JUL
12
12
Our mayor isn't what you'd expect. 'Mayor', for me, conjures up a picture of a man in a suit, perhaps with the addition of a gold chain and some ceremonial robes. But our mayor is tattoed and t-shirted. His name is Ivan and when I see him he always tilts his cheek toward me, a sign that I am required to make my way to his side, (he is wheelchair-bound due to a motorbike accident), and greet him with the traditional kisses on the cheek - three in our region. If my husband, Chris, is with me, Ivan will shake his hand, although once he slapped him jovially on the back of the thigh - causing Chris to mutter 'the mayor just slapped my thigh' several times between his teeth once we were free to saunter off.
Ivan is a dynamic charismatic presence in the village. He grew up here and his passion for the place and its people is obvious, as he makes his way through the public spaces, conversing with young and old, French and foreigners. He may be in a wheelchair but you never notice this after the first twenty seconds. What you do notice is how strong his arms and hands look, his generous humour and ever-ready smile, the joyful way he dances with his wife at a summer evening concert in the place.
Because of all this, I found it hard yesterday evening when I asked Ivan to sponsor me for The Great North Run, and didn't get the response I was expecting:
He was sitting at a table outside the café in the place with some other men from the village. As I approached them I fondly imagined how Ivan's enthusiastic support would mean the others would also be coerced into signing my sponsorship form.
'Bonjour', I greeted the men as a group, kissing Ivan on the proffered cheek.
'Bonjour. Ca va?'
Once the indispensable formalities were out of the way I proceeded to explain about the run, and the sponsorship. I've got a home-made sponsorship form for local sponsors, because the official one is in English and I thought it would be more user-friendly in French, plus there's no gift aid (because no UK tax payers), so I don't need addresses.
Also if I'm honest, I feel a bit awkward about asking for French money for a British organisation.
Ivan listened to what I had to say, then looked at the form I had typed out at home.
'But what organisation are you running for?'
'Diabetes UK'
'You should put that on the form so people will know, otherwise you could be taking the money to pay for your holidays for all I know'.
'No, I-'
'Oh I know you wouldn't do that - but still… And you're running for an English organisation? You're running in England?'
'Yes'
'Well you should be running for France. You live here. You must join a French organisation and run for them'.
The other men were watching. One or two nodded their heads. Ivan had a point, but being an ex-pat is more complicated than he knows. He doesn't understand that sometimes you have to do both things. He probably doesn't understand either that in times of need, we cry out to be comforted in our mother tongue.
I stood in front of him completely tongue-tied. It wasn't just the language that was blocking me, that prevented me from explaining about the different kinds of support I have needed and received, from the UK and from France; about my membership and contributions to an equivalent French organisation. It was the diabetes too which welled in my throat, the enormity of it, the impossibility of explaining a journey, still in any case only part-way through, still only half-explained to myself.
So I just said, 'Next time I'll run for France'.
It sounded small and I felt small saying it.
Ivan signed up reluctantly for ten euros, then dismissed me with a wave of his hand. I walked across the place to my car, aware of the table full of nationalists now shaking their heads at my back.
A whole twelve hours later my small-ness persists. I get ready to run but I can't find my trainers. My hair feels grotty and I debate washing it. I give up on going for a run and sit in front of the computer. I find myself looking at a questionnaire I filled in prior to a Diabetes UK Family Support Weekend in May:
Think about how much each of the items below may have upset or bothered you during the past month and circle the appropriate number.
There are numbers from one to six, one being not a problem, whilst 6, is a serious problem. Some of the 'items' are:
*Feeling sad when I think about my child having and living with diabetes (6)
*Not knowing if the moods or feelings my child has are related to my childs blood sugar levels (6)
*Feeling overwhelmed by my child's diabetes regimen (6)
*Feeling angry when I think about my child having and living with diabetes (6)
*Worrying about the future and my child suffering from serious complications (6)
*Feeling uncomfortable talking about diabetes with family and friends, or other people who do not have diabetes (6)
*Not 'accepting' my child's diabetes (6)
*Feeling 'burned out' by the constant effort to manage diabetes (6)
*Feeling that there is no one I can openly talk to about my feelings about my child's diabetes. (6)
The item about accepting the diabetes I see as misguided. I contemplate the fact that as a mother I feel I can never 'accept' my son's diabetes. It makes me angry to be told (usually by well-meaning professionals), that I need to do this. 'The diabetes is part of Marmaduke and you have to accept that - accept it as part of him'. What rubbish! Do we ask people with other chronic illnesses to accept the illness as part of them? Do we see cancer as 'part of the patient' or as a bloody awful disease? Do we calmly accept it into our lives and the lives of our loved ones or do we start to fight the minute we learn of its existence? I will not accept this chronic, currently incurable, auto immune disease as part of my son - because it isn't part of him! I cannot accept it because I will not resign myself or him to a world without hope - or faith. If you believe as I do that our thoughts create our world then it is imperative we believe that a cure can and will happen. It is through believing that we facilitate that event.
I go to hang washing, which is when I find my trainers on the terrace outside. I think about the incident with Ivan again and I wonder if I'm in the wrong about the sponsorship? Would it be better to use the original sponsorship form? Perhaps I won't ask for more donations from the French…
It's funny how one bad experience can obscure several good ones. There were French people who seemed very happy to sponsor me. Most of all Patricia who runs my son's after school club. She was my first local sponsor and she signed for twenty euros with a determined flourish. The father of one of Marmaduke's school friends who also signed on for twenty euros, wished me 'Bonne Courage!', and one local woman, who sponsored me generously, told me she admired what I was doing.
About ten thirty a.m I note that the sky is cloudy. Even though the temperatures about 27 degrees, there's no direct sun, and there's a slight breeze.
I put my trainers on and jog gently up the hill next to the house. The lane flattens out a bit, then I turn right and start the next ascent.
A little way after the first bend in the road I see a dead white butterfly on the tarmac. It's very hot and still all of a sudden. I don't know what happened to the breeze I could feel at the house. Nothing moves in the valley below and the cicadas' razor-strap rasping and mechanical chirruping rings in my ears, drowning out every other sound that might exist. I think about going back.
But something propels me on. Maybe its my stubbornness, or just that my body is used to this climb now and carries me forwards relentlessly, like a well-oiled machine.
I don't turn off the lane onto the track. I haven't done that since the morning I saw the marcassins. Instead I stick with the ascent and soon I'm way further up than usual, past Domaine de la Croix Blanche, which was the furthest I'd run until now. I can see the meandering path around the back of Rocher des Vierges, a local landmark mountain with a little chapel on top.
By the time I've said my affirmations I find I've run as far as the T junction at the top of the lane. I get a buzz when I round the corner and see the signposts: left to the Col du Vent, beyond which is the huge flat expanse of the Larzac plateau, known for its goats cheese. Right, the narrow road spirals down into the famed Herault valley. I grin and slap my hand against the triangular red edged sign, which says 'Vous n'avez pas la priorite' instead of 'Give Way'.
I feel I could run on, there's a track which starts a bit further up that I think would bring me back close to the house, but I didn't bring any water with me so it seems more sensible to turn and descend.
As I enjoy the loose-limbed feeling of running downhill I meditate on the purplish blue colour of the mountains on the other side of the valley. I love that colour, it gives me a sense of mystery and well being all at once.
A cyclist whizzes past me. 'Aller!' he shouts, and then 'Bonjour!'. He wears vibrant racing colours of blue and yellow. I shout 'Bonjour!' back, and then he's gone, freewheeling round the next bend.
He leaves me feeling strangely uplifted and I remember how, a few days ago, when looking for running shorts online - and getting distracted as I usually do, I came across a guy named Sri Chinmoy. Sri Chinmoy is an Indian peace guru, important enough to have been invited to the House of Commons. He's also a former champion decathlete and marathon runner, whose philosophy of transcendence means always trying to go beyond one's own limitations.
The acknowledgement of the cyclist who just went by has pleased me no end and it strikes me that he has caused me to feel part of a team - a team of people trying to transcend their own limitations.
I think of my friend Teresa, who runs for fifty minutes three times a week - I didn't know this until I talked to her about my training. One of my older sponsors told me he tries to do 8 km a few times a week, and then there's all those bloggers alongside me on the Great North Run site.
In fact, I realise, there are people everywhere, all the time, trying to go beyond their limitations in a million different ways.
Our mayor's one of them too, and he's part of my team, whether he likes it or not.
Ivan is a dynamic charismatic presence in the village. He grew up here and his passion for the place and its people is obvious, as he makes his way through the public spaces, conversing with young and old, French and foreigners. He may be in a wheelchair but you never notice this after the first twenty seconds. What you do notice is how strong his arms and hands look, his generous humour and ever-ready smile, the joyful way he dances with his wife at a summer evening concert in the place.
Because of all this, I found it hard yesterday evening when I asked Ivan to sponsor me for The Great North Run, and didn't get the response I was expecting:
He was sitting at a table outside the café in the place with some other men from the village. As I approached them I fondly imagined how Ivan's enthusiastic support would mean the others would also be coerced into signing my sponsorship form.
'Bonjour', I greeted the men as a group, kissing Ivan on the proffered cheek.
'Bonjour. Ca va?'
Once the indispensable formalities were out of the way I proceeded to explain about the run, and the sponsorship. I've got a home-made sponsorship form for local sponsors, because the official one is in English and I thought it would be more user-friendly in French, plus there's no gift aid (because no UK tax payers), so I don't need addresses.
Also if I'm honest, I feel a bit awkward about asking for French money for a British organisation.
Ivan listened to what I had to say, then looked at the form I had typed out at home.
'But what organisation are you running for?'
'Diabetes UK'
'You should put that on the form so people will know, otherwise you could be taking the money to pay for your holidays for all I know'.
'No, I-'
'Oh I know you wouldn't do that - but still… And you're running for an English organisation? You're running in England?'
'Yes'
'Well you should be running for France. You live here. You must join a French organisation and run for them'.
The other men were watching. One or two nodded their heads. Ivan had a point, but being an ex-pat is more complicated than he knows. He doesn't understand that sometimes you have to do both things. He probably doesn't understand either that in times of need, we cry out to be comforted in our mother tongue.
I stood in front of him completely tongue-tied. It wasn't just the language that was blocking me, that prevented me from explaining about the different kinds of support I have needed and received, from the UK and from France; about my membership and contributions to an equivalent French organisation. It was the diabetes too which welled in my throat, the enormity of it, the impossibility of explaining a journey, still in any case only part-way through, still only half-explained to myself.
So I just said, 'Next time I'll run for France'.
It sounded small and I felt small saying it.
Ivan signed up reluctantly for ten euros, then dismissed me with a wave of his hand. I walked across the place to my car, aware of the table full of nationalists now shaking their heads at my back.
A whole twelve hours later my small-ness persists. I get ready to run but I can't find my trainers. My hair feels grotty and I debate washing it. I give up on going for a run and sit in front of the computer. I find myself looking at a questionnaire I filled in prior to a Diabetes UK Family Support Weekend in May:
Think about how much each of the items below may have upset or bothered you during the past month and circle the appropriate number.
There are numbers from one to six, one being not a problem, whilst 6, is a serious problem. Some of the 'items' are:
*Feeling sad when I think about my child having and living with diabetes (6)
*Not knowing if the moods or feelings my child has are related to my childs blood sugar levels (6)
*Feeling overwhelmed by my child's diabetes regimen (6)
*Feeling angry when I think about my child having and living with diabetes (6)
*Worrying about the future and my child suffering from serious complications (6)
*Feeling uncomfortable talking about diabetes with family and friends, or other people who do not have diabetes (6)
*Not 'accepting' my child's diabetes (6)
*Feeling 'burned out' by the constant effort to manage diabetes (6)
*Feeling that there is no one I can openly talk to about my feelings about my child's diabetes. (6)
The item about accepting the diabetes I see as misguided. I contemplate the fact that as a mother I feel I can never 'accept' my son's diabetes. It makes me angry to be told (usually by well-meaning professionals), that I need to do this. 'The diabetes is part of Marmaduke and you have to accept that - accept it as part of him'. What rubbish! Do we ask people with other chronic illnesses to accept the illness as part of them? Do we see cancer as 'part of the patient' or as a bloody awful disease? Do we calmly accept it into our lives and the lives of our loved ones or do we start to fight the minute we learn of its existence? I will not accept this chronic, currently incurable, auto immune disease as part of my son - because it isn't part of him! I cannot accept it because I will not resign myself or him to a world without hope - or faith. If you believe as I do that our thoughts create our world then it is imperative we believe that a cure can and will happen. It is through believing that we facilitate that event.
I go to hang washing, which is when I find my trainers on the terrace outside. I think about the incident with Ivan again and I wonder if I'm in the wrong about the sponsorship? Would it be better to use the original sponsorship form? Perhaps I won't ask for more donations from the French…
It's funny how one bad experience can obscure several good ones. There were French people who seemed very happy to sponsor me. Most of all Patricia who runs my son's after school club. She was my first local sponsor and she signed for twenty euros with a determined flourish. The father of one of Marmaduke's school friends who also signed on for twenty euros, wished me 'Bonne Courage!', and one local woman, who sponsored me generously, told me she admired what I was doing.
About ten thirty a.m I note that the sky is cloudy. Even though the temperatures about 27 degrees, there's no direct sun, and there's a slight breeze.
I put my trainers on and jog gently up the hill next to the house. The lane flattens out a bit, then I turn right and start the next ascent.
A little way after the first bend in the road I see a dead white butterfly on the tarmac. It's very hot and still all of a sudden. I don't know what happened to the breeze I could feel at the house. Nothing moves in the valley below and the cicadas' razor-strap rasping and mechanical chirruping rings in my ears, drowning out every other sound that might exist. I think about going back.
But something propels me on. Maybe its my stubbornness, or just that my body is used to this climb now and carries me forwards relentlessly, like a well-oiled machine.
I don't turn off the lane onto the track. I haven't done that since the morning I saw the marcassins. Instead I stick with the ascent and soon I'm way further up than usual, past Domaine de la Croix Blanche, which was the furthest I'd run until now. I can see the meandering path around the back of Rocher des Vierges, a local landmark mountain with a little chapel on top.
By the time I've said my affirmations I find I've run as far as the T junction at the top of the lane. I get a buzz when I round the corner and see the signposts: left to the Col du Vent, beyond which is the huge flat expanse of the Larzac plateau, known for its goats cheese. Right, the narrow road spirals down into the famed Herault valley. I grin and slap my hand against the triangular red edged sign, which says 'Vous n'avez pas la priorite' instead of 'Give Way'.
I feel I could run on, there's a track which starts a bit further up that I think would bring me back close to the house, but I didn't bring any water with me so it seems more sensible to turn and descend.
As I enjoy the loose-limbed feeling of running downhill I meditate on the purplish blue colour of the mountains on the other side of the valley. I love that colour, it gives me a sense of mystery and well being all at once.
A cyclist whizzes past me. 'Aller!' he shouts, and then 'Bonjour!'. He wears vibrant racing colours of blue and yellow. I shout 'Bonjour!' back, and then he's gone, freewheeling round the next bend.
He leaves me feeling strangely uplifted and I remember how, a few days ago, when looking for running shorts online - and getting distracted as I usually do, I came across a guy named Sri Chinmoy. Sri Chinmoy is an Indian peace guru, important enough to have been invited to the House of Commons. He's also a former champion decathlete and marathon runner, whose philosophy of transcendence means always trying to go beyond one's own limitations.
The acknowledgement of the cyclist who just went by has pleased me no end and it strikes me that he has caused me to feel part of a team - a team of people trying to transcend their own limitations.
I think of my friend Teresa, who runs for fifty minutes three times a week - I didn't know this until I talked to her about my training. One of my older sponsors told me he tries to do 8 km a few times a week, and then there's all those bloggers alongside me on the Great North Run site.
In fact, I realise, there are people everywhere, all the time, trying to go beyond their limitations in a million different ways.
Our mayor's one of them too, and he's part of my team, whether he likes it or not.
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