Guests and Saint Teresa

Posted on 07 June 2005

The days slip away but as I know you, who are not here, like to hear of my comings and goings, I feel that I should try to write more often.

We have spent the last few days with Gill’s guests, who left this morning and were fun, appreciative, helpful: they made a meal for us, washed dishes, and even sanded a paravente for me. (A paravente is a screen, a room divider – this one has six panels – and each panel has a length of fabric down the middle that I have yet to sew.) I bought it at a Broquante or antique fair in Albi with Bedding on Sunday.

Two days ago, to entertain our guests, we drove into the countryside and stopped at two wineries. The first was near Cahuzac and the proprieter, who greated us warmly, told us that the wine is “bioloque” or organic and will not cause hangovers. The family cut the grapes from the vine by hand. He tells us that his house – unbelievably beautiful – a long, stone structure with olive-coloured shutters and doors and an outside table in the same colour under an arbour of grape vines – was built by his own hands over a period of twenty years. He poured us all a portion of each of his three red wines and I bought a dozen bottles. Six of a table variety that at 3.20 euros a bottle is a steal. The other is finer at 7 euros and will age to perfection in ten years. The next winery, recommended by the first, specializes in white wine which is Gill’s preference. The woman was as friendly as the other owner, though her house was not as pretty as his, and we bought a few bottles of white, rose, and red that are also delicious.

I, at first, hesitated to mention wine in my blog because a friend last year “criticized” me for drinking too much of this glorious libation. But Susan said, “Bloody hell, don’t let this kill your pleasure” so I won’t. And, as a writer, I fear being silenced more than I fear repercussion. (There is a much longer and more hurtful story here but I still do not feel objective enough to write it.)

Yesterday we took our guests to Cordes, another hilltop town, that is a little too touristy for me and at this time of year, a little too quiet – no fanfare, street musicians or mime artists, but still it is lovely and the view from the top, spectacular.

Now I must return to Teresa. A few nights ago, I described what I have written so far to Susan and David and both appeared to like my approach. Susan has even borrowed “Spiritual Pilgrims” so she can offer suggestions. David, who seemed well-informed on Saint Teresa but not on Carl Jung, thought I should denounce both in the final act (or at least, their paths to God and individuation.) Even though I don’t know, at this time, how the play will end, I know I will not take David’s suggestion (though I do respect his scholarship.)

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