Paul Christensen: The Waiting Game
I sometimes think of myself as Jody Tiflin, the boy from John Steinbeck’s story who longed to have his mare Nellie deliver a foal, the red pony, only to discover … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: The Vernal Equinox
I found three tiny crocus sprouts in the garden today. They were as innocent as a boy’s first pubic hair, tentative and shy, but determined to flow with time toward … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: January’s Two Faces
Nothing can make the soul shiver more than to look upon those tree-covered slopes with their icy diamonds shimmering on their skin. They are there to remind you that your mortality means nothing to them. They stand for the severity of time, the rules of the universe that have nothing to do with our petty lives.
Paul Christensen: The Dregs of October
I’m staring out of a large window onto a stone wall where an ancient grape vine hangs heavy with bunches of blue grapes. There’s no one to cut down these … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: After the Equinox
It’s fall here in southern France. The tourists have thinned out to a trickle of rubbernecks aiming their smart phones at almost anything green or shaggy with vines. They hardly … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: Wearing my corrective lenses
. Sometimes I find myself wandering out of a book into a rambling daydream, one that has neither a beginning nor an end, just a labyrinth of choices and minor … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: Feast Days
In Provence, we’ve just passed through August 15, one of the summer’s biggest festival days, the Assumption of Mary, the day in which Mary ascends into heaven escorted by a … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: Europe’s Heat Wave
Here’s what you give up in a heat wave here in southern France. You don’t leave the house much, since the paved streets can reach well above one hundred degrees … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: The Cedar Forest
There’s a cedar forest near where I live in the south of France, which sprawls across the slopes of a mountain otherwise covered in what the French call the garrigue. … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: The Caves We Come From
The old Calavon river, which is really a glorified arroyo here in southern France, is drying up. It hasn’t rained in two weeks and the weeds are dusty, the clay … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: The Need To Know Why
. I thought I wanted to become a philosopher when I went to college. I signed up for an introductory course and found myself sitting in a large hall with … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: A Ride in Gatsby’s Car
When it’s raining out, houses have a different sound. The door isn’t crisp when it shuts, it thuds softly, and it makes you feel connected to whoever is moving through … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: The Arrival of Spring
The crocus came up two days ago. I wondered how long it might take to get some sign that spring was on the way. There they are, tough little flowers … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: Reading Camus
We live in strange times. The columnists and commentariat have run out of ways to milk horror and agony out of their visions, and … Continue reading
