Day 88. Mirambeau Nov 2 2001.

Heather's Birthday. 24 years old.

We cycled what felt like a vast distance today and stayed at a hotel this evening. We even went so far as to eat in a restaurant. Our meal was hot goat cheese salad; strips of beef for me and chicken for Heather, but, oddly for such a posh establishment, with sides of French fries.

But I spent most of the day, as we cycled through thickening vineyards, reflecting on Heather. Perhaps it was the tired ache of muscles pushing against pedals that brought my mind back to our first meeting.

In the summer of '93 I had gone biking with James and Ted to meet a pair of girls I supposedly already knew. We were all young and fit. The guys were neat and tidy, I was shaggy with torn clothes. We traveled to Wendy's house, on other side of the Queensland hill and we strained to get there, a distance that seems almost laughable given out present travels.

The girls had waited for us in the backyard, young and flirtatious as only adolescents can be. But they had a third girl with them, just as young, just as giggly, but far more intriguing, at least to me.

From the first it seemed that we must have been destined for each other. We matched each other in our rebellious undress uniforms. My hair grew in rough waves as it grew back from it's mohawk cut, Heather's hair was still short where she had shaved off her undercut. My ripped clothes matched her shaggy cast offs so in vogue with the grunge trend of the times. She seemed so alive, so energetic, and her verve challenged me. I remember holding her in my arms as friends turned a raging hose on us both, soaking us to the skin.

I remember too walking her home that night and talking to her on the gentle slope of her parent’s lawn as pale blue became deep violet and the sky filled with stars. We had become an official couple before I left for home that night.

I remember Heather on our first trip out of the country, a graduation gift really, traveling with my parents to the highlands of Scotland. She was so sick then, a strange foreign country for the first time in her life, jet lag and the rocking motion of the motorhome all conspiring to turn her stomach. She had drugged herself insensible but still struggled gamely to raise her head and watch as we passed through Sherwood Forest. She was so beautiful on that trip, so amazed with every new thing that we experienced. Delighted especially in the soft purple heather that covered the highlands. Nothing daunted her on that trip, not the high stairs of the Wallace Memorial or the thick pollution of London.

Heather has always fascinated me with her wonder at the power of the natural world, whether on our trip to California or Prince Rupert.

She looked at the redwoods as though she understood them, feeling the slow beat of wooden hearts millennia old.
I remember Heather amongst the tombstones below the rocky crag of Sterling Castle, or in Confederation Park at home, enjoying the quiet serenity of flowers and carefully carved stone as thought it was all a spiritual temple for her, a place of meditation.

She has an equal fascination with all things gastronomical. Her insistence that we try the local food of wherever we had traveled. Crabs on the coast, smoked salmon in the car as we drove to Vancouver. The bagets that we ate in Southampton on that first trip that I don't even remember. The way her eye is always drawn to the fanciful displays of food in a window, the same way most would be drawn to a warm fire.

I love her delight in the rain, pulling out chairs onto the sheltered deck of our home by the University to watch a spring down pour wash away the snow and the grit. The rain that fell as we sat on the couch in my parents living room and I asked her to marry me.

I find myself in awe of her righteous indignation at the indifference of the universe and at casual cruelty. She cannot abide a person who so casually swats a dog or mistreats child. She has always been quick to leap into the fray and defend those who cannot defend themselves. I remember my early days of driving and Heather's panicked warning whenever an animal crossed the road, glaring at me angrily if I commented that it was better the animal be hurt than we.

These last few years of school have been very stressful for her. I remember frantic nights as she tried to prepare for her all important "crits" at art school. Her passionate arguments about artistic styles and what constituted quality work. Her anger when she thought someone's work was criticised unfairly and her admiration of the beauty in others works. I remember her surprise and almost stunned amazement when she sold her first really major piece and her reluctance to part with the bowl of dancing leaves in which she had invested so much of herself.

Heather has grown and changed since I first met her on a trampoline in her friends backyard. She no longer wears her hair short or worships heavy metal bands. She has gained a measure of class and sophistication and her vocabulary has mellowed dramatically but the core has never changed. She has never wavered in those virtues that I love.

Now here we are in the middle of France going nowhere and everywhere and still my love for her is strong. We have seen so many things that have inspired and taught. Who can know what lies ahead of us? I don't have Heather's cheerful optimism in the proper unfolding of the universe. I am the pessimistic yin to her yang, but I know that when she has faith I begin to believe.

So tonight we will indulge her gastronomical yearnings and pamper our tired bones with the comfortable bed of a hotel and I will tease Heather about becoming old while looking forward to long life and much happiness

Heather Matwe Designs

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