l'horizon bordelais

Here I am, a week of teaching completed and a full month living in Bordeaux.  It’s been an amazing time, but it has certainly not been seamless. On Monday morning, I sat in SIP—a lovely café around the corner from my flat—doing final preparations for my classes starting the next day, and I fought back tears as it suddenly dawned on me that I am completely unqualified for this new position of lectrice.  The week before, the English language professors had given me and my colleagues a crash course in teaching, and while it was informative, I felt in no way prepared to stand before a roomful of university students.  The sudden awareness that I had been sitting in the place of my students just months before floored me. I could no longer focus, so I packed up my things, left the café and headed home stopping in the corner shop to buy bread and cookies to calm my nerves.  As I am learning from my new British friends, what I really needed was a good cup of tea. ...

When times change, when things seem uncertain or profound, I tend to look along the horizon for guidance.  I can’t resist the pull of the line formed where the sky and earth meet.  There’s something in that union that makes me pause and consider the future, the divine.   For months leading up to this moment, I stood before the Carolina Coast with my eyes fixed on the Atlantic horizon and dreamed about this moment. It’s hard to believe my long awaited moment is no longer future, but present. Here I am, sitting perched on the sill of a window in the middle of Bordeaux, sipping a local red blend and admiring the historical buildings around. I can’t help but feel that the horizon is simultaneously somewhere ahead and right here on the floor beneath my feet.  Aren't the places where we stand just as much unions of sky and earth? As a little girl, I remember watching the reflection of the early morning sun on the lake.  I loved the way the dia...