a school

At the breakfast table a week or so ago, I was asked by a curious couch-surfer what brought me to the Pyrenees. So early in the morning and with a busy day of teaching ahead of me, I was initially stumped. As I drove to a neighbouring valley for my first lesson, I shifted through the layers of reasons, trying to pinpoint the exact reason: university, necessity, university...

Later in the week, I was invited to an evening of poetry in Esquièze, and I stumbled upon the real reason I came here: une ecole.

It is so long since I last set foot in that school as a visiting English Language Teacher that I had almost forgotten...

It was only a couple of years ago that I hang up my coat for the last time, but every time I walk past I feel I could reach out and open the door to that school, finding my seat and guiding the children through the basics of the English language. Change is inevitable and is of course hard. But were there not a constant stream of comings and goings in that little school, it wouldn't be such a wonderfully rich and dynamic place of learning and exchange.

This valley has been a place of so many firsts for me, sometimes it seems as if every gushing stream, jagged peak and rounded stone has been instrumental in shaping the course of my life.

And here, a school. My first as a teacher. Here in this hallway we helped the little ones out of their ski boots each morning in the winter. Here in the garden, we planted daffodil bulbs in the Spring. We lit candles in December and I taught the children to sing English Christmas carols. They scuttled in with their new pencils and school bags in the first week of September.

All so long ago now as to have been a dream. But it wasn't a dream. I have the evidence right here: "Oh Fran, tu venais nous voir quand on étais petit..."

I walk past that school, bump into pupils and parents almost every day. Perhaps that was the reason for the inexplicable deep sadness that filled my days since moving back here last year and until very recently.

I am no longer in my beloved school, but the memories will stay forever fresh.

Life has moved on and the children are growing up. But then if I take a moment to think about it, I realise that so am I, in both ways...

solace

Somehow, spring seems such a hopeful time of year.

Somehow, against all the odds, we have made it through the winter.
Perhaps we'll make it through this blip after all?

As the days lengthen once more, the buds turn to blossom then leaves and the song thrush sings late into the dusk, I find solace in nature, in this season of renewal.

19th March

This is what an immigrant looks like, grinning from ear to ear and full of wide-eyed wonder and hope, having just set foot in the country she has longed for from afar for so very long.

That was me back in 2009, at the start of my year abroad. The 19th of March 2009 will forever be a day engraved in my memory.

It was the day I was first woken by the bells of L’Eglise des Templiers, the day I took my first steps as an English Language Assistant in Esquièze School, the day I began my life here in the Pyrenees.

We visited the school, we went to Lourdes, I drove in the gorges for the first time. My Pa was with me every step of the way, getting me ready for the inevitable separation, which at the time was heartbreaking.

Apart from the smiling face, I can hardly recognise myself in that photo above, hardly believe I had the courage, aged only 21, to take the plunge and start up life abroad. As I think back to my first few weeks out here, it is wonderful to realise just how far I have come, how much I have grown and learnt during my time here. And how attached I have become to this place.

hello, sunshine

The past few days have been just glorious. Warm breezes, cloudless skies, sunshine on our faces. Trees, flowers and hedgerows bursting into bloom. White blossoms against swathes of blue sky. Delighted cries of "It feels like spring summer!" when bare legs and bare toes get their first outing of the year.

We're halfway through the new month and I've decided to take a break from work. I need a bit of breathing space. To slow down. To gather my thoughts. To listen to the rhythms of my body. To find a place for healing.  

It's not been an easy decision to make, and we certainly haven't taken it lightly. Right now, I'm a little afraid of what this is actually gonna mean for me, for us. But as the anxiety and tension gradually melt away, I'll gradually be able to appreciate the decision. This slower life is exactly what I need right now. Knowing that I have nothing to do but to listen to my body, to pace myself, to finally find balance. I'll have time for siestas. Time to slowly walk around the village, leaning heavily on Nico's arm. I'll have time. Time to sit out in the warming sun and do....absolutely nothing.

As we step into this newness, as we slow down, I say with a joyful heart: "Hello, sunshine. You are so very welcome."