Languid Lives
Observations from a river bank
We parked our camper van next to the river, in the pretty French village of Aunac-sur-Charente. It is not the first time we have been there so slipping into tranquil indolence is easy, facile as they say in France. We made time to sit, watch the river drift by, and capture the moment.
Some sounds are distinctive, a key unlocking memories. The warm breeze on a midsummer day in France rustles through birch leaves, stirring remembrances of cheese in parchment, and impatient fingers releasing still-warm baguettes from a boulanger’s branded paper. Soft wind teases, suggestions of coolness perhaps, the promise of blessed relief from the oppressive humidity.
Right now, there is no relief, no coolness, save for the silky embrace of the flow that drifts lazily downstream. The water slows to the pace of the season. Languid, untroubled by the demands of the day.No deadlines. It will get there, eventually. Here now, ripples. They sparkle with youthful vigour, chasing their open-mouth destiny. But the aged eddies catch them. Slow down, they seem to say. We will all get there in the end.
The ripples gather in pools so the sun can anoint them with dappled light. As the birch trees whisper their secrets, birds skitter. They gather an airborne pique-nique of unsuspecting bugs, swooping, swirling bodies blurring against the slow-moving silken canvas. Slow down, the wise river intones, but the feathered diners work busily through Nature’s menu.
Our stream moves at the pace of the slowest, guiding us to do the same.
The trees whisper, stay still, no hustle.
We become one with the water, turning from ripples to eddies, languid, allowing Summer warmth to drift us gently through our day. We will all get there in the end.
Enjoyed this, thank you. Yes, we will all get there in the end. 🙏