As we drove the back roads our internal clock slowed to a pace where reflection has time to gaze, breath and simply be still.
It wasn't our first time driving across France, but it was the first time we went with the intention of taking it slow. Our mode of transport is usually the train (TGV), being that the destination is the goal and we stay in one place. Whereas this time, even though we had meetings in Paris and Rennes, we planned to make the journey there and back a holiday.
Fence lined fields at twilight.
Golden hues warmed the grey skies.
Wildflowers soften the edges of the paved roads.
And as it is when one can stop and be in the moment, even forgetting that one is stopping and being in the moment, a new rhythm gave way to our steps… call it grace, call it peace, call it a pipeline to an inner voice.
We teased about the possibility of being stuck in the mud, as we drove on dirt paths through fields, chasing windmills, like children on a treasure hunt.
The play of light, as it filtered through the new Spring leaves, cheered us on.
An old wind mill, a gem, on a century old French farm, that we would have never seen if we hadn't taken the dirt road. Surprised us.
A movie set that gave way to our imagination.
The miles blended into one another, yet each new landscape lulled, seduced me to a place where I felt I could run far, far, and further, without having to look back or worry that I might get lost. The dark sky, the bar wire fence, nor the toiled land, threatened. Instead an air of mystery echoed.
Nature's force. Moving forward.
The clouds hung low, yet there was a gap between the earth and sky… in the in between space I added my prayer: Amongst whatever may be, may we have a safe place to be ourselves and grow.
A pilgrim walked the way to Santiago de Compostela.
" "
When we saw her, I knew then that in some way our journey was similar.
A refuge, with its slate tiles barely hanging on.
The hilly "vallonné" countryside offered vistas, encouraging us to discover:
"What is over that hill, or in the little valley below?"
Each with its charm, character, history, story…
One town we drove pass… Oradour sur Glane, had a story that I couldn't erase from my mind. My Belle Mere reminded us:
via WebUrbanist.
Dot to dot,
One story/memory connecting to another.
Time remembered.
Woven into the fabric.
Collected.
Hopefully heard.
Held towards healing.
A voyage, a way, a journey, a pilgrimage…
Holding what is given, finding a way to carry on with the grace of one another.
36,000 towns in France. Each with a history.
No wonder there are so many things at the brocante.
Each holding a fragment of the story.
A bed linen from the marriage bed,
A dented spoon that fed a child,
A family portrait,
A hammer, a bag of nails, some marbles, a medal on a ribbon…
A walled garden.
A shed.
Stones perfectly place that will continue to stand longer than any mall.
A vineyard that has been worked and harvested for generations, circled a country town in the middle of France.
"…Fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become our spiritual drink."
Signs:
Sewing shop.
Street of the glass maker…
Telling us who lived there, what they did, who they were… history intact.
Sacred hearts carved above a church door.
Flaming with love, burning with desire.
Passing through one village to the next. Around seven each evening we would look for a hotel. We always found one. We weren't picky and never were disappointed.
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