When I think of Provence, does Provence think of me?
A friend asked a version of that curling question a while back in the comments. I have needed to pose it, inwardly, for necessities sake over and over these past few weeks. And while I am humble enough to know what the only possible answer lying embedded within 2500 years of history could be – a booming God-like “Non” – there are held-tight images glowing strong, still.
I am in Arles and it is the after dinner dog walk. A simple, everyday affair. Ben, Kipling and I are at the Arena but my mind is elsewhere. Unthinkingly, I reach out my hand to the grooves in the columns put into deep relief by the sun, another day done. My eyes flick toward Ben, off-leash and rounding the bend up ahead. Kipling gives a slight tug and continuing on, padding feet quietly with my arm extended, I run my hands across the stone from arch to arch and in so doing touch time without a care.
This is a memory that I have replayed a hundred times during the past eight months. I don’t even know if the moment ever actually existed. It doesn’t matter finally.
As I turn in mind’s eye towards those distant crossroads yet again, I try, repeatedly, to explain what hold Provence has on me and this is as close as I can come. I have often leaned on the word “Beauty” – even as an all encompassing filler for when the heart is searching; this blog was named “Lost in Arles” for a reason as I have often said. But there is a deeper sense. “History” nor “Culture” do justice either but rather a nameless sensibility that somehow gathers a yawning insouciant freedom wrestling with the stark shadows of fortified walls (or closed minds), searing heat pushing against a winter Mistral and the possibilities that the Rhône rolls in, brightly reflected with a Van Gogh lilt.
I can’t ever go back to the life that I had as it doesn’t exist anymore, I know that now. I accept.
But what new one awaits for me? And where? Our persona sands off with times passage just like the patina in the stone that I am thinking of today. At least mine does. Cats with nine lives and all that. Yet, there is so much that stands. I tend to forget that part. Do I listen to my heart or my head? Will the words somehow meet in the middle at my throat, allowing me to find the words to speak?
Fingers reach to touch, to touch…the air and are left grasping. There is a known unknown waiting and it will be just for me. If Provence ever does think of me, at least it just might admire the willingness, the asking.
Admittedly, I am especially emotional today. These words were like fishes wriggling through my fingers. There is a very rare Black New Moon tonight and it is a time of planting seeds for the coming six months. And if I don’t know what those seeds are? If I have no idea? I am often scared of the blank page awaiting me but tonight I will try to place my trust in the hole where the moon should be.
Jackie, I love that Rumi quote and it is one that has followed me around quite a bit during these past eight months, showing up often unexpectedly. But to be open and optimistic…yes, thank you again.
Heather, Provence is in you, so you belong to Provence, wether you are there or not.
And when I think of Provence I think about you. That is know forever connected.
Because of photos like the one of the little shutterholder on image 13 you made Provence, that I knew differently before I knew you and your wonderful blog, a treaseure chest.
A treasure you have created. Un oevre de grand envergure.
But your challenges are different now. And I think thats good. Even if it does not seem like it now. You'll see clearer soon.
The old stones are wonderful but nature, the whole universe is much older and you are surrounded by it and you belong to it. Everywhere. Don't forget that. 🙂
Other places may already be waiting eagerly to be filled with your love, Heather. Provence got plenty of it.
I'm happy to see so many wise and nice comments here for you. Take them all in.
Thank you also for your great last post. As you know I couldn't comment for some time. That post showed that you already are on your way to new horizons.
I send you Strength for the decision that you have to make these days.
Gros bisous, Silke
I did, Heather. I'd read those posts before, but the re-reading was no less sweet. Wishing you strength, grace and courage as you move forward in life.
Hello Heather,
I admire your strength, perseverance, hope and enthusiasm ."Fortitudine Vincimus"
You have accomplished so much this past year.I have been praying for you and asking for strength and for the perfect work opportunity to present itself to you.
Fondest wishes always
Helen xx
. Blaze a new path, new life, new discovery.The horizon is bright.
Oh Heather, how I wish you could run your hands over provence stone and the softness of your fur babies again. My heart weeps for you. Suzana
You heart sounds resonate throughout this beautiful post! Your heartbeat is strong, remember that!
Hoping you planted a bushel of seeds of hope for the upcoming months, Heather.
What a beautiful embrace this post and comments have been. Sending one of warmth and gratitude in return!
xx
oh I remember that time when I did not know where home was anymore…and how homesick I was. I recognize that pain (a little too clearly, perhaps) and my heart goes out to you. Mixed in with that pain were glimpses of hope and possibility, and I hope those glimpses are there for you, too. much love always…
Look at all the wonderful people who support and identify with you, Rocket, and smile .. smile today, smile tomorrow, smile yourself all the way to newly awaiting wonders .. wherever they may be.
I am embraced by your post today. For some reason, maybe it's the permanence of the stone, when my floor has fallen out from underneath me. I need to touch those stones to know I'm safe again. Your writing is just so beautiful of how it tells me even more of you. And, I want to be friends with all your reader friends as they, too, are wonderful in all that they have given you, in how they support you. You are blessed in many ways, even though I do know the journey is hard, sometimes beyond belief. When it's time you will touch the stones of Provence and feel their warmth! Bisous, mon amie!