THE SHOULDER SEASON

April 15  2013Many years ago, when I first took an intensive Italian language course, I marveled at the way, when slightly brain dead after a lesson, random Italian words would gather in nonsensical phrases that sounded, well, perfectly sensible. My favorite was “ogni tanta una lattuga” which translates to “now and then a lettuce.”  More recently, when trying to brush up on my long-ago high school French, I had the same experience, the ultimate being, “Merde du Printemps” or, Shit of Spring. If you’ve spent time in France and Italy you might agree that each of these phrases is perfectly suited to its respective culture.We are entering our last 2 weeks here in Provence and are experiencing both the magnificence of spring and the merde of it. Every once in a while the neck injury from a couple of decades ago decides to wake-up screaming. While I try not to lose sight of the miracle of having survived a broken neck and the subsequent surgery which fused 4 vertebrae with a section of rib from some departed angel, I’ll admit that when the pain comes it drains me of energy and pisses me off, which of course, further drains me.Ten days ago, just as spring got really serious, I woke up one morning and some f..ker stabbed me just above the left shoulder blade and the bastard’s been at it ever since. Sneaky too, any movement can cause it. By midday I’m pretty much an inflamed, incensed creature, petulant not to be romping through the fields and orchards.The Luberon Valley is a symphony right now and one can almost hear the first movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. A string of hot sunny days has risen nature’s sap, resulting in vast swaths of white blossomed cherry orchards which, when viewed from a distance, almost look like wafts of low-lying cloud. Up close they are a froth of marshmallow buzzing with bees. And dandelions! Who knew! Here they are not viewed with disdain but left to spread their golden yellow in vibrant carpets so that we mortals are sandwiched between the sun above and below.It’s so happy here, the surge of spring evident in an overnight donning of green apparel. The cherry blossoms are mere days away from departure, making way for the fruit. Apple, peach, apricot and pear blossoms are making their entrance while the pale pink flowers of the almond trees are long gone. Iris blades are knifing the air, much like the pain in my shoulder. I can only hope to bloom so gallantly.Yet along with the pleasure of switching from boots to shoes and from coats to tee shirts, I’d be lying if I said I felt no sadness for the passing of winter. This one has been the best of our lives: three months of retreat on the outskirts of a medieval village nestled on the side of a French valley; the bracing walks and long days by the fire; a pot of soup on the stove, each of us working on our own creative projects. It’s been solitary and nourishing. We turned inward, by choice, saw some items in ourselves we didn’t like and managed to chuck a couple of them.At the same time, we’ve been doing a little collecting. After all, when you fly the coop, you still have to nest wherever you go. And so it is that we have acquired some lovely old linen, primitive pots and crocks, old wooden boxes and boards and a couple of delicious baskets. Perhaps our most treasured item is a set of cutlery for 8, randomly put together from various flea markets and broccante shops. 8 plates, too, and a very fine teapot.All these things will travel with us to Tuscany soon and I realize it’s more than nesting. We said we’d give ourselves this year in Europe to feel our way around; no decisions until the end of the year as to where we want to base ourselves. But I’m home already. A young friend recently asked me how it feels to be leaving one wonderful place for another. It feels amazing and fortunate. At the same time, this little 2-week passage is a shoulder season of its own. Much like the slightly torn feeling of leaving the coziness of winter for the adventure of spring, I am a little sad to leave the energy of Provence while simultaneously feeling the deep beckon of our return to Tuscany and the even deeper entry into nature.So is it this torn feeling that bears some relation to the physical pain? Or did I, as I am wont to do, move too quickly from one season to the next?