If we hadn't, finally, hit the back roads the other day, we might have missed seeing this sunflower-filled field, which stretched, like the ocean, towards the horizon, before the sunflowers got too tired to hold up their heavy heads any longer. Imagine if your head were full of seeds?
(That church is not really leaning, I am.)
(Isla was like an addict in a pharmacy when she got a load of these flowers. "Can you drop me off here, so I can pick some?" she asked.)
This light, real sunlight, not just the muted daylight that has been substituting for it for the past two weeks, came sneaking into my window and lurked for a while in the hall, beckoning, making flickering liquid promises, the other morning.
By the time we got organized, the familiar troops were assembling in the sky, threatening to slide the velvet gray curtain closed once again.
"You know why they're called tournesol?" Esther said, standing in this meadow.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because they turn their heads towards the sun. '"Tourner,"' means turn and "sol" is short for "soleil," which means sun."
"You are a clever possum," I said.
"And 'sol' also means the ground. When the sun isn't out, they point their head to the ground."
We've been pointing our heads to the ground for far too long, feeling sorry for ourselves because our "vacation" had ended. But we've suddenly remembered our life here in France is essentially an extended vacation. Shit, we've still got half our stuff in bags.
We've got nothing to hang our heads about. Nothing at all.
More enlightenment can be found over here.