April 2011

I am finding that increasingly I have nothing to tell. Yes, the green gage trees have been mad with sparkling white blossoms. The wisteria has burst into bloom, purple irises have emerged, and our pear tree is covered with flowers in a way we have never previously seen. The springtide has kissed the Provence enchantingly. With weather during the month’s first half that is more appropriate to June, we switched from winter mode to the summer set-up and could leave the house doors all open for easy ingress/egress and the flow through of a magical breeze. It could scarcely have been more idyllic but without the adventures of travel or perhaps the more urban life. This is, however, not a complaint. It’s more like a joyous affirmation, but at the same time it virtually precludes narrative.

Yes, I could always rant about the evils of the world – the nuclear industry, GMO introduction, plastic and toxic pollution, unwanted environmental change, and I do do this frequently through other media and in other venues, but my stationary travelogue is at present a stasis of being in love with life and the immediate moment. Bob Herbert in his last column for the New York Times – “Losing Our Way” (25.3.11) spoke of the 5% of the American population in 2009 who possessed 63.5% of the nation’s wealth while the bottom 80% collectively held only 12.8%. I realize that I have reached my autumn years while in that intervening 15% bracket and am enormously grateful to the gods, fortune and providence for this blissful freedom. I do remain utterly perplexed by how much the American train appears to have got off-track and am totally mystified over how we might get it back onto the original rails of its founding promise. But as small fish in an enormous pond, we are currently achieving something approaching a Zen state in the more Western understanding of the term as a balanced equilibrium with a moderate bit of ecstasy/ecstasies thrown occasionally into the mix.

I suspect that I shall never lose my commitment to shamanic trance through what Patañjali accepted as physic bliss. And that activity remains a part of ‘our friendship, hospitality retreat’ here in the Midi. Mary visited us for six days – relatively fresh from her Sinitic escapades. Our Australian lassie is one of the more independent and self-reliant people I know, and she is also a great cook. One day we went to the Prehistoric Museum in Quinson and, after lunch, on to the Apollo temple in Riez, the old, part Gothic, part Romanesque church in Moustiers and finally a spontaneous drop-in visit to Renaud (who had coincidentally been by our house with more cheeses while we were doing the excursion).

Richard and I have also been to a perfectly lovely meal at Pierre and Catherine’s with both Penny and Hamish and Robin and Suzanne. Apart from the incredibly delicious meal and our most attractive hosts, it was an evening of pleasant and interesting conversational exchange – when we could suspend our talk on bodily ailments and various decrepitudes – which was most of the time. For another evening, we watched a DVD that Mary had brought along of Bright Star, a Jane Campion film on John Keats with a most gorgeous Abbie Cornish as Fanny Brawne. The ritual sadness of the times hit hard.

For most of April, we do another nefasti cleansing. With the good life here being as good as it is, it never seems to bother us to follow the occasional regimen of general abstinence. At least for April, we do not exclude dairy. We attended a film group through Adelaïde and watched Tareque Masud’s The Clay Bird (2002). Based on the director’s own youth, it is hauntingly beautiful and tells of the religious and cultural divisions during the turbulent times in Bangladesh as the country moved toward independence from Pakistan. I have read various critiques since, but the acting, colour and detail transcend whatever weaknesses some have found in the film. In our strangely factious world of today, the possibilities of radical upheaval that the cinema work portrays seem eerily relevant.

I have also watched this month – at least all but the final 19 minutes thanks to my frustrating dongle connection – Yann Arthus-Bertrand’s Home narrated by Glen Close. It is an hour-and-a-half of aerial footage that documents beautifully the billions of years of earth’s evolution and the precarious if not already fatal condition into which human meat consumption, unbridled resource extraction and unreflective technological progress have transformed our telluric gift. Gaia’s anger such as we have seen in Japan comes even to make sense rather than simply being a random act of nature. Several have said that the link I forwarded has not opened, and I can only suggest doing then a Google search.

People have complained this round about the effects of Mercury’s retrograde motion. Having been aware of its communicative consequences since my early twenties, I have perhaps learned for the most part to deal with it and not be surprised. It remains, however, a perpetual annoyance, and one can only hope that its final outcome will not be too serious. It always seems that something important emerges during the retrograde period that needs attention – always within the scope of what one should not be doing or attempting at this time. At least I am not traveling.

The mistral came briefly but enough finally to blow away our summery weather. Some needed rain then ensued which our newly planted vegetable garden then enjoyed. We have planted maize seeds and put in tomatoes, courgettes, a few courges, lettuce, beets, chard, watermelon and strawberries that we purchased at a nursery in Lorgues. Guy had come by with his tractor and ploughed the ground for us. Richard’s birthday falls right at the mid point of our cleansing (on the Fordicidia), and I bake a special cake for him from a recipe in Diet For a Small Planet. I had left the book in Amsterdam but was then able to find the recipe itself online. The wonders of the modern world. But Richard’s collar bone inflammation has not yet subsided – aggravated no doubt by his insistence to hoe an area to put his poppy seeds. The pursuit of medical help on that front has become the agenda for the latter part of the month. Furthermore, while driving towards Grenoble for a class she was to teach, Penny had an horrendous car crash the day after we had all been together – totaling her vehicle, managing still to get to the school for rave reviews on her course, but dealing with the injury from the impact afterward. The precariousness of life and everything remains ever present. Phyllis’ father died recently. He was in his 90s.

The nefastus period ended, and we immediately swung back into our more hedonistic if not epicurean life-style. The weather has remained decent but not fabulous – alternating between sun and rain. As farmers for this year, the latter is always to be welcomed. Richard’s disabilities have improved to some extent, though we now have medical contacts which we shall pursue. The niggling things of life continue to interfere with the overall idyll, but how can they not? I have at least realized that the fundamental distinction between the pagan and the Abrahamic is that the former cherishes and honours both supreme gifts of nature: food for our physical sustenance and food (power plants of you will) for our spiritual nourishment. These last become the ‘forbidden fruit’ of Genesis and a furthering of the agenda to place Natura as inferior to ‘God’. But it is on this issue that the very divide arises. With paganism, it is not necessary that one pursue the shamanic path; only that that option is allowed and respected rather than condemned as some ‘original’ and horrifying sin. However, by precluding the gift of natural ‘eye-openers’ as sacred bridging agents and of central importance for the human-cosmic dialogue, nature is then not fully celebrated but rather belittled by the unnatural anti-natural. Our participation is incomplete. Creedal monopoly and isolation can then reign. But to access and know the otherworld is to gain a wisdom that transcends the sectarian and myopic for the mysteries of interconnectedness and sublimity. For the pagan, Natura is exalted over the divisive, jealous and fearful.

Mercury’ retrograde ended, and now it is a process of picking up the pieces. More than half the doors, windows and shutters are now shellacked. Rowan and Russell will arrive in four days’ time for our Beltane celebrations and transition into May. The big question has been whether I would have needed to go to Britain for the vehicle license renewal, but I believe I have been able to declare successfully online a Statutory Off [British] Road Notification. For the rest I think I could easily assess that I am enjoying one of the happiest periods of my life. We are currently surrounded by just about every possible shade of green, and the current rebirth of vegetative life still comprises my most fundamental wish, hope and prayer.