The Last Days

After I left my haven of peace and rest and weaving, I visited my friend Flo at his mother's country estate.  We went out and saw an electric ukulele rock band.  It was epic.

The next day I headed to Paris, planning on meeting a friend.  I sat at the metro station for two hours, waiting for her.  No phone, so I couldn't call, and no wifi until I hiked a quarter mile to the nearest Mc Donald's with all my stuff.  She hadn't said anything online, didn't answer the phone when I called with Skype...  I trucked it back to the station, just in case she was super late and now wondering where I was.
No such luck.

Well, that's fine.  It was about time I graduated to solo homeless sleeping.  I started running through all of the nooks and crannies of Paris in my memory, wondering where would be a good place to hunker down for the night.  The Montmartre Cemetery was my most appealing option, but far away.  I contemplated climbing onto the roof of the metro station before I decided to just stay where I was on my bench.  As I started reading, lounging on my new bed with all my stuff tucked under me, an old man put a sandwich on my lap.  He didn't say anything when I thanked him in wonderment, just walked away with his grocery bags, slowly up the hill.  I was left with a warm and fuzzy feeling that I would be just fine sleeping in the great outdoors.  God was watching.

Picture 1:  my bench.  Picture 2:  my telephone booth.  I moved into it in the middle of the night, when the air was picking up a chill.  It was quite cozy.  I woke up to the sound of a little voice asking "Momma, why did she sleep in there?  Why?"

the view from my bench (that's the eiffel
tower, if you can't tell.  it's sparkling,
like it does every night at 11)

Roused bright and early by the sun and that little voice, I fixed my hair and perched on the banks of the Seine to watch the sun come up next to the Eiffel Tower.  I sang and sang because I felt so lucky to be a witness of such a marvel.  Also because no one else was around.

I spent the day lounging, reading, window shopping in Paris and headed to Amsterdam the next day.  Again, warm sun, tasty snacks on the canals.  I needed a day or two just to myself.  And then I came home.

The strangest thing about all this moving around is that I didn't feel the shock of it.  I've said before on this blog that I often take a long time to process adventures, but this time was different.  It was like my soul didn't experience any lag.  When I got home, both my mind and body got there at the same time.  Seamless.  Fascinating.  Teleportation is the next step.

Je Peux Faire De La Voile Sans Vent

We said goodbye tonight.  But first, background story:

I hurt my back today.  I pulled a muscle right under my left shoulder blade while weaving, I think.  Kate massaged it after lunch, but in the evening I finished my weaving.  I couldn't very well not finish, now, could I?  My back is of another opinion, unfortunately.  Kate massaged it again with a healing oil and Bruno gave me those homeopathic pills as I was lying immobile on the floor.  Breathing too deeply triggers a pretty horrid spasm.  Crying, too, it turns out.

We all spoke and Bruno cried.  We all cried.  And Sebastien sang this song:

 

Qui peut faire de la voile sans vent?                      Who can fill a sail without wind?
Qui peut ramer sans rame?                                     Who can row without an oar?
Et qui peut quitter son ami                                     And who can take leave of a friend
Sans verser de larmes?                                           Without tears?

Je peux faire de la voile sans vent                          I can fill a sail without wind.
Je peux ramer sans rame                                         I can row without an oar.
Mais ne peux quitter mon ami                               But I cannot take leave of my friend
Sans verser de larmes                                             Without tears.

Qui peut faire du pain sans levain?                        Who can make bread without leaven?
Qui peut faire du vin sans raisin?                           Who can make wine without grapes?
Et qui peut quitter son ami                                     And who can take leave of a friend
Sans verser de larmes?                                           Without tears?
             
Je peux faire du pain sans levain                            I can make bread without leaven.
Je peux faire du vin sans raisin                               I can make wine without grapes.
Mais ne peux quitter mon ami,                               But I cannot take leave of my friend
Sans verser de larmes                                              Without tears.

The rest is too special for the internet.
I'm off at 8:30 am tomorrow.

Random Thoughts That Must Out

I love French this evening because it lets me talk with my neighbors.  It lets me feel part of something bigger, different worlds, new histories.  I love that this discovery requires effort.

I saw a fascinating man yesterday.  He had long greying hair and full beard with twinkling eyes.  You couldn't see his mouth but his moustache moved when he talked and smiled.  He must have been in his late 60s, but he had the body of a 30-something-year-old cowboy, complete with the fluid gait and the impressive biceps.  I must have been staring at him, but he was so interesting to look at!

Last night Bruno, Kate, Sebastien, and I went to a harp concert in Peillac.  We walked home at dusk, just as the first stars were starting to peek out.  We were laughing and joking about the concert and things in general, and I felt like part of a great love, like there was nothing missing in my soul.  We sang as we strolled down the hill, and we waltzed to "Love One Another" while Sebastien tried out some harmonies.  It was a moment when age and language meant nothing.  Time and space were just details.  And I didn't waste any of my attention on hoping it would never end.  That is such a futile gesture.  I just was. 

My weaving muscles are growing.  I found a rhythm.  The shuttle doesn't fall much and the batten isn't nearly as heavy anymore!  I have repaired dozens of broken warp threads, though.  That gets old quick.  Bruno says it teaches me patience.  I say it teaches me to use a stronger warp next time.

I am not good at hiding my feelings.  This has never been more evident than in the case of cherries in cherry season in Bretagne.  And apparently, when people see me eat cherries with undisguised relish, it makes them want to bring me more!  Dominique kept filling the bowl of cherries and encouraging me to eat them when I was at their house for the weekend.  Some random lady that we picnicked with after church on Sunday gave me all of the leftover cherries (why there were leftover cherries is seriously beyond my comprehension).  And Aymeric, when I saw him for the last time this evening, filled my pockets with cherries as a parting gift.  He had seen a cherry tree on his bike ride home and thought of me.  It's pretty wonderful.

Musings

I was invited to Aymeric's yurt for dinner tonight (that's Emerick, just spelled correctly this time) because I have finished his custom pair of pants and he wanted to pay me and thank me at the same time.  We got to talking about life and belonging and moving and leaving.




I have become very used to my nomadic single life.  I don't cry when I leave anymore.  Or if I do, my grief is brief.  I think it comes from practice and from a broader understanding that change happens.  I'm living more in the present, and each step, each train, each airplane can't take me any farther away from right now.

But I wonder if I should miss feeling bereaved.  Is the amount of my sorrow at goodbye a measure of my joy in the time together?  Is my heart growing calloused in that moment when I turn away and don't look back?

I don't think so.  I think that my sorrow isn't lost but rather swallowed up in the contentment I find in taking another step, meeting another loved one, seeing another day.  I can still see within myself the pain of letting go of the past, but it is a futile pain that I don't have much patience for in the day to day; the past will move on without me no matter what I decide to do. 

And I am getting better at guarding my old heartstrings, keeping up old relationships.  I do feel like I will come back here, for instance.  I feel a lot of power in my life right now, in that I can do whatever I want.  I can make things happen.  I got here in the first place; I can come back again if I want.

The community at the Petit Moulin has become my home, of which I have several.  I seem to find myself at home more and more in my life, and I have a feeling that it has more to do with being comfortable with myself than any outward circumstance.  Maybe being at home within myself is another reason why an end isn't the end; I still carry it all with me.  As Aymeric said, my self includes all of my past and accepts the people and events that have shaped me just as I desire to be accepted.



Dinner was delicious, and I am feeling very whole. 
Grateful.  I am feeling grateful, too.

Vidoes That Are Not Boring To Me

In this first one, I weave.  It's only interesting to the lay viewer in comparison to the previous video of my attempts to weave on this gigantic loom and the final moment, when my navette goes flying out of control.  

The second one is Petit Noel eating a fly.  He's very good at catching them against the window with his paw and then munch munch munch.  I've taken to herding them towards him because I can't stand the noise of them buzzing all the time. 

Enjoy!  If you don't, I will!

I killed a tiny slug today.  Sliced it right in half in the middle of a head of cabbage.  Slug guts on the cabbage slices.  Oh the carnage.

High Adventure On The River Arz

Yesterday the weather was lovely, so about 7:30 in the evening I decided to go for a solo canoe voyage down the river Arz.  I packed some dinner in a tupperware and brought my chocolate and my scriptures.  The bottom of the canoe was a little wet, but I set my scriptures on my sweatshirt to keep them dry and set off. 

My dad would be so proud of how I skillfully managed the canoe all by myself.  I moved calmly and confidently upstream, basking in the nature and the setting sun.  There were largeish furry creatures swimming around the banks, skampering in from the fields to splash into the water and duck into their tunnels.  Muskrats or something?  Once I saw a momma with 9 (!!) babies paddling from one hole to another.  Playdate at the neighbors?  One guy thumped over to the river so fast you would've thought a raptor was after him.  I daydreamed about raptors, about muskrats, about writing a blog about daydreams, and then wondered if I was getting hungry.

I tied the canoe up to a log so I could eat my dinner of lentils and cabbage in peace.  I was rocking out in my head to Pocahontas ("What I like most about rivers is, you can't step in the same river twice...") when I thought to myself that maybe I was sitting weird because it felt like my butt was falling asleep.  On further contemplation, I clarified that to, "no, my butt just feels cold" and then, "what the heck, my butt is wet!" as I looked down and saw the level of water in the canoe had risen to reach my bench.  "This was not the amount of water I started with," I thought, and I looked around in a panic to find the leak.  Sure enough, an old patch in the corner of the canoe behind me was bubbling water like nobody's business. 

I scarfed the rest of my lentils and cabbage and used the tupperware to bail out a good bunch of water before untieing myself from the log and taking off downstream as fast as I could paddle.  I briefly entertained a daydream about the patch busting loose entirely and finding myself standing in my sunken canoe, neck deep in the Arz (I'd grab my scriptures, my chocolate, and my sandles to hold over my head, in that order), but then decided not to invite further disaster with negative thinking.  Bail, paddle, bail, paddle...  Past the home of the nine babies, past the creepy fish corpse in the water...  Most of you won't be surprised that I was laughing the whole time, freaking out all the muskrats.

I'm here to tell you that I made it.  My butt was damp and my sweatshirt was soaked, but there were no casualties.  In the future, I'll pay more attention to suspiciously rising levels of water in the bottom of my boats.  Maybe I'll use one of the metal canoes without any benches next time.  That way I get to kneel in the middle like Pocahontas as I paddle around those riverbends.

Spiders And Fairies

There was this huge spider hanging out on the wall when I sat down at the computer.  Huge.  Like 3-inch leg-span.  I've been coexisting with spiders very peacefully for the past five weeks, but this guy was scary-big.  I tried to breathe calmly and told myself that he was really no different than the other little ones, right?  And I'd look over and he'd still be there.  Looking even bigger than I remembered.

Bruno came in, and when I pointed out the spider he said, "Oh, I love spiders, don't you?"  When I stuttered my way around a "no, not exactly", he said, "But they are weavers, too!"  (Now I know why there are so many spider webs draped all over everything here.)  He came over and said, "This kind doesn't bite.  You can pick them up, see?"  And he reached out to the spider, which moved in that sudden way that spiders have, and I rolled over Bruno's toe with the office chair.  (Sorry about that, but what did you expect?)  The spider was scared, as Bruno was quick to point out, and quickly retreated back into the dark recesses of wood and stone and desk that makes up that corner.

Now I can't help but wonder what else lives inside these walls.  That giant spider lived here unnoticed by me for five weeks.  There might be hundreds of huge three-inch spiders.  Maybe even some five-inchers, though I'm not keen on that thought.

Heck, there might even be fairies.

The Things We Do For Mousse

We had a surprise windfall of eggs here at the Petit Moulin.  And since we don't have a fridge and only a few of us eat eggs, we need to use them up fast.  You know what that means!  Mousse!  I just bought some dark chocolate that is a little too bitter for regular consumption anyway!  We don't have any butter or sugar, but we can totally work around that.

How do you make mousse without a stove or a fridge and only 2 out of the 4 required ingredients, you ask?  Let's find out.




First of all, you heat water up in the marvelously convenient water boiler we thankfully (albeit slightly incongruously) possess*.  Pour boiling water into a pot, nestle a glass bowl on top and fill it with the chocolate pieces and hopefully the right amount of sunflowerseed oil.  Cover with a plate and wait for the heat to melt the chocolate.

In the meantime, separate the eggs.  Oh these fresh and organic yolks are a beautiful deep yellow, almost the orange of marigolds.  Add honey.  It's the clear kind because the big jar of cloudier (tastier) local honey is quite expensive.  But this honey is still sweet!  Stir all the gold together.

Check on the chocolate.  Swap out the cooling water for new boiling hot water.  Stir to help the chocolate pieces melt all the way.  Then mix the melted chocolate/sunflowerseed oil with the egg yolks/honey.  Hm.  It's thickening fast.  Hope that's okay.

Whisk up the egg whites!!  What's that?  The whisk you found in the drawer is rusty?  Well then, wash it first.
It's kind of dark in the kitchen at dusk, but it seems to be clean enough now.  Add a pinch of sea salt and start beating.  Go outside because the people in the living room are having a meditation moment and you've made enough noise already.

Hm.  Cross your fingers that that isn't a streak of rust in your egg whites.  Cross your fingers again because egg whites aren't supposed to set up correctly if there are impurities.  Does rust count as impure?  Must not be because they whipped as well as any egg whites you've whipped before!

Fold 1/3 of the whites into the chocolate stuff.  Weird, the chocolate firmed up pretty thick.  That's never happened before.  Maybe oil solidifies stuff?  Maybe honey does?  Anyway, the thick chocolate goo is accepting the egg whites perfectly fine.  Listen to the rustle of a million egg white air bubbles popping.  Fold in the rest.

Looks normal.  Tastes normal.  Actually, the honey gives it a new edge.  That could be good.
Put a plate over the mousse and set the whole thing outside in the storage room to catch the night air and stay cool into the morning. 

Et voila!  You just made Mousse Chocolat a la Petit Moulin.  We'll see how it tastes in the morning.




*I love adverbs.

Playing With The Big Boys Now

This is me, testing out the loom that Bruno is going to have me weave on next week.  He has a commission to recreate a 14th century woollen textile.  I unfortunately won't be around long enough to help him make the actual thing, but my job will be to make about 3 meters of cloth testing different weaves.  We'll also see how well the whole thing felts up.

In the meantime, I need to start building some upper-body strength and refine my core to work this thing.

Pictures Of The Children!

 

She made these bracelets herself.

They are both very careful painters.  See?  They stayed very much inside the lines.

♥

Welcome Home

However much I love Bénédicte's family and home (and hot water), there is something about the Petit Moulin community that feels so good to return to.  It feels liberating to be here, maybe because the outdoors is part of our living space, maybe because I've become more than just a guest.  My own little cabin felt just right, and Petit Noel slept with me all night.  He crawled under my blankets and curled up near my stomach to stay nice and warm.  Apparently, after I let him out this morning (before I was fully awake), he went to say hi to Emerick working in the gardens.  Emerick told me that he picked up Petit Noel and smelled me and knew that the cat had spent the night.  Oh the scandal!

By the time I was really waking up it was closer to 9:15.  I heard Sylvan and Irene talking and looked out the window to see them marching up the path towards my cabin, book in hand.  They've never visited me in the morning before!  I quickly pulled on some clothes and they came in and crawled onto my bed and we read their comic book for ten minutes or so, all snuggled up, before I had to hustle off to the morning meeting.  It was the perfect morning and I love it here.

Instagram, Part II

Direction Santiago

Sofia, guess what I found during my epic bike ride!!

That's right, I was biking on one of the routes to Santiago.  I was going the wrong way, but that's okay.  We've been there before.

^-^

My Epic Journey

On Sunday I biked from Guéveneux (here, where I'm living) to Malestroit (where I hitched a ride to and from church in the far-away city of Vannes) and then from Malestroit to the tiny village of Montertelot, where I stayed for three days with a seamstress friend of Bruno's.  I biked for a total of 30 km (or about 2.5 hrs) on a rickety old 2-speed bike with handlebars that slipped out of position and a saddle which felt like it was made of wood.  I still have a sore butt, and it's Tuesday.

It was pretty amazing, though.  And by that, I mean that I am.  *grin*

This is the family I stayed with; aren't they adorable?  Dominique and Bénédicte are the parents and Juliette and Luka are the kids.  They were the nicest people.  They let me take a hot bath one morning and a hot shower the next and they fed me lots of sugar, promising not to tell anyone. ^-^  And their house is darling, their kids are tame, their garden is amazingly productive, and Dominique loves to cook.  Could it get any better than that? 

***Pause for contemplation of my blessings***  These people like me.  They invited me to stay longer at their house and kept talking about when I will come back to visit.  Bruno and his people like me, too, and he's been threatening not to let me leave.  How is it that I have been blessed with many homes?  I wish I could be in all of them (including the first and most important one in Dayville) at once.  It feels like my heart is stretching to span the ocean.
***Thank you***

Notes

When the French use the American word "cowgirl", they mean a female escort.  "Cowboy" just means a cowboy.  Boring, huh?

"Mangeoire", the French word for feeding trough, is because of "manger", "to eat".  And that's why baby Jesus slept in a manger!  (Revelation!)

The word for a light bulb is "ampoule", which also means blister or pimple.  This is much less picturesque than the German "glühbirne", or "glowing pear". 

Random Language Thoughts

I've been speaking only French every day.  I don't know why it has been so easy to make myself do that here.  Different than on my mission or in Paris, when I would take off in English every time I had the chance, talking a mile a minute with the sheer joy of being able to say everything that came to my mind.  Maybe I just don't have the opportunity; other than Kate, I don't run into native English speakers much.  Maybe I just don't have much I want to communicate right now.  Maybe my feelings are simple and uncomplicated, or maybe they are so complicated that even English wouldn't suffice.  Maybe French is easy because of all the overlap with English.  I really couldn't tell you.  I just know that I still feel like myself. 

.........

Going to church last weekend was a bit of a culture shock because of all the English being spoken.  And French with different accents.  I remembered how much I really don't like American accents.  Happily, the next day, a visitor to the community asked me if I was German, because of my accent.  Somehow I've dodged the American accent bullet (except in English, which I don't mind).  Maybe I've inherited more from my grandmother than my figure.

.........

I don't love French.  It's just a way to say things.  It's got some cool sounds, some frustrating vowels.  I can't really explain my desire to learn more and more of it.  I just...want to.  I've started a little vocab notebook.  I'm at the stage of picking out words I don't understand from other people's conversations and asking about them later.  And it gives me such great satisfaction to recall words I know I know.  I like the feeling of gaining mastery and speaking ever more fluently.  I have an urge to perfect my French somehow, though that would take years, and I don't know if I will ever sound French like I was able to sound German.  And what the heck will I do with French?  Not a clue.
I just...want it.

I've Been Sewing Like Crazy

So far I've made:
1 shirt for Sebastien,
1 shirt for Kate,
2 pairs of pants (for Sebastien and Bruno),
1 tank for Bruno,
and 1 dress for Irene.
I've hemmed two towels and one silk shawl,
patched a pair of pants and some 14th century-style underwear,
and I'm working on sewing some trousers for Emerick*.

Now, I've done some sewing in my time, if you know what I mean, but working on these basic clothing pieces has changed how I think about starting a project.  Sewing is really simple!  You cut out some shapes and you put the shapes together.  There's an order of operations that makes sense.  I don't have any zippers, and I hate sewing more buttonholes than necessary, so I get creative with closures.  I'm not a fan of drafting sleeveheads, so I made raglan sleeves on Kate's shirt and simple gusseted rectangles for Sebastien's.  I'm feeling more and more confident that I can whip something up in no time at all or realize some of the more fanciful doodles that fill my notebooks.  The veil of mystery is parting, even more that it has already!

Thursday afternoon Bruno was all "Irene doesn't have anything nice to wear to the wedding we are going to", and I was like "oo, I'd love to sew a dress for a little girl!".  He told me what fabric I could use, I sketched for a minute, and voila!  By Friday afternoon Irene was twirling around in her new dress.  It twirls pretty well, if I do say so myself.

 The fabric is Bruno's signature weave, "Toile de Peillac", in 100% hemp.  

I think she really likes it :)

*That last one is a private commission that I'm working on in my spare time.  The best part is, he's paying me in money!

An Exercise In Foot-Eye Coordination

1-2 (meaning pedals 1 and 2)
T1 (meaning 'toile side 1' or pedals 1 and 3; one half of a plain weave pédalage)
2-3 (that's right: pedals 2 and 3)
T2 (this means 'toile side 2' or pedals 2 and 4; the other half of plain weave)
3-4 (you got it...)
T1 (uh huh...)
4-1
T2
Repeat.  OR if you want to really get lost, reverse it for a chevron effect.

This is a 'serge double, demi-damasse' weave.  I wove a block of this yesterday.  I don't think I have ever noticed how very far away my feet are from my brain.  It doesn't help that I'm counting in French....

un, deux

un (I leave off the 'T')

deux, trois

deux

trois, quatre

un

....etc.

For the first hour or so, I was grinding my teeth, counting threads, mixing up pedals, and un-weaving my mistakes.  But I am closer to owning it now.  Which is good because Bruno might be having me weave 3 meters of it this weekend.

Further Notice

The egg popped this morning.  Literally.  It was half-full of brown goo.  :(  The end.

Surrogate

I found a tiny unbroken egg on the road yesterday afternoon.  I thought to myself, "Maybe there is a still-living baby bird in there!" and then I tucked it into my bra to keep it warm.  (The fact that no one can tell it is there is more a testament to the diminutive size of the egg than to the abunance of my chest.)  Sylvan and Irene are very approving of this plan.  Sylvan told me, however, that I can't take the bird home with me when I go.  True. 

When I showed it to her in the evening, Kate pragmatically asked me what I will do if I actually do save this bird and it hatches?  

Hm.  Good question.

I just...  I just can't leave it to the chill of death without first finding out if there is life in it.  Maybe it is greedy curiosity more than compassionate charity.  Maybe I will save the fetus just to watch a baby bird die.  But that is the future and this is the present.  So until further notice, I'm incubating an egg in my left armpit.  Wish me luck.

It kinda looks like this picture I found on the internets.

Le Temps Des Cerises

 Two nights ago Kate had a visitor named Patrick who was super nice and who I wished I could adopt as a grandfather, especially since his grandchildren are all super far away.   He brought out his harmonica after dinner and Kate and Patrick and I sat around with each other's music for the evening.  He played a song called Le Temps Des Cerises (The Time Of The Cherries) and it was beautiful, about lost love.  It was written in the 1860's in Paris.  Here is a version sung in the 1970's:

my favorite bits, translated by me, 
since there isntt a good translation on the internet:

"When we sing in the time of the cherries,
beauties' heads are full of folly and lovers' hearts full of sun. 

But it is short, the time of the cherries,
when we go dreaming, picking earrings of cherries;
cherries of love robed in red, dropping under the leaves like drops of blood. 

When you are in the time of the cherries,
if you have fear of heartache, avoid the beauties. 
Me, I'm not afraid of the cruel pains. 
I would not live without the suffering. 

I will always love the time of the cherries. 
It is the time that I guard in my heart, an open wound. 
I will always love the time of the cherries
and the memory that I keep in my heart."


It just so happens that right now is, in fact, the time of the cherries.  And long ago Bruno's father planted a cherry tree in the field across the river from the weaving studio.  I was weighing some yarn on an old baby scale (upon which Bruno and all of Bruno's children were weighed as babies), when Emerick (the guy living in the yurt) stopped by and lured me away from my duties with promises of cherry-picking.  And with baskets in one hand and a long hooky-thing in the other, I walked across the field into one of my lifelong dreams. 

A tree full of the most delicious fruit in the world.  I have never eaten a cherry picked fresh from the tree, and this morning I climbed high high high up into the forgiving branches of this not-very-big tree and ate all my stomach could carry.  Emerick and I worked our way around and up in companionable silence.  Once he did say that cherries almost make him believe in God.  I felt that, too; a gratitude for the perfection that just waited for us.  The birds singing, the sky softly blue, I felt like I was on top of the world.  Each breath and every movement was calm and smooth and intent, taking everything in, moving carefully to reach higher (without falling out of the tree).  And there were cherries everywhere.  Each bite was full of dreams fulfilled.

I'm going back tomorrow for breakfast.

Coiffeur

We were all sitting outside for lunch today when Irene started brushing my hair.  It felt delicious.  But then she decided to do my hair with three random ponytails (one of which was tied with a rubber band--horrors!).  She then went around to everyone else and gave them ponytails as well.  Bruno got the brunt of the attack; three ponytails in his hair and three more in his beard.  We adults then continued our serious conversation, drinking our herbal tea with thoughtful expressions.  Quite a Mad-Hatter moment.  ^-^

me and the artiste

Sebastien and Kate

Gaëlle and Bruno

Children

The Other Girl

The weirdest thing happened yesterday.

Another WWOOFer was supposed to show up yesterday, a girl from Switzerland, to stay for three weeks.  (WWOOF = world wide opportunities on organic farms, a kind of apprenticeship program for anyone interested in all things organic and farming.  The French WWOOFing website is how I found out about Bruno's studio.  I'm not a typical WWOOFer, since I'm not here for the gardening, but Bruno uses organic materials in his weaving, as far as I know.)  She had emailed with Kate, saying that she was interested in all kinds of alternative lifestyles, and she was planning on staying for three weeks, leaving on the same day as me.

Everyone else was busy when she got here, so I showed her around.  She was quiet, with goth-esque make-up and a lip piercing.  She drove a purple car and looked quite alterative, not so much organic.  But whatever.  I gave her the grand tour (all the time remembering how I felt my first few moments... oh how things have grown on me) and ended up back at the house.  I asked her if she needed help with her stuff and she said no.  She went to use the bathroom, and I was sitting on the grass doing my sewing thing when she came out and went straight to her car.  The next thing I knew, I heard the engine start, and by the time that registered and I looked up, she was driving away!  Heading for the hills! 

Was it something I said?

If it wasn't for the fact that Emmeric (a guy who lives in the yurt on the hill) saw her, too, I'd seriously be doubting my sanity.  Maybe she couldn't stand the composting toilet, though she said she'd used one before.  Maybe she saw the Bible on the bookshelf and the Book of Mormon on the kitchen table and decided we were *too* alternative.  Or maybe she forgot something and is driving back to Switzerland to get it..
Who knows.

I have to admit, though, I'm not entirely disappointed to have this place and these people all to myself for the next three weeks.  ♥

The Sweetest Words

I was babysitting Sylvan and Irene for a couple hours this evening.  We were eating dinner, and Sylvan and I found out we both love salt.  I told him about a friend of mine who loves salt, too, and has pink salt and black salt (hi Frank ^^) and Sylvan said, "Quand tu reviens, pars-que je veux que tu reviens, tu peut apporter du sel rose et sel noir."  ("When you come back, because I want you to come back, you can bring some pink salt and black salt.")

"I want you to come back."

Those are the sweetest words, especially from a child, but hearing them from a child, from Sylvan, pulls on my heartstrings.  It's a curse, a command, and a blessing rolled into one.  How can I not obey?  But then:  How many children have I loved and left behind?  How many, not understanding time and space, wondered where I went and why?  Did they feel sad?  How many remember me or my love at all?   

Sylvan, I wish I could stay.  I want you to remember that I love you and think you are sweet and funny and adventurous and brave.  I want someone to love me as simply and easily as you do and remember me forever.  But you are not mine, and even you will grow up and leave someday.  (Oh, what kind of young man will you make?)  I torture myself wondering how many months it will take before you forget my name.  Can I get back in time?  Will it feel the same?  Is there a point?

Why does love have to feel so fleeting?  Why is simplicity and innocence so transient?  Why do the most beautiful things only last for a moment? 

I hope that in the next life all of the soul-connections we make now will be remembered. 
I will find all my children again.

My Magical Historical Hat

I made the hat that this girl is wearing.  Or a version thereof.

Lovely, no?  

Then I cooked all morning and looked like this..

(even though this isn't a very flattering
picture, i still like it somehow...
the mood, perhaps, captures the grit of
16th century genre paintings.)

At that point my hat was falling off, so I retied my braids underneath and it worked better:

But here is why this hat is magically historical.

While wearing it, I made delicious food using a wood-burning stove.  When I forgot to watch the fire and it went out, I built it back up.  I made an apple pie with buckwheat and honey (note: buckwheat is not the best grain for pie crust..  my oil-based crust batter also looked like mud).  I used every last bit of edible thing--even the apple peels made it into the soup (along with radish greens and baby leek leftovers), giving it a hint of sweetness that was just right.  And the leftover rice and legumes I made into vegan meatballs.  I also made french fries, which are not historical, I suppose, but they were perfect french fries!  

I was totally on a roll.

see?  mud pie.

someone loves me for french fries

and my fried vegan meatballs were a hit

and here is Sylvan's picture of me.  

Bruno kissed me on the cheeks when he saw the french fries.

Needless to saw, my second day of cooking lunch was a hit!!  

Thank you, Magical Historical Hat.