Heartmoor
The sun emerged on Friday after hours of rain the day before. Whereas snow would be falling thick and fast back home, the weather here reminds me of the Pacific Northwest: gray, wet, and a bit gloomy. Perfect for curling up by a floor-to-ceiling window and putting words to paper.
I managed to capture three new poems on Friday, and one more this morning. My creative focus has shifted toward building a poetry collection while also experimenting with a few essay, prose, and memoir-esque pieces during my time here.
The residency hosts eleven writers alongside sixteen musicians, visual artists, and photographers. Our days are largely independent and creativity-driven, though some group sessions are beginning to take shape as we settle in.
Last night, the writers gathered for a prompt-led free-writing session before dinner. It was both wonderful and intimidating to sit in a circle, sharing raw work. The range of styles, interests, forms, and focuses was a gift—a reminder of how vast and varied our creative expressions can be.
Wandering the Landscape
Friday afternoon found me tromping through the woods and winding lanes. If the rain lifts, I’ll do more of the same today. Sleep, as usual in a new place, has been elusive, but the fresh air clears my foggy brain.
Here in Orquevaux, a little river winds its way down from the hills, through the village, and into a small lake below the château. I learned the source of the river isn’t far away and is an easy hike, so I pulled on my boots and set off. Words fail me here because I can’t quite describe the sentient benevolence of this landscape.
It’s a place steeped in history—tragic and pastoral alike. The village has seen war and Nazi occupation, rebuilding, and now the quiet blooming of an art community with galleries tucked into weathered corners. For me, as an American, everything feels fascinating and noteworthy. Locals greet me on the street with warmth, but bemusement. Tolerance, even. But stepping just outside the village onto the tracks winding through pastures of sheep and into the woods, a different feeling takes hold.
Held is the closest English word I can muster. But John Koenig’s term from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows feels more apt:
Heartmoor (n.) — The primal longing for a home village to return to, a place that no longer exists, if it ever did; the fantasy of finding your way back home before nightfall, hustling to bring in the cattle before the rains come; picturing a cluster of lanterns glowing on the edge of a tangled wood, hearing the rattle and hiss of meals cooking over a communal fire, finding your place in a crowded longhouse made of clay-packed thatch, where you’d sit and listen to the voices of four generations layered into a canon, telling stories of a time when people could still melt into a collective personality and weren’t just floating around alone. From heart + moor, to tie a boat to an anchor.
I walked for almost two hours and didn’t quite reach the river’s source—or la source, as they say here. The light began to fade around 4:30pm, and while I never felt uneasy in the mild wilds, common sense dictated I turn back before darkness fell on the French countryside.
Creative Vulnerability and Connection
I returned just in time to join the evening writing circle. We discussed the vulnerability required to throw words onto a page and read them aloud, heart pounding, in front of a roomful of strangers with little to no edits or revisions. Afterward, we lingered over dinner, talking late into the night about famous films and filmmakers, stories written and unwritten, art created and lost. We spoke of the ways we are all leaving pieces of ourselves here—in a place that feels both familiar and strange.
This experience—writing, wandering, and sharing in this extraordinary landscape—has brought me closer to a truth I’ve long known but will probably spend my life trying to articulate. The act of creating is deeply tied to the spaces we inhabit, the people we share them with, and the histories that ripple through them. Here in Orquevaux, I feel tethered—not just to this place but to something more enduring, something that lingers just out of reach but feels wholly real.
Heartmoor, indeed.
