To my great astonishment and to Rene's great pleasure, I started getting up early . . . and in a good mood. In the past, it had taken sev­eral hours for me to wake up completely. When I got up I wouldn't speak to anyone, and I didn't want anyone to speak to me. I really hated mornings. Whenever possible, I spent them asleep. I always ate breakfast alone. And now here I am, on leave, with absolutely nothing to do, on my feet at dawn, listening to birds singing or watching my flowers opening or preparing orange juice or coffee for the whole household.

Three months after the beginning of my sabbatical, I was not lis­tening to any music at all—neither mine nor anyone else's—and I would only glance at fashion magazines once in a while. I had believed I was never going to be able to remain silent anymore, and I was now spending long hours, sometimes even days, without saying a word, just for the pleasure of it, for its peace, its sweetness. And I especially didn't miss stress or stage fright.

I had already postponed my Spanish lessons until the spring, then summer, then autumn, then next winter. I never unwrapped my col­ored pencils and my pastels. After two or three weeks of total inac­tivity, I started singing again, constantly, everywhere, in the shower, on the golf course, while driving, in the kitchen. And it gave me a fantastic feeling of happiness, a new, unexpected joy.

I even started training my voice again and doing my singing exer­cises regularly. I did this so that I wouldn't lose what I'd acquired, but I also did it for the simple pleasure that comes from training. And I spent whole evenings watching television, something I'd never done in my life. With Rene, I followed from beginning to end the play-offs for the National Hockey League. And I loved it.

I am good at being happy. Happiness comes to me in waves,

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