88

My dad was this age when he died.  He almost made it to 89, just about a month to go. He was a big strong old tree.  It took a lot of years to fell him.

We were going to get up early this morning to go to the gym, take the rubbish to the dump, and clean the house, but in fact, we got up so late that about half an hour later we had to leave to get to our lunch date in the city in time.

Tim went to California on business and arrived back yesterday evening.  I missed coming home to him.  I said, "Hello!" cheerfully to the house as I came in at the door.  I missed sleeping with his arm wrapped around my waist.  I put a hot-water-bottle with a cushion at my back and pretended it was him.  I missed seeing his face.  He was often in my thoughts and the entire long day of teaching on Friday was filled with little glittering moments of excitement when I remembered that I would see him that evening.  We are very different people, but I am glad every day to be in my thirtieth year together with him.

This evening there was a celebration of poetry at my school, called Le Printemps des Poetes, Springtime of the poets.  It is a concert with poetry and music and art, a francophone event that began in 1999 and takes place mainly in France and Quebec, but there are little celebrations like it all over the world where people speak French, I expect.  Each year there is a different theme.  We have been celebrating for four years now, and it is always astonishing to me to see the talents of all these people, and especially of my students.  One girl sang La Vie en Rose accompanied by a trio, a pianist, double bassist and a trumpeter.  Such passion, it made me cry. 

The theme was The Heart of the Arts, and this is the painting I finished for that:

Ritual