An excerpt from, Savoring the Chaos‍

‍A Morning, a Ruin, and a Fig Tree‍ ‍

Most mornings, after feeding the dogs, I sit with my coffee in the yard. Outside of harvest season, mornings are quiet here. Not empty quiet. Alive quiet. Blackbirds, cuckoos, robins, and wood pigeons announcing their presence like they have appointments to keep. Chaffinches and the occasional blue tit streak across the property, flashes of color against the gray Loire sky. Sometimes the air smells faintly of damp stone, sometimes of earth just waking up. It’s the sort of moment where you can sit, breathe, and remember: holy crap, I live in France.‍ ‍My eyes usually drift past the fence to the house next door. “House” might be generous. At this point it’s more of a suggestion. Vines, weeds, and a chimney waiting for the right gust of wind to announce its retirement. The roof sags like a drunk uncle in a lawn chair, stubbornly holding on but not inspiring much confidence.‍ ‍And then there are the fig trees. A thicket of them, standing guard. Every summer they pump out figs like they’re on quota. I don’t bother fighting my way in. I just lean over the fence and grab a few. Sweet, messy, guaranteed to stain your shirt. A small tax for having the view.‍

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This story continues in Savoring the Chaos →‍ ‍