Good morning!

It’s Wednesday. And it was on this day, umpteen years ago, that my mother bravely pushed and pushed and pushed until I emerged into the world. I know at least two other Respiteers who also came into the world today. To celebrate, we’re time-traveling back to Paris so I can show you something.

Near the end of our trip, we were doing our usual walk through the Luxembourg Gardens when I noticed a very large bush covered in spectacular pink blossoms that had just opened. I stepped closer, leaned in for a sniff, and spotted something red.

Deep in the branches, just above eye level, some invisible stranger had tucked two small, smiling dolls—a secret handshake of delight for kindred spirits to discover.

I went back the next day to check on the dolls. Two women were looking at the bush. They saw me peer into the branches and moved closer to see what I was looking at—and then they spotted the dolls, and now three of us knew the secret handshake.

It occurs to me that we have a similar sort of secret handshake going on here. Every morning, we get to pause and notice something together and, hopefully, carry a bit of that spark with us into our day. It’s an antidote to loneliness and a glue for division, and your presence makes it all possible. You are the gift, today and always.

So, thank you.

“With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.”

—William Shakespeare

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Tuesday. While we were away, our morning sun abandoned the southeast side of the house, tiptoed over the roofline, and reclaimed her favorite corner of the porch. As soon as we spotted her return, we began bringing our coffee outside to welcome her, pulling our chairs as close as we could get.

She’s a very polite visitor. Most days, she leaves before we’re ready to say goodbye, which makes us even gladder to see her again the next morning.

“The adventure of the sun is the great natural drama by which we live, and not to have joy in it and awe of it, not to share in it, is to close a dull door on nature’s sustaining and poetic spirit.”

—Henry Beston

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Monday, and I guess I’m glad the deer don’t have a taste for dandelions. Although I still wish they’d left the tulips alone.

But now, those same dandelions are providing vital sustenance for freshly awoken pollinators—in this case, a splendid tricolored bumblebee, or Bombus ternarius. Could this be the queen herself, or is it just a worker? I’m not skilled enough to tell the difference. All I know is that it was very intent on its meal—so intent that it paid no mind to the nosy human crouching nearby, watching.

“Dinner alone is one of life’s pleasures.”

—Laurie Colwin

Onwards,

Clara

It’s Sunday, and the weather is glorious. I’ve brought us down to the water to enjoy a bay that will soon fill with motorboats and sailboats and lobster boats and schooners. Occasionally a mega-yacht will loom into view and scan the shoreline with a dismissive sniff before continuing on its journey towards Bar Harbor while we heave a sigh of relief.

But we have none of that yet. On this beautiful day, it’s just us, the birds, the buoy, and the waves.

“The ocean is a mighty harmonist.”

—William Wordsworth

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Saturday, and there’s big news at the feeder. A Baltimore Oriole paid us a visit—only the second time since we’ve lived here.

Our esteemed guest partook in a few bites of sunflower seed, enjoyed a leisurely bath, and then groomed its fabulous plumage. We admired its every move from the other side of a window barely three feet away.

Then it flew off.

Naturally, that was my cue to unearth the feeding contraption we bought several years ago after our first Baltimore Oriole visit. It has jelly dishes, bee guards, fruit holders, a baffle, moat, and reservoir. The mere act of cleaning and refilling this thing probably takes longer than most Thanksgiving cleanups, though I wouldn’t know for sure since it’s never had a repeat guest.

But there’s a first time for everything, right?

“Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and over again. And suddenly we take the hint.”

—Robert Frost

Onwards,

Clara

Hello, my dear Respiteers!

High-ho and tra-laa, it’s Friday again. The doors to our imaginary pavilion are…well, they’re actually closed because it’s a bit drizzly right now. I’ll be here for the next…

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Good morning!

It’s Friday. I took a walk yesterday, and halfway down the road I was bopped on the head by a bit of tree that cascaded from the heavens with a cheerful, “Hello, did somebody say petals and catkins?”

I told it I had.

“We thought you’d like to see us up close,” it said with what I can only imagine was a smile, although I couldn’t be sure since there was no face to be found.

I couldn’t tell if these were male flowers or female flowers, and we weren’t on close enough terms for me to ask. The University of Google tells me that a red maple tree can have both male and female flowers—and that one looks more like fireworks while the other resembles sea anemones. Which only sent me down a fireworks and sea anemone rabbit hole.

Meanwhile, I’m not sure how those budding leaves on the tip of the branch feel about ending their mission so soon—but they certainly do add a triumphant punctuation mark to the whole shebang, no?

“I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.”

—Joyce Kilmer

Respiteers, will you join me in our imaginary pavilion this afternoon? As always, check your inbox right before 2pm EDT.

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Thursday, and the red maples are awash in blossoms. There they perch, way up high, eagerly awaiting a passing insect or puff of wind to pollinate them.

Once that has occurred, this whole elaborate system of petals and catkins can say goodbye to the tree and cascade down, down, down to the ground like confetti.

At that point the order of business shifts to forming seeds and growing leaves, a matter of growing leaves to sustain current life and form seeds to guarantee future generations.

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”

—William Shakespeare

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Wednesday. And according to my calendar, today is National Root Canal Appreciation Day. Which is fine, I suppose. But it’s no match for what I found just beyond yesterday’s skunk cabbage.

Violets! Loads and loads of them. They were poking up through the grass and through patches of bare soil, in singles and clusters, in fields and lawns and woodland edges—joyful miracles, all.

“Human subtlety...will never devise an invention more beautiful, more simple or more direct than does nature, because in her inventions nothing is lacking, and nothing is superfluous.”

—Leonardo da Vinci

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Tuesday, and having confirmed the fate of our tulips, we’ve laced up our shoes and made our way down the long dirt road to see how that part of this world fared while we were gone.

Immediately, we noticed the brilliant green, freshly unfurled skunk cabbage leaves. Not a true cabbage at all, the Symplocarpus foetidus has the nifty ability to generate heat—melting surrounding snow or ice so that it can bloom while everything else is still frozen. (The process is called thermogenesis, if you’re looking for a new vocabulary word.)

The skunk cabbage gets its name from the plant’s rather pungent perfume some might call skunky or even putrid. But to early spring pollinators catching their first whiff after a long winter, it’s irresistible—and that’s what counts.

“See those green cabbage buds lifting the dry leaves in that watery and muddy place. There is no can’t nor cant to them. They see over the brow of winter’s hill. They see another summer ahead.”

—Henry David Thoreau

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Monday, and the tulips are coming along splendidly. By which I mean they’ve done a phenomenal job of nourishing, sustaining, and tickling the palate of at least one passing deer.

I prefer to believe the deer thought they were doing us a favor by keeping the yard tidy.

But if that were the case, why didn’t they help themselves to the dandelions too?

“At the center of your being you have the answer;
you know who you are and you know what you want.”

—Lao Tzu

Onwards,

Clara

It’s Sunday, and we’re staring out at a landscape that’s very different from the one we left in March. The window is open so we can hear the birds, including…what’s that? A hermit thrush? Oh yes indeed, they’ve returned, as have we.

Everything is still in the early stages. I can see hints of green in the trees, though the leaves have yet to unfurl. But the thurbarb is up and already begging to be plucked, chopped, and served warm with a glug of cream—which we’ll do later today. But first, let’s just stand here at the window and take it all in.

“At times I feel as if I am spread out over the landscape and inside things, and am myself living in every tree . . . in the clouds and the animals that come and go, in the procession of the seasons.”

—Carl Jung

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Saturday, and we’ve returned to a world that is still waking up from its winter slumber. The spring clock has been rewound and we get to experience it all again—the forsythia and daffodils, the tulips and hyacinths and lilacs and cherry blossoms, all of it, along with that sense of slowly unfurling hope and joy and renewal.

“It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection.”

—Voltaire

Onwards,

Clara

Hello, my dear Respiteers!

Tis Friday afternoon. I’ve unlocked the doors to our imaginary pavilion, swept the floor, plumped the pillows, and put on the kettle. Won’t you join me? I’ll be here until a…

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Good morning!

It’s Friday. And after leaving French soil, our big plane roared across the Atlantic, passing so close to our house I could’ve parachuted into our backyard.

And now, having completed all the formalities involved in entering another country, we’ve made our way back up the coast on a much smaller aircraft and are in our final approach for landing.

A rather spectacular cloudbank has assembled to welcome us home, making our little plane bounce and leap across this familiar ground like a puppy.

“That’s what the American odyssey is really about: Leaving home. Leaving home and coming home, and trying to understand the difference.”

—Tom Bodett

Respiteers, shall we gather in our imaginary pavilion this afternoon? As always, check your inbox right before 2pm EDT.

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Thursday, and it’s time for us to close our bags, roll them into the hallway, do one last check, set the keys on the kitchen counter, and then slowly pull the door closed until we hear the lock click—at which point there’s no going back, only forwards.

After two, possibly three trips in the world’s tiniest elevator with our suitcases, we’ll watch Paris slip away through the windows of a cab. Then comes the airport, which introduces a whole new series of steps, followed by a plane, more steps, another plane, and on it goes.

It can seem daunting, especially in the early morning. So we’ll take it pixel by pixel and trust that the picture will complete itself.

“You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”

—Martin Luther King, Jr.

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Wednesday, and the cat at our neighborhood cafe would like you to know that she’s not at all perturbed that the business is closed today. Even hard-working cafe cats need a break now and then.

She also wants you to know that of course she sits on the tables—and that all proper cafe cats do the same.

Last but not least, she wishes to inform you that you can tap on that glass until your finger falls off but she will not interrupt her morning bath. She sees people all the time, but there’s a spot on her paw that desperately needs attention. Cleanliness comes first, especially on her day off.

“Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things which matter least.”

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Tuesday, and Bear has been doing a lot of writing on this trip. Since his camera was too large and delicate to make the journey, I found him a small journal and some colored pencils. He hauls them out whenever we go to a cafe, wanders a few steps away, and begins to scribble in private.

Depending on the day, he’s either working on his memoir (working title: The Diary of a Very Small Bear) or a mystery tentatively called A Very Small Bear Investigates. When he saw these bears at the toy department at Le Bon Marché, he asked me if perhaps he could write a book called A Very Small Bear’s Guide to Great Big Hugs. Why not?

If this keeps up, we’re going to need another notebook.

“I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.”

—Anais Nin

Onwards,

Clara

Good morning!

It’s Monday. I’ve been marking our time here by flowers.

First came the ranunculi, which I assumed would be my only floral indulgence. But they faded so beautifully, I decided to bring in a bouquet of freesia to keep them company.

Then the freesia faded and I indulged in some peonies—les pivoines, as the flower man calls out over and over again at the market. Those peonies turned out to be show-stoppers, with a spectacular display of anther, stigma, carpal, disc, and filament fireworks. (Yes, I had to look those words up.)

But then they, too, began to ask for support—which is when a bouquet of cranberry red double peonies came home with me. They quickly opened and surprised us by fading to peach. With each generation of flowers, I’d check the calendar. Will there be time for one more bouquet? How about now? And…now?

It seemed only fair to give those once-brilliant and now faded peonies some support in the form of a perky bouquet of bubblegum-pink newcomers. And this time, I managed to get a smile out of the flower man, which I’ll take as a victory.

Now the last of the peonies can all say goodbye together. I’ll clean the vase and tuck it high on a shelf for the next guest to fill. And then, I can look forward to watching the peonies emerge from our own soil back home.

“Out of the sighs of one generation are kneaded the hopes of the next.”

—Machado de Assis

Onwards,

Clara

It’s Sunday—and we’ve reached our last Sunday in France. In the coming week, we’ll pack up our lives and carry them back across the Atlantic for home.

In honor of this impending transition, I’ve brought us back to Granville. We’re standing in the garden that surrounds the childhood home of the designer Christian Dior, high on a bluff overlooking the English Channel.

I think of all the people who’ve stood in this very spot pondering life’s big questions—and I propose that we now do the same.

“To sit in solitude, to think in solitude with only the music of the waves and the wind, this is the greatest luxury.”

—Jane Austen

Onwards,

Clara