Secret Sharing

For the past three months, Michael and I have been sharing a secret. This is a secret that has been closely kept between just the two of us. We have shared bits and pieces with each of our families, but the 'full' secret has been solely ours. Today, as I drove past the Alpilles mountains, I finally realized the full beauty and the weight of this secret that we have been carrying with us. You see, the Alpilles mountains have become our own. One part of the ridge has four distinct peaks that Michael and I adore. Every time we drive by them, or every time we're out walking along the road, we comment about how much we love the Alpilles. We say, "Look at our mountains today! Aren't they so beautiful?" Today, as we watched them fall over the horizon in the rear view mirror, a thought occurred to me. I began wondering when I'd be back to visit St. Remy again and who would be with me. At that point, I knew that the only person I would ever want by my side would be Michael. He's the only one that shares the same emotions for this place that I do. I realized that no one else would love those mountains in the same way that I would. I realized that my friends and family wouldn't think they were extraordinary compared to the Rockies or even the Smoky mountains for that matter. And I finally understood that this place is a place truly loved from the heart by both Michael and me.

For us, Provence began as an extended vacation. We chose St. Remy because we liked Provence and liked Mas Dagan (from the pictures we found online). We went into this experience comparing it to other vacations we've taken; Mexico, California, etc. But, reflecting now, since those first days, Provence has become our home. We lived our lives here the past three months and this place has brought us closer together. It has helped to bind us and wrapped another thread around us. Michael is the only one who has shared the weight and beauty of this secret in the same way as I have. We have loved this place as a home rather than a vacation spot. We have loved it with our whole hearts, not just with taste buds and tanned skin. We have learned, grown, and changed since we've been here, much like you do in your homes. It makes me sad to know that you won't know about the little laundry room detached from the house; a place I thought peaceful and intriguing. It makes me sad to know that when you hear us talk about Ozzie and Pudge, they will just be stray cats to you; to us they made our months here exciting. It makes me sad to know that our stories will just remain as stories to you; to us our stories are our memories we will forever cherish as being some of the greatest times in our lives.

We all have secrets, don't we? Be grateful and thankful for them, and love those you share them with. They may just be some of the greatest times of your life.

The Stogie

I don’t know exactly what got me going. I don’t know if it was the south of France or too much time or simply watching Terry Benedict on the Ocean’s movies, but it seemed to me I needed to smoke a cigar. As you well know, the selling of Cuban-made cigars in the United States has been illegal for many years. However, here in France and all over Europe, the nation’s don’t seem to have the beef with Cuba that we do. So, needless to say, Cuban cigars are in every corner tobacco shop. Since Europe allowed me this freedom I felt, for some strong, but seemingly random reason, that I should not, could not leave this continent without having first puffed on a true Cuban. I dwelled over my decision for many days. At this point in our trip, a five-euro cigar is a major luxury, and yet I persuaded myself to do it, take the opportunity and have 20 minutes of tobacco burning bliss. I purchased my very high-end Romeo y Julieta cigar for five euros and thirty cents. When I got home, I pulled it out of its case and inhaled the scent of cedar and tobacco and imagining myself contentedly puffing away on our porch, watching the sun set through the thick wisps of smoke. After a day of delay, I decided that the afternoon had arrived. I brought a book, a box of matches and the precious stogie out to the terrace. I lit, I puffed, I enjoyed. And then came the last bit of the cigar. I had taken my time, enjoying the weather and the atmosphere and thinking of when I was going to start my own fine cigar collection, when I started to feel slightly off. My head became a little lighter than normal and my fingers felt tingly and my stomach began to churn over breakfast and lunch. Now I have to tell you, this wasn’t the first time. I have had my share of bad cigar experiences before. Nausea, tingling, sweating and even eventual vomiting had all been apart of my incident-plagued past. For some reason, I felt this was different. I had taken my time, I had enjoyed the moments and I had truly felt that it was something I could get used to. And then, after stumbling quietly into the house, my head pounding by now, I slept. For two hours straight, with the scent of burnt leaf still on my fingertips, I slept. When I awoke, and the feeling remains, I wanted nothing to do with cigars. Every time I have tried them, I have had the image of myself in my mind, something, someone I wanted to be. I wanted to be able to open the door of my humidor and offer my best friends a very pricey, very rich, very Cuban cigar. And yet, it seems to me now that wanting to love cigars, for me, was really to love the idea and the image of what I would be if I smoked one. I think sometimes I end up doing that same thing through my life. I get myself involved in things, buy things, research things and get interested in things that in reality, I don’t even like. I like them for other people, I like them so that I look like I like them and look the way I want to look to everyone else. I guess I have gotten caught up in the image of life, not the reality. I have taken to trying something till it makes me nauseous, sleeping it off and then forgetting about it until the next time, trying not to remember if I liked it or if it mattered at all, but seeing myself as I pictured, the image of who I desperately want others to see. I think I’m going to try honesty for a while. I’m going to like things that I actually like and be not who I picture, but who I really am.

From Couch Potato to 5K...hopefully

So while we had all this time on our hands, here in the south of France, we decided it was time to get a little disciplined, time to pursue some of our exercise-related goals. Surprisingly, the dawn of a new year had nothing to do with our new-found passion for healthy living, it was just a coincidence in timing. Well, the grueling program has found me aching, fighting cramps and soreness and a generally weary body. And we’re only on day two. Seriously, though, for the first time in my life I feel like my age is catching up with me. Now don’t get me wrong, I realize I’m not an old geezer yet. I’m just a shade under 26 and that’s by no means a ripe old age. However, since starting our new running plan I do feel a few steps closer to the top of that infamous ‘Hill.’ I feel old because I am now forced to look back on the days when I could go out, run a few miles and not feel it the next day. When Whitney first broached the subject of getting ourselves into shape, I was a little hesitant. When she detailed the program of choice, the aptly named “Couch Potato to 5K Workout,” I became even more skeptical. This gradual, easy starting, fluff-of-a-routine wasn’t for me, I declared, I wasn’t to the point in my life where squeezing in a half hour jog was going to kill me. Or was I? The first day, and by ‘day’ I mean 20 minutes of an on-again-off-again jog/walk interval, left me literally hobbling home. My knee throbbed, my arms and legs were weary and I was ready for bed. The following day was a rest day, and thank the good Lord, cause I needed it. Again, my overconfidence at my recovery time rendered me a fool and I staggered out of bed in the morning, sore in places I didn’t know I had and definitely didn’t know I needed to be able to run. The following day, today, was day number two of the routine. Identical to number one it was just as simple and seemingly as ‘easy’ as the first. Working out for me has, for the first time, become a humbling experience. I am no longer invincible. From now on I will, or so it seems, think twice before dashing out the door for a quick jog, or hopping on a treadmill for a lunch break workout. However, I also think that with this change comes thoughts and wisdom and action that would have been out of place in my younger self. I am starting to want to be an adult. I desire responsibility and regularity and consistency. I want to settle in to a neighborhood where people know me and count on me. I want a job that I do well and do it for a long time. I want a family who looks to me as their support and knows that they can count on me. Every day I pray that I can fill this role as well as I hope and if I can, I’ll take a pulled hamstring or a throbbing knee any day.

A Parisian New Year

Perspective in a Cave

In Provence, Van Gogh is king. His picture is hanging in shops, his paintings are copied and sold all around, his favorite drink, absinthe, is stacked in great supply in the corner of every store. If he created but one painting in a certain place, you are sure to know it and the city is sure to capitalize on it. St. Remy is no exception; throughout the town, plaques with his paintings are placed in the spot from which he painted the original over a hundred years before. While we haven’t taken the official Van Gogh tour of Provence, each stop of significance another site from which he painted, we have explored a nearby spot worth mentioning. In Les Baux, an old city atop a hill, centered around its once grand and now crumbling castle, there are caves carved out of the solid rock. In one of these such caves a creative entrepreneur has put the space to better use than just a dark, dank place to get out of the rain. The Cathedral d’Images is a state-of-the-art tourist trap, worth every Euro cent. As we approached, the caves looked as ordinary as any of the others we passed en route. After paying a nominal fee at the simple ticket counter, we ventured into the heavy coolness of the space. Essentially, the Cathedral is a grand art gallery, but instead of stuffy critics, bundled-up tourists file through and instead of prized works, small and framed on the walls, the caves interior is bathed in the light of a dozen high-powered LCD projectors. Images of famous works, over three stories high, hang as tapestries of light and color from the stone walls and pillars. The images change and move, scrolling across the surface of the cave’s interior, projected from the machines overhead. I have been twice now, to the caves, the first at Thanksgiving and the second at Christmas. Between times, however, my perspective has changed a bit. One of the many works of literature that we brought on our European journey was a copy of Lust for Life, borrowed from Whitney’s mother. It is a poetic and richly descriptive biography of Vincent Van Gogh’s life. Written like a novel rather than a history book, it quickly captured my attention and ushered me into a place of understanding and appreciation of this oft misunderstood man. Before this simple education, Van Gogh seemed crazed, inaccurate, even inarticulate. I felt like he was a child, twirling his paintbrush through color and arriving at a harsh depiction what could have been a beautiful scene. But as I read, I better grasped the mind behind the canvas, the struggles, the rejection he suffered and the tenacity with which he pursued the excellence he eventually attained. Needless to say, my Christmas trip was a more rewarding experience. While initially I was awed at the genius of the project itself, the projectors, the atmosphere, the general idea of the thing, the second visit I was much more drawn to the work itself. While my knowledge of the artist’s life was still no more than elementary, I now saw behind the paint and canvas, to the pain he carried and the joys and triumphs that propelled him to some of his most renowned and beautiful pieces.

As I went from interest to appreciation, I felt a surge of hope in my own life. So often I think that what I have to say is insignificant. While I would love to write beautifully and artfully and adventurously, I feel like the page ends with a drab, monotone depiction of an ordinary day in an ordinary life. And yet, when I look at Van Gogh’s work now, I don’t appreciate the depiction of a scene to its most minute and perfect detail, if I wanted such a scene I would buy a photo taken on that very spot, no, instead I see through eyes that are different than mine, eyes seeing through emotion and experience as a pair of glasses, eyes that saw shapes and lines and colors that I could never see. And that is what I can only hope to do. I hope to be another set of eyes through which the world sees, one that may be different enough that some learning or beauty or understanding comes by looking through.