Love Is An Absence

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

MATTHEW ARNOLD Dover Beach

More from Christian Bobin and his book The Very Lowly: A Meditation on Francis of Assisi. In this quote Bobin is aware how quickly, unthinkingly and indiscriminately we rise to praise and blame:

The word of adoration, like the word of malediction, is completely ignorant of what it names, and moreover, the two sometimes succeed each other with only a second's interval on the same lips, in reference to the same object, in reference to the same person.

The love Bobin attempts to describe, and Francis instinctively lives, is a quite different kind of love from the earthbound love found in the trappings of human matrimony:

For marriages wear out love, tire it out, draw it into the seriousness and weight that is the place of the world.

True love — that's agape not eros — has nothing to do with the self and the self's desires: 

You expect of love that it will fill and fulfil you. But love does not fill anything, not the hole that you have in your head, nor the abyss that you have in your heart. Love is an absence much more than a fullness. Love is a fullness of absence.

Love is an absence much more than a fullness. Love is a fullness of absence. These two sentences blew me away.

We are creators, we are builders, we are masters and controllers, we are influential parents, we are great artists . . . aren't we? Rather, don't all our proud and ego-reflecting creations take on a life of their own far from us . . . then crumble into dust?

For we are masters of nothing. What we create is immediately separated from us. Our creations are ignorant of us, our children are not our children. Moreover, we do not create anything. Nothing whatsoever. A man's days are to him what skins are to a snake. They shine for a time in the sun and then they come away.

Love dwells in a completely different realm from the world of trade and society, the world of ego, self-gratification and ignorance:  

The world wants its sleep . . . But love wants awakening.

Feeding Sparrows

Thanks to Dritanje at Rivertrain for pointing me in the direction of French Catholic writer and poet Christian Bobin. I started with The Very Lowly: A Meditation on the Life of Francis of Assisi, translated by Michael H Kohn. What a joy and revelation this book is, startling in its immediacy, poetic in its religion, liberating — even revolutionary — in its anti-materialism, in its attention to the humble and the holy poor, in its celebration of a careless, selfless, singing, childlike love of all things.

From as early as page two we are stopped in our tracks: We say, for example, 'Francis of Assisi'. We say it like someone sleepwalking, without coming out of the sleep of language. We do not say it, we let it say itself. We let the words come out. They come out in an order that is not our own, which is the order of a lie, of death, of life in society. Very few genuine words are exchanged in a day, really very few. Perhaps we only fall in love in order finally to begin to speak. Perhaps we only open a book in order finally to begin to hear.

The sleep of language! Something mystical is going on here, something beyond the reach of language. Language is suspect, duplicitous, is something over which we do not have complete control. Language does not serve our deepest purpose. True, deep language is perhaps only spoken between lovers, or heard in the echo of a book's hieroglyphs.

Francis believed instinctively in the equality of all living things: He (Francis) never experienced anything that was not in perfect accord with this belief in the absolute equality of every living being with all others, with the same dignity of existence allotted to each one — beggars, burghers, trees, or stones — solely in virtue of the miracle of having appeared on the earth, all bathed in the same sun of sovereign love.

God is to be found in the refrains of childhood, in the lost blood of the poor, or in the the voice of plain, simple people. All of these hold God in the hollow of their open hands, a sparrow soaked like a piece of bread by the rain, a sparrow chilled to the bone, squawking, a chirping God who comes to eat from their naked hands. God is what children know, not adults. An adult has no time to waste feeding sparrows.

All of us are significant, are worthy of our place in creation: One cannot say of anyone that he is insignificant, because he is called to see God without end. This quote (cited by Bobin) comes from the French mystic Marguerite Porete, who was burned at the stake by the Catholic Church in 1310 for her heretical book The Mirror of Simple and Annihilated Souls.

A Wild Domain

During the next few days I crossed the plateau of the Margeride and part of the ancient province of Gévaudan: a remote, hilly area of pine trees, green valleys, rough grazing land and sandy, stony tracks. The weather turned wet and windy for a while as I approached the Domaine du Sauvage, a former hôpital (pilgrim lodging) run by the Templars in the 13th century. It's still a gîte d'étape today, catering for weary walkers and pilgrims. I asked for a bed, but they were all booked; however I did order a coffee, and they had no objection to me eating my packed lunch at one of the restaurant tables. They're good like that, in the bars and restaurants of the Chemin...  

The Domaine du Sauvage.

Countryside near the Domaine du Sauvage (plus wild daffodils).

Soon after the Domaine I passed from the department of Haute-Loire into the department of Lozère and came across another Chapelle Saint-Roch. This present chapel was rebuilt in 1901 after being destroyed by a storm in 1897. I stepped inside and found a statue of St Roch above the altar. You can clearly see his trademark staff, thigh wound (a plague sore) and dog (who licked his wound and saved his life). You can read more about St Roch here — it's a fascinating story. (There are some similarities between St Roch and my favourite saint, St Francis of Assisi.) On these pilgrim routes the distinction between St Roch and St James can become intentionally blurred: note the scallop shells on hat and clothing...  

St Roch.

Fountain with scallop shell near the Chapelle Saint-Roch.

The green fields of Gévaudan.

Saint-Alban-sur-Limagnole.

Around that time I spent the nights mostly in isolated gîtes and chambres d'hôtes. The ones at Les Faux, Bigose and Fineyrols come immediately to mind. All were very good, and all offered cheap, nutritious evening meals. At Les Gentianes in Fineyrols forty of us sat down at two long tables. We ate aligot, the local speciality: a dish made from mashed potatoes, butter, cream, garlic and melted cheese, accompanied by Toulouse sausage, and washed down with gorgeous, red Auvergne wine. The texture of aligot is extraordinary — it's smooth and elastic — and the serving of it a well-practised piece of culinary theatre...

Aligot and accordion. (Image from Wikimedia Commons.)

1000th Post

This blog is about many things, and one of those things is poetry. So first of all I'll celebrate my thousandth post with a new poem. Naturally it's about Christmas.

Supposing Christmas Never Came

Supposing Christmas never came —
Santa on strike, the reindeer sick,
the presents barely wrapped,
the wise men lost, their camels lame,
shepherds without their flocks
(due to an outbreak of ovine flu),
the Virgin Mary, virginal no longer,
painting the town red,
Joseph distraught, the Holy Child
sans swaddling clothes, sans stable,
mangerless, and the bright star
of Bethlehem now a black hole,
turkeys extinct and Christmas trees
dead as Dutch elms — then I’d ascend
some nearby mountain such as Scafell Pike
or one afar like Ober Gabelhorn,
Aiguille d'Argentière or Monte Rosa,
and meditate within a little hut
like Thoreau at the edge of Walden Pond
or Kerouac on Desolation Peak.
I’d view the frosted ridges, snowy crests
(real mountain chains not paper chains,
real snow not the stuff out of a can),
thinking of nothing very much but Zen,
and letting pure agape flood right in.

At this point I'd like to thank most warmly blog poets Ruth, Lorenzo, Rachel, Pat and Dominic, whose own poetry constantly inspires and encourages me to keep on writing poems myself.

I would never have believed, after starting this modest blog four and a half years ago, that I'd ever reach post number one thousand. Yet here it is. And I must honestly tell you that each and every post has been a joy. But without your readership, your loyalty and your comments, I'm sure I would have stopped long ago. For it's this reciprocality that lies at the heart of all our blogging enterprises — of this I have no doubt. I'd also like to acknowledge a few blog friends who have stuck with me for the long haul — Grizz and am come at once to mind. Readers come and go — that's only to be expected — but others stay religiously loyal, such as our wonderful friend and fellow traveller George, for instance. Apologies for missing out so many names here — there are dozens more. You know who you are, and I thank you all for reading my humble offerings from the bottom of my heart.

Our blogs are forever quoting words of comfort and wisdom from different saints and sages, poets and philosophers. I wondered if, to indulge me on my thousandth post, you might quote me one of your own very favourite sayings, aphorisms, adages, bons mots, proverbs, koans, stories, prayers or truths? Something that brings you hope and inspiration, and gives you the motivation to carry on journeying down life's rocky road. We could create a rich storehouse of enlightenment here! My own contribution would have to be the Prayer of Saint Francis:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Greetings to everyone in this strange time between Christmas and New Year.

Our Walking Is Our Preaching

Aparigraha is the Buddhist tradition of non-possessiveness, non-hoarding, non-attachment - taking only what you absolutely need, not coveting unnecessary, luxury items, not grasping at things greedily, not clutching on to things. St Francis of Assisi (1181-1226) also practised this philosophy of taking only that which is necessary, and it became one of the precepts of the Franciscan Order he established in 1221.

Another book of my mother's, now on my own shelves, is the Everyman's Library edition of The Little Flowers Of Saint Francis. This was first published in 1910 as the 485th book in the Library, but my copy is the 1947 reprint on War Economy Standard paper. (In my former life as a book salesman I used to tout the Everyman's Library round the UK, a wonderful series which brought the classics within reach of the ordinary working man and woman. They were published at affordable prices in small-size formats. In their heyday nearly 1000 volumes were in print.)

The book contains three 'biographies' of St Francis, his life and teachings: The Little Flowers itself, translated into English from the Italian which in turn is translated from the Latin; The Mirror Of Perfection, based on documents and memoirs left by Friar Leo, one of the Franciscan brothers; and The Life Of Saint Francis by St Bonaventura.

In 1222 a certain Thomas of Spalato saw St Francis preaching in the piazza in front of the Palazzo del Podestá in Bologna, and described the effect his words had on the whole city which had assembled to hear him: ...he treated his theme so well and so wisely that many learned men who were present stood filled with admiration when they heard such words from the lips of an untutored friar. The whole matter of his discourse was directed to the quenching of hatred and the establishment of peace. His dress was mean, his person insignificant, his face without beauty. But with so much power did God inspire his words that many noble families, sundered by ancient blood feuds, were reconciled for ever.

These are are some of the words of St Francis:

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.

Above all the grace and the gifts that Christ gives to his beloved is that of overcoming self.

What we are looking for is what is looking.

Start by doing what's necessary; than do what's possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.

If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men.

Lord, grant that I might not so much seek to be loved as to love.

No one is to be called an enemy, all are your benefactors, and no one does you harm. You have no enemy except yourselves.

True progress quietly and persistently moves along without notice.

I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.

It is no use walking anywhere to preach unless our walking is our preaching.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy.

I hope to visit Assisi later this month.

The painting of St Francis at the top of this post is by the Spanish artist Francisco de Zurbarán (1598-1664). Zurbarán was born in the village of Fuente de Cantos in the region of Extremadura; I passed through this village on my recent pilgrimage along the Vía de la Plata.

Thanks to George at Transit Notes for the photo below, which was taken in a 'small hermitage near Assisi, Italy, where St Francis and his followers frequently meditated and broke bread together.'

Sacred And Profane

The next day I felt much, much better. In fact it turned into one of my best walking days. Strange, isn't it? 30 km just flew by. And the forecasted rain stayed away until the last 2 km before Monreal. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Rested and in high spirits, I left Sangüesa at 9.30 am after a breakfast of bacon and egg (well, by this I mean bacon and egg Spanish-style). You can see that I was eating again - no doubt you realised that yesterday's lack of appetite wouldn't last for long! I climbed through almond trees up a short incline to the small village of Rocaforte, with its odd, dome-shaped hill...

This is a view of the attractive, newer part of the village...

And this is the view if you turned 180 degrees in the other direction..! At the time it seemed like one of Dante's visions of hell. But now, immunized by time and distance, and shielded from reality by the aesthetics of frame, lighting and composition, this papermaking factory seems alarmingly beautiful, in a postmodern kind of way...

Or perhaps not! Higher up in the old village perched the squat tower of the church of the Asunción...



... and this is the view from the church over the paper mill's evil-smelling water treatment tanks towards Sangüesa...

I was keen to move on - my feet were 'singing' (as the pilgrim expression goes) - so I descended the hill on the other side of Rocaforte...

... but not without looking back one last time at both ancient and modern...

With this image fresh in my mind, I was glad to reach the Fuente de San Francisco, Saint Francis's spring (the saint is supposed to have stopped here on his way to Santiago). Here the secular (it was now a picnic place and barbecue area) and the divine were married together in a more perfect harmony...

Rest Day In Sangüesa

I left the albergue in Sangüesa at 9 am on Monday 20 October. To be honest I hadn't had the most restful of nights. The Korean pilgrim had been no problem at all - she'd slept soundly all night without a murmur. However 2 Italians arrived late and, after some frenzied mobile phone calls, left in a taxi around midnight. One of them had been taken ill with food poisoning. I hoped I might then get a little sleep - but the church bells of Sangüesa tolled out every quarter, disturbing the slumber of even the weariest pilgrim. Then a Frenchman began a crescendo of snoring interspersed with an impressive, tonal display of flatulence as a kind of earthily musical counterpoint. And every so often a Belgian woke up screaming from bad dreams. By the morning I felt like I'd lived through a nightmare myself! So it was a tired and dejected Solitary Walker who left town that morning, heading for Monreal, almost 30 km away ...

I crossed the steel girder bridge over the river Aragón and had barely dragged myself more than a few 100 m when I realised I just couldn't walk any more that day. Anywhere. Or any distance. I felt exhausted. I was completely lacking in energy. Some muscles in my chest and shoulders were hurting like hell. Not to mention my feet. I retraced my steps and booked into the 1st hostal that I saw. And there I stayed all day - most of the time in bed, dozing and listlessly watching TV. I hardly ate as my appetite had all but vanished. But I did wander into town and force myself to take some photos ...

I found some grand houses, like the Vallesantoro mansion, with its impressive escutcheon over the doorway ...

... and some less grand houses ...

... and lots of convents and churches, such as the convent of San Francisco de Asis (reputedly founded by Saint Francis himself) ...

... and the church of Santa María de Real, with its superb, sculpted south portal ...



... and the church of Santiago ...



... with its Gothic sculpture of Saint James inside ...

... and polychrome sculpture of Saint James outside (note the scallop shells and the 2 flanking pilgrims) ...

Emboldened by my 1st roundabout photograph taken in Lescar, this small industrial-arty roundabout caught my eye ... though I don't think I'm quite yet sad, sorry, ready enough to join The Roundabout Appreciation Society ...