The Poetry of the Imperfect

La Poésie de l’Imparfait

For me, today’s experience at the Abbaye Saint-André outside Avignon was a combination of Hey-How-About-Some-Explanations?!? and You-Know-What-I’m-Good-I’ll-Just-Chill.

From the handout I received upon entering the abbey, I learned that it dated to 982, 999, 1024, or 1118—the verbiage isn’t clear. All I can tell is that 1226 opened a new chapter for the abbey, and in 1292 a fort was built around the abbey. Also in the handout was the factoid that in 587 Saint Casarie died, sparking the establishment of a small religious community. Saint Casarie was married to the bishop of Avignon. Wait—what? A married bishop? No explanation, but no matter. In the abbey was a Chapel of Saint Casarie. Somehow, somewhere in 600 years, that early religious community morphed into Benedictine monks. No explanation. The sprawling grounds today are mostly just crumbling stone walls in clear configurations, but nary a sign tells the visitor “This is where the monks used to make olive oil, chant psalms, shear sheep (to make berets from the wool, of course J, stomp grapes, and transcribe manuscripts.” The handout says that in the 1300s more than 90 monks lived there and maintained a substantial library. I didn’t see a sign saying where that library might have been. No matter. No one to ask anyway.

The abbey’s position atop a high hill makes it a tourist destination for panoramic views. And the views today were breathtaking. The brochure says I was seeing the Pope’s Palace, the Alpilles, the Luberon, Mont Ventoux, and the Dentelles de Montmirail. I recognized the Pope’s Palace and Mont Ventoux but could have used a little help identifying what else I was seeing. But, no matter. No signs, no docents.

At first my curiosity about history was frustrated by the above lack of explanations. But wandering the gardens and ruins was so lovely and relaxing, the facts faded in importance. In the gardens, plantings were profuse but not perfect. Imperfections in nature are beautiful! In the U.S., generally gardens are tourist destinations only if they are perfectly presented with no weeds or overgrowth, every plant blooming, landscape-architect-designed. The gardens of the Abbaye Saint-André were none of those. The fenced “lawn” areas we were advised not to walk on were hardly manicured, just dry dirt with pale green stubble. That was perfectly fine with me.

Still … the stillness hushed my very soul. These mossy stone statues and benches have been still for at least seven centuries. Curved paths and straight-walled ruins blend silently, seamlessly. One could wander endlessly exploring paths branching off other paths. For hours, the only sounds I heard were muffled voices and footsteps crunching somewhere beyond trees. Oh, and birds, the one that goes twee-tweeoo-tweeoo, the one that goes cou-cou-couuu, and the tchew-tchew-tchew bird. No matter their names. I just enjoyed their sounds. Well, there was a period when a rooster furiously cockadoodledooed for about 15 minutes down in the valley. I heard a goose squawk at him to be quiet, and then a dog gruffly barked, “Simmer down, you two.” They all hushed, leaving just birdsong again.

Someone, abbey management I would guess, had placed miscellaneous chairs here and there for people to just chill. My favorite sight was a straw-hatted woman reading a book. I sat on a nearby bench to enjoy a cool breeze refreshing me on a hot day.

Most of the profuse plantings were green overgrowth. Only in-season flowers, irises and poppies, and some spent roses, bloomed, some seemingly arising from cracks in rocks. Well, there were a few other blooms, but in the spirit of the day, I did not stress about knowing their names. I remember the expression, La Poesie de l’Imparfait, the poetry of the imperfect. It seems to fit today.