An early start. Moira driving. Her long graceful hands wrapped around the steering wheel. An occasional gesturing lift and spread of her right hand brought life to her words. Stimulating conversation flowed. A buzzing energy in the car. A glorious day. Windows halfway down. Wind gently tousling our hair about. A freeing sensation emphasized by the long beckoning roads spread out in front of us. The sound of the changing gears as we dipped in and out of the gentle valleys was energizing, raising my anticipation of the day ahead of us. An occasional creak of the wicker baskets on the back seat waiting to be filled at the nearby market town- our destination. Quiet roads. Not a soul on them. Field after field lining both sides. Some planted. Some not. Maize. Sunflowers. Must be sensational when in bloom. The ploughed fields revealing rich fertile soil in various shades of brown much like milk and dark chocolate. Hay bales dotted about, the white plastic wrap highlighted under the rays of the morning sun. The softness and gentle rise of the land lay like a fluffed up duvet. My eyes easily pacified by this continuous feed of beautiful scenery. My ears soothed by the sound of my friend’s voice. A loosening, a freeing of the deep turmoil of grief that lives in my body. Thoughts simplify. A powerful wave of surreality. In a split second I am rolling on my bedroom floor, I can see myself, I can feel the floor, feel the pain, hear the anguish, the next moment I am back, sitting here in the passenger seat of Moira’s car. Mind blowing. A bus, a flight, a housesit, from Canada to Ireland to France, and now here I am chatting, laughing, driving through the french countryside with this woman whom I am privileged to know and call my friend. Who could have known that such a wonderful experience like this could happen from such sadness and pain. I have not known her for long but yet I have known her all my life. A kind of recognition of one another at some ancient level. Extraordinary. I recall how one afternoon Moira came by to say hello. I had started feeling faint, trembly. I tried to pretend that everything was ok as we sat at the table but I couldn’t seem to override it. How embarrassing I was thinking, I have just met Moira and look at me. This hadn’t happened to me since Canada. I would get these debilitating episodes often in the first year after Jason died. I now realized that the grief, the painful memories had been silently brewing throughout this significant day. Now it was loud. I was at the point of no return; raw and exposed. Poor Moira. She barely knew anything about me at this point. I quickly said to her, ” I don’t feel well, I think I might faint.” Now a high-pitched ringing and nausea. As I lay down on the couch Moira placed a high pile of cushions under my feet. My breathing steadied. No talking. A surprising ease in the silence. Moira sat on a chair beside me holding the space. Allowing me to just be. To let go. Such trust. This must be my Anam Cara. I first heard this celtic expression while housesitting last month in Ireland. It means soul friend. When you meet a person with whom you can be as you really are, be completely open and trusting, your two souls will begin to flow together; this is when you have found your Anam Cara. If you are lucky enough like me it is possible to have more than one.

Continuing on the drive, the landscape began to change. Plum orchards and endless acres of neatly organized vineyards becoming the new scenery. An aging chateau. A river. A lovely old stone arched bridge. A long retired water mill. A canal. Trees weeping over the shady banks. In the distance a magnificent gothic style church towers high up on the hill. The narrowing road leads us down into the basin of this pretty village. Rows of traditional houses, some half-timbered, some stone, all so neat and tidy. Vines and roses scrambling up the sides onto wrought iron balconies. A shop, a bakery, a bar, another church. A graveyard surrounded by high stone walls, roses spilling over the tops, a calming palate of greys and pinks. The gate is wide open, masses of flowers catch my eye. I recognize the flowers- they are all chrysanthemums. Pots and pots of them. Such a variety of colours decorating the grave sites. Wow I exclaimed as we drive past commenting on what I had just seen. Moira explained. Last Friday it was All Saint’s day, a public holiday, everything shuts down. People go to visit their deceased family members grave, bringing a pot of chrysanthemums to leave at the grave site. This explains why previously when I had arrived in France there were so many pots of chrysanthemums being sold everywhere…market stalls, grocery stores, parking lots. I just thought the French had a love for this flower. Moira explained how in France the Chrysanthemum is strongly associated with death. They are a symbol of immortality as it can survive the winter frost and needs little care. One thing for sure you don’t give this flower as a housewarming or hostess gift. We had a good chuckle. Driving past a small outdoor cafe. A few tired looking people around a table. Small white coffee cups. Cigarette in a hand. In this quick glance as Moira drove past I seemed to see so much detail. A person’s eyes. A sadness. The ornate design, the seductive curl of the wrought iron table legs. So clear and precise.

We have arrived at our destination. We park the car, grab the wicker baskets and join in with the flow of people heading to the market square. So many french conversations going on. A very pleasing sound. A definite energy and bustle was in the air. A British voice rings out above the crowd, ” Moira! ”  It is her friend Caroline, called Caro amongst friends. A decision was made to have a coffee together before serious market shopping began.

I really like Caro. I got to know her the other week when Moira invited me to come along on a girls lunch at a restaurant in Marmande, a town not far from my housesit. This outing was a pivotal moment for me. Going out with a group of women for lunch was something I did not do in my life ‘before’.  Moira was very kind to invite me so I had bravely accepted. No one could know how unconventional my life had been and how frightened I was stepping into this new territory knowing the only reason I could do this was because my son had died. As I stood at the front gate of my housesit waiting for my ride my nervousness was gaining a life of its own. What would I say if asked, ‘ Do you have children? How many? Boys? Girls? ‘ I hope I can keep it together in front of these women, some I haven’t met before. I was feeling vulnerable as I envisioned this all playing out.

An SUV pulls up. Caro behind the wheel. Moira waving from the back seat. A new face looking through the passenger seat window. This was Marilyn. A lovely woman also with a British accent. We drove down into the centre of  Marmande to the old part of town. Tucked away in a quiet square was the restaurant. In we went and wow it was so chic, so cozy; tables pushed closely together, people crammed in. Two women raised their hands beckoning us to their table. It was Anita and Lucie, friends of Moira and Caroline. Kisses, one on each cheek were exchanged and we squeezed in. It was a beautifully set table. The glass water bottles were coloured giving the water an appearance of being orange and yellow. We all ordered the sole dish and a few of us had a very decadent chocolate dessert. The presentation was a work of art. We had a jug of red and a jug of white. When Lucie who was closest to the waitress asked, ” Do you all want wine ?” Moira in her posh accent answered, “ Is the Pope Catholic? ” I found this very funny. This was such a dynamic group of women….real life stories being shared amongst us, lots of laughter and emotion. The sound of french voices wafting over me was like music. From where I was sitting my view was stunning- old French buildings with window shutters of various colours and shades, and a most beautiful old church. Again, all very surreal. As I had feared, the question did come up, ” Do you have children? ” Tears rolled down my face with the answer. My tears were not alone. We were all mothers. Lucie, sitting beside me gently placed her hands on either side of my face and held them there as she looked right into me. No words were needed. For the first time in a long time I felt like I belonged. This was an exceptional group of women and they had welcomed me in. Three of these women became like sisters to me and we still refer to one another as soul sisters.

Three hours later, closing down the restaurant, we headed back home. Caro took a different route home. Very scenic. Out in front us was a long straight road as far as I could see. On each side of the road lay a perfectly straight single row of evenly spaced tall trees. So beautiful as they gracefully arched over the road. Moira told me that Napoleon had ordered extensive planting along the roads to shade his marching armies from the heat of the midday sun. Such a sense of history here compared to Canada. Marilyn’s voice, ” Fiona, how are you managing with the French language? ”  Well, I didn’t know where to start. There were so many stories and I am sure I created chaos at many places but also many smiles especially with my well spoken phrases, ” Je vien du Canada. Merci. Au revoir. Bonne journée!! ” From my farm feed store experiences: snorting like a pig, running around the shop cantering like a horse, bleating like a sheep, all in order to communicate the types of feed I needed. From the butcher shop trying to buy a chicken breast; blanc poulet wasn’t working so pointing to a particular body part communicated this with no problem resulting in a big smile and ” Ah oui madame.” He treated me like a friend after this, always humoured when I would pull out my newly purchased french dictionary. By now the car was filled with howling laughter. It was a wonderful feel and sound. I then remembered to ask them about this Dove moisturizer that I had bought. ” Is the French Dove cream  different from the English version?” At the store I had been so relieved when I spotted it. It was exactly the same packaging as in Canada. Finally, I knew what I was buying. It was even on sale so I had bought two bottles. I was thrilled. However I had discovered it was thick, much thicker than I was used to, maybe it is old stock and this is why it was a good bargain. Then I thought maybe it is shampoo but it definitely wasn’t because it did state the words ‘ hydratation de l’épiderme ‘ several times on the back on the bottle. This I knew meant skin. Well of course the vehicle was now rocking, imagining what it could be. We all had sore stomachs and aching jaws by the time they dropped me off. We were all feeling high on life thanks to the tremendous surge of endorphins.

The next Friday we arranged to meet at 10am for coffee in Monsegur. As I was leaving my house I made a last-minute decision to stuff my bottle of Dove lotion into my bag to show my friends. Each day I had been applying it on my body. It certainly appeared to moisturize but definitely must be old stock as it took about 20 mins to absorb. We were all settled, five cafe crèmes were ordered and we had a bag of almond croissants from the next door patisserie. Placing the bag in the middle of the table, ripping apart two croissants we each enjoyed a piece of the rich flaky treat, a sticky generous layer of almond paste running through the center. Messy but good!!!!! Life felt good. Light. Camaraderie, conversation, coffee, pastry.  Marilyn started to tell Lucie about our drive home from the lunch last week, how she had never laughed so hard. It took days for her stomach muscles to stop hurting. We all started laughing and reliving the drive home. What an incredibly fun time that was. Almost like we had all been away on a vacation together. I then remembered about the Dove. I reached down to my purse and presented the bottle of Dove lotion. Caro said, ” Let me see that ” with a sense of urgency and excitement in her voice. She lurched over the table as I passed it in her direction. Caro shrieked as Marilyn poured over her shoulders. Caro shrieked again and started hysterically laughing, ” This isn’t body lotion it is body wash!!!! ”  I am like what????? a startled look on my face as I try to digest that all this time I have been applying body wash not body moisturizer. I laughed. They fell about when I replied how it took ages to sink into my skin. One of them said “OMG you are lucky it didn’t rain while you were outside. You would have bubbled up.”  Visions in our heads of me lathering up in the rain caused a roar of laughter. One of them said,  “No wonder you always smell so good and clean.”  Once again another round of sore diaphragms and jaws. As the Dove gets passed around to each person they again crumble into a fit of laughter and the rest of us along with them. It was a most memorable time. None of us will look at Dove body lotion in quite the same way again.

Some times while here in France it feels like I am watching myself in a movie. Like living in a chapter of the story ‘ Eat, Pray, Love.’ Tasting olives from Provence at a market stall in a medieval market square …a charismatic dark-haired French man, moustache, beret, describing the different olives with such passion. I don’t even like olives as a rule but these were different, so plump and juicy. Plus who am I kidding? A deep sexy Parisian voice speaking to me while passing over a large wooden spoon offering me assorted olives to taste, who could resist? Some were with basil or different herbs…some natural …some with a spicy kick from chili peppers etc. I bought several kinds and with a Bonne Journee, Au revoir I was off. As if this really happened. It is like I take a step back and can see myself almost like in a performance. I really have to pinch myself. Like the other day: a six hour lunch at Moira’s, nine of us around a large rectangular wooden table. Many courses of incredibly delicious food. Champagne. French wines. Cheeses of so many kinds. Very intimate in this lovely barn conversion french home. Candlelight, music, great conversation, lots of laughter. My wine glass getting topped up. Very surreal. Listening to the voices, different accents, British, French, Scottish, South African; they speak to me. Hearing my voice in reply, holding a conversation. Like two tracks running. One external. One internal. My inner voice saying, ” my god Fiona you are managing ok here. ” Then laughter bursts out around the table; mine in the mix. The realization that wow these are my new friends. I felt so very lucky. Yet at the same time there is a strong sense running through me that this did not just happen by chance: I was led here. In this group I met a mother who very sadly had lost her son. She spoke generously with me on several occasions sharing her story, her grief. This was a powerful link even though I had just met her; two mothers that live with the very worst searing pain. Her words made a great impact on me and I hear them when struggling. Another incredible experience was being invited onto a beautiful barge called The Body and Soul belonging to special people Lucie and Malcolm. Sitting with my new friends, chatting, crying, laughing, eating gourmet french food, sipping on champagne, Malcolm playing jazz piano, all on a barge on the Drot River in SW France was an out-of-body experience for me. Is this really happening? The coolness of the champagne flute against my fingers, the delicate scent of apples and pears entering my nose, the crisp taste, the refreshing bubbles popping in my mouth awakened all senses. This was grounding. I was here. This was really happening.