from the BonnieSphere

The Falling Leaves.

Falling is a noun, Leaves is a verb.

The struggle of adapting to a new life in Paris is giving way to a tentative sense of relief that I’m actually able to… adapt. At almost 50, it’s somewhat daunting to have to make such drastic changes in lifestyle. I suddenly have more sympathy for the middle-aged women who, throughout modern history, have had to deal with the brutal end of a marriage and of confident prosperity when a wayward, andropausal husband suddenly becomes convinced that he can be MUCH happier with that sexy secretary than with his “old faithful.” (To be honest, I never really did have anything resembling confident prosperity, only the illusion of it, but moving from 150 square meters to 10 has taught me what it means to have to learn to live with less.)

Little things help: trading the cardboard box that jammed my door open for the rubber door-stopper I found in my down-the-hall closet (a much more “elegant” solution, as one might say in French); finally figuring out where things are in my neighborhood, like late-night groceries, the post office, bus stops; little “automatismes” (LOVE that word in French) – or reflexes, automatic gestures – like putting my keys in the same place every day, knowing how to open my mailbox or the elevator door with one hand, or how to arrange the shower curtain so that the steam can escape but the droplets not. It’s the little, familiar things that are comforting.

As a small aside, I jam my door open because I spend most of the day in this miniature aerie, and I smoke; and then I go to sleep in same. Cough, cough, stink, stink. So I have found that by opening the window and the door, I can route the cigarette smoke out the window. Without this “appel d’air” (read “draft” – sorry for all the Frenchicisms, but they seem sexy to me tonight) the smoke just spins and floats and festers. Voilà.

Things of note:

- I made my first foray to a laundromat today. It wasn’t as painful as I’d thought it would be, but it was damned expensive. In 10 months of doing laundry this way, I will have spent as much as I would have to buy an inexpensive washing machine. But there’s no room for one in my maid’s room, so I suppose the question is moot!!

- It’s cold outside, but I now have a winter coat. Cheap as they come, but simple and effective. In addition, the heat was turned on two days ago. It’s REALLY nice to come home to a warm house. That’s perhaps the only thing that is actually better here than at rue de Paradis; the old barn was drafty and I was always cold. Heating costs were sky-high. And here, I don’t pay for heat at all…

- I am “movin’ on up” in Farmville. Don’t ask me why I care.

- A meeting with the European distributor for Wenger may well develop into a professional relationship that I can live with. More on that later, once things have been agreed upon and signed.

- I am listening to twice-weekly audiocasts called “Healing With the Masters”. I recommend them to anyone interested in that freaky, esoteric, new-age stuff. There are some very meaningful moments to be experienced.

- My choirs – all of them – sound like pure honey. I am grateful to the people who took care of them last year, and also a bit intimidated; I feel that I need to be “au rendez-vous” (OK, so kill me, I love French) – I have to be “there” for them so that the impetus that was born of a sense of need to just go on in spite of the Big Chief’s Departure isn’t lost. If you get my drift. In any case, it’s more than a pleasure, it’s a privilege to go to my several weekly rehearsals.

- On a more medical – but also existential – level, I have put my crutches in the closet, and… tonight went to a tenor rehearsal at Catherine’s house with nothing at all. No crutches, even no cane. OK, so Michèle came to pick me up, but we still had to walk from the parking place to the house and back, and in any case it’s all psychological, so I count this as a victory.

Voilà, that’s about all I have to say tonight. I’m not in a very creative mood these days, I’m more focussed on survival… or, possibly, on getting beyond survival and learning to be someone real again. Hanging out in existential crises is perhaps romantic when seen from the outside, but it sucks if it goes on too long, and Now Is the Time (MLK Junior) to step along, step up to the next level.

Stepping along. Movin’ on up. And sending you love.

B.