Lately I have been letting myself get sucked into the soup of negativity. My moods can turn into a downward spiral and I found myself swirling closer to the drain than I like to be. It is so much nicer to float on the surface. The murky depths were getting to me. So, for me, my best medicine to get my lower self out of my head, is to drive my convertible with the top down, sing at the top of my lungs, and just see where the drive takes me. Yesterday, my ultimate destination was to pick up dinner at The Fresh Market. I adore that grocery store. It makes me feel grown up and sophisticated to shop there. Everything is slower paced inside of the store. The lights are dimmed (almost like candlelight), symphony music plays subtly in the background, fresh cut flowers abound, no one walks fast or talks loudly on their phones while perusing the edible delights that are just about everywhere you look, and even the check out people are uninterruptedly deliberate, unflappable and even-paced. If you have a hard time meditating, just shop in the The Fresh Market. It’s a walking meditation.
Now getting back to my story – before I reached The Fresh Market, I was driving around, happily and aimlessly, and I realized that I was in close proximity to another delightful, unique French boutique that is in my vast collection of happy places. I don’t get there very often because it is a good half hour away from my home and is sort of a hidden gem, with no other stores near to it. I saw on my phone that it was open until four p.m., so with excitement fluttering in my chest, I steered my mechanical baby (my car) towards the boutique. I hadn’t been there since before the coronavirus mess, so I eagerly awaited our energetic embrace. I could feel my moodiness lifting, as I was driving, singing, and looking up to the bright blue sky, as I made my way to my savored destination.
As I turned the corner towards the store, I noticed that the boutique didn’t have their usual array of impossibly pretty planters (or jardinière, as the French say) out by the windows on the sidewalk. As I drove up to the strangely empty parking lot, my heart sunk down to the drain hole again, when I saw an enormous, indifferent “for sale” sign, on the empty, soulless, bare building that once housed a bustling spirit which took you away to France, without ever having to board a plane. I started cursing the fates. Why wasn’t I being supported in my attempts to uplift my energy?! (I have an unhealthy habit of personalizing everything.) Still, even at my depths, I am a ruggedly stubborn optimist. Google said that the boutique was “open.” Google had green open hours connected with my beloved boutique. Google is Big Brother. Google knows everything. Could my boutique have changed locations? I went to the Wizard of Google and I did actually find an alternate address. This address was just five minutes away.
You can guess the rest of the story. My darling little French boutique still exists! It has weathered coronavirus, and while smaller and cozier, its spirit still remains strong and elegant, as the shop owner hands out complimentary tea in beautiful porcelain tea cups, as you peruse her lovely, charming shop. As you know by now, I am always looking for the life lesson in everything. This experience reminded me to not lose hope. All is not lost. Gardens come back after winter, and all robust gardens started out as just tiny little seeds. When there is a will, there is a way. I purchased a CD of various French songs typically played in Parisian cafes (yes, even my husband was shocked to know that my car has a CD player) and I sang out loud, to words which I do not understand (but my heart seemed to know that they were wonderful words) and I headed to my next living meditation, in order to buy my family’s dinner makings.
Vouloir, c’est pouvoir. (When there is a will, there is a way.)
Impossible n’est pas français. (Impossible isn’t French.)