Weeks passed, maybe months. He would catch wind of the stories and know she had passed this way. She was alive, though from the talk not well. Who could be?
Deep in the forest of Sainte-Baume he found her. Her clothes ripped by storm and wild animals, her hair matted and mangled as if to make a nest for the birds she loved so much. He watched her as she stumbled through the woods day after day, sometimes wailing, sometimes singing. All he knew was that he would stay with her. He wondered what she remembered, what memories had flown far from her.
At sunset, something in her would awaken, as if she had been startled and brought back in an instant to the horror of her life. She would run with a wild fury through the woods, always finding her way to the same spot.
There, she would lay on the forest floor, praying at first, then begging to be subsumed by the Earth that was her Mother. Night after night she returned here. Scattering the tiny flowers that grew on the forest floor, she would plead for forgiveness to the rock that reminded her of her Little Lion and all that had been lost to time. He had no words to offer and so he kept his vigil from afar.
This painting was inspired by time at Sainte-Baume in Provence, France, in the Spring of 2016 and by all I know by heart.