It’s All A Jumble
When Jacqueline restored this old painting and presented it to us, maybe a year and a half ago, did she ever imagine it resting between two Finnish wood scrap trees, an Indonesian fish bell, a South American gourd, and two pieces of American glass? Certainly not, and when she sees this picture she’ll probably have a fit and ask me to send the poor painting back to France where it can be in more ordinary company.
When we won this lovely blue Moroccan plate in a cooking contest, was it forseeable that it would land next to the samovar that Marina brought us in her suitcase from Russia and the ceramic lady I packed home in my suitcase from a business trip to Matamoros, Mexico? But they all look normal together, right?
That’s my life, eclectic as all get-out. I remember being in 4th grade and saying in class that I wanted a Citizen of the World passport, and now I realize that I still want that. We brought home 21 cartons of our French life, and now their contents are nestling in with the remains of other trips, to other countries. They all felt like home to me, rootless as I am, however briefly I was there. France still feels like home, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
When we were packing up to leave France, I tossed all this stuff together in a bag, hair scrunchies (including two green velvet ones with bells on them that were intended to be holiday collars for very small dogs but which I appropriated to be ponytail holders for hair that I have long since left on the floor of Hervé’s salon), necklaces, pins, a nutcracker, and a wineglass washing brush. I dumped it out on the bed today and wondered what I had been thinking. Throwing that all together, like the differences between things didn’t matter.
This afternoon Zazou, coyotes be damned and full speed ahead with the climbing program, after being coaxed down from a precarious perch at least 30 feet up in a Douglas fir, decided that subsequently climbing 20 feet up on the dead tree snag outside my office window seemed like kitten’s play. Boy she sure can meow! Loud and clear, “get me out of here!”
Which is just how we feel right now, although with every box we unpack we’re digging ourselves in deeper. Moving, like childbirth, is so arduous that in the heat of the moment one vows never again, only to be beset by the desire to adventure even further afield, to try just one more time.
Beppo has the right idea. All he wants is to sleep in my lap. He doesn’t care what country the lap is in. For him, home is where the heart is, and his heart belongs right here, right now, wherever and whenever that is. We should all be so smart.