July 20, 2013
The world desperately needs more peacemakers and healers, restorers and storytellers and lovers of all kinds. –Dalai Lama
I was feeling particularly blessed to be at my friend Christophe’s humble art exhibition—organized in his garden to celebrate his birthday and show two years’ worth of artwork he’d produced since moving to this quiet village in the eastern French Pyrenees—when I suddenly felt the need to leave. Some strange bewilderment overtook me and I needed to get out of there. I walked home alone in the warm evening air, the heavy scent of summer invading my psyche. I took in the scene around me, the verdant fields draped at the base of Mount Canigou, the cherry trees full with fruit and the roman-tiled roofs dotting this ancient French landscape. Then I called Dad.
It can be either catastrophic or enlightening when I turn to Dad at such hours. The conversation began shakily and I felt myself spiraling deeper into confusion. Dad went down his list of useless problem-solving tools until finally he pulled out this one, “You know the reason you feel so bad is because you’re not writing.” Silence.
When I first came to this village, desperately in need of a safe harbor, Christophe called from the path above my stone courtyard. Mademoiselle, he called down. I hadn’t realized you could see into my space from the road just above, so it startled me, like the voice of God calling down. Christophe smiled brightly and said it pleased him to see someone enjoying the beautiful grounds of this old stone mill house—often empty except for the summer months. And then he continued on his way to his garden, an abandoned village briar patch that he’d hand cleared with little to no tools over the last year.
I’ve been cautious about the people I socialize with since moving here. It hasn’t been a conscious thing, but looking back now I see it clearly. I’ve very much needed to protect myself, feel the influence of others wholly, not haphazardly. Christophe has been one of the privileged few, I think, because he emits a certain naivety that feels safe. His story is rich, and probably not something he’d want me publishing to the world, but I think it’s okay to say he came to this village in the wake of love and loss and a search for divinity—on his own terms. I sense that he’s suffered, and that like most of us, he still does. But when you see the flowers he’s painted onto silk cloth canvasses, when you see his now-blooming no longer abandoned garden, when you see his clay pottery unintentionally fallen into two pieces titled “they meet,” you see, quite visibly, his effort to transform mishap into beauty.
Christophe tells me he goes for a walk each morning. Ever since spring hit the Pyrenees he’s been in a mode of creativity. He says a flower will call to him while on his walk, tell him something important, and once back home he’ll spend hours working his dye into silk fabric. Christophe’s hands are permanently stained these days; he opens his door with a paintbrush between his lips and he comes running down to dinner invitations, late, with his mistress in hand—a still-damp silk tapestry of spring flowers.
Christophe lives in a tiny loft apartment that once was a stable for animals in winter. He cooks on a camp stove and takes the 1-euro bus into town on market days. He makes delicious vegetarian soups and gives gifts of fresh picked mint from his garden or he lends music CD’s the library has lent him. He tells me he’s grateful for the help he receives from his family—what I can only guess is similar to the way Van Gogh’s brother meagerly financed Van Gogh’s creativity.
Christophe has given himself to the artist’s life. I don’t truly know if he is better for it, but I can’t help but to think the world is. Christophe’s flowers, real and painted, reflect the light of observance that seems to have escaped so many of us. Standing in Christophe’s garden, smelling the humid heat and feeling the raw air on my skin—I felt intensely this absence of observance in my own life.
And then I thought, how strange that people buy art, that paying attention can even be a profession. That it’s come down to this. We cut ourselves off from the mystery of life and then we crave it so intensely that we’re willing to buy it back in the form of art. And still more strange, even more sad—that the observer must sell his or her art for the freedom to keep paying attention, that simply paying attention, staying connected, necessitates such a sordid exchange.
Dad is right, I haven’t been writing. And though that reality is destabilizing in and of itself, what’s most bewildering is that I’m not sure I have the heart to be the observer that writing requires. I’m too busy selling myself, doing whatever it takes to survive, to write. And yet, my futile attempt to live is the very thing keeping me from the source of life. This insoluble dilemma makes me feel absurd, in a panic. I feel in my gut that things like art and food should not be bought and sold.The only thing I can compare this feeling to is an ordered and chaotic painting in hues of yellow and green that hangs in the room I rent. I don’t like the order or the chaos, and it feels like there’s no way out.
For his birthday party/art exhibition, Christophe moved his rudimentary belongings into the street and into his garden, turning his room into a gallery. He hung his silk tapestries and displayed his pottery and silk and clay lamps all right next to his personal life—his dishes, his books and poetic notes to himself that, in English, read something like “To feel and know how to love, by he or she, who leads us to be born unto ourselves, each day”. Christophe’s invitees perused the exhibit and then ate soup in the garden and drank supermarket wine chilled in the flowing river just below.
May 29, 2013
Like a lot of kids, I wanted to be an astronaut when I was young. My Dad’s interest in space and science fiction must have influenced this dream. He was an enthusiast to the core, a paying member of the NASA club. Where other kids’ houses had family photographs, we had high quality images of Saturn and its rings, Jupiter and the whole blue-green Earth from space. To hear my Dad talk about space was to hear him talk about the future, about God in a way.
It was Dad who recommended I read Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff, a book admittedly I didn’t finish. Maybe that’s because I got as far as I was supposed to go. I remember a passage in the novel where one of the characters takes off in his jet early in the morning for training. He looks down at the world and sees all the people going to work, going about the monotony of life, and he’s above it, has escaped that particular reality. I must have been ten or eleven at the most when I read that. I’d had enough mornings off to school at the same time with no real raison d’etre to understand the longing for something more. This astronaut in training seemed to get it.
I recently told Dad about the power of that scene in the book and how it reached in and grabbed me at such a young age, made that longing inside me real and lucid. He replied saying that made absolute sense, because space and science fiction and astronauts and flying—all of this is really a spiritual quest. It’s about getting up above, out and beyond, the quest to understand, to touch the source. I get the attraction. And maybe I should blame that damn novel for the tumultuous path on which I find myself.
I’ve always been good at figuring out what I don’t want; easy enough when it’s the tedium of existence that grates at your nerves. To avoid boredom I started out early charging through the walls of dullness without a plan. The Dixie Chicks’ song Wide Open Spaces was my theme, blaring all the while in the background as I recklessly eloped to avoid ever marrying into the bourgeois society my private school college represented. The Dixie Chicks sang louder when a year later I divorced and then let my teaching certificate lapse so I would never be tempted to go back into the stifling public school classroom for the sake of stability, god damned stability. When I consciously chose a partner who didn’t want kids, Wide Open Spaces applauded the freedom. And let’s not even talk about how I ended up in France.
Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about
Who’s never left home, who’s never struck out
To find a dream and a life of their own
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone
Many precede and many will follow
A young girl’s dream no longer hollow
It takes the shape of a place out west
But what it holds for her, she hasn’t yet guessed
She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes
She traveled this road as a child
Wide eyed and grinning, she never tired
But now she won’t be coming back with the rest
If these are life’s lessons, she’ll take this test …
–Dixie Chicks, Wide Open Spaces
This winter I celebrated my 38th birthday. The world still feels wide but the test has been more rigorous than I ever could have dreamed. After all my charging ahead and stubbornness, do I have the right now to say it’s hard?
Wouldn’t kiss all the asses they told me to
No I, I could never follow
It’s been two long years now since the top of the world came crashing down.
And I’m gettin’ it back on the road now.
But I’m takin’ the long way
Taking the long way around.
–Dixie Chicks, The Long Way Around
Do you even ever make it around? I don’t know anymore what I once dreamed. I don’t think I ever imagined myself at this age, bewildered by the shortness of life and all the things I’m now realizing I’ll never get to do before I die. Am I allowed to change my theme song? Do I have the right to claim the Ballad of Lucy Jordan even though I didn’t stay married , have children and settle down?
My heart wants to feel the blessing of life, this life, but some other part of me feels abused, worn out, ungrateful. It’s times like these that I like to close my eyes and imagine the blue-purple twilight horizon high above the earth I saw once from an airplane window. There’s peace to be found, I know it. If I could only touch it.
December 10, 2012
For the past month and a half I’ve been house-sitting at the eco-lodge where I finished my GR10 hike last summer. The owners needed a refuge guardian and someone to feed their pets, so once again, I find myself up in the heights looking out over a world I never could have imagined. Right now it’s covered in snow. I’m astounded at the size of the world, the magnitude of change, the wide beauty of it all.
The path I take to walk the dogs leads out of the village of Planés and into the shadowed peaks where the Conflent meets the Cerdan plateau. From certain places you see the opening of the Tet Valley below, where my quasi-permanent writer’s cottage patiently waits. On clear days you can see the blue halo of the Mediterranean Sea.
This is why I’m here, why against all reason I’ve decided to make this part of France my home. This place where mountains and sea commune has gripped me and I’ve learned that the peaks of mountains and the tides of the sea aren’t all that opposing. What’s the difference between height and depth really? They both give views into the unknown, into a blue horizon of other.
I remember a day in my twenties. I sat on a beach in Florida stoned out of my mind. I’m not usually given to such substances—even in my youth I tended to prefer staying in control of my mind. Perhaps that’s why I remember that day so vividly, because my mind opened up despite myself. I just remember sitting on that beach, looking out over the ocean and thinking: The world is immense. I am small. I want to go there.
This morning I took Tossa and Zemec (my canine charges) up the powdered white path for their daily walk. The only buzz I can claim is from two cups of coffee, but the moment was similar to that day sitting in the powdery sands on a Florida beach. The snow over the fields had been blown into sand-like dunes. From the white abyss I looked out over the edge of the world and felt its strength, the movement of the ocean, the erosion of land, the clashing of continents forming mountains. It felt like the coming and going of life.
Following are some images from my time up here. The lyrics of a Dave Mathews Band song come to mind.
Would you not like to be, sittin’ on the top of the world with your legs hangin’ free? Would you not like to be okay, okay, okay?
October 16, 2012
I only ever wanted to live simply, where I could write and smell the world. It’s been a long road, but today I find myself living alone in a room in an old mill house in France with spectacular mountain views and villagers fit to be characters in a book. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but for now I’m pleased and content. I won’t give my village a name or tell you where I’m at because I feel a need to protect this haven, this dream. Following are a few pictures of my writer’s nest.
All the season’s fruits are coming to an end. My driveway smells like fig jam with fermenting figs littering the ground. Late season tomatoes are juicy and perfumed. I’ve been cooking a lot lately. Made a pumpkin pie, sour cream pancakes, plum turnovers… For the figs a special person recently taught me that they’re best when they’re beginning to crack, bursting open while still on the tree. I agree.
This is the ever changing horizon of where I sleep and wake now. It’s enveloped with peace and abundance. What a joy it is to breathe.
September 5, 2012
To get out of Carança, I climbed the Col Mitja at 2367 meters. I took it steady and strong to arrive at the top for spectacular views of the Cerdagne and the snow covered Carlit mountain range. It was cold up there, so I put on warm clothes again and stayed for a while, breathing in the scenery.
I recently spent a weekend back up that way, and from where I stayed in Les Angles, I could see the beautifully perfect Col Mitja, like a hammock between great mountains. To think I’d been up there, carried myself up there, like a tiny ant in a wide world, well that was something. This place runs in my veins now, mountains I’d never dreamed of before are an uncontested part of me. I don’t know how to express the renaissance that happened for me out there, how this small town Florida native found home in the Pyrenees.
After the Col Mitja I made my descent to the Refuge de L’Orri, a stone shepherd’s hut still in use. There I met Jean Marc and his herding companion Astuce. Jean Marc spends his summers watching over high ranging cattle and his winters working in vineyards closer to sea level. He made a coffee for me and we sat in front of his dirt-floored summer abode taking in his priceless view of wild mountains. Another man of little words, he shared his journal with me to fill the conversation. It was a beautiful story of life alone as a shepherd through the season. I knew it was a privilege to have this time with him, that he didn’t invite everyone into his world. I thanked him graciously and continued on toward the village of Planès.
I don’t know how it happened, but a good bit of my sadness from the start of this trip was replaced by gratefulness. I felt grateful, ever so damn grateful to be out there with such vitality. When I reached the village of Planès I saw a sign for an eco-lodge that offered tent spaces. There didn’t seem to be any other good place to tent camp so I walked through the quiet village and found myself standing in front of a beautifully restored stone mountain house. It was modern, but authentic, tasteful. There was an air about the place that clicked with me. When I met the owners, Arif and Marta, having coffee on their back porch, I knew I would stay the night and dine with them. I felt I was supposed to be there.
While setting up my tent, I talked some with Arif, who asked where I was from. I told him I was originally from Florida and he immediately dropped the French and said, “I thought I recognized some of your gear brands, I’m from Chicago.” I couldn’t believe it! Up here lost in the Eastern Pyrenees where I’ve never met another touring American, I find an American living and thriving. After living in my tent alone for weeks, this was the perfect transition back to the civilized world.
It being early in the season, I thought I was the only guest, until I came down for dinner and saw another recently arrived hiker sitting outside. He greeted me with a big smile and a friendly bonjour. So I sat down and we started talking ever so naturally. Arif walked by and I asked if the house had any cold beers. My new hiker friend André enthusiastically chimed in on the request and the next thing I knew we were sharing two cold locally brewed beers in what must be the most charming lodge in all of France.
The French may be the most stylish people when it comes to personal attire, but Americans are the experts on home design and comfort. We know how to strike a balance between modernity, respect for original architecture and comfort and convenience. Arif, who is a trained architect, and Marta, with her Spanish origins, have combined these elegantly at their inn where hikers and nature lovers from around the world meet for respite and communion.
That night André, Arif, Marta and I shared a 100% locally produced, organic gourmet meal in our common language of French. After nearly two years in France it was surprisingly the first time I’d ever really managed a whole night by myself in this second language. I felt connected, I felt alive. I shared bits of my story and told them how I’d once owned an organic restaurant in the Florida Everglades. We swapped tales about making a life and livelihood in wilderness areas. We laughed a lot, we shared a lot, we savored the moment.
The next morning André accompanied me to the next village where we would part paths. On the way over I told him about some of my sorrow, why I was out there hiking the trail alone. It seemed right for some reason, to start talking about it. In the village of Cabanasse we swapped email addresses, shook hands and wished each other luck. As I walked off toward le Lac des Bouillouses for what would be my last leg on the GR 10, I felt a little bit more whole. I’d crossed mountains, really big mountains, to find a moment of solace among friends, new friends. It was the start of a new beginning.
I found this collage with Allison Kraus and Yo-Yo Ma on Youtube. It’s a Thanksgiving greeting and though it’s not yet the American Thanksgiving season, I feel like it expresses the gratefulness deep in my heart now, after my trek across my French department on the GR 10 hiking trail.
September 1, 2012
On the other side of Canigou I found Marialles, a beautiful mountain refuge with a dramatic situation beneath the sacred mount. There I met a wise refuge guardian who asked me how my hike was going. I simply said it was good to be outside and he said “yes, I know”, with no need to say more. We sat comfortably together in silence for a good while. People who live close to the world, the living and breathing world, have a humility and wonder about them. I felt myself longing for this kind of dignified life.
So when later in my hike I crested the col de Mantet at 1761 meters, and saw below the tiny isolated village of Mantet at 1550 meters, surrounded by lush spring pastures and imposing snow specked mountains, I was drawn into the magic. I slept by a rambling mountain river that night and couldn’t help but imagine a life there. Early the next morning I walked into the village in search of its spring. I passed a couple crossing the river, headed out with fishing poles and waders. We acknowledged each other with a nod giving no voice to the tranquility. In the village I stopped in front of a small artist’s studio where a large picture frame was hanging outside with the words, “Dans quel cadre voulez-vous vivre?” It means, Within what kind of frame do you want to live? Tears came—this time not for anything I’d lost, but for what I’d gained—certitude about the kind of life I would live from then on.
The climb out of Mantet took me over the Col del Pal at 2294 meters. I have to admit I was not calling this high mountain pass my pal as I hauled my heavy pack up it (unless pal means something like mother fucker in Catalan). When, exhausted and nauseous, I reached the refuge du Ras de la Caranca at 1831 meters, my hip was really talking to me. So I decided I would stay two nights in this verdant wonderland. I set up my tent once again by a rambling river and put on all my warm layers. It was cold up there in June, with patches of snow on the surrounding peaks as high as Canigiou, and frost on the ground both mornings. The rustic refuge here provided me with hot water that I used to make a warming nettle soup.
I’d walked through so much by this point, through grief, fear and hope, through forests, pastures and rugged mountainsides. Everything in me was raw, exposed to the cold. But I didn’t cower to it; I bathed in the numbing cold river and communed with the ground in my sleep. I dreamed terrifying dreams on that ground and stayed there, long enough to face them.
The only thing I had to read was the April 2012 issue of my favorite literary magazine, The Sun published in Chapel Hill, NC . In my journal I copied down a quote I found in it:
Underlying our glitzy modern consumer culture there is a deep spiritual undernourishment and malaise that manifests all kinds of symptoms: nervous disorders, loneliness, alienation, purposelessness…So blanking out, running away, burying our heads in the sand or videotape will take us nowhere in the long run. If we really want to solve our problems—and the world’s problems, for they stem from the same roots—we must open up and accept the reality of suffering with full awareness…Then, strange as it may seem, we reap vast rewards. For suffering has its positive side. From it we derive the experience of depth: of the fullness of our humanity. —John Snelling
To be continued…
August 24, 2012
After my heavy climb up to Cortalets, I slept alone with a strong wind whipping at the sides of my tent. I dreamed strangely that night and then woke to a crystal blue sky with the jagged Peak Canigou towering in front of me. I realized just how high I’d climbed and felt privileged to be there, breathing in crisp mountain air, being that much closer to the sun, facing Canigou up close still with patches of spring snow. I felt the healing process begin that morning. It was as if the mountains were responding to me, blowing away the mist, revealing the beauty and immensity beneath.
My first night on my own, far from a village or staffed refuge, was at a place called Bonne-Aigue, which means good water. But the spring was dried up, so there wasn’t any good water there for me. No matter, this camp will forever remain special to me because it marked my first stray from the guidebook and the reassurance a staffed refuge represents for a novice mountaineer.
Charlie asked me about fear and I have to admit I had a lot of it, most of the time. Despite appearances, I really don’t know anything about backpacking, or mountains. Nearly all of my outdoor expeditions have been in a sea kayak. Since moving to this region, I’ve done lots of day hiking and I’ve read a lot about extended backpacking, but this was my first attempt. And of course, I was alone.
Bonne-Aigue was only two hours away from Cortalets. But I didn’t want to go further. I wanted to stay there to acclimate before making my way around the rugged edge of Canigou. Staying put for the day was pretty nerve-racking. You don’t have the meditative action of putting one foot in front of the other; you’re simply left with your thoughts and fears. I watched clouds form over the afternoon peak, then saw them clear for a mysterious glimpse of the imposing summit, before Canigou summoned the clouds back again. But nothing in way of bad weather happened that day.
I think I sat in one spot the whole time, half paralyzed from fear of an unknown world and half mesmerized by a magnificent world opening up before me. The mountainous view across from Canigou was like nothing I’d ever seen before—a solid mountain mass, but arid and crumbling at the same time. It looked as if it were melting, crying down like a water color with too much water. And then there were the distant snow-capped peaks of the range I would eventually walk to. I thought, this is earth at time’s beginning, this is earth now and this is earth as it will be in the future. That view was like a bridge across time and space.
The next morning I woke to a beautiful moon over Canigou. I packed my tent in the silence of dawn and started walking well before 7 a.m. Within minutes a family of izards leapt from the trail to make way for me. Just after, a little head peeked up from the treacherous cliff side below and watched me with the same wonder and curiosity I had for him.
The forecast called for rain later in the day, so I didn’t dally around. But while I walked briskly along the edge of the sacred Mount Canigou, I took everything in, and reveled at the wonder of life, of sorrow and joy. I’m certain my inexperience added to the intensity of it all. I had to stay tuned all the time, checking in with map and compass, paying attention to the wind and clouds, looking always ahead and behind. My mind was wild with questions and uneasiness as I learned the ways of mountains.
That day I navigated through my interior while discovering an expansive exterior. It was a meeting of myself, in this world, at this time. Courage and vulnerability were the themes; I met two sides of me up there.
to be continued…
July 19, 2012
The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
And this is how I faced the mountains, with an unwavering love in the face of grief. I’d planned to spend five weeks hiking the GR10 trans-Pyrenees trail this summer, to wrap my head around some things and expand my back-country skills. I wanted to go alone and I wanted to get as far across the French Pyrenees as I could—starting at the Mediterranean with the distant Atlantic as my bearing.
But some devastating personal stories forced me to rethink the scope of my trip. Certainly not the most significant, but maybe the most limiting, was a chronic hip injury that stopped me in my tracks while training for the high peaks.
The other side of the saga is something I hope to write about some day, to share and explore out loud, but for now I’m happy to stay in the physical. All of it together whittled my five weeks down to three, the first week comprised of a series of day trips using my home in the Mediterranean foothills as my base.
Once I found a good balance for what my hip could handle, I set out for two consecutive weeks alone. I followed the trail starting at Banyuls-sur-Mer on the sea and climbed high up into the snow-draped Pyrenees. I walked across the entire French department (region) where I live. When I look at the Pyrenees from a distance now, I stretch my arms out wide and still cannot fit the length of my trek between my palms. This makes my heart smile, this helps me feel connected, worthy somehow.
I’ve been back for several weeks, with intentions to begin this entry every day. But I haven’t wanted to trivialize the experience in a blog. Friends and family keep asking about the trip, many curious about the logistics, the scenery and how it came together. So, I figured I should try starting with that. My outdoor expert and most valued pen pal and friend, Charlie, recently wrote me asking:
Was it hard to follow the route? Were you ever scared, other than the weather? (I’d written him about lightning scares) How heavy was your pack? What did you bring to eat? Did you see a lot of other hikers? What wildlife did you see? Any snakes? (he knows my big three… snakes, lightning and humans)
Was it hard to follow the route?
I hiked what many guidebooks would call backwards, starting at the Mediterranean. I guess most thru-hikers start on the Atlantic and finish on my side of the range. So my day one, was day 50 in my guidebook. This made the guide pretty useless, one of the reasons I chose to go backwards I guess, more of a challenge. Ha, as if that were necessary!
But I can report that I did not get lost during the first week on any of the segments where I returned home each night. This is not to say I didn’t have moments of panic because the red and white blazes disappeared for hours. My map and compass became close friends during those hours. But for the most part I made it to each night’s final destination without any great detours. These day-trip portions got me all the way to Cortalets at 2150 meters just below the towering Pic du Canigou.
After crossing the Alberes in hip-healthy, day-long segments, I set out on my two-week expedition from the village of Prades on the other side of Mount Canigou. Getting back up to Cortalets (where my day trips left off) took me up 1800 meters on a trail that was not the GR10. I decided to take it slow and break it up into two days. Good thing, because the first day I got lost, very lost, and had to back-track down to start over. I planned never to hike more than 5-hours a day, to keep my hip in good order. The first day out was 10 hours. Ouch.
Day two would be the bulk of the elevation gain. Because my hip was already sore, and because I’d gotten lost the day before, I chose to follow the forest service road up to Cortalets. It was slow going. In my journal I wrote,
“It was hard, with my pack so heavy and my heart so full of this, this darkness.”
The air got much cooler the higher I got. A thick mist clouded the steep drop-off and I was glad not to be in the deep woods. I didn’t stop until I got to the very top, not for food or drink. I paused only once to let the sadness weep. With my lungs already stretched from the exertion, I feared their capacity to handle the extra need for full-body crying. Weeping in that mist on that isolated path made my claustrophobic fears of suffocation real, made those fears physical.
The GR10 crossed the forest service road toward the end of the climb, so I left it for the familiar red and white blazes that would guide the rest of my way. The mist grew thicker, the air colder and a deep silence surrounded me. In my journal I wrote,
“I took the path that led through a conifer forest. The fog was so dense I couldn’t see very far at all. It didn’t rain, but the air was pregnant with moisture. It felt as I walked that I was piercing an invisible water laden blanket and that there must have been a water trace of my shape behind me. Big drops of water clung to pine needles. It was like walking through my sorrow. All the yellow flowers on the ground glistened with dew-tears. A spider web hung heavy with water droplets, yet still blew in the gentle wind, holding together without a break. I wonder if I can be like that delicate and intricate, complex spider web—strong and flexible.”
To be continued…
May 22, 2012
Inspired by more space to do the things we love, we’ve moved again. Our new house has an extra room for yoga, a workshop for Alain and a yard with garden, grape vines and a cherry tree. I feel as if I stepped into a 1950′s standard life. The French series Le Petit Nicholas comes to mind. So much for a life of few possessions.
When we moved in a couple of weeks ago the cherries were newly formed. Our tree was heavy with them and I thought it would be fun to watch a set ripen. My point and shoot camera is no good for landscape shots, but it has a nice close-up setting. Each morning I went out to the backyard to photograph two perfectly positioned cherries.
One evening I sat on the upstairs balcony admiring the fruits from high, when a black bird landed on a branch just in front of me. I watched him eat a cherry, bit by bit, leaving not a crumb on the pit still attached to the tree. I thought, that’s okay, I can’t reach that cherry anyway, and there’s enough for everyone. It was fascinating seeing the bird harvest the cherry, so expertly.
Little by little more and more birds came to harvest our cherries. But I wasn’t worried, because surely there were enough cherries for us all. Then one of my cherries disappeared. But I still had the one to watch and photograph. And then, someone ate it too. And when I went to harvest some cherries for myself I saw that there were none left, maybe a handful of pitiful half-ripened cherries from the whole once-abundant tree.
It made me sad. It should be funny, but it made me sad. Because I’d approached the fruits with such trust, knowing there would be enough for everyone. But they were devoured, every one of them. And I learned the lesson that there isn’t enough, and if you don’t take what you want, well…