Joie de Vivre Moment #4 - Église Saint-Martial de Cazenac (Saint-Martial Church in Cazenac)

Serendipity . . . 

. . . of the soulful kind. . .

. . . deep in the heart of Perigord. . .

. . . in France.

Sundays on the road usually mean missing church. Tom and I usually set out for parts unknown on those days, just to see where God might take us.

One early sunny summer morning, after buying bread and pastries from a charming Beynac boulangerie-pâtisserie (bread and pastry shop), Tom and I decided to drive the long way home. We meandered down country roads, exploring, as curious vacationing people tend to do, eyes ever-scanning, taking it all in.

Cazenac, which is Beynac's neighboring village, was of particular interest to us. On this adventurous day we noticed  a directional sign pointing up a woodsy hill. It simply stated l'Église de Cazenac. 

"Église means church," I explained to Tom. "Let's check it out."

Tom steered our huge van up the hill on the narrow, winding road. The shady lane offered sun-dappled coolness under a leafy canopy, the air scented with moist soil, warm foliage, a fresh welcome.

Upon reaching the top of the hill, a grand vista presented the Dordogne Valley in her Sunday Best. Silence, but for the ruffle of a shy breeze, invited us to park our car, to set foot to history, to linger.

On the hilltop stood a tidy cluster of massive stone buildings and old walls guiding our eyes down a narrow drive which sloped away from where we stood. Dominating this little village, and anchored to the earth right in front of us, stood a tall church.

Built between the 12th and 15th centuries, l'Église Saint-Martial de Cazenac, made of cream-colored stone, stood behind huge locked gates, the sun shining through the bell-cutout high in the peak above the door. What a shame we could only photograph and view the exterior.

Undaunted, we let the rest of the village show us what she had to offer. No other people around, we had the run of the place. We began by reading the headstones in the church cemetery. Families, founders, and no doubt friends buried, their graves lovingly tended, immaculate.

Only our footfalls softly clapping on the pavement interrupted the tranquility. Ancient buildings next to the narrow road looked like they had stories to tell. One with double doors high in the gable looked like a barn, another like a tradesman's shop, tightly closed and going nowhere. A fig tree with ripe fruit tempted us, but we resisted, just in case there were eyes peering from what looked like a residence on the other side of the road, its tiny terrace with lush potted flowers revealing recent human care. 

The stillness, serenity, and aromatic breezes lulled and rejuvenated us. Simultaneously. Energy flowed, fueled by curiosity. Feeling ourselves unwinding, we held hands as we explored further down the rue.

At last, we decided to return to our family in Beynac with our breakfast pastries and bread. The baby should be up by now, her parents ready for treats.

We strolled toward the car, one last lingering look at the graceful church, wishing we could have gone inside.

Buckling our seatbelts in preparation to leave, we noticed a man in an SUV speeding up the hill. He parked near our van. Peppy and pleasant looking, he hopped out of his car, pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to open the gates. Then, he dashed over to unlock the church door, all smiles and gentility.

"Tom! Tom! I think maybe he saw us up here and decided to open the church for us."

Upon leaving the sturdy building and returning to the gate, the gentleman made eye-contact with me.

"Pouvons-nous entrer, s'il vous plaît?" (May we come in, please?) I timidly asked.

"Oui! Oui! Entrez et bienvenue!" (Yes! Yes! Come in and welcome!) He waved toward the church with a big smile while holding the gates open for us. What a nice man! 

"Merci beaucoup!" (Thank you very much!) 

At that, he nodded with great pride and satisfaction, nodding his head as we passed. He encouraged us to look around, then left us there alone to explore. We were giddy at this unexpected surprise.

Always respectful of new places - especially sacred ones - Tom and I courteously entered.

The first thing I noticed upon reaching the church door was the stone threshold, its surface worn into a deep smile-like curve by centuries of parishioners' shoes and boots stepping onto it when passing through. This heavy smooth stone spoke history. What history, I did not know, but it was clear this place had a vibrant past.

The next aspect to catch my attention was the coolness and that delicious unique smell of Europe's ancient buildings. If you've ever been blessed to enter one, you know the fragrance I describe. Musty, fusty, venerable. I love it! Natural light filtering in through the door and windows added to the ambiance. No electric lights were visible, if there were any at all. Warm gold-hued stone walls, a simple ribbed vault ceiling overhead, a rickety wooden staircase leading to an upstairs door, slender stained glass windows, and simple wooden chairs in neat rows invited wanderers to stay awhile, to reflect.

Speaking in muted tones, and joined by another couple our age, Tom and I separated, our interests piquing in different directions. Cobwebs in the corners and along the high windows informed that this is a visited place rather than a regularly used one. Well-kept and friendly, this tucked-away sanctuary exuded lovingkindness.

Soon, Tom and I found ourselves together again, sitting in the second row of brown seats next to a multi-colored reflection on the floor, vividly mirroring the window and sunshine from which it was formed. Tom looked as tickled as I felt by the colorful merriment on the cold surface near our feet.

"It's Sunday, you know. How about we have a little prayer meeting?" I suggested. Immediately agreeing, Tom held my hand, leaned forward, took a silent moment, then began whispering prayers.

We prayed for our kids and grandkids. We prayed for our brothers and sisters, aunts, uncle, cousins, nieces and nephews. We prayed for our friends. We prayed for our country, and the world, for wisdom, love, and understanding. We prayed for the other couple in the building with us, and thanked God for the kind caretaker who let us into the church.

Besides being a joie de vivre moment, this was serene serendipity. God provided the setting, the humanity, the sacredness, and the love for Tom and I to share His presence and peace in a nearly one thousand year old église where prayers, worship, celebrations, and sorrows intermingled, creating testimony that God's Truth turns hearts of stone into hearts of flesh in the lives of His people.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." ~~ Ezekiel 36:26

Joy and pensivity. Together. From a tiny church on a hilltop, under a golden arch, on a rustic wooden chair, my hand in my husband's, our prayers earnestly shared, we communed with God that Sunday morning, in rural France. He is never far from us.

"For where two or three gather in My name, there I am with them." ~~Matthew 18:20

". . . the kingdom of God is within you." ~~ Luke 17:21b

Joie de vivre. Exuberant enjoyment of life.

Yes.

2022 Photos by Cherie, all rights reserved. Thank you! Enjoy.

April Rain

Let the raindrops kiss you,

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.

Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

~~ Langston Hughes

Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain there would be no life.

~~ John Updike

After the rain cometh the fair weather. 

~~ Aesop

Photos all mine, taken this evening. All rights reserved. Enjoy!

Joie de Vivre Moment #3 - French Parking Meters

As in America, French parking meters can be found in parking lots and on streets. Ubiquitous, right, no big deal? Pay for your parking spot, and off you go. 

I've used these boxes at home in Oregon many times. They make sense and they work. I've witnessed French people using their parking meters with deft and ease, so I felt confident I would be just as adept when my turn arrived. How hard could it be?

I was about to find out.

High in the hills overlooking the Dordogne River, Tom and I accidentally stumbled upon the medieval town of Domme, France, designated one of the nations Les Plus Beaux Villages de France (The Most Beautiful Villages of France). In our little black rental car we motored up the hill on winding, tree-lined roads. Arriving on the hilltop, slowly creeping through narrow streets between ancient golden-stone buildings and under 14th century arches, we delighted in each vista unfolding before our eyes. What a view! So enticing was the village, we decided to explore on foot, maybe grab a bite to eat, check out the Dordogne River from on high. 

Locating a well-maintained gravel parking lot, we pulled in. Having visited France before, including the two weeks under our belt this trip, I easily located the raggedy, kind of sticky-looking gray box designed to gather parking fees. 

Stepping out of our car, cross-body gray travel purse securely slung around my torso, I briskly walked to feed the machine at the edge of the lot, Tom behind me putting his keys into his pocket, neck craning at the medieval village looming above. He quickly caught up, euro coins in hand.

At the box, a couple about our age fiddled with the machine, looking a bit flustered. A card seemed to be rejected. Then, cash was rejected. The woman spoke rapid French to the man, who in turn looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Je suis désolé." (I'm sorry.) "Pas de problème," I responded with an understanding smile. (No problem.) The couple stepped back in frustration, discussing what to do. 

So, I tried. I had the same problem. Not only did the machine refuse my payment methods, it wouldn't go back to the main menu.

A young German couple stepped forward, sniffing a bit haughtily as if they could show up these old people. Nope, they couldn't get it to work, either.

Immediately another lady appeared at the box. She tried, and failed. Then, as if inspired from within, she tried a new and very deliberate order to button pushing. It worked! She smiled a huge smile, took her ticket, then showed the first couple exactly what she did. They allowed me to observe over their shoulders. Success!

Walnut Cake in Domme

Tom's and my turn. We carefully pushed the buttons in the same order, added our information where needed, placed our euros into the slot, a confirmation showed on the screen and a printed ticket popped out. 

I spontaneously cheered, the way Americans tend to do. Instead of feeling the ire of the staid French for my Yankee outburst, I was pleasantly surprised when the couples who'd joined us in attempting to decode the box smiled, laughed, and waved their hands in the air with me. Some clapped in support. When multiple languages are spoken, gestures naturally increase. Other tourists heading for the meter enthusiastically smiled, pulled into our happy energy. One French man high-fived me, an act that seemed to thrill him. It certainly surprised me. His wife grinned and nodded. I can imagine him bragging to his friends about it. "I high-fived an American today!" Well, maybe not. 

A joyous moment! All those merry people from different parts of the world, speaking different languages and yet, today we were conquerors. Together. Over the parking meter. Huzzah!

To their relief, Tom and I helped the next couple, hapless victims of Monsieur Malevolent. As we backed away and began meandering up the road, we noticed the couple we'd just helped eagerly showing another lady the ropes. 

A joie de vivre moment! In that simple act of paying for parking, a dozen people, intently focusing on a fussy meter, enjoyed a bond of victory and celebration - even serendipity - uniting us in a silly, jolly sliver of time.  

As Tom and I strolled the lumpy cobblestones of Domme that afternoon, we happened upon our new acquaintances here and there. Eye contact, then friendly warm smiles were shared, with winks and knowing looks. What fun this added dimension provided our exploration in the stunning village of Domme!

For me, it's about the people. Precious kind people. 

"The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines." ~~ Charles Kuralt

All the photos but the first one are mine, taken in Domme, France. All rights reserved. Enjoy! 

Book Clubs and Me

When you select peaches or strawberries or asparagus for your dining table, do you linger and study the produce? Are you picky? Do you look for the freshest pieces which invite you to smell and taste them? Do you look for just the right size of asparagus with closed tips, indicating freshness? Do you look for good color and plumpness in your peaches? Do you only choose strawberries completely red and fragrant?  

I do. 

I choose books with the same care and pickiness. Is the author one I trust based on experience, recommendation, or reviews? Is the topic one which interests me? Is the writing beautiful, or if not that sort of book, is the writing clear, tight, fresh? 

When the perfect book comes along, I invite friends and family to join me in reading it in a book club forum, sometimes in person, sometimes in real-time online. 

Literary camaraderie. The best sort of experience.

Enlivening.

Humorous.

Educational.

Sessions plump with questions and answers, observation and discussion, illumination and adventure. These thrill me, with excitement that lasts the whole day through.

Pacing ourselves we tackle a portion at a time. We don't rush, but we don't dawdle either. Before we know it our session comes to a natural close. We are ready to rest. Exhilarated energy is expended through our words and sharing. We exhaust ourselves in wonderment, the topic dictating the emotion. Always worthwhile.

Before we know it, the last chapter plays itself out, the back cover folds shut. Sadness meets the final page, for the book has become a teacher, a friend who will be missed. Always, though, there is another in the wings, humming on the shelf, waiting for its turn to be thumbed through, read, and eagerly digested.

Life is rich when we select our strawberries and books with the same care in which we choose our friends.

This post is dedicated to all my book club bibliophiles, you know who are. I cherish our literary adventures together!