Shapes.

January 30, Saint-Ismier.

Museum.

January 30, Saint-Ismier.

More browns.

January 29, Saint-Ismier.

Climbers.

January 15, Saint-Ismier.

The first week.

January 7, Saint-Ismier.

A week of school now and I tip my hat off to my kids.
Dylan went back the second day after being bullied the first and went every day after that ("Mom, you'd be a pilot and come and rescue me if they bother me;" I was there near the school yard to watch over him that day and that's all it took;) Nicolas came out at lunch-time all smiles, proclaiming that school was great, after I'd left him in tears the second morning, and has been doing just fine since. For kids who had never left me since they were born, no baby-sitter, no day-care, just our circus routine, it is a monumental achievement.
And the way they always skip our predictions, surprising us with who they are.

Browns.

January 5, Saint-Ismier.

Chartreuse sky.

January 5, Saint-Ismier.

The mountains of Belledonne.

January 5, Saint-Ismier.

My mother's house sits in a deep valley between the Belledonne mountains, slow to rise and majestic in size, and the Chartreuse chain, which on this side look like a fortress wall and not much the tumultuous green desert where the Chartreux monks have been taking refuge since the eleventh century.

Report.

January 4, Saint-Ismier.

Round two. The good thing is that you can try again, and no answer is written.
True to nature, Nicolas cried and would not be soothed, Dylan told him to have fun and walked away with his teacher.

Shadows.

January 3, Saint-Ismier.

You are revealed to yourself in your kids - I not I. I am left wide open and hurt again.
Today for the first time I brought Dylan and Nicolas to the elementary school near my mother's home, the first day of their "community life," la vie en communauté, the French like to say, life with others. Here school starts at three, so Nicolas went too.
This morning was getting up early and getting ready for the day many times announced, this morning it went so fine, Dylan disappeared into the classroom as I'd thought, and even Nicolas, clingy Nicolas stayed behind without a look at me.
And then.
L'enfer c'est les autres, Sartre said.
Being bullied, I want to go home, being afraid, feeling like you want to be miles away and hide, being a kid again, I can't stand seeing my kids cry, I feel so awkward, the cruelty of childhood, left unsaid, the wounds, left buried, here to be touched, a life/time to find my voice, ha! still trying, and I can't stand seeing my kids cry, crying, the cruelty of childhood, why did I leave him there, why is it still there, the wounds, trying to find my voice, but this is no about me it's about him isn't it?, why didn't I come back and get him, crying, learn to live with others, learn to defend yourself or shut up, what's the use it's only the beginning.
This afternoon after lunch recess I witnessed Dylan being bullied in the school yard. He started crying but after going to the teachers I left him there with them, crying for me. Then I turned around and went back and got him.
Nicolas was home, no afternoon school till later, don't want to be too hard on the little one; in the morning he was fine until he saw his brother in the school yard and then he started crying and all they could do was carry him into the classroom and leave him to cry. Crying.
I am left wide open and hurt again.
I want to go home, to the fragile haven of life in the circus, to face my open wounds the only way I know.
It is never enough but it'll have to do.
Tomorrow we try again to face our fears.

Photo by Dylan.