Tag Archives: why I love walking

Rocks and Stones

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IMG_3817 Rocks and stones have been part of our existence for more than 2 million years.  They are responsible for the development of the human race and we are still fascinated by their beauty, their endurance and the mystery of their formation. We travel far and wide to gaze at the magnificence of canyons; we meet the earth and its rocky crust when our heels beat the ground as we hike trails strewn with stones. We take rocks as mementos of our wanderings, knowing that they will faithfully remind us of cherished journeys. We wear them as magnificent jewelry and a whole generation turned them into “pet rocks” secretly wishing that they were imbued with magic powers. Perhaps it is so, as in certain parts of the world it is believed that mountains and rocky slopes are where the gods dwell.

Stones are the keepers of time and history. They have been used by ancient generations to record stories and practice religious rites. We know that as long ago as 7,000 years, enormous stone slabs called “dolmen” were erected for such purposes.  More recent ones can be found in England (Stonehenge), France (Carnac) and many other parts of the world including Spain, IMG_3788Portugal, Ireland, the Netherlands and as far away as Korea and India.

I encountered these mysterious stone tables while visiting the little town of Rahier while on vacation in Belgium. It is a quaint village where every house is bedecked with flowers as if expecting some fabulous celebration. The region is known for its stone quarries supplying the material for the construction of these sturdy homes. Another type of stone called schist is also available. It is a remarkable stone that sparkles when the light strikes its mica chips releasing what feels like a magic aura. These stones are easily fabricated into specific shapes and sizes. And what an amazing sight it was to see slabs of these hoisted along the road, like glistening posters upon which were engraved poems dedicated to the trees, the insects, the rain, the old school, furrows where once stood old houses, the cemetery, a 600 year old tree, the church, a gate and a bench where lovers meet. It is like walking through a written ode glorifying the village and the soul that lives there.

IMG_3835These poems are the creation of an elderly couple of former teachers who live in a house that dates back to the 17th century. They live simply and imbue their surroundings with the immense love they have for nature and the world we live in. These poems engraved on stones imbues the onlooker with wonder and awe. It is as if some ancient scriptures from a long ago past have returned to remind us to pause and inhale our moments of beauty.

A few miles down the road are fields where ancient dolmens remind us that long ago the druids practiced their rites under mistletoe hanging from branches of oak trees. Their spirit seems to linger, whispering ancient thoughts into the countryside captured in poems floating on slabs of schist.

 

 

 

Là au creux du vallon

Le village semble aux aguets

Comme une frêle embarcation

Sous l’énorme vague des fôrets

Un ciel de plomb impose

Ses gris, ses noirs moroses

Il pleut

Que surgisse le soleil

Dans le bleu si bleu du ciel

Et les verts éclatent en mille tons

Et le vent entame sa chanson

Il est midi

Mais déjà l’astre est au couchant

Il met le feu à l’horizon, jetant

Ses rouges, ses jaunes, ses oranges

Le ciel deviant symphonie étrange

Voici la nuit

Suzanne et Marcel Mosuy

IMG_3822…To be continued with more poems from Rahier with translations

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Walking, Part II

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…yes,  there are colorful blossoms  and lots of bamboo framing the walk snaking through  the outline of buildings and the Paris sky. One has the impression of a bit of heaven captured walking along 4 kilometers where the scent of roses and lavender beckons the onlooker to sit and dream awhile under the foliage of some cherry trees, or garlands of huckleberry blossoms. The Promenade Plantée continues through to the Jardin de Reuilly and finally ends east to the Bois de Vincennes.

02 Luxembourg gardenOften, on my way back from buying petits pains in the local Kayser bakery on the rue d’Assas I would walk a block further east to encounter the Jardin du Luxembourg. Once there I’d find a bench and sit while breaking off a piece of the crusty bread, watching other flâneurs like myself on their way to discover what this extraordinary garden has to offer; chess tables, tennis courts, roundabouts filled with laughing children and a pond where even adults can be seen setting old fashioned miniature sailing boats on their course. And that is what one has to be in Paris: un flâneur which can best be translated as to saunter, to loaf, or perhaps to stroll.

But it is sauntering that has captured my imagination as I discovered its original meaning while reading The Tao of Travel by Paul Theroux.  According to the author, Thoreau (1863) spoke of the word “saunter” as having been derived from the French expression “going to the Holy Land.” Thoreau further states, “I have met but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages and asked charity under the pretense of going A la Sainte Terre to the Holy land, till the children exclaimed,  “There goes a Sainte-Terrer, a “Saunterer” a Holy-Lander.”  And Thoreau concludes, “…for every walk is a sort of crusade.”

I find it amusing that I can now consider myself a crusader when I walk. Certainly not as understood in the Middle Ages: to go forth and re-conquer the Holy Land from the hands of the Infidels. I understand that in a modern way. While walking one can process a whole range of feelings and learning experiences. And in that way re-conquer one’s own mind.

01 pool in ParisAs I accompanied my friend through the cobbled streets of old Paris, I discovered La Butte aux Cailles, a neighborhood of old houses and streets in the 14th arrondissement bearing the names of flowers. I found myself in a time warp sauntering on winding cobblestone streets, finding quaint little restaurants, and drooling before mounds of freshly baked bread in local boulangeries. Then drinking  fresh water from fountains that are still fed by artesian wells. It is a working class neighborhood where the 1848 Revolution and the Paris Commune took hold. Even today the graffiti reveals an independent spirit as evidenced by the writing and drawings on the walls. There is a lovely arts-and-crafts style indoor swimming pool where the neighborhood kids cool off from the summer heat. And all about one can feast on the sight of flowers and the charming little houses of the Cité Florale.

It is endless, this love the French have for their parks and woods. Even the cemeteries are a place for reverie. In the Montparnasse cemetery, a cool and comforting place when seeking relief from the summer heat, I came across the names of the poet Charles Beaudelaire, Samuel Beckett, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Maupassant, Ionesco and even Frédéric Bartholdi, sculptor of the Statue of Liberty. But most astounding was the hour-long walk taken in the Forêt de Fontainebleau outside Paris where on a detour into the little town of La Samois I found the country hideaway of that extraordinary Belgian gypsy guitarist Django Reinhardt.

As I now listen to the music of the virtuoso guitar player Django, I feast on the memory of sauntering in Paris. The unforgettable discoveries still swirl in my01 django mind.

Walking

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Pedestrians in ParisI love Paris. It is the keeper of a multitude of memories for me yet as I return yearly I am still dazzled by constant discoveries.

Upon arrival at the airport I am enchanted by the sound of the French language welcoming me into my new adventure. I know I will soon be sitting at a little café, blissfully inhaling the aroma of a cup of coffee while watching people flowing by.

I hail a taxi and within seconds the driver skillfully weaves into the traffic while I attempt to make my first observations. The cars are smaller and speed like jerky little boxes about to bump into each other. Yet on either side of the road it is all beginning to resemble the dehumanized New Jersey landscape. As if to compound my apprehension, traffic suddenly comes to a halt so that I can see and smell the landscape in slow motion. I gulp down my fear trusting the talkative driver reassuring me that all is well. But I can’t help wonder if the downfall has finally occurred and the city I loved irretrievably changed.

Then a comforting feeling reminds me of the novel I was reading on the plane, Freya Stark’s novel, “The Valleys of the Assassins” and I take solace in the statement “perhaps to find out what one thinks is one of the reasons for travel and for writing too.”  I’m totally captivated by her wisdom as that of Claude Levi Strauss who similarly felt that “Perhaps, then, this was what traveling was (is). An exploration of the deserts of my mind rather than those surrounding me.”  As I contemplate this wisdom sifting into my thoughts I realize we have arrived in Paris.  So much to drink in, sights whizzing by and street names I won’t remember.  All too fast to capture, speeded up as if I were watching an accelerated film.  I am relieved to reach my destination.  As I walk into the lovely apartment I have rented, I am suddenly struck by an enlightened awareness:  Never mind this world speeding into nothingness. I am opting for slow motion and will spend the next few weeks in Paris walking and writing to fill “the desert of my mind”.

My dearest friend soon came to greet me and we decided on a plan. She has been a Parisian practically all of her life and was thrilled at the idea of taking me on a walking adventure. She is not only a well-rounded scholar and lover of literature (French and English) but walks most of the time rather than taking public transportation. She confided that in her readings she learned that the great American writers Whitman and Wordsworth claimed to have been inspired by walking as it eased the mind. Of course the great Jean Jacques Rousseau wrote an entire novel confessing his experience as a solitary walker. He certainly was a perfect example of how loneliness makes things happen.

promenade-planteeAnd before long, trying to keep up with my learned friend I “sauntered” into undiscovered areas of Paris: La Promenade Plantée, a High Line (the one that inspired the New York High Line in 2011) where the railway tracks atop the Viaduc des Arts have been replaced by a promenade planted with a variety of plants and…(to be continued)