Up on the mountain

Bird on a wing.

Opening out into a quiet mind, released from a fenced in view.

With a carpet of lace…

bijoux

…and cashmere at my feet, to prickle and smoothe.

Enough space to break…

…into a random leaping run, looping wide…

…before sneaking home to known.

We walked the trails…
…up on the mountain. They keep my mind’s eye aloft even after descending too soon.

Resting in the shadows of the Chartres Cathedral

The longevity of awe…and the quietude buried within peace. These were the two thoughts echoing in my mind with the gentleness of passing a feather from one palm to the other while I was sitting in the Chartres Cathedral. We were in town for a wedding, a new beginning but I couldn’t stop thinking about the past. 
I had sat in these pews years ago. Then, I was buoyed by the weight of the beauty surrounding me but this visit I realized that something far heavier was at play. How must the cathedral have loomed above the fields to the pilgrims that spied its spiers from afar, starting in the 12th century. It was the journey of a lifetime and the stories of its might travelled home with them, blessed. How many days had passed since then, light into dark again, shown and known by being lit from within. Nearly all of the windows were installed by 1240 and they still shine jewel-like, having been spared the ruthless bombing the town saw during World War II in 1939 when each pane of glass was wisely removed as the German troops advanced. These vitruax could inspire belief in God or other, definitely of something higher and better, in anyone. For awhile, I sat and watched each visitor as they would tilt their heads up and become still with the effort of trying to understand. And then I closed my eyes and listened to the whispers of shuffle and flow. I could have been there for years, a sigh on the timeline and a shadow of the efforts that had gone into creating such awe…such peace. 
On the tympanum above the Royal entry, some wise bird has built his nest just above the statue of Christ’s head, a tilted halo to the holy. He understood, perfectly.

As I have mentioned previously, I am not a Christian but such sacred sites have and continue to inspire me, regardless of the faith housed within. Yes, faith remains and creates a bond, a link to life.

And while this is not a post of popsicles, it does seem appropriate for summer, a time of year when expansion is at its apogee…an expansion in all directions then, backwards and forwards, in and out with steady breath.

Wishing you a peaceful weekend ahead…


…and thank you for all of your kindness of late. 

Details of a Secret Provence

The heat at this height of summer wipes the words clean off my tongue. I let them go and let my eyes express what my mind cannot. Here in my Secret Provence

How fluid. How solid. How insubstantial yet lasting.
Have a wonderful week everyone. We are away from home so I may not be responding to your wonderful comments as much as usual but please know that they are very much appreciated, as always.

Up the trail on a forest walk

The whistle of the pines replaces the chatter of my mind, so for once, I am moving in stillness.

It is late in the morning, the heat in the valley is prickling and so we head up, leaving the chapel below…
…and start to climb. Diving into shade’s coolness…

…I hear Remi’s breathing beside me. He pulls up ahead and I follow that reassuring in and out.

The light splays through the barren branches like feathers aflame…
…yet as weightless as a dragonfly.
Another form of chapel is here, open to all and sundry…
We stop, take count…

…resourcing and readying for the next adventures on the trail ahead.
Have a wonderful weekend everyone.

The chapel garden

A sweet chapel is nestled in the valley directly across from the safari tent that we rented in the Haut-Languedoc. 1903 is carved in stone above the door.

On our last day, Hendrik, the owner of the gîtes and keeper of the chapel left the door open for us.
Inside was peace. The unadorned kind. I was moved by the skinny benches and open-armed statues within…

…and the nickel hearts marking the gravestones outside.

I walked slowly through the cemetary that held a solid current of life and joy…

…just as the echoes of faith had rung in the chapel.
Still. I wondered who the parisioners had been in such a far off place…
…and was grateful for the continuing spirit of Life all around.

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