A Dancer in the Infinite - Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Mountain Morning in Languedoc

It from bit symbolizes the idea that every item of the physical world has at bottom — at a very deep bottom, in most instances — an immaterial source and explanation; that what we call reality arises in the last analysis from the posing of yes-no questions and the registering of equipment-evoked responses; in short, that all things physical are information-theoretic in origin and this in a participatory universe. –John Wheeler

The whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual. – Walt Whitman

The crests of the mountain tops are just now turning colors, kissed by a gentle golden green. Here and there, a tiny spot of orange, red, or brown. The trees here are mainly beech, birch, fir, cedar, a few oaks, spruce, and the ever present chestnut, whose nuts wrapped still in their spiny light green sheaths litter the ground, the roads, the terrace and the trails that twist through the mountain. Autumn creeps into the countryside of Languedoc, quietly and slowly, like a thief, or better yet like a considerate roommate tip-toeing quietly in the deep hours of the night to not disturb others. When you walk down to the spring, the winding road, at first through the thickest part of the village, and then past houses situated more sporatically, their yards teeming with tangles of flowers and grape vines, terraced gardens with tired tomato plants and squash dotting the landscape on the roadsides and in the valleys below, you breathe in the cleanest air you have ever inhaled. Strangers smile and wave, greeting you with "Bon Jour." Your walk weaves you in and out of sun and shade in the mid-morning, the light taking its time to top the surrounding mountains.

Not far, in the wooded hills the sounds of dogs howling and barking on the hunt for wild boar. Primordial and savage, yet clearly they are having fun. Their yips and yelps betray their excited joy of the chase. Every once and a while, a gunshot rings out through the valley. One wonders how many reach their targets.

The water from the spring is wonderful, clear and pure. A simple pipe sticking out of a thousand year old stone wall pours forth its liquid treasure. Marie filled the glass bottles in the water basket, replaced the cap, and head on back to start her day.

The insanity of the previous day had melted away as her consciousness descended into sleep and then dream.  When she awoke to the fresh mountain air pouring in through her open window, after pulling the woolen blanket over herself she inhaled deeply and no trace of worry remained.  They all did really seem nice.  And despite their questionable reasoning, she could not but help and feel gratified by the welcome they extended her.  How could she not?  They bent over backwards to make sure she was comfortable.  Everyone in the house she meant was genuine and sincere in their greetings, and their enthusiasm to meet her.  That was something Marie had never experienced before and it meant a great deal to her.  Whatever she was expected to do, she was willing to try.

After dropping of the basket of water bottles at the chateau, she decided to wait for the bread man, who, she was assured, came by truck once a week with assorted baked goods.

The sound of French ladies talking on the bench waiting in the sunshine for the bread truck to arrive made her realize what a special moment it was. The small village center was more of a paved overlook aside the labyrinth of alleys and pathways of Labastide Espabairenque's tightly nestled houses. Birds chirped happily. A pure blue sky arched above the mountain tops.
More villagers strolled to the benches off the side of the overlook. Greetings and kisses on cheeks were exchanged. These people were honestly happy to see each other.
"Bon Jour!"
"Bon Jour!"
There was a neighborly love in their voices, even though Marie had no idea what they said to each other. Smiles and "Bon Jours" rained down on her as well. People didn't act that way at home. They just didn't. Scowls and curses were exchanged in their place.  Saint Andre's Church, ancient as the chateau was visible on a nearby mountain top.  Then the bread truck came and the villagers hurried to it.

copyright 2017 Diana Hignutt