I remember sitting at the kitchen table, the setting sun, a plate with two beets. My parents were lovely people, but both had come from farming families. They believed in the healing power of fruits and vegetables. Eating mine was non negotiable. I would sit there until someone relented. In the case of beets, it was never me.

Now decades later, here I sit at the kitchen table unable to leave until I write something. Anything. And it brings me back to beets. The last time I wrote about them was ten years ago at a class in Paris. The prompt was: Write about something you detest. Immediately, my pen began to move. Gosh I wish I’d saved that essay.

Next month, I fly to Paris for a writing class once again. It would be nice to say that I don’t want to go, that I dread it—or fear it—but it’s worse than that. I’m completely apathetic. It’s tough to squeeze 500 to 3,000 words out of indifference.

Whatever. 

In a flash of inspiration a few weeks ago, I saw Julia Louis Dreyfus speak about aging. She said two things are important: manage your fitness because age creeps up on you (amen) and keep doing things that scare you. At the time I thought, there’s my motivation. I can wrap my head around that. This class scares me.

Then the next week, I read that Khloe Kardashian was launching a new fragrance. When asked “why?” she said, “Because I think you have to do things that scare you.” And I thought oh what a load of crap.

So here I am. Back at square one. Forcing myself to sit and write. Thinking about beets and my parents and our kitchen table that at times held the most dreadful things. I evoke my Uncle Cliff walking in our kitchen door one evening and asking me what I was doing. Me crying and telling him, I have to eat my beets. 

My dad came into the kitchen, tousled my hair, and told me that I could leave the table. I went into our den so I could sit and listen and be close to everyone. As I write this, I realize how much I love the remembering.

When I want to jostle my memories, I read through my blog. Last month, I did this while hunting for writing class topics and realized how much of the last nearly fifteen years (!!!) I have simply forgotten. Yet when I read my words, it all comes flooding back. 

It’s a shame how much I never took the time to jot down. 

Case in point, on our last stay in Paris we went:

To Compiègne to see where the World War One armistice was signed and to hike back through the hunting grounds, gardens, and palace of Louis XVI.

To Narbonne to visit friends and eat at France’s craziest restaurant where a man talked to us for a few minutes just because he couldn’t believe that Americans had found this middle-of-nowhere place (he must not read the New Yorker ). Pat loved Narbonne so much he calls it Narbana. 

To Corsica where we took a taxi from Calvi up to a mountain village to a pétanque tournament and a church pageant advertised on ubiquitous posters. We pulled this trip together in 15 minutes with no firm idea how we’d return. Consequently we grabbed a toothbrush and clean underwater just in case, ended up spending the night in a B&B, and asked the owner to call a taxi in the morning. 

To Bratislava for an exhibit of Pat’s photographs of Paris at the Albrecht house as part of a summer of french music. We reunited with Igor, Vlasta, and their kids. It was all so perfect. (This I must write about. Eventually.)

But until now, I haven’t written about any of it, largely because it’s so difficult to bring places to life. To sit long enough that words flow forth. Instead, I read and escape to a place where someone else has done the heavy lifting on their own, sitting and scribbling and praying for the writing genie to spring forth. 

As I write this, an idea occurs to me. Maybe that’s what I’ll do in Paris—some heavy lifting. There’s no one left who can make me sit at the table for hours staring at something and wishing it finished. I guess that’s the role I need to play in my own life, to summon forth the discipline to do one challenging thing each day with my time. 

Like this morning at 4AM when I told myself that I needed to sit until I wrote something. And this is it. I’ll dust it off, but I won’t fuss with it. I want to keep my thoughts exactly as they came to me. Besides, years from now, I’ll read this and remember the early morning when Uncle Cliff and my dad stopped by if only in my mind. And once again, I’ll cling to that memory and realize how much I miss them. 

Categories: Ruminations

Tags: Expat life, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween