Via Tolosana Day 39: As above, so below

Lescar to Lacommande – 13.6kms

With a rock concert going on in the next town, I didn’t go to sleep easily or quickly.  My legs were restless again. Nevertheless I was up again at 6am writing pages.  It is definitely my new biro that is making it faster.  I had blueberry fraiche for breakfast, packed and then left at 7.10am, just after Anne. She was explaining that she has also had knee trouble, although hers sounded more serious than my twinges.

I said goodbye to the sweet little gite, just across from what looks like the equivalent of the RSL – or a local militia of some kind. I should learn not to check emails on the way out of town, as I did so at the Office de Tourisme, and more news about my housemate moving just had me cogitating again for the morning.  It was a bit of a maze of streets leading me out of Lescar, and quite a steep descent from the town gate, but I was interrupted from my mind-work walking along Rue du Biale when a woman opened her big wooden shutters from her kitchen and we exchanged bon jours!  She asked if I wanted a cafe, and who doesn’t at 7.20am in the morning in France?  So I said yes, and then she offered me petit déjeuner as well. She ushered me in through the gate, to the house and it became apparent that she had already entertained a whole army already at the dining room table.  As it turns out, she had 4 pilgrims staying the night before (and is one of the chambre d’hotes in my Miam Miam Dodo). Jackie was lovely. She gave me coffee, a couple of pieces of brioche and some figs to go.  I was finding it hard to keep from weeping with humility at such thoughtfulness, my eyes were tearing up and I was annoyed with myself that I had spent time dwelling on the difficulties at home. Life does look after me.  Everything will be OK.  I only stayed a short time, although long enough for her to ask whether I was religious.  (Do I look religious?). And for me to answer not really. The other pilgrims were leaving in a cab for some reason: I didn’t quite understand what their journey involved.

Buoyed from this blessing, I said goodbye to her and kept walking out of Lescar.  There were some quaint GR street signs which mentioned votre prudence (your prudence). I think they wanted me to be careful crossing the very main road up ahead.  I love a language that still uses concepts such as prudence, on street signs no less.  It reminds me of the Wheeler Centre’s current Adopt a Word drive – pay some money for a word that is in danger of disappearing. I’ll have prudence thanks – it is a word and concept that seems to have escaped the 21st Century English language and custom.

A bit further on, and I could see what the sign was about. I was negotiating quite large roads. When I crossed, I looked back and saw a flotilla of a different kind to what I usually encountered in forests.  I could hear distant sirens, and see the beautiful upside-down fig-shape of balloons out for their Saturday float.  In Melbourne, I was in the habit of riding to work along St Georges road.  I have always found it fascinating that at the same time that figs are ready to eat, there float giant upside-down figs across the cityscape of Melbourne. It is only on the gorgeous still mornings in March and April but often four or five float across the skyline at once. Today’s spectacle seemed further away, but just as enchanting.

I walked past out-of-the-way houses, and then along a path bordered by tall-growing budleias. The smell was heady.  A runner passed me, and I hadn’t heard him coming so he startled me. Then, up ahead man was wheeling a bike with what looked like a rifle over his shoulder.  Given my extreme fear of guns, I was more than a little concerned. By the time I reached where I’d seen him, my heart was beating fast, but I was so relieved because he had turned off on a small track that led down and opened onto the river bank.  He’d left his bike just off the track, but had taken himself and the gun down there. He looked to be well on the way probably (hopefully but unfortunately), to duck shooting.  It was now shooting season.  I walked quicker regardless. I find it difficult to contemplate being close to a gun.

I walked quickly up and over the bridge and crossed the river by the D509 to the other side to find even more budleias with their reassuring sweet smell. I wondered where they were native to.  The path was sealed, and followed the river.  My feet felt hot this morning. In the evening the night before I had attempted reclined Vipassana to see if I could bring some joy to my sore knees. I think it calmed me, but it would probably be more helpful if I just got up earlier each morning to meditate.

I  walked past the French equivalent of the The Beachcombers, although they were watering their piled up wood in the yard with overhead sprinklers, throwing rainbows everywhere. That Canadian series theme song wormed it’s way into my head.

I walked under a tunnel for a road, across an oval, and I was soon in Artiguelouve, a small suburban town full of wandering cats and stocky horses.  Through to the other side, I took a left at a way marker and started ascending a bitumen road.  Past a Chateau du Vin, Domaine du Cinquau, (which when I checked the website, looked like a pretty posh place for a wedding!!). I rested looking back across the plain where I’d seen the balloons.  It was a lucky spot as there were many scratchy tickets in the grass.

After the rest, I climbed quite a steep track, for quite a long way, past beehives. I again joined a bitumen road and walked along the top of the ridge, turning right where I smelt the strong smell of almond essence.  Weeds and moss grow in the roads here. And the most overwhelming fungi in trees! For every ascent there must be a descent, and today was no exception.  I took it very slowly through various forest trees until I got the familiar feeling again – there were my favourite trees again.  There is a freshness about walking under them that I love.  It fills me with calm.

I descended back down to cornland again.  Coming out of the forest I beheld a beautiful old run-down barn and house.  That’s the one!  Imagine living here. Right next to the route, right next to my favourite type of forest. There in the sky was the buzz of a motorised hang-glider popping over the forest like a flying lawn-mower.

I continued along the small road past an old mill that had been beautifully renovated – looking exactly how the other one could look, with its large old millstone displayed at the corner of the property. I stopped and looked in the direction of shouts – Aller! Aller! Aller! It looked like shepherds herding sheep or goats with lots of bells ringing. Along at the end of the road there were a number of men hanging out near their cars. I later realised that this might have been a hunt. La Poste went past – yes mail gets delivered on a Saturday, by van to the most out of the way places.

I kept walking along the valley on a small road, only about a car’s width between paddocks.  I walked past a little Compostelle shrine containing more gnomes (including a pilgrim gnome) than was comfortable, perhaps pushing the owner into the ‘slightly crazy’ category. Although I didn’t let this stop me filling in the little guest book they had on the fence.  It was very sweet.

It was only about 20 more minutes before I came to La Commande and saw La Poste again. On my left was a For Sale sign – another old place for sale, not with a tenth of the charm of the old farm house I’ve seen.

It was a small town kind of nestled on the side of a gentle sloping hill in a flat valley. There were many trees, so you couldn’t see very far, however it had no epicerie and this is why I’d had to stock up in Lescar.  The sun was now getting really hot and I called at the Mairie to see about a key for the gite.  The woman took a long time trying to find the key, so I said I’d just go there to sit down – the communal gite was just behind the Mairie and the church. I walked out the back along very manicure hedges only to find yet more of the little stelle discoïdale.  Curious that they accompany the end of my trip as they did the beginning.  There is a feeling of coming full circle.  A Circle of Presence perhaps.

Anne was already installed, and Laura, the hostess was minding the exhibition in the ancient hospital building just next door.  I decided to eat my lunch before unpacking and washing, so I did so outside on the soft green grass looking towards the public swimming pool, the source of many happy shrieking youngsters. Turning to my right, I could sit and see the Pyrénées.  Is this heaven?  I then went inside and slept for a few hours before showering and washing my clothes at 2pm.

I walked around to the door of the little church and as I approached I heard singing.  It was a relief to be inside, as it was cool.  The chapel had a stone floor, and the caps of columns just like Lescar.  They were quite short, so I could take close-up pictures of them.  It was heavenly here certainly.  The choral voices lulled me again into melancholy and I sat on the pew in contemplation, having yet another weep.

I looked down at my feet, and saw a coin.  I stayed for many songs, they were just beautiful. And what a lovely thing to have going in a church for visitors.  It was certainly a stunning building, with an unusual wooden ceiling, but the singing just provided an extra layer to the divine atmosphere.

I retrieved and wrote my diary back in the kitchen, and then Laura kindly came to see whether I wanted to see the exhibition. The photographer was there and was giving a talk about it.

I gingerly went next door, the round stones paved into the walkways difficult to negotiate with my sore feet and legs. During the talk I mostly tried to sit down to rest my legs. Guillaume Langla was showing his collection of exquisite black and white photographs of different routes of the Camino – Compostelle – le marche céleste (the heavenly walk). He spoke only French, and I didn’t really catch much of it, but my ears pricked up at some of the words I recognised and I got the idea I would like to talk to him in English later, to ask more about what he’d said.

He felt the chemin is alchemical. It transforms a person. It seemed he was saying the road has the potential to initiate people in mystical ways, delivering them into a knowledge that few people ever grasp. His work contains esoteric elements and meanings you might not have gleaned without his explanation. Although maybe the images work at a deep level, capturing some of the transformative elements of a long walk for viewers. His photos show a wide variety of landscapes and people in poses that belie the movement inherent in a long journey.  My favourite, a young Czech woman in traditional dress stands still, holding her walking stick in front of her. During the talk, Guillaume points out the composition of the photo is a perfect unison of the male and female symbols, a triangle pointed up, and one pointed down. In alchemy the four elements are also represented by triangles – F feu, O eau, R air, T terre.  He spoke of the bird language, langue verte or green languagea perfect language, key to perfect knowledge, and it took me back to the day I heard the turtledoves.  It seems that not only is great wisdom indicated by an ability to understand bird language, but that in speaking in languages, there are hidden double meanings that once again, only those initiated may understand. He gave me an example – now here or nowhere. He was thrilled to have this beautiful ancient space to exhibit in, and had felt it perfect because he was able to mount twenty photos upstairs, and twenty down – ce qui est en haut est en bas – as above, so below. When we spoke, I said it was a lovely coincidence that I had come here on this day, and he said it was providence. He was right, I’ve never believed in coincidences and I don’t know why I said it.

“As above, so below, as within, so without, as the universe, so the soul”

Hermes Trismegistus

I liked the way he thought about things. I’m drawn to gnostic and mystical accounts of this life.  But I think one thing I have been convinced of in the walking, has been that it is possible to blur the boundaries of self and nature, to really see it deeply for the miracle it is, to patiently observe it, and yourself while in it.  It is this seeing, tasting, smelling, touching and hearing – the development of the senses, which is key to the transformation and might I be so bold, liberation.  I feel sorrow for the world that never gets to see and be in nature, and in my daily life at home, I am in pain to see the mistreatment of our environment because we are just so very disconnected from the rich life it gives us at a primal level.

Back from the arcane into the mundane, I was in the kitchen writing my journal, and another pilgrim, Marion arrives.  She is French and speaks great English and we are soon getting on like a house on fire.  We chatted for a while about our journeys.  She is walking all the way to Santiago and is wild-camping mostly. She said she would sleep outdoors tonight. What was most intriguing though was after having the alchemical experience in the afternoon, I got to spend time talking to someone who could talk to me about my aches and pains in a way that I would do at home, but didn’t have my reference books to do it. Marion reminded me that my knees reminded me of the need to yield and be flexible especially in relationships. My feet reminding me to find the good way forward – my direction in life.  Prudence certainly brought me providence in spades today.  I am humbly grateful for meeting exactly who I needed to at the right time. More angels.

Via Tolosana Day 9: Attention a la marche: glisser!

Saint-Jean-de-la-Blaquière to Lodève 15kms

Sitting in the garden of a château with a driveway lined with chestnut trees, it is hard to believe the highs and the lows I have been through today. And I’m not talking about altitude.

I didn’t sleep, I didn’t feel rested, and was exhausted. I didn’t have a headache during the night as I usually do when I am dehydrated, but instead a temperature and I woke with my nose blocked up. Uh oh. I’m confused. In addition to this, when I first walked into the little gite, it smelled of piss and a strange damp smell.

Preparation was slow this morning. It had rained a little overnight and was cool outside. I decided my toenails needed cutting or I might have more sources of pain by the end of the day. Knowing the walk would be in the sun the previous day, I’d exchanged my short-sleeved t-shirt for a long-sleeved one, but I thought given the overcast start today, that I’d be safe with short sleeves. It wasn’t raining heavily, but enough to get the pack wet, so the yellow cover went on.

Seeing a gorgeous blue 2CV put me in a slightly better mood as we left the little town with the tongue-twister name and I walked ahead for the first part of the morning.  I glimpsed a La Poste scooter and I found a Domaine de Flo.

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Domaine de Flo

Wet dry stone wall

Watery path

The path was completely covered with water early on, but we took a way around it. The smells of wet grass and pine were gorgeous in the rain and mostly it continued to sprinkle lightly. The way was again well-marked, but in parts rocky – perhaps a reflection of my state of mind. I was angry with Jacques, but of course, mostly with myself, for once again ‘fitting in’ with someone else, and going their way. I had stopped listening to myself. I had stopped writing. I felt like I had compromised my ‘way’ to fit in with his, and lost myself in the process. I had expected to walk for 6 weeks by myself, and sadly, I resented the intrusion into my trip. At first it had been fun. Now it just felt like hard work walking with this invisible expectation that I would keep up and have the same way. Getting to Montpelier, I had been prepared to walk the ‘boring’ bits. I could have stopped to listen to myself, but didn’t. I’d done it again, like I often do, compromise my way to fit in with someone else. I found myself feeling sorry for myself.  Where is that companion who will want to walk with me at my pace? When will someone compromise their trip for me? 

Roman road?

We were walking to Lodeve today, a smaller étape (stage), and I had decided that once there I would take the opportunity to rest and let Jacques I and II go on without me. I felt like the only option I had was to stay to do my writing and get myself together again, alone.  Best laid plans.

Usclas-du-Bosc

We passed through Usclas-du-Bosc and it was still spitting. Jacques, with his random door-opening habit opened the big green iron door to the cemetery. There were stèles discoïdales there – ancient tomb stones from the 1600s and earlier. I was impressed as I thought Jacques had just found them by luck but I realise now they were probably in his guide-book. I needed to find a toilet however, and went off to the Mairie. The toilet was behind the building, but locked. I went in to the Mairie and asked the woman for the key, dumped my pack and was relieved – just in time. Afterwards I went back to take more photos of the cemetery.

stèle discoïdales

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Dry stone wall

The cigales were absent all day – they obviously don’t like getting wet. Small bushes were sending their herbal fragrances out to all and sundry, making the air smell aromatic and providing good competition for my own pungency (usually well before 10am I’m drowning in sweat).  Today was a day of dry-stone walls, made wet with the rain. They gave way to shale paths and then a long track upwards to an intersection had us turn onto a cushioned pine forest path. Pilgrims had gone wild and creative with their rock piles, even on large dolmen-like rocks. Pine trees whispered as I walked, sounding like the ocean. The air was fresh through my sweaty clothes.

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Soft pine path

rock sculpture

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Dolmen rock art

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Grandmont horses

If yesterday’s theme was Attention à la marche, today’s was attention à la marche – glisser (slippery). After the pine forest, we walked along large flat slippery rocks for many minutes before coming upon a pine avenue bordered with a stone wall next to a horse paddock leading to le prieuré Saint-Michel de Grandmont. According to the sign board outside, in addition to cloisters, there is Le dolmen de Coste-Rouge (an ancient megalith), old stone wells and woods surrounding the priory. It looked deserted, and as I didn’t want to hold Jacques up, I didn’t pursue researches to see if it was open. Once again I missed out. For the next week or so, I kept meeting pilgrims who raved about this place. It would have been a couple of minute wait for it to open, but I kept walking. Doing some research later, thanks Wiki, I found that the Grandmontine order was basically one of austere hermits, who wore no shoes, and spent their whole lives in silence, eating no meat and fasting regularly.  Sounds like medieval Vipassana. Sounds like just the kind of place I would’ve enjoyed seeing! No joke.

the path

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Attention glisser!

The whole landscape today, with what could well have been Roman built walls, dripped with history and geological significance. After the priory it was full on and the rocks were slippery as. After stepping up and down as the track passed over rocks for a little while, we came out on the top a massive rock plateau. When I took a leak, I could see down a crevice to another level below where we were. Cave men and women lived here. It was just like Korg: 70,000 BC. Jacques walked on ahead.

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Rock shelf

This rock shelf lasted for several hundred metres and is appropriately known as ‘La Roch’, although I can’t confirm, as it doesn’t appear on any maps. On the final stretch of it, enthusiastic visitors had built a labyrinth marked by small stones, so of course I walked it remembering my trip to the park with Jo in Sydney, and my friend Maureen’s love of all things labyrinthine. Walking carefully so as not to slip, I entered with an intention of composing myself and exiting into a new way, my way. Take companionship from people who would support me to walk my way. Remain true to myself.

Labyrinth

Further along the track, deep grooves in the rock, about 30cms wide and the same deep, had me wondering whether these were prehistoric rainwater collecting mechanisms. I had a momentary panic when I thought I had lost him, but eventually I caught Jacques up.  This annoyed me, not because I’d lost him, but that it mattered that I’d lost him, as I was trying so very hard to feel independent. I said I would stop for some morning tea in a highly wooded path adjoining one last large flat-topped rock shelf. We ate pain aux raisins that we’d bought at the Boulangerie that morning.  We briefly talked about La Fontaine again, who Jacques describes as a ‘fabulist’, which always sounds like ‘fabulous’ when he says it, and it takes a moment to work out what he’s talking about. It seems that the language confusion worked both ways for us.  French speakers have trouble with my name. It is completely un-French so usually people I meet have never heard it before. So, I get all sorts of pronunciations. Jacques thought my name was Bronwell. He thought this was curious because in Dutch, ‘bron’ means ‘source’. To have a name: ‘wellwell’ was amusing to him. Until I corrected him, and said, no, it’s Bronwen. I have found as soon as I spell it, people seem to understand how to say it. I keep meaning to write a card with ‘Bron-wen’ on it. This would make my name absolutely clear.

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Prehistoric rainwater collection

the pack

My pack felt heavy, but thankfully with a night’s healing sleep, my chaffed legs were not bothering me as they had the day before.  There was generous provision of water fountains and picnic spots on the first day so far in which we neither felt like drinking so much, or needed to sit down so desperately. View-worthy locations were the most popular. We bypassed the little town of Saumont, but not the table d’orientation just outside with it’s lovely old cross.

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Tractor seat picnic spot

Table d’orientation

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Saumont

It never ceases to amaze me how many terrains we pass through each day. When we started the ground was purple, but we ended up with rocks and large saltbush-like bushes with long thing spiky foliage. Just after Saumont, we sat on one of the many park benches of the day for a break. Minutes later and we were joined by Jacques II. Then another 5 minutes passed and there was Hugo. He’d brought a thermos with him for coffee, and he shared his boisson chaud (hot drink) with us – how fantastic. Jacques phoned ahead only to find that the Gite de la Megisserie was closed permanently. We would need to visit the Office de Tourisme for more assistance with finding a bed for the night. Hugo disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared and I never met him on the chemin again. For the rest of the way to Lodeve, we more or less traversed with Jacques II. I hung back, I was still exhausted and preferred to walk alone-ish.

I dropped my phone on day 7, and the sound had stopped working. I had missed the little camera shutter sound when I took photos. But today as I was crossing a grassy field, and took a photo of the Jacques ahead, I realised the sound had returned. But just because I’m paying attention and doing my best to listen, but it doesn’t necessarily mean things get instantly easier.

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Red rocks

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Rocky wood pile

Right next to the path outside Lodeve, there was a tiny hut. We joked that this was our gite for the night. Next to it, there was a rock pile that resembled the woodpiles I’d seen in Lithuania – a beautiful piece of handiwork.

walls

Le Lergue

Mary watches over all

Lodeve is a large-ish town spread along the valley of the Le Lergue river. Walking towards the centre we passed Mary looking down protectively over us. At the tourist office, the woman was very helpful and found the three of us accommodation for 15 euros each. I was missing my wi-fi and really wanted to read emails. I had left my Airbnb rooms open back in Australia, but I hadn’t had wi-fi to be able to check for any bookings. There was wi-fi in the office, but I just had to charge my phone first. After having decided I wanted to walk on my own, and stay in Lodeve for two nights, having a booking for a gite with the two Jacques didn’t feel like I was asserting my new independence. I left my pack at the office, and went to find some food for dinner at Monoprix – a cheap eat of carbonara for 2 euro 38 centimes. That’s a bargain.

I went back to the Office de Tourisme having tried to get money from three ATMs with my VISA and AMEX. I would have topped up in Montpelier, but had been too distracted to remember. Now I had 15 euros cash, and no cash until Tuesday when my master card topped up.  I was in a bind. I could go on with the two Jacques and pay my 15 euros for the night and not have anything for the next three days, or I could find a hotel to stay in that took AMEX. I got back to the tourist office just as Jacques II was picking up his backpack, and I asked him to tell Jacques I that I wouldn’t be staying tonight. I explained my situation, and he said he would wait while I tried one last possibility at the Post Office. This didn’t work. I spent 30 minutes on the phone to VISA and they had difficulty dealing with my request for a new card, said they’d put me through to somewhere else who didn’t have any idea why I’d been put through to them, and were likewise extremely unhelpful given I had no money, and a VISA card that didn’t work.

I went back to find Jacques II patiently waiting and he offered to lend me money. I was really tearful and humbled that someone who had known me only a couple of days would offer to help like this. I had just decided to go my own way, and now I had no means. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to rely on others, but it seemed this was the only option. I left to go to the gite with Jacques II but part way there I was getting the strong feeling not to go on. I tried to explain in my limited French, why I was upset, but actually I didn’t really know. I said for him to go on, and I would go back to the Office de Tourisme. I’d been there several times now, and they probably thought, oh no, not the crying Australian again. The woman checked for me whether there were any hotels that took Amex with a room available for two nights. Complet (full)! I needed more time to think. I checked my Airbnb account. I had missed two bookings, they had expired. This affects my response rate, so I decided to block out August bookings because the stress of having to find wi-fi to keep up with them, was taking its toll. With space to feel, I realised that my only option was to continue with the two Jacques. Jack High! I would take up Jacques II on his offer, and continue walking until my money cleared. I needed a break desperately, but I didn’t have the means to have one.

The woman gave me the directions to the gite. I was hoping it was a nice one, but was thinking it could be awful given the day I’d just had. At a roundabout I tried to take in the peaceful offering a gorgeous olive tree was extending.  Maybe it was reminding me of grace, or maybe charity. I felt relieved at having made a decision, but I was realising the consequences of the last 8 days. I wasn’t feeling much peace about becoming distracted enough not to look after myself financially. Stupid Bronwen.

For two kilometres I followed the avenue of plane trees out-of-town, walking on the left-hand side of the road facing the traffic, stepping aside into the grass if a car passed. I checked the house numbers, but they didn’t follow a sequence. I kept walking and there it was, #762, and no I wasn’t imagining it – it was a château, with a coach house no less. Another avenue of tall trees took a right from the road and I followed them and found Jacques I. Jacques II had told him I wouldn’t be coming, so he was surprised to see me. I went upstairs to see the madame of the house and glimpsed where she lived with her husband. She received me in a little room with bay doors leading into a sitting room. Conservatively upholstered chairs, carpet and a mirror above a fireplace welcomed personal visitors, but I sat down next to the pilgrim stamp at the beautiful table in the lobby. She only spoke French, but it was not a complicated exchange when I was just paying for a bed and getting my credentiale stamped. She did mention however that some of her family had travelled to Australia, and we had a brief discussion about this.

There are only 3 beds in this gite, and it seems that it is not generally listed, a place of last resort perhaps. A small kitchen, a long bed chamber with three beds, and a bathroom/toilet in which the small internal window opens up into the garage under the house. In addition to the musty bathroom smell, you get a hint of mechanics when you’re drying yourself after your shower. We ate dinner together, and surprisingly I was genuinely happy to be back. I showered and did my washing, but as it was already after 6pm, there was not much hope of it drying over night. Jacques I asked what I would do about money, and I told him Jacques II had offered to lend some. Jacques I offered too, so having known him just a little longer I took a loan.

château

Yesterday I honed some tips for discouraged pilgrims:

Methods for walking up long, rocky paths:
1. Little old lady, bent double method (self-explanatory)
2. Standing erect, butt cheeks clenched technique
3. Holding onto backpack straps method
4. Hands on hips technique

Vary as each one becomes ineffective.

Creativity Commitment

I am a huge fan of Julia Cameron.  I had known about her book, The Artist’s Way, for a decade before I finally bought it when living in Sydney. After a time on my shelf I began to use it.  It was always going to work for me. The way she weaves the experiences of her life, metaphors of human experience and the creative process into an illustrative and educative force for the budding creative had me hooked from page one. Being a collector of quotes and aphorisms from way back, I appreciated the signposts these lent to her essays.  It was with a knowing anticipation that I skipped along on a day each weekend from my little art deco apartment in Summer Hill to the patient arms of the staff at Sideways Cafe to discover what pearls she had for me. It became my retreat from the week to immerse myself in her words.  I grew so much in the two years I did this in Sydney.

I progressed with great determination and a quiet confidence that if I just followed her well-thought through writing exercises and activities each week, I might just free something inside me waiting for liberation.  Well, three and a half years later, and three and half of her books later (I’ve completed the twelve week programs of The Artist’s Way, Walking in this World, Finding Water and am part way through The Vein of Gold). My life is continuing to change.

I was looking over my old morning pages notes that include my weekly activities this week and at the point where I began working through the Vein of Gold in September last year, I made this commitment as Julia suggests:

I, Bronwen, realise that I am entering a rigorous inner process which will both test and liberate me. I commit myself to the three pivotal tools of creative self-care:
*morning pages
*daily walks
*artist dates

Looking back, this point coincided with a few turning points for me in a new commitment to self-care.  I had just received my long service leave pro-rata from my long time job (a provision I had already decided was going to facilitate the leaving of that job).  I had just begun going to sessions at the School of Philosophy and I had enrolled for a Vipassana retreat over the new year.  Pretty epic decisions as it turns out.  I must have had a real sense that there was certainly much more creativity on it’s way, if I could just put myself in the right frame of mind to receive it.

So, what does this have to do with walking for weeks on end in France? Well as Dr Deane Hutton of the Curiosity Show was fond of saying, “I’m glad you asked”.  Well, after getting to the Narrative Timeline in the Vein of Gold, I got stuck in my early twenties and have found it difficult to get through this time. I think this time holds great learnings for me.  But I also realise I need to make that commitment to creativity again in order to work through this.  I can see how each of the aspects of this commitment are present in my upcoming trip.

Morning Pages: There is a debate going on in my head about whether I do morning pages on this trip.  I use special spiral bound A4 notebook to write these pages.  This will add extra pack weight. It takes half an hour to write the three pages – on a quick day. I’ll either have to get up earlier in the morning, or it will delay me in the morning when I’ll probably be keen to get going.  It also may hamper opportunities to leave with other walkers if that becomes a possibility.  Julia recommends to do them as the cornerstone of your writing practice.  All other writing sits atop morning pages.  Can I commit to writing these as well as my handwritten journal and this blog? Will I even have the capacity for pages as well? This is in addition to walking up to 6-7 hours a day.  It is starting to sound like a new job (wink).  I have two days to decide whether I pack them for the whole trip, and another week to decide if I take them walking.

Daily walks: that’s taken care of.

Artist’s dates:  It dawned on me when I was working through the original Artist’s Way, in which Julia was extolling the virtues of an intentional date with one’s artist, that I had always dated my artist.  In 1986, I took a ten week around the world trip – the first of my long dates with myself. Even at home, I would take myself to theatre, film, op shops, art shops, art galleries, libraries, walks, rides, train trips, ferry rides and most importantly, trips to France.  My trips to France have always been my giant artist dates.  The freedom, awe and wonder I experience when I’m travelling there cannot be compared to any other part of my life.  My capacity to visit cathedral after museum after cafe after flea market is limitless, such that I feel at my creative peak en Francais.  When I am travelling I am so fully experiencing life in the now.

So to return to combine these three activities to fulfill a creative contract is to me, quite simply, just the way it should be.

St Jacques shell in Fitzroy, Melbourne