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The first photo with my new camera a Lumnix 100 that I did not ask for and was very surprised by my family who gifted me with it. Sacha said that he was tired of seeing photos taken with my cell phone. The camera is super small and very light and will take me a while to figure it out.
Gabriel's hand at Six weeks.
There in that little palm, I noticed a strain of Chelsea hair and fuzzies from his blanket.
Note to self: micro lens notices everything.
soon I will post the dates for the 2020 French la Vie Journeys.
If you are interested please send me an email.
Most of us will be familiar with the Language of Flowers. In Victorian times flowers were often sent to convey messages. Even today roses still represent love and white flowers, a sense of purity. However few will be aware of the Language of Stamps.
Many letters posted in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century had stamps affixed to envelopes and picture postcards in all sorts of odd positions and angles.
This was due to the development in England of a ‘language of stamps,’ which soon spread around the world. The position of the stamp on the envelope was supposed to relay a message to the receiver. I imagine that people who lived on the edge of Society found this a convenient way of expressing their feelings. I wonder, too, if spies or criminals had stamp languages of their own…
The problem of postmarking the stamps placed on various parts of the envelope finally became so great, that postal administrations of the world introduced regulations requiring the sender of mail to affix stamps in the upright corner of the envelope.
Collectors of postal history and picture postcards should be on the look-out for envelopes and postcards with stamps affixed in odd positions, as they could well form an interesting thematic/topical collection.
Note: Should PDb members have scans of such items in their collections, we should be pleased to publish them and include them with this article.
Here are some of the interpretations of the stamp language:
Stamp Positions & Meaning
Upside down, top left corner = I love you
Crosswise on top left corner = My heart is another’s
Centre of envelope, at top = Yes
Center of envelope, at bottom = No
Straight up and down, any position = Goodbye sweetheart
Upside down, top right corner = Write no more
At right angle, top right corner = Do you love me?
At right angle, top left corner = I hate you
Upright top right corner = I desire your friendship
Upright in line with surname = Accept my love
Upside down in line with surname = I am engaged
At right angle in line with the surname = I long to see you
Centred on right edge = Write immediately!
Martin's best friend since childhood is marrying today. Guillaume was Martin's best man at his wedding last year and Martin is his best man today. A French wedding usually starts in the morning at the City Hall since by law you must marry in the City Hall where you reside. Then and only then if you want can you marry in a church or pronounce your vows in another venue. Usually, the second part, the Church wedding takes place later in the afternoon. French weddings usually go on all night long. At Chelsea and Martin's wedding, I went to bed at 4:30 am I was an early bird.
As Chelsea is breastfeeding and Gabriel is six weeks old today, I was invited as the babysitter. The best job ever. I am staying at the Chateau where the reception is taking place, the ballroom is steps away. When Chelsea needs to breastfeed, or when Gabriel needs Chelsea it is easy for her to pop into my room. So far all is good, Gabriel is sleeping and I am writing this blog post.
If I could be in two places at once I would take some photos, instead, Chelsea has sent me a few to use.
What an enchanted summer this is.
I added the photos of Chelsea and Martin after I posted this blog.
Nearly midnight and the dinner is barely started.
Homemade tomato sauce is what you do after you have eaten enough tomatoes to make ketchup go out of business. Annie always added hand-picked then dried Marjolaine to her homemade tomato sauce. She spoiled me by giving me a jar of her own dried Marjolaine each summer. Now I am on my own which means I am probably eating weeds. Honestly, I could eat it by the spoonful on a salad or mozzarella. It is deliciously sweet.
French Husband is the one who makes the tomato sauce. He follows Annie's recipe. I boil pasta, sliced buffalo mozzarella, pour wine, turn on the music and put my feet on the table (wishful thinking about the feet part... usually I prepare the jars.)
Fortunately, we have a farmer in our village who sells his homegrown vegetables. We are regular customers. French Husband has even gone out and helped him pick. Though I don't think that is advantageous to the farmer. French Husband eats more than he picks. I have seen him: Knife in his back pocket, a baguette and a bottle of wine under his arm, a chunk of cheese under his hat, garlic in his breast pocket- tomatoes on the vine, the cicadas singing, the blue provencal sky as a blanket.
He knows a good thing about summertime.
In a large pan saute a couple of yellow onions and cloves of garlic in olive oil.
Add a ton of chopped tomatoes, some salt, a handful of Marjolaine and some white wine.
Slowly cook for half a century.
Go out and enjoy the day, let the tomato sauce reduce, then blend to the consistency you like.
Cook some pasta, drain it, then pour in the homemade tomato sauce. Wrap it up in a blanket, carry it to the garden, spread out the blanket, put down some plates, take out the knife in your back pocket, tear off a chunk of baguette, uncork a bottle of red wine, grate some cheese, take off your hat, listen to the cicadas under the evening sky, while you twirl some pasta around your fork.
....................................
The day started with Sacha making home made pancakes.
Amylia came to visit us from California, she is the daughter of one of my most treasured friends... Erika.
The pancakes literally made me gain two pounds.
I had to eat them with maple syrup.
Sacha’s pancakes are the bomb.
Natacha came over with her lovely boyfriend from
New Zealand. Natacha’s family use to live in France and moved to New Zealand over 12 years ago. We miss you xxx
When we find a place that calls our name in a way that it feels like a sacred song
as if hearing poetry where the lines become arrows piercing our very being.
Where doubt does not enter, and freedom extends her hand with a nod as if saying come sit down be yourself with me.
When we find a place where our voice echos back a song that we know, a song the sings deeper and higher than we have ever dreamed possible, the song that chants our name in such a way that makes us feel anything is possible.
When we find a place that knows us before we knew it, a place that says...yes you!
Where we are set free and like that everything within us finds a place and breathes.
Sit still with your poem, tell me one word that describes you.
This is new life. This gift. This new little person has captured every bit of me.
First, I must say I use to collect seashells. But that is not why I gave Chelsea her name.
Secondly, my daughter's prenom-first name is, "CHELSEA." My Father-in-law, a man of very few words, let alone English ones, said to me at her birth: "Chelsea is, "Sea-Shell, backward, non?"
The French pronounce CH as SH, my daughter's name, therefore, is pronounced, "Shel-sea".
When I was pregnant I mentioned to Yann that I liked the name; "Chelsea." Yann looked at me, mouthed the name without any sound coming out, then despite himself he said, "Chilli, you said Chilli!" That should have been my first indicator that English names were not pronounced the same in French, and picking a name that sounds the same in both countries should be foremost in importance.
But I didn't catch that name pronouncing detail back then.
English pronounce Yann as Yawn. French pronounce Corey as Core-Ay. Names like Anna sound the same as does Laura or Mark, well more or less the same, but not nearly as butchered as Chelsea. Chelsea was often called, "Jealsee" by her teachers when a child in school.
Luckily, in France everyone gets by with Monsieur or Madame, names are something reserved for a future relationship. Though, when you have a prenom that isn't French, you are left as a Madame Americaine forever.
Hence Gabriel sounds close enough Gay-briel in English, and Gab riel in French.
I just call him baby.
Little sweet things collected over time and now going across the sea to new homes. I have been posting brocante finds on Instagram. If you are interested in seeing more please follow me under my name.
Smelling the roses wasn’t a hit.
They do not have a scent that is why!
wink,
Sipping and savoring these sacred summer day moments
without gulping down the deliciousness.
of course, I knew that a baby would change everything. I thought I knew what everything meant.
I knew my heart would expand that memories of my childhood and my daughter's childhood would all come back to me.
That I would see life full circle a thanksgiving rich with memories of my grandparents, my parents, my brothers,
aunts, uncles, cousins, son, daughter, and husband.
I knew that I would want to hold Gabriel endless hours from the first rays to the last flicker of light,
and that I would be able to be better than I am because the path would be easier to follow with innocent love leading me.
But somehow somewhere a door opened a passage unfolded
As if my feet become wings light filled every single cell in my body -- in my heart -- oh God my soul.
A baby that tiny little wonderment, that magical mystical baby...
Life has expanded beyond my imagination what was past, and the present and those tomorrows that I will never ever know
blended into something I never expected nor knew.
Let's just call it the Big Bang, a firework of indescribable love.
Hoarder:
"Compulsive hoarding, also known as hoarding disorder, is a behavioral pattern characterized by excessive acquisition of and an inability or unwillingness to discard large quantities of objects that cover the living areas of the home and cause significant distress or impairment."
Okay, I like stuff. No one ever called me a minimalist. Though my closet isn't full. My garden shed has more books than tools in it that is odd I admit. Decorating, creating "mis en scenes" I adore. But does that mean I am a hoarder? I don't buy plates anymore cause I have enough plates for a sit-down wedding for maybe 1000 guests mix and match that is. I am exaggerating. Does that make me a hoarder? I sell stuff. I give away plenty too. I am not possessive of most of the things I have. An empty space says to me, "Fill me."
Blank spaces or just pregnant spaces in the waiting.
Last year when my mom came to my daughter's wedding, she came into our home looked around, and with a deadpan face said, "Yep you are a haorder. You and your Godmother are alike."
My Godmother isn't a hoarder though she does have way more stuff than I do. Grant it she has been collecting longer than I have and has a much bigger house. Gulp. My mom likes stuff but she doesn't collect little bits and pieces. My mom goes big. I go all over.
I am not a hoarder I do not have trails nor pathways in my house.
Admittingly, broken things do not bother me. My son Sacha use to say, "We have chairs you cannot sit on, mirrors you cannot see yourself in, Lights that are well worthless for brightening a space. But hey it looks good."
Practical isn't a fan of beauty.
Pretty is, practical does.
So I have a few antique linen towels.
I use them. Well, not these because they aren't easy to get to.
But that doesn't mean I am the H word, mom!
I know she was teasing sort of.
Collections speak, kind of like a large family, it fascinates.
Right?
My mom pointed to my domes, "Hoarder," she proclaimed. But I think she wanted some so that is why she said that. I have six domes left I sold plenty. Though you know if I had a bigger house well I would have kept them.
Having collections doesn't make a person a hoarder or does it?
Cutting boards, old ironstone, straw baskets, and trays.
I guess the only way to stop is to stop going to the brocantes.
Gabriel my newborn grandson has helped with that. As long as he is here there is no other place I would rather be.
If I am a hoarder I am a happy one.
Early in the morning soon after Baby Gabriel breastfed I took him for a walk in his stroller to give Chelsea a needed few hours of rest.
As soon as I stepped outside my senses turned towards imagining life through the senses of Gabriel.
We walked along the babbling river with the century-old Plantain branches creating a canopy overhead. The filtered light danced around Gabriel's plump face as the breeze waved through the leaves and brought a scent of oleander, pine, and fig. Taking each moment in as if it were the first time letting my senses burst with newness as I experienced the smell, sight, sound... as I imagined Gabriel was doing. Whispering the names to him of what our senses were encountering...
Water cool on this summer day hear it running to the sea.
Figs recently gathered but the scent remains.
The gravel underfoot makes a crackling sound.
The warmth of the sun rays.
Dogs barking, morning birds singing, a symphony of cigales. I ran your fingers over leaves, bark, water from the fountain on the square, rosemary and a remaining rose. Butterflies gracefully flew around. Magical mystical Sacred day if only every day I would be aware of its gift.
The world was a prayer of life, even the air was tasted in gulps and gentleness.
One of you wrote in regard to having children:
"You love your child, you fall in love with grandchildren"
Oh how true.
I am head over in heels falling in love deeper and deeper I go.
Gabriel three weeks.
We were dancing to Bob Marley because Martin sings his songs to the baby. As Martin had to work in Paris these last two days we played Bob Marley for the baby, but it wasn't quite the same. Chelsea took Gabriel upstairs to breastfeed and Sacha and I stayed downstairs and danced. Yes, I am standing on the coffee table because Chelsea and Sacha are much taller than me and I wanted to feel taller.
Happy feels so good. Having everyone home (Martin returns tomorrow.) is the best gift ever. I think I will be dancing for some time to come.
xxx
When asked what I look for at the brocante I answer I look for anything that speaks to me, I look for things for our home, to sell, to give, to understand, to admire...
Medals.
But the thing is once I start looking at one thing it leads to another and then another and then it takes me on a quest to find one older or more unusual, which leads to stories... it just doesn't stop. The deeper I go into the brocante the more curious I become and the more I discover.
It is a wonderland of a rabbit hole to fall into.
Like a key that opens up a drawer to a chest where linens have rested and in between the linens are pressed flowers and postcards, stamps, letters received or never sent, and candy boxes with buttons, and cards, then there are books, and unfinished sewing projects with the thread and needle still attached, and a needle case, or a notebook with sketches, and a box of pastels.
An unsigned painting with tears in just the right places that at first glance it looks like insects.
and broken element like pieces of a puzzle, "Where did this come from and where does it belong?"
The brocante feeds my soul: Teaches me about history, art, faith, creativity and the beauty of everyday life and living.
What do I look for at the brocante?
EVERYTHING.
Holding you in my arms the clock ticks
Nights days blend into a motionless dance
sung by church bells, the nightingale, the owl, the lark
a stream of sunlight moves slowly across the floor.
Sacredness interlaces us in
a bond of undeniable rhythm.
As my newborn drinks in life.
July 6th, 2018
One Year Anniversary.
How they danced and are dancing still.
A year later the two have made one.
This was one of my favorite moments, Chelsea and Martin entered the reception and instantly started dancing which lead to everyone dancing before dinner. Martin twirled Chelsea around in a circle of sparklers.
Magical.
What a glorious love story may it never end.
There is a place between heaven and earth,
between the mind and the heart,
between ourselves and each other, a sacred place where the imagination grows,
where the spirit expands,
where life fully lives.
The door is continuously open for any of us to enter,
the risk is only in falling deeply in love and not returning the same as we were.
Vulnerable to love to the course it leads.
Antiquing. Baby. Antiquing. Baby.
Plus Yann, Chelsea, Sacha (who arrives in a few days for a month), and Martin not in that order as there isn’t a list of who is first just a full heart that is overflowing. A full circle.
Chelsea is doing fine, breastfeeding which anyone who has breastfed knows it is a constant giving day and night for the first six weeks, then usually a pattern comes into play. I am so happy they are staying here with us for two months. I need to put myself in a routine... I forgot how time-consuming cooking three meals a day for a family was. Yann and I can eat tomatoes and mozzarella, or roasted vegetables, or melon all summer long. But that doesn't cut it for a nursing mother and a strapping young man. Thankfully, the grocery store is around the corner on foot.
Chelsea and Martin are the parents every child dreams about. Loving, generous with their affection, actions, words, doting, attentive and happy. At first they constantly wanted to help me help them, but finally, they have accepted to let me care for them so they can care for each other.
Chelsea and Martin have rented their apartment to one of my favorite blog readers, I am so thankful. It will make the month easier for them without having to pay rent. They are looking for someone to rent their apartment in Paris for the last two weeks in July if you know anyone please let me know (two bedrooms, in the 1Oth, with an elevator, 750 euros for two weeks.)
And the laundry is so cute, all those little baby clothes, sheets, diapers, wash clothes...
I volunteered for this role and take it seriously, my mother came to France and cared for us, she did everything so I could bond and be with Chelsea baby. I am so happy I can do the same for them.
Full circle.
Happy.
Grateful beyond words.
Cathy came on the French la Vie with one thing high on her Bucket List to see the lavender fields.
Such a magical day. Full of purple and perfumed air.
Field after field of rolling humps of lavender in neat rows.
A day well spent and a sweet farewell to a wonderful week spent with
the French la Vie.
I will miss you.