Sophia Brothers Peterman

This is from 9.4.2011.  (I’ll write more about my technical difficulties in the next blog.)

It was a short drive on winding narrow roads to la Chapelle Russe, the Russian Chapel.  With each turn, a new vista opened before us.   I was breathless at each new landscape, even though the hills and valleys were rather ordinary when viewed through the camera lens.  I could not seem to capture the quality that induced that sudden intake of breath in astonishment and recognition.  The force of nature.

The Russian Chapel is perched atop a planed-off hill.  It is a Russian Orthodox thank-you
to the people of this region for their support during the Cold War.  Originally built in northern Russia, using wood from their nearby forest, it was painstakingly dismantled, shipped, and reassembled here, log by log.

The joints are all interlocking without a nail in sight.  The scale is grand, and this feat of human gratitude and engineering incredible.  Yet this wood from the colder climate is not doing well in the warmth of the South of France.  It yields to a finger’s push as fungus destroys it from within.  The force of nature.

This grill beckoned us to lunch.  The main fire behind, the hot coals are raked
forward to control the heat for the meat on the rack.  Yet the only open tables were those outside, and a light sprinkle persisted longer than our desire for the results of that
grill.  We headed back to le Mas de Salel, the sun inviting us to an al fresco lunch at home.  But just as we sat down to a dish of onions, green beans, fresh tomatoes, and scallops in cream, with fresh coriander a perfect accent, light rain began hitting the plates.  A meal outside was just not to be, and we moved everything inside.  The rain continued into the afternoon, and I followed the invitation, taking a long nap.   The force of nature.

The forces of nature.  We try so hard to control them, their effects on our activities, surroundings, and spirit.  Sometimes they conform to our persistent will; sometimes we are the ones who must bend.  The trick is in the discernment of knowing which situation is which at the time, wanting to avoid the unforeseen loss of a crumbling shrine.

Je suis arrivée—I have arrived…at least literally.  The sun is playing hide and seek (a marvelous turn of phrase courtesy of Nicolas, the proprietor).   There is a hum, about alto pitch, that surges and not.  It takes a moment to discern that it is from the wind and not a nearby superhighway.

My room overlooks the fountain in the courtyard where, not too long ago, sheep and horses drank.  A man calls in the distance.  I look up to see a parade of sheep marching along a path, dogs and then the man coming up behind.  This farm used to raise ewes for the nearby caves where Roquefort cheese is still made.  But, in a biblical turn of events, the last caretaker switched out all the young ewes before leaving, resulting in a herd of ewes suitable only for the butcher’s knife.   I’m thinking of Jacob.  Some part of his story often turns up at pivotal points in my life.   Does life have these patterns, these threads that manifest in an overall design?  It hit me that I am in a boarding house now just like I was when in London and that my home was a boarding house in a previous life.

Kittens!  There are four adorable siblings that tumble and play with their mama nearby.  She frequently yawns, the universal sign of motherhood no matter the nationality, language, or species.  Giggles erupt like a sneeze–the kittens’ outlandish antics demanding a response. These babies are starting to venture away from their mother and sibs, slowly, tentatively, unsure of their bounds.  Again, there is this question if the universe moves in patterns, connecting the dots, as I settle in at le mas de Salel.

Are you in it or not?  It is a line from a poem that I wrote while studying Teresa of Avila’s The Interior Castle.  Are you in it or not?  It is a fierce invitation to life, to the possibility of living in a belly-to-belly relationship with the Beloved and your true self.  Are you in it or not?  I’m not sure that you can ever completely assent—the bidding seems to multiply upon its acceptance—but I’m going to try!

And so I am preparing for a month in the South of France.  Hey, no one said the journey had to be an ascetic one!   All seems madness right now.  Stacks of clothes, books, a bike
helmet, and way too many pairs of shoes attend my suitcase defined by the limits of size and weight.  I fight the compulsion to clean the bugs from the light housing of the shower fan as take-off time approaches.  There is a sense of urgency to household tasks that have lingered for longer than I am willing to admit in public.  It won’t all get done.  Nightmares manifest the hidden panic of what might be birthed in unscheduled time.  I move, suspended between terror and a to-do list.