rhythm of winter

Winter is settling into the Loire. You can tell because things are freezing, now; they take most of the morning to thaw. The nettles become white, every tooth and spike covered with layers of crystals that exaggerate their form. While the Loire and the Thouet continue to move fluidly, the smaller streams have become still, their surface a bit matte. Within, you can see reeds and leaves, motionless like mannequins in a store window.

There’s a back-and-forth to all this, yet, because things do thaw during the day. The light may creep onto them at 9 or 10 or 11, and the twinkle of frost becomes a flash of wet. All day they bask in the warmth. Do they become relaxed, like a cat in the sun? Or have they started to get nervous about the shivering approach of evening? If it were me, living out there, I would be anxious.

These things, on the other hand—natural, outside things—are used to this changing, and they are adapted to it. Maybe they even need it. Isn’t there a side of me that needs the cold, hungers after the freezing? Winters low on the frost factor are lacking in satisfaction—for me, anyhow.

I think of the grape vines, how over the course of autumn, they suck their sap back, from the tips of their leaves, through branches, down into the trunk, and finally below the soil into the roots. Do you think they enjoy this somehow? Is this their version of cuddling up in bed with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book? They retreat to the darkest, warmest room of the house, cover up with a meter or two of good soil, and drink in the yummy minerals the snow brings along. They are relieved, perhaps, to put aside for a few months their appearances and their working. They rest, content to be and to appear only what they really are.

The entire landscape is utterly conformed to this likeness, to these bare bones; forest and field are filled with subtle color and gaunt silhouettes. Some call it sad; others, chilling. Some call it lovely.

“And what about us?” I can’t help asking, in a city with lights always on, and outdoor figures fluffed and stuffed, adorned and colorful. Where is our rest? Where is our nakedness? I feel outdoors a rhythm I don’t dare enter into, inside. No, it would alter me; it would change everything. I am afraid of it and not strong enough to give into it.

pushing out, pushing on

 I push out into the light: it’s morning. I’ve overslept my alarm, and that’s ok. There’s the church bells coming at 9, but these days they don’t tell me when I have to arrive, or where. 

Today, I choose the banks of the Loire, heading east. This morning is an illumined morning, inside and out. My eyes and my heart catch the rosy glow of the rising sun upon the water, and I greet the seagull with joy. 

The river runs its course, steady on, as if pressed for time; it continues on from Angers to Chinon, and will find the sea by the time the day is done. Quite the accomplishment. 

While the city plays out on my right, with much to discover, I am not concerned with her today. Give me nature. The pavement opens to cobblestones on the left, and I follow them down to the water’s surface, losing the most invasive drones of traffic. The bare, brown structure of coneflowers are clambered over by still-green thornbushes, some still attached to their dried up fruits. At the water’s edge, there are baubles of yellow on some fall flower. I am grateful for these late bloomers. 

The day stretches before me, and I have as much choice for my activities as for this morning’s route. Sometimes I wish there were a structure, a path. Today, however, I am glad for the freedom. 

---

I push out into the night. It’s barely evening; dinner is still an hour or two away. Yet the sky has gone dark and the kitchen windows have lit up. Those not home yet from work seem to be out on the streets and sidewalks; there are many passer-by to dodge on the narrow sidewalk. They can see my breath from far off, but avoid eye contact. 

Across the downtown, I take a fork in the road at a high, stone wall. A grim 80’s building appears behind some hedges, its large windows revealing active figures within. The parking lot is abuzz. I climb the steps, grocery bags in hand. 

Inside, tables are set up, and lines are formed. I can’t help but smile. Into the warmth we all come to pick up fresh, local food. The baker comes out from behind her table to greet me warmly and see how the job search is going. She passes me two large, round loaves sparkling with seeds; their aroma envelops us as we talk. There is milk from large coolers, wedges of aged cheese cut and wrapped, flour scooped into jars, and abnormally-small eggs from young hens just beginning to lay. 

Then I wait for the veggies. We all wait; there are items to be weighed, and it takes time. I am glad there’s a little boy in front of me for entertainment. When I make funny faces at him, he says nothing but “Bah!” with a growl. 

It’s my turn. It’s my favorite moment of the week, I think. I weigh funny-shaped carrots from the bottom of the crate—the rejects. Radish, turnip, leek, cabbage, frisé lettuce. The farmer and I chat. I don’t know which cabbage to choose, and take the closest one. There are tall, elegant lettuces called “Sugar Bread” laid out in the basket at the end. Their form is like Van Gogh’s poplar trees waving in the wind. Into the bag, tenderly. I thank Gregory for the beautiful vegetables, and cut through the line and out the door. 

 In the street it begins to feel like Christmas time. The classy clothes shops are setting up their storefronts with sweaters and fake snow. Homesickness strikes and I feel the sting in my eyes. 

Not tonight, I decide, not this time. In midstride, I register where I am. I remember the thousand times I had imagined living in France, tracing cobbled streets and passing by wonky houses—not as a tourist, but with groceries. Not visiting, but living. Not alone, but with friends. It is a time to be thankful.

a wwoofing update

A couple of explanations, first.

One, I am a bad traveler and forgot my power adapter. The one I bought at the airport doesn't work. Therefore, my connection to the outside world is a bit more limited than imagined.

Two, I have a beautiful, new-to-me digital SLR that I am getting adjusted to. However, no laptop means no pictures, yet. Sorry to all who are waiting.

Three, I was hoping to launch a separate blog for my wwoofing adventures and keep this one for more personal reflections. Alas--time lacks for this wwoofer, as do the photos I would like to anchor said site with. Maybe next month.

I set off three weeks ago from Kansas City, intending to spend the growing season (March-fall) traveling from farm to farm in France. My mission is to explore various varieties of farming activities and areas of this country I love. To do this, I'm using WWOOF France, an association that provides a directory of organic farms who are willing to host people like me with room and board in exchange for work. No money is exchanged, only ideas, skills, cultural identities, and other intangible treasures.

Upon my arrival, I spent a week amidst my Parisian friends. It was so joyful to reunite with the Chapuis family (the kids being 9 months older and wiser than when I left them), house-church friends, and the YWAM Paris team. I was able to practically prepare things like my French bank account and cell phone, and arrange transportation to my first host farm.

I'm nearing my two-week mark here, here being La Ferme des Vignes, La Grande Verrière, Burgundy, France. I decided to come here because of the hilly landscape and because they raise goats for cheese-making and bees for honey--two areas of production that intrigue me but that I knew nothing about.

Olivier and Julie, along with their 22-month old daughter, Colline, have enthusiastically integrated me into their home and professional lives, including a rigorous schedule (They have, however, given me the luxury of a day off on Sunday, which is not the case for them). For the curious:

7 Wakey-wakey
7:15-8:30 Milking the goats, feeding and inspecting the kids
8:30-9 Little chores or preparing breakfast
9-10 Breakfast (locally produced artisan bread, home-made jam, herbal tea)
10-1 Putting the goats and cows out to pasture, cheesemaking or other work
1-2 Lunch
2-3 Rest
3-5 Work outside or in the barn
5-5:30 Snack break
5:30-8 Milking and kids
8-9 Little chores, dishes (a once-a-day hoopla for one of us), preparing dinner
9-10 Dinner time
10 Down time and bed time

Several times a week, there are interruptions for either Julie or Olivier, such as the CSA delivery on Monday nights or the market at Autun on Friday mornings. This week I was able to accompany Julie to the market and participate in selling their artisan cheeses.

Although the schedule and amount of work have taken some getting used to, I am thankful to be pulled into what they're doing. They often insist that I do the more interesting or challenging activity in order to learn; they, on the other hand, will do the dishes or other grunt work once I am capable of doing the trickier stuff on my own.

So it is that I am accumulating new skills. I am getting better at milking the goats; we use a machine, but have to do the first "pull" by hand, so it's coming slowly. Olivier taught me how to chop wood with an axe the other day, and though I have a few gnarly bruises on my shins, I chopped a pretty pile, too. The many steps of making several kinds of cheese are beginning to make more sense. Friday Olivier let me make the tomme cheese, which mean my arms to the elbow in a copper vat of nearly 100 liters of warm milk (very pleasant, as it has been quite chilly still). Herding the goats is doable now, thanks to our border collie, Fanfare, although the cows are another story.

Aside from all I'm learning, there are a couple of outstandingly wonderful things about being here. The landscape is just lovely; we're halfway up a large hill with another hill across the way, green pastures and budding woods spread out before us. I can't get enough of it, and when I'm tired or discouraged it helps to just look up and around. The other is the quality of hospitality and congeniality with which I've been received here. Though the home is a mess and I have been put to work, I feel accepted and given to at the same time, especially since the French are often much slower to open their inner lives to strangers.

The days is drawing to a close, and I'm going to go outside for another walk before the sun goes down. Please comment or ask questions if there's something you are interested in or want to know!

taking and making shape

It’s a gloriously temperate Thursday night in Kansas City. There’s a group of a dozen or two people laughing in the living room below me. 

What am I doing? I’m pumping my fists in the air to some music, joyful that I am learning to knit socks. 

I knit, but I don’t have a knitter-brain. It’s just something to occupy my hands, sometimes, a way to create what I want to own. The fact that stitches work together to create something shapely out of yarn is pretty miraculous in my world—hence the celebratory actions! There were a bunch of things on a pattern, that I executed (thanks to a little help from a British lady on YouTube), and now I have part of a slipper. 

The thing the knitting bloggers tell you is to follow your pattern and trust that it will work, especially when dealing with sock patterns. “One step at a time.” 

On the wall above my desk I have a yellow piece of paper with a freehanded map of France on it, and little names of farms I might like to visit penciled in. Below that I have some Post-Its with the names of the people who run these farms. These are reminders to me of where I am going, who I am going to, soon. Still, they are abstract and hold only a breath of a form, like a connect-the-dots design.

Tonight I looked this map while I was in the middle of being amazed by my sock pattern’s success. They are alike, in a way. I’ve not felt like the greatest adventurer or risk-taker, in my life. While I have experienced some wonderful escapades, the great travels and things of that nature have seldom been my idea. They have made me very, very afraid. The thought of experimentation has found me crippled with fear. Failure. Lack. Being alone. Not being enough. 

What if there was no reason to fear? What if there was assurance that things will be taken care of, that there will be enough? These questions outline the back-and-forth movement of my thoughts and emotions as I prepare to go. Deep fear and insecurity mingle with simple lack of knowing how to proceed. 

There’s a moment of choice: I look at another possibility. I am loved. I am capable. I will never be left. My dreams are good. I make a decision to follow through with my plans: buy a ticket, make a transatlantic phone call, write an email. Furthermore, I share with joy and anticipation. I laugh and rejoice. 

Stitch by stitch, things are taking shape. A season is becoming visible to me, now. From where I sit in my Kansas City home at the Bolers’ house at the beginning of February, I look forward. I see months of discovery, experimentation, joy, perseverance, and so much love. There will be laughter, hikes, bee stings, breathtaking landscapes, smelly clothes, criticism, tears, so very many wildflowers, and knowledge of how to make them useful. Many of the people who populate these reveries have faces already and bring smiles to my face. Others have names. Others are a dream in my heart of welcome, instruction, and if we’re lucky, a little romance. 

The moment when shape begins to exist is a good, exciting time. I am grateful for it.