Défense de marcher sur l’eau
In the salle á manger overlooking the jade waters of the Sorgue, a gentleman sits at the next table and chuckles at something just over my head.
I twist my neck to look up. Défense de marcher sur l’eau the sign reads.
I’ve seen signs before that begin Défense de… Défense de fumer. Défense d’entrer. Défense de photographier. It basically means that it’s forbidden to smoke, to enter, to photograph. Is this idiom the same?
The man nearby reads my thoughts. “It means something like don’t take yourself for granted,” he explains before taking another sip of coffee.
Unexpected, his words are like a slap and I feel off balance and embarrassed. It’s as if the unassuming man quietly eating his breakfast has seen right into my soul, speaking aloud the greatest failing of my life between bites of croissant.
Défense de marcher sur l’eau. Wouldn’t that mean “It is forbidden to walk on water?” Did the well-read gentleman eating breakfast with his talkative wife misunderstand the idiom “Don’t take yourself for granted?” or was there something of the spirit of that idiom in the admonition “It is forbidden to walk on water?”
Wouldn’t it have more of a connotation of not trying to be more than you can be? Not trying to do the miraculous?
I’ve spent my whole life attempting the impossible. Perhaps I even thrive on it. Unfortunately, trying to do the miraculous involves a lot of moments of sinking under the waters and it’s done a number on my self-confidence and having any faith in my abilities.
Part of walking on water is trying to be perfect and I’ve certainly been guilty of that impossible aim. I spent the past year in Santa Fe trying to work this problem out of my psyche, trying to let go of the need to be perfect in everything I do. It was a big step to join the Holy Faith Choir. The excellence bar is high and I would do just about anything not to mar the beautiful sound. It would be easier not to sing at all, but then I would live without being part of a choir that feels like a taste of what it is like in Heaven. Is it worth the nerves and the stress? Definitely. It’s a balancing act. I have to work hard and do everything possible to sing my very best while not letting errors dash me to the rocks. I’m learning how to accept it as a necessary tension in order to be part of something beautiful. Without it, I’m not really living.
It is important not to throw away your confidence. And I vex God this way all the time. I take myself for granted while at the same time trying to walk on water. That’s definitely a recipe for disaster. God is pleased with confidence and active living. He is not pleased with shrinking back.
When the apostle Peter went out on the water, was it that he was foolish to be so overconfident or did he need to learn not to lose confidence midway through? Peter was one of the most impulsive people ever to live. There was danger in jumping into the fray, but even more danger in starting to think too much about it once there.
Leonard Cohen, a beloved imperfect singer, wrote lyrics I discovered while in Santa Fe and kept in mind when drowning in the stress of my errors:
“Ring the bells that still can ring,
Forget your perfect offering,
There is a crack in everything,
That’s how the light gets in.”
When singing with the choir, with every mistake I make, I visualize a cracked bell and the light coming through and then I can bear it. If I never make mistakes, the beauty of humility would not have the opportunity to shine through.
Breakfasts finished, the couple engages in conversation with the hotel attendant and I listen, picking up a word or two here and there. They ask if I understand and soon, I’m in the midst of a full-on French conversation of ideas and the state of the world, the economy and the impact of China, the danger of fear, the importance of embracing differences, the importance of not destroying monuments of the past, even if what they represent is not good, because it teaches us about our history so that we know what we want to repeat and what we do not want to repeat.
Travel is a luxury for those who can travel, the three French nationals say, so they tend to meet people from the United States who have the money to take trips or who see the value of what can be learned from other places and peoples. For this reason, those they meet from the United States tend to be liberal and live in cities. They don’t generally meet people who are conservative and come from rural areas or from the south. For this reason, they say, their perspective is skewed; they’re only getting one side of the story from the United States.
The gentleman speaks with the hotel attendant while I talk with the very friendly woman who is kind to tolerate my hit-or-miss French. Most of our conversation is about the danger of fear as perhaps the most destructive force in the world.
The conversations go on for so long that we have to stop because it’s nearly time to check-out. Glowing from a true French conversation, I return to my room to wash up and collect my things.
The skies are still gray when I depart the tranquility of Hôtel du Poète and walk around Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, backpack strapped on, preparing to travel the road that I walked thirty years ago.
After all that time and all the years of travel, Fontaine-de-Vaucluse is still one of the most beautiful places in the world, even under gray skies.
I stop at a church that feels older than time. Inside it’s gray and cold like a cave crypt. Parts of the church are at least as old as 586 AD when Saint Véran was the Bishop of Cavaillon. He is known for defeating the monster Coulobre, a red-eyed, sharp-toothed, bony-bladed beast who tormented the people of the area for years before the brave bishop fought for them. In front of the church, there is a statue of Saint Véran’s tussle with the Coulobre.
Born in Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, Saint Véran was buried in the ancient church and a pilgrimage was held in his honor in the 9th century AD. I’m intrigued by the old stones and emblems above the doorway.
There’s a couple lighting a single candle together, side by side, arms around waists, wrapped in union with each other and with God. It’s the way I feel singing with the choir in Santa Fe. There is no fear of mistake in this kind of unity. And no need to walk on water.
When I was twenty, I walked from L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. There weren’t cell phones, no Google maps back then, so I did like a true adventurer without any idea what I would find. I remember the canopy over my head from the large trees so evenly spaced, a strange sight to a girl from the middle of Alaska where trees huddled as if for warmth at their discretion, not ours. There was a beauty to the spacing and it felt like a processional as I left the noisy city for the warm embrace of the country. I remember a farmer stopping to wave at me. Le bonheur. That was the feeling with all the people I met in rural France. The sense of happy good will.
It was only about five miles (8 kilometers), which seems like a short walk now, but when I was twenty, walking from one town to the next with no idea where I would stay for the night was like sailing off the edge of the world.
I remember the delight of first seeing the rock outcroppings in the hills. The closer my feet stepped to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, the more beautiful it became.
Without a phone to provide directions, I’d learned to look for signs posted with arrows pointing the way to the youth hostel: Auberge de Jeunesse. They led me to an old remodeled farmhouse with mostly German travelers and a few New Zealanders. There I met Marita and Sabine from Hanover, Deutschland, and began traveling with them, riding a bike to Gordes, taking a train to Cassis, sliding from the gray rocks and into the waters of the Mediterranean at les Calanques, sleeping in a tent and laughing about die Ameisestraßen, singing Beatles tunes auf Deutsch and “Wir Wandern” while hiking, and eating luscious fish stew while speaking three different languages. It was my idea of living. It still is.
That old remodeled farmhouse still exists, remodeled once again into reasonably priced vacation rental apartments. It turns out I passed right by it unknowingly when I first arrived in Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. Today it is called Bastide de la Lézardière and there are no signs to guide a wandering traveler like there were when I was young. Perhaps I could stay for a week or two next time.
I find the road, D25, to L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue and pass under l’Aqueduc de Galas. Built in 1855, it’s 469 feet long. There are a number of tall stone arches looming over the river, two roads, and the land in-between, creating canals to both the north and the south.
Instead of a friendly farmer, this time a young woman pulls up in her little car to ask if I’d like a ride. I can tell she’s concerned that I’m walking on the busy road without a real path for pedestrians. Soaking in le bonheur of her offer, yet determined to retrace the steps of my youth, I thank her and continue walking. How many times had I carried armloads of groceries back to the little adobe in Santa Fe without a single offer of a ride, even when it began to rain?
Soon, I leave the quiet of the country and return to the urban world of L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. I say urban, but it is not a massive city like Paris or Marseille or Montpellier or even Nice. Still, I can feel the noise, grime, and malaise and miss the pure quiet of Fontaine-de-Vaucluse.
Although a city, it is charming and beautiful, and the wide, powerful, green river surges everywhere. Some call L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue the Venice of Provence and, even in autumn, I can see why with its flowers and bridges and canals and lit lamps and water wheels.
I find the train station, eat a little lunch at a packed traveler’s restaurant called Le Terminus where I try boudin à la provençale and board the train for Avignon.
It’s on the train that I understand the meaning of the sign. Défense de marcher sur l’eau. There is no way a sign can forbid the impossible, so don’t let it. Where faith is concerned, it’s up to you. Don’t take yourself for granted.
Next France for Two Months: Tout Seul in Carcassonne.
This is #15 in a series of stories: France for Two Months. Follow the links below to read the other parts of the series starting with the first:
1. Santa Fe Depot Departure
2. Return to the Great Lady
3. Shakespeare and Company Bookstore
4. Paris Stroll
5. Paris – des heures exquises
6. Train to Thonon-les-Bains
7. Château de Ripaille
8. Getting up with the Birds: Lac Léman to Lyon to Lille
9. Navigating to Avignon
10. In the Walled City of Avignon
11. Inside the Rich Ochre of Roussillon
12. Up the Steep Calades to Gordes
13. Retraversant à Fontaine-de-Vaucluse
14. Diving Deep in the Closed Valley