Travel: Bonnevaux
We have come to the retreat at Bonneveaux. It is a good place, old and embryonic all at once. Set in a small valley surrounded by a ring of wood, run through by a stream fed by groundwater which bubbles forth from three springs. They say that monks prayed here in the ninth century and even earlier; a thousand years of prayer. Now those who live here seek a great silence; the ground spring of which is love.
We came here in the early evening, we four women from three generations. We are travelling together through France and Italy on our grand tour of delight. Everywhere we go it will be cathedrals, art, food, beautiful spaces and our shared laughter which will give joy to each of us in our own way. I hunger for green life to complement it all and there are hints of it here and there; especially here. We have come to lovely Bonneveaux, led by our matriarch, to taste the silence. Wonderfully we will find it suits each of our pallets particularly.
There was no one to greet us when we arrived with our camel load of luggage. We found out later that these are quiet days here, the leaders are away, the place is informal; at rest. We sat in a peaceful space waiting, looking about, until we saw an older man walk through a door and decided to follow him. True generous hospitality met us when we finally found a smiling face.
Our rooms were beautiful, huge windows opened out onto the East, South and West. From the room I shared with my sister, we could see the undulation of the land and a marvellous massive sycamore. My mother and daughter’s room looked out over the cloister, the labyrinth, and the pasture. We giggled with glee at the beauty.
Though the rooms were wonderful the pull of the land could not be resisted. So out we went, the young one and I, both barefoot. I don’t usually go barefoot; I am too soft and sensitive. However here, there was something about the place which asked for this approach; holy ground. This holy ground spoke the whole experience. There was a vulnerable ease within the place, it was also within the people. The silence and the talk were penetrated by something natural integrated with the holy. The land seemed to be an artesian well bubbling forth holy water from an unwilled source and the people here were vessels of the land drink. Readied by the silence they had been cultivating in lifetimes before arrival here.
It was infectious, I watched it weave its way through all of us, making minds more pensive, making movements soft and talk open. I loved being with three women kin in this place. The generosity of others drawing out their natural generosity, the silence making room for whole being restfulness. Sometimes walking barefoot, we stepped in nettles, a painful reminder that no place is safe but many places are good. This place is good.
Home now, saturated by green, I went out this morning barefoot to stand in wet grass and receive the rain. The memory of the silence and talk between we four, held by the good holiness of place and people nourishes. Gratitude wells up from the ground of being.
