An interesting thing about being single again is simply the different way my time is filled. And yes, it is quite filled.
My social life is quite present, but has a very different slant. I'm blessed with girl friends -- friends who call me, invite me out, suggest activities, come by to visit, receive my phone calls and give me love and support when I've my moments of being down.
Thus I've been out to concerts, made a beaded necklace, received great massages in exchange for English conversation, gone to yoga class, am going out to an English/French networking evening, worked in my garden, cleaned out my pool, been to school meetings, explored Aix-en-Provence... and all this when I'm not touring my now plentiful clients visiting Provence.
I've time -- perhaps at long last? -- to take care of myself. Yes, massage is one thing, as are healers of other sorts. Myself and my larger self including my home, my garden, my children, my friends are benefiting from greater attention and focus.
I've time to be conscious.
I'm not running about with my head cut off. Rather than rush through a bit of cleaning Friday afternoon or Monday morning, I do it calmly on Saturday.
I'm still going out dancing, but to places I know where I'm received by friends and fellow students from class. No more evenings out at restaurants, and fewer movies in movie houses (I prefer the less expensive internet options these days).
Avignon is a hot house of theatre, artists, funky and friendly folk. A very different feeling from the more bourgeois Nîmes.
It's all just more relaxing, accepting. It's also a more international vibe. Nîmes and Vauvert were far more French. I know that sounds odd, but t'is true. The small town scene of the Vauvert market is far different than the bustle and movement of St. Rémy de Provence, Ile-sur-la-Sorgue or Aix-en-Provence. And downtown Avignon is filled to bursting with tourists these days. Thus I'm surrounded by English, German, Dutch and Japanese, to name a few.
As the birds singing in the trees outside my windows awake me with the sun (about 6:15 these days), I emerge into a different state of mind, a different world, a shifting reality.
I still have my moments of being down. But I am also very very grateful for what I do have. Slowly, I'll make sense of what I lived, thought, felt, chose. Slowly I'm growing, learning, adapting, evolving.
Slowly.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Good bye Isabelle
This morning we said good bye to Isabelle. Paul Pierre called me Wednesday evening to let me know that she'd died that morning around 3AM. Yesterday the family arrived, and today was a day for friends. He asked me to contact our mutual friend Sophie, the beekeeper. And I took it upon myself to call JP. Ooph, not an easy call for me. I would have vastly preferred to leave a message.
It was one of those moments when I just said to myself, you don't leave an sms about someone dying. That's just not done. This is something to be communicated by the voice. No? Ah well, it was brief, and awkward. What more to say? Were we going to chat about banalities? No.
I was saddened to learn of Isabelle's demise, and yet relieved as well. But I was thrown just hearing JP's voice. That sadness is frustratingly still in me.
In the end, both he and Sophie sent written notes to Paul Pierre. Neither was able to come to the mas.
And so, after dropping the kids off at school this morning, I headed out to St Martin du Crau. Paul Pierre greeted me, and immediately begged his excuses as he needed to be with others, elsewhere, that we'd find a time to talk in the future... Of course, and understandable. I gave him a hug, put Filou back in the car, and brought my roses and bottle of wine into the house.
And then... what? A simple greeting to faces I knew. A moment upstairs where Isabelle's casket was draped in a cloth, her daughter beside it. Then back downstairs. Could I help? A bit. But I felt rather out of it, lost, not at ease sliding into conversation with family members I'd never met. And so I took refuge in the cheese lab with Aurelie. Thankfully she was there. I grated some pepper onto her cheese, and helped a teeny bit (barely). Mostly I shared thoughts and feelings with her. She too is living a mini-nightmare in her own home as her mother is terribly ill, bedridden for more than a year now, and still for some terrible reason, hanging on. But, at the same time, her little girls -- like my little boys -- were being particularly lovely. Life has its sharpened edges, and its gentle ruffles.
Then back into the main rooms and outside. I helped put out the buffet of various foods brought by friends. I cut fougasse, and later the chocolate cakes. I opened some wine. And I waited. We then slowly made our way into the room to eat a bit, moving conversations. It was an event without direction. Paul Pierre was trying to be attentive to all who were there, and no doubt exhausting himself in the doing. His daughter Marie was sad and with her companion and her close friends. And others milled about. Other than managing food and cleaning and putting flowers into vases, no one dared impose themselves further.
And then, it was the moment for the casket to leave for the crematorium. Four strong men in the group carried it down the stone steps and out into the van. We gathered in silence, a few tears filling the pouches below our eyes, delicate streams descending. But... not a word, not a poem, not a shared memory, not a tribute, no note played on a cornet, or a violin, or a voice raised to the skies.
Each held his own council. We were a group of individual mourners in a shared space. Each held his memories to his heart. Why? why no ceremony? why no candles? why no sharing of our love for this woman? Why such a stiff upper lip? This is the Breton way?
I was lost, sad, and out of sorts. I wanted to let the tears flow. But in such solitude? Such silence?
And so I too departed, after helping clean up a bit. I climbed into my car and headed back to Avignon and the errands that awaited me there.
I've written before about funerals in France. And I wonder still why it is that there is such a different sense of things here. I attribute it as I might to the Protestant ethic of my world -- one where the people took back the right to communicate directly to God, to interpret the Word as they might, on their own. And thus gave themselves a voice and encouraged sharing their individual thoughts and perceptions. France is a product of its Catholic past (far more than the Protestant minority) -- a world where the priest speaks for you-- blended with its current laïc sensibility. Thus, if there's not a priest to do the talking for you, you don't talk, you don't interpret, you don't share your spiritual moments.
This is simply my groping in the dark to make sense of my own sadness in what I didn't experience this morning. As I shared these thoughts with two dear friends, and a colleague at the kids' Waldorf school, we were in agreement as to the importance of ceremony, marking the moment, sharing it, lighting a candle, reciting a poem, but most of all, allowing/permitting/celebrating a collective event.
And so, I grieve, and I am grateful that in this distant world that I've mostly made mine, I've friends who understand me, and who too would do as I would.
Once a bit of time has passed, I'll call Paul Pierre and see where he's at. What is next...
It was one of those moments when I just said to myself, you don't leave an sms about someone dying. That's just not done. This is something to be communicated by the voice. No? Ah well, it was brief, and awkward. What more to say? Were we going to chat about banalities? No.
I was saddened to learn of Isabelle's demise, and yet relieved as well. But I was thrown just hearing JP's voice. That sadness is frustratingly still in me.
In the end, both he and Sophie sent written notes to Paul Pierre. Neither was able to come to the mas.
And so, after dropping the kids off at school this morning, I headed out to St Martin du Crau. Paul Pierre greeted me, and immediately begged his excuses as he needed to be with others, elsewhere, that we'd find a time to talk in the future... Of course, and understandable. I gave him a hug, put Filou back in the car, and brought my roses and bottle of wine into the house.
And then... what? A simple greeting to faces I knew. A moment upstairs where Isabelle's casket was draped in a cloth, her daughter beside it. Then back downstairs. Could I help? A bit. But I felt rather out of it, lost, not at ease sliding into conversation with family members I'd never met. And so I took refuge in the cheese lab with Aurelie. Thankfully she was there. I grated some pepper onto her cheese, and helped a teeny bit (barely). Mostly I shared thoughts and feelings with her. She too is living a mini-nightmare in her own home as her mother is terribly ill, bedridden for more than a year now, and still for some terrible reason, hanging on. But, at the same time, her little girls -- like my little boys -- were being particularly lovely. Life has its sharpened edges, and its gentle ruffles.
Then back into the main rooms and outside. I helped put out the buffet of various foods brought by friends. I cut fougasse, and later the chocolate cakes. I opened some wine. And I waited. We then slowly made our way into the room to eat a bit, moving conversations. It was an event without direction. Paul Pierre was trying to be attentive to all who were there, and no doubt exhausting himself in the doing. His daughter Marie was sad and with her companion and her close friends. And others milled about. Other than managing food and cleaning and putting flowers into vases, no one dared impose themselves further.
And then, it was the moment for the casket to leave for the crematorium. Four strong men in the group carried it down the stone steps and out into the van. We gathered in silence, a few tears filling the pouches below our eyes, delicate streams descending. But... not a word, not a poem, not a shared memory, not a tribute, no note played on a cornet, or a violin, or a voice raised to the skies.
Each held his own council. We were a group of individual mourners in a shared space. Each held his memories to his heart. Why? why no ceremony? why no candles? why no sharing of our love for this woman? Why such a stiff upper lip? This is the Breton way?
I was lost, sad, and out of sorts. I wanted to let the tears flow. But in such solitude? Such silence?
And so I too departed, after helping clean up a bit. I climbed into my car and headed back to Avignon and the errands that awaited me there.
I've written before about funerals in France. And I wonder still why it is that there is such a different sense of things here. I attribute it as I might to the Protestant ethic of my world -- one where the people took back the right to communicate directly to God, to interpret the Word as they might, on their own. And thus gave themselves a voice and encouraged sharing their individual thoughts and perceptions. France is a product of its Catholic past (far more than the Protestant minority) -- a world where the priest speaks for you-- blended with its current laïc sensibility. Thus, if there's not a priest to do the talking for you, you don't talk, you don't interpret, you don't share your spiritual moments.
This is simply my groping in the dark to make sense of my own sadness in what I didn't experience this morning. As I shared these thoughts with two dear friends, and a colleague at the kids' Waldorf school, we were in agreement as to the importance of ceremony, marking the moment, sharing it, lighting a candle, reciting a poem, but most of all, allowing/permitting/celebrating a collective event.
And so, I grieve, and I am grateful that in this distant world that I've mostly made mine, I've friends who understand me, and who too would do as I would.
Once a bit of time has passed, I'll call Paul Pierre and see where he's at. What is next...
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
A Morning at the Boulangerie
It was a fly on the wall sort of day. As we walked in the door, one of the large mixers was eating its dough (truly). A mechanical take off on the blob... but backwards? Jean Pascal did a quick hello and the baker's hand shape (back of hand to back of hand) before returning to the onerous task of peeling dough off the underside of this motor. We watched, a bit taken aback, but fascinated nonetheless, as he scooped up the heavy orange dough (for his orange and chocolate flavored fougasse) and carried it in three portions over to the alternate machine.
To get out of the way, but also because it's great fun, I took my group back to the baguette corner. There, the tallest of the bakers was hunched over preparing his boules of dough for their rise, and rolling out the dough already properly risen, laying the long ropes of sticky pale dough onto the special baguette racks, to be put into the special chilling/rising/ and convection air oven to bake for the next morning's crowd. Careful and constant repetition of a most important task. After all, bread is the staff of life, and where would the French be without their baguettes?
We then mosied over to another corner of the shop where a young stagiare was making an apple tart atop a layer of pastry cream atop puff pastry dough. Hmmmm
Then a moment's pause for a cup of coffee, before we watched Jean Pascal and his long-time employee weigh out and then perfectly form boules of lemon fougasse dough. And roll, and roll, and roll,.. under the palms and perfectly curved fingers, with just the right touch.
It's mesmerizing.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Camargue on a windy day
The Mistral had been blowing for days. Nights I curled up under three covers, socks, pjs with long pants, the works. During the day, we wore light sweaters and leather jackets to break the wind. Sun glasses de rigeur.
They liked marshlands they said. Okay, shall we go to the Camargue in the evening? And off we went. Down the long stretch of road outside Arles. Due South. And landed thereupon a world that is flat, with a restrained palette of colors, peopled by horses, bulls and flamingos, oft covered with vacation rentals and ranches (manades), where not seemingly barren. Yet teaming (on a normal non-windy day) with an array of mosquitoes to impress biologists and tourists alike.
This day the sun shone fiercely. The sky was scraped clean. Our hair was tossed about mercilessly. The horses stood facing south, their backs to the whistling warrior winds. We gamely left the car and explored on foot.
In the distance the flamingos, on the other side of a ditch the white horses, and at our feet, salicornes, the edible salty plant often pickled and delightful atop carpaccio sliced beef. - Of course I harvested some to bring home and pickle myself!
It is another world down there, at the edge of the sea. You can go no farther and remain on the European continent. From this point, the sea and over there, Africa. It's tempting...
An Evening on the Town with the Boys
I've not often taken my boys out to town with a destination in mind that is far more adult than child-oriented. In the old days either the kids stayed with the aupairs, or we simply didn't go out (far more the latter). And in recent years I went out with JP, but rarely during the week with the boys. Or, dropped them off at a film while we went dancing, or set them up with a film at home, or sent them to a friend's house, or...
If I took them out, it was to the local pizzeria that they love, or to a film for them, or to a friend's house with kids. But, have them tag along to an event that interests me and not themselves particularly? No, I've rarely done that. And, so, I pay the price.
They're not accustomed to being "trimbalés" (sp?) all over the place. They're not easy. They don't make do with grace, tolerance and patience. They make their boredom known.
But, I would not back down. If not before, than from this moment forth, they need to learn (particularly Leo) that not every minute of the day is orchestrated for his benefit. Sometimes, you do something to please another. Sometimes you go along and make the best of it because someone else wants to do this. Sometimes, you just keep your mouth shut and be. Yes, I did get a wee bit spiritual and discussed living in the present, the now, where you're at when you're there... But hey, the words of Eckhart Tolle are in my head.
The evening wasn't a total loss. The small trio in the Rue des Teinturiers was excellent. We enjoyed 'un verre' each (a glass of rosé for me, orangina for them), sat on the wall and watched the world walk by. However, the moments spent at the Guingette of the Bal des Teinturiers were painful for me (due to their complaints) and them (they're not fans of Serge Gainsburg covered by a local band with the requisite accordion player).
Perhaps the next outing will go better?
If I took them out, it was to the local pizzeria that they love, or to a film for them, or to a friend's house with kids. But, have them tag along to an event that interests me and not themselves particularly? No, I've rarely done that. And, so, I pay the price.
They're not accustomed to being "trimbalés" (sp?) all over the place. They're not easy. They don't make do with grace, tolerance and patience. They make their boredom known.
But, I would not back down. If not before, than from this moment forth, they need to learn (particularly Leo) that not every minute of the day is orchestrated for his benefit. Sometimes, you do something to please another. Sometimes you go along and make the best of it because someone else wants to do this. Sometimes, you just keep your mouth shut and be. Yes, I did get a wee bit spiritual and discussed living in the present, the now, where you're at when you're there... But hey, the words of Eckhart Tolle are in my head.
The evening wasn't a total loss. The small trio in the Rue des Teinturiers was excellent. We enjoyed 'un verre' each (a glass of rosé for me, orangina for them), sat on the wall and watched the world walk by. However, the moments spent at the Guingette of the Bal des Teinturiers were painful for me (due to their complaints) and them (they're not fans of Serge Gainsburg covered by a local band with the requisite accordion player).
Perhaps the next outing will go better?
A Month plus...
Well, it has been over a month. I've received emails, sent some. Beautiful flowers and an sms for my birthday. Curious. Perhaps it is easier to be "quittée" than to "quitte."
During this time I've read interesting and helpful books (David Deida, Hendrick Harville, Barbara de Angelis) and listened to others (John Welwood, Deepak Chopra, Eckhart Tolle, Tara Brach, Oriah Mountain Dreamer). I'm seeking to make sense of it all, to learn something, to be more for what I lived, and not less. To see a lesson amidst the pain and confusion. I sent on French versions of the first two books to JP... for his next coupledom. They both make some very good points.
And, for me, all this reading and probing into my soul and heart seems to be working. In any case, the universe is certainly telling me that at long last I'm on the right path.
These past two weeks I've worked more and earned more than in practically the past two and half years combined (okay, I exaggerate, but not by much). I'm getting ahead on house projects -- I even spent a day going through my mending pile! Finally, that hole in the butt of Jonas' pjs... My Good Will pile ready to go into the trunk of my car.
And even more lovely, my home is giving back to me, as are my children. Roses are blooming on every corner, bursting forth.
This weekend is a time of rest from 'work.' And a time to seriously work on the garden and the house. The pool is now painted with two coats of protective (non-toxic, organic) pine-colored stuff. The overgrown/broken down barrier to the far side of my row of cypress trees is gone, soon to be replaced by a clean and sturdy new fence. My vegetable garden is not only weeded, it is gifting us with fresh new garlic, and 300grams (a nice small bucket) of gorgeous strawberries daily. Perhaps to compensate for the completely fruitless cherry tree? Five new tomato plants are in. Three pumpkin seeds have sprouted, and two melon. The three pea plants that survived the slugs are each bearing pods. They will be, as we say, anecdotique. A saucepan they shall not fill. But a happy little boy may easily nibble some in the next few days, right off the vine.
My neighbor, aka my adopted little brother, is available to help out (for pay) in the garden, and is easily and happily taking on the role of masculine presence for the boys. Today was one of those magical days when I had lots of projects, had banished the computer, and we all spent the day working side by side outdoors in the garden. Laurent quickly had both boys at his side helping burn the brush. He carefully instructed them how, had them in proper shoes and gloves, and I simply laid off and did my thing (paint/weed/laundry/cake/lunch...). If only once JP had shown the same patience and presence of mind... Ah well, water under the bridge.
It's been pointed out to me that with my father issues... it is quite possible that somehow I sabotaged (not consciously!) the potential relationship between my boys and JP. That I needed to be in the tiny space of a couple, treated with tenderness and attention, and sharing that space with my own children might have been something I hesitated to put into place. Perhaps. Certainly, I early on got the message that we'd not live my ideal rhythm: 2 days together, 3 days me alone with my boys and 2 days all 4 of us together. The first time we shared a home (the 4 of us) for 3 days, the day my boys went to their father, I didn't get my man back, I lost him. His need to be alone was such that he needed days to recuperate from the invasion of my children in his home, and he fled me as well. Perhaps I learned this lesson too well.
Whatever the justice of the observation, when briefly I met a man who was fabulous with my boys, but apparently couldn't make time for me... I turned away from him, freaked by his workaholic nature, touched by his extraordinary devotion to the children, but put off by his seeming blindness towards what keeps a couple together.
However, I'm writing of the past, but my intention was/is to laud the present.
Friday night (very recent past, you must grant me) gifted me with a wonderful evening of tango -- dancing with many a different cavalier of varied skill, age, size, height, rhythm. It was glorious and warm and delightful and ... just what I needed. As I drove home I was on such a high. I've absolutely nothing to complain about. My kids are pretty darn nice. I've a collection of devoted and generous friends. I dance, I garden, I cook, I earn a living. I am at peace with my world, and reveling in the pure joy of it.
Yes, it would be lovely to meet someone new, at some point, who could truly look at me and accept the country/city nature, the dress-up tango dancer/barefoot gardener, the great cook of feasts for friends/curl up in bed with a book and a cuddle over a weekend... bundle of contrasts that I am. Ah well. In the meantime, kids, friends and a life.
It's nothing to sneeze at.
During this time I've read interesting and helpful books (David Deida, Hendrick Harville, Barbara de Angelis) and listened to others (John Welwood, Deepak Chopra, Eckhart Tolle, Tara Brach, Oriah Mountain Dreamer). I'm seeking to make sense of it all, to learn something, to be more for what I lived, and not less. To see a lesson amidst the pain and confusion. I sent on French versions of the first two books to JP... for his next coupledom. They both make some very good points.
And, for me, all this reading and probing into my soul and heart seems to be working. In any case, the universe is certainly telling me that at long last I'm on the right path.
These past two weeks I've worked more and earned more than in practically the past two and half years combined (okay, I exaggerate, but not by much). I'm getting ahead on house projects -- I even spent a day going through my mending pile! Finally, that hole in the butt of Jonas' pjs... My Good Will pile ready to go into the trunk of my car.
And even more lovely, my home is giving back to me, as are my children. Roses are blooming on every corner, bursting forth.
This weekend is a time of rest from 'work.' And a time to seriously work on the garden and the house. The pool is now painted with two coats of protective (non-toxic, organic) pine-colored stuff. The overgrown/broken down barrier to the far side of my row of cypress trees is gone, soon to be replaced by a clean and sturdy new fence. My vegetable garden is not only weeded, it is gifting us with fresh new garlic, and 300grams (a nice small bucket) of gorgeous strawberries daily. Perhaps to compensate for the completely fruitless cherry tree? Five new tomato plants are in. Three pumpkin seeds have sprouted, and two melon. The three pea plants that survived the slugs are each bearing pods. They will be, as we say, anecdotique. A saucepan they shall not fill. But a happy little boy may easily nibble some in the next few days, right off the vine.
My neighbor, aka my adopted little brother, is available to help out (for pay) in the garden, and is easily and happily taking on the role of masculine presence for the boys. Today was one of those magical days when I had lots of projects, had banished the computer, and we all spent the day working side by side outdoors in the garden. Laurent quickly had both boys at his side helping burn the brush. He carefully instructed them how, had them in proper shoes and gloves, and I simply laid off and did my thing (paint/weed/laundry/cake/lunch...). If only once JP had shown the same patience and presence of mind... Ah well, water under the bridge.
It's been pointed out to me that with my father issues... it is quite possible that somehow I sabotaged (not consciously!) the potential relationship between my boys and JP. That I needed to be in the tiny space of a couple, treated with tenderness and attention, and sharing that space with my own children might have been something I hesitated to put into place. Perhaps. Certainly, I early on got the message that we'd not live my ideal rhythm: 2 days together, 3 days me alone with my boys and 2 days all 4 of us together. The first time we shared a home (the 4 of us) for 3 days, the day my boys went to their father, I didn't get my man back, I lost him. His need to be alone was such that he needed days to recuperate from the invasion of my children in his home, and he fled me as well. Perhaps I learned this lesson too well.
Whatever the justice of the observation, when briefly I met a man who was fabulous with my boys, but apparently couldn't make time for me... I turned away from him, freaked by his workaholic nature, touched by his extraordinary devotion to the children, but put off by his seeming blindness towards what keeps a couple together.
However, I'm writing of the past, but my intention was/is to laud the present.
Friday night (very recent past, you must grant me) gifted me with a wonderful evening of tango -- dancing with many a different cavalier of varied skill, age, size, height, rhythm. It was glorious and warm and delightful and ... just what I needed. As I drove home I was on such a high. I've absolutely nothing to complain about. My kids are pretty darn nice. I've a collection of devoted and generous friends. I dance, I garden, I cook, I earn a living. I am at peace with my world, and reveling in the pure joy of it.
Yes, it would be lovely to meet someone new, at some point, who could truly look at me and accept the country/city nature, the dress-up tango dancer/barefoot gardener, the great cook of feasts for friends/curl up in bed with a book and a cuddle over a weekend... bundle of contrasts that I am. Ah well. In the meantime, kids, friends and a life.
It's nothing to sneeze at.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Working in the Garden
A weekend for projects in the garden. A pool to paint and protect -- then to empty, clean and fill with fresh water. Brush to be cleared away and burnt. And helpful young men working away at my and my neighbor's side.
Yes, this is what a three-day weekend is for, especially when the weather is spectacular (at long last) and my kids are here with me. A fun evening barbecue followed by a freshly made cake and strawberries from the garden to follow!
Yes, this is what a three-day weekend is for, especially when the weather is spectacular (at long last) and my kids are here with me. A fun evening barbecue followed by a freshly made cake and strawberries from the garden to follow!
Visiting Sophie
Do bees interest you? Are you at ease around buzzing things? Curious about all those different flavors of honey? Maybe contemplating having a few hives yourself?
Whenever I visit Sophie this interest deepens. She is so calm, so able, and so welcoming. During our most recent visit (with three lovely clients from Houston) we donned the beekeeper's garb and accompanied her to the box hives (ruches). She calmly filled her smoker -- not to calm the bees as many of us believe, but to make them believe their hive is on fire, at which point they gorge themselves on honey to beat their wings furiously to cool the hive. Hence, they are quite occupied with protecting themselves and don't react to the invasion and disruption of the beekeeper.
Thus armed, with both the smoker and this new knowledge, we watched as Sophie pried open the hive (the top is stuck to the bottom with the most sticky propolis), and removed a frame covered in bees. They buzzed about, moved about their frame, and left us quite alone. I felt just a bit hesitant, but not a one of us was stung.
We then headed over to her mielerie to see her new stainless steel centrifuge for removing the honey from the racks/frames and her extremely simple system of a fine-mesh strainer to catch the bits of beeswax before jarring her honey. She does not heat it, nor sterilize it. She simply jars it pure, ready and ripe from the hives. A gift of the bees.
After learning a bit about the many stages of a bee's life, the nutritional castration of the bees, and all the roles they hold throughout their 35-45 day lives, we were encouraged to taste. Hmmmmm Acacia, Linden Tree, Lavender, Multi-Flower from the Garrigue/Provence, and Chestnut. In a normal year, Sophie harvests Rosemary as well, and a multi-flower from the marshlands of the Camargue.
This year however, after 10 days of rain followed by 4 days of the powerful Mistral winds the Rosemary harvest is not possible, and the Acacia production will also be adversely affected. Ah well, we'll have to wait a bit more for the multi-flowers...
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