Maison V

Southern Finistère, a land’s end called Penmarc’h, the month of February. An anti-postcard, just the way I like them: the unknown. I shiver with excitement. There is this walk toward the chapel of Saint-Évy. After a mountain of brambles shaped like breaking waves, then a primitive cross, the chapel appears below, small as in a fairy tale. There is something in the air, an obviousness, a clarity, a grace. The meadow is flooded, the trees lie fallen after a storm. It is the aftermath of chaos. I plunge my hands into a small stream of clear water and listen to it flow with the same crystalline murmur it must have made in the Middle Ages. I don’t want to speak; I want to pray, to caress the world.