On this steaming hot morning of June 5, I begin my hike from Le Moulin at the top of Goult, down the old school path (chemin d’ecole). The SW side of the village leads to the village of Lumieres. Nestled in the hillside above what was once a 17th century convent (now converted into a hotel) is a tiny, one-room chapel. It is one of the last remaining vestiges of a pious climb for the sisters of days of yore, meant to inspire prayer with its wondrous views.
Knowing what is to come, my emotions sway between nervous exhilaration and calm recognition. This village was once a second home to me, not because I lived so very long in Goult (in fact the time totaled about one year) but because I loved it so much. I once hiked this very path in the wee hours of the night, without the aid of any light save that of the full moon. It is an enchanted passage.
The way is pretty steep, with loose stones that threaten my footing. I keep a constant eye out for signs of nature, seeking the perfect temple in which to offer my memorial plaque. Here is the word I intend to plant somewhere on this trail.
Certainly one worth identifying, and parting with….
I consider many possibilities. Finally, my eye falls upon these stones.
Something about this seems so perfectly phantasmagorical, a spot marked by the passing of hundreds or possibly thousands of years, and of creatures both earthly and mystical.
I sand and rinse the stone (a process I have since come to see as a kind of ritual of purification) in preparation for the task at hand. I notice that the surface of this particular stone is unusually uneven, so I lay a base of cement in hopes of leveling the surface. When I realize that it will take awhile to dry I decide to return later to complete the installation.
This is when I discover that I have forgotten my camera battery pack in the car. Aargh!!! This is not the first time I have forgotten an essential installation item. I feel like such an amateur. Oh well, live and learn. I sweat my way back uphill, swearing that this is life’s artful way of keeping this pilgrimage memorable.
The continuation of the expedition down Goult and back up another hill, by way of a trail called “Mange-tian” is short but arduous.
As though ordained from above, the final steepest stretch offers the greatest rewards.
Just to the right on exiting the trail, I enter a cathedral grotto where the tiny Chapel stands like a humble sentinel worshipping the view.
This is a powerful place, one visited throughout the centuries by meditating sisters and wanderers alike. It is also a place of worship for me. Every time I return to the Luberon Valley, I make my pilgrimage to this Chapel. In my mind, it represents the perfect marriage of nature and man. I run my fingers along the rock wall and relish its staunch imperfections. I identify with its constitution….a craggy soup of sentiments.
Where better than here to honor those parts of myself that I otherwise fear admitting to? By honoring, I hope to let go of them. For now, that’s the best I can do.
Next up….
IMofCollective 