I made it up the hill to Auvillar with no trouble yesterday, but today I panicked partway up and had trouble breathing. Partially, this was because a man was standing at the top smoking a cigarette and peering down at me as I struggled up the steep incline. I know it was panic and not respiratory distress, because I was able to box breathe and get things under control. Still. I briefly felt unmoored. And then I realized I was panicking because I was being observed and perhaps judged by this random smoker. I read the judgment into this man’s mere existence, which is a bad tendency; I am prone to unfounded presumptions, and it has inhibited both me and my writing.
At the pharmacy, I met Cheryl and her husband, John. Cheryl is sick and was getting some medicine for her cough. I had cut my finger earlier in the day, so I needed Band-Aids, and they were able to tell me the correct name: pansement.
In the store, I managed to ask, "Excusez-moi, Où est le sucre ?"—a real victory. In the bookstore, I said, "Avez-vous des livres en anglais?” which seemed to annoy the owner. (I have no idea again what this person was thinking, but I have again inferred the worst.) She marched me over to a sad little half-shelf of Colleen Hoover-type novels. In the end, I bought Frida Kahlo’s Lettres à Diego Rivera, which I hope to translate page by page, as they do not seem too long or complicated.
One of my duties here as a Resident Fellow is to help Fatiha in the kitchen on Mondays and Wednesdays, when all the fellows have dinner together. On my way back from the village I bumped into her and tried to convey that I have been practicing the vocabulaire de cuisine, so I can be of better assistance, and then I proceeded to name all of the words I’ve learned one by one as if I was a kindergartner: assiettes, bols, tasses, serviettes…by the time I was done, she was probably deeply concerned, but she remained kind and nonplussed all the same.
She told me (as Jean-Phillipe had) that they had just endured epic flooding and almost constant rain this winter, but she hoped I was enjoying le bon temps.
When I wonder why I have decided to do this in my 50s, I think about all the things I have experienced during week one that I have never experienced before:
Taking the compost out and having to flee a rooster. I have no idea what he was intending to do, but he was coming at me.
Buying a prêt-à-manger chicken in the village and bringing it home to discover this:
I have enjoyed moments of kismet here as well, and I will share one today for other struggling artists.
One of the March residents at Moulin a Nef is friends with the writer Rachel Jamison Webster, whose parents live across the street from our cottage in Madison, Ohio. I have still never met Rachel, but I had just finished watching an inspiring video she posted on Instagram about having faith in the creative process. We never know who our work will reach.
Check it out:
Each week in the spirit of My Personal Favorite, I thought I would post one poet/poem I admired this week. Scroll down past the photos for this week’s selection.
Plus bientôt!
Kelly
Poet/poem of the week: Molly Fisk.
La tête de poulet!