October 2012… in the green gazebo

The gazebo in front of the Chateau Frontenac

Last month, Darren and I spent time in North America. It was Fall. We landed in the Old City, Quebec, where he presented his PhD research and I walked beneath the Maple leaves. Then we travelled south and stared at the fury of Niagara Falls, feeling it wet on our faces. After two days, we caught a train to New York City, and walked in Central Park, thinking about stories. At the end of the fortnight, we flew to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I spoke at an INF dinner and we also ate the best burgers in the world.

It was lovely… all of it, especially the time in Quebec. I’ve decided that distracted writers (and all of us) need time to do nothing at all… especially nothing urgent, pre-arranged or related to the house. For six mornings in a row, Darren got up and walked to the Conference, and I got up and walked to a green and white gazebo in front of the Chateau Frontenac. Along the way I stared at gable windows and skidded on wet maple leaves and thought about stories. Then I sat down in the gazebo and watched the tourists as they walked along the boardwalk by the Fleuve Saint-Laurent. I smelt the presence of the hot dog man, who sat beneath the gazebo. I listened to the busker as she took out her clarinet and played jazz. Then I got out our portable laptop and typed as if I couldn’t not type. For six whole days, while the jazz played, I typed faster and faster and the typing turned into Chapter One of a whole new book, called, ‘If you had time for… One Last Story… what would it be?’  

It was a beautiful six days. We also ate out every night and went walking beneath a full moon and figured out how to boil a kettle on the windowsill, so that added to the beauty. But this month, Darren and I and the boys are all back at home in the Blue Mountains, doing lots of urgent, pre-arranged, scheduled things that aren’t quite as beautiful. It’s not quite Quebec. In fact, it’s not Quebec at all, and part of me wishes I could pop back there and sit in the gazebo and find out what happens in Chapter Two. Maybe if I had time and beauty, I think, I could finish the book and everything would be easier.  

But this morning, I walked to the Post Office and noticed the Jacarandas are turning purple. I heard Jeremy’s laugh as he rode down the street to school. In my known place, and amongst my familiar people, there is still beauty. The boys don’t often greet me with ‘Bonjour Madam’, but they speak to me in voices that I love. And while it’s true that the unfamiliar brings new thoughts and words and inspiration, the familiar brings intimacy. And it’s the intimacy that I love and crave. In Quebec, I can be a stranger and spoken to with respect by the hot dog man, but I can’t be known and I can’t be loved and I can’t be trusted. For that, I have to go home.

 Lord, thank you for our homes and the Jacaranda trees, and the sounds of the people we love. Thank you that they know us and love us and trust us… and please help us to love them in return.