I feel very fortunate to have walked these paths. Each path a different experience. Some paths smooth, easy, accommodating. Other ones rough, steep, narrow. This is the challenge. To keep going physically and emotionally no matter what arises. Or to give up. Turn back. Defeated. Paths run close to the cliff’s edge allowing a peek at the beauty down below. Virgin grass, pristine flowers, attractive palette of greens, purples, and pinks, all cascading down to meet the sea, all safely out of reach, free of any human touch. There is a magnetism to go right to the edge. My right foot there. A lure to join their safe painless world.  A wave of fear crescendoed. Quickly pull away. Rooting an urgent transfer of weight down into my left foot.

A sweet fragrance wafts around me. Dainty butterflies. Chorus of birds. Clap of the sea. My shoes upon the gritty path, scraping, crunching. My breath gradually synchronizing with the sound and pace of my footsteps. The rhythm of matching step to breath centres my mind. Inhale for three steps, exhale for four steps. An arrival of lightness and energy. This breathing technique reminded me of my walking meditation experience at a mindfulness meditation course in Dunderry, Co.Meath. I now realise the importance, the teachings; how it has helped me to get to where I am today. It was quite bizarre how I ended up there. My housesit was ending and my next one didn’t start for 10 days later. I was anxious being in this position. No other housesits had become available. Didn’t know where to go. Money was tight. While searching online for a reasonable place to stay I came across a mindfulness meditation 3 day retreat. Located about two hours away and the course dates would cover me for the first two nights. I felt a little unsure but strongly seduced by the very reasonable cost including all meals. I phoned. The course had been full for months but a cancellation had just been made at the last minute. I was in. Turned out the location was the Shamanic centre for Ireland, situated close to Newgrange, a 5,200 year old passage tomb. As I drove up the long lane there was real feel of mystery, rituals, folklore. It was not hard to imagine ancient druid and pagan ceremonies happening in the clearings amongst the old gnarly trees.

Now here I was with 29 strangers of various ages and backgrounds in this 200 year old Georgian house surrounded by acres of land. Upon entering the house you stepped into this grand room with a roaring fire, beckoning couches and well-loved enormous armchairs. An impressive rectangular oak table sat low in the middle supporting wool-socked feet, mugs of tea, and books. It was a very warm calm environment. Sharing a room with two other women we quickly became friends for the weekend as we laughed and cried, sharing our stories from the security of our beds. Each person at the retreat was there with their own story, their own crisis. Some people spoke about their feelings, insecurities, past traumas in their lives. Such a deep poring of emotion while the rest of us were completely silent holding a supported space for them. Our teacher, Mary O’Callaghan,  led us through mindful meditations. Lying on our mats the idea was to remain open to whatever is going on inside you. Release expectations. Doing an outdoors walking meditation as a group was a profound difficult experience. It sounded easy. How hard could a slow mindful walk be? The idea was to place your attention on your feet, try to sense each foot at the moment it touches the ground and when it leaves the ground. Do they roll from heel to toe, toe to heel, or flat ? Be aware of all the different sensations in your feet, not just a contact in the soles of your feet but the contact between the toes, the feeling of the inside of your shoes, the fabric of your socks, and let your feet be as relaxed as you can. Become aware of your ankles. Notice the qualities of the sensations in those joints – as your foot is on the ground, as your foot travels through the air. I felt slightly frantic trying to tap into all of this. So many things going on. A jolt that all of this time I had been walking on automatic pilot mode. Walking but really not knowing I was walking. I couldn’t seem to slow my walk down like others were doing. I kept getting too far ahead of the rest of the group. Why couldn’t I be like them? There they were, heads bowed, hands clasped, in the zone, radiating peace in their slow short steps. Trying to look the part, just wanting to get this over with, I attempted to copy them. Bowing my head, clasping my hands like a monk and with deep concentration managed to shorten and slow down my steps. My upper torso frustratingly remained perched forward, slightly ahead of my feet. It was the strangest thing that I couldn’t seem to rein it back, to line up over my feet. Maybe a subconscious pressure to get somewhere in a hurry. There is an internal struggle with my balance. More noticeable in this slow walk. I wonder if this is evident from the outside?  A strong sensation of tipping to the right. The right side of my body feels jaggedly open like it is reaching out to find the rest of it, a need to make it whole, find the edge. An epiphany. Jason was my right. I always tried to be on Jason’s left so that he could see me. He was blind on his right side and deaf on his left side. It was usually more important that he could see me than to hear me. I could always raise my voice. In the truck where we spent a lot of time Jason was always on my right side sitting in the passenger seat. This is why my body feels like it is searching for its right half. After a few more serious wobbles the teacher came over to me. I felt embarrassed. I had hoped that nobody had noticed. She quietly spoke words which made all the difference- “Stop trying to get somewhere.”  “At each step you are already there.” “You are home.” The effect was instant. Sense of hurry disappeared. I was totally present with each step. Amazing clarity. Not thinking about the previous step or the next step. Just experiencing the now. In that present moment I felt ease. All of my worries, sadness, fear, fell away for that moment. It was a glimpse at what was possible.

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.

A noticeable presence entered the meditation hall. All heads turned to the far back left corner towards the door. In walked a small unpretentious man garbed in dark brown robes. His aged body erect yet humble, his clasped hands resting up against his diaphragm. A hush fell over the room. An odd cough. The occasional whisper. He began to walk to the front of the hall. Row upon row of occupied mats faced the front. His walk: precise but yet so gentle and in no hurry. No sense of destination. Almost like he was already there. As each sandal met the floor, a sort of smile, an expression of contentment spread across his face. I had never seen this way of being before. It was calming to watch. I was amused at his thick woollen work socks. Similar to ones I had worn back on my farm in Canada.

He passed right in front of me emitting a sense of simplicity, serenity. The air moved. The realization that this ripple of air against my face was created by Thich Nhat Hanh was extraordinary. Tears began rolling down my face. Uncontrollably. Such disbelief that this world renowned buddhist master, author, poet, now passing right in front of me was the very same person that authoured the book, the book that changed my course. This book, from a shelf in a small rural library in Ontario, Canada to here at this buddhist centre in southwest France- the actual place where the words were written- was almost unthinkable. Now here I am sitting on a mat in a meditation hall in France. Almost too much to comprehend. Suddenly there were no boundaries, no separation of any sort, just a sense of being free, being one with everything. Everything shrunk, came down to this very moment. It felt right, everything in the right place.

Such gratitude to the monk who invited me to join them. I felt incredibly fortunate to have received an invitation to Plum Village, to spend the day of Dec.24 with Thich Nhat Hanh and his community. I had read that in the winter he refrains from travelling so that he can stay home to give teachings to the monks and practitioners. They all live together for 90 consecutive days resulting in the energy staying within the walls. Preferably not escaping with people coming in and out hence the expectation of my request being denied but still hoping.

My invitation to join them was signed off ‘A lotus for you.‘ These four words had a profound effect on me catching me totally off guard. I had barely finished reading the fourth word and I was weeping buckets. It felt incredibly personal. I didn’t feel so alone. Such a generous attentive offering made to me from this monk. I later received a further communication from him,  ‘Another lotus for you’. So beautiful.

The 24th of December arrived. Up early to feed the menagerie and off I went. This time with a good set of directions from the monk. It was a 50 min drive dipping in and out of wide valleys with such diverse landscape. Rolling hills, rich farming land, scenic rivers. Tiny roads weaving through quaint picture book villages, passing historic churches, a Chateau, vineyards, orchards. The last 20 mins was on very narrow, twisty roads climbing up the vine-covered slopes. Upon arrival I was directed to the meditation hall. Shoes off onto the muddy floors of the entrance and through a door I entered into the large hall. Rows and rows of mats with a meditation cushion placed on each one. People already scattered around. Some chatting quietly with each other, others meditating. It seemed like everyone knew what to do but I felt quite alone and anxious. Nobody seemed to notice my bewildered expression and hesitation about where to go. I initially sat about halfway up where there was a large clump of empty mats. I sat down on the cushion and looking around noticing unoccupied random mats on the front row. I thought be brave Fiona go for it who knows if you will ever have this  opportunity again. Carefully dodging the rows ahead of me placing my feet within the small space around each mat and praying not to fall …engage the core..I managed to claim a front row seat off to the left of the small stage where Thich Nhat Hanh would be sitting. A gong rang and meditation began. The harmonic chant of the monks was transformative. The sound itself could be a religion. The monks clearly becoming one with the sound. Thich Nhat Hanh arrived and began his teaching. I was captivated by his voice. Pure. Nourishing. Gentle.  Incredibly calming to my soul. He allowed the perfect space of silence in between his words pausing often giving a smile. Hearing him speak the words that I had previously read in Canada was stirring. His presence radiated love and peace. There was a healing energy around us all. I marvelled at how young he looked for his 89 yrs. Almost two hours went by in a blink of an eye. I knew that I had been part of something very special.

From Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching I received an invaluable tool to help with overwhelming pain- in my case grief. When the waves of suffering arrive, the key is to be mindful of what is happening rather than panicking and trying to run from it which is naturally what your body is telling you to do. The idea is to acknowledge the emotion, the suffering (sorrow, anger, anxiety..) and speak to it with your mind. Show compassion to this overwhelming feeling. To say to it- I am aware that you are here. Don’t worry I will take care of you. Swaddle the feeling much like a baby then hold it tenderly, rocking it back and forth like a mother does to a crying baby. The overwhelming suffering lessens. This wasn’t easy at first but with mindfulness practise, being conscious with what is happening right now, it has become easier to calm the pain before it really manifests.
It is ongoing work.

The following year I returned to France to housesit in the same area. My daughter Kelsey came to visit me. We drove up to Plum Village and the monks invited us to come in and walk around. When Kelsey walked into the meditation hall she was transfixed. Something came over her. An energy. Pure. Spiritual. She didn’t want to leave the feeling. She said she had never felt such peace as she had in there. Thich Nhat Hanh was absent as sadly he had suffered a massive stroke and was in the hospital. As I write this today he has since returned to Plum Village where he is being cared for.

Early rise, menagerie fed, dogs walked…I was heading off to find the buddhist monastery, apparently called Plum Village. It was a beautiful drive, a clear day. Roads alarmingly narrow as they wound up the hills going higher and higher. Praying that a car wasn’t on its way down. Seeing a monastery type building ahead of me standing alone on the hill convinced me that I might be in the right place. A monastery or a church, I wasn’t sure. Either way it was a majestic structure rising up above the landscape. The beauty fed my eyes. Parts of the building golden under the shafts of sunlight.

Stepping out of the car it was noticeable immediately. A wide sense of balance. Eerily quiet – not a soul, not a sound, just a faint whisper of wind. Not wanting to interrupt the quiet I remained still. Leaning up against my car door I became mesmerized with my surroundings. This place was in a realm of its own: seemingly untouched undisturbed by the rest of the world, almost not real. But here I stood, my feet physically connected with the ground. Sense of time oddly absent. Flashes of insight with razor sharp clarity. I was supposed to be here. Here as a privileged guest in this privileged place.

The bells rang out. This startled me. Still not a soul, nor a car. Mysterious. I was in awe watching them ring out, tolling back and forth, the sound reverberating all around. Filled me completely. After the bells stopped, there was a lingering vibrational ‘Om’ sound. This sound I knew. The sound that closed each yoga class I attended in Canada. This had an incredible calming effect throughout me. The vibration I didn’t want it to end.

Still relishing the wondrous effects of the place, now wondering where Plum Village actually was, realising it wasn’t here, I started the drive back down the hill. The narrow snake like road demanded my full attention. Now sitting at the stop sign unsure of which way to turn, there to my left is a woman walking along the road. This is the first person I have seen all day- maybe she can help me. “Bonjour!! Excusez moi”, feeling myself cringe at the sound of my voice as I rolled down my window. She looked over at me. Poor woman having a nice walk totally in her own thoughts and then I come along. Thankfully I remembered a useful french sentence that my new friend Moira had taught me. If I can remember to think of a pedicure, which I can only remember by thinking feet, then I have it – “ Je suis pedu! “ I exclaimed (Je suis pedu meaning I am lost).  Feeling quite proud of myself for that, she responded “ Bonjour! Sorry I don’t speak French.” I almost shot out of the car with excitement. Well it turned out that she was in France visiting from the United States and she was on a retreat at Plum Village. I had hit the jack pot. Apparently the place high up on the hill where I had just been is where the monks go to gather some times but Plum Village was further on, watch for the wooden sign she told me. With a ” Merci. Thank you.”  I set off again. After some time and now with the road getting narrower again, climbing back up into the hills I knew I must have driven past the sign.

Pulling into an open area to turn around I spot a small church poking out through the trees; just a short walk away. Sparking my curiosity I parked the car. The air was poignantly fresh and crisp. No sounds. Similar feel to where I had just been. Just faint whispers of a gentle breeze. Coming into a clearing I could not believe my eyes. There, right in front of me, were two monks sitting cross-legged perched on a ledge. I froze. Holding my breath, I was overwhelmed by what I was seeing. I didn’t want to disturb this scene. From what I could see, there was a huge drop from the ledge looking onto magnificent views of the Drot valley. I realised that they were young women. Nuns. No indication that they knew I was there. So not to intrude, I lightly walked away to the far end of the church following a sign to a small grotto. Upon returning, the nuns were gone. I stayed there for a while. Sitting on the ledge where they had sat. Absorbing it all. Gazing out over the fields, vineyards, life in the valley. Magical.

I needed to start heading back. I had a farm to care for. I ended up on a different twisty road following a sign for the main road. Almost at the end of the road on my right the colour brown caught my eye. The same brown that the two nuns were wearing. There were rows of brown robes blowing in the wind. Monks working in the garden. Some hanging out washing. I came to the end of the dirt road to turn onto the main road and there to my left were the same two nuns, the ones from the ledge, walking down the road holding hands swinging them back and forth. I was in awe being treated to such a scene of happiness, of simple joy. A warm feeling in my heart. Turning onto the main road I see a piece of wood sticking out of the fence with the words Village des Pruniers hand painted in calligraphy style. This was the Plum Village sign that I had missed. Only painted on one side. There was something inexplicably satisfying about the simplicity. As I drove past the nuns, they looked so happy. Made me smile. I kept looking at them in my mirror until they were out of sight.

Days later I am told that Dieulivol, the name of the place where I had been, means Breath of God. This described exactly what I had felt. Something very spiritual.

Now back home, all sixteen animals fed, bedded down for the night, I decided to do some research on Plum Village. Turns out the one I saw in Dieulivol is for single women and nuns. The one for men and monks is in Thenac. This is where the founder, the zen buddhist master, a  world spiritual leader resides. His name is Thich Nhat Hanh. Seeing this name sparks something in me. Where have I seen this before? I dash into my bedroom to get my book that I have brought with me from Canada. The simple book on the breath. The book that I had read in my local library after Jason died. This important book offering me the first sense of grounding, a sense of hope- a life line.

My heart raced off. I couldn’t believe it. This name Thich Nhat Hanh staring at me from my computer screen, was an identical match to the authour’s name printed on my book.

The following year I returned here with my friend Moira and then later with my daughter Kelsey.

Myself and Moira

Myself and Kelsey

“ Conchita, Esmeraldo, Esperanza, Pedro, Carlo… “ rang out across the evening air. Hearing this slightly Spanish sounding high pitched voice bounce back at me was most surreal. My god that was me. I am actually standing in the middle of a field on a farm in SW France calling in llamas. For a moment it felt like a weird dream. It had been a busy day getting accustomed to all the various animals and the running of the farm and then to top it off a visit from the farmer who pastures his horses in the fields across the road. He lives in the next village and comes each afternoon to feed them. I had checked out the setup earlier after hearing lots of commotion coming from over there. Squealing and thundering hoofs. I knew these sounds. One was trying to mount another and lots of kicking and running was going on. I walked over to check and yep! one was a randy young stallion that was running with three mares. Praying they don’t break out. The lack of fencing alarmed me. Just a few strands of sagging electric fence between spindly looking posts. I just pray that my mares here don’t come into heat..not on my watch anyway. I hadn’t expected to have an encounter so soon with the farmer but here he was standing at my doorway, lips moving so fast, of course in French, blatantly showing no patience for my blank look and parlez vous anglias? No speak Francais. With hand gestures I said just a minute and ran into the house for my translation book. Spending a few minutes to find it, heading back towards the door I hear a loud vibrating noise quickly getting louder, closer. He is coming through my gate on his archaic tractor chugging out white smoke with an offensive burning smell. The dogs are barking like mad, the pony trotting around, tail up in the air. She is lame so right now she has restricted turnout which is around the house. The llamas have cantered across the field to see what is happening. I am screaming STOP then I remember ARRET ramming my raised hand towards him to wait while I put the dogs, pony and goat away. He seemed oblivious of the pandemonium  he had caused or else didn’t care. I could almost see it playing out – second day on the job and animals are out on the road. Pony, goat and dogs bolting off. The drivers are crazy here and I am on an approaching bend on a very narrow country road. Thankfully he stopped, not looking amused, while I darted around sorting out the animals. I must write down some relevant french phrases and be more prepared for next time he comes for hay.

It is very quiet and dark here at night. No street lights. Starry night sky. Far away in this rustic french farmhouse with not a light or soul in sight I am struck with intense emotion. Feel very lost. I am where no one knows of me. This part is good. I am completely alone for the first time in a foreign country. No longer with my Mum who had been with me while housesitting in Ireland. This Mum is a person who feels that she is owed, the world owes her for the bad hand she has been dealt in life. Her son has died and now her grandson has died. Nothing else. Nothing more. It made for a challenging time. Now I am free to just be with whatever arises. No judging or comparing. There is a slightly daunting sobering sense of relief about that.

I am mesmerized with the colours here. The scenery on the way home from Bergerac airport was very pleasing and calming to the senses. A peaceful warm palate of earthy buttery tones. Cream coloured houses with orangey caramel tiled roofs. Gardens still in bloom…roses draping over stone walls…wisteria, ivy. Twisty narrow roads climbing up steeply and dipping down on the other side into the most beautiful fertile valleys- greens, browns, the rich soil recently tilled with tidy small farms dotted about. At each road intersection there is a cluster of little white signs with French names written in black. These are the houses. They have names not numbers. My house’s name is JEANTOUNET. Has a romantic sound to it. I feel like this could be in a french story or movie. Vineyards are all over the place, precise straight rows….yellow and red rich colours highlighted in the autumn light. This is wine country the home owner tells me…the greatest wine region in the world. Apparently it is very cheap..2-3 euros for a decent bottle. This is good! Tomorrow I am going on my first outing to the supermarket in the nearest town of Marmande. I am a little intimidatated with the task but am relying on my translation book, food chapter marked with a book mark for easy reference. I am back on the right side of the road now driving a new peppy citroen. One of the many gadgets is a camera and sensor that beeps if anything is close to the rear and also to my sides. This gives me some comfort having an extra pair of eyes as I head out onto the roads, the roundabouts, joining the fast french drivers.  In this new life of mine, whenever I am spooked/ stressed/ anxious about a situation I try to remind myself that here I am , I am surviving the unimaginable despite the most horrible feeling inside of me. When the worst thing that could happen has happened, the death of one of my children, and miraculously I am still here, then everything else pales in comparison.

Before the homeowner left she had invited several people over for drinks in order to meet me. A woman that was seated across the table from me has just phoned and asked me to go to the local market with her on Friday. How generous of her. Little did I know at the time but this was the start to an amazing friendship, a sense of family.