Through the pages of her journal, InHabit Travel Studies Consultant Jennifer Wieland has been taking us along on her travels. This month, we’re pleased to share a fourth excerpt from Jen’s travel journal. She writes from the French Camargue, where she is experiencing the Romani Gypsy festival with her lifelong French friend Marie. You can find all of Jen’s excerpts here, including those that follow her Camino trek from Le-Puy-en-Velay to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. 

“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian 

‍Change of environment

I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead. 

New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes. 

This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious:  What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.

Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.

This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt  - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.

‍Letting change flow

Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.

My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.

Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.

As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change. 

After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though. 

‍Chrono-diversity

It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes, 

“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”

I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone. 

I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…

I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.” 

When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.  

Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.

During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski. 

Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes, 

‍“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.” 

I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.

The sacred in the ordinary

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer is a deeply spiritual place. The legend of Saint Sara-la-Kâli, the Romani people’s Black Madonna, who is said to have aided the first Christians arriving to this area, speaks to their profound faith. Each year, her statue is carried from the church to the sea in a vibrant procession, to bless the waters and honour her role as their protector. This ritual connects her to their spirit of resilience and community. An honour guard of gardiens, the traditional Camargue cowboys who still work local farms, are waiting outside the church on white horses to accompany Saint Sara-la-Kâli through the streets. As we join the parade, music and dancing fill the streets, and the smell of the horses and the sea mingle in the air. We sway with dancers of unmatched grace, shoulder-to-shoulder sharing in their reverence and joy as we make our way to the beach. 

I am lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Saint Sara-la-Kâli’s statue up close. She is draped in so many layers of rich, brightly coloured fabrics, blues, reds, greens, and golds that her face is hardly visible. Marie tells me that each colour and layer is a token of someone’s prayer, a symbol of their journey to this place. Many in the crowd clutch candles or portraits of loved ones, and a few hold onto ancient family talismans, their eyes focused intensely on their Black Madonna as she passes by. The men carrying her are dressed in white, their faces a blend of concentration and solemnity as they hold her aloft, chanting softly under their breath, prayers passed down through generations. 

The crowd presses closer, and there is a reverent hush that falls as Saint Sara-la-Kâli reaches the shore. Some people reach out to touch the hem of her robe or press their hands to their hearts, whispering words I cannot understand but feel deeply nonetheless. On the beach, we see more horses and their gardiens wading out into the water, followed by the men carrying Saint Sara-la-Kâli, as her robes drift onto the surface of the sea. Together they guide her into the waves, and for a moment it’s as if she is suspended between two worlds. She is a bridge, a symbol of hope, and connection to the Romani’s ancient faith that binds them all across borders and cultures.

Together they guide her into the waves, and for a moment it’s as if she is suspended between two worlds. She is a bridge, a symbol of hope, and connection to the Romani’s ancient faith that binds them all across borders and cultures.

The gathering ends

With a final, slow breath, Saint Sara-la-Kâli is dipped into the water, and there is an exhale from the crowd — a collective release, as if each prayer has been sent out across the waves, into the world. Around me, people embrace, some quietly weeping, others raising their arms to the sky in jubilation. The energy has shifted, from anticipation to fulfilment, and the music resumes, swelling now in joy. 

The sea reflects the shimmering colours of the Black Madonna’s robes as if carrying them out across the horizon. At this moment, by the water’s edge, there is a sense of peace that fills me; it’s an unexpected kinship. The Romani people from all over Europe have journeyed here to feel a part of something ancient, sacred, and alive, and they have graciously welcomed Marie and me into their gathering.

The Romani people from all over Europe have journeyed here to feel a part of something ancient, sacred, and alive, and they have graciously welcomed Marie and me into their gathering.

This extraordinary day together as lifelong friends has given Marie and I precious time to reflect on our own lives. We find ourselves immersed in a culture rooted in freedom and resilience, qualities that resonate with both of us. The Romani people’s devotion, their music, and their camaraderie remind us of the importance of honouring our own roots and the connections that sustain us. 

One of my favourite memories of the day is the quiet conversation Marie and I have at the edge of the sea, with the sounds of the festival fading into the background. We talk about the twists and turns our lives have taken, and how our friendship and our gatherings throughout the years have carried us through and strengthened us.