Thoreau Was Right

"To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts." Henry David Thoreau  

My father died one day after his sixty-ninth birthday, when he was given a party, a rarity because of the misfortune of being born the day after Christmas when everyone was celebrated out. 

I have a photo of him looking at his birthday cake which is decorated as a golf course. He had played his best game ever.

The day I turned 69, I vowed I would live for both for us. For the most part I've succeeded. 

Whether I'm in Geneva or the south of France, I pledge myself to try and make it a good day no matter what. In Geneva I've both the countryside and city, the lush tree-lined streets, the farms, the history. If I'm in the center I'm reminded under my feet once there was a Roman villa.

When I wake in France I see the Japanese style painting and the wire sculpture with the birds on the wall opposite my bed. There's the net curtain with hearts. Good start no matter what.

 

In both places there's good food, sometimes plain, sometimes gourmet. I want to taste it, smell it, feel it in my mouth. Sometimes it is no more than baked beans, a memory of Saturday night suppers throughout my life. There's comfort being with my husband and dog, Sherlock. 

Rarely is there a lobster, but there's the memory of our Swiss friends, who were able to procure one that they prepared in New England style.

There's colors everywhere: blues, dusty roses, greens that manifest themselves in fabric and flowers. 

Music: popular French and American, jazz, rock, classical, show tunes. Sometimes music sets a mood. When I was at uni, a school with a well developed music department, there were days I'd sit on the stairs outside the practice rooms and listen to students practicing. When I'm at L'Hostalet café, across from the old city hall converted into a music school, I can hear lessons. 

There are books to read, movies to see, art to look at, facts to learn.

Friends to share with. 

People watching...a little girl convincing her father she must have some ice cream, a little boy catching a ball. He's too little to play with the big boys, but they let him throw the ball a couple of times. His face was a study in joy.

Each day I gather memoryetts (a made up word) of the day to replay before I fall asleep, again with my husband and dog nearby. 

I have no idea how much longer I will live be it a few days or another decade. I'm hoping for the decade because I have so much more I want to experience. There are blue skies to see, rain to feel, food to smell, sounds to hear, words to write. 

That does not mean that there aren't the personal glitches to deal with such as the evil elf in my computer throwing a tantrum, stupid paperwork, the loss of friends.  

The world is in turmoil. My birth country is being destroyed by a madmen and his band of incompetents. They are corrupt beyond past corruptions. I let them into my head, assigning them a corner.

Europe is on fire, literally. People are losing their homes. Wars and hatred abound. Temperatures are at record highs for record lengths of time. Climate change is real, a fact I want to scream from the top of an Alp.

However, I vow to realistically look at the horrible, deal with what needs to be dealt with WITHOUT letting it blind me to the colors that exist or drown out the music in my life or the good feelings.

Today was finally getting a doctor's appointment, three baby lizards running across the path, the green trees and hedges line the road to the village, a nice, simple lunch at a brasserie, a hard to get bread at the train station bolangerie, seeing that the striped snail had made his way off our patio,

I will enjoy the picnic even if the sky is dark overhead. I will practice the art that Thoreau mentions.