On Sunday, we drove with friends out into the Eastern Townships to spend the late afternoon and evening talking and visiting at the home and garden of a mutual friend, G. He lives in solitude at the end of a long driveway, in a house perched on a hillside, without electricity. No other dwellings can be seen or heard, though there are others on the road.
I've been coming here once every summer for a number of years now. The gardens, the solitude, the little meditation house, and the way the conversation always turns toward the spiritual have become precious to me, and restorative. I walked in the garden by myself, a little while, and visited my amphibious friends – salamanders, tadpoles and frogs – in the pond. We shucked the first corn of the season, bought at a local farm on the way, and V. and I picked black currants from which I plan to make some cassis eau-de-vie — "water of life" — according to G.'s recipe.
That's the master gardener, G., seated at right above. We all brought food…there was plentiful wine…and many beautiful things to look at, and to talk about. The talk turned often to the spiritual, for we're all friends who share that interest, and in many ways this is a place of retreat.
G.'s woodpile called to J., who likes to split wood; he added a substantial contribution of split logs for the winter and worked up a good sweat.
Then we gathered on the porch — mercifully screened against the ravenous mosquitoes and deer flies — for dinner. That's fresh duck from the local duck farm, below, cooked with orange juice, wine, and rosemary.
When we finished eating, it was completely dark, and we found our way back up to the main level of the house carrying the candlesticks that had lit our table as the sun went down. We did the dishes, packed our things and headed back to the cars by flashlight — and then stopped still. The sky above us was ablaze with stars, brighter and more numerous than I've ever seen, with the Milky Way stretching across it like a bright ribbon. Our goodbye chatter became silence as we gazed overhead. No other lights could be seen anywhere, and the only sounds were the occasional calls of birds, the hum of insects, and the chug of a bullfrog. Finally V. said, "Look…there's no moon, but we can see each other's faces. We're seeing…by starlight."
These brief sojourns in the countryside have taken me out of myself, and brought me back. They remind me how important nature is to me — and not just green things and creatures, but wildness. I very much need these times to be alone and quiet with nature, as I've been throughout my life; rather than making me feel insignificant or lonely these are times of unity, emptying, and renewal.
I think of that morning on the lake, the sky so magnificent, and I, so fortunate to see it. I feel my fingers pass across the rough, lichen-encrusted surface of G.'s standing stones, then grasp and tug a currant from the fragrant bush, its smooth matte roundness, each like a black pearl filled with the sun's warmth. And I remember the coolness of the slippery frog I held momentarily on the muddy shore of the pond, and the strength of his legs pushing against my hand before his leap to safety.
In the kitchen as I was cutting fruit and G. was making tea, we talked. He has been volunteering at a summer music festival that takes place each July and August. "At my age, I find that I want to immerse myself more and more in music," he said. "I get tired of words, but music takes me… to other worlds." I nodded and said, "It's important for people like us who get caught up in…" "…being articulate!" he said, finishing my sentence, and we both laughed. "It's the wordlessness of music." Just then, a bird called. "It's a thrush," I said. "I hear them every night, said G., "but I don't know their names."
