A House in the Country

Beajoulis, France

It took me many years to make my way to France. By the time the country beckoned, I was ready for simplicity. 

It was August. Paris was hot and sleepy, and reminded me of a lazy cat napping under dappled light, content in its summertime stasis. 

Provence, that delightfully touristic mecca for all things lavender and postcard landscapes smelled of farmers’ markets fragrant with aged cheese, succulent olives and oven-fresh bread; the languid days akin to flakey pastries, at once crisp, sweet and airy.     

In Lyon, I sat in empty churches constructed by men who believed God and truth resided within the walls they erected. I marveled at the creative genius delicately carved into mosaic tiles, and reached within the walls encasing my heart, where I believe God and truth reside, and prayed for recovery from addiction and remission from cancer as two silent tears slipped down my cheek. One for my brother, one for a dear friend, both too young to be dancing with mortality. 

Marseilles felt gritty and raw, despite the oceanic womb that defines its perimeter, luxury boats juxtaposing the shadowy sides of humanity that emerge at dusk. 

Arles inspired, art seductively draped around its cityscape curvature for the long-standing annual photography festival, much like a woman effortlessly adorned with chic accessories meant for discussion rather than accentuation.

But it was in Beaujolais where I found respite from the noise that trailed me across the Caribbean and Atlantic, the taste of acra and spicy pikliz still lingering on my tongue, the smell of Port-au-Prince still clinging to my skin.

Amidst slender vines sprouting sensual maroon fruits, I inhaled country air and exhaled city congestion.

Inside the house, tea and wine decorated the dining table as naturally as the late-afternoon sunlight that filtered through open windows. 

I read books in the garden, walked the earthy trails and listened to the moon. 

I did not know this pace of life for many years while working in Haiti. I had forgotten how to breathe. Deeply. Slowly. With intention. 

Here, I found space to cocoon into a world of fermented fruit, unruly vineyards and nature. 

Here, I started to come home again, within myself.