 hours, I've seen an acupuncturist, an energy therapist, a massage therapist, and an osteopath.

Which is to say that I've been unblocked, re-energized, relaxed, and realigned.

Short term results: very tired.

Long term: too early to tell.

I did all of this, saw all those people, well, partially because I've been meaning to but never get around to it and the boys are away until tomorrow and I didn't have any classes yesterday or today so it was logistically possible. But really, it's because I was feeling stuck in the worst possible way and I figured if I could get the inside unstuck the outside might follow.

You know what I'm talking about.

As within, so without.

Lost piece and peace

France and I used to have a good relationship. I liked her, she liked me. We got along well. I realize now, of course, (isn't that always the way?) that our relationship worked so well because I had molded myself around her. Which, as any foreigner knows, you have to do - at least to a certain extent - otherwise, well, you know.

Problem is, I molded a little bit too much. So now I've got to unmold (hard work, by the way) and then renegotiate our relationship.

I'm not too concerned, she's more flexible than she appears, and, hopefully, so am I.

In the meantime, St. Anthony.

Signs and transitions

There's a street sign in France that's round and has a diagonal slash on it. In the upper half 1-15 is written and 15-31 in the lower half. And it tells you that you're on a street where parking is allowed on the left side for the first half of the month and on the right side for the second half. Cars are supposed to be switched to the appropriate side on the last day between 8 and 10 pm or something along those lines. I don't remember all the details. I took the written driver's license test here when I was pregnant with Boy1, who will be 8 in a few days.

Anyway, I have to drive on a street with that parking system every day on my way to work. Which is fine, it's a perfectly functional street. For 20 days out of the month. The other 10? Not so much.

It's that whole transition problem.

From the 15th to the 20th, there are cars parked on both sides of the street. As well as from the last day of the month until the 5th of the following month. Which would be perfectly acceptable if it were a street wide enough to accommodate parking on both sides, which it is not, which is why it sports that sign in the first place.

I'm not complaining, I weave that street 10 days a month, just like the rest of the people who drive on it. I'm just noticing.

We see signs but we don't always heed them. Because transitions require effort.

So we ignore for as long as we can and then we just do what needs to be done.

I've asked this before but I'll ask it again, how well do you transition?

The things I'll never know

1. Why I've come to feel like even more of a foreigner here this year than I ever have before.

2. How overtones become undertones. And the opposite.

3. Why violet ice cream tastes so amazing and lavender ice cream tastes like soap.

4. Why it's so hard to do things that are good for you and so easy to do things that are not.

What will you never know?

Please, no politics.

Dodge this

Or we could also call this random.

1. Two more rainbows followed last friday's. Which means that St. Anthony thinks I've lost several things.

2. I've voted and sent off my ballot. The overseas American population votes fairly predictably. Military populations usually vote Republican and expat populations usually vote Democrat. I think I read somewhere that expat ballots got 'lost' 4 years ago. Of course, the military ballots were safely delivered and counted 3 times.

3. I really am going to get back to regular blogging. Starting Monday. It's my almost mid-October resolution.

4. I mentioned to a friend what a friend mentioned to me - Jung said that whatever you've stuck in a box and haven't dealt with becomes problematic after 35. So I'm currently trying to imagine these boxes I've got as lovely Christmas presents and not the time bombs in pretty wrapping that they really are.

5. Esquiver. To dodge or avoid.

Chasing my tail

I've been absent lately. In so many ways. I'd say that my life feels like it is not my own, but that would sound like I was denying responsibility. Which I am not. I'm taking full responsibility - maybe that's why it doesn't feel like my own. I had no idea I was capable of creating such a huge mess.

And I keep waiting to turn a corner but the corner seems to be backing up as I get closer to it. That's weird.

I still haven't blogged about the award. Which I'm currently not feeling like I deserve. Which I will do this weekend, I swear. I mean blog about it, not deserve it.

In the meantime.

I was sitting here at the computer feeling junky and then I looked out the window and saw a huge perfect rainbow. Which made me smile because rainbows really don't belong to October and they certain don't belong to this moment.

Maybe St. Anthony thinks I've lost something. I'm sure he's right. Think he'll find it for me even if I don't know what it is I've lost?

The thing is

I have some real things to blog about. Not the least of which is a very cool blog award I was given on Friday. From a very cool blogger (Uh -Oh Spaghettios). And an interesting encounter this weekend with a very old and interesting woman. And then the typical charming children things and then the bounty of fruits and vegetables from gardens I've been given lately.

But in order for me to be able to do any of that or, really, anything else at all, the whole ass kicking roller coaster thing has really got to stop.

My mother has lit a candle, which will help.

But on today, the first day of fall, I could really use some good equinox vibes.

So, if you've got any on hand and to spare, please send them my way.

A first

Because there must always be one.

I am to be published this month. Although it's not really my work, not as I would have imagined it.

It's a translation of some prose I had accepted to work with in one way and ended up working with in an entirely different way. But, as the author and I agreed - and said in that jinx kind of way - my work with that text was written to be otherwise.

As I said, it's a translation. Which is hilarious if you know me. I have so many issues with translation. I, obviously, see the utility of translation. But it's so complicated and so multi-layered. And, despite what you might think, the more comfortable you are in the second language, the harder it actually is to translate. Because you feel how close the perfect word is. You know how near to the truth you can get. And accepting anything less is like eating aluminum foil. It hurts your teeth.

And as much as I believe in and live everyday the quantifiable and qualifiable and reassuringly mathematical aspects of language, when you translate something that, in its original language has the power to move you or whisper to you or take you somewhere else, you are confronted with everything about language that is just the opposite.

Its unqualifiable color, its unquantifiable aura, its unmathematical harmony. Very hazy, all that. And I don't usually spend much time in hazy.

A hinge time

Une periode charnière.

Charnière - Hinge

Let's start with tangible.

A jointed or flexible device that allows the turning or pivoting of a part, such as a door or lid, on a stationary frame.

And let's finish with less so.

A point or circumstance on which subsequent events depend.

I'll just come out and say it. I don't like hinge times. They're hard. All that pivoting or turning, being jointed or flexible on something stationary is difficult, even in the best of times.

In the worst of times, it's quite nearly superhuman. Which is how you feel, no doubt, when hinge time is over.

Either that or like a piece of gum that's been chewed up and spit out.

What are you hinging upon?

The locks I follow

I'm living, again, in a river town. I haven't only lived in river towns but almost. And where there haven't been rivers, there's been water and always locks nearby.

You might be thinking, so what? And you might have a valid point.

But it doesn't feel like that. They are something to me. Not like friends I chose, but like family members that came with the territory. I currently live two blocks from locks, I walk or drive by them everyday. And when I'm paying attention to where I am and not where I'm going, they tell me things.

Things about that effort made to bring two elements together in a way that facilitates, allows even, the flow - the passage - being able to wholly and with integrity (and by that I mean not splitting apart or tipping over) move from one of those elements to the other, finding safety in the mix.

Again, so what?

Well, from where I'm standing, it looks like the physics of Temperance. Not temperance as in self-restraint. But Temperance as in the blending or synthesis of opposites. High mixed with low. Hard mixed with soft.

And I, as un-temperant as I am, have managed to live my whole life next to them. I was born to a father who built them, have always lived in places where I could see them, and now, am a neighbor to them.

Does this mean I'm getting closer to Temperance or just that I'm destined to live in water towns?

Bedtime stories

I missed you this weekend my baby.

I missed you too Mama.

I love you so much.

How much?

To the moon and back, to all the stars and back, three laps around the whole universe and back, to all the other galaxies and back and then still some more.

Well, me, I love you 10 times around the university.

Look at me being all proactive

Remember the redevance audiovisuelle? It's the television tax you pay here every September. It actually comes on the same form as the taxe d'habitation which is a municipal renter's tax. I haven't received the form yet but I'm hopeful there will be a big box where I can put a big X to indicate that I don't have a television and will, therefore, not be paying the stupid television tax.

Apparently when you claim not to have a tv, and I say claim because when you tell people here you don't have a tv they look at you like you've got to be kidding, the television tax people threaten to inspect your home, looking for secret widescreen television hiding places.

How will I respond to such threats? Come on over, I'll say, chat with my kids, they'll tell you ALL about not having a tv. And then I'll tell you all about it too. How nice it is to see that buffet in the family room covered with plants instead of electronic equipment. How nice it is to have silence be the only background noise covering my children's voices.

I must be fair, the boys have actually adjusted quite well. They've taken to spending hours on end outside in our little front yard, inventing endless battles between dinosaurs and dragons, and doing whatever one does with duel master cards.

Oh and hey, speaking of taxes, it was pointed out to me, while I was heartily bitching about the Republican Party, that I should zip it until I paid my back taxes in the US. Ha! I've looked into it and the good news is I only have to file for the past 6 years and during that time, believe me, I was either pregnant at home or with a toddler at home or working vaguely part-time and earning way under the tax exclusion limits. So, I've called Paris, I've asked for the forms and I'm going to officialize myself. So I can officially continue bitching about the Republican Party. I am so looking forward to that.

My list of things to do

or not to do this week:

1. Talk less. Seriously, you would not BELIEVE the kinds of trouble I get myself into by just speaking my mind too often. Note to self: everything doesn't need to be said. No, really.

2. Avoid drama at all costs. Seriously, you would not BELIEVE the kinds of drama I get myself into by, again, speaking my mind too often.

3. Get some work done. Seriously, you would not BELIEVE how completely not in the groove I am. I blame it on the trouble and the drama. No time left.

4. Avoid getting ass kicked by life, again. Seriously, you would not BELIEVE how many times I've had my ass kicked in the past 9 months. This at least has nothing to do with the speaking my mind thing. Between the repeated ass-kicking and the broken nose and the bruised forehead (you know, from banging it up against the wall endlessly), 2008 has left a serious mark on me. I'm very curious to see what kind of shape I'll be in by year's end. My guess? Either very good or very bad.

5. Yoga, everyday. My wrist is finally better. Guess what? Sometimes waiting works.

Random bilingual info

1. At dinner tonight (pasta with chicken breast, julienned vegetables, cream and goat cheese sauce - dessert was white peaches with chocolate allspice ganache) Boy1 said dinner was excellent despite the way it smelled. What do you mean, I asked him. He said, "Come on Mama, smell me this." Which is a direct (and funny) translation of sens-moi ça.

2. Boy1 has taken to using funky question formations like "Mama, is it we're going to eat chocolate sorbet?" Which is a direct translation of est-ce qu'on va manger du sorbet au chocolat?

3. Jertta brings up a good point. And she's a mind-reader. She's been on my mind for the past couple of days and voilà, here she is, on my blog making interesting comments. Anyway, about her point (see comments on last post). She may be right. I must be fair, the teacher in question was very pleasant and polite and tried very hard to frame her request so as not to offend. And I wasn't offended, just unyielding. And honestly, the people, teachers and parents alike, have been very nice at this school, very positive and interested in the whole bilingual thing. But, I have to agree with Jertta, most of the time I feel that people like me despite the fact that I'm American and never because of it. Americans who read this who don't live in abroad (because those of you who do or have lived abroad probably know exactly what I'm talking about): don't get offended. It's just that we don't have the best image in the world, for a variety of reasons, some justified and some not. And your stereotypically badly behaved American tourist certainly doesn't help things. You know the kind I'm talking about. The kind who doesn't travel to discover. But to reassure himself that everything really is better back home.

So much for making a good impression

Today was the first day back to school for the boys. Boy1 is in CE2, which is the grade they're in when they're 8 or going to be 8 before the end of the calendar year. And Boy2 is in Grande Section, which is what they're in when they're 5 or going to be 5. So maybe kindergarten. Anyway, same school but different classrooms and teachers and all that. Plus the whole school supply thing which is incredible here. Ballpoint pens, blue and black and green and red for Boy1, each with a different purpose, a fountain pen, compass, right angle, ruler, colored pencils, markers, pencil sharpener, white board with markers, mechanical pencil, regular pencils, mutliple notebooks and binders and plastified sheet covers and I'm leaving some things out. Of course, everything had to be labeled with his name. Boy2's list was much shorter, but he still had one.

When I went to pick them up for lunch, Boy2's teacher asked to speak with me. That's never good on the first day of school. She tried to nicely preface things, but I saw where she was going long before she got there. We completely respect your choice to raise your children bilingually, we understand how important it is to you...BUT. I cut her off about a second after the but, which I didn't used to do. Interrupting is so constant here, I fear I've picked up the habit. Anyway, no matter how she framed it, you realize, Madame, it's for me, it's so when you pick him up and ask him what he did or how his day went, I'm included in the exchange, so there is a transition, if you will, from school to home. Call it whatever you want, what she was asking me to do was speak in French to my child, which I simply refuse to do. The thing is with bilingual kids, in many cases, if they see an open window to speak the majority language all the time, they will. And all of the research on bilingualism bears that out. I tried to explain that to her, reassured her that I would be attentive to the school to home transition, that Boy2 and I would translate our exchanges to her if they had anything to do with what went on at school that day. She looked doubtful and I probably looked like a militant.

The President's coming

Not the soon to be lame duck, the other one, the French one. He's coming to Laval this evening. How do I know? By keeping myself well-informed? Yeah, right. Reading the newspaper? Nope, can't find a good one. Watching the news? Nope, my television is dead. Seriously. So broken it's officially dead. I'm thrilled. The boys are beyond despondent. News on the internet? Nope, I use my computer time for much more frivolous things.

I know because mon quartier est bouclé. My neighborhood is nearly sealed off and it's overrun with stern looking CRS guys.

Don't ask me what he's doing here, I have no idea (see above paragraph).

I'll tell you tomorrow if I hear about it in a café. That's my real method of staying informed.

Temperance

There have been suggestions - recommendations that I need to cultivate some of that.

Like rising up out of the pit was before it, it's on my list of things to do.

These days, however, I'm cooking. Pastry cream for chocolate eclairs and mischief meringues and lemon buttermilk sorbet and chocolate sorbet and peaches with balsamic vinegar for rare duck breast.

La temperance will follow, washed down with champagne.

Seriously, don't people have better things to do?

So, I'm in Nantes. Briefly. For 24 hours. Mostly to drop Boy1 off at his grandparents' house. And also to buy a few things at Ikea for the redone kitchen (a bar stool, a basket and a thing I have no name for), for my bed (a surmatelas, whatever that is because it's firm which I love but it's still lacking give, which I don't), and for the office (a wheeled multi-drawer thing to put the printer on and a chair cushion because the chair is this weird weave thing that hurts the back of my thighs if I'm not dressed. Yes, gasp, I occasionally blog in my panties. Go ahead, friends and family, try to get that image out of your head.) And a mirror for the bathroom. And a small table for the phone in the dining room to replace the wrought iron thing I've been using that really belongs outside with plants on it. And that's it. I didn't get anything that wasn't on my list. And as everyone knows, that's a big deal at Ikea.

But what I don't get is why half of France was at the Nantes Ikea this afternoon. It's summer. It wasn't raining. It was a nice, sunny day, if slightly chilly for August. There was no sale, there was no reason. And yet, it was packed. It was a nightmare. Everyone with their yellow bags and their pushycart things. Except for me. I had a blue Ikea bag that I bought (60 cents) the last time I went to Ikea. WHICH SOMEONE STOLE FROM ME TODAY. Can you imagine? Can you imagine shopping at Ikea, picking out furniture or a new kitchen or whatever and actually being lame enough to steal a 60 cent bag?

I assure you, I'm not upset about the bag. I was over it as soon as I realized it had been stolen. Because really, I have a lot of big bags and the Ikea one is actually too big and I just put the mirror and the cushion in the basket and all the other stuff came in those flat boxes (some assembly required). So they actually did me a favor, getting rid of that useless bag for me.

L'état de l'attente

Waiting. The waiting state. As opposed to the desperate longing state. Maybe a bridge to a state of grace. We'll see.

I can't do yoga. I haven't really been able to do yoga for 2 weeks. I did something to my left wrist, funked it up a little, ignored it and did yoga anyway for a week. Bad idea. It moved beyond funky into not really utilisable. Which sucks because yoga's become something I love doing. So I'm forced to wait.

Oddly, or interestingly, enough, that's not the only thing I'm forced to wait for these days.

If I were a highly evolved person, I'd see the wisdom in all this waiting. I'd see the gift of clarity in all this limbo. Like Julie, I'd see that events and timing and plans are much more gracefully laid out when I'm not operating under the illusion that I'm the one eventing and timing and planning what will be my new world. I'd see that having to wait makes you take responsibility for what you get. That it makes sure you've got your eyes wide open so you see what you get when you get it. So you don't wake up in the middle of it and wonder where it came from.

How do you wait?

The plot thickens. Or thins. Or something like that.

Remember Mary Kleyweg? Remember all the posts I've written about her?

Well. Here's another.

Dear Witness Protection Management People,

Are you aware that Mary's apparently alive and back in Seattle and part of a writer's group? (That's just so Mary, isn't it?) Did you make sure all the bad guys were locked up or whatever before you let her resume her real identity?

Or is this all just an elaborate test to see if people are still interested?

Oh dear, I'm not being very discreet about all of this, am I?

Google her name and see for yourselves.

See? This is what happens to people who don't finish their therapy. They blog indiscreetly about things.

Yours truly,

Nicole

Hey Mary, if you ever google your own name and stumble upon this - I hope you're well. You were cool. I'm sure you still are. The next ladybug/rainbow/four leaf clover I see will be for you.