Beau Rivage - Mauritius © L. Leclezio
Had I recently left? Had I just returned? If so when? If so - Had anything changed much?
I forget how long I stood there immobile pondering over the ponds? Nothing else was moving either. Had time stood still? There was not a breath of wind. The leaves on the trees were not fluttering. At some moment in time other leaves had fallen. Now they looked like puzzle pieces floating over the still waters of the ponds at the foot of the dried out falls. Were they waiting to be assembled in a timeless pattern?
When had the water stopped flowing? When would the water rush over the falls again to disturb the present peace and stir everything back into action?
I stood in the middle of the bed of 'La Riviere Seche'! I was gaping at the eighteen inch in diameter by eighteen inch deep hole carved in the volcanic basalt river bed rock. When had the first little stone started to swirl around slowly grinding a hole that got ever wider and deeper?
From the time of its original humble conception how many more stones had contributed to the expansion of that hole now at my feet? How many more will? How much grinding over how many millenniums had occurred for that particular hole to become so readily visible and so substantial that it could be finally considered as an integral part of the whole river bed? Through the years, how many of the grinding stones had been small? Indeed so small that they must have been judged insignificant by some of the haughty larger ones! Yet while being crushed back to dust in the process, they willingly and humbly supplied the necessary grit for the hole to grow. How many had actually started out by being big stones crowding the ever growing hole before being also reduced to dust? Today who remembers what? And does it really matter since so many of the original stones big and small have all disappeared in spite of all contributing their share in making the whole aerial picture what it is today! In the creative process, how many of the big stones had relentlessly crushed the little ones while the little ones had equally relentlessly reduced the size of the bigger ones? Does anyone care? Who knows? All we know is that without the continuous grinding process more room could not have been made for ever more stones to occupy and to continue to revolve and evolve in that hole?
At this moment in time, with everything apparently dormant, the small and the big stones in the hole all stood still and undisturbed shoulder to shoulder. The forceful fast flowing and energizing water that usually set them in motion had gone underground. I could not guess for how much longer the river bed would lull all to sleep? But I could wonder what would happen once the flow resumed? Would the currents then coming into play cause the stones to turn clockwise to mark the creative passage of time? Or would the stones be turning counterclockwise at times in an effort to revisit the passage of time. Would the stones resuming work together as a whole or individually feel the grinding pain as they ever so slowly stamped their own signature over the picture of the much bigger whole comprising the entire river bed?
With a splash a carpe jumped in the pond below. The ripples carried some of the leaves over the surface of the water. As a few leaves came together they revealed a part of the puzzle of life. Over time, how many new leaves would need to be turned over and how many would become bound together before the whole story could be told?
As I saw the leaves come together, I understood in a flash that at times the water may stop flowing, the stones may stop grinding for a while as they are no longer churned around clockwise or otherwise by the varying environmental currents, even the hands on my watch may stop - But time always marches on.
Thus there is a time for the water to appear and to flow freely; there is a time for the water to disappear underground and to apparently stop flowing. There is a time to stand still shoulder to shoulder when in a hole or not; there is a time to consistently grind away. There is a time for any stone big or small to fall in a hole to grind the hole bigger while it is being ground smaller; there is a time for any stone to be so churned round and round that the forceful water will force it to climb out of the hole and quit grinding and being ground. Indeed, there is a time for time itself to pass by so quickly that we fail to notice it and there is a time for us to stop so we can mark time. There is a time for some things to change over time and there is a time for nothing to change for all times.
Oh! What was that? It was another splash. Another carpe had jumped. More leaves came together. The puzzle became clearer. Had I stood there for forty years? What and how much had changed? My father was physically no longer there. But had his driving force lived on through his faith in our father in heaven? He was still infinitely present in the natural beauty of Beau Rivage and would be there and everywhere until the end of times. Alain Harel was also no more but so very much spoke about him here. In the midst of the silent lush tropical flora and fauna, Alain's son Jean Luc Harel was very obviously perpetuating his father's creative and caring tradition. In fact in the present, everywhere around Beau Rivage a loud living tribute to the past permeated the air. Zael had long left for the 'beau rivages' of a better world. But George was now there to go on baiting our fishing lines, unhook the fish and re-bait the hook. The 'carpes' and the 'gueule paves' were still biting. The gorgeous Bougainvilleas were still flowering
profusely. Somewhere along the banks of the river bed, our old boat 'Kitoper' had rotten. Even its ribs had been turned into compost! But there was a new similar looking boat with a blood red stripe moored in its place.
A sudden gust of wind caused some of the fine dust to twirl out of the hole.
Almost instantly the quickly dying wind returned it to the ground.
There was a flash of lightning in the sky. It was followed by a clap of thunder. Now fully awake to the present, I walked out of the dry river bed. Soon the water would be flowing again. The stones in the hole would resume their carving work, incessantly shaping the whole picture. The hands of my watch would start to turn again. They would decidedly turn clockwise. But depending on the often confusing currents, the small and bigger stones would alternately swirl around clockwise or anticlockwise. Would anyone care as long as the hole got ever wider and deeper? For sure and for all to see, the water would keep flowing forward to the sea. The cascade would come back to life with its roaring waters tumbling into the ponds below. With the
increasing noise and the prevailing water flow most of the puzzle pieces would once again get lost in the shuffle.
But life would go on! For ever, there is a time for life to proceed ruefully or peacefully and there is also a time for the clock to stop. It is only at such moments in time, when supernatural feelings negate the passing of time that time in turn takes time to truly elevate feelings beyond the natural. And it is only then, as we hold time in our hands, that over time our life can be somewhat understood and better appreciated.
Had I recently left? Had I just returned? If so when? If so - Had anything changed much?
I forget how long I stood there immobile pondering over the ponds? Nothing else was moving either. Had time stood still? There was not a breath of wind. The leaves on the trees were not fluttering. At some moment in time other leaves had fallen. Now they looked like puzzle pieces floating over the still waters of the ponds at the foot of the dried out falls. Were they waiting to be assembled in a timeless pattern?
When had the water stopped flowing? When would the water rush over the falls again to disturb the present peace and stir everything back into action?
I stood in the middle of the bed of 'La Riviere Seche'! I was gaping at the eighteen inch in diameter by eighteen inch deep hole carved in the volcanic basalt river bed rock. When had the first little stone started to swirl around slowly grinding a hole that got ever wider and deeper?
From the time of its original humble conception how many more stones had contributed to the expansion of that hole now at my feet? How many more will? How much grinding over how many millenniums had occurred for that particular hole to become so readily visible and so substantial that it could be finally considered as an integral part of the whole river bed? Through the years, how many of the grinding stones had been small? Indeed so small that they must have been judged insignificant by some of the haughty larger ones! Yet while being crushed back to dust in the process, they willingly and humbly supplied the necessary grit for the hole to grow. How many had actually started out by being big stones crowding the ever growing hole before being also reduced to dust? Today who remembers what? And does it really matter since so many of the original stones big and small have all disappeared in spite of all contributing their share in making the whole aerial picture what it is today! In the creative process, how many of the big stones had relentlessly crushed the little ones while the little ones had equally relentlessly reduced the size of the bigger ones? Does anyone care? Who knows? All we know is that without the continuous grinding process more room could not have been made for ever more stones to occupy and to continue to revolve and evolve in that hole?
At this moment in time, with everything apparently dormant, the small and the big stones in the hole all stood still and undisturbed shoulder to shoulder. The forceful fast flowing and energizing water that usually set them in motion had gone underground. I could not guess for how much longer the river bed would lull all to sleep? But I could wonder what would happen once the flow resumed? Would the currents then coming into play cause the stones to turn clockwise to mark the creative passage of time? Or would the stones be turning counterclockwise at times in an effort to revisit the passage of time. Would the stones resuming work together as a whole or individually feel the grinding pain as they ever so slowly stamped their own signature over the picture of the much bigger whole comprising the entire river bed?
With a splash a carpe jumped in the pond below. The ripples carried some of the leaves over the surface of the water. As a few leaves came together they revealed a part of the puzzle of life. Over time, how many new leaves would need to be turned over and how many would become bound together before the whole story could be told?
As I saw the leaves come together, I understood in a flash that at times the water may stop flowing, the stones may stop grinding for a while as they are no longer churned around clockwise or otherwise by the varying environmental currents, even the hands on my watch may stop - But time always marches on.
Thus there is a time for the water to appear and to flow freely; there is a time for the water to disappear underground and to apparently stop flowing. There is a time to stand still shoulder to shoulder when in a hole or not; there is a time to consistently grind away. There is a time for any stone big or small to fall in a hole to grind the hole bigger while it is being ground smaller; there is a time for any stone to be so churned round and round that the forceful water will force it to climb out of the hole and quit grinding and being ground. Indeed, there is a time for time itself to pass by so quickly that we fail to notice it and there is a time for us to stop so we can mark time. There is a time for some things to change over time and there is a time for nothing to change for all times.
Oh! What was that? It was another splash. Another carpe had jumped. More leaves came together. The puzzle became clearer. Had I stood there for forty years? What and how much had changed? My father was physically no longer there. But had his driving force lived on through his faith in our father in heaven? He was still infinitely present in the natural beauty of Beau Rivage and would be there and everywhere until the end of times. Alain Harel was also no more but so very much spoke about him here. In the midst of the silent lush tropical flora and fauna, Alain's son Jean Luc Harel was very obviously perpetuating his father's creative and caring tradition. In fact in the present, everywhere around Beau Rivage a loud living tribute to the past permeated the air. Zael had long left for the 'beau rivages' of a better world. But George was now there to go on baiting our fishing lines, unhook the fish and re-bait the hook. The 'carpes' and the 'gueule paves' were still biting. The gorgeous Bougainvilleas were still flowering
profusely. Somewhere along the banks of the river bed, our old boat 'Kitoper' had rotten. Even its ribs had been turned into compost! But there was a new similar looking boat with a blood red stripe moored in its place.
A sudden gust of wind caused some of the fine dust to twirl out of the hole.
Almost instantly the quickly dying wind returned it to the ground.
There was a flash of lightning in the sky. It was followed by a clap of thunder. Now fully awake to the present, I walked out of the dry river bed. Soon the water would be flowing again. The stones in the hole would resume their carving work, incessantly shaping the whole picture. The hands of my watch would start to turn again. They would decidedly turn clockwise. But depending on the often confusing currents, the small and bigger stones would alternately swirl around clockwise or anticlockwise. Would anyone care as long as the hole got ever wider and deeper? For sure and for all to see, the water would keep flowing forward to the sea. The cascade would come back to life with its roaring waters tumbling into the ponds below. With the
increasing noise and the prevailing water flow most of the puzzle pieces would once again get lost in the shuffle.
But life would go on! For ever, there is a time for life to proceed ruefully or peacefully and there is also a time for the clock to stop. It is only at such moments in time, when supernatural feelings negate the passing of time that time in turn takes time to truly elevate feelings beyond the natural. And it is only then, as we hold time in our hands, that over time our life can be somewhat understood and better appreciated.
Some day, when I leave. Where will I live? Forever.
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