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!

Consensual Joy

In Normandy and Brittany, the icy north wind blows lustily off the ocean. It was so in 1961 and will be so in April. Do I care?

As an adventurer I should answer, “No, of course not.” But that would be a lie. I care.

Three years ago, Thrim and I left our mountain home in Crestline, CA, to build an all-steel home in the Mojave Desert. We lived in a 5^th wheel which was at the mercy of the constant west wind.

As the RV rocked and rolled, buffeted by 30-40 mph gusts, I prayed it would stay upright and not go crashing into the row of oleanders separating us from the neighbors 200 ft away.

Once late night, I braved the wind to go outside and check on the skeleton of our house. Stars shone through the red iron girders erected earlier that day by our friends and held together by bolts. The iron moaned like a wounded ship while I clung to it and prayed. How long could steel survive such an onslaught?

Thrim slept soundly in the RV -- I wrote a haiku for the occasion:

#1

Raging wind screams

and torments our newborn house.

How can Thrim still sleep?

The desert wind isn’t always so angry and adversarial. Sometimes in the morning it is mysterious and smells of the sea. I don’t know how it manages that, but it does and I love it.

#2

Wild gypsy wind calls!

I run, barefoot, coatless, free.

Consensual joy!

So here’s the deal. I respect the wind (and rain) enough to be prepared. As my defense against the winds in Normandy and Brittany, I have a bright yellow windbreaker. To keep dry, there’s a big plastic cape that covers even my backpack. Under that, I have layers of those new miracle fabrics. Even an adventurer can be prepared. So, wind and rain? Bring it on!

Choosing Adventure

At 14, I dreamed that one day Tom Rogers would send his lopsided smile my way and say “Hey.” It was a hopeless crush, me being a lowly nothing and Tom being gorgeous, smart, and on the football team.

Books were an escape. One day after school I discovered The Royal Road to Romance in my parents’ library. Why had I never noticed such a lusty title before? I pulled it from the shelf, hoping it would lead me into forbidden territory and help me forget about Tom. The cover was dark green, old, and worn. The author had the romantic name of Richard Halliburton. What juicy scenes must be inside!

Even though no-one else was home, I felt unseen eyes upon me as I moved the other books around to fill in the empty space where it had been. Hurrying to my room, I peeked at the first words: “May had come to Princeton.” Princeton, wherever that was, in springtime, seemed like the right place for royal romance to happen. I slid the book under my pillow, hiding it till later.

That night, lying in bed, face to the wall, I began to read in earnest. There was a moment of disappointment when I discovered that “romance” meant adventure and following dreams, but Halliburton’s story was so compelling I couldn’t stop. He searched in the farthestmost corners of the earth for the beautiful, the joyous and even the love type of romance. He sailed to foreign ports, swam the Hellespont, climbed great mountains, communed “in solitude with the moonlit Taj Mahal.” My obsession with Tom Rogers faded as dreams inspired by Halliburton began to take its place.

In the 11^th grade, a Career Day counselor asked what I wanted to do in my life and I replied, “Travel the world.” He shook his head and actually smirked. Maybe he didn’t believe that such dreams could be achieved, especially by girls from poor families. I knew otherwise.

I knew from Halliburton’s example that a person can do anything if they work hard enough for it. His parents had been wealthy, but he worked his way to Europe on a steamer, and then earned money as he needed it. He had planted a seed that began to grow and become a part of me.

Six years later, I graduated from UCLA with a BA in Theater and a job offer to work as a secretary. My roommate Mary and I chose adventure instead. Working through the summer, we saved every penny we could, sold all our belongings including my car, and drove her car to New York. From there it was logical to go on to Europe. Icelandic Airlines flew us to Prestwick, Scotland, the first stop on what became an around-the-world journey.

I had loved how Halliburton traveled with no reservations and no itinerary, seizing opportunities as they came. That’s how Mary and I did our trip. We took trains, hitchhiked, motorscootered, walked, and rode rickshaws. We worked when we needed to. Our accommodations were hostels, train stations, native hotels, and YM- YWCAs. After more than a year away, we sailed home on a Japanese freighter with six passengers and a delightful captain who baked us an apple pie.

Other fine adventures came along including living and working in new places, getting married, and raising four children. The most recent adventure was moving from tree-rich mountains to the Mojave desert.

On my morning walks down unpaved Royal Roads I see the mountains to the east aflame with sunrise. A tarantula might meander across my path. Frequently I pass a sidewinder curled up digesting last night’s meal. Bright red scorpions have danced their mating dance, taking no notice of me. There is adventure here! The summer air is rich, smelling of spices and warm sand. There is time for meditation under the stars.

Sometimes, though, when the west wind feels as if it comes straight from the ocean, I find myself stopping in mid stride to taste it, to imagine where it has been, what it’s bringing to me. Then I’m aware that Richard Halliburton is still at my side giving me a lopsided grin and saying “Hey!”

April in Normandy? Hitchhiking again?

Why not!

The right book can do that to you.