One Summer Day in the Dordogne
You asked for poetry from me the other day. I looked, but I can’t find any inside my head. I’ve been preoccupied with making the most of my new shop in this brief, brief tourist season out here in rural Dordogne. Yesterday, the 19th of August, a few days after what is apparently the peak, the morning was glorious - warm sun and the softest breeze in drying leaves. There were no tourists on the place, neither the holding-hands variety who make me smile, nor the ones who name everything they look at, “library, old nightgowns, ice cream,” They also make me smile. I decided to step out of my routine and enjoy summer, on this perfectly balanced day.
First stop, a church shop that’s only open Saturdays. I found a few nuggets for my inventory. Then, I took up a friend’s offer to clip lavender on her farm. “Just after the danger sign, you turn left.” I must be getting more mature, I made it past the danger sign. By that time, midday, the sun breathed warm on the back of my neck while the drying lavender pollen coated my fingers – the moment felt like a long embrace, long awaited.
This morning I exhaled, and tears of joy cast sparkles on the landscape. Some of the magic was already there – the backlit wheat grass heads, vibrating like illuminated, ecstatic caterpillars, the hidden squashes jowly, furrowed, self-satisfied old men in the shadows, fatigued Queen Anne’s lace bunched into knots, figs, more optimistic, the size of bulbous knuckles.
The dog and I headed up on the plateau west of the village. I walked there every day before he arrived last year. The seasonal pace calmed my racing heart, and I decided to stay. My chest grew tight with contentment. It seems to me that pleasure is an active thing, like clipping lavender in the sunshine, whereas I found myself at that moment knowing I have every single thing I need, want, and desire.
The property with the perfect view of Chateau Biron has acquired a whole lot of chickens since I last passed – a black and white speckled variety. The dog saw them before I could leash him, and he ran underneath the electric fence into the midst of the pleasant clucking. Mayhem ensued, the white lamb-looking dog with the heart of a fox, zipping hither and yon scattering the black and white poultry. On my side of the electric fence I shouted useless commands. The foul dispersion widened into an open field where Bean, the beast, managed to catch two. The only way to catch them, of course, was in his mouth. He didn’t clamp down, but I’m not sure whether they may have later died of fright. The owner came out with Eros, his huge black dog, and managed to herd my little beast towards me, where I blubbered my apologies. He replied, “No problem.” On our return he waved like a prince from his horse – a gentleman.
I picked up fallen apples from the ditch to feed to the horse further on. The white horse knows I come with goodies for him, even though it has been many months since I walked by his pasture. This time he had a companion, a dark horse whose eyes were covered with mesh to keep the flies off. I hope no flies get stuck inside, driving him mad. Tears well up, gaaah, this happened a lot that day – I am so happy that the horse remembered me.
That evening on the terrace, the dog and I shared fried calamari and leftover chicken (not black and white). We could hear our local rock singer entertaining diners on the place as the sun and shopkeepers faded from the arcades.
About the poetry, thanks for reminding me. See, it’s not always about bliss, like this note, which squeezed out, but about looking, and being open enough to see what’s true, or what’s important. I’ll get back to it one of these days. Meanwhile, the odd blissful sunny day is okay.