Dear Larry

Dear Larry,

I wonder if you realize how important your enthusiastic messages of support are to me? I run out of similar messages inside my head, so they’re life-supporting. You’ve asked many times lately how I am doing. No writing or photography is coming out – and they can’t be forced.

Larry is a friend from a too brief chapter in my life, someone who sees strength and joy in me, when I do not. I think of Kurt Vonnegut’s advice to write to just one person, to keep the writing real. There are a lot of Larrys in my life, how lucky am I, and I write to you. You keep me real. You keep me going. Thank you.

Terrace, Monday night. The terrace is one meter wide, sticking off the backside of the house. Here we are, me and the dog, each dealing with our hypervigilance issues. I don’t know what his life was like before I became his human. He is surrounded by aggressive, feral cats in our new home – he is afraid to go toilet in his own garden. Crepe myrtles vibrating with bees right next to my head invade my headspace. They prefer the flowers to me, so all is okay, I decide. Our garden is not our private space though.

One hundred steps away is my shop, the window framed in a good green, not too spruce, more basil, French. It’s in its evening mode as I write, window lights gentle, wonky, inviting you to press your face close, and look inside. Come back tomorrow. I will be there, walking by the corner where the pizza guys piss in the alley, to get there. That’s the only commute issue.

A customer today said, “ This space is like you! So inviting, good taste, friendly.” I will keep that one in my apron pocket, for sure. Even a tiny kid who didn’t enter said, “ Mom, it is really nice inside.” I am not sure I have ever had so much positive feedback in my life. The shop is not on the central place, however, which cuts potential clientele a lot. Good grief, I say, in my moments of distress – pick the most remote place you can find in the worst economic climate, and sit on the outskirts. Way to go.

Out front of the house, it is also very close quarters. I have asked the baker a number of times not to park in front of my garage with its NO PARKING official legal sign. Almost spitting in my face, she scoffs, on my third request, and“ I will have to call the gendarmes”, with a “PFFT”, which means, in French, “ I call your bluff, you stupid foreigner; they will never come.” Inhale. It has taken A LOT of years and miles to learn that is okay to say NO, when someone transgresses my space, my sensibilities, or ANYTHING that is not okay with me. I am not always adept at saying NO and getting the result I want. And she is still parked there. I will keep you posted.

I love my fellow merchants here in this out-of-the-way village in southwest France. Annual income comes from tourists (we are too poor to buy much from each other, although we try, as a way of saying, “Your stuff is cool, worthy. Hang on.”) comes in one to four months, August, for sure, and June, July, and September, maybe. All over France, and according to one shopper, Italy, it is the same this year – the number of people is half what it was last year, and those who come are spending less. This part of the EU is experiencing a whole lot of fear and contraction.

Reasons I love them as a whole: If nobody shows up to buy our stuff, there are reasons, like “it is too hot, they are all sleeping or in their swimming pools.” Rain, well, “ it is raining, they are visiting chateaus.” “ Wait a year before you despair.” Most of all, I appreciate my neighbor merchant saying today, “ Hey, if doesn’t work, you will find what does.”

I could not send you a slick facebook post. Gaaah, I don’t want you to think I am Pollyanna. I am vulnerable, and in a most risky situation. BUT.

Here is what is awesome:

• I am living in the moment, navigating anxiety much better than I used to do – wait, that is not quite right – I am STICKING with it, as opposed to turning my back on everything stressful.

• I am proud of my shop and the aesthetic and values behind it.

• There are some fine people in my life, and the rest, well, they just haven’t understood, YET, that I don’t mean them harm.

• There are some paths out of my dire situation, and if I don’t give in to fear, I will find them.

• I miss my homeland and my family – like a well of grief down my spine, but I know more peace here than I have ever known. How can it be? I am far from the Pacific Ocean, the clean, fresh air, and my beloveds. The tears are heavy, full of salt, but, I have grown fat, and I am content.

Thunder is rolling down south, in Gascony. My friend there is already canning tomatoes – my Romas are like little bunions, still. When will they be tomatoes? I have not really cooked or gardened in forever. Who is emerging? This better be good.