First morning in Normandy

Friday,december 18
This morning, still jetlagged, and pretty late, I dragged myself out of the linen sheets in my sister's vaulted ceiling attic bedroom, and my first move was to look up at the skylight, to discover a blue sky and the tree tops, bare limbs, an intricate weaving of silver gray twigs stroked by the winter sun, that mark the entrance to the Belleme forest.

Then sitting on the rustic bistrot table in the veranda, I enjoyed a slow breakfast, a big bowl of black coffee and tartines with real butter, and a big jar of thick, creamy homemade jam.

Looking at the garden bathed by the sun, I listened to the satyrical news talk show on the radio

-a real delight of incessant wit and disrespectful jesting, the boldness of which I had almost forgotten-

This is like being on another planet.

Pool reading

One of my favorite things to do in the fall is to go out in the morning for a walk and watch the clouds'children,that is, the myriads of pools in the fields and the streets.

I can stop at each one of them without getting tired of it. What a perfect quintessence of our valley they are, reflecting things earthly and heavenly alike.

Those in the country roads demultiply the vast fields and the light from above, a mosaic of mirrors, that at sunset turn into incandescent volcano craters.

In town, around Pioneer Park there is one below Rainbow bridge that has all the qualities of a high gloss abstract mixed media painting: dirt, sand, gravel, and the water reflecting the vermillion red bridge and the sky in broken patches.

Further on the street that bends below the park, another one is just a tiny lake perfectly reflecting a fir tree, making me think of Canada and Emily Carr's paintings.

No need to travel or spend money, the world is right here at your feet, and Art and Beauty are everywhere.

H2O metamorphosis

Driving back from Bellingham I always experience great pleasure and renewed wonder around lake samish, the daily amphitheater of H2O metamorphosis:
Down below, the lake's teal, silvery surface reflecting the subtle, veiled winter light,
distracting me from the ribbon of anthracite serpentine highway ahead.
And above, the mountains'huge hairy skulls,
with the Douglas firs tightly knit together like dreadlocks,
pointing their spikes, broken here and there by the steamy exhalations of moisture
pursuing their laborous toil of accumulation
that will eventually release the miracle of rainshowers,
thus slow feeding thousands of thirsty evergreen roots,
and coating the carpet of golden, vermillion and rusty maple leaves with a shiny varnish.
I've never seen so many trees and so much moisture in my life as here.