Good Friday

It may seem strange to do this on a very grey, cold, wet Good Friday, but I'm going to do it anyway: thank my physical body for working so hard to keep me alive. Over the last few years, I have occasionally said (and it wasn't hyperbole) that it was a miracle that I was alive. And it is, I guess I realize now, by any standard. In a bizarre way, my physical body has been as direct a reflection of the inner message that I spoke of last time ("you do not exist") as the outward circumstances of my life have been. I don't think I've abused it by most people's standards -- I haven't been an addict, or self-harmed, or jumped out of airplanes. But I also haven't been in a position to really take care of myself either. It's our physical body that is most, well, physical -- it "exists." What a bizarre time mine must have had trying to accommodate the contrary message that I didn't exist. What kind of crazy tightrope it walked, on the one hand hearing that message, but on the other, knowing that its primary duty was to keep me alive, even help me thrive. Through inexpensive and junk food, constant moving around, injuries that had to self-heal, and just plain aging, it has done just that. I have truly the most remarkable body. I am so grateful to it and love it so much.

These last ten days, I have felt rather like a bug on a windshield much of the time, squashed flat, exhausted, achy, and congested. It's not like my cells can turn on a dime, revive, and move 180 degrees in the opposite direction, any more than my soul can. But both body and soul are relieved to have finally faced the monster, to know it speaks rubbish, and to be singing the words "I dare to exist" to the most beautiful music I can muster from within. And if that isn't appropriate for the hours between Good Friday and Easter, I don't know what is.

The Tirade

Last Tuesday, I was hit by the biggest tsunami yet. I guess you could say that metaphorically I was swept off the beach into the deepest reaches of outer space, into a black hole. 

Earlier that day, I had written a very powerful essay. I would almost say that the piece of writing was "channeled"; I was barely conscious of what I was saying, and it presented a powerful vision of who I am and what my future is meant to be about. I printed it out and threw it in the drawer next to my bed, realizing I would need time to make sense of it.

The reaction started when I turned off my light that night and tried to fall asleep. I can't describe the sensation any better than to say that quite literally, I was suddenly tumbling through a layer of self-loathing, then through a black hole in space, with no stars or planets anywhere nearby and no sense of gravity. Next I experienced something like a multidimensional equivalent of the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy faces the fuming, smoking, rattling, raging "Great and Powerful Oz," only I wasn't standing on firm ground with friends and my little dog Toto. I was alone, I was nothing, and I was in nothing.

The message from "my" wizard was, essentially, this: "How dare you? How (bleeping) dare you? How dare you try to be a person? How dare you have an identity that has no reference to me? How dare you presume to take up space on this planet? How dare you create your own individuality? How dare you express yourself and tell the truth? How dare you hope for the smallest iota of support or respect or income from anything you do? How dare you hope to experience love? How dare you dream or envision your own future? How dare you take energy or attention away from me? You are nothing. You do not exist." Etc. And for several hours, that was true.

The thing is, I felt powerless to move or call a friend or anything. I finally fell asleep, perhaps hoping I just wouldn't wake up. I think I've long sensed this hopeless energy deep in my being but just couldn't fully face it before and didn't want to do it now, either. But I did wake up around six a.m. the next morning, felt the emptiness inside me again and began to panic. Suddenly I remembered the essay sitting in the drawer not four inches from my head, and understood that I had had the power (or had accessed the power) to write it, and something in me recovered from this extraordinary tirade, and inwardly replied:

"How dare I? How dare I? I dare because I am courageous. I dare because I am a valuable person in my own right. I dare to take up space on this wondrous planet and do the work I was destined to do! I dare to be unique. I dare to be a beautiful, powerful woman. I dare to tell the truth. I dare to believe that someone out there believes in me and wants me to succeed. I dare to dream and use my valuable insight, intuition and wisdom. I dare to draw attention to myself and not just be the empty space around men's comfort and achievements. I dare to thrive as me. I dare to love. I dare to exist."

These words were like ladder rungs, magically transporting me up and out of the black hole. I have felt shaky for days, and even felt quite sick over the weekend. But I have survived a brutal direct experience of the non-Love that I guess has been deep in me all along and I've been getting closer and closer to facing. I get it; this is the root of my failure to thrive. This is the reason decades of effort, openness, flexibility, "creative visualization" and affirmation never helped me toward meaningful long-term fulfillment or achievement. All along, my ear was tuned to the tirade. In the intervening days, I think I have come to a place of recalibration. I know that the truth of me is what I say it to be, what my heart chooses to listen to now, not this vile message that has repeatedly sent me off-course

Clearly this experience was deeply personal, at least partly reflecting a family inheritance that let's just say isn't money. But in the light of the MeToo movement, I just cannot help but wonder how many other women have been shaped by the constraints of "How dare you?" How many other women have had similar words walling them off from their true selves? How many other women in the last year or two have traveled through a dark night of the soul, only to come through to the other side ready to speak their truth? The fact is, we do dare. We dare in ever-increasing numbers. We exist. And the recalibration of society has already been historic.

Compared to the journey I traveled last week, being back on the beach is a piece of cake. And I'm not sure if it's just my imagination, but it looks to me like the waters out there are calming down. I'm still not quite ready to make repairs on the boat and re-enter the stream, but I have to believe that was the tsunami of tsunamis, and perhaps the worst is over now. Today I feel far stronger than a week ago. Actually, I feel far stronger than ever.

Worth

Wow, just writing that word (worth) makes me shiver. I guess everyone is shivering right now, with evidence that the chasm between rich and poor is just rising and rising.

Back in the early '90s, when I lived by the shores of Lake Superior, I came to understand that indeed there was a chasm between who I was and the activities that are assigned financial "worth" in this world. Something in me died at that moment, although the waters of the Great Lake sustained me, as did the conviction that within a few decades, these things would reach some kind of reckoning, which seems to be happening now. Since the things I believed in/loved were either out of my reach or unpaid, I hung on for dear life doing work that was at least tolerable, spiritually: selling books or stationery, waiting tables, teaching writing skills, etc. Despite excellent education and qualifications, I simply would not pursue the types of things that were clearly more lucrative, like law, medicine, advertising, or finance, since they did not align with my talents or beliefs. (In the end, you have to believe in what you do forty hours a week, don't you?) I have accepted limping along as the consequence of that decision (which was sort of the little sister of the decision to deep-six English church music).

I had an epiphany the other week. As some of you know, I have been writing this blog for about two-and-a-half years, and am close to my four hundredth post. I have chosen thus far not to sign up for advertising, because I just cannot stomach my readers having to navigate ads. And as of yet, other options for an income stream from this writing haven't felt right either. I realize that decades of limping along have been at work here, too, perhaps making me devalue my efforts.

One morning, I re-read my blog before posting it, and was so proud of it, I thought -- perhaps for the first time -- this is worth money. Even in a dying paradigm, even in a crazy, topsy-turvy world, this little essay is thoughtful enough and well-written enough to be worth a little money. So in my head, I have declared that my posts are worth $100 each. Of course, perhaps they are worth far more, or, on certain days, far less, but I have finally been comfortable saying that my life experience, writing skills, and wisdom have a small amount of monetary value. For this extraordinary woman who has lived for decades in minimum wage hell, this is a step forward. I would like to see every human being thrive doing their favorite work, but I guess I have to start with me, and within me, as usual. "Yes, I have worth. My writing has worth. My life has worth." Financial worth, whatever that means in 2018. It's a start.

A Phenomenon

There's a point in your journey when you look around and go, where is everyone? Where are all those people who populated your experience for six decades? It's like, you're running along your path and turn your head left and right and realize, almost no one else is there. Now, in some cases, you may have blessed people and moved on, and in some cases they dropped out of sight on their own, but heck, they are certainly not where they used to be.

This is where I am so thankful for the irreplaceable Martha Beck. Her metaphor for this phenomenon is "the empty elevator," as in, new passengers can only come in when the old ones get off at a lower floor. In Steering By Starlight, she suggests (page 104) that "people around you can't stay connected with both the New You and their old patterns of behavior," and for a time we may be nearly alone on the elevator. She also says, who can blame them, really; "...why in the name of all that's holy would any sane person follow you into the ring of fire?" Why, indeed? 

Waves of tsunamis have recalibrated my own inner wave-length, the signal I am sending out, and that means that many wavelengths in my vicinity are simply no longer in synch. Another metaphor I find comfort in is that of actors on a stage in a play, coming and going as they are needed...and at this specific moment of rebirth (the beginning of Act 3?), they are simply not needed onstage. Several times recently, I've dreamt that I am walking alone through a narrow passageway, and let's face it, there isn't much room in the birth canal, the eye of the needle, or the hourglass. If you are fortunate, you may have a nurse or midwife and a solid connection to the Divine, but physically, being reborn is a solitary phenomenon.

We women value friendship and connection. We want to love. Looking around and seeing a nearly "empty elevator" is heartbreaking. It triggers lifelong fears and terrors of being left for dead. I can live with the fact that I haven't been on the wavelength of our culture's notions of financial success or career fulfillment. But it would be hard indeed at 62, with no husband, children, or grandchildren, to accept that my love and beauty (and I think I am a fountain of them) haven't been successfully communicated, expressed or received. It would be too easy to judge this empty moment as the measure of a lifetime. 

It is taking almost superhuman effort right now to trust that I am actively being reborn into a "place" of more joy, fulfillment, thriving and love. And no matter what, there is no going back. In an "all Love" universe, the fact that I care means I must be moving forward in Love's direction, and that I will soon find the people and places on my updated wavelength. The elevator will start to fill up. My boat and I will be back on the river. And I will look back on this scary phenomenal moment with tenderness.

Poetry

I've only written one short poem in my life, back in seventh grade, and it was published in a little school booklet. The line that was pretty good was a reference to that first tree that turns red in the fall, "the first tree to turn into September." But since then, the poetry muse has never grabbed me. 

Recently, a friend said there was something poetic about my writing here in these essays. I was so appreciative of her words, and yet a bit baffled. I think of what I am writing as prose.

Yet these words of Audre Lord, from the essay "Poetry is Not a Luxury," have helped me reframe things a bit: "The quality of light by which we scrutinize our lives has direct bearing upon the product which we live, and upon the changes which we hope to bring about through those lives. It is within this light that we form those ideas by which we pursue our magic and make it realized. This is poetry as illumination, for it is through poetry that we give name to those ideas which are -- until the poem -- nameless and formless, about to be birthed, but already felt...For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence."

Perhaps poetry is less about form than it is about intention. From that perspective, yes, this blog is my attempt to shine a certain spectrum of light upon my life and my path, to try to "realize my magic." Lord's beautiful words may take months for me to fully breathe in, but they have already inspired. 

Temperance

In the spirit of full disclosure, I guess it is time to mention that, on occasion, I consult Tarot cards.

Back when I was at Pendle Hill in 1990, I was introduced to the Jamie Sams and David Carson Medicine Cards, which offer spiritual/Native American interpretations to the energies of various animals. Blindly choosing "eagle" as my totem animal led indirectly to that year's automobile trip around America and to Duluth. Over time, I have acquired several other sets of cards, but never the classic Rider-Waite Tarot deck until a few years ago, when a friend gave me an unopened pack and a book to help me interpret them. Having inherited our cultural fear of them (from movies, etc.), I was surprised to find I loved the imagery, and the richness of the readings I was fairly quickly able to do from simple spreads.

The other day, I asked for support in the process I am going through. I literally feel like I need a guardian angel. I did the usual, and shuffled the cards face down (challenging, as they are slightly oversized and still stiff) and picked a card by feel. Intriguingly, I chose one of only three cards in the pack that actually represent an angel -- Temperance. What was weird was an immediate connection to the angel, not just as a guide, but almost as a self-portrait. Before I even read about her, I could tell that, with one foot on land and one in the water, she "is" me.

The most noteworthy thing about the image of this angel is that she is pouring water diagonally from one goblet to another. At first, this doesn't register (in fact, it seems oddly calming and balanced) until you realize that, in real life, gravity would make this impossible. As Rachel Pollock's Tarot Wisdom puts it, "...Temperance shows us how to act magically while seeming to do nothing" (page 170). Perhaps Temperance is the guardian angel of all creative beings who display an almost supernatural inner balance during times of quiet contemplation before birthing inspiration's outward manifestation, be it a painting, an essay or poem, a musical composition, a piece of choreography...or even an entirely new life direction. This gestation time, which is a big "nothing" to our economy, is everything to an artist, writer or mystic. (If you break the word down, the prefix "temp" must come from the Latin tempus, for "time.")

I have to laugh as parts of the "real me" come into focus, and I can finally embrace them rather than push them away. Has any one being ever personified passions as diverse as choral evensong, the Regency-era England of the Bedwyn family (Mary Balogh books), "Time Team," and the Tarot? For that matter, have these things ever before shown up in the same sentence? (I suppose this is where I also need to confess my passion for fast food burgers, fries and cola.) It is time to turn off the left brain effort to "make logical sense" of all this, and just right brained-ly love my imperfect efforts to balance it all, Temperance-style.

A new wrinkle

I am feeling very raw today, and yet perched on the edge of a different reality. These waves have churned up so much wrenching stuff, and yet the mere fact that I can say that in print puts me eons ahead of even a few years ago.

Yesterday, I saw the movie "A Wrinkle in Time." I had not read Madeleine L'Engle's book, and really did not know what to expect, although I hoped it would be inspiring. L'Engle's life and mine have two intersecting circles, Smith College, and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, although I never met her. And her husband, Hugh Franklin, played a main character on my longtime (only) soap opera, "All My Children." 

I wasn't overly wowed by the movie, to be honest. And there were some decidedly "old paradigm" themes and imagery in it involving non-good. But I did like the concept of love being powerful enough to create the "wrinkle" that allows the children to travel through space and time to free their father, and obviously the special effects were extraordinary. Love is the only power strong enough to do anything lasting, really, and you can tell that all involved loved making the movie. So that's a good thing.

Who are my Tribe?

Regular readers know that for the last four months or so, I have been going through a particularly intense process of facing many of the old life issues/confusions/traumas that I have tried to hide from or outrun. If you are new to my blog, the metaphor I have been using is, having brought my little boat up onto a beach, I am standing to face the tsunamis of pain. It has been hard and transformative. The minute I think maybe the process is over, however, another wave hits.

The latest one addresses yet another monumental split in my life, like the American-English one, and the church music-divine feminine one. I didn't realize it, but my renewed interest in antiques has been the prelude to examining another seemingly unbridgeable chasm in this lifetime's experience: that is, coming from a family with the upper-est of upper crust leanings and tastes, but nothing to support that lifestyle. In one day, really, we went from at least the appearance of grandeur to the depths of poverty, and for years I returned from college or my job in New York to find no food in my parents' refrigerator or gas in the car. I did what I could to help, but several factors hindered my effectiveness: I was paying back enormous student loans; I didn't fully understand what was going on; and discussion of the situation was prohibited. "Family" had become a strange netherworld about which nothing could be said. At events like weddings, funerals or graduations, our extended family seemed to be WASP top drawer (an English friend said it was like being with the royal family), but the day-to-day reality of my immediate family was grinding poverty. There had been an ephemeral few years of relative abundance around my early teens, but from then on for many years, it was all downhill, a trajectory which my own adult life has largely mirrored.

When I was in my late twenties, my great aunt (in some despair about my prospects) gifted me with a copy of the "Social Register," the yearbook that to this day helps old money people keep track of their own. That was ostensibly her world, her tribe, and she hoped that I would find a nice husband in it. But of course that train had already left the station. Some of my relatives might be in the book, but not anyone else I was meeting in the normal course of events. Although I can enthusiastically "do" Upper East Side cocktail parties (and their equivalent) I just didn't gravitate to that crowd, nor they to me. With no country clubs or investments or interior designers in my life, conversation soon faltered. Even if a really well-connected or successful man had taken to me, one visit to meet my parents (living in a poorly-winterized summer cabin in the north country) would have brought the budding relationship to a screeching halt. The truth is that by the age of thirty or so, I had shed my blue blood heritage just as I was shedding England and English church music, things that were too painful to think about or be chronically on the outskirts of.

Yet while YWCAs and food shelves and city buses have been a big part of my reality, the folks in that world and I aren't really of the same tribe either. I am sorry to say that snobbery was my early fallback; it has been largely transformed into empathy (I literally understand and have walked a version of the same path), but my education, mannerisms, speaking voice, and life experiences continue to make me feel from another planet. And you might think, like some social mathematical equation, that you could split the difference and simply aim for the American suburban middle class, but that never worked either. To be honest, that is the "place" (or "tribe") I feel the most uncomfortable with. I am at least somewhat "of" the two ends, but not the middle.

Clearly I have not resolved this. But I'm glad this wave has finally hit me. Halting, tentative steps to "like what I like" (yes, including antique silver and oil paintings) are at least grounded in truth and genuine love.

In the end, being as post-"everything" as I have become, I suspect that I am not simply a member of a pre-existing tribe, but potentially influential in new one. Perhaps both heritages will help me be that leader, once I'm not ashamed of and running from them.

Blizzard

Today the northeast is waking up to an old fashioned blizzard. A heavy-snow-high-winds-can-barely-see-across-the-street kind of blizzard. It's not particularly cold, around 28 F, but there is almost a foot on the ground and more on the way. Why is it that the worst snows come in March?

I made the mistake the other week of being rather dismissive of Britain's recent snowstorm, until I realized that it really had been quite a mess of frozen pipes, accidents, injuries, etc. Over the years, one of the areas of American superiority I felt I could claim was the hardiness of having endured a lifetime of weather extremes. My memory is that when I was young, Schenectady regularly received annual snowfall well over 100 inches, and I've lived in other exceedingly snowy spots like Minnesota and Montana. In terms of temperatures, I have experienced a span of at least 150 degrees F over the course of my lifetime, from -30 or colder on a few occasions in Duluth (with wind chills much lower) to a few minutes of 115 or higher when I changed buses once in Las Vegas. Most years the range has been more like -20 to 90, and this was even before climate chaos really gained momentum. That sense of having spent inordinate amounts of one's life energy simply dealing with the elements is acute, but our modern experiences pale beside those of earlier eras, don't they? We've found ways to buffer ourselves somewhat from the extremes, which are likely to have caused even more extremes.

Perhaps it's just the "62 effect," and being done with a whole host of struggles, not the least of which is that of dealing with multiple feet of snow, layers of coats, shoveling, decisions about whether to wear heavy boots or ice grippers, etc. I try to imagine what it would be like to live any place where one's creative energies are not regularly distracted by extremes, natural or manmade. But today I am where I am, at the epicenter of the swirling snows, and there is one thing I feel far more than my lack of enthusiasm for the scene outside my window -- enormous gratitude for being inside, warm and safe. Let's all hunker down today and just let the storm do its thing. 

Another lie washes out to sea

As I watch current events unfold (there is no word for them but the one I saw somewhere this morning -- "dystopian"), it's hard not to wonder why I persist in writing this "little" blog, with its relatively small readership and influence. Well, this is what keeps me going: I believe with every fiber of my being that the more we women self-actualize, the clearer the path forward will be for all. It is a mess out there, but the only mess I can clean up is my own. The world's road seems mired in fog, but the only lack of clarity I can clean up is my own.

The waves of emotion I have been experiencing are not simply shaking me to the core, they are also washing layers of sediment off me. (I'm deliberately not calling it "dirt," not wanting to judge it or give it a negative connotation.) But yeah, "sediment" -- something outside my own skin, the layers of not-me that I coated myself with in order to survive, to hide from view, to leave almost no material footprint.

In my last blog post, I confessed to loving antiques. This seems to have opened up a floodgate. Over the weekend, I binged on old episodes of "Antiques Road Trip." No, this isn't "Antiques Roadshow," where people bring their antiques to be appraised. This is the rather wacky British variation on the theme, where two funny, telegenic dealers drive a classic car around the countryside, stopping in at antique shops. They start the week with 200 pounds, and then auction off the treasures they find (the money goes to charity), with lots of good-natured ribbing along the way. 

Right now I am hanging on for dear life to clues to what I genuinely love, and so what are the clues here? Obviously, the UK countryside. Layers of history (in a different form than on "Time Team"). Humor and money in the same breath -- how refreshing! 

Probably most importantly, here's the real truth; I love beautiful things. Paradoxically, I love beautiful "manmade" (and woman-made) things rather more than I do the dramatic natural beauty of many of the places I have lived. I've tried so hard to be an outdoorswoman, but that is not who I am. For the most part, I'd just as soon look at a gorgeous 19th century landscape painting than stand in the landscape it represents! I love antique silver. I love old china and odds and ends like 19th century railroad lanterns and woodworking tools. I love Victoriana and antique furniture and old photographs. I love antique clothing and all the trimmings, jewelry, umbrellas, purses, etc.

Now, here are "the voices," some of which I have actually heard people say over the years, and some I just imagine: "That's just your WASP heritage speaking. It's privilege, and privilege is no longer acceptable." "Who made these items? As is true today, many older material items were made by slaves or near-slaves, so you shouldn't buy more than you need for bare survival." "You are a creative person; get to work and make beautiful things, don't buy them." "Heck, you don't deserve beauty in your life at all. What have you contributed to the world?" "Poor people don't deserve beautiful things, or to dream of being surrounded by beauty." "Beautiful things won't get us out of the world's mess." And, "How does this align you with Mother Nature? You are going in the wrong direction!"

Grrr, contrarians inner and outer, chattering like crazy. There may be kernels of truth in these statements worth considering, and there may be kernels of fear worth addressing.

But I cannot ignore the fact that my heart leaps with joy when this show allows me to virtually enter these delightful antique shops, find lovely, beautiful things, and put my hand in my purse, pull out a bill and buy them. I leap with joy at the thought of taking them home, wherever that will be, and putting them on my shelf. Heck, at the thought of "owning" them. This has given me the chance to "own" more of my true self, to mirror myself in beautiful little objects that make me smile. And more than that, it is allowing me to own the idea of regularly seeing the world's bigger, greater art masterpieces and hear the world's great music, in person. When I took off for the wilderness all those years ago, it wasn't right for me, but I just didn't know it.

A while back, I wrote a blog called "Material Girl" which may have started this process. I may not resonate in the least with modern technology or fashions or cars or appliances. Those things never were enough to tempt me to be material. But as in so many other areas, I went too far in convincing myself that I was utterly non-material, that all I needed in life was a small borrowed monastic cell in the wilderness, a pad and paper and some ramen noodles, if that. Yes, I resonate with a reasonably solitary life, but apparently not with utter stark simplicity. I love beautiful items created by other people, and I want to be surrounded by them! Yes, bold type, italics and exclamation point! Another lie washes out to sea. 

A little French pitcher

The other day, I found myself speaking in French. This happens from time to time. It just comes out naturally. I'm not exactly fluent, but my French classes started in fourth grade and the language seems to be rooted in me in an interesting way. Someone recently asked, have you ever been to France? The answer is, yes, three or four times.

In 1970, I was attending one of Albany's two private girls' schools. Our French teacher was from France, and her sister taught at the other school. They decided to take their best students to their home country. Here it is, nearly fifty years ago, and I can remember us gathering near my school's statue of St. Agnes. I was wearing an awkward new spring raincoat, and had a TWA bag at my feet. There must have been about twenty of us girls and only two tiny French chaperones. No cell phones. No internet. No selfies.

Somewhere in storage I still have the itinerary, but we were met in Paris by a small bus that took us out to Mont Saint Michel, down the western side of France as far as Carcassonne, then up the middle of the country via a few of the chateaux and Chartres Cathedral, to Paris, which I barely remember from that trip. My most vivid memory is that the sisters took us to the town they grew up in, where we were feted by hundreds of people and had our first glasses of wine. Our bus driver spoke virtually no English, but I remember he was enthusiastic about the Beatles' recently-released album, "Abbaye Rud."

So, Carcassonne. Several years ago, in England, I walked into an antique store (I love antiques) and of course couldn't afford much and don't have a home in which to place antiques. But I wanted something, a little symbol of my resolve to have a beautiful home someday, somehow, and this little ceramic pitcher caught my eye ("jug" in British English). It's only about two inches tall, cream-colored on the outside and mustard yellow on the inside. The design, sketched in brown ink, is of the walled Cite de Carcassonne. I think I bought it because it represented pitchers full of abundance. It reminded me of my visit there in 1970. It also reminded me of Kate Mosse's book Labyrinth set in Carcassonne, fictionally depicting a search for the Holy Grail. I am fascinated by the traditions which say that Mary Magdalene made her way to the south of France, even further north, after the crucifixion; I remember the imposing city walls, and their amazing beauty. My little pitcher's sketch is centered on a gateway, which draws me in.

Of the chateaux that we visited on that school trip, the one that made the biggest impression was Chambord. And when I arrived at Royal Holloway on a sunny early morning in September 1980, the Founder's Building appeared out of the mist, and I realized in an instant that it had been designed to look like Chambord (which had escaped me looking at the college's printed catalogue). It's so intriguing how we have our own natural memory pathways that link numerous events and images and impressions. My Royal Holloway MMus studies focused on a musical office dedicated to French saint Valeria, and I went to the Paris Bibliotheque Nationale to study the 12th century manuscript in person...in other words, my experiences of England often seem to have a small but significant French echo. As I watch the slow sharpening of the blurry image of my future projected up on the screen, and keep my little French pitcher on my side table, I sense that this may be no coincidence. Nous verrons, eh?