Becoming Lovely, The Right Way

I was almost on the plane to Austin this morning, but that was before I looked at the ticket prices. It seems ridiculous to pay nearly the amount of the rent for my giant new workshop, to store a few precious things back in Texas. Still, the numbers told me the right choice is to get my retail space open, then go in the fall.

The stone wall across the alley catches the morning sun and reflects a golden glow inside my new rental house. The neighbors’ cherries are ripening and intermittently plunk on my terrace. Will I have time to make preserves? I thought I would still be in my housesitting situation, which gave me enough money to start my business, selling vintage, upcycled, and handmade things. The house sold, changing the numbers, and the pressure on my wallet... significantly. This new house and its neglected courtyard garden (ahh, such possibilities are down there) feel just right.

The "happy place" in my head is a cliff top on the West coast of the US, with seabirds shrieking, waves crashing below, and the mist rising up to meet my face. Here I am, surrounded by stone, far from the sea, and I feel more comfortable and safe than I ever have in my life. It must be true, because I cry when I write it.

The ping pong game in my head won’t relent. The business, what exactly do I do, people ask. Do I have enough merchandise, I ask myself. Do I have the right merchandise? Can I stay afloat through the coming winter when no tourists come here? There is no heat in the workshop. I have no revenue. Do I have the smarts and the energy to make this happen? Look how wonderful the linens look in the space. Mostly, it is the details - I have no idea what order to do them, reminding myself the goal is to get revenue as soon as possible. What is the right thing to do right now?

Outside my windows is Monpazier, the village that has let me call it home. It does not belong to me, I belong to it. The distinction is important to me. As I settle in, I learn things every day – relationships, gossip, history, how things are done. For example, twice a month we must all change the side of the street we park on. The streets are too narrow to allow parking on both sides, and, to be fair, each side must endure cars parked up against their facades. I knew about this before, but parked in the church parking lot. So, other than the unannounced spring day when the Thursday market blooms, and I found my car covered with linen clothes, I was out of the changing sides thing.

A shopkeeper had told me this must be done early in the morning on the 1st and the 16th. I woke with a start yesterday, rolled out of bed, and moved my car to the other side, taking care to allow enough space for a car to pass, since no other cars had moved yet. HONK HONK HONK, a few minutes later…what was that? The garbage truck couldn’t get through. The shopkeeper and the garbagemen were flailing arms. Two circuits around the village, and I finally found a spot in a field, because nobody had changed sides yet. Steam coming off the top of my head, I returned to the shopkeeper and said, “you told me to do it early!”

“Use your head, you have to leave enough space for cars to pass!”

“I did, but not enough for the garbage truck…”

I was still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

“You could have parked opposite your own house,” her voice raised significantly.

I hadn’t thought of that.

My self-righteous voice pitched higher, “I am trying to be a good neighbor, a good citizen! I did what you told me!”

Then, somehow, the, um, conversation, turned to the spot in front of my garage that has the sign NO PARKING HERE with a legal notice number. Her customers park there. She had warned me not to park in my garage in summer, saying I would never get out.

“The mayor told me that I do have the right to park in my garage all year round, and that they would enforce that.”

“Pfft,” she snorted. “Good luck.”

“But this is not a spot for your customers to park either...” YIKES. ERROR. ERROR

“ I am not a gendarme, I cannot control what my customers do.”

I asked around about the parking pickle. “Well,” others told me, “it really takes all day, sometimes two days, for all the cars to be parked on the right side. One person must leave, then people start moving their cars.”

Meanwhile, I’m figuring out what is the right thing to do today, so I can land right side up in this new life, with my workshop called Charmant, which means lovely. Becoming lovely is not an overnight thing, I am learning.

Emily Conyngham is a photographer and writer, and perpetual learner in southwest France. Her workshop, Charmant, celebrates handmade, remade, and vintage and good juju. Come along by subscribing to this blog, following her on Instagram @ateliercharmant, or on Facebook at Seeing France with Emily C. A bientôt.