Land-ing

I woke up here today, in Montréal.
I have slept in this bed before, I have taken this métro.  I have spoken this language and I've seen these people.  This is not new.

But this time is different.  I am especially excited, 'cause this time I get to stay for a while.
Whenever I've come to visit Montréal, I stayed with friends, and for less than a week.  This time, the town is mine for the taking...

Outside of métro Mont-Royal.
(Montréal is full of graffiti too!)

I am blessed to have an amazing friend who's letting me stay with he, in a top-knotch apartment right on the Plateau Mont-Royal, during two months.  I am blessed with a whole group of old friends; people I grew up with, people I've miraculously managed to remain close with, despite all these years away.

Ten years that is.  An entire decade since I lived here permanently.  For Heaven's sake, I don't even have access to my free healthcare - one of the defining characteristic of the Canadian\Québécoise identity - anymore.
I have missed whatever big tv shows, whatever media hype to have entered the collective psyche since I left.  I have kept up with a lot, but I also have so much to discover.
Therefore, I am still traveling.
In fact, I am making a point to keep the mindset, even as I gradually settle down into a more sedentary existence, for the moment.  It's hard to believe I am becoming sedentary.  As my friend said, ''I'll believe it when I see it... in a few months.''
They are gentle, but the voices in me are pulling in opposing (seemingly opposing) directions.  On one hand, I am hoping to remain free, to explore, to connect, to spontaneously follow the rivers of my soul to where they might lead.   On the other hand, I am craving a flat I can call home.  I want to get art supplies, stuff.  I want to have people over, friends, family, couch surfers!  I would like to make a few steps in the direction of some first career.  I am re-writing my CV, I am re-inserting the system.

However, I am hoping to get back to visit San Francisco at some point.  I have a lot of my stuff still there: musical instruments, books, a few clothes.  Most crucially yet: there are a LOT of people in the Bay Area, who I adore with all of my soul.  And the place itself, the farmers' markets, the Pacific Ocean, the revolution...  I gotta give myself some time before I go back, and I just hope to keep myself free enough to be able to travel for a few weeks.
That's the challenge: to experience both mobility and stability.  Freedom, and security.

Though most of all, I want to remain porous, the way I have been for the last three months.  I want to explore, to connect, to learn from the places and the people that will help me grow.  I want to seek those places and make it happen, the same way I have been.
For that, I need to keep coming to my self.
I want to be my own center, that is, in a soft-flexible-changeable way rather than a strong- crystallized one.  It's well known that family - the past - often has the power to pull one back into ''regression''.  Individualization becomes a very strenuous path when one is confronted with the matrix; and especially when one loves the matrix.
I don't want to hurt anybody, but I want to keep growing towards my higher self.
That's the plan.  It's the Hero's Journey.  The pilgrimage is not over.  I will never be.

View from my bedroom in Québec City

So stay tuned my friends.  I intend to keep this blog inspired and lively.  I intend to bring you with me as I discover the majestic part of the world, the great metropolis of Montréal, the great open spaces of the province of Québec, the infinite new worlds of the psyche!

It's particularly awkward to be writing in English at the moment, since everyone surrounding me is Francopohone.  And we have that same eternal debate, over dinner, about the future of French in Québec.
But from where I stand at the moment, I think I can handle this fact of the phenomenon... of imperialism.  I think I can handle writing in the language that can reach the most of you.
I'll just start another blog in French!
In time...

For now, I'll go have breakfast with my mommy and daddy :)

In Catalan...

Bus ride with Allah

23:30, I step on the bus and walk to my seat: the very last row, the one that doesn't recline. Oh well.  I almost didn't get a ticket in time, so I guess I can't complain.  Sitting next to me is a young woman.  She's wearing a hijab, and a beautiful smile.

"¿Adonde te vas?" she asks with a sweet voice.

"Hasta Barcelona."

"Pues, que lejos!" she says.  "¿Vives allá?"

"No.  Soy de Canada."

"Oh! No eres Espanola?"

I'm flattered.  

We exchange names and more background information.  I tell her the same story I've carried with me around the old continent:

"No estoy de vacaciones como de transición.  Por que soy de Canadá, pero viví en los Estados Unidos por los diez años pasados.  Y después d'este viaje yo regresso para vivir en Montreal."

She tells me she's from "Al-Jazeer", or something like that, close to Cadiz.  Al-Jazeera? I heard that word before.  I did a bit of research and didn't find an Andalusian city by that name, but the point is that it's in the South of Spain, and obviously has that wonderful arabic influence.

She tells me she's originally from Marrueco (Morroco).  She has seven siblings; six brothers and one sister.  Two live in France, one in Deutschland, two (including herself) in Spain, and two in England.  (Who knows where the other one is!)  She asks if I'm married.  I smile.  I guess at this point it's not so much a cultural difference.  I know a lot of folks my age, who are getting married.  "No."

"Por que?"

"Por que... por que viajo mucho y quiero buscar mi proprio camino ante de casar me."

"Tu no quieres casar con alguien de otro país?  Por que?"

I explain that it's quite the opposite.  I tend to fall for foreigners.  And that creates a bit of a conundrum because I'm left with my family and my native land on one side, and a potential future and family of my own, that would be far away from them.  I find that very problematic.

She does have a husband.  She tells me he's much older than her.  She's thirty-one; her husband is fifty-six!  She says love knows no age, no race, no language.  Fifty-six!?  I gotta admit that I find that hard to imagine for myself... but she's got my respect.  Her presence is so sweet and loving.  I like her.

The bus is making its way North-East in the dark night; we are chatting away.  She asks about Canada.  She depicts her home in Morocco, her home in Spain.  She's in love with life and with the beautiful landscapes she's daily surrounded with.  She says I have a place to stay when I come to Morocco.  (I should have asked her if there's an expiration date on the offer or if I can show up in, let's say, five years?!)

  

She asks what I do for work in Canada.  I remind her that I haven't lived there in a decade, and tell her I worked as a nanny in San Francisco.  "Una kangaroo", as they say here.  She is a cook in a Moroccan restaurant.  Her husband is the chef.  She asks if I like to cook and what I like to eat.  "Comiste carne?"

"Pues.  No puedo decir que soy vegetariana... pero yo quería ser.  Es que, aquí, quiero probar la comida de las diferentes culturas."

She's silent.  I'm wondering where she stands on the issue.  I explain, "para mi, no es necesseramente que no quiero comer animales, pero a mi es una pregunta de la manera que los tratan.  Por que no se como es la industria aqui, pero en America, hay muchas fincas muy grande y industriales donde que les tratan los animales de una manera súper inhumana, sabes?"

Still silent.  "Para mi, es importante tener respecto.  Y si comio carne, yo digo gracias ante."

"Y comes puerco?" she finally utters.

"Eso no."

"Yo no comió puerco tampoco.  Y tu fumas?"

"Pues. As veces, si."

"Bebes?"

"Eso también.  Me gusta tomar, pero no para estar borracha.  Y tu?  Bebes?"

She tells me she has never had a drink, or a smoke... "por causa de la religion."  She says with a big smile and pointing at her headscarf.  "Lo hizo todo, el hijab, el Ramadan, todo."  She has the most radiant and pure look on her face.  She looks proud, but in a calm, humble way.

I'm so interested in this conversation!  I've been wishing to interact with an arabic woman for some time.  I had given up on that wish, actually.  But here it is now.  I have so many questions and I want to be careful... respectful.  I ask if she prays five times a day?  What time is the first call to prayer?  Do she go to the Mosque for all of them?  I tell her that I like the idea of stopping everything you're doing, five times a day, to remember and bow down to something greater than you."

"Y es bueno ejercicio también!" she says half serious.

I had never seen it that way!

She tells me that Islam is a very healthy religion.  Pork is very fatty, and it apparently contains some hormone, which is cancerous to humans.  That's why muslims don't eat it.  She says the holy book is full of recommendations that are targeting health.  She tells me about Ramadan.  The first two days are the hardest: no eating, no drinking, no sex.  But then, one gets used to it and the rest of the month gets easier.  She's been doing it her whole life, since she was eleven.  I learn that women begin to take part in Ramadan when they have their first menstruations.  Boys start around fourteen or so, when their voice begins to chance and they are becoming men.  When a woman has her period, she can eat normally.  Same thing when she's pregnant, or when she's breastfeeding.  Old and sick people also can eat.  It's important to remain healthy.

ablution facility

I guess ablutions can be seen in this light as well.  It's good to wash your hands and face, and feet, five times a day!

Prayer Hall
Blue Mosque, Istanbul

Our connection is very good and I feel that I can ask her the question that's burning me.  I want to know why women sit on the sides during prayer at the Mosque.  She smiles and explains to me... The woman's body has these... curves... (I see!!)  With the set up and proximity of congregants in the prayer hall, and with the multiple getting up and bowing down that is muslim prayer, it would certainly be very distracting to men!!

From what I understand, it's the same thing with the veil.

I've come to think that, in a big way, I've developed this tom-boyish attitude and dress as a way to protect myself from the other sex.  Sometimes I think wearing the hijab would be so liberating.

It's about two in the morning now and my being is filled with a peaceful kind of love and gratitude.  "Eres cansada?" she asks.

"Si. Un poco. Y tu?"

"Si. Descansamos un poco, si?"

These non-reclining seats are uncomfortable, but I think I shouldn't have a problem falling into that altered state of consciousness, between sleep and awareness.  I've gotten used to it.  I kinda like it.  She is trying to find a way to rest her head.  I tell her she can use my shoulder.

And I sit straight up, close my eyes, and thank God for this beautiful encounter.

Alhamdulillah! 

"One Love.
Let's get together and feel alright!"

Cadiz to Albolote, always now

I just went for a short walk through the sleepy streets of Albolote, a small town of 15000 inhabitants, resting at about seven kilometers from Granada.  I slept here last night, in my own quarters.  I found a guitar, which was already tuned, and played a little bit.  (The area is actually famous for its guitar makers, which makes sense when you make the connection: this is Flamenco land!)
But more on this later.  First, I would like to back track to twenty-four hours ago, as I spent the preceding night in yet another historical location: Cadiz...



I had spoken with my mom the day before, while still in Sevilla, and she had asked: "Prends tu un peu le temps de relaxer, de juste... rien faire, genre t'installer sur la plage avec un livre?'' (''Do you take time to just hang out and do nothing, like, sit down on the beach with a book?")
"Well I haven't really been around beaches much, except in Nice... and even there I just took a twenty minute stop to skinny dip in the Mediterrean, before catching the train to Ventimiglia."

I have taken time to stop.  I have been meditating, actually, and I've sat in many a bus doing about nothing.  But it's also true that I've walked quite a lot over the past two and a half months.  Faithful to myself - for better and for worst - I've been curious and I've made a point to take in as much as possible about everything I get to see while being on the old continent.  However, my mother's words sounded timely and significant when I sat down with the map of Cadiz (and a cerveza fria) from the office of tourism.  My hosts lived on the other side of town (though it is a small one, on a peninsula) so there were a few "historical points of interest" on the way; but I decided I had seen enough churches already (and honestly, I just didn't feel like rolling my noisy suitcase around those paved streets), so I chose to pass on the architectural tour of "the oldest city in Europe" (Cadiz is 3000 years old!) and go for a walk along the Atlantic Ocean instead.  Only one day in Cadiz?   So be it!

This is where Christopher Colombus set sail from.
And this is where he came back to, with loads of exotic products
from "the Indias": potatoes, tomatoes, corn, etc.
  

The day was gorgeous.  "December 7th ?"  I laughed inside: "Como me gusta el sol!  Como me gusta esa luz!"

I got lost once - faithful to myself - but eventually arrived in la calle Angel.  I crossed my fingers and rang the doorbell.  I knew my host wouldn't get home until 8pm, but she'd said her roommate Clement would be there.  I don't have credits in my "handy" anymore, and it's very much starting to look like I'm not going to recharge it before I leave, in less than two weeks, so I couldn't call to notify of my arrival!  But someone did answer the door.  "Eres Clement?" I asked.  "Si."
"Eres frances?"
"Oui.  Et toi.. canadienne?"
"Ouais."

I think that every single French person I've met so far calls us Canadians instead of Québécois.  You'd think they'd be more precise, you'd think they sympathize.  But no.  They don't even say "Canadiens français"... just.. ''Canadiens'', who speak.... canadien!.   They don't make the difference, they don't necessarily know or care about our dear crise d'identité.  It seems that for them we are already different, since we live on that far away continent called America.
Clement offered me a cup of tea and a plate of noodles he had made for lunch.   We chatted a little bit, and I found out I had landed in one of those Erasmus flats, just like in that movie ''L'Auberge Espagnole''.  There lived five exchange students: from Lithuania, Poland, France, and who-knows-where-else, and they all came to Cadiz to study, learn Spanish, have a cultural experience... and to fiesta, of course.
"And you often host couchsurfers?" I asked.
"All the time!" he said, "We once slept eleven people in here!  There were three girls on the kitchen floor, and three more sharing my roomate's room. Plus all of us."

I noticed a French novel on a shelf and asked if he'd perhaps be interested in trading it for the one I had just finished.  It was Jack Kerouac's "Le vagabond Solitaire" (The lonesome traveller).  Que bueno!
Then he went on to study some more, and I took the book, as well as my juggling clubs, and went for a walk.  Screw all these landmarks; Cadiz is a maritime city, and I decided I'd just hang on the coast some more.  I walked and walked and smiled and sat for a cup of cafe con leche, until the sun began to set.

I don't know what goes on in the streets of Cadiz, but my sense is that the beach is where it's at.  People tranquilo.  People playing guitarra on the boardwalk, singing Flamenco.  Couples strolling.  Quite a romantic setting indeed.  A group of teenagers setting up for a most clever and impressive game: an exercise ball buried in the sand, and they used it as a trampoline, to practice saltos and other acrobatics!

After sundown I walked some more, guiding myself according to the changing qualities of light on buildings, and following the sounds that suddenly came out of small neighborhood bars, here and there, where locals - and their children- gathered for happy hour and a bit of soulful Flamenco. 

Back to the apartment I had a chat with M., attempting to explain, once more, what I studied in San Francisco.  She was especially eager: "Tell me what you learned."

So I tried once more; first in espagnol but eventually switching to English.  "Well, I've learned that everything we see is a projection of our psyche - it's all one - so that our sanity is directly connected to the health of our environment."  

3000 year old Magnolia?

"Everything is deeply and intrinsically interconnected: psyche, nature, one another..."  

"I learned that everything is already perfect, but that it doesn't mean we should do our best to change the world for better.  It's called paradox, and it pervades everything."

"And finally, I found that changing one's self - or ones relationship with one's self - is the hardest.  I'm still working on that, big time!"

"Tell me more," she said.  "Do you meditate?  I think we're all so addicted to thinking."

Right on hermana. "I do'' I answered. ''I try."

"I have a really hard time meditating." she said defeatedly.

"That's all there is," I said to validate her experience.  "But I read somewhere, and I always like to remember... that meditation simply is such a great opportunity to practice self-love, as in, forgiving one's self.  Because we always fail at it, and we can choose to judge, or to forgive."

"Tell me more."

"What if we just sat together, right now?"

So we did.

And afterwards, she went to sleep and I went out with the others.  It was already midnight and they were just getting ready!  

We went to a bar called Woodstock.  We met a friend of theirs, who also had a couchsurfer with her.  Around the table, there were now five different nationalities: Spanish, Russian (Lithuanian), French, Quebecoise (Canadian), German.  We spoke Spanish, French, German.  We drank tinto de verano and cervezas.  We sang Bob Marley: One Love.

L'Auberge Espagnole!

This morning I got up before all of them, made myself some tea to go, and went to catch the bus in direction of Granada... well... via Sevilla.
And here I am.  I'm staying in a family home and it is gorgeous.  Cold at night, but gorgeous.  And tomorrow I have plans to help out in the garden.  I could go to the city and visit the Alhambra  (''not to be missed!'', they all say), but I'd much rather learn how to prune the lemon tree!!

Love it!

Soul talks in Carcassonne

''Ça cogne dans les neuronnes comme un boulet dans les murs de Carcassonne''
-Loco Locass

I've spent the last two nights in the small city of Carcassonne, not too far from Toulouse where I am heading in a few hours.  I came here because I remembered how my brother had been impressed when he came through, many years ago.  Carcassonne is famous for its impressive Medieval Cité.  It was founded around the fifth century, changed hands several times throughout history, and was restored in the mid-19th century so that it still stands seemingly whole, entirely fortified, castle and all.  Today, it is inscribed on the list of the UNESCO's World Heritage Sites.

There is not much than that here, however.  And I have visited enough castles by now that I've sort of become a bit immune to the feelings of awe that initially ran through me as I held these historical monuments in contemplation.

So I found out that I didn't come to Carcassonne to witness its famous Cité.  It turns out, that I came here to meet and exchange with a man that would validate and enrich my experience of life on Earth.

Y. picked me up from the train station on Monday afternoon, after he finished his day of teaching electronics at the Lycée.  On his couchsurfing profile, he'd listed 'meditation' as one of his interests, so I had asked if he'd host me, and ''perhaps we could have a little sangha going on'' while I'd be there.  He is sixty-something and lives by himself in a little apartment at the outskirt of town, surrounded by vineyards stretching far into the horizon.  I was pleased he'd accepted to host me, for I thought I'd be a good transition back from Torri.



Upon walking into his place I noticed a certificate of 'master in alternative medicine' hanged on the wall.  I put my bags down in a corner, accepted the cup of tea he offered; quickly and directly, I then asked, ''Do you do a combo of acupuncture and herbs and everything, or what is this?''
''Non,'' he said, ''it's meditation''.  I looked a him with a inquisitive smile, and he added: ''You know about the chakra system?''

(A really good book about the chakra system and developmental psychology is: Eastern Body Western Mind, by Anodea Judith, Ph.D.)

Morning walk along "Le canal du midi"

Within five minutes, Y. and I were talking about consciousness and subtle energies, and about the habits and dangers of so-called logic (i.e. our so-called democracy is based on a perpetuation of the belief that we are reasonable/rational creatures, even though it has been demonstrated, with the advent of psychology - thanks Sigmund - that it's the unconscious that generally drives human beings.)

We talked about the difference between reflecting and thinking... (Note: the conversation was in French, so the words and nuances were actually somewhat different.)
''Thoughts just come in, and our job is to stay open to seeing them without grasping.''
''Oh,'' I said, ''do you mean like when I feel that the words write me, or come through me, instead of me writing them sometimes.''
''Oui, it's kind of like that,'' he acquiesced.
''And reflections are the type that bounce back and forth in your head without leading anywhere, right?''
''That's it.''

And so we chatted, energetically, about energy and the challenges of integrating the lower animal parts of us with the higher spiritual ones.  "Our job is to help the lower energy centers (first three chakras), and to get help from the three upper ones."

I asked about the method he uses to meditate.  He explained that focussing on the third eye (or rather, the place where the pineal and the pituitary glands ''connect'') brings a level of concentration that can be used to synthesize with others.  As long as one remains centered into one's self and one's own energetic field, such a transfer of energy has the potential to help others find their own center as well.  It brings harmonization... and healing.
(I am paraphrasing a longer and more complex conversation, but I think it's fairly accurate.)

''But what about the heart?'' I said.  ''I thought that integration, and thus healing, happened at the heart center?''
He paused to think a bit.
''Yes, the heart is the center.  But perhaps most of us are not evolved enough to reside in that place yet.''
We both fell silent for a moment.  It was good.

I spent two days at his house, sharing meals and conversations.  We talked more, about travels and languages.  About the relationship between etymologies and metaphysics, between metaphysics and political systems, about work, the human condition, and the dual nature of evolution-devolution.  We talked about the [needed interplay] of globalization and decentralization, and about the hidden reality of a very few individuals actually holding the strings, behind our governments, behind the media, behind mainstream culture.

I remembered I want to create a play inspired by Plato's allegory of the cave.

How I love this Life!  Bless!

Other directions

Say what?

"How long are you staying?"

Torri Superiore, day three.

I got here on Wednesday, in the late afternoon, after a long and pleasant day of tribulations.  I had come from Marseille and got dropped off in Nice for a quick swim in the Mediterranean Sea (it's the Cote d'Azur; who needs a bathing suit?!), followed by a bit of impromptu slacklining with some local people I met on my walk to the train station. 

Swimming in the Mediterranean:
Check!

I bought a baguette and some cheese, and caught the train that would cross the border into Ventimiglia, Italy.

I arrived in Torri a bit later than I had expected, which meant that I wouldn't get to do my share of work-exchange before spending my first night here.

I was told that there were no other guests at the moments, and that there might also not be much work for me to do.  "I can walk the dog" I said while immediately realizing how stupid the comment was.  "No, I'm sure we'll find something for you," said Simmons, "Let me find Nina, she must be around somewhere."  And he left me in the office for a little bit.  

I browsed through the library and found a small section of books in English.  There were a few titles I was interested in: "It's the End of the World as We Know it, and I could use a Drink," "The Transition Handbook: from Oil Dependency to Local Resilience," or perhaps one of the many titles on the topics of Ecovillages or permaculture.... but in the end I decided to borrow a book  about the works and legacies of the great Sufi mystic, Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi.  It looked like a small and powerful book, and I thought it would draw a nice thread to my recent sojourn in Istanbul.  I hadn't known this before Ezgi told me, but Rumi spent a lot of his life (between 1228 and 1241) in the Anatolian city of Konya, where he is now buried.

I met Nina, Korean-born, adopted by German parents and she showed me through to stone labyrinth to my room.

Torri Superiore is home to about 25 permanent dwellers.  Most are Italians and Germans; and the common language is Italian.  The kids all speak both Italian and German, plus a bit of English! 

There are more people involved and living here temporarily.  Some are here as seasonal workers, like Adrien (from France), who came specifically for olive harvest, or Ido (from Germany) who came to visit his brother and gather gallons of olive oil to go sell in Switzerland.  Others seem to have a more "long-time noncommittal relationship" with the community, like Simmons, who is originally from Australia (but spent many years in British Columbia and Vermont) and who contributes with his expertise in organic farming.  Dusan is a young Serbian man who's been working here for the past couple months while looking into buying some land in the area.  Peter says he comes here four times per year, to take a vacation from Berlin, and to spend some time with his son Daniel, who is the initiator of this marvelous experience.  

Adrien enjoys a glass of wine during lunchtime
taking a break from picking olives all morning.

In the early stages of the project, it was all about restoration of this historical building.  The building was in ruins, and it took a couple of years of extremely hard work to fix it, before Daniel and Nina could move in.

"It was all about bringing life back," he tells me, "Bringing life back to the place... and to our self."

"And what does one need to know in order to do this?" I asked longingly. "Plumbing and electricity and stuff?  How to build things? Right?"

"You learn by doing it.  That's what we did."

Today, Torri Superiore is a marvelous little village onto itself, a veritable hamlet; with its many living quarters, its kitchen and two-level dining room (big enough to accommodate up to eighty workshoppers/tourists during the high season), its carpentry room, yoga room, playroom, rooftop spaces, etc.  Everything is beautiful, and highly functional!  

There are as many different models of ecovillages as there are communities.  I'm told that what makes this one special is the historical building, and the fact that it is located in a touristic area.  This allows for Torri Superiore to generate the greater fraction of its income through organizing classes and workshops, and hosting tourists from all over Europe.

This money belongs to the cultural association and can be reinvested in the ecovillage.  But what we have here is a mixed economy system, (i.e. living quarters are owned privately) which means that each person is also responsible for their own finances..

An Italo-German picnic = a feast!
(yes, we ate for over an hour)

Community living tends to be cheaper than "mainstream living", because it allows for the sharing of many skills and resources.  

Unfortunately, the steepness and quality of the land here brings many agricultural challenges, so a lot of the food has to be bought from the city.   Moreover, Torri Superiore has to abide by county and regional development regulations and all, so they have yet to be granted the permits they need in order to install more solar panels and become more energetically self-sufficient.  In the meantime, they also get their electricity, and the aqueduct system (and the internet, of course) from the "outside world".

  

As far as leadership goes, they have explained to me that important decisions are made through consensus, and that minor ones are generally decided by whomever deems them important enough to show up to the meeting.

They've been meeting weekly for twenty years.

There are three main subgroups to address different issues in specific areas: the guest house, farming, and the building.  

However, everyone takes turn doing certain tasks, and all must volunteers in other areas.  

My understanding is that these groupings have occurred somewhat organically, as each person gravitated towards their area of interest.

Picking olives involves hitting branches in order to make the fruits fall down,
and gathering them in big nets.

  

Which brings me back to one of my initial observations upon arriving here.
I wandered around the building, familiarizing myself with the silence of the valley and trying to figure out my way up and down and around.  So I encountered and greeted a few people ("Ciao!"), and what I found noticeable was how they all, without exception, asked me the same exact question after the initial "where are you from?".  They all asked: "How long are you going to stay?"

This, to me, points to the core of an experience like this.  It's all about time; it's all about commitment.  

I am finding/feeling some clarity since I've been here.  It's certainly easier without the distractions of the city; without grocery stores and shopping malls, without street lights, and without locks on the doors.  It's easier to feel good, centered.  

And perhaps it also helps that I have actually been working quite hard.  Harvesting olives in the mountains, working physically, concretely, climbing trees like I never imagined I could climb trees before... focussing on keeping a stable foothold, staying focussed and in the moment, with nature, amongst trees pregnant with yet another miracle of life.  No time to see my mind run astray into the future.

  

And so for now I must go to sleep.

Though there is much more to share...

Fruits of our labor

going to work in Utopia

I am leaving Marseille in a few hour.  I'm getting a ride to Nice, with Olivier from covoiturage.fr .  From Nice, I'll get a train to Ventimiglia, which is on the boarder of Italy.  Then, I will catch a local bus that will bring me closer to where I am to stay for the next six days: Torri Supperiore.
Torri Superiore is a small ecovillage that is home to twenty permanent resident and open to non-resident to come and learn about different aspects of sustainable living, i.e. permaculture, bio-fuels, green buildings, consensus leadership, etc.

Dating from the 13th century, the village consists of three main buildings with over 160 vaulted rooms, all linked by an intricate labyrinth of stairways and terraces. Its complex and fascinating structure has been compared to a labyrinth or fortress, built on the side of the mountain.

I am so excited!  Yes, I get to experience utopia for a week.  But most of all, I am impatient to... work!  I've been roaming the continent for two months like this, working almost exclusively from my brains, writing several hours a day.  But I haven't sweated so much, I haven't done much physical work, I haven't seen the fruits of my labor and how it is useful, in a concrete, material way.
So there I go...

I'll be in touch :)

Promenades sur Mars

Maintenant sur la Côte d'Azur!

Côte effectivement azure!

Ô Marseille! Que tu es belle!
À la sortie de l'avion, hier après-midi, j'ai senti un relâchement, une détente de tout mon être.  Le temps était doux, confortable... presque chaud.  Mais il n'y avait pas que cela.  Il y avait surtout ce sentiment d'être  revenue à la maison: ma langue.

J'ai ainsi trimballé mes bagages, d'une navette à une autre, de l'aéroport jusqu'à la gare St-Charles, épuisée par une journée d'attentes de file en file, d'aéroport en aéroport, mais néanmoins portée par une douce joie, un sourire au visage...
Arrivée à la gare, toujours incrédule malgré l'évidence: tout le monde parle français! Je trouve le bureau d'information, déniche une carte de la ville, et poursuis ma route en direction de l'adresse de mon hôte 'couchsurfing', boulevard Longchamps.

Pardon? D'accord.

Je sonne à la porte, on me répond. Pauline et Louise m'accueillent avec enthousiasme; elles m'offrent le thé. Comme elles l'avaient déjà établi dans nos correspondances, elles réitèrent qu'elles sont désolées: elles travaillent présentement sur un gros projet théâtral (elles font toutes deux l'école nationale) et n'auront malheureusement pas de temps à m'accorder. 'C'est tout bon' je leur réponds. ''Je voyage seule, j'ai l'habitude... je suis indépendante.''
''Moi je n'serais pas capable'' rétorque Pauline.
Ah? J'oublie souvent qu'il n'est pas si commun de faire ce genre de truc. Et je trouve cela fascinant de voir combien de personnalités différentes il peut y avoir dans ce monde!

Louise étudie son texte pendant un temps.  Je prends une bonne douche chaude, me lave les rastas.  Pour le souper, mon hôte propose de faire une quiche  ''chèvre et épinards''.  Couète et croissant!?  Que je suis reconnaissante! En anglais, on dit ''I am gratefull.''  Je suis extrêmement gratefull!  J'insiste pour l'aider à la préparation.  On discute de bouffe, de théâtre, de musique.  Elle retourne à ses études après le souper.  Je retrouve mon écran.

Ce matin je suis partie me promener.  Le centre-ville, le port, et tous les endroits qu'on m'a recommandés de visiter se trouvent dans un rayon de quelques centaines de mètres.  Le temps est bon. Il y a des bouffées d'air salée.  On parle français autours de moi!  Une effluve de narguilé; je repense à Istanbul...

Je grimpe la colline et atteints la célèbre Basilique Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, celle que les Marseillais appellent affectueusement La Bonne Mère.  La montée est ardue, mais j'aime.  Après tout, n'est-ce pas partie intégrale du pèlerinage?

La Bonne Mère se dresse, dorée et bienveillante,
sur le site d'un ancien fort marin. 

Le site est marquant. La Vierge Marie monte effectivement la garde, surmontant la mer et la ville.  À l'intérieur, une très belle murale au plafond, duquel sont suspendues des douzaines de bateaux.  Marie protège les marins, Elle protège les Marseillais.

Je m'assieds en silence.  Je médite longtemps.

Château d'If

célèbre grâce au roman d'Alexandre Dumas

'Le comte de Monte-Cristo'

D'une religion à une autre.

Je redescends, un peu au hasard.
La journée est douce.  Je marche, j'observe, j'écoute.  J'essaie de m'impreigner de tout et de rien, d'être présente et ouverte.  Or mon esprit se projète infatiguablement vers le futur; mon futur, mon privilège, mon karma et mon désir de redonner à la vie autant qu'elle m'apporte...
Il est temps de me procurer un roman!  Cela m'aidera à sortir de la spirale.
Je déambule vers le quartier Belsunce, fredonnant l'intro de la chanson de Bouga intitulée ''Belsunce Breakdown''.  Le rap Marseillais - et plus particulièrement celui de I AM, Akhénaton, Shurik'n, et toute cette école [celle du micro d'argent], c'est la trame sonore de mon adolescence.  C'est pratiquement la raison pour laquelle j'ai choisie de visiter Marseille!
J'aboutie tout d'un coup dans une série de petites ruelles bien étroites et remplies de marchands.  Ce doit être le marché arabe dont on m'avait parlé!  Olives, fruits, pâtisseries, pizzas, viandes, épices, thés, tout y est.  Le coin est bondé de passants - dont la plupart sont immigrants d'anciennes colonies - et le sol est recouvert d'eau, de déchets.  J'aime bien. Pour un Euro, je goûte à une galette de pommes de terre aux épices.



Après le lunch, je continue ma balade vers l'autre rive du port, à l'affût d'une librairie et d'un quartier qui porte le nom Le Panier.  Si je me souviens bien, c'est le quartier Italien de Marseille.

Bingo!  Après quelques détours perdus dans quelques ruelles bien mignonnes, je tombe finalement sur l'endroit idéal: une terrasse de ''maison de thé & librairie''!  Je souris, m'avance.  Le temps semble s'être arrêté. Là, je suis vraiment à la maison!

Cup of Tea pour un bel après-midi!

Je salue le proprio, commande un café, et m'approche de section livre.  Surprise!  Ils ont pleins de romans québécois!
''Oh oui!'' déclare le proprio avec un grand sourire sympathique, ''Jacques Poulin, c'est mon auteur favoris!''  Je suis émue.  ''J'adore le Québec,'' ajoute-t-il, ''et mon meilleur ami habite là-bas.  Il est marié avec une Gaspésienne.''
On discute.  Je cherche un livre mais il y en a trop, alors je lui demande de me conseiller.  Il me suggère trois titres; deux sont des histoires se déroulant aux États-Unis.  J'hésite.  Un roman de Michel Tremblay, ça pourrait être drôle.  Ça pourrait me préparer à la grande transition.  Mais cette édition coûte un peu cher, alors j'opte finalement pour quelque chose d'autre.  Un histoire de père de famille, de souvenirs, et de shamans Hopi.

Le proprio me raconte un peu Marseille.  ''C'est une ville de rebelles.  C'est ici qu'Arthur Rimbaud a choisi de mourir.  On ne le dit pas assez, dans les écoles; mais c'est un fait important.''

J'aime bien ce type.  Et quelle belle vie!  Sa femme qui travaille à ses côtés, des amis qui passent, quelques touristes explorant le Panier, du bon thé, deux ou trois étagères de livres, de la bonne musique, une ambiance chaleureuse.

Je reste là pendant une heure ou deux, à lire, à écrire, à rire...

Ma langue! Comme je t'aime!   

Est-ce vrai alors?  Nous nous retrouverons bientôt pour vivre ensembles, comme jadis?   

Ma langue!  Je me sens si fébrile à l'idée de te redécouvrir, de te faire la cours encore une fois et pour toujours, avec humilité, et avec piété.  De t'apprivoiser.

Je veux parcourir tes nuances et tes humeurs.  Et qu'importe si je m'isole à te côtoyer!  Ton élégance en vaut le coût.

Comme je suis impatiente!  Et je prie, pour l'émancipation de mon esprit, afin de toujours savoir te rendre hommage, ma muse, ma belle langue!  J'aimerais qu'ensembles nous puissions créer de belles histoires, pour la postérité, au nom des mystères que sont les femmes, les hommes, et leurs idées.   

Avec toi, valser comme dans un grand bal, dans la cours du silence.  Le temps d'une chanson.  Le temps de ma vie.

Jeanne D'Arc,

Église des Réformés

Palais Longchamps.