Sophia Brothers Peterman

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.

The sun was out more often than it was hidden by clouds.  Françoise, another, and I set off to visit the nearby Zamoyski Musee.  August Zamoyski was a 20^th century sculptor of solid figures in bronze and stone.  Born into a prestigious family in Poland, he told his parents he wanted to marry a dancer and to do sculpting full-time.  They sent the young man off with a no-return ticket, his actions a disgrace to the family name.   He stayed true to his passion, writing that art is a way of understanding reality
anchored in the love and creation of God.  A footnote: he became a rich man with his art, helping his family, who
had gone on to lose much, to restore the family castle.

We walked on to revisit the Église Russe, the church set on a hilltop, built first in Russia and then transported here piece by piece for
reassembly.  The East chapel is reserved
for Orthodox worship; the West chapel is for the Catholics.  The main altar is not yet consecrated as a sign that Christian unity is something still awaited.  In the Catholic chapel Françoise fussed over some dirt on the small antique rug in front of the altar.  The story came out, with a sly giggle or two, that she had been the one to donate it.   It seems the open eyes of Christ on the cross were fixed upon a previous, unsuitable rug, and she had wanted something better for him to fix his gaze on.

Walking back up the rough path that only locals know, we saw rays from the late afternoon sun filtering onto the landscape below.  “The fingers of God coming down”, was Françoise’s remark.  Fingers of God touching us all, yet each touch is different.  One person left his fortune and standing to follow the passion of his soul.  (And interestingly, it worked out best for all.)  Another fussed over the Divine like an especially favorite relative.  I hope that I’ll recognize that touch when it comes and then turn to give a high five.

Awakening to the smell of croissants in the oven, I hurried outside to go down to the kitchen for my basket of those warm, melt-in-your-mouth, caramel-colored delights.  As I rounded the corner, I met the most incredible sky.  It was cloud-covered but not with a homogenous gray.  Rather the grays were in softly rounded ripples, like one might expect in Batman’s Gotham City or in a sandy bottom molded by river rapids above.  I left those warm croissants in my room for a moment to return with my camera.  Yes, it was that amazing to see.

Things looked different in this softly diffused, cloud-covered light as compared to the brilliant sun and postcard blue sky we
have recently had.  I took a long walk along
the ridge of the hills overlooking the nearby valleys and fields.  Misty faraway places seemed suspended in a fairy tale dream.  The details of old bark peeling off fence posts stood in sharper focus without the glare of the sun or the resulting squint of the eye.

And so, I begin the last week of this adventure.  My thoughts are starting to drift towards my life on return.  Will some things stand in much sharper focus?  Will others lose color and fade back in the mist?  Will I see life in a new light?

This morning I read and worked on projects, not getting
anywhere much.  Lunch was a welcome diversion, eating outside, featuring a quiche baked on a flaky, butter crust,
topped with roasted pine nuts.  An excursion seemed in order, so I set off for a woodturner’s studio I had passed
on my other bike tours.  His shop was set on a hill across the river from St. Felix de Sorgues.  There were several limestone buildings of an old village nearby, some that had windows and some that did not.

In going there I traveled downhill that shaded, fir-scented
route once again.  Which meant going back, there was quite an ascent.  The pedaling was a bit hard and very slow.  There was turn after turn, each one going up.  I went from pleasantly warm to sweating and hot.  It seemed endless.  I kept telling myself to keep going, with a break now and then, that this ride most certainly had an end.  Pedaling and pedaling with no thought of how long or how far, then finally up ahead was the sign for Le Mas de Salel.

This is not a new feeling, this discussion inside.  The inner child whining about the effort it
takes to go on and on while the inner parent reminding that an end always comes, be it in reading, learning French, writing, work or just getting back up the hill.  Tomorrow I might just take a hike.

All alone.  “Tout seul” in French, it even has the sound of being alone.  Everyone was going where I had already been.  I was all alone for the day.  I got on the bike, leaving my jacket behind.  It was another glorious day with the sky a postcard blue.  The white van from le Mas de Salel tooted its horn as it passed me on the road in the valley of the Sorgues river.

All alone.  Whenever I wanted, I could stop for a photo if something caught my eye, read a sign about a 12th century chateau, or take a drink of water and a breath.  I could go at my own pace, which meant slow when it came time to climb up those mountainous hills once again.  There was no stress to return by a certain time.  A place had been set in the courtyard, a picnic lunch awaiting my return.
It was quiet.  It was marvelous.  All kinds of thoughts and ideas churned around in my head.

All alone.  It is an incredible gift, that space to listen for and follow one’s own whimsy and desire.  We are social animals, and being with several or many is enriching for sure.  But just like adding a touch of pepper to a dish, a little bit of being alone gives life a kick.

It was an incredible day of blue sky, warmth in the sunshine with a bit of chill in the shade, and the light brushing kiss of a breeze—perfect for a ride on a bike.  I set off towards St. Felix de Sorgues with a more detailed map and a different bike from before.  I do not think that I will ever tire of this landscape.  It was beautiful traveling down the road, sunlight filtering through the fir trees, which offered their scent as an early holiday gift.

I had brought a backpack per my usual style.  It was filled with essentials: water, camera, jacket, phone, small French-English dictionary and such.  It felt a bit heavy on my mid-back with the initial descent.  The second leg of my circular route was a climb, curve after rising curve.  My back was beginning to hurt.  Then it ached, and then it said that was enough.  What to do?  I was far from le Mas de Salel and couldn’t unload.  How silly to bring a fleece jacket with exercise planned and the weather so warm.
I took off the pack.  Ah, the relief!  Thinking that rearranging might help things a bit, I put the jacket on top of the camera to add height rather than width.  Once the pack was back on, I lengthened the straps to carry its weight more on my hips.  The climb was still challenging but in a fun, bike-riding way.

There is plenty written about baggage, literally and figuratively, so to speak.  And most
would counsel to lighten the load.  But sometimes you have what you have, and it just cannot go.  In that case, shifting things around just a bit may turn a miserable trip into an exhilarating ride in the hills.

There is a field just across the driveway from my room.  With two chairs sitting under the pear tree, looking out onto the waving grass and the hills beyond, it was one of the first
photos that I took here.  Later that evening of my first day, the field was plowed.  Seventeen days later, it still remains furrowed, the dirt in large chunks, with no seed in sight.

There is something about that plowed field that bugs me, makes me anxious, gets under my skin.  I can feel the coarse rows of turned soil within me, the result of a pass or two
of the plowshare of restlessness.  Will there need to be more upheaval before the soil is properly prepared?  What will be planted there?  I really, really want to know, and no one can tell me for sure.  And when, oh when are they going to plant?

A cow pauses to watch me pass on my hike, not moving a muscle, water dripping from her lips.  There is all the time in the world.  Patience, patience, patience.

Today was quite a bit cooler, in the 50’s if the internet was correct.  There was a bit of rain, mostly clouds, and lots of wind.  The central heating was turned on, the fireplace was lit, and sweaters were worn (in my
case, two).  A brisk walk amongst farms was
the exercise chosen instead of swimming laps.  In short, we adapted to the change.

This region has been designated for preservation because of its long history of people interacting and adapting to their natural surroundings.  The village of Peyre is
built upon cliffs for its protection.  The
troglodyte church pictured here actually grows out of the rock, the better to
provide safety for those who came to seek refuge.  The village of La Couvertoirade used underground cisterns in order to have water where it can be so arid.

Adaptation—figuring out how to thrive and survive in our surroundings.  Like the kittens who pulled a cushion from the chair and then huddled against the wind that had turned so cold.  With climate controlled spaces and most everything electronic, the need to adapt may seem less pressing. I
personally think that it is a skill worth having, as I add a scarf to my outfit for style and of course, for warmth

I did not understand the plans for lunch and the time after.  And so I was a bit cold, without anything (like
my backpack with sunglasses, water, book, and my camera) for nearly the entire afternoon.   Comprehending.  It can be difficult when one recognizes most every word but then realizes too late that the unknown verb was very important to the meaning.  My empathy is growing for
those living with a language different from that of their birth.  Understanding runs a half-second behind hearing
in each conversation.  And subtleties, those little twists and turns, are so very easily missed.

To make this topic a little bit bigger, think about listening to your gut to know the next step of action.  At first, it can be easy to miss something subtle and then things turn out less than ideal.  It is tempting to want to give it all up when practice, listening harder, and maybe a tutor might help to learn this important new language.