“Let go and let God,” was the advice given before I left for this adventure in France. I
came across it this morning as the coffeemaker dripped its last drops. What does that mean—this letting go? A subject for thought while I ate my chocolate croissant. Sorry, no picture of it—it’s best when it’s warm. Chocolate croissants. A taste so sublime with a flaky crust, a form of butter that is lighter than air, and the deep, rich chocolate paste that is a part of each bite. They are the reason that I know there is a god; nothing else could create something so divine! Ah, and the ones here are some of the best. Yes, you caught me. I said “ones” in the plural. At home it’s a once a week treat, but here it has been nearly each day. Is this part of that letting go or merely the absence of proper discipline?
The question blew in and out of the activities of the day. Letting go—good; discipline—not so? Or is there another approach? Our first stop, the village of Peyre that was erected out of and part of the rock. There one could get a most interesting, juxtapositional view of the viaduct of Millau, 6 years old with modern sail-like, winged supports, and this 11th century village of stone.
Lunch was a Pic-Nique (that’s French) on the banks of the Tarn. The food was not heated, so I got a photo this time. Afterwards shoes and socks were shed following the lead of the young kids, and we crossed to an island of smooth stones warmed in the sun. Ah, a stone massage for the feet! 
Then on to the more urban Millau. There, and now continuing after, my disquiet wafts round that two word directive to simply let go. Perhaps I am approaching a threshold, a point of engaging the discipline of surrendering all.