Tanque Verde in France

We sleep in and awake to the chimes of church bells, which ring on the hour and half hour here. I awake congested and nauseated with a very painful headache, the kind that portends the moon cycle. Kristin makes rice oatmeal with cooked apples and more ginger tea and we lounge about the house until midday when we decide to go for a walk. Once sufficiently bundled with many, many layers, Jordan and I swordfight on the porch and then we all three depart and wind our way through the town. We go into the big town church and the saints and large Jesus paintings stare down at us ominously. The place is quiet, but not entirely somber, it is grand but not grandiose, it id decrepit in some places—the sagging staircase, the faded altar, the chipping paint and the bent candelabra—and modern in others—the community announcement bulletin board, the gas space heaters adjacent to every few pews. I am reminded of how overpowering the architecture and the imagery in churches can be when I glance over and see how Jordan wants nothing more than to leave this place. To me, this place is relatively non-threatening, for a church. Worn floors of stone and soon we are outside again in the fresh crisp air. We walk up and up and up passing the little houses and their shuttered windows. I see the beautiful garden that Kristin planted and the rushing stream and the funny art installation pieces, like a petrol station built into the rocks. We walk so far up and out of town that we emerge into farmland, from which we can see a beautiful view of the snow covered Pyrenees mountains. The photo I did not take is a portrait of Kristin and Jordan against this stunning background. Since I didn’t make the picture, it is firmly framed inside my heart. Then we are walking into a big forest—strange to be tromping through a forest which reminds me so much of California with it’s pines, or New England with the crimson fall foliage, with this pair of friends who I know of only through the climatic lens of the desert. Some things don’t change: Jordan and I are still on the hunt for beautiful crystals and quartz, digging them out of the ground with sticks; prickly pear cacti dot the landscape with their purpling fruits; we go into a canyon with rushing, rambling water and a big yoni pool; Jordan climbs the rocks. We play hide and go seek but I stick out like a sore thumb with my big pink coat and hat, and Kristin is easy to spot in her white jacket. Jordan hides in a pile of leaves and sticks and is very hard to find. We see an ATV and also a horse-drawn carriage on the trail. We gather branches and pine cones for kindling and pick fresh rosemary.

Back at home I rest, feeling my body’s exhaustion, and I sleep through the afternoon, awaking after dark. Jordan and I greet the evening with hangman and attempts at fire building. Kristin gives me an acupuncture treatment while Jordan makes monkey noises to distract me from the pain. Jordan goes to sleep and I curl up next to the fire watching the flames until they die out and only glowing embers remain. If love is like this, then I love the part with the glowing embers—I think it is the most beautiful to see the flames fall into these wooden gems, bright fuchsia and soft pinks, and when they break apart into smaller coals, they glow more brightly. Kristin prepares the hot water bottle and I hold it on my belly and we talk until we fall asleep.