Sophia Brothers Peterman

Jacques, an gold-orange kitten from the litter at le Mas de Salel, meows and meows at me, his round, blue-green eyes fixed on mine.  Ah, he is hungry again!  We are getting to know each other as this winsome Averyon spirit finds his place in the household routine.

This is my second day back.  It has been a flurry of unpacking and putting away, filling up the fridge, and getting the lawn mowed.  Being away allows a fresh eye, reorganization an added task.  Space is made for those things I brought back.

Souvenirs: reminders of a journey out into the world and also, perhaps, into oneself.   Which will have an impact and how might it show?  No big deal for sorting cabinets and drawers, but where might reorganization hit in daily life?  It feels a bit dizzy, more than jet-lag.  I scratch Jacques’ full tummy, and he responds with a purr.

My last full day in France.  It was hard not to be anxious about making it count.  The day unfolded into a bicycle ride to say good-by to a few favorite spots.  A stop and wave to the Russian Church, perched on the hill, a manifest wish for unity.  A sit in the cloisters of the Abbey of Sylvanes where Cistercian monks walked 700 years in the past.  A ride along ridges and up and down hills, drinking in the fields, valleys, and plateaus.  Dinner featured aligot, a traditional dish of 1 part potatoes, 1 part Tomme cheese, and 1 part crème fraiche all mixed in and heated up.

And on this last day, but not my last post, I have a few things that I want to clear up.  I tried very hard to write only the truth, since I have that storyteller’s inclination
to stretch it a bit.  Here is what has come to light after the blog was released.  1) The red earth around the Chateau de Montaigut gets its color from iron in the soil, it was said.  However a prominent geologist, who was a guest at le Mas de Salel, said that aluminum was actually the reason for the red.  2) The recalcitrant animal carrying the five year old child was a stubborn pony and not a donkey at all.  Note: I actually did see a donkey today.  3) The fountain in the courtyard at le Mas de Salel never offered water to the sheep of the farm.  Françoise bought it from a village in
Provence.  4) I learned that it is not a form of respect to address a woman as “Madame” and her first name, as I had first thought.  Rather, it implies that she runs a house of ill-repute.

But this month has not been a mistake, not at all.  Four weeks of French which is now just a little less hesitant.  Four weeks of writing some poetry and this daily blog.
Four weeks of getting to know and love this landscape.  Four weeks to put into practice, the best that I could, of following my gut and just letting go.  The field beyond my door is not planted yet; no telling when it will be.  Tomorrow I set off on the long voyage back.  The day
after that, I will let you know how it went.  Then I hope to add a new post once a week, paying attention to life back at home.

The Cathedral of Saint Cecilia in Albi is a massive, simple
structure of brick.  The multiple small towers and long, narrow windows add to the look, which is more like a fortress than a church.  Stepping inside, every surface
is painted with brilliant colors and design.  Fine limestone carving like lace separates the choir from where the
common folk stood.  Such emotion and devotion in each figure with a story told in each scene.

In the Bishop’s Palace next door is one of the largest
collections of works by the painter and printmaker, Toulouse-Lautrec, one of the town’s sons.  He is most well-known for his lithograph posters created at the turn of the 20^th century.  His preparatory sketches are displayed next
to the final design, showing how he pared down the picture story to just a few lines and blocks of color for quite an impact.

At dinner, more tomato soup (made from fresh tomatoes and fromage blanc), more fish stew (made with cod, mushrooms, cream, and white wine), more cheese (Roquefort was included, of course), and more plum tart are offered to all.  With a non, merci, there is a moment of pause.  Non, as in “I shouldn’t but maybe I will,” or non, as in “I really mean no.”  Here at Le Mas de Salel, non, non, non signals “absolutely no more”.   Sometimes it can take a moment’s self-exam before knowing what kind of non is to
be said.

Meanings can be hidden, even from oneself.  A church that looks like a fortress may open,
like a geode, into an explosion of devotional art.  A non may mean “maybe” or “definitely not.”  And it might take several preliminary looks before the simple, unadorned meaning comes through.  This finding of meaning can take time and a willingness to question and explore.  But it seems to make life richer and help you get what you want.

I set off on the main trail from Le Mas de Salel to walk 20 minutes and then turn around, returning by lunch.  It was on the way back that I saw it, just to the side of the trail: a cardabelle!  Beloved icon of this region, this large thistle grows on the ground in the midst of a ray of green leaves with barbed wire rims.  Dried cardabelles adorn many a door.  These decorations are barometers, their leaves curling in when foul weather approaches and opening with the sun.  The cardabelle is endangered and forbidden to pick, which makes me wonder how all those dried ones got on those doors.

After lunch, another hike sounded good.  I heard those cowbells that seemed so close
and so far.  This time I ignored their siren call, adopting an Odysseus-type stance.
But something caught my eye where I had not looked before.  There, beyond the bank of bushes and grass, were cows, some in a grove and some in the sun, wearing bells.  I had been told that only the boss cow has a
bell.  There were three in this group with a small, medium, and large clanking cowbell sound.

Funny how these discoveries come to pass.  You see something rare without searching it
out.  Or you stumble on what you once tried to find.  It could happen with flowers, cowbells, and that next step in life.  Maybe it does not have to be all that hard.  Maybe paying attention is all that is required.

With Autumn officially here, the morning temperature was cool.  But windows were opened as the sun made its way higher in the sky.  This afternoon I was in shorts and short sleeves as I set off on the bike.  “Été indien,” Indian summer, is how this warm
weather is described.  The first part of the ride was new to me, heading to Cenomes, a small village, and then traversing the valley alongside a small stream.  Large rolls of hay dried in the sun as part of getting ready for winter to come.

Next came the road I have traveled many a time on bicycle
and on foot.  Starting the climb, I noted the place where I had seen that fuchsia sweet pea.  And here was where the horse had come to greet me by the fence.  And there was the village so picturesque it coerces a photo each time I pass it.

I have been here only a few weeks, yet trails and roads have been layered with memories leading into my heart.  It feels like the land is reaching up, grabbing my heel, and calling my name.  Connection to place, be it a region of land or the soul’s inner chamber, is like the ker-chunk of a stick shift when it slips into first gear.