Oh Little Angel, Shining Light

When I hold my little two month old granddaughter as she sleeps, the world slows to the sound of her breathing, embraces from the warmth of her relaxed, slumbering body, and refreshes at the smell of her fuzzy, soft head at my cheek. I explore her tiny hand wrapped around my finger, her little ears that look like her mama's which look like mine, the perfect shape of her tiny head, her nose, her eyes, her rosebud mouth. I am only aware of God, my life, this baby who is part of me. I do nothing but experience that blessed, prayer full moment - utterly undistracted - in the beautiful, timeless moment that is love.

French Level One, Fourth Time

Je parle français. . .

. . .un peu.

French is a very difficult language for me to speak, though reading is easier, writing, too.

The shape of my mouth and throat seem to resist forming the sounds required to pronounce some of the letters and blends.

Now, Italian, ah, there my mouth finds its home. Easy peasy!

Parlo italiano con felicità.

So, why study French?

Because I am - and have long been - a francophile. Studying the language was a natural result of my french explorations.

The same logic drives why I study Italian as well. I love Italy and the Italian way of life, for the most part. In fact, I began studying Italian first, but it was kind of hard because no one I know speaks the language, so I was all on my own. Reciting the words was easy enough. Understanding what I was saying, not so much.

Enter two daughters taking French lessons in high school.

Aha! Here's my chance to adequately learn a second language, I thought. I was right. The girls helped me quite a bit with grammar, with pronunciation, with answering questions about this and that.

Still, the language is a bit difficult for me. French people speak quickly. Very. And with very small mouth movements, quiet mask-type faces, not to mention those 'r's' in the back of the throat. Help! I am Old School American, big mouth, many facial expressions. 'Nuff said?

However, I am persistent. I have kept at it off and on over the years, twelve to be exact.

My foreign language skills helped tremendously during a recent trip to France and Italy, especially in reading literature and road signs. When it came to speaking, I was pleasantly surprised how the words and phrases popped into my brain when I needed them. Sure I was clumsy. Sometimes I'd become flustered, and all words French disappeared. I'd stand there stupefied. Those moments, though, when the words just flowed out unconsciously, those were the best. The French people were kind to me. They appreciated my effort. Communication happened well enough. (I should note here that the Italians understood me and praised me, though I speak Italian like a four year old. They encouraged me to keep at it, said I was doing well. I credit my pronunciation. I loved chatting with locals in Italian. I thrived and am eager to get back to that language once my French goals are met.)

Closer to home is the main reason I am determined to reach a higher level of skill: my son-in-law is French. His family is French. His friends are French. My daughter's and his children will be bilingual. (Their pup is! The command, "Fais bisou," which roughly means 'give a kiss,' is happily followed by a little Corgi nose bump on the cheek. It's quite cute.) How grand will it be to read French books to my future grandchildren! C'est merveilleux!

As anyone who has taken high school - or even college - foreign language studies knows, rustiness occurs pretty rapidly with disuse.

Herein lies my dilemma. Months and months go by without any cracking of the books or computer programs. Slip-sliding away.

I go back to the drawing board over and over.

BUT, each time I revisit the beginning levels, I find the review reveals that I am retaining the basics better and better, my pronunciation is improving, and I am tip-toeing around the beginnings of the faintest whispers of the outlying area of fluency.

It's hard!

But I love it!

Last night at midnight, after a few weeks of review, I finished - for the fourth time - Level One in my Rosetta Stone French course. It was so easy for me!

Final Score: 98%

I noiselessly, giddily danced around my living room, cheering myself on as the empty neighborhood streets glistened with light rain, and my husband peacefully slept in bed.

It's a big deal to me, to be still at it, to be improving, to be engaged and passionate.

Never give up. Never surrender.

Tomorrow I shall begin Level Two, for the third time.

Wish me luck!

Yearn, Ache, Sob

Me photographing the Irish countryside, 2015

In all my dimensions I miss the United Kingdom and Europe. Mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually I pine pine pine to be there right now.

In particular England, Ireland, Italy, and France.

I was fortunately blessed to travel there about a year ago, for an extended stay.

While I was blissfully happy to return to my home once again, that bliss has completely receded.

In its place is a void so huge it hurts.

I find myself weeping - even sobbing - to return.

I miss the old buildings, the Old World everywhere.

I miss the languages.

I miss the people.

I miss the beauty.

I miss the clock towers with their ringing bells.

I miss the clatter of the cobblestones.

I miss the Irish smiles and laughter, the friendliness.

I miss rashers, those delicious breakfast meats.

I miss Dublin's energy, and Galway's pride.

I miss the smells - old and musty and then new and alive.

I miss the arches and bridges and rivers with their walkways.

I miss the Tube of London, the buses, too.

I miss Hyde Park in the evening.

I miss the meat pies, the tarts, the lemonade.

I miss the flower boxes and gardens surprising me as I stroll and explore.

I miss the Left Bank with its ghosts of people I would love to have met.

I miss the castles and cathedrals.

The wrought iron...how is it I can so incredibly miss wrought iron, but I do.

I miss the meandering rock walls and crumbling rock ruins.

I miss the art EVERYWHERE.

I miss the shops, the pubs, the excellence.

I miss the little hilly Italian villages with the moon and sun over them.

I miss Venice, the canals, the boats, the lights, the colors.

I miss thick drinking chocolate with whipped cream.

I miss the olive groves heavy with fruit, their pale green leaves merry in the sunshine.

I miss the bread - oh, my, do I miss the bread.

I miss standing and moving and breathing in an ancient timeline of which I am part.

I miss the way I feel when I'm there...

... as if I am embraced...

... as if I am home.