The journey is dead. Long live the journey.
I have postponed my arrival to England through avoidance.
Avoidance of the obvious fact that I am here, and have been here, at least in bodily form, for 16 days, 2 hours and 11 minutes. My spirit is left behind somewhere, perhaps as a bit of salty mist clinging to a buoy in the harbour breakwaters at Roscoff.
As I reflect back upon my journey I realise that despite my slightly scathing account, I was, in fact, deeply struck at the time. And because this hit a resonant chord it has stayed with me like the trailing note of a piano waiting for the next note to follow.
At one of the portals in Rocamadour was a stunted fig tree. Mounted on the wall between the portal and the tree was a notice explaining the significance of its presence. The notice said that the pilgrim would pause before passing through the portal and consider the fruits borne of their journey. It posed the question: if a pilgrimage was made but produced no fruits, was it indeed a pilgrimage?
I look at my fruits and consider what weight they hold. Are these fruits that can be shared openly?
And I think not. They must first undergo a process of transformation, followed by transfiguration and then, when I have truly understood these fruits, a transubstantiation.
Before I can do anything, however, I must arrive in totality. So while I have been waiting for me I have washed windows, tidied up, put my studio in order and frittered a lot of time away. I could bake a welcome home cake, but what what if I don't appear and the cake grows wastefully stale. Can I then, please, return to France and look for me?
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