“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

-Henry David Thoreau-

Sometimes living in France feels like living in the woods – being away from the comfort and familiarity of my home country. It can be painful. But sometimes I think I am glad to do it. It feels intentional, like you get to decide what your life will be. It is the feeling of always being slightly ajar that also gives perspective. 

Recently, I drove to the nearby medieval hill town of Puycelci, in southwest France. The day was maybe a contender for top ten best days of the year. The sun was bright and cloudless.

The village of Puycelci was first settled by Benedictine Monks in the 10th century near earlier prehistoric settlements. It was besieged several times but is said to never have been taken by force. 

The village prospered through the centuries and had 2,000 people by 1900, even though it had no running water or electricity. It was dependent on cisterns. Then, with WWI, this village, like every village in France, lost many men as is evident by the memorial beside the old castle ramparts. The village continued to decline until 1968, when there were only three families left. Now, there are several hundred people who get to call this beautiful place home. 

I sat on a bench beside the ramparts, with my face in the sun looking out over the valley below, listening to the wind and to French teenagers sing “Can you Feel the Love Tonight” from the The Lion King in French. My picnic of cantal cheese, cured sausage, croissant, baguette, and clementines felt just right. Being in a village like this reminds me of being at the ocean – it gives you a glimpse at the vastness of things and reminds you of how we are a small part of a bigger story. It’s not hard to imagine some of those stories. 

As I scrambled over the ancient fortifications, I thought of soldiers and trebuchets with the towns people huddled inside their city on a hill, hunkered down for a long battle. Walking through empty streets, I thought of people falling in love, of babies being born, of broken hearts, and of fortunes made and lost. In the church at the top of the hill, I could almost hear the whispered prayers of the mothers and wives, sisters and daughters who sat and wept when they learned of their loved ones killed in Verdun in the Great War.

I think I know the prayer they whispered to God. That prayer is often on my lips too. Lighting a candle for Henry, I thought how perfect the moment was and how, at the same time, how wrong and incomplete it was, how broken my life will always be without him. I saw Mary and Jesus. I felt a connection to her, and to all the parents who sat and cried in that church who had also lost their sons. Grief and loss connect us across time.

I made my way past the book store that is only open for a few days each month and walked back to the ramparts to have a drink and watch the sun sinking into the hills in the distance. The clanging of the church bells and the buds in the trees above promised that there will always be new seasons, people falling in love, babies being born, and people grieving. It really is a beautiful world and I’m thankful to get to be a part of it.