“Dance me to the end of love”
Posted July 27 2010.
Memories of my dancing teacher: Gladys Gale
My dancing teacher is being cremated today. I have been thinking about her since her son, only child, sent me an email on the 23rd of this month, telling me that she had “passed away”.
She was one of the most beautiful women that I have ever met. Her son calls her “a babe.” She seemed more like a queen to me – so tall and regal, elegant and fluid in motion. Her every move appeared, to me, a dance.
I began dancing at her school when I was 15 – late for a dancer and was in awe of my teacher. She never yelled or screamed at her students but she worked us hard. When she praised me, I felt wonderful.
This picture of “Mrs. Gale” and her son was taken over 40 years ago and yet when I visited her last year, she met me at the doorway, in heels, posed, still a dancer. Though her hair was long and white, tied back with a ribbon, she looked much younger than her 80 plus years. We sat and talked. She told me that she was very ill. “But you look well, you’re still beautiful,” I said. “That’s the problem. No one believes me.”
I have no idea how we approached the topic but she told me that she had always been self-confident, never doubted herself. She knew she was a good dancer, wife, mother. She deserved whatever she wanted though she admitted to being a little too passionate about clothes. She took me into her bedroom and opened her closet door. It was no ordinary shallow apartment closet – it seemed to go backwards forever and every nook and cranny was stuffed full of clothes, bags, shoes… “I will organize it someday,” she sighed.
She had moved to the penthouse apartment after her husband died – a sweetheart of a man – who adored her. I think only once did I hear them fight and I spent a lot of time in their house as I was dating their son. Both treated me like a daughter. I can remember Mr. Gale telling Malcolm not to hurt me. “She’s too sensitive,” he said. Years later, when I dropped in for a visit, he whispered in my ear that he loved me. I adored him too. And his wife.
Thinking about her, her beauty, her dancer’s body, her generosity of spirit, I realize I know little about her background. I met her two brothers and her dancing teacher and yet I never asked questions. I know only that she and Albert came to Canada from Scotland. Why did they immigrate, I wonder. (I think perhaps because her older brother was here.)
I would have liked to have spent more time with her. I would have liked to have been at her service today…
I would like the impossible. I remind myself that I am lucky to have known her. She and, in turn, her son were the first to teach me about beauty and dance. She played an important role in my life.
“How can we know the dancer from the dance?” ~ William Butler Yeat
Socializing
Posted July 18 2010.
My days pass in a kind of daze. I’m always busy, my mind always active, but I’m moving at my own slow pace and enjoying having time to do as I please.
And part of doing what I please includes accepting house work or, to put it in fancier terms, I’ve accepted work as a property manager. Over the past two years, I’ve become good at cleaning, sorting, and organizing living space and so when the house that I rented for the writers was showing too much wear and tear, and the owners in the States needed help, I agreed to put the house in order.
Over the past weeks, I have sorted, done laundry, cleaned, bought new bed linen, towels, and numerous odds and ends. I have taken down drapes and given all that is decent to the dry cleaners. On Wednesday, I will restain the stairway and the table. I have also found a plumber and electrician and am keeping my fingers crossed that they appear. Believe it or not, I am enjoying this work.
I also agreed, with Sue, to water David’s garden while he is in Scotland for a week. The reward is to help myself to whatever I’d like. (That’s not exactly what David said, but it’s what I do. Note the beets on our kitchen counter.)
And I have also been socializing.
On Wednesday, the day Brendan arrived, we went down to the lake with Alice, Clare, and Lysiane for the village’s Bastille Day celebration. When we arrived numerous little piglets were roasting over open flames. The reception crew served us pastis and wine and lemonade for starters. We waited and waited and waited for the feast to begin as alcohol on an empty stomach is not a good idea and I had eaten little that day. (One table had brought their own appetizers. Smart people.) We were finally served two hours later and all of us were so tired that we didn’t even stay for the fireworks.
Ruth’s birthday party yesterday was quite the contraire. She invited Sue and Susan, Rob, and me down to her garden to celebrate with a simple salad (she said) and a famous chocolate cake from Hotel Sacher in Switzerland. (She had once told her daughter that this cake, in its own wooden box, is a symbol of decadence to her and her daughter remembered and sent one.)
I felt as if I was living the scene in “Women in Love” where Rupert describes, in such lovely terms, how to peel a fig. The table was covered with white linen. We began with champagne and moved on to red wine. Ruth served fresh cantalope, a German potato salad, and two kinds of sausage, done over a small flame. She had precut a country bread and had a round of creamy cheese on the table. When we were full, she brought out the famous cake and a thermos of coffee.
After the meal, I was sated. I lay on the grass looking heavenwards and had a small sleep, while Ruth told stories of her life. She is lovely. She is vivacious. She is a musician. She is an artist. She never does anything haphazardly or so it seems to me.
As if Ruth’s feast was not enough pleasure for one day (though it definitely was), in the evening we went to Rosemary and Bob’s for a swim and dinner. I can’t remember the last time, I felt so content, swimming up and down in the beautiful clear water. Rob swam a little and then dressed and joined our hosts at an outside table. I kept doing laps, back and forth, back and forth. The water was nearly 30 degrees and I didn’t want to leave it but finally did, to join the others at the table, sipping glasses of Sangria (Rosemary calls it something else but I cannot make out the name – as she has a Scottish brogue.)
At this point in the evening, Francis, who had just returned from Malta, joined us. And then we sat and ate another feast of cold cucumber and zucchini soup, pork pie, potato salad, Norbet’s potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, chicken salad, bread, cheese, and icecream. Life is good, I said, with a big yawn.
And soon went home to bed.
Writing Woman
Posted July 9 2010.
And so the writing week has passed and Marlene left for London yesterday. All is quiet (though I can hear Rob in the kitchen upstairs and the washing machine humming in the next room.)
Last Friday was the finale dinner of our Jungian autobiography course and I spent the day in the kitchen, preparing the finale feast. In the morning, I made a casserole of escalloped potatoes, blended a tandoori marinade into which I sunk cubes of chicken, and then peeled prawns for the salad. In the afternoon, I washed several types of lettuce and endive for the salad, and put together skewers with the tandoori chicken, zucchini, baby tomatoes, red, yellow, and green peppers.
Individual salads with prawns, lemon, and avocado were assembled at the last minute. The skewers were grilled in the oven.
In the photograph, Marlene sits at the table awaiting our guests. We both did everything we could think of to make the experience, for the participants, rich and full. The women in “the writing house” said that they felt as if they were living an “Enchanted April.” Another woman, who stayed in a gite down the road from the village, has booked for next year. All the women wrote thanks and comments in cards that they presented to Marlene and I at the dinner. I felt close to tears when I read mine. I love women who are warm and generous with their words and hugs. I love doing for others when I feel appreciated. (And I felt appreciated.)
On Saturday, there was a final session in the morning and then I began driving one women, two women, to the train station, and drove once to the airport. On Monday, I drove a couple to Albi to pick up a car, waited and led them through the town so they wouldn’t get lost… Now, all have gone.
I am happy but exhausted. I wouldn’t feel quite so tired if it weren’t for Wednesday evening in Toulouse. Marlene and I left the village early morning and caught a train to the city. We visited Notre Dame de la Daurade to see the famous Black Madonna and then shopped a while, met Rob, and ate a traditional dinner of steak and frites, under the stars.
We had reserved rooms at an hotel across from the train station but forget to request inside rooms. Both were hot and noisy. I slept little. Marlene didn’t sleep at all. In the morning, I stumbled across to the train station for a coffee. I didn’t recognize Marlene when she stood in front of me. Shortly after, Rob and I drove her to the airport and headed home to bed (though I couldn’t sleep.)
Now I must get back to my writing and editing.
I love summer
Posted July 1 2010.
At last, we have had a stretch of beautiful weather. Some days when the temperature rises over 30 and sweat is dripping down my back and at midnight, when there isn’t a hint of a breeze and no clothes feel like too many, I remind myself that just over two weeks ago, we had to turn the furnace on and I must not complain.
Marlene arrived a week and a half ago to prepare for our writing workshop. Last Saturday I picked up three women at the train station and dropped off one male. Rob was happy to be going to Madrid (and Marlene and I were sorry to lose our chef.) But it is good that he went.
This week is about women and writing, dreams and the soul, and though Rob writes, dreams, and most definitely is soulful, it’s different when there are only women in a house as I imagine it is different when there are only men.
It’s a small group this year, for many reasons, and because of its size I do not have an assistant. Still I miss my Gill. I lay out breakfast each morning and I prepared (with Marlene) the welcome dinner and we will serve a finale dinner tomorrow evening. As I gave up on cooking a long time ago, I have been searching my memory for something to serve that is fresh, delicious, easy, and Frenchie. And also because of the smaller size, we have been able to give a little extra time – like the potluck dinner on Monday evening, after which, we watched several Jungian DVDs, and I drove several participants to Albi yesterday afternoon to view the cathedral and museum. Tonight we shall have open readings.
This is the first year that I haven’t taken the workshop and though I have some regrets, it is easier and I have time to breathe when the workshop is in session and run an errand or two.
I forgot that today is Canada Day and one of the participants brought in Canadian flags and tatoos. I put one between my breasts and two other women did the same. Several others put them on their arms, and one near her ankle… I asked one women if she felt more patriotic since the Olympics and she said “definitely.” As I missed all the fanfare in Vancouver, I don’t feel more or less. I am proud to be Canadian for many reasons but I am also proud to be Northern Irish and I have an affinity for France… I am lucky at this time in my life to be able to bounce back and forth between continents, and the small island on which I was born.
Just before the workshop, the insurance company paid the majority of our claim and so I was able to pay the artisans.
And my friend, Clare arrived yesterday with her family.
Life is good.
My Father
Posted June 20 2010.
A lot of people say that I’m the splitting image of my father. Rob says that I own some of his facial expressions. My mother says that, just like him, I don’t have a peaceful bone in my body. But it wasn’t until I was last home and we took a ride in his pickup truck to the dump and then shared a takeout order of french fries on a bench outside Canadian Tire, that I knew I was my father’s daughter.
Love you, Daddy
In Requiem
Posted June 20 2010.
I learned, in the past two weeks that two friends had died earlier in the year. And this past week, my sister-in-law – though she hasn’t lived with Rob’s brother for years – died of a heart attack. She would have been 60 in October.
Dear Hans Miguel was in his 80s, a long-time friend of Susan, who came to the village a number of times in the summer when all the fetes were happening and so we attended and danced. The man could dance and somehow in his arms, I could dance better than I ever have. And a few evenings, late late, we would look up at the stars and wonder why they are so much brighter here than anywhere else.
Tatu was in his twenties, a joyous outrageous young man, who did what he pleased and always made me smile. Gill and I met him one summer when he was working at Mark’s restaurant. Young women loved him because of his joy and his beauty. When Gill and I lived in Northern Ireland, he came for a visit (though he spoke little English) and cavorted down the streets of Belfast with his bright yellow shorts and a girl’s hairband, keeping his wild dark locks in check (the only thing he kept in check.) He fell off a roof in Paris around four months ago.
His friend Camilo sent me a note the other day: “It is sad what happened to Tatu but if you knew him, you know that he should be smiling and jumping of happiness as always, so life continues and we should enjoy it as he did!!!!”
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades…
I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth (Mary Oliver)
I did not know Carmel well. Her mother says that she was “a gentle, private person, not one who could or would share her worries.” Her sister calls her a care-giver: “Even as a small child, while cousin Max and I played cowboys and Indians, she would be dressed in her nurse outfit, ready to patch any cut or scrape… Yes, Carmel was a care-giver. The down side was she always took care of everyone else, while neglecting to take care of herself.”
The last time I saw Carmel was at her daughter Ayah’s wedding two years ago. We stood and talked a while. She was full of plans for the future. (This makes me especially sad.) I spoke to all of her children, reacquainting myself with the older two who I’d known only as children – both unusual and lovely – and chatted with Ayah who I’d met at the last two family weddings. (Unusual too – a tall statuesque beauty, smart as a whip, and a talented singer and writer.) I also had a conversation with her parents – two people I admire – who were kind to me years ago. (Mary worked as a librarian at Stanford and lent me rare books for an essay I was writing about mysticism.) She says “Parents are supposed to leave before their children, but Carmel had to go. We miss her dearly, but she left us her greatest gift, our grandchildren and they are wonderful.”
I’ve been thinking about these three all week. I am reminded that I or someone I love could disappear at any minute. I have felt sad, vulnerable, in tears.
Bursting with Love
Posted June 13 2010.
I woke up this morning bursting with love, more than content with my lot. We received such a wonderful surprise at our 40th anniversary party last night in the square. (And a beautiful decanter, champagne, and lots of wine.)
We had sent out invitations to all our friends. “Join us at 7 for drinks, then dinner, at Les Consuls…” Rob and I arrived a few minutes before seven, sat, chatted, and then I heard a familiar voice say “Let’s get this party underway.” Rob and I turned and there was Bev and Bill walking towards us. It took a minute for it to register. That really is Bev. That really is Bill. We squealed, screamed, hugged. Their spur-of-the-moment decision to join us made our day. And evening. Some friends just came for drinks. Thirteen sat down for dinner. I even – for old times sake – got up and danced on the table.
The writer in me couldn’t help but use this title. (Or perhaps it’s the devil in me – who has not visited for I don’t know how long.)
Forty years ago today, we married. The night before I stayed at my sister-in-law’s apartment. I dyed her hair and put mine in rollers. We rose at the crack of dawn to go to the flower market. Defiant, as usual, I did not stay away from the groom. I slipped into our apartment where his parents were staying and gave him a hug. Sometime in the afternoon I went to my parents’ house. I bathed in cold water (because everyone else had washed ahead of me) and removed the rollers. My hair was a mass of curls. I stepped into the dress my mother had made, tied a small bonnet at my throat, and drove to the church in a neighbour’s fancy car. Before pulling away from the curb, he told me that I could still change my mind.
Unbeknownst to me, Rob’s boss/friend/driver told him the same thing.
Doesn’t seem like forty years ago. People congratulate us for being steadfast. I think to myself, forty years of marriage, not monogamy.
We do not have a fairytale marriage where every second of the day, week, month, year, we whisper sweet nothings and embrace. After five years of marriage, we split up for a year and a half. After twenty, we had another crisis – that’s when we told each other hard truths that made us both cry but, in the end, those truths made us respect the other more and saved our marriage.
On our wedding day, Patrick Spence-Thomas with his melodic voice read from the Prophet, on marriage:
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
After our second crisis, we realized two things. First, we have to tell each other the truth, no matter how difficult. Second, we cannot be together all the time. When we’ve been living in each other’s pocket too long, we aren’t kind to the other.
I believe we have good marriage. We have not grown complacent. We leave each other alone to do whatever the other wants. We share house work. He cooks. I clean. And sometimes in the night, I reach over with a toe to make sure he’s there.
When I awoke this morning, he was standing on the terasse naked. Hi you, I called. He shook his head, said he was miserable. He had been up all night worrying. “I’ve wasted forty years of my life.”
I grinned, then laughed. “Well, I’m bursting with love,” I said.
He grinned, gave me a hug, but said that he had to go back to sleep. He’d celebrated too hard last night.
I slipped down to my office and checked my emails. Gill, Michael, Mackenzie, John, and Nancy had sent congratulations via video.. I laughed and played it five times – each person’s character shone through.
I love these moments when I feel happy to be alive.
“He can make a cherry pie,/ Quick as a cat can wink an eye”
Posted June 9 2010.
Last night Alice dropped in for dinner and Rob whipped up a cherry pie (with cherries he’d picked himself) and guacamole, artichokes, salad, lamb chops, and baked potatoes.
When I asked him if he minded doing all the cooking, he said “no. It relaxes me.”
“Great,” I said. “I don’t mind the cleaning up but cooking throws me into a frenzy.”
We complement each other. I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately – ours and in general – as Sunday, June 13 is our 40th wedding anniversary. We shall celebrate at the new hotel with friends on Saturday evening.
Slowing Down
Posted June 6 2010.
I say I”m slowing down but really I’ve been busy. I arrived home to Rob, Susanna and Lewis (Canadian friends, architect, and interior designer, responsible for so beautifully transforming this house.) The next evening, while I strugged to fit into the time zone, we all went to David’s 70th birthday. (He loved the slingshot and cigars I brought him from Canada.) The next evening or was it the next, Susanna and Lewis left for Provence and Henri and Susan, friends who live outside Paris, dropped in for dinner. Thank goodness Rob loves to cook.
The rest of the week I’ve been catching up on work that I somehow never got round to during my visit to Toronto. I did escape to Toulouse yesterday and wandered the streets and stores in over thirty degree sunshine. And oh yes, I did go back to the insurance office earlier in the week and no matter what I do, I can’t get them to give us the remaining money to pay the artisans and close our file. I give up. It’ll come when it comes.
The weather has been glorious (though a storm is moving in) and my precious grape vines, all around the village and beyond, are now lush and green – they have doubled in size since I saw them last. And speaking of growth, while I was away, Rob planted a lemon tree, pepper tree, herbs, and a number of vegetables in pots on the terrace, and all are growing so quickly Rob thinks that someone is playing a joke on him and switching the plants at night. We’ve already had fresh lettuce in a salad.
This week, I shall put an extra effort into slowing down (though I do have a number of business things I have to do.) When I mentioned to Shirley my problem with non-activity and finding my soul, she wrote “No one faults the cat for sleeping all day.” I must remember this.
Worlds Apart
Posted May 29 2010.
One day I’m in Port Hope, the next Toronto, the next Toulouse – from my parent’s heritage town to the urban to a small village in the south of France. I am exhausted. The time with my mum and dad was precious. I did everything I could to help around the house and beyond, like putting geraniums and pansies into planters, to taking a drive in my father’s pickup to the dump, to sorting and scanning old photographs, to helping my mother on her computer.
Time escaped me. Although my Dad made breakfast in the morning, I made most dinners in the evening – unenthusiastically, I admit. I didn’t have time for my own work, for visits with friends or for emailing friends (forgive me, those I ignored) but there was always something to do and time was short.
And then Gill emailed and said that she and John were flying in Sunday for our belated Mother’s Day feast. I didn’t tell my mother and so it was a big surprise for her when Gill and John appeared, joining my brother and his wife, my sister Gael and Larry (who picked them up from the airport).
When I saw her, my baby, walking toward the house, I was on the phone with a friend and had to excuse myself, I was so excited. I ran out the front door and wrapped my arms around her. I wanted to be the first to embrace her.
And then my beautiful daughter took over the kitchen – John was her sous-chef – and our meals changed from the mundane to the exotic, including a lemon tarte made from fresh lemons. Gill and I grabbed moments alone when we could. I miss her.
Although I miss Michael and Mackenzie too and wished they had been able to fly to Toronto, I took the time to visit Mackenzie’s grandmother in a neighbouring village in their honour. Lois is lovely, a vibrant 80 year old, around my height who adores her granddaughter and Michael (and all her 19 grandchildren and 8 great-grandchildren, if I remember the numbers correctly.) We had coffee and appetizers in the kitchen and then descended to the back garden – an extraordinary setting with pond and pathways, rocks and waterfalls.
Lois charms me with a bit of her life story. She is a country girl from the region, who first married an Ojibway with whom she had six children. Mackenzie’s father Ed was one of her babies and from whom “Kenzie” inherited her exotic beauty. (Her father is at the far right, second row.)
When her husband died – an easy-going man, she tells me, who was never interested in money – she lived alone for a number of years and then married an Englishman with whom she has traveled around Europe. I met Dennis, a charming man, who with a smile, takes a number of pictures of Lois and me with a small disposable camera. (He refuses to use a digital and prefers paper and pen to computers.) I suggest to Lois that she visit France when Michael and Mackenzie are visiting. She likes the idea.
Gill, John, and I left my parents (I tearfully) the next morning and caught a train to Toronto. (I reassured my mother that I would return soon.) When we arrived, John left us and so most of my last day, I spent with my daughter before catching an evening flight. We shopped. She bought me lunch in a trendy restaurant. We talked and walked… and I only scratched the surface of what I wanted to say to her. There is never enough time these days with my daughter but as Gill said, I know we will be together soon and when we are, we will take off together for a few days.
I am happy that I took this short trip though I hate flying. I only regret that time disappeared and I did not see Mary, Wanda, and Malcolm, and that I wasn’t able to attend Ursula’s birthday celebration.
Now, back in Castelnau, I must get to work.