Jean Vanier, founder of the L’Arche communities around the world – where people with visible disabilities, and people whose disabilities are less visible, live and work together – has won a prestigious prize.
My new memoir, set in 1979, centres around a key event that year: my time working at a L’Arche community in Provence. It was life-changing in every way and I will always be grateful – to the mentally and physically challenged men I lived and worked with and to my fellow assistants, to the friends who gave me, a half-Jewish atheist, a job in this most Catholic of workplaces, and to Jean Vanier, whose vision of love, generosity, kindness and forgiveness made these scores of communities possible. Here’s the essay I wrote about the experience that I read on the CBC in 1998.
south of France that I’ll be sorry to miss. My invitation reads, “Soon
the community of the Moulin de l’Auro will celebrate its twentieth
birthday!” Just holding the letter, with its French postmark, takes me
back to the summer my life changed for good. When I worked at the Moulin de
l’Auro, in 1979, the community was brand new. After my stay there, I was brand
new, as well.
without work. Since I’d never taken a post-college tour through Europe, I
decided to do so now: I would take a quick trip to Europe and find myself. After Greece and
Italy, however, I remained unfound. Then I stopped in the south of France to
visit my old roommate, Lynn. Years before, when we were working together in
Toronto, Lynn had gone to hear the Canadian visionary Jean Vanier speak about
his life’s mission, the founding of communities where people who are mentally
and physically disabled, and people who are not, would live and work together. After
listening to this eloquent and passionately spiritual man, Lynn had immediately
volunteered to spend a year working at l’Arche – ‘the Ark’, the first of
Vanier’s communities in a village north of Paris.
around the world, and Lynn was the mother of 3 1/2 French children. Her husband
Denis, who’d done his military service as a conscientious objector at L’Arche,
had recently founded a new community, Le Moulin de l’Auro, an ancient mill and
rambling stone house in the spectacular Provencal village of Gordes. I dropped
in to spend a few days with Lynn and Denis and their children, and left the
village nearly six months later, transformed.
away on vacation for want of a driver, I suddenly realized – here was a once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity. Rescheduling my affairs long-distance, I offered my services and
moved into the community. My new circumstances were a shock, at first. I’d
never known anyone with a great and obvious deformity, and the men I now lived
with had deformities that were great and obvious indeed: Patrick, whose boxer’s
face was covered with cuts and swellings, the result of falls during his
frequent epileptic seizures; Jean-Luc, with a small powerful body and a child’s
mind, subject to uncontrollable rages; Yannick, a huge man who rarely spoke;
jerky Hughes, scowling Francois, handsome, psychotic Michel.
some disabilities are immediately visible, and some only become apparent in
time. We assistants, I found, were just as handicapped – Vanier would say,
“as wounded” – as Patrick and the others. We didn’t have epilepsy or
Down’s Syndrome, but we were closed and unloving, or selfish, or greedy, or
lazy, or frightened, or small.
grow in community. We ate together, worked, played and rested together. This
odd group became my family, with all that a family entails: one moment a
desperate desire never to see these people ever again; the next, a need to help or
be helped, to hear or be heard, to be with the others, in community.
handles, learning to cook for twenty, learning that washing up for twenty can
be a quick and pleasant chore with a cheerful group, I drove a number of us in
the minibus to our August vacation, just like every other French family. The
parents of one of the assistants had lent us an empty farmhouse in the middle
of a sheep field. And there we lived for a month: four assistants and nine
disabled men, in a sea of sheep.
there we pitched a tent in a nearby field, to give the men a chance to sleep
outside. I went to camp with volatile little Jean-Luc and Yannick the silent
giant. During the night a violent storm broke; lightning cracked the sky, and
rain battered our shelter. Yannick snored serenely, but Jean-Luc was terrified.
To calm him – to calm myself too – I held him in my arms until he fell asleep. The
next day, beaming in the pale morning sun, he announced to the others in his
halting speech that we were now married.
special friend. I tried to explain, the others tried, but he was firm: we had
hugged at night, and he knew from movies, that’s what married people did. Though
I turned away from him again and again, he kept reappearing by my side,
hopeful, bewildered. We would move to the city, he told me, and he would drive
a truck. I swore that I would never again be careless with loving gestures, or
with love itself.
handles, cleaning, cooking, sitting together at a long table to eat and argue,
talk and sing. We invited the village to a party at the Moulin, and produced a
play in which Yannick starred as a very tall, talking princess; Jean-Luc
provided his own kind of music on a stringless guitar. As the season grew
colder, my heart grew bigger. When I left, in November, I was overwhelmed with
love for these men, who had taught me so much and were so beautiful.
and others and had been sent back to the hospital for a change in
medication. Denis then had an inspiration. When Jean-Luc returned to the
community, everyone called him by another name: Tom. His rages stopped. Jean-Luc
may have been angry, but Tom wasn’t. He was Tom for awhile, and then he became
Jean-Luc again, sunny as a child. When I came back to visit after many years, he
knew me right away. “Ma copine!” he called, with a huge smile.
Birthday, Moulin de l’Auro. To all of you, I wish a joyous weekend celebrating
the power and the glory, for better and for worse, of community. Now that I am
so firmly found, I can’t easily leave my family and work to travel, so I won’t
be there, with you.
that weekend, as for the past nineteen years, you will all be here, with me.