Posted on 01 May 2010

Looking out our kitchen window, I admire the wisteria below. A young couple with a baby recently bought the garden and the house facing it.

The past week, the weather has been gorgeous, bright sunny skies, with temperatures up to 30 degrees.

I love the sun and all would be idyllic (Rob returned Tuesday evening) except for two things. I’m still waiting for the insurance money, and I have a certain frustration with self.

If I were a real writer, I tell myself, writing would be the most important thing in my life. I wouldn’t spend so many hours trying to make the house perfect. I would not worry about the chip in the mirror, the carpenter’s uneven finishing, the ways the shelves are to be built in my library. I’d leave my books piled up again the wall (Gill says they look artsy) and pull out my novel and perhaps, if luck were with me, the words would flow and nothing else would matter.

I am helping a younger woman begin her mother story. She is surprised that the editorial work is so slow. I want to tell her that I have spent a day on one sentence, finding the right word, the right rhythm, and I am not an exception.

Rob returned home, exhausted and puffy-eyed after the stitches were removed from his lids earlier in the day. With age, his eye lids had softened and descended (which happens to us all, and happens to all of our physical selves, but Rob’s eyes were especially bad. The soft skin was blocking his pupils, making it difficult for him to see.)

He is happy that the operation is over (already he can see better), happy to be home, happy with his house, and, for several days, he enjoyed the sun though he had to wear dark shades to protect his eyes. Today, the weather turned and a soft rain falls on and off.

The day before he returned, Alice turned 30 and we celebrated in her parent’s garden, directly below the village.

I’m sorry that my picture doesn’t show the feast and wine and bubbly and all who attended. What struck me about the celebration was that Rachel (Alice’s mother) and I were the only older people there. The town is coming alive with young couples and their children.

And there’s others like Alice and Tiziano who recently moved from London, who can work via internet, and who prefer a bucolic setting.

Several people have asked me if I really want to live here, to stay here for the rest of my days. I think so. Life is simpler (unless you have a house fire) while, at the same time, the culture and language make it more stimulating and challenging.

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