After getting up, I like to shuffle around the house a bit, and take in the sun through the tall windows. I need this before I put myself into chore mode. Chore mode means taking action. I want to react before I act. The staircase in the hallway shines amidst the high-gloss doors. Ah, but that shabby little window behind it… its fading paint and rust stains… it doesn't look good. Furthermore, it's half blocked by the stairs to the attic that were built after the fact. The window is tricky: a painter has to be able to move elastically for it. Hmm, not really feeling it yet.

Ohh, now I can see the morning sun shining diagonally into the spare room. What a beautiful light on the old sturdy ‘monastery table’. The little table was given to me by my dear friend Edith. “This table has moved with me so many times, and when I was going to get rid of it, I was reminded of your French adventure. Now it can see yet another part of the world,” she said. I am delighted everytime I see it. It is more than a fitting table for our French maison. Her support, love and friendship is in this table. A real writer's table, I think. Inspiration begins to itch and I sit down. Those chores can wait until this afternoon.

With a warm feeling, I go back to last summer, to our first weeks here. My brother in law stayed in this room at first. He came to assist when we just arrived and was a great help.  Then he left, and it became the room where we stored all of our large materials and supplies. Later in March, we discovered that mice had chewed on the seemingly delicious mattress which was stacked with garden chair cushions on it. The work of April/May transformed this room into what it is today. What can happen in a year!

Now I am sitting at my ‘monastery table’. Who knows how many nuns have sat at this table ... reading or writing in contemplation. Gladly I would crawl into a time machine and follow the history of this table. From the tree being cut down, to the carpenter putting it together, to the places where it has stood. And then all the life stories of all those people who sat behind this

table. Something about its sturdiness fills me with these reveries.

I am one of the many people with a half-finished book on their computer, and I will probably never get around to finishing it. It's okay though, my ego and I are not bothered. I’ve let go of it. After a few weeks in Bellerive, fun stories that beg to be written about emerge from the relaxation. The writer in me is more than happy enough with the material available from our French adventure. An adventure about which we both say: life is to be lived, and that’s what we do!