Most mornings I rise early, happy to start the day as or before the sun rises.  My eyes pop open, and my mind engages– planning, listing, and organizing.  I roll out of bed and pad out into the kitchen, ready to enjoy the early morning solitude. On this past Sunday morning, however, I lingered in bed.  I rolled over and tugged the covers tighter around me. I kept my eyes shut.  Tight.  I didn’t want to get up.  I was not ready.

Over the last week or so, the pace had revved up–a bit faster each day. The long, lazy days of summer were fading fast and Sunday seemed to delineate, much too clearly, the end of summer and the beginning of too many changes.  It was the day I had to drive my daughter back to college. It’s her Junior year, so I should be accustomed to her absence. But I’ve grown accustomed to her presence again this summer–to small conversations, shared outings, casual hugs and sweet proximity. I’m just not ready to send her back.

Her departure was the first scheduled and the harbinger of more to come. Staying in bed felt like my only defense, pitiful though it was. The week loomed ahead of me: On Monday I would have my first meeting of the school year. On Tuesday I needed to work in my classroom.  Wednesday and Thursday are scheduled professional days. And on Friday…well, on Friday I take my oldest and my youngest to school. My son for his last year and my daughter for her first.  I’ve had an amazing summer from start to finish and feel refreshed and energized. I’m ready to go back to school, but I’m not so ready to let my children go. I’m just not ready.

So, on Sunday, I lingered in bed, trying to deny the inevitable for as long as I could. Needless to say, it didn’t work. I finally got up, helped my daughter load up the car, and drove her to school. We chatted about this and that, unpacked, shopped, unpacked again and then went out to lunch. I enjoyed every minute of it.

But then I had to leave her there. And when I dropped her off outside her new apartment, she hugged me tightly and said, “I’m gonna miss you, Mommy.”
“Me, too,” I said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She turned and walked away, strong, young and dazzling, and as I got back in the car to head home, she looked back and waved again.  My heart clenched and my eyes filled. God, I love that child.

I don’t know how I’m going to get out of bed on Friday.

What was wrong with these people? I was irritated, frustrated and uncomfortable. After some thought, I recognized the feeling –that squirmy, uncomfortable, guilty-by-association sensation. It took me right back to classrooms of my youth when other students were misbehaving and I, along with others, was not. I was remembering, at a visceral level, how it felt to be chastised and lumped in with a group of miscreants, when I was doing nothing wrong. And that’s how I felt in the Sistine Chapel.

Entering the Vatican Museum

En route to the Sistine Chapel via the Hall of Maps

The guide book noted that, after wandering through the Vatican Museum, we would know when we arrived at the Sistine Chapel because the room would be hushed and everyone would be staring at the ceiling. This wasn’t precisely accurate. The volume wasn’t loud, per se, but people were definitely talking–some at full volume. And I fully understood, and was guilty of, voicing aloud awe and wonder with my family. “Oh, did you see that?  What is he holding? What is that panel about? Look at that amazing detail…” In the presence of such an amazing piece of art, it was natural to want to share.

This is NOT my picture. I googled it–but look at all the people taking pictures!!!

But then the man with one of the worst jobs in the world got on the microphone and said, “Silencio! Silence, please. No pictures.” He repeated this in multiple languages. Chagrined by my whispering contribution to the chatter, I hushed. But I was astonished as, immediately after the announcement, the chatter around me began again.  It barely diminished, if at all, and cameras were still clearly in use.  The man with the microphone repeatedly approached individuals in the crowd, reminding them that pictures were not allowed. And when a young man in front of me stretched his arms out and openly positioned his iPad to take a better picture, I wanted to admonish him and lead him from the room.  You are being afforded a privilege here! This isn’t a right!  Show some respect! If you can’t follow the rules, get out!

We stayed in the chapel for quite some time and the man made his announcement again and again to no effect. He was essentially ignored, as people talked and took pictures as they liked. After we left, I muttered to my daughter, only partly joking, “There need to be consequences. Maybe they should hire Sistine Chapel bouncers.” I had tourist shame–I was lumped, once again, with a group of insubordinates and I was amazed by how fully I recognized the feeling, and how powerfully I disliked it.

I’ve since thought about this experience a lot.  And I wonder, uneasily, if my stern reaction to a rowdy classroom has ever sparked this same feeling in those students who were behaving.  Have I been clear and consistent enough with my consequences for those who are disruptive? How do I use this experience, this trip down an emotional memory lane, to shape my future reactions with all students in mind, when part of a class takes a detour to the wild side?  I’m not sure, but I know it will be in my mind as I enter the classroom later this month.

A chorus of bird song swells
from across the square.
“Oh, that must be the bird market!”
Delighted, we quicken our pace,
striding forward, purposefully,
anticipating an avian wonderland.
Following the song,
we turn the corner,
and the volume spikes.
Rows of tents and vendors,
decorative cages,
bird paraphernalia,
and birds, birds, birds
line the cobbled lane.
Colorful plumage pops
on this dreary day:
Golden yellow, vibrant green,
bold, blushing red.
Parrots, parakeets
Cockatiels and finches
fluttering, flapping,
perching or clinging to the bars,
in short bursts
of truncated movement.
Their eyes follow us,
as we, bound to earth,
wander freely amongst them.
Their chirps, trills, whistles, and squawks,
intertwine to create a symphony that
soars gracefully in the moist, morning air,
defying boundaries.
A caged song,
amplified by their quantity.
A beautiful sorrow.

It may sound banal and, to those who know me, it is probably not totally unexpected, but in Paris, the City of Love, I’ve fallen head over heels into a true Parisian love affair. Lustful and wanton. Intense. Transcendent. But no debonair, suave Frenchman has caught my eye and captured my heart. Instead, I’ve abandoned all restraint and thrown myself wholeheartedly into a relationship with French pastry. Casting aside any notion of moderation, I’ve immersed myself in wanton gluttony. I’m drawn into boulangeries across the city–pulled in by tempting displays of croissant, tartes, kuignettes, gateau… And, they are always there, patiently waiting, just for me.

  My days in Paris begin before my family stirs. I quietly leave the apartment and head through the streets to the local boulangerie–no meandering on these mornings as I make a beeline directly to my destination. What will it be today? I arrive, opening the door with a breathless, eager “Bonjour, Monsieur!”, and breathe deeply, inhaling the intoxicating blends of butter, sugar, yeast. My eyes linger on the heaping displays of croissant, pain au chocolat, croissant aux amandes, pain aux raisin and more, so much more! They trace the delicate curves and whirls of buttery, sugary flakes, spy peeking pockets of chocolate, and admire generously sprinkled sugar and slivered almonds. Mmmm.  What a delicious dilemma! What a delightful way to begin each day!

So, I’m eating pastry in Paris, beginning each day with a croissant or perhaps pain au chocolat, or maybe one of each. Yet it doesn’t end there. We walk for miles through the city each day, and passing each patisserie/boulangerie, I gaze in, longingly, at the gateau and tartes. “Oh, look, apricot!” My stomach groans, churning, digesting, expanding, protesting; yet, still I turn in. “Oh, we haven’t tried pistachio yet!”

And so it goes.  I know there won’t be a happy ending to this love affair–it’s more of a vacation fling, really–and there are bound to be some regrets. But for now, I’m enjoying every mad, wonderful, decadent moment. Vive la France!

A good night’s sleep has made a world of difference in my perspective. My eyes are gritty and sore and my brain is still foggy and gummed up from traveling, yet, I am filled with delight. I can’t believe we’re finally here. After all the planning and anticipating and traveling, we made it!  It also helps that I’ve had an update from home: Kurt is on stronger antibiotics and doing well and Addie has recovered from her ailment. Connor’s bump doesn’t seem to be doing much either.  All in all, I can turn my focus from home to here. And what a lovely here it is!

Everywhere I turn there are flowers–cascading from flower boxes, garnishing bridges, planted in elaborate gardens, edging ramparts, and working their way out of minute cracks in aged granite walls. Many of them are familiar–butterfly bush, roses, poppies, pansies, hydrangea and even palm trees. But the Brittany versions are on steroids–lush, huge and simply gorgeous! The colors pop out before the deep grey granite of the architecture, half-timbered houses and the picturesque cobblestone streets. The spires of Cathedrale St-Corentin soar above it all–drawing my eyes up, up, up. I’m pretty convinced that I’m at grave risk of being hit by a car while gawking and taking photographs!

Lyddie and I are excited to get to our rental home in Lechiagat, but want to visit the cathedral before leaving. It was dedicated to St. Corentin, who before becoming a bishop, lived as a recluse. The legend is that he survived by eating part of a miraculous fish that lived in a spring near his home.  Every day he would slice of a portion of the fish and then place that same fish back in the spring where it would regenerate so he could eat part of it again the next night. One night he was able to feed an entire retinue of men from one piece of the fish. Pretty impressive! (If you look carefully at the banner representing St. Corentin, you can see the fish below him.) 

We wander in, admire and take discrete photographs. I find visiting churches as a tourist both awkward and moving. Sightseeing in a current place

of worship feels intrusive, yet it can be powerfully affecting to be in a space where so many people have gathered to worship and pray over centuries. These soaring stone walls have born silent witness to the repeated expression of  strong emotions through the ages– faith, hope, grief, despair.  Is there a residual energy or resonance from the presence of such intense emotions? There is certainly a hushed sense of timelessness within these walls. 

As we travel through Brittany, we will come to discover that it is a land deeply connected to the sea. In retrospect I realize how fitting it is that our first cathedral visit was to one dedicated to St Corentin, the patron saint of seafood.

Wednesday, July 15th: Things deteriorated rapidly before our departure. Kurt’s tick bite turned ugly. Diagnosis: cellulitis.  Prescription: antibiotics. The doctor looked at an odd rash under his arm and dismissed it as minor and unrelated. Two days later  (today) the rash has spread significantly and the sight of the tick bite is a hot, glowing, meaty red.  Meanwhile, Addie is nauseous with stomach cramps, lying teary-eyed and miserable with a hot water bottle on the coach. Connor helpfully points out that he has a mysterious bump on his neck. I rush around packing, checking and rechecking my lists, finishing up last minute details and feeling a wee bit stressed about leaving them all.

Thursday: Addie has recovered enough to drive us to the bus station in Portland where we begin our journey. Meanwhile Kurt is headed back to the doctor’s and who knows what’s going on with Connor’s mystery bump.  But, finally, Lydia and I are underway; we’re on the bus and headed toward Boston. I opt to read while Lydia prefers to watch the movie, Gravity. Every so often I look over to see what’s happening– even without hearing the dialogue, I can tell this is an intense movie!  I sink back into my book. As we near the airport in Boston, I glance up at Lydia’s screen to see Sandra Bullock hurtling through space in a fiery capsule, speeding toward the ocean below. Great. That’s just what I need to see before getting on a Trans-Atlantic flight! (Did I mention that I’m a nervous flyer?)

Everything goes smoothly at the airport–Our flight is on time and we board. I can’t believe how cramped it is. Have I forgotten or were planes always this small? These seats are not designed for passenger comfort–especially not sleepy passengers. I enter my plane zone which essentially consists of pretending that I’m not on a plane. To do this I have to focus exclusively on my row of seats and on my reading material.  Lydia is a wonderfully sympathetic travel companion and we leaf through countless magazines together. Inane reading in People magazine is always a good option, and I find the “Spot the Difference” pictures a effective distraction, as always.(“Oh look, her shirt is green in this picture!”) Looking around the plane requires me to acknowledge that I am actually on a plane, so I try very hard not to do that. This also means I minimize trips to the bathroom. Sleep is essentially impossible though we do nod off occasionally. By the time we arrive early in Dublin, I’m desperate to stretch (and to use a bathroom) but not thrilled to face the undeniable fact that there’s yet another take off and landing ahead of us before we arrive in Paris. We left home 12 1/2 hours ago.

After surviving another flight, we arrive in Paris, then catch a bus and ride for another 1 1/4 hours to the train station. As we speed through Paris, I get a quick thrill as I spot Notre Dame! At Gare Montparnasse we wait and wait until finally we catch the train to Quimper–another 4+ hour ride. Lydia dozes while I blearily take in the scenery–fields of heavy-headed sunflowers and golden round bales of hay, lovely towns and villages, granite architecture, soaring cathedrals.  We arrive in Quimper at about 6 pm local time.  We’ve now been traveling for over 24 hours.

Fatigue is oozing through my brain and it’s compounded by the uncertainties of the language barrier (I should have practiced my French!). After a quick taxi ride, we check into our hotel and then wander out. On a dim level I register the sights and sounds of this delightful town, but everything is slightly askew–foggy with fatigue. Despite butchering the language, with the kind assistance of our waiter, we are able to enjoy our first  crepes in France at a local Creperie.  Then we call it a night.

At long last, back at the hotel, we settle in. An hour or so later, I look over at Lydia who is sound asleep. I listen jealously to her relaxed, easy breathing. I yearn for sleep. I’m worried about Kurt and Addie and I’m utterly exhausted. On the brink of a wonderful adventure, I’m homesick and pissed at myself about that. I remember this feeling from childhood, when I wanted, above all things, to stay at a friend’s house for the night, yet yearned at a bone-deep level to be home with my family. I always called to get picked up. I can’t do that now and I don’t even want to except on some emotional, spent level.

Sleep.  I need sleep.

This summer has been full from start to impending finish. It began with Lydia’s high school graduation and a wonderful days-long heart-warming family celebration. It continued through lazy, exploring days and into an amazing three-week European family adventure. And the finish promises to be a doozy as Lydia leaves for college and our home, for the first time in 22 years, will be empty of children. This year also is the year that Connor graduates and heads off on who-knows-what path and Adeline will be spending a semester overseas in England. The chicks are flying out of the nest.

I’ve been very mindful of this impending change and have stretched my own wings this summer, exploring on my own and embracing solitude as well as family time. As each experience has unfolded, whether solitary or familial, I’ve had the strongest, recurring sense that when I write about a moment, I’m creating a sort of memory bead.

With my words I’ve struggled to craft each moment into a distinct shape that highlights its essence and encapsulates the critical elements, physical and emotional– solitary walks tinged with melancholy; sun-speckled, companionable hikes over and around giant boulders; lazy, evening strolls on a beach; walking through the relentless heat on the cobbled streets of Pompeii; the hushed power of an ancient cathedral; a laughing moment dining al fresco in Rome. As I sift through recent thoughts, impressions, experiences, adventures, my mind is still spinning. It takes time to filter through the richness of it all.

Each experience is the fuel that fires the forge of my writing.  The flames stir, crackle and pop, and with time and effort, a bead emerges, hopefully strengthened and refined, distinct in color, size, shape, feel.  I consider it, rework it, and sometimes discard it. And when I take the time to write about a moment, to find the precise words and phrases, I am sometimes, wonderfully, rewarded by finding the thread that links each seemingly disparate bead. And then, if and when that one bead feels ready and complete, I place it gently next to the one before it. I’m stringing a necklace of memories.

This winter, when dark dips early and the house echoes about us, I’ll skim my fingers through my mental jewelry box and, clicking bead by clicking bead, I’ll pull out my strand of memories. And I’ll choose one, touch it softly, lovingly, and remember.  Then I will gently release it, to click into place beside its brethren, and tuck the strand away.  And hopefully, I’ll then head out on a new adventure, add fuel to the forge and create a new memory to string along with those that have come before.

I’ve wandered a lot this summer, writer’s notebook and pen at the ready.  I’m beginning to wonder where one draws the line between observing with a writer’s eyes and spying…At any rate, during a recent visit to the beach, I was entranced by a slice from an unknown family’s life.

At the edge of the ocean
on a warm summer’s day,
they linger at the tidal pool.
A father and two daughters.
Exploring.
The older one dashes away,
calling over her shoulder,
“I’m going to get a bucket!”
She clambers over rocks,
returning shortly,
clutching a faded pink pail.
Setting it beside her,
she crouches at the edge,
one hand grasping granite,
the other plunging
into the pool.
Questing.
The younger one
stands in the water,
her father nearby.
In small hands,
she gathers fistfuls of her sundress
lifting it high.
Her shoulder blades jut slightly
from beneath tender skin.
Her short downy hair is mussed,
softly tousled by the breeze,
lit by the sun.
She bends her neck
to peer into the water.
Searching.
Spying something,
her hands release,
her dress falls,
unheeded about her legs.
She points to some treasure
in that tidal pool,
drawing her father’s and sister’s eyes.

One day
they may sit together again
and reminisce
sifting through the sands of memory
back to this day on the beach
to remember this golden moment
sparkling with
sunlight,
warmth,
discovery.

Treasure.

Yesterday, Kurt and I were walking at Popham Beach and came across a protected nesting area for terns and plovers. We stopped to watch a swaggering bird trying to entice his mate. He held a shining fish in his beak and strutted back and forth across the sand. She walked away several times but he followed, undeterred, opening his wings, crossing them, and brandishing that fish about madly!  What a show!

Today’s task at Teachers Write was to write a 12-line rhyming poem in couplets or quatrains, paying close attention to rhythm.  I tried to tackle this moment of avian courtship in my poem. This was fun but quite challenging–Free verse definitely comes more naturally to me. Interestingly, I found that writing in rhyme changed the tone of the poem for me–made it more playful.

(Oh–and I must admit, I did not know the word “avicular.” I first used avian, but it didn’t work for me, rhythmically, so I searched for a synonym.)

A birdie did a courtin’ go
along the beach one day.
A fine slim fish he swanked about
to lure his wary prey.

He postured on the sun-baked sand,
spreading his wings aloft.
He sidled up to get in close,
his dark eye keen and soft.

Repeatedly he shook his beak,
with sparkling fish inside.
This must be avicular talk
for “Will you be my bride?”

I’m still participating in Teachers Write and am ever amazed by the generosity of those who make this “camp” possible each summer–Kate Messner, Gae Polisner, Jo Knowles, Jennifer Vincent and scads of volunteering authors. Today’s exercise involved incorporating voice and humor.  I’ve been fiddling around with these two characters and am not sure where they are going… if anywhere!  Writing fiction is quite a stretch for me!

Bang! Bang! Bang! When Iggy gets mad, she gets really, really mad and let me tell you, she is not shy about it. Her feet hit the ground like little jackhammers. Next, she looks you right in the face and then quick as a wink she starts holdin’ her breath ’til she’s turnin’ blue—not just a cold-in-the-pond-around-the-lips blue, but a deep, dark, ripe blueberry blue! Boy, that girl is stubborn!

The blue upsets Ma and Pa, but if they aren’t around, I just poke Iggy —hard—right in the side. Whoosh! All that air comes flying out from her blue puffed-up cheeks and next thing I know she’s hollerin’ and my eardrums are screamin’ “Uncle!” If I’m not quick enough my face starts hurtin’, too. Because Iggy isn’t only loud when she’s mad, she’s dangerous!

Pa says Iggy is a one-girl show and you never know what act’s comin’ up next. Me, I think she’s a one-girl freak show. But Ma taught me not to say that anymore. Anyway, even when Iggy’s not acting freaky she still looks kinda weird. She’s got big, buggy blue eyes and crazy blond hair that fluffs up all over her head. When she’s fussin’ about somethin’ she tugs at it and it looks even worse. She sort of looks like a deranged chick. But I learned not to say that out loud neither.

Mama says Iggy’s got “pizzazz.” “Pi-what?” I asked.

She said, “Well, let’s just say that Iggy livens up our world.”

Well that’s one way of puttin’ it. But if I had that much pizzazz, I’d be grounded for a week and livin’ on bread and water.