“Bonjour monsieur bon homme, qu’est votre esprit aujourd’hui?” 

This is the third time since arriving back in France that I’ve been greeted in this way:  The older men I’m passing look up from what they are doing and ask, How is your spirit today? (My French-to-English translation ability is in its very infancy, so I have but an ever-so-slight hunch about the meaning meant by these Frenchmen. However, I thank a bystander, as well as the English-speaking postmistress whom I asked, for their help!) Even though their question might be asking about my disposition, they use the word esprit – spirit! Taken literally, their question is for me, at this point in time, a difficult enough query in and of itself.  However, as I often do, I find myself inclined to wonder what’s going on here, what’s the story about these local gents and their purposes? Whatever the background, I know that this is a perfect question for me right now.

But, who are these interrogators? And, why am I asked this question only by similar looking older gents – and only in “le bar,” that is, locations where old guys who look a lot like me appear to be engaged in a rendezvous, often in groups of four and usually playing cards? I don’t get asked this question at le marché, at a restaurant, or at La Poste.  Are the men I encounter on my occasional sojourns merely using “le bar” slang; does asking about one’s spirit just come with that territory?  Or, are these guys simply friendly “country boys” now all grown up? Is this what you do in France when you’re “a guy of a certain age” – you play cards with your buddies, you nurse une bière or un pastis or café, and you ask other guys about their esprit? Rather, my wife, Karen, thinks their greeting is a form of recognition.

Is there some deeper intent behind the question asked of me during my periodic visits to the world of des hommes contents ? (Yes, they seem to be happy men, always in good spirits and not just from alcohol.) Or, am I beginning to create yet another all too complicated scheme or storyline? Have I stretched their friendly greeting far beyond its gracious salute? How’s your spirit? This may be but a delightful welcoming. Or maybe, a “come on over, join in.”

***

My playful suspicion that there’s more to this situation than meets the eye has a history. To explain, I need to give a little background:  My wife and I first found ourselves in France because of Dr. Jeff, my primary care physician on the occasion of my heart event, now 13 years ago, who asked me: “David, how are you going to make sure that you’ll have no more cardiology trauma in your lifetime?” As I fumbled around responding, I spewed out all of the usual patient utterings – lose 25 pounds, get back into a serious exercise routine, and on and on and on. On hearing these pitiful assurances, Dr. Jeff got out his prescription pad and scrawled:

Six weeks in Provence.~ Jeff Barnes, MD

I laughed. Jeff countered with, “This is not a laughing matter, my friend. I’m sending you to the home we own near Nice, France. As I think you know, my wife is French, and we maintain a restored, but rustic 200-year old farmhouse set in some vineyards in the south of France. The house is yours for six weeks. You’re clever; you just work out the other details. Au revoir, mon ami.”  That’s how in 2000 we were introduced to the area and the marvelous, simple farmhouse we keep revisiting. 

And now, I will tell you why I’m speculating – why I’m conjecturing – about the “How is your spirit?” inquiry from the older gentlemen. Early on in that first six-week stay in Dr. Jeff’s farmhouse, the supervisor of les vendanges (the grape harvest), asked me, in a combination of English and French that I could understand: “What do you do for your living, David?”  Why would this question about my life be coming from this supervisor?  Let it be said that I believe that my physician, Jeff, was the clever instigator behind that inquiry. I believe that probe was a set-up; Dr. Jeff told the supervisor what to ask of me.

But how could Dr. Jeff possibly now know just the perfect opening into asking about the condition of my spirit at this current, precise moment in time?  Oh my! Am I turning a delightful welcoming from the older gentleman in the bars into a mysterious speculation? Probably, so.  Besides, Jeff couldn’t have gotten word about the exact question to ask of me out to every bar throughout the region! Or could he? If so, he’s truly a medical magician! 

In any case, the way I’m being greeted nowadays by these little assembles of elderly gentlemen is precisely perfect for me. To reflect on the condition of my spirit feels so right to me. I like hearing these words: “Bonjour monsieur bon homme, qu’est votre esprit aujourd’hui?” They’re becoming sweet words to me: Hello there, good man; how are you doing today?

How is your spirit, David? Isn’t this inquiry just tailor-made for you, DH? And, isn’t your reply to them so inadequate in so many ways? Hopefully, your incredibly insufficient response of bon esprit (in essence, “my spirit is good”) has more to do with your abysmal inadequacies with spoken French than with your inability to accurately assess the present state of your spirit. With but only a sideways glance towards your spirit, wouldn’t it be closer to the truth to say: “My spirit is in recovery, renewal, revitalization, recuperation, or even, undergoing restoration?” Don’t those responses have more of a ring of honesty to them? Don’t those responses sound more truthful and accurate? If this sounds true to you, Monsieur David, your reply to the fellows’ inquiry should sound something like: Je recouvre ma joie de vivre” (I am recovering my joy of life).

***

There’s an old saying: “When the student is ready, the teacher arrives.” These wise words seem directed my way on this mid-October day, here in warm and beautiful rural France. Here I am, in a renewal mode following yet another health hiccup, learning once again what it means to let go and how to give my own form of hospitality to the pain that’s come-a-calling once more. Hence, mon idée, my insight: Perhaps these gentlemen gathered together in companionship are to be my teachers.

Whether they’ve been given directions by my physician – what a preposterous supposition! – or they just know that I need their invitation or they recognize me as one like them or they are simply kind because they’re kind, I will pass some precious moments gathering in what their words might mean for me.  I am ready to learn what they might have to teach me. What great timing! Yes, of course. What a good question! Yes, indeed.

Whatever your reason for speaking to me, old gents, thank you so very much. Each one of you, your saluting, your kind-heartedness, everything that you are giving to me is exactly what I need. Perhaps you represent an ever-so-carefully-disguised yearning. Indeed, today I welcome this realization: I have a yearning inside of me, a yearning that’s to be recognized.

I have been and am yearning to be part of a little group again, a group that comes together again and again over time.  The “little set of four” in which I participated in Fairbanks was so important to me. We’d gather together at the ice cream place, or in a quiet corner of the church, or in some other cozy away-space, and speak and listen to each other. I miss these friends. And then, there was the Core Committee at Lewis & Clark College. It was a work committee to be sure; however, it was an academic committee like no other. Of course, we attended to the tasks. And then, there were the conversations about our lives and about the books we’d read and so much more. I miss these friends. And also, there’s the book group in the little town of Sisters, Oregon. Originally gathered together to consider how to create a greater sense of community, the eight of us became just friends. Yes, we read books. But there is so much more. I miss these friends.

With each passing day, it becomes more clear what the foursome of old gents is calling out to me. Of course, they are voicing their welcoming “How’s your spirit?” greeting and inquiry. It’s a terrific acknowledgement of my presence to be sure. But, they are doing something further, something much more. With their voiced recognition of me (Karen was right and in me they recognize one of their own), they invite a recognition within me that I need to and want to, once again, be a amid  “a little set of four” for days on end.  

***

And so, I greet you:  How is your spirit?

One of the most significant gifts I’ve ever received came in the form of an invitation to be the principal of Denali Elementary School in Fairbanks, Alaska. I look back at my time there as special because I was able to be my true self and because I learned many important life lessons while there. This is the story about I how I learned the subtle difference between the notion of parents merely “participating” in the life of a school and actually encouraging parents to feel at home in their child’s school.

When I arrived at Denali, a downtown school with a proud tradition of parental involvement, there had always been an active PTA, and parents were always engaged in a variety of teacher-parent programs and school-based parent education offerings. However, early on during my tenure there, I found the lack of Alaska Native parental involvement in school activities to be very puzzling.  Alaska Native children, making up approximately 20% of the school population, were fully engrossed in the on-going life of the school but where were their parents? I just didn’t get it. I just couldn’t figure it out. So, I decided to ask one of our Alaska Native teachers for her opinion: “Kathleen, why aren’t the Alaska Native parents ever present here at school?”

Kathleen asked me if I had time to “get the big picture.” Once I said that I’d like to hear everything she had to say, she talked passionately for about a half hour. She told me that most likely most of our Alaska Native parents hated their school experiences in the villages where they were born. In many of the village schools, their teachers were white (non-native) and often their teachers were bringing with them a culture alien to that of the village; that is, non-native used ways in the classroom that excluded the familiar and the customary. In extreme situations, the teachers dismissed – consciously or unconsciously – what the Alaska Native students had known and valued in favor of the curriculum and styles of interaction brought in by those non-native teachers and administrators. “At many school sites,” Kathleen told me, “there was no room for learning about each child; the teaching was all about one way to learn, and that was the non-native, white way.”

So I asked Kathleen, in light of these circumstances, how are we going to invite the Alaska Native parents into this school community? She expressed her opinions using these sometimes emotionally-charged words: “Newsletters sent home with the children with invitations for involvement won’t cut it; telephone calls from the teachers are often seen as intimidating; and PTA parent-to-parent notes are sent to the trash almost immediately. Almost everything that the school sends home is discarded.” I became really discouraged listening to what Kathleen had to say. “What are we to do?” I asked. “We aren’t going to do anything,” she said. “It’s what you are going to do:

“You are going to have to walk them home.”

Kathleen also invited me to take a walk with her during this after-school time. We walked out two blocks, four blocks, until finally we were six blocks away from the school. “This is it,” Kathleen declared, “this is the edge of their safety zone. This is as close as the Alaska Native parents are willing to get to the school. From here, they simply say good-bye to their children and after a few minutes of community chitchat, they make their way home. David, this is where you should be tomorrow morning.”

And so, that’s where I was the next morning. I was six blocks away from the school, at 8:30am. The clutch of about eightparents was quite surprised to see me. Many of them kept their eyes looking towards the ground; not one parent spoke to me. They motioned their children towards school. I accompanied the children to our main door.

I was out there the next day, and the next, and the next. On the second day, a parent spoke to me, saying: “It’s good to see you, Mr. Principal.” However, all during that first week of what I was calling my “parent home visits,” there was no movement towards the school whatsoever. But, there was a slight increase in eye contact!

In fact, this walk was a real “slow go.” In the three months of what the teachers were calling “David’s 8:30 stroll,” our progress per week could have been measured in inches, not feet.  (However, more parents came to join the group, perhaps out of curiosity.) And yet, as we inched forward, day after day, I learned a lot. “This is where Peter and Clare live,” one parent would tell me. “This is where we lived when we first came to Fairbanks from Fort Yukon,” another would say. And, on December 1^st, there was a chorus of “Oh look, there’s our kids’ school.”

On December 14^th, twenty-four parents walked through our main entrance and into the school. They were met by Kathleen, and two other teachers, in this case non-native, and were given hot chocolate and cookies. The parents were greeted with: “Welcome to Denali School. We’re so happy you’re here.”

Over the following winter and spring, these and other Alaska Native parents were often at school. The original group of parents told other Alaska Native families about the welcoming atmosphere they felt in the school.   They visited their children’s classrooms, came to PTA meetings, and frequently participated in after-school activities. Their participation in life of the school became very similar to the degree of involvement by the entire parent and neighborhood community. All of us—teachers and families—were so very pleased with the way that our school community had changed. We had become complete.

Over time, there was a truly dramatic change. Where there had been virtually no adult Alaska Native involvement in the school before our morning walks together, in the months that followed, Alaska Native elders came to participate in a variety of teaching activities; indeed, one wing of the school was dedicated to Alaska Native teaching, ways of learning and knowing, such as understanding science through learning winter survival skills.  Alaska Native arts and crafts were also an integral part of the school’s offering, also made available in after-school classes to the entire Fairbanks community.

I sensed that the Alaska Native families and community elders were more comfortable in the school.  But, I felt ever so pleased and grateful when the first parent who spoke to me out on that sidewalk months ago came up to me in the school hallway one afternoon and declared: “Mr. Principal, thanks for walking me home. I’ve always wanted to be in a school like this.”

***

How about you? When were you directed to embark on a course of action that seemed highly impossible at the outset, only to discover that the way turned out to be not only possible, but in the doing, was very significant and life-changing?

All of the work I’ve done, over 55 years, has been about creating a sense of family in the workplace. In my early years as a teacher, in the classroom with young people, I always connected with their parents. I wanted life at school to be a family affair and so, I was eager to find out what it was like in the students’ homes. As a principal in Evanston, Illinois, although the challenges were daunting, I wanted the Black and white communities to come together – as family. In Alaska, as a principal, I wanted the white and the Alaska Native communities to come together – as family. In my work at the University of Alaska, I was engaged in bringing school leaders from village Alaska together – as a family. As I think back upon my career as an educator, whether I was a K-12 teacher or a college professor or a school principal, my intent was to create settings that were more like family, than like an organization.

A picture comes to mind from a calendar of mine. In the painting, a Swedish family is sitting down for a meal. The family pictured in the painting reminds me of my family, both in Sweden and in Swedish America That picture captures my intent throughout all my working years. The painting always calls me back to my mission.

I’ve been attempting to re-create what I experienced in my birth family because I loved how our family members were with one another and because I needed to have that feeling of home wherever I roamed around the earth. I was a bit selfish, because I wanted this kind of workplace for myself; however, I learned early on that many others yearned for this same sense of home.

I often worked with people who were far from home.  For instance, the Black families whose children came to the formerly all-white school in Evanston were racially and culturally “far from home.”  Some of the Alaska Native people I worked with in Fairbanks wished they were back in their villages; they had come to the larger community for economic reasons.  If the parents of the children at our Alaskan school were in the military, they often wished they were “back home.”  Even numerous teachers I worked with in Alaska, for example, admitted to me that they would have rather been “back home” in the Lower 48.  In all of these situations, I simply wanted to walk them home. I wanted us to work together to create the sense of home – right there, just where we were.

And so, here I am, in this present moment, wanting the same thing I’ve always wanted: to create a sense of home, and of family, within, among, and for those persons who are in my care – these days, in the context of weekend retreats meant to support school principals and superintendents, as well as community leaders, to sustain their professional purpose and personal passions in work and life. I’m aware that these leaders are looking around and discovering that they are in a safe and trustworthy place – maybe for the very first time.

All along, I believe that I’ve been imagining a new form of family. It’s a vision of a workplace family that offers a sense of happiness, satisfaction, and productivity, like the best of families. I eagerly await and am carefully watching for signs of a sense of family among these leaders. For me, too, it will be so good – to be at home in my work once more.

***

Whatever your role, what kind of workplace do you want to be a part of creating?  What do you do– or will you do – to create happy, satisfying, and productive relationships there?

 When the reverberations of shock subside in you,

May grace come to restore you to balance.

May it shape a new space in your heart

To embrace this illness as a teacher

Who has come to open your life to new worlds.

~John O’Donohue~

I’ve always been an innocent. Thirty-five years ago, my friend, Mary, said to me: “David, you are not like others: you don’t have a political bone in your body or a conspiring, contriving hair on your head. You are an innocent; you are as open up to the world as on the day when you were born. You neither use people, nor do you fear them. You are like a little kid who is three years old. You are a Billy Budd. I just hope that you won’t get hurt.”

Of course, the Billy Budd that my friend referred to was the young sailor of Herman Melville’s creation. And, Billy Budd did get hurt because of his innocence. He was killed aboard ship because of his trusting and pure intentions.  As for me, I’ve had my share of injuries. But, I’ve lived on – just gathering experiences – and bumping into difficulties in childlike ways, not aware of all the complications and ramifications that go along with or hide behind the scenes in life.  I’ve assumed that “what you see is what it is.”

There was that time that I was enticed by the state teachers’ association, NEA Alaska, to be a candidate for the state Commissioner of Education. After a month-long nomination period, I had supposedly surmounted all of the political hurdles, only to have the conservative governor dismiss the entire state school board because they were about to appoint “a far left progressive” to the most important educational role on the last frontier. This episodemight have been seen as “just politics” to many. But to me, it became one of my many bewilderments.  In my innocence, I’d taken the situation at face value, had offered my good intentions, but had not seen the underlying complications.

Earlier in my career, as I was shepherding a large school community through the process of transitioning into a genuinely integrated family of young people, teachers, and parents, the superintendent convinced me that I could better use my “extraordinary public relations skills” (his words) in the position of Director of Curriculum and Instructional Services on behalf of the entire school district. I believed his words to be sincere and accepted his invitation to take on this “attractive career advancement” (once again, his words). Much later, I learned that his maneuver was but a ruse; his true intention was to punish certain members of the community for their opposition to his regime. He went on to appoint a political lackey to the position that I’d cherished so dearly but vacated, convincing the population of the entire city – and me – that my “step up” to this new role was (once again, his words) “a highly deserved reward.” I was such an innocent.  Much later, I came to understand this experience as yet another bewilderment.  Again, I’d engaged in a situation that seemed to be straightforward and simple but for some reason, unbeknownst to me because I didn’t fully understand its background or nuances, it became a puzzle.  My feeling of bewilderment left me more than just confused, but also disoriented, frustrated and unnerved.  As an innocent, I felt unsophisticated and gullible – and taken advantage of.

My experiences in the world of naiveté have been going on for more than seventy years. I’ve accumulated many bewilderments – sometimes, also experiencing these situations as embarrassments, given my sense that instead of being accepting, I should have known that something else I could not see was, so to speak, behind the curtain. Only now am I beginning to understand, appreciate, and value my characteristic way – that, of being an innocent. Throughout most of my lifetime, my innocence has been a puzzle to me. But I never felt the need to analyze my condition or the various situations. However, two years ago, I experienced a surprising arrival that changed all of that. An illness arrived at my doorstep and caused me to revisit and re-assess the nature and the value of my innocence.

During a yearlong upper respiratory malady, I all but lost my voice. Known medically as vocal chord dysfunction, my voice took on a nasal, raspy quality and I couldn’t get my words out the way I wanted. It was simply a grand annoyance; not only was making myself heard a physical challenge, but also, many times I was unable to offer my thoughts or feelings at the moment I wished. Of course, I took all the prescribed medications. However, given my continuing difficulties and the lack of significant improvement, I wondered if something more counter-intuitive was called for.  So, as it turns out, I gave up.  Giving up trying to get better actually encouraged my healing – that was, the reclaiming of my voice, literally and figuratively.  It turned out that I simply surrendered to the condition that appeared before me. And just at that time, an unlikely helper and guide arrived on the scene. At least at the outset, I thought this person had little chance of having an impact on my illness, much less giving me a new perspective on my innocence.

Because all of the major physicians in the pulmonary clinic were unavailable at the time my respiratory condition was at its height of difficulty and discomfort, I was seen by a nurse practitioner, whose name was Lisa.  She assessed the situation immediately. In addition to the prior diagnosis, she believed that I was suffering from incident-induced asthma and that surrendering was the perfect antidote to my dis-ease. Lisa asked: “How’d you come up with this idea, David? It’s a brilliant move. How did you figure this out?” My reply: “I didn’t really know what I was doing.  I guess my innocence just kicked in.”

“Oh,” she said, “so you’re an innocent. That’s going to help you put this experience behind you. You are simply going to walk back into the imaginative, playful guy that you seem to be, and we will watch this illness disappear. David, just let go and walk back into a more carefree way of being. ” 

Of course, over the next few months, I followed all of the medical protocols she prescribedand used some natural remedies, as well. Although I did not “give up” regarding my situation, I did walk back just as Lisa recommended.  I found myself able to release the tension I was holding, just like one releases a muscle that was intentionally or unintentionally held tightly;  in turn, the condition and its pain released its grip on me. I slipped back into my naturally easy-going, hopeful self. Not all the difficulty went away magically, but I did improve significantly over time. My nurse practitioner, Lisa, was my companion during my recovery. She helped me regain my health – and my tried and true ways as an innocent.

And so, here I am again, one year later, embracing yet another medical exigency – this time an excruciatingly painful sciatic nerve disorder, which had been until one particular recent day mostly an ongoing, throbbing, highly uncomfortable ache. But at this moment, I felt several terrifying, albeit momentary, surges of sharp and anguishing pain one after the other.  Both descriptively and metaphorically, it was nerve-racking! In the days after that agony, after the shock had subsided, I wondered, “What’s an innocent like me to do?” Although the general ache now gives modest hints of subsiding, I already know what the future holds for me is to, once again, let go. So, I have been preparing to yield.

I found myself awakening this morning to these famous words from T.S. Eliot:

We shall not cease from exploration,

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

As of this morning, I do believe I’m letting go.  I will continue to acknowledge that I have a difficulty and experience pain, but I will not live my life in its grasp.  I’m learning that I can actually “live with” my pain and difficulty by letting it go. What a paradox!

I have a new understanding and appreciation of the innocent nature that’s always been mine. An innocent is who I am. As a result of my rather surprising letting go regarding my physical difficulty of one year ago – and Lisa’s surprising role in encouraging me to embrace “the who and how of my being” – I suspect that my current physical ailment is embraceable, and that the time ahead will be quite rewarding. I want it to be an imaginative, even playful, time, beginning now.

I am preparing now to move beyond the pain of this new time. The bewilderment these painful experiences has brought in past days is fading. During the extreme heat of that most recent nerve-racking incident, my very soul felt the fury. But now, I am becoming more peaceful and hopeful.

The wish that I have for myself is this: just as a young child disappears into the play that is his work, I want to be absorbed into the complete innocence of who I really am. I want to lose myself in my form of playtime. I am hereby letting go of the pain and responding to the call to create.

I am imagining that my times of bewilderment have passed for now. Pain, difficulty and, even hardship, may come, but I may not experience bewilderment.  I will try to use these moments to practice a new way of being with such pain and difficulty, and if I able to do so, I may not feel bewildered.   As for now, I cautiously believethat I’m into a new time of enlightened innocence. I know in my heart that this could be one of the most joyful and fulfilling times of my life. This is a magic time.

***

How about you?  What’s been your experience of letting go?

Over the past dozen years,Karen and I have spent considerable time in France. When there, one of my favorite pastimes is cruising the C and D roads, the “country roads,” everywhere we go. They are ideal for bicycles, if you don’t mind being within inches of the cars,and pretty near perfect for little cars, although Hummers and other SUV’s, even large BMW’s, invite near-catastrophe. There are times when, if you see a large truck coming your way, you simply pull off as far as you can to the side – and stop!  C and D roads are the antithesis of “autoroutes,” which are the interstate highways of France. These back roads are narrow, scenic, and packed with fun. They are infamous for their surprising “instant curves.”

I love the French country roads for the back and forth, the up and down, the way that your steering wheel is constantly on the move. You have to be super alert. There is absolutely no way you can be multi-tasking on these backcountry byways! It’s laser-beam focusing – or else! The ability to drive a French back road – and, I might note, maintain the pace that the other French drivers require – becomes a fabulously exciting, demanding, and challenging pastime for me. I lovebeing on the road!

But what I’ve enjoyed even more than the basic drive is finding what is just around the next curve – say, around the next bend on the D35.  Pulling through a hairpin curve, and I might find myself exclaiming: “Will you look at that!” Or, “Wow, have you ever seen anything like this?” I just love anticipating what might next appear in our tiny car’s window. “Wow!”

***

 During a past trip to France, driving the C and D roads, we traced parts of the Compostela de Santiago, the 1500-mile pilgrimage route into Spain; some of its tracks start in France. And, of course, I drove very carefully when pilgrims were on the road. In fact, I slowed my driving pace, considerably. I was instantly attracted to the sight of these “journey folks” with their walking sticks and inviting smiles. Clearly (it seemed to me), they carried along with them some secret to happiness that I wanted to know more about.  I moved into conversations with these some of those apparently joyousfolks.

Interestingly, they too were invigorated and energized by what might be seen next.  One older gent told me: “The walk is as much about the surprising horizons as it is about some far-off goal.” A woman in her twenties revealed: “This is a pilgrimage of the heart for all of us; it’s truly – and simply – about the heart that’s coming home.” She went on to say: “Day in and day out, I feel that I’m on this little road that’s moving me closer and closer to my heart. Each new horizon, each new turn, takes me closer to what called me to walk this beautiful road.” I was mesmerized, listening to these journey tales.

The pilgrims shared something else about their journeys. They spoke of the gracious gift that made their journeys possible, do-able and achievable. Without this gracious gift, they would not be able to “walk their hearts back home” (words used by the same young woman). That gift, they revealed, is the “gift of hospitality, the gift of welcome.” A young boy, maybe eight or ten years old and traveling with his dad asked, “Have you seen the seashells in the windows along the road?” I nodded yes, and he continued: “The seashells tell us we can knock on the door for a great meal and to sleep. The seashells are our welcome signs.” The boy’s dad told me later: “Like my boy says, we rest our hearts where we find the shells. Hospitality over night makes new horizons possible in the morning. Seashells give us hope. Our journeys, surprises, and new horizons come because we’ve been welcomed, cared for and encouraged. It’s as though the seashell people, as we call them, truly believe in us.

***

Karen and I have just arrived back in France. And, of course, I am looking forward to driving the backcountry roads once again. We took our little Citroen C3 out on a backcountry loop to Correns, Barjols, and Cotignac yesterday. The joys of checking out the surprises just beyond the bend in the road still hold the same great appeal for me. And yet, I must admit that the interactions I’ve had with the “journey folks” walking the Compostela may have brought about a modest wish in me. Yes, I’m looking forward to our time in the little car. And, I might just leave the car at home more often.  The characteristic joyfulness of the pilgrims that I met made a distinct impression on me. I’m wondering: during this coming travel experience, how might I slow down somewhat, and be a bit more like those whose hearts are coming home?

I’m not ready to walk the Compostela de Santiago.  However, I am prepared to slow my pace and be much more observant this time around. I just found myself a walking stick and might just journey out – and journey in. The pilgrims called the D road where we met: Le Chemin du Coeur (Little Road of the Heart). During this visit to France, I want to find that little road of my heart. I want to travel in ways that take me closer and closer to what’s home for me in my deepest heart. This is the precious gift that I most need in my life right now.

***

When you are trying to listen to your heart, what path do you need to take?