I come here to the Perigord in the Spring and the Fall. Technically speaking that is. I leave my stateside home on a snowy March New England day and arrive to forsythia in bloom. Within the week, the fruits of my bulb labor emerge for the first time in my stone walled garden. My first tulips ever in France, dedicated to my late puppies, Bingley, Casey and Quinn.

Soon, I realize, I also have lilacs, and in profusion. And suddenly I am in shirt sleeves and then patting around chez moi in shorts. Could this really be early April?

The grass grows from green to greener. The landscape comes alive with all sorts of insistent, surround- sound bird song. They must be singing in French because I can not identify their chansons.

Oh wait, what about the acacia? That divine heady scent that permeates the air for weeks at time, giving our morning and
evening walks new dimension and meaning.

And then there is the length of the day light. Ooh la la! By early June, its light until 9 pm. By the end of June, the magic of 8 pm feels like 3 in the afternoon. Sunset is remembered on the terrace of my favorite restaurant, Le Pont de L’Ouysse, where under the linden trees at 10 pm, the twilight lingers until a bewitching 10:30.

Long languid days. Long languid seasons,  a moment of remembrance of winter here.  But then spring, with a soupcon of  summer heat . All within 2 short months. So many sensations a l’exterieur.

Then conversely, I return to France in fall. Immediately I begin to shed the layers of New England. This is no New England landscape. The fields are very brown from a rainless, dry summer. The trees are still steadfastly green and will remain so until December. It’s still warm, 72 degrees and no humidity The sun sets at 8:30. I defy my memories of summer meals outdoors in New England and enjoy meal after meal a l’exterieur, here on the terrace- breakfast, lunch and dinner. A few days of very light showers and bingo, the fields turn bright green. Its miraculous and like summer as I remember it in August in the Berkshires.

It’s October and Indian summer goes on and on! The lightest of jackets and nylon mesh hiking boots. Shirt sleeved 5 hour randonees in Loubressac and Autoire. Leaves linger, and remain green. No need or compunction for a fire at night. Better to go for a walk and sit on the terrace afterwards and write these thoughts.

Mid November, a touch more rain, but happily welcomed,  kissing the new parched garden I have planted. I wonder what it will look like when I return next spring? All these lilacs and rosemary. What perfume awaits the next round of outdoor meals! Seems so abstract here in the Mill Masters House in gray January New England.

So many seasonal sensations in so few months. It makes the time seem to go slower and slower. Not since I was a child do I remember time seeming to stand still. Could it be taking time for time? Being in the moment? Meditating? Or does la mere de nature have something to do with it too?

(Originally written in October and November, 2005, with longings and copy editing back here in New England on a snowy
December evening)