A LADYBIRD AMONG BUTTERFLIES AND SNAILS

A recent visitor to the farm was a 4 year old boy, a Noo Yawker, whose finer appreciation for the life of snails and ants was charming. Something nipped at him while he was pond dipping but once the sting had passed, he enlightened me on mosquito larvae and water boatmen - the characters in our collection. August is here, and so there is still time for Being Outside. I was sitting under a tree the other day (on my beautiful purple meditation cushion that once belonged to Sister Chan Khong from Plum Village), eating cherries, writing my beloved friend Mary a letter...

when a ladybird crawled up my arm and settled on to me for the afternoon and evening.
Before nightfall, I thought I better put her somewhere less peculiar than the crook of my elbow and the nape of my neck (she was a tireless traveller!) but I had already fallen in love. If I were a 4 year old Noo Yawker I would never have parted with her!

I have not been having an easy time of it this year. Nothing earth shatteringly original - simply the dull ache of a life with illness and the sadness that comes with the knowledge that I am not in the swim of things once more. The last time I felt so painfully out of the loop of my contemporaries was when my life with lupus first began... but I am a writer and where there are words there is a place for me. Where there are trees and the natural order of things, there is a place for me. So I breathe, pay attention and write!

PLACE DE LA RESISTANCE

Monks are very hard workers. At Plum Village there are acres of land to be tended beside tending to the cooking, washing, cleaning, and of course the nurturing of the spirit of the sangha. On one compassionate day a week, there is no work. This is Lazy Day! On my Lazy Day, I accompanied several other retreatants to the nearest town of Duras, not knowing anything about it. So when I came upon the signs for Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, I realised this was the place that Marguerite Duras adopted as her name.

This was La Place de la Resistance. Marguerite Duras, who was born in Saigon, French Indochina, led a fascinating life, becoming part of the French Resistance. I was thrilled when I saw a street named after her. And to think of the connections between Vietnam and France carrying back all those years.

Duras was sun soaked, geraniums bursting everywhere and history beckoning with crooked rusty fingers.

In a place so French, I am afraid I broke the vegan rule of the week and ate l'escargots, mes amies, and they were worth every scandalous bite. On Lazy Day, my fellow amigos were tucking into beautiful carafes of regional white wine and rosé. (Well, you would, wouldn't you?). And real French café "avec beaucoup du lait, s'il vous plaît!"

Before I could eat my first mouthful, a woman appeared hesitantly at my elbow. "Er, would you mind," she said. "I'd like to bring my grandchildren over to see The Snails." "Yes! Yes, of course!" I grinned, manically, as I watched her entire family troop over to observe me Eat Snails. "Can I take a photo?" asked a wee one, wielding a deadly digital camera. "Er... right, excellent," said I, hoovering up that first bite under the eyes of all sorts of strangers.

There was a beautiful statue dedicated to Duras A Ses Enfants, and later, as we trooped back to our Hamlet, I turned once, to breathe deeply the memory of my first French town since Verneuil-en-Halatte in 1996 when I lived with my French exchange family. Pour moi, c'etait bien sûr, la place de la resistance.