In the long dark days of cold, people promised us a beautiful spring that will come and melt our frozen bones and lighten our grim perspective. I knew it was true but I did not believe it. The winter was so convincing with its absolute white frozen stubbornness and the only compromises it offered were slush and wet gray days. It was as if I had entered an old familiar dispute; Israeli - Arab impasse - with willful winter digging in its heels proposing only worse alternatives than the already grim present. I truly could not see the spring coming.
But just like the seemingly unassailable empires of Rome and Greece -- the winter was vanquished ever so elegantly by a stunning spring. One morning it came, dressed in a floral gown and golden light, bountifully spreading vibrant colors and chirping sounds throughout Paris -- turning the scarce silent monochrome of the winter to a fading memory.
Yet, the spring -- unlike the winter -- feels so transient and temporary, so impermanent. It hangs by the skin of its teeth to an edge where awe and loss are woven together into one reality.
The pain of loss is part of the essence of Paris .
Just like Jerusalem light is made of god, blood, passion, stone and war. Paris light is made of memory and romance. A young couple with sweaters loosely hanging around their necks kissing on a cemetery bench -- manifest all the essential components -- youth, love, season, beauty, death, and the one that binds them all together - time. The archetypal knowledge that this is not the first or last couple - then and there - is part of the pain and the beauty. It is interesting that the French have a word for mixture of pain and pleasure - "joiesance"- which does not exist in English. Paris, the eternal mother who holds generations of lovers in her lap of history, cannot or will not protect her children from the teeth of time.
For me, experiencing the ephemeral change of seasons for the first time; coming close to the end of our year in Paris; watching Adam blossom; witnessing our parents' aging struggles; and ourselves passing the alarming 50th gate -- all turn the conceptual lessons of my 30th zen training of not grasping and letting go -- into much more tangible and poignant lessons.
As I was realizing that I was due for a refresher Buddhist retreat -- Eleanor, my dear Paris friend, invited me to go to meditate with a Thai forest monk who was planning to arrive for a two and a half day silent retreat in Provence.
The flyer for the meditation explained in clear sentences, what I was already used to in my California retreats at Green Gulch and Spirit Rock. The meditation would be completely silent, no reading, no writing and no meals after noon -- in order to help focus on the meditation within.
As soon as we arrived at Aix en Provence, Eleanor and I had an extensive lunch of four courses and a bottle of wine, before we met our ride to the retreat. A beautiful woman in her 60's -- Josephine -- vibrant and spunky, wearing her hair up in a silver bun, drove us to the Chateau where the meditation was to be held. She drove a little Fiat so fast that I have no memory of the country side. The trip was full of comments about the French drivers and the dense traffic all in order to arrive on time, which in this case, meant being 15 minutes late for tea.
The Chateau, a 200 year old beautiful gem surrounded by vinyards and olive trees, was also an organic farm. We sat in the hall and drank cinnamon apple tea, while a thick smell of baking bread filled the air. Small talk about different kinds of meditations began and when the conversation became too dense for me to follow, I began to notice that no one was wearing sweat suits and that the shoe pile at the entrance mostly consisted of beautiful leather shoes -- no slippers, no crocs, no tennis shoes.
The woman chef made a visit from the kitchen, a thin wiry woman in her forties with a glowing face. With sudden respectful silence from the crowd she introduced herself, explained the meal times, and apologized that the biodynamic wine they make there would not be served since it needs another season to mature. I looked at Eleanor for a cue to laugh at the joke -- but it wasn't a joke. She then explained that after noon there would not be any food served and the fast would start. From that point on, she said seriously, only cheese and chocolate can be eaten -- I checked again -- but this was not a joke either.
The meditation room was set with flowers, candles and cushions. On the walls were paintings from the 18th and 19th century and at the center there was a big fire place with a splendid fire and crackling wood. In between the sitting and walking meditation the cultural differences were striking; people did not shy away from looking into each other eyes, personal space was minimal, smiles were not used as pleasant acknowledgments of the other and during lunch the silence was broken with declarations about the food -- especially around the lavish desert -- "Ce magnifique, extraordinaire".
Flirting was not to be neglected either. A woman is to be adored regardless of her age, look or state of mind -- and the Frenchmen are masters of this art -- not too much not too little, not too obvious not too subtle. In the midst of the retreat -- cigarettes were lighted, doors were opened, flowers were given, words were whispered and compliments were paid -- just like fasting with chocolate and cheese. The meaning of rules and directions are as fuzzy as in impressionistic painting -- beautifully clear from a distance turning blurry as you inch forward.
At the end when the monk gave permission to break the silence with pressing questions about the technique of letting go -- to my surprise most of the group raised their hands. We sat the next hour through long monologues about philosophy, history and comparative meditation techniques. No questions were asked, no feeling were expressed, no clarification requested.
It was time to say goodbye to a place I wondered if I would ever see again which followed a pang of loss. I had fallen in love with the beauty, the peacefulness, and the fuzzy meanings in the retreat. I wanted just a little bit more before I had to rush to the TGV to head back home. Then, I remembered, Norman Fisher, my zen teacher at Green Gulch gesturing with his hand as he said: "When you grasp onto the few things you have in your hand, there is no room for the next thing to land on your hand -- open it -- see what is there waiting to be given to you."
Pictures from the retreat click here
