Squalls at 207 km/h, waves 21 metres high, 780,000 households without electricity… On the night of Wednesday, November 1 to Thursday, November 2, 2023, Brittany suffered heavy damage due to storm Ciaran. The region was most affected. The winds were so strong that they managed to break a crane in half, and uproot dozens of trees, including two in my garden, not to mention a large branch felled on my meditation cottage, and a door exploded.
For years, Brittany has been hit by sometimes violent storms, like the one in 2001. The disaster has passed offshore. My parents bought this property in 1953, and since then I spend weeks or even months there every year. I settled there after their death, I was already here during the memorable storm of 2001, nothing has broken. Never damage in seventy years! When you live by the sea, very exposed to the winds of suroît that rage in the bay of Saint Brieuc, it is a feat. For me, it’s called luck. As I don’t believe in chance, such luck means protection.
I have been protected from a young age. Always. The houses I lived in, the places I frequented have always received the same protection, often inexplicable. There’s damage all around, and nothing where I am. And the love I’m in! How much love I gave, as much as I received! I had the chance to live four wonderful love stories, oh yes, four beautiful romances as anyone would be happy to know only one, because it enchants the rest of life. Four fabulous love stories. And I’m living the fourth, wonderful and delirious, with a woman in every respect admirable. Those who are fortunate enough know her will agree with me.
When I think about it, I pinch myself to see if I exist. If she exists. If all that is true. I almost died so often! So in my crazy youth, as I was traveling with Micha, the second great love of my life, the mother of my boys, the one who filled me for a quarter of a century, rarely we’ve come so close to death, but more than once we’ve been in a hornet’s nest.
At 20 years old, we crossed Europe in an old Oldsmobile to go around Turkey. On Lake Tuz, a large salt lake in the middle of the Anatolian desert, a party of Kurds armed with old petories and a brand new AK47 probably “fallen from a truck”, surrounded us while we’re having a snack. We offered them some French cheese, they nodded back with a Yok! sound. It means no, get out! What we did at once.
At 22 years old, we landed in Macau, Portuguese China, where we’ve been living for monthes. On the tiny peninsula piled 200,000 Chinese. There were only 200 Westerners, including 150 Portuguese. Micha and I were the only French. Behind the Porta do Cerco guarded by the Red Guards, communist China began, Mainland China as they said by caution. Whites were not welcome. Mao Ze Ding Dong’s speakers broadcast anti-colonialist and moralist messages. In the relative shelter of the Catholic college Santa Rosa de Lima, where I was a French teacher, one could hear the cries of the rioters. Every detonation startled us. It was often just firecrackers, as the Chinese love them. But sometimes it was shooting.
At 24, the voodoo sorcerers and zombies of Haiti almost had us. Without the protection of our young guide, two French would have “disappeared” during the voodoo pilgrimage of Saut-d’Eau, in the wild mountain, where we were the only Zoreilles.Ears, nickname of White people. And this disappearance would not have made a line in the local duck…
At the age of 25, we were in Senegal when a violent riot broke out, obviously anti-colonialist. The automatic weapons were sounding bad gusts. We had descended due south, in Ziguinchor, in Casamance. The city was already on fire. A minibus rushed us to the grassy airfield. Smoke, explosions, a bus window exploded, but no injuries on board. The small bus stopped on the grass of the single track, very close to the little cuckoo that was to take us to the international airport of Dakar. Coming down, stupor! The sides of the vehicle were streaked by several gusts of Kalashnikov!
Our adventures around the world lasted more than twelve years, before we settled in Paris to give birth to our eldest son, Loïc, who had the good idea to wait for us to land to manifest. In a Goa temple, a gigantic boa slipped between my legs. Suspended time for a while! And then I almost died while passing a pass at 5000meters altitude to go to Amarnath, in the Himalayas. The Shivaite pilgrims climb there between the full moon of July and that of August, the only time of the year where this sacred cave is accessible, free from snow. I couldn’t breathe. My friend Gilles came close to open my throat for the air to let in. Micha stepped in just in time. Two hundred meters lower, I was comfortable. I had reached my critical altitude, 5000meter. So I can climb the 4807m of Mont Blanc without making any discomfort. Bullshit. I’m too old now, my foot’s not safe enough …
There was this burial of an old shaman in the Philippine hinterland: we were invited to the touching ceremony, which unfortunately went wrong. Screams, punches, shots, we were not targeted, but still. There was Indonesia, hostile islands, delivered to the total savagery, before finding the terrestrial paradise: sweet Bali, sublime Bali, enchanting Bali, where I was bitten by a kind of scorpion, fortunately not mortal. All I got was a swollen arm, in a sling for two weeks. The scar is still visible.
It could all be a scary book. But we still got through it without a hitch. What’s happenning now?
Why, suddenly, the wind of luck has given way to that of Ciaran? Why is my garden devastated? I have no idea…
Another thing: why does my body make me suffer from everywhere? The neck, hips, belly, feet, head, nothing goes. I have always carried myself like a charm, I become this charm that is cut down, like the trees of my magical garden. I do not like to complain, yet I have already mentioned my astral fight with this super luminous being that I took for an archangel. Ugly Archon, my count is good.
With an electric shock, he shot my neck. Created twenty gods! The pain awakens me with a start. Other Flying Wolves testified to the incident, I had not dreamed. Or rather if, I had dreamed, but it was a controlled dream, similar to the art of dreaming of the Nagual‘s sorcerers. And since then, my old body is deteriorating. Too much for a healer! I remove the sores, severe or mild, from all my visitors, and I am no longer able to heal myself. For years, I never had to heal myself, since I never got sick.
It’s funny that word fall. Get sick. Get pregnant. Fall in love. Positive fall? Is that what happens to me? Will I bounce or fall deeper? Come on, that’s enough, I’m fine. The morale is excellent, the courses have never been so beneficial, the awake come out of here with a big smile. When we see this sad world increasingly darkened, the clarity of a new awakened is a unique balm.
Luck has not left me. It takes another form. Suffering has always been an instrument of accomplishment, of overcoming, of purification. It is useful for me to take the lead and the rest. This fabulous luck has watched over me, which has always led me to the right place. Friends like few have made my life a thousand-page guestbook. Micha gave me two boys as smart as beautiful, the second just brought me a grandson. Exciting hobbies have made me a career, so I feel like I’ve only been having fun. And it continues with Eden Saga, which fills me beyond all hope.
No, nothing has changed, except the speed. I’ve changed gears. I’ve changed gears. When a hill comes in, it’s normal to hit it. My butt left the saddle, so what? No worries. The Archons took me off my throne, but they won’t get rid of me that easily.
No chance my luck fails.
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