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| Down by the river. Photo by George Angus |
She realized she'd never ride
Through Paris in a sports car
With the warm wind in her hair"
Marianne Faithfull's raw voice singing The ballad of Lucy Jordon, had me in tears on my 37th birthday. Like her, I would never make it to Paris before the day was done and a sports car was definitely out of the question. Hearing the song being played again recently, and thinking back sixteen years, I tried to remember what made me feel so wretched. Outwardly my life was not that bad, but it struck a deep chord that I myself was not yet fully aware of: of a soul longing to be realised.
In all honesty, Paris or any city abroad and sports cars are not my criteria for happiness. It would be fun, but no reason to throw myself of a roof like poor old Lucy. Surely it is not merely about a longing to be someone special, or of experiencing the most romantic dream one could possibly have amidst the drudgery of a suburban life. It is about so much more, isn't it?
At fifty three, I don't feel the yearning any longer. Did my own dream die? I didn't give it much thought until some delicious serendipity occurred.
It happened in the form of a book. The famous American cook, Julia Child's, memoir: My life in France. After watching the film, Julie and Julia, with Meryl Streep in the role of Julia Child, I was eager to read this book. The film intertwines the lives of Julia Child during her years in France and that of a young writer, Julie Powell, who cooked her way through all 524 recipes of Julia's first cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in a single year, and blogged about it. Julia somehow got to me in the same way she got to Julie. I wasn't sure why.
The memoir leaves off two years into Julia's marriage to her beloved Paul. She is yet to become the famous cook she lived herself into as they sail for Paris in November 1948. She falls in love with the city straight away and throws herself into learning to speak French and be as good a wife and housekeeper as she can possibly be. She tells of their first home and how, "feeling nesty", she furnished the kitchen with shopping sprees to "Le Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville, or 'le B.H.V.,' an enormous market filled with aisle upon aisle of cheaply made merchandise."
She would load the back of their huge American car, a Buick dubbed Flash, with anything from pails to a potted flower and drive back to their rented apartment through the streets of Paris. You guessed it. She was in her thirty seventh year.
So, Julia's sports car was a Buick? She made it? Is that it?
If she did, she wasn't aware of it! Domestic life in Paris may sound very romantic, but it was far from it. With no water in the kitchen during winter because the water pipes would freeze up, no heating except for their pot-bellied stove and not being able to communicate with anyone, Julia had good reason to be dangerously depressed.
Yet she wasn't. She was exultant. Throwing herself into the adventure of her life. What strikes me about Julia Child is how alive she seems in the pages of the book. "Joie de vivre" spills from her even at the age of almost ninety two when the book was written!
What then is the difference between Lucy's life and Julia's? Is it merely a question of attitude? Should Lucy have studied a foreign language? Or taken a Cordon Bleu cooking course? What made her feel she had no options? What made me feel that way at thirty seven?
It has to do with being in touch with what makes you feel alive. Of staying true to this and to make choices, small and large, that keeps supporting what constitutes Paris in a sports car for you personally. To then stay open to what life brings and to stay the course. I am quite sure Julia Child could not imagine herself a famous cook as she attended her very first cookery lesson. All she knew was that she had an appetite, for food and life, and that she wanted to satisfy that.
So there's Julia and Lucy and me. Each with our very own soul desire. My dream didn't die. Paris in a sports car for me turned out to be a walk down to the river. And a picnic there of sandwiches and boiled eggs. And the writing of it all.
But first I had to jump off the roof.
Matilda
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