I have a specific place of the heart in France, Bretagne, and the connection is deep and strange. Decades ago I visited the stones at Carnac; not the circle pattern made famous by Stonehenge—these are smaller rough stones laid in parallel lines, many kilometers long. Something spoke to me. I don’t know how else to say it, but something in the earth there knows me, and every year I have gone back to hear what it is saying. Covid interrupted that, and the last time I was there was 2019. This return was immensely satisfying.
I gave myself three days on the island of Belle Isle, a 45-minute ferry ride from the tip of the peninsula of Quiberon, whose northern root is at Carnac. I know that island. It’s 10+ miles high and 5+ miles wide, and over the course of years I have walked every foot of its coast, navigating the detours required by the western coast’s array of fjords. It’s no joke that it’s called Le Cote Sauvage, the savage coast. Years ago I carried a beeswax ball containing hair from CB and me and buried it in an ancient tree-stump—a way of anchoring us for the years to come.
My bigger deal is Carnac and its energy. Some speculate that the long lines of stones are mapping the earth’s ley-lines. That may be. Years ago I carried my dowsing rods with me, tools that measure energy, not just for finding water. I positioned myself just outside one of the stone-lines, held the rods so their tips were a hand’s-width apart, and stepped into the alignement (the French word for the stones.) The response was so strong that it nearly tore the rods from my hands. OK, yes, I was really feeling something.
Someone on Facebook asked if I found what I was looking for. I can’t say, because I wasn’t looking for anything, I was returning to connect, the way you would hug a friend. I was resuming a conversation. I will only know after time what was said. I think there is a very deep part of me that is outside words, and it has already had the conversation. In time, it will come to me, probably in dreams. I am content to wait.