Tongue in Cheek

Tongue in Cheek turns Two

                           

I know you have seen this dog on the paperdoll's head before, and you will see it again...

Today Tongue in Cheek is Two!

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The Passage

               

When you live in a foreign country rather than the one you know as home, there are certain things you expect will be different, unusual, far from the norm of what you are accustom to. Those big things like language, culture, food... those big things that are necessary to understand and help one to feel like they fit in. One doesn't expect to be thrown off by the little things such as how to open a door, toilet paper, signatures, hand shakes, ice cubes, you know the little things that you don't expect to be different but are and catch you off guard the first time you encounter them.

               

When you live in a foreign country you will learn the language, learn their culture, cook their food, sing their songs and eventually laugh at their jokes. But when you first live in a foreign country you will miss the smallest things from back home the most... for me the things I missed the most where so silly I can hardly bring myself to tell you... let's just say you will miss the smallest things because it is easier to cope with than feeling your heart breaking because you aren't there for your Father's 80th birthday, or your niece's birth, or your best friend's wedding nor any of the unending list of important dates that will come every month for the rest of your life.

               

When you live in a foreign country your mother tongue sounds like music. When you hear someone speaking your language your very words will race out, "Hello, where are you from?" Perfect strangers seem like your new best friends. You have much in common without even knowing the person name.

You wonder why you don't meet more people when you are back home... everyone there speaks your tongue?

            

Then after years of living in a foreign country you realize you have two places called home. You look around and the foreign place doesn't feel so foreign. The doors that were closed to you before have opened over time, and the homesickness feels so common you think of it as a bruise that won't go away; you know how to protect it.

            

When you live in a foreign country the keys to your new life will seem strange. The keys to any door at first feel awkward to use. Then one day you realize that the passage is just part of the journey and every nook, cranny, door, and key has brought you to a another place within yourself.

Photos: Doors knobs no less in France with one very odd, but very common key.

Stories unfold in the Details

               

Details, that is the type of photos I like to take. Close ups. So close you sense you can see the atoms doing a dance. Maybe the idea is to get inside the object? I don't know... but I like focusing the camera on the little details, the corners, the forgot spot, where the heart of the matter seems to beat.

Hand to heart.

               

Take for example this armchairs arm. Carved wood, brass tacks, worn, velvet brocade upholstery, faded paint... The texture is rich, the details endless, the history evident. It has been touched, it has lived.

When focusing on the entire armchair those inviting details are lost, and it is reduced to just another worn out armchair.

A place to be still.

               

Layers upon layers of time. The French word on the leather bond book, "Chansons" translates to, "Songs." Antique books invite you to hold them, open them, as if holding hands through time.. there is movement in those worn pages, collective thoughts, like a song asking you to join in. Soul humming.

Stories unfold.

               

Communicating through the presence of silence.

Telling time, telling your story.

Photos: Taking time to notice the little things.

What you can find at a French Flea market

               

Letters, ledgers, love notes, life of long ago living in between the lines.

               

Daring adventures, dreams,  lists of wants and needs. Bits and pieces of someone who once walked the path before you.

               

Notebooks, cookbooks, books... plenty of books. Children's paper dolls and postcards and newspaper clippings, traces, the spirit of French creativity and ways of being.

               

What was the best thing you ever found at a flea market? It doesn't have to be expensive, valuable, rare... it could be something that you simple like. One of my most favorite finds... other than paper?

               

Considering very few things in my home are new, it would be hard to decided.

The pleasure of going to a flea market 'BROCANTE' in French, is that it is like a museum. Where the traces of history, and culture wait for you to rediscover different periods, places and time. Where you can touch and take home a piece of France. Why do I love the Brocante? It engraves a song in my soul, I feel connected to a past that teaches me about today.

Photos: Flea market finds that fashion my home.

Harry Potter, "...all is well."

               

Reading is a drug. The first line takes you on a trip that can last a lifetime. Sacha, like a million other people, has taken many trips with Harry Potter. Seven in fact. Seven times over. Seven is a powerful, lucky, highly symbolic number... as is this last book of Harry Potter. Seven trips too short...  he doesn't want this tale to end!

If you look closely at the photo you will see that he is reading his last lines... one or two pages remain... I asked him about ninety pages ago how it was going? Dazed he looked up and said, "Mom have you ever read a book were you wished the pages would not have to turn, letting the story go on and on?"

               

I nodded and said, "Boy have I ever."

I know this drug, I have taken it many times, pages, volumes, books upon books. I cannot kick the habit. Have you ever found yourself reading the lines of a book slowly, just so it can last forever? Do you ever close your eyes and hear the words come alive in your mind? Have you ever felt like you were in each word and that each word took on new meaning? Have you ever gone to bed with a flashlight under the covers? Have you ever washed dishes with the book propped up against the counter so you could read at the same time?

Sacha laughed, "Have you ever read the same line several times over just so you can hold on to it in your memory, so that it doesn't end when you close the book?"

Boy does he have the book drug bad or what?

Rarely does it rain in Provence. It drizzled non stop Saturday giving Sacha a chance to read the entire day. I watched him read most of it. I smiled seeing his abandon slippers, and his tongue in his cheek, so absorbed, so faraway. I didn't even mind that his room looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. Nor that he hadn't changed from his PJs. Nor did I mind bringing him food and placing it by his side. It was that kind of day, a day for a trip, a day for the book drug to take his mind and weave a tale.

               

The last page, the last line, the last word... and yet it doesn't end there, a good book never does.

Photos: Sacha taking a trip with Harry Potter in English.

Touching the Earth

Being a kid in the country means being free to do what you want pretty much all of the time. Unless you are at school or have chores to tend to. I grew up in a small rural town in California. I know most people think of California as one long coastline with movie stars dotting the beaches and where everyone has a year round tan. But California is more than that. It actually has farmland, my Dad had a dairy farm and grew rice.

               

Surrounding my childhood home there were fields. Growing up we were told that having land mattered. If you had land you could live; heck, with a patch of dirt, seeds and water at least you would never starve. I felt safe knowing my Dad had land, that he knew how to farm and that my Mom knew how to cook. You see food and love went hand in hand. I had plenty of both.

               

As a child growing up on a farm I took for granted the freedom that the land had to offered. The wide space to run and play. I took for granted the daily lessons of nature. Most often I didn't realize the soothing sound of silence during the day. These natural parts of my day seemed unimportant until I went to the urban side of the world. Though the moment I went to live in the city where my feet touched cement instead of the earth, where the sun and moon weren't visible at a glance but often peering between buildings, reducing seasons to simple words; too hot or too cold. I realized how lucky I was to have experienced dirt underneath my feet. The country become my "Emerald City." The lessons I gathered rose strong within me.

My French husband grew up in a city in Northern France. He invests in urban developments, land with concrete buildings. Far away are his city experiences, from my growing up on a farm.

When we first were married we lived in Paris for a few years, and as beautiful as it was, the moment my feet touched the dry earthy ground of Provence I knew then I could call France a home. Of course it helps to have French husband by my side, even if he isn't a farmer... If ever need be we could grow tomatoes in flowerpots.

               

Isn't it funny how at times we can look back and see a connection, see a vague cosmic order? As if a string ties this to that, and makes us say,  "Isn't that funny?" How life unfolds.

Photos: Taken last summer in California along the coast.

Unfolding

               

A French antique folding fan. Hand painted on canvas. A young woman with a simple black ribbon tied flirtatiously, leans against a stone railing. Waiting... and gives a hint of a smile.

Behind each fold the scene is told. The story begins by unfolding little by little...

French Cafe

                

                

                

Modern day still life with hints of yesterday.

Thanksgiving after feast. Plates empty hearts full.

Photos: Someone's leftovers and fall light. French-ness captured, French Cafe moment.

Thanksgiving Tradition

               

A Thanksgiving tradition from back home...

My Mother prepares the Thanksgiving meal. Every year one of the traditional things that she makes (other than mashed potatoes and turkey,) are butter cookies that she cuts out with a red cookie cutter that is shaped like a turkey.

Setting the table she adds one of the turkey cut-out cookies to each of the plates.

My brother Marty (a grown man now....) traditionally sneaks into the dining room and bite off the heads to each of the turkey cookies. Crumbs and a headless, cookie cut-out, turkey are part of the tradition.

Thanksgiving began with my Mother moaning, "Marty!"

It is a tradition that I get a kick out of, and that I miss each year. What traditions do you have at Thanksgiving?

Photo: The dining room in my childhood home.

H A P P Y   T H A N K S G I V I N G !

Sweet Dreams

               

Late last night the house was quiet even though a storm brewed outside. Tip toeing I went upstairs to go to bed. Sacha called out my name, "Mom?" Funny, the thought came to mind, when did he stop calling me Mommy? I peeked into his room and said, "Yes?"

"Can you rub my back?" He asked hesitantly. In the silence, in the dark, I heard that Mom still meant Mommy, and that rub my back meant to come and listen.... a little boy growing up. My hand rest against his heart softly, and after a while a hug tenderly good night-sleep tight.

Lest we forget teenagers need cuddles too.

Photo: On a wooden hanger a white cotton nightgown hangs.