The weight of it all

You look like you've been to the open-air market. Buying fresh flowers and fruit with a foreign currency. You spent your Saturday morning converting weight and worth into something you could recognize.

You've done that in your life too. The unknown? Very heavy but worthless, big fat coins you carry. The truth? Heavy and expensive, bars of gold you keep hidden away. Lies? Lighter than the air that carries them and cheaper than anything, play money - the paper and ink of your life.

The old woman selling honey murmured as you walked by her stand at the end of the market. Leave the market without regret, she said. It'll cost you more than you have. When you die, and you've already started, regret will not hold your hand.

When March is in July

You might think I'm kidding. I'm really not. I even saw a rainbow today. The sky is moody here and that's definitely a March thing.

You have to think that it's on purpose - there must be a really good reason for March to be in July.

I'm quite certain I missed a couple of things in March the first time around. Maybe this is my chance to not miss them.

Maybe what I've learned since the first March of the year will guide me during the second one. Maybe I'll listen to the murmurs of truth that a spring month brings and not be afraid. Maybe.

Laval en terasse

So, technically, it's summer. And some days, it even feels like summer. This weekend felt a bit more like early autumn and that's my favorite season so even that was ok. The rain, well, that's another story. Anyway, every restaurant that can has got a few tables outside. The result ranges from silly to odd to cool, depending.

The thing is, they kind of have to. When it's nice out, or even vaguely nice out, everyone wants to eat outside. Restaurants that have no outdoor seating suffer during the season unless they've got something really amazing going on in the kitchen and that's pretty rare in Laval.

I wouldn't sit outside at La Villa B, it's a little raised deck sitting on what is normally a parallel parking spot. I think I'd feel like I was having dinner in a parking lot. There's another deck at Le Petit Vénérand, which blends in a little better because it's on a cobblestone street that's mainly for pedestrians but it's very small - maybe 3 or 4 tables. I've eaten outside at Le Milord- they've got a patio in front of the restaurant with a dozen tables - it's nice, you feel neither on display nor parked.

To be honest, I actually prefer to eat inside anyway. I'm not sure why.

Quand lundi est boutonné avec mardi

When Monday is buttoned with Tuesday.

You know, when you're putting on a shirt that buttons up the front and you don't pay attention and you don't line up the buttons correctly with the buttonholes and so you're off. Lining things up, your mind was elsewhere.

You're still clothed, your chest and abdomen are still covered, but not in the way they should be.

Question of the day: when was the last time you thought you had things lined up and you really didn't?

On the nature of twelve

Twelve months in a year, twelve hours on a clock. Twelve has something to say about the passage of time. A long time ago, it was a number that signified completion and the signal of the end of one phase and the beginnings of another, guided by a greater understanding and wisdom - knowledge learned from life. It promises a sense of calm amidst whatever chaos and turbulence we might be faced with.

I moved here, to stay, in September of 1997. A lot has happened since then.

I arrived single, no children, lots of plans. Here I stand, nearly twelve years later, single again, a mother, a lot fewer plans. I can only believe that to be a good thing.

But I am planning on holding twelve to its promises.

You're a snake

It has not been my habit to speak to you - or even listen. Perhaps that is part of our problem.

A hard reminder, a harsher task master, your call at my door went from gentle frappe to insistent pounding. You're inside now, still pounding. I do not recall inviting you in, perhaps the smarter, secret me handles those types of invitations.

You've made yourself at home. You've coiled your darkness around my own. Yours is colder though, more certain, rooted where I do my heavy lifting. Branched beyond and through, your chill immobilizes what I must see, what I need to remember. The pain must come from my resistance to do so.

I watch you now, now that I know who you are, from back here. I childishly hope you will give up and leave. You will not. Not this time. There will be no future visits, you will not leave until what has been undertaken is completed.

I will thank you in the end. Even from back here I know that.

When it is your birthday

We will celebrate.

There will be cold champagne and salty cashews and spicy chocolates and creamy white peach sorbet. There will be guests, friends. Maybe a tiara.

I will give you my gift last.

It will be wrapped in silver paper, reflections. It will be tied with silk ribbon, transparencies.

You will open it, carefully. You will enjoy wondering what is inside.

It will be a key. Heavy, hand-carved, swirls on this skeleton. Art on the bow, math on the bit. You will hold it and wonder what compartments it opens.

Like the one key Bluebeard forbids us to use, it will open a bleeding lock. The bleeding lock to a wooden door, black with time and secrets. But unlike Bluebeard's women, you have permission to use it. I've given it to you, it is your gift.

When you are ready, you will use it to open that dark door. You will not be scared, you're used to the sight of blood.

You will never forget seeing for the first time. Understanding that you haven't opened a door in, but a door out. And the lock that bleeds? It has been seeping in all these years, death on the other side, you thought. Now you know, it was keeping you alive. The death was on this side.

You will take your first walk outside. Transfused. Alive.

Just the facts

You've spent your life fishing and hunting, odd that you don't know more about the equipment.

Knife finally at your side, I will watch you untangle your net, quietly, thread by thread, and reclaim as simple what has long been called complicated. You've named it now, it cannot hide behind the brilliant screen of image. You've seen the two sides of the apple and, despite years of trying to prove the contrary, you now know that they do not belong to the same apple. A puzzle that will never be solved, cannot be whole. Who cut them for you? That might explain a few things. But it will not change the facts.

I will watch you thank the vile, the hateful, the cruel. They have been your friends and family too. First cousins to distress. Necessary evils, you will call them. And they were necessary. Your constant companions on this river where polished stones are found, they have slowed your travels just enough to let you see the landscape, the river bed, the earth below.

And one day, I will witness you take flight, not from fear, but because you can. I may not see it happen, but I promise I will be a reliable witness. I will wake up to a different tide and realize you've done it, quietly, without violence - an evil you now understand as unnecessary. My testimony will speak of quiet dignity and whispered kindness - I will be honored to tell the story of you.

From Paris

The first thing I must say is how kind people are.  From the taxi ride from my house to the train employees to fellow passengers to random travelers in Montparnasse.  All those people were exceptionally nice and helpful.  Helping the single mother traveling with two children carry bags and navigate stairs, locate misplaced train wagons, conquer escalators, and find bandaids and disinfectant wipes when Boy2 fell and was bleeding from both knees.  

Seriously, don't believe anything bad you hear about the French.  

  

Baise-en-ville

I'm afraid to translate this one literally, I'll get reported for questionable content.

So the clean version is: sex-in-town.

It actually refers to a small bag, like an overnight bag or even smaller, in which one might carry all the necessary items one might need were one to decide to not go home one evening in favor of spending the night elsewhere pursuing pleasure.

How's that for clean? Very, I'd say.

It's the kind of word I love, not necessarily for what it represents, but simply for the fact that there is a word for such a thing. I love that about French.

I guess the next obvious question is what you would put into your baise-en-ville...

Random

Because I'm like that sometimes.

1. Tomorrow is the boys' last day of school. It's not the last day of school, but it's theirs. We're going to Paris on Monday so they'll miss the last three days. Please don't call French Social Services.

2. I'm out of cinnamon and chocolate covered altoids. How did that happen? Wasn't my mom just here last month? Didn't she bring me, like, 4 tins?

3. My former favorite violet ice cream still tastes like soap. I'm considering just making some myself. But who sells violet essence? Oh, what is the essence of violet?

4. It's storming.

5. I do not know what this summer will be made of. Many times, you know. This time, I do not know. I'm trying to like not knowing.

A three card spread

In the beginning, your gut was your compass. Not the instinct whose spark waits there. Had that been the case, there would have been considerably less trouble. Both sought and found. No, unfortunately, or not - that could be argued either way and everyone knows contention was your second nature - that's where the tornado was silently forming. Violence had became the lowest common denominator and math was the first language you spoke.

In the middle, your mind took control, made a plan, drew a map. It was military-like in its precision and detail. And everyone knows you were a gifted militant, convinced and convincing. Strategies and wars made into artful games. You lost, even when you won.

In the end, you will set those two aside. Not enemies, but you see now that survival is their only goal - and it is an individual one, they're unaware they're on a team. On this bridge over the water that does not move, I believe you will make the right decision. It will be so right, you won't even have to make it. Violence and strategies will give way to silence. You will let your quiet heart lead you.

Lost on you

It is time. This is what happens when seasons change. You always feel it coming, even if you pretend you don't. You evaluate just before fall. You crave salt just before winter. Your hand itches just before spring. You listen just before summer.

And so, here you are, listening. What will you hear that you have not heard?

The tales you told yourself about what you could bear, what you could lift, what you could carry. How long you would wait, how still you would stand, how patient you would be. What you understand, what you believe, what you trust.

When you walk away from this, you will have to close your eyes. Deep breath, eyes close, head turns, body follows, foot steps.

Violette de pensée

Violet of thought. But really pansy violet. A deliberate mistranslation. What else have you deliberately mistranslated?

Who you are? Well, of course, but everyone does that. What you do? Yes, that too. Especially that. Do you realize what you do? What you believe you are supposed to do? Why are knives your weapon of choice?

But it is my job, you said. No, my mission. My life's mission. There was a rite of passage, brief, instant, indiscernible to your child's eye. A hidden moment where you were taken to the cave of the ancestors, shown the drawings on the stones, given the the tools you would need - you had no choice, you know that now. As for what came afterward, what has come afterward, that is where the mistranslation resides.

Divine violet, true violet, you will wear it as a crown now. Paler than purple, it is still a mix a red blood and true blue. No need to excise the darkness though, you're going to let the blackness bleed out. These colors will be lighter.

Tenderness pink

Oh the places you'll go, they said. Mostly with warning.

When you started this, you did not know all you had to accomplish or all that would stand in your way. In the beginning it feels a bit like a bad vacation. Disappointing views, lousy food, crowded sights, bad company. But you will persist. You cannot not go. Not on this trip.

It gets worse, much worse. No longer a bad vacation, this is a trip to a hell. Black rage in your jaw, filled with what you have not said. Muddy fear is your aura, the truth cannot even touch you. But the smallest seed of grace, perhaps you were born with it, helps you find help. And so, blessedly, you will persist.

And when do you get to the heart of it all, to the essence of what you were certain did not exist, free it up. Use that shiny knife, not the dark one with arabesques that lie about the gutting it is used for, but the other one, the one that will cut clean through during this silent carving. The purest center revealed, pink. Mark this territory as claimed, dig the tip of the knife in the wood that frames the work you've done here. Handle up, it is a flag at half-mast. Victory and grief.

Resin of amber

You looked at that color for months and never saw it. You spent time with that color. Hours and hours. You were careless in its presence, ignorant, playing only the games you master.

And now look at you. One fine mess. Nothing is as you thought it was, you misinterpreted it all. Timbre, tone, vibration, breadth, width, depth. You don't even have the tools to measure these. Does it radiate, reflect, emit? This is no man-made color, your words will do you no good here.

When you finally saw it for the first time, you were surprised to find that you didn't even have a name for it. And that was only the first of many surprises. It changed, depending on the light. It was never what you expected. It reaches you, touches you - when was the last time that happened? You're no artist, colors don't affect you like this, do they?

In the end, you found the name in the scent. Your scent. It looks just like you smell. A warm, autumn scent, just like the color. Fossilized resin, its history in the scent, the journey in its color. Finally a word, not yours, but familiar anyway. Bewitching.

What I call it

You've asked me for a name. I cannot give you one. Not for this place.

It is neither here nor there. While some might consider it no man's land, it is not. Not really. It is both path and destination. It is endless and brief. It is essence, no frills or swirls to be found here. It is scar and resilience, all at once. It is marked with life and destiny and has borne witness to both. It has worn and torn and seared and burned and ached and yearned and waited in silence and lived to tell all those tales. It is branded with the effort it took to heal, tattooed with an outline of what hides underneath the wave. It holds all the mysteries you seek in position, reminds you with a red hot whisper that your adventures have just begun, that you know nothing and everything and that this state of affairs is not a contradiction.

I do not know what others call it. I only know what it is for me.

If you get closer, I'll introduce you. I believe you actually met before but there was no introduction, you walked quickly by. How does that happen? How do you get so close and not realize, not recognize the honeyed scent? If you get another chance, it will call you to order. It will dare you to leave your mark on its landscape. Do you have that in you?

In that one word

Everything shifted.

There were no signs or warnings that it might happen that night.

That I might see you, a master of weaponry, trapped, surrounded by swords, blades deep in the ground. And realize they were skillfully crafted by your own hand. Pommel, grip, guard, blade. It was beautiful in an unexpected way, this prison you've made. Clean, clear lines delineate. Silver shines everywhere and blinds those on the inside.

Can't. One word made from two. A contraction. It is that. A contraction of what should have been and what will be instead, a compromise that sucks the heart right out of the center. You are left with an apostrophe. Is that enough for you? Something that marks this omission, that shows that something else has held that place, will always hold that place. It looks like a small curved line when drawn by your hand. But it is a gash, a slice of you taken against your will, a wound that will seep in the forever between your yesterdays and your tomorrows.

Tilt your head to the left and you will see that your apostrophe resembles the curve of a closed eye.

Knife collecting

I've seen your knives. Well, just two. Do you have more?

The first one I saw surprised me with its complexity. Curved, dark metal, teeth, ridges. Dark wooden handle. Black with use and the essence of your hand. Braided cord wrapped around the tang, no rivets for this knife. This knife is used to eviscerate. I cannot imagine any other purpose for all that detail. Its sound is rough when you scrape it, back and forth, along the stone you use to keep it very sharp. The oil you pour on the stone does not stifle the sound, it just makes the grit and the grind slick.

The second one is much bigger. Bright, shiny steel. I can see my reflection in the blade when you hold it up. The blade is a triangle, the handle a rectangle with smooth comfortable edges. All of it a beautiful balance of perfect mathematical equations designed to allow you to cut clean through without hesitation or thought as to how it must be done. With this knife, you need only think of the what, not the how.

I watch you handle these knives and wonder when you will use them.

Ivy of the wild

You weave and climb and entwine and change colors with the seasons and never die. I thought you were just part of the beautiful landscape. I thought the sculpted stones you wrapped around held you up. I did not know it was the other way around. I did not know I inhaled your purest green of spring and exhaled your darkest red of autumn.

You are what I breathe. How could I not have known that? I have been told, shown, reflected and mirrored that endless times over these years. But those tales haven't always been easy to hear, the strength of heroes and villains too raw. And the shows, while breathtaking, have left the audience unsettled and uncertain. Reflections cannot be trusted, mirrors gather dust. I have never believed what I saw. Never trusted what I heard.

And so, here I am. You've waited patiently for me. You will watch me as I twist and wind and follow the path you made for me years ago. You will be at my side as I lose my fear of your darkness, you will witness my brave, blind steps into this wilderness. You will photograph the wave as it crashes into me - a revelation - each precious drop captured in suspended animation.