Sunday morning. The sky is gray, the birds chirp. The wind shakes leaves and branches softly. Now and then the door creaks, and some branches rub the roof of my hut.
My head is full of soft moments and sounds, but finding their road to my fingertips is a quest. Poetry, oh dear, you are so fluid!
Should I tell of the three cats, as beautiful one as the other? The strong male, always so loving and so white, who graciously jumps on your lap, especially when he is wet? Or the red female, who is so thin, pensive, and discrete? Or her daughter, a few months old beauty, gray and long hair, look of naughtiness, purring food requests?
Or I could tell of the people who come for a visit, for one, two, or three days. The former German wwooferin who now studies theater in Hannover. Or Nicolas, from Peyssac near Bordeaux, seventeen years old, dark eyed, dark haired, as tall as thin, passionate about insects, leeches, snakes, in a love affair with chemistry since childhood, he spent his afternoons collecting sap from poppy to extract its alkaloid. Or Annie, his mother, who radiates love, joy and playfulness. Or the three kids, nephews of Pascale, who with their high-pitched voice disseminate their infinite thirst for play, excitation and creation?
Or I could tell about Jonas, my fellow wwoofer from Aix-la-Chapelle, Germany. Working in the garden with him one afternoon, we are weeding, a ray of sun comes out, and he thinks, and says: “Oh, I could say, that now I am happy...”
Or I could tell of one of our bike trips, in our free time, up and down the hills. Up, giving from our legs and lungs all of what they have (well, in my case, not quite), down, offering our bodies to the wind. Going to swim to the lakes nearby. Stopping to eat wild prunes, red or yellow or blue, growing generously along the Garonne river. Striding along the streets of St-Gaudens, in search of beautiful postcards, or the perfect present. Marveling at the diverse and picturesque old toulousish houses and churches, the gorgeous landscapes unraveling one after the other, or the perpetually-empty-of-people French countryside. The sunflower fields, the pastures with three horses, one black, one red, and one white with black patches. The pastures with one donkey, and many small, white, black-headed sheep. The cows here and there. The light of the setting sun over the rolling hills of all sorts of greens and yellows.
Or I could tell of the salad which is served with every meal, always composed of all sorts of wild greens, freshly collected from the garden, with flowers on top. Or the tomatoes from the garden, of dozen different varieties, each more exquisite one than the other. I could also tell of the meals themselves, which are always a “ceremony” as Jonas says, and usually taken under the shadow of the oak, in a bubble of green.
Or should I tell of the local cultural events which Pascale and Christian take us to. A walking tour starting at the historic village of Aurignac, where the first “first human” remnant has been discovered (hence, the “Aurignacien” prehistoric period), down the forested hill, along the country roads, organized French-style: publicized as a two-hour tour, it actually lasted five. There is also the summer fiesta at Aurignac. With food, tables, families eating, and a clown making the children laugh. And there are the various concerts in the villages nearby. The Occitan music group, giving a free concert as part of the “31 notes d'été”, concert series of the Haute-Garonne. Pianist, bassist, two female singers, drummer with long hair like a rock star, they sing in Occitan. The language itself is music, and the songs are so beautiful and creative that they make you want to cry. Or, Friday evening with Jonas, at the café associatif of Cassagnabères, the nearest village. A French band playing all sorts of classics in a folk style. Some people stand and clap, some people dance, some people stay on the terrace outside to smoke. On the way back, on our bicycles, we went down the hill full speed, through the dark and cold night.
The bubbles of pure beauty.
