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The case for a total continuity.
Like the cat, I just lost my bearings, moving from the quaint and quiet Monsac to another rented country house, 10 miles South, after a detour for a day in the river. The UK’s unbelievable amount of sewage dumps are criminal on so many levels, which makes swimming against a playful current on the clear bottom of the Dordogne, France’s cleanest river, all the more poignant and transcendental. Fish-eye and heart-wide, a oneness flows through me. I want to let go, a submission to water-for-breath, released, turning and tumbling all the way to the big, big sea at the end of everything.
The night before I’d flowed with a group, joining hearts across countries in a two-hour online dialogue, gelling and experiencing the sense of koinonia or impersonal fellowship, described beautifully by Foulkes: “They speak now through one mouth, now through another. Active currents within the group may be expressed or come to a head in one particular person, between particular persons, or may, in a sense, be ‘personified’ in individuals. But whatever is going on in the group is always regarded by us as a process developing in this total group.” [credit; Beth Macy]
Our hosts here are more conservative than our last, who we’d grown a little attached to, pulling on heart strings after we left. The flowers and herbs were a parting gift, ingredients for a delicious fresh tea blend the lady had previously brought to us in tall glasses on the lawn. We placed the bunch on our new table, by way of continuity. They are an open, warm and spiritually-oriented couple, who wisely advised me to containing my excess energy with more chi-gong. Here is a bigger house yet there’s no sofa and upstairs is hot, but it’s only 12 minutes walk instead of drive to a shop. And I’ve had fun confusing the neighbour’s horse from behind the fence, acting like a dog and watching its knowing, curious face as I horse-whisper in a kind of French.
Last night after we unpacked was a walk to La Bodega, and the medieval town square and surrounding streets turned into a multi-gig party, apparently until 3am. The rhythm of a samba band mixed with rock-covers, and a fear-no-covid throng of middle-aged Euros and Brits with toddlers queued for wheat beer, champagne, burgers and oysters and crème glacée, the evening gradually giving way to gender-segregated huddles of prettied-up teens. There was word of a huge illegal rave a few miles away, which got my interest. Early morning audial thumps through the ground and across fields filtered into dreams of being young again and when I awoke, this thing called France appeared once more.