to see the end (week seven)

over the last few days we have said goodbye to the tomatoes, tomatillos, zucchinis, squash, kale, chestnuts, walnuts, potatoes, basil, radishes, and apples. the days are getting shorter, mornings colder, the work load has shifted from harvesting to clearing land, everything has changed. change has become the only thing that remains true out here.

with the first frost, instantly came the shift from keeping the tomatoes producing to harvesting the last of them quickly in order to get the winter lettuces in the ground. at first i found it hard to watch the crops change; partly because it meant my time here was coming to an end, but perhaps more so because i got comfortable with the rhythm of each 'veg' in its heyday.

it struck me this morning, while pulling old cucumber plants out of the ground, that this constant state of evolution is exactly what 'it' is all about. the earth that once supported the hearty and round red radishes now gives life to spinach. the chestnut shells lay in rows beneath the trees, ready to decompose and replenish the soil for next years crop.




the newly transplanted rocket lay warm and moist under the cloche, ready for the chilly next chapter. my own hands callused and dark with dirt and sun; my spirit full and excited for the new season of my life.

the lessons i have learned here are endless and i have regained much that was lost in nyc. simple things like: serving others before yourself, the value of a good stretch after a hard days work, and the blessing of being witness to the sunrise and set everyday. but most importantly i have learned to slow down enough to appreciate the monumental events of green peppers ripening red on their sweet little branches and of welcoming little boy robin back to chaumeil for winter.

it brings tears to my eyes to think that i have missed these precious and subtle changes for so long. and the irony is that when you are able to slow down you can watch the leaves fall and colors change, as oppose to waking up one morning caught off guard by the sight of your own breath and exhausted by the thought that, despite the weather, today is the same as yesterday and will be the same tomorrow.

today i embrace this spirit of the ever-changing and hope never to forget that the next time i confuse the numbness of settling for with the peacefulness of settling down , thus compromising the simplest of joys, i must pick up my roots and make a change.

all of the long and beatuiful days here has me ready to strive for peace, to slow (and settle) down upon my return. i am ready to bake bread (sometimes gluten-free) from scratch, to can veggie surpluses, to save seed, to knit pot-holders, to write you all long, long letters, to watch the first (and second and third...) snowfall, and to practice generosity.

to make new friends

to see

(my camera cord finally arrived, thanks poppa and annie b)

to embrace a new season (week four)

autumn has laid her heavy down upon our little hill in the foothills of the pyrenees. the skies are thick with the threat of rain and the wind is bitter. it feels like the seasons changed overnight, after the lovely indian summer we had. and with the need to wear the long johns, i realized how long it has been since i last wrote.

two weeks without internet access flew by, the days were fruitful, literally. in the height of the harvest there was a rhythm to the days, the beat fast enough to keep up with plants doing what they were made to do: produce. beginning at about 7:30 with a quick tea and toast (and sweet, sweet fig jam: picked, marinated, and canned since i last wrote) the day commences. my first job is to water the cucumber and cherry tomato greenhouses, which includes about ten minutes of using the hose to play 'water fetch' with the dogs, rica and ginko.

then its on to harvest the ever-growing courgettes (zucchinis), literally a machine turning light and water into kilos and kilos and kilos of fruit, the biggest (heaviest) harvest in the field. my favorite part of this job is the occassional chance to watch a big french bumble bee bathe himself in the yellow pollen of courgette flowers. 'oolala' he says as stumbles down the petals.

then it was eggplants, cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, and beets. the eggplants and cucumber plants were pulled yesterday, so now we are on to green peppers and green beans, both of which are doubled over with fruit.

sometimes i wake up in the middle of the night worried that the next time i harvest the peppers will not be soon enough; those cute, knee-high plants whose branches bend in half with weight of one ripe and ready pepper. (my secret favorite crop)

with a break for tea (and cookies) at 11:30 and lunch about 1:00, there is no going hungry. the day ends around 5:00 and i usually take a long walk with rica to pick wild blackberries and watch the sunset in the meadow behind the chestnut trees. dinner is hearty and long with its usual three courses. after another round of tea it is quite close to bedtime and there is nothing more satisfying after a hard day than heading upstairs, with a full belly, to peel out of your feild clothes and into bed.
--

this weekend is the 11th annual organic fair in brive (the nearby town), which has required much preparation over the last few weeks. i have taken on the role of marketing coordinator: flyering and sign making. i am particularly excited about this event, however any opportunity to spend time in brive is joy. brive happens to be (in my humble opinion) the curled moustache capital of the world. old men cruising around the farmers' market with moustaches all shapes and sizes (a lyndon wonderland, 'oolala').

however as they say 'be careful what you wish for', despite being surrounded by men with moustaches that curl at the ends, the first thing i have truly and deeply missed here are hugs. no one in france hugs. not mothers, nor lovers, nor friends. and i must say it has me longing for embrace so much that rica and ginko are now a bit skiddish around me, weary that i will try to hug them again.

come here puppies...

with that, i send you all my biggest and warmest hugs.

to sense and make sense (week one)

i have been at chaumeil (the farm) for a little more than a week, already with dirt encrusted around my finger nails. an intermittent internet connection has only just allowed me to post. however, i have needed this week to get through the greatest culture shock of my life.

after what felt like a fortnight of travel both through space and time, i arrived at an organic vegetable farm on top of a hill in the french countryside, circa the 17th century. since my arrival i have been only able to process bits and pieces of it all, for to take it all in at once would overload my senses...

a pink lilac bush sits outside the barn door.

harvesting figs. the sweetness of a juicy fig running down my hand. wasps swarming around my head. i unfazed by their looming threat, lick my fingers.



the late afternoon sun casts a golden light over the meadows, where the queen anne's lace stand tall and proud to praise the last of the day's light.

the chickens have been hiding their eggs.

freshly baked bleu cheese, pumpkin, and beet pie.

the little lady who sells strawberries near our stand at the farmer's market wears a red shirt and headband, dressed up like her fruits.

soft, velvety leaves of aubergines (eggplants).

long evening walks to pick wild blackberries, while the sun sets over the endless and rolling blue hills.

the low and marvelous tone of an accordion, my hands pulling and squeezing.

sifting through the upturned soil in search of pommes de terre (apples of the earth: potatoes).

as the list goes on, i am still unable to compose my thoughts into a proper entry. the longer i wait the more breathtaking moments occur and may never be able to keep up. so from here on out i may only have moments for you. sweet and little. bite size.

because i am full, bloated, and stunned with them all. dizzy and floating. drunk.

to leave a place

my dad calls it "the no longer, but not yet." it is the space between chapters. the space i am in right now: all packed up, unemployed, and desperate for the distance to reflect on the magnitude of change that i have just signed myself up for.

a tourist in this town i once called home.



<< la liberté éclairant le monde (liberty enlightening the world), or as we know it the statue of liberty, was a gift from france, bestowed upon the united states in 1886. in new york harbor she stands to welcome all visitors, immigrants, and returning americans. >>

in my attempt to see this city as a tourist, i rode the free staten island ferry there and back. as we pulled away from manhattan i imagined that the ferry was taking me to france (what a romantic idea to leave a place by sea, watching its grand skyline dissolve into the horizon). i captured my last visions of the magnificent city on that bright summer day. just as the tears filled my eyes, la liberté came into view. her golden flame sparkled in the sky. a wash of peace rushed over me.

she has stood there for one hundred and twenty-one years and, despite the threat of rising seas, there she will stand until i return.

i have found my greatest obstacle, in leaving a place, is convincing myself that i am not running away. that this is not me surrendering, unable to thrive in nyc, but me embarking on a new adventure at the perfect time. i know in my heart it is the latter, despite whatever it looks like on the surface.

"But you can't just turn your back on all your responsibilities and run away from them," Major Danby insisted. "It's such a negative mood. It's escapist."

Yossarian laughed with buoyant scorn and shook his head. "I'm not running away from my responsibilities. I'm running to them. There's nothing negative about running away to save my life."

my mom says i have a little gypsy in me.
perhaps.

but, one thing i know for sure, is that this is a move to save my life. to run from settling. to embrace la liberté. and i have never felt more alive.