Sunday Market

Posted on 25 September 2006

Times flies. After my last “sick” entry, I thought I should write briefly.

I moved in first gear for several days, after my “cleanse.” Food had little appeal. Neither did leaving the house so I lay around and did little. Yesterday, I felt almost normal. I drove to St. Antonine de Noble Val with Bedding and her house guest. I was surprised to find that Sunday market was as crowded as in summer though it was a summer-like day – the sun was shining and I was too warm in my long-sleeved cotton pullover. We separated at market and so I wandered alone picking up several varietes of olives, a half dozen white nectarines, perfect petite zucchini and red peppers, lettuce, and several bunches of purple grapes. We met for lunch and then drove back to Montmiral by Penn and Bruniquel – other hilltop fortress towns, through a landscape of varigated greens on rolling hills. Once again, I sighed and thought about how much I love this place.

I threw together a lentil stew for dinner as Susan and David were joining me. Today, I am cleaning and preparing two bedrooms – the two bedrooms – for two couples from Vancouver who will stay for several days. I shall move into the attic and brave the bats. A week today, Rob arrives.

I have been thinking about me and the voice inside my head that is eternally dissatisfied with me. I know this to be a cruel voice that expects me to be something beyond human. I wonder if I will ever make peace with it. Time is running out.

A couple of days ago, a friend who Rob and I recently had dinner with in Vancouver had a stroke. It scared me so. (He’s fine at the moment. Sensation is moving back into his left side.) And I thought to myself that I, we, are now reaching a certain age when we will lose friends or perhaps even the other.

A wiser voice says – oh, I know it is common – do what you want to do now. Don’t knock yourself about. Enjoy.

The phone is ringing. It’s Susan who is trying to find some good reads for me. “Do you like Henry James? I have a book that describes his agony….” We finish the conversation and I put down the phone. The sun is shining on the small cafe table in the attic. I look out the window over the slopping speckled roof tiles to the fields beyond. Nothing urgent has to be done. I close my eyes and listen to my breathing.

The thing about writing these blogs is that I expose myself and ever since I was a little girl, I have been guarding myself – though I imagine some don’t think so – but I hated English as a subject, especially when asked to write about my life. I didn’t want anyone to know too much about me. I am still finding it an effort though I know I have come a long way since I decided to try and write for a public.

And these are my small thoughts on this amazingly beautiful day.


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