Posts
Chers Amis,
Enfin, a quiet moment to sit down and tell you about the sweet happenings at my moulin - my mill. Why all the talk of mills you ask? Well, it started with a desire to clean up a cluttered corner and make room for a new school year's books. I only meant to pack up all those dusty tomes that I couldn't bear to throw away but a few called to me from the top shelf like friends from the past whose paths no longer intersect your own. Voices from far away - Verlaine, Baudelaire, Pagnol. Most lofty and reserved, some angry and cynical. But one clear voice caught my attention, Alphonse Daudet's "Lettre de mon Moulin." It is a collection of stories and anectdotes about the people and places he encountered while living in the first floor of a old mill in Provence. So happy, was he in this place, this "Little corner, perfumed and warm, a thousand miles from newspapers, cabs, smog! . . . And all the nice things around me." From there he wrote, his door wide open to the sunlight. I could smell the honeyed hills and smiled, taking the bouquin down for a long conversation to catch up on all the news. It reminded me that while my home isn't really an old mill set up on the lavender scented hills of Provence with a lovely wood of pines sparkling in the sun, it is my simple corner of goodness and joy. Welcome to mon moulin.
Enfin, a quiet moment to sit down and tell you about the sweet happenings at my moulin - my mill. Why all the talk of mills you ask? Well, it started with a desire to clean up a cluttered corner and make room for a new school year's books. I only meant to pack up all those dusty tomes that I couldn't bear to throw away but a few called to me from the top shelf like friends from the past whose paths no longer intersect your own. Voices from far away - Verlaine, Baudelaire, Pagnol. Most lofty and reserved, some angry and cynical. But one clear voice caught my attention, Alphonse Daudet's "Lettre de mon Moulin." It is a collection of stories and anectdotes about the people and places he encountered while living in the first floor of a old mill in Provence. So happy, was he in this place, this "Little corner, perfumed and warm, a thousand miles from newspapers, cabs, smog! . . . And all the nice things around me." From there he wrote, his door wide open to the sunlight. I could smell the honeyed hills and smiled, taking the bouquin down for a long conversation to catch up on all the news. It reminded me that while my home isn't really an old mill set up on the lavender scented hills of Provence with a lovely wood of pines sparkling in the sun, it is my simple corner of goodness and joy. Welcome to mon moulin.
No comments:
Post a Comment