“Once upon a time there was a girl who lived on the outskirts of the forest. She was lively and bright, and she wore a red cloak, for that way if she ever went astray she would always stand out against the trees and the bushes. As the years went by, and she became more woman than girl, she grew more and more beautiful.many men wanted her for their bride, but she turned them all down. None was good enough for her, for she was cleverer than every man she met and they presented no challenge to her.

Her grandmother lived in a cottage in the forest, and the girl would visit her often, bringing her baskets of bread and meat and staying with her for a time. While her grandmother slept, the girl would wander among the trees, tasting the wild berries and strange fruits of the woods. One day, as she walked in a dark grove, a wolf came.

It was wary of her and tried to pass without being seen, but the girl’s senses were too acute. She saw the wolf, and looked into its eyes and fell in love with the strangeness of it.

When it turned away, she followed it, traveling deeper into the forest than she had ever gone before. The wolf tried to lose her in places where there were no trails to follow, no paths to be seen, but the girl was too quick for it, and mile after mile the chase continued. At last, the wolf greaw weary of the pursuit, and it turned to face her. It bared its fangs and growled a warning, but she was not afraid.

Lovely wolf… she whispered. You have nothing to fear from me.
She reached out her hand and placed it upon the wolf’s head. She ran her fingers through its fur and calmed it. And the wolf saw what beautiful eyes she had (all the better to see him with) , and what gentle hands (all the better to stroke him with). the girl leaned forward, and she kissed the wolf. She cast off her red cloak and put her basket of flowers aside, and she lay with the animal.”

Ce jour là, le rêve, c’était…
Se lever si tôt que nous étions seuls dans les rues sombres et endormies de Paris.
Partir sur nos vélos, le long du canal, dans le noir et le froid, dans une course avec le soleil, pour arriver avant, pour être les premiers, pour voir la forêt s’éveiller.
Sentir les feuilles, les branches, craquer sous nos pieds. Trouver dans nos sacs cette couverture rouge, voir tout à coup du sens, un clin d’oeil.
Une fois passé le froid, la forêt, nos sourires émerveillés, nos rires, une fois passée l’incongruité, une fois passée l’inspiration. Une fois rentrés.
Voir du sens, après. Se déstabiliser. Penser aux loups de nos vies.
Lire ce passage du roman de John Connoly ( The book of Lost Things, le livre des choses perdues.) et sourire, et penser à elle, à nous, à la forêt et au rouge, penser à notre force, et se demander qui de la jeune fille ou du loup attrappe l’autre dans le filet de son regard.
Penser aux femmes qui courent avec les loups. Penser à la femme sauvage.
Et avoir confiance.

That day the dream was…
To get up so early that we were alone, out in the dark, sleepy streets of Paris.
To leave on our bikes, along the river, in the dark and cold, in a race against the sun, to get there first, to see the forest wake.
Feel the leaves, the twigs, cracking under our feet. Finding the red blanket in our bag and suddenly seeing a tale.
And once the cold was over, once we were done with the forest, with the smiles, with the strangeness and the inspiration. With the exhilaration. Once we were back.
Seeing meaning then. feeling uneasy. Thinking of the wolves in our lives, how they’d crept in.
Coming across this passage in John Connoly’s novel (the book of lost things), and smiling, and thinking of her, of us, of the forest and of the red, thinking of our strength.
Thinking of the girl and the wolf, and wonder who really catches the other with their eyes.
Thinking of women running with wolves.
Thinking of the wild woman.
Trusting ourselves and each other.

Dream again...