Memory of a New Life

View from RMS Queen Mary 2 – On my way to France 5 juin 2015

A memory popped up on Facebook today. It reminded me that three years ago (on 5 June 2015) I embarked on my journey to France.

In a way it seems that time has gone quickly, but at the same time I think – “has it only been three years?” The question arises not because time has dragged on but because I have such a strong sense of being entrenched, of belonging, of home.

When I was a kid I don’t ever remember feeling homesick when I was away whether for an overnight at a friend’s house or at camp for a week. Our family vacations always involved going to visit relatives. I remember one visit to my mother’s family in Louisiana and I cried when it was time to head home.

The small town that I grew up in was great as a child. I could walk or bike to a friend’s house to play. We could go hike in the nearby hills or cross the historic Route 66 (then only a highway) to walk down Live Oak Canyon. But during my teenage years I found it very boring and couldn’t wait to get out. (Even though I only moved to the next town over to do so.)

I longed to travel, to go, to explore. So much so, that after high school I hitchhiked halfway across the US. (I’ve stated before that I have an awesome guardian angel; this trip was an awakening of that realization.)

I have been fortunate to be able to travel and to live abroad before moving to France. I have had to make adjustments but I didn’t experience total culture shock. The relaxed way of life and joyeux de vivre of the French suits me well.

I keep a calendar on my computer that goes beyond keeping track of birthdays and appointments. I note the weather forecast for the week so I can choose which days & times are best for walking to the supermarket. I note holidays because most stores will be closed those days. I’ve noted the railroad strike dates to be sure I don’t try to travel then.

And I clock watch – because the small shops (and even a few big ones) are closed during lunch, bakeries close between 12:30 or 1:00pm until around 4:00pm and restaurants are only open for lunch 12:00 to 2:30 and then again for dinner 7:00 ‘til whenever people have finished. Meals in France are sacrosanct.

But beyond shop schedules time eludes me. My kitchen is still on two levels well over a year later. This past winter was cold and rainy so I hibernated instead of working.

Winter snow février 2018 The path behind my house

This spring, thanks to my friend Colin, the walls to the entry stairs got replastered:  I did the prep work and he did an amazing job of plastering. The 1^st floor landing got repaired, a wall on the 2^nd floor got patched, and I’ve arranged to have a roof leak on the rooms over the garage repaired. After years of working with deadlines I seem to be reveling in not caring much about them.

There are plenty of other tasks to be done around the house and I hope to be able to complete them all – someday.

I’m still taking pictures – The view from today’s afternoon walk & picnic

In the meantime I’m enjoying living in such a beautiful town. I’m still in awe when I look out my windows or go for a walk. But beyond the beauty of place are the people. They have been so friendly and welcoming, and patient as I still struggle with French.

I’m planning a trip back to the US to visit my daughter and grandson but even before leaving I feel the tug of home. I also hope to do more traveling in the future but I don’t expect any long extended stays away.

I used to say of myself that I have shallow roots. I don’t say that anymore. I think I’ve found the place where the ‘soil’ is right for my soul.