Moody Blues in Dijon

Foreword: I have no pictures of the Dijon neighborhood woods, so have chosen others to cheer you as you read this one-time entry on being “down.”

As I’ve mentioned several times, Mary sleeps more than I do and takes longer on things like makeup which don’t matter to me. That gives me time to wander and ponder.

Being melancholy in Dijon one evening, I walked away from the road which led to Ikea, and instead took a wooded path behind our hostel, branching out onto paths leading through grassy fields and past widely spaced gymnasiums. I was the only person around. I adore it when I can be the only one in a place that could hold hundreds or even thousands without a blink. I can talk to myself, pray, and work things out so the sadness or fear goes away. My down mood can fill the whole space until finally it pops like a soap bubble and leaves me free again.

In that mood, I strolled around at least 100 acres of woods and grass, like Christopher Robin’s 100 acre wood. Invisible birds warbled in the trees making it seem as if the trees themselves were singing. I tried bird watching two years ago, but quit in frustration. The little guys move around so quickly and blend in with the leaves so you can’t catch them with binoculars. If you can’t see them, you can’t identify them unless, like Teddy Roosevelt, you know them by their sounds. Instead, I took up desert wildflowers. They stay in one place.

I didn’t only walk that evening. I jogged a bit and even stretched, but that made me feel sad again because I’ve gotten so stiff. Does getting older have to mean being less flexible? I don’t like that. I’ll work on being more flexible in body, mind, and spirit. All require different work, and all can be painful.

Here is another reason my “down” mood might have happened, right from the notes I made in the dining room one evening.

“Gosh, I am surrounded by lovely athletes, male, enjoying their dinners. To my right, nine of them have no uniforms on [they were dressed, though]. To my left, eight are un-uniformed. Two, no three girls and one young boy have joined them. Six green-uniformed bicyclists just left, as did the pink and black ones. Each group seems to have at least one female attached. I try to eavesdrop on their conversations, but at every turn I am reminded of how little French I speak and understand.

‘-- -- -- -- -- mais -- -- -- -- ça -- -- -- jolie -- -- -- -- parce que -- -- -- quelque chose --- -- -- -- plus du monde. ‘

« I need the missing words, but how am I going to find them in the Mojave desert?”

All right. I am tired of recalling my melancholy mood, especially since it’s not my usual frame of mind. It does no good to wallow. “Non-productive,” is how it feels, and I don’t like that. I prefer to ignore or forget unpleasant things.

In fact, I don’t know how to bring this next part up, but I feel you should know so you don’t think it was all rosebuds.

There were times of stress on the trip. Times when Mary and I sniped at each other. Times when the only thing keeping us civil was a late-night game of double solitaire which, more often than not, Mary won. It’s her game.

Mary wanted to know why I did things the way I did, especially when I did something contrary to how she thought I should have.

I answered rudely, “I’m inconsistent. Deal with it.”

That hurt her, but honestly, I had no better answer.

There. That’s about as much soul-searching as I can handle. So you see, I could never write an autobiographical novel, which is an oxymoron if I ever saw one. If I wrote about something immoral or humiliating that happened in my past, it would bring it to the present and would have way too much power over how I was perceived by the readers. Once you’ve put the words down in print, you can’t retract them. They don’t let you grow up, or apologize, or become a better person. You are stuck in the past like politicians who cannot aspire to higher office because once in their youth they messed up.

Next time, I promise we will go into the town of Dijon and you will see how delightful it is!