Oh my

It has been many years since I've lived in the south. Any south.

The south has existed for me forever - my mother's south. It was the south of my vacations - the beach, the heat, the family I both knew and didn't know.

I lived there for a few years a long time ago and while I enjoyed most of my time there, I remember swearing as I left North Carolina to move to Seattle, I'll never move back to the south. Too hot.

Twenty years later, exactly, I am back in the south. It's a different south, one that is unfamiliar to me - the south of lavender fields and olive groves and vineyards. But it's still really hot.

And by really hot I mean in the upper 80s this week kind of hot.

I have grand hopes of adjusting.

Map this

You and your maps. Intricate, beautiful works of art. Lifetimes of exploration and study behind every curve and line. Not like a tourist though, your map isn't just for beginnings and ends.

But even with those maps in hand, you have always used a compass, haven't you?

There is a shadow on every compass. Have you ever noticed?

Cast by the needle on that compass you have spent years - decades - following. There are those who might suggest the pull comes from that shadow and from nothing else. Do you really know how a compass works? Losing north feels so much better than you might expect.

Have you ever seen the space within limits? It is infinite. You can resist it, hate it, and call it names. You can even call it out.

Do it in a valley. The echos are better there. They will come back to you and whisper gentle truths you could not hear the first time around.

One cup

If you are one sword, one cup is what you seek.

A chalice. A quest, perhaps, but one that begins when you find it, instead of ending. In seeking it, you agree to prepare yourself to find it, that's the real quest, allowing yourself to become someone who could find it.

Sacred and beloved, this cup stands, despite its weight. It is substantial. Heavy with symbol, precious metals and jewels, it is the only quest you've ever sought, the only cup you've ever really wanted to drink from, whether you knew it or not.

Your mind does not know if you will ever find it, doesn't even know if it exists. But your heart finds beauty in believing and not knowing. Nothing tragic, just the crisp clarity of faith.

This cup has your name written on it.

The remains of the day

Yesterday I spent 8 hours on the train. And half of that was on regional trains. In France if you say regional trains what you're really saying is SLOW trains.

I don't know if it's the season or the time or the route, but all of the towns we rolled through looked so sad. Black slate roofs and pale stone and bare trees. That's really all I saw. Towns where old family money and industry have long gone.

I was relieved when we got back to the colors of the south. I have always resisted belonging to the south. Thankfully, the south has never resisted belonging to me.

Kiss my soul

A quiet tug. Persistent but there.

It turned into a yank and then could not be ignored. Some things are like that. First felt as a lack, a missing you could not fathom or explain. You asked the appropriate question, you're good at that. And you got a most unexpected answer. Really.

You were disappointed, of course you were. The eternal optimist, you were certain of a different outcome. Not even one that involved you, just one that involved some authenticity. Instead you got a glimpse into the darkest of rooms, one you were certain contained mystery and invitation. In this case, however, that is not where the darkness comes from. Shoe boxes line the walls you were certain would be covered with something plush. Chaos, your constant companion, is mastered here. Ordered shelves where you expected to find dark velvet. It would have been purple velvet - the color from your favorite mix of red and blue, your truest friends, blood and truth.

You do not know what will come of this, probably nothing. But that, in itself, is something.

Where it should be

You've always had a thing for blood. It has made you sick and made you faint but you're fascinated still. And it's not a vampire thing. It's something closer to the ground than that.

You've watched it swirl and gush and pool. These are all things you do.

You realize now, today, tonight, that you've always had a thing for blood not because of when you saw it, but because of when you didn't.

It is the witness we cannot bear to be.

That is why you have a thing for it. Because blood tells the story you can't.

Innocence

Lost is not forgotten.

A road was taken, or maybe a path. You'll never know. Maps were not consulted in this case.

If you take one thing away from this, it is that. You will never know. You do not know what was meant to be, you do not even know what was. You only know what is. And even that you must work hard to accept.

You do, however, know about shadows. You've seen them before, been close to them even. Close enough to feel them.

You will take the time to remember it all. You will take note of everything. You will be the eyes and ears and you will take it all in. You will keep it all safe and when the lines blur and the shadow can speak, it will all be there, ready.

You know very little, you know that too. It would be arrogant to think otherwise.

But you do know that lost is never gone.

Let me tell you what I know

There are tablets somewhere. Marble tablets. Marble - hot, cold rock - beautiful because it is impure. Those swirls and veins, those things that make it look alive, are born out of random specks of minerals who lost their way. Or found it.

The truth is written on those tablets, truth that is not influenced by time or tendency or preference. It is not a version or a perspective.

Let me tell you what I know. Let me tell you what is etched in stone. It is not what you think.

You won't like it. Not because it's bad, but because it isn't. Anyway, it is neutral, as the truth always is. But it can only be seen through the eyes of innocence. And that is the part you will not like. You will not like what you will have to give up to be able to see it.

1000 reasons

An incredible scene of colors. Graceful smudges and smears. This is your painting. Destiny in every stroke - nothing could be changed.

Grand and noble and bigger than you, that's what it is. Of course you're standing too close to it, you know this, the colors are just so beautiful and they take you so far in. You finally take a step back, museum distance. It's not as intense, but it's still beautiful. It is art.

And now? You're across the room. It's smaller, life-size. It's not the centerpiece, it's not what draws your attention when you walk into the room. It's still beautiful but not for the same reasons.

You had only ever imagined one reason. You found an army of reasons. Ranked, ready to fall back into line when the exercise is over.

You won't take it off the wall, it's still art. But you have a whole collection now.

Silent Siblings

Invisible members of the family. Not like real brothers and sisters. You know what those are like, no such thing as a half or a whole. They are always there, even when they are not. No, these siblings are unheard and unseen and unclaimed. Still there since you can remember - although you would've call them something else at that time - you know they cannot be your invention. They must have belonged to someone, been someone's responsibility. And yet they are clearly uncared for. Your mistake, or maybe not, was realizing that you were related. You can't go back from that. You can't unrelate yourself. Believe me, I've tried.

So now you need to listen, you have to see. And while they don't talk about you, they do.

You're back in 5th grade, it's your first dissection. But now you are the frog. You are both horrified and fascinated as you watch the scalpel open you up. You observe and realize that even observation is participation.

Idle hands

It is a threat you have known very well for a long time. You have brought it to its knees many times over - not because you are a skilled warrior - you are not - you are rudimentary at best. But simply because you were shown how, you were given the tools, so long ago. So long ago that the weapons you use feel like a part of you and the ritual kill feels like home. Metal and stone your skin and bones. Blood and the silence that follows a fire in the hearth.

You once saw a storm in a single raindrop. And must now accept that it is possible, probable even, that this threat may not be as dangerous as it appears. The danger, you realize, is your own. But you cannot imagine what you will do with your hands if they are no longer holding weapons.

On the nature of nougat

Because I can't live in Montélimar, the WORLD'S nougat capital, and not write at least one post about nougat.

I've always liked nougat so that part is working out well. The only real disadvantage to living the world's nougat capital is that you get used to nougat. And by that I mean you get used to having it around. And by having it around I mean eating it every day. I can honestly say that I have had at least one piece of nougat every day since I moved here. You'd think I'd get sick of it. But no. And now it's a little difficult to imagine an entire day without eating at least one little piece.

But as I've gotten used to the nougat and used to eating the nougat regularly, I've also gotten really particular about it. Whereas before I might have been a nougat slut, I've now become a nougat snob. I'd rather not have nougat than have bad, or even mediocre nougat.

I haven't completely worked out all the criteria, despite endless quality audits, but I'm working on it. Quantity and variety of nuts, texture, honey to sugar ratio - this is as far as I've gotten. I will no longer eat the ones given with coffee at a restaurant near work - chalky and bland. The best pastry and chocolate shop in town, Escobar, makes delicious chocolate covered nougat - of which 2 varieties are excellent - the chocolate and cacao one and then the praline one. The chocolate and powdered sugar one is very disappointing and will never cross my lips again. The ones from DuLac, another lovely pastry and chocolate shop on the main market square, is interesting. Really. It's stickier than most, wetter almost, and the texture of the nuts is influenced by its surroundings.

I'll stop here, you've probably heard more than you ever wanted to about nougat.

So are you in or are you out?

New city? Well, we live here so that's an in. New job? Well, I'm still doing it and I like it so that's another. The new life? That's a bit more complicated. Time is different in this new life. We're getting acquainted, this new life and I. I like it here, I like where I am, but the parts that are missing, the space between those parts and me seems infinite.

Anyone know what kind of bridge I'll need to cross infinity?

Darkness returns

Colorless darkness, familiar now. The shade - both deeper and darker - of sand after a wave has washed over it. It's still sand, just darker.

So we agree then, the essence hasn't changed?

This will not be the first time you've lived in the dark, you keep reminding yourself of that. And maybe this time you will actually live there.

It would appear

That I fell in. No, seriously, that would be a fair assumption. And in some ways, I did. A free fall into a new life, or at least that's what it has felt like at times.

I will feel at home soon.

Another river city

That's actually another windy city. That is surrounded by the widest, bluest sky I've ever seen. We've been here for a few weeks now.

What have I learned so far? The space between two places is filled with so much, really. And Montélimar has reminded me often enough that nothing is ever permanent here, the wind makes sure of that.

A few boxes remain, the mezzanine is still a mess and my habit of being barefoot whenever I'm at home means my feet have been dirty every day since we got here because the dust and boxes are more efficient than I am.

Last week was easier than the week before that and I'm hopeful I'll feel the same way next weekend. I would just like to know the names of the hills I see every day, and the mountains beyond them.

Briefly

The new job is fantastic, the new region is spectacular, the new apartment is coming along, and the new city is welcoming.

Time to get everything done and boxes that aren't unpacked yet are my biggest challenges these days. Along with the fact that I still don't have internet access at home and won't for another two weeks.

However, the boys and I have found the best place for ice cream in the city and that's really all that matters, right?

What I've got

An apartment in Montélimar that I rented from pictures.

A house full of boxes of varying degrees of emptiness and fullness.

A lot of stuff.

Many, many toys.

Four more days to pack it all up - just this weekend and next weekend.

Genuine concern that I won't be able to do it all it four days.

I've been giving away as much as I can - drive by my house this weekend and you'll see stuff on the sidewalk all the time. Whatever I put out there disappears within minutes, occasionally with a softly spoken "thanks" on the other side of the gate.

In the end

You could've predicted this, you might have predicted this. You could say should but should is just so irritating.

Instead, you wait patiently for the fallout. How could there not be any? The risks you take, the tales you tell, they all lead you to exactly this spot.

A beautiful umbrella, that's really all you've got. You hold on to it and hope this is another one of those times when a storm is only a drop of water.

In the morning, some morning, this will only be a painted memory.

When will you get good at this?

Or we could call it this: some things cannot be helped.

You can be well-informed, years of documentation gathered and archived and filed away for future reference (yeah, right). You can know, without a doubt, exactly what you are doing, what it will do to you, and what it will cost you, damages both familiar and shocking.

It would be helpful, perhaps, if you could identify that part of yourself that makes you so willing to put yourself in harm's way.

Or maybe not. Maybe resolution will come another way. Maybe harm will be a friend one day. Maybe you'll be able to remember the silent battles you lost to harm with the gentleness of acceptance, honor the casualties instead of mourning them, recognizing them as parts of yourself you were meant to leave behind.

Until then, however, harm has no other name.