Grief, Life & French Psychics

In the south of France, I have decided to walk a few miles into the town of AIx-En-Provence to clear my head as I, like usual, contemplate my life. I walked a bit too far, and I have run out of water, so I take a seat against some cool marble along a quiet road void of tourists to sit for a moment and try to listen rather than think. 

15 minutes pass. Still, no answers to life have come from this. I need to find some water. I stand up and keep walking along the quiet street, only to turn a corner and discover a market of tents in a square. It’s amazing what you will find around the corners of these tiny, narrow streets here in France. I swear I didn’t hear a sound coming from this market before. It is as if it magically appeared once I turned the corner. 

There is no relief from the sun in this square, but I decide to trail along through it anyway. I walk past tents of fresh vegetables, fruits, carved wooden things, honey, candles… you know, typical flea market stuff, but no water. People behind their tables speak to me in French. Merci is all I say. Shouldn’t I be saying no, thank you? What is that? Non, merci? I get out my phone to translate, but I am too embarrassed even to try and speak French. I pass a tent with a table of cards, crystals, and a lady standing in front of a few chairs. We exchange a glance, and I continue walking. Then I stop and think… A French tarot reader?…. why not… 

“You have a fire to share with the world..”

I recoil from her words. Inside, I know it’s all of this wonderful, wise life experience I’ve gained through unmatched tragedy. (sarcasm)

But truly, the fire I do feel in my heart is burning with a desire to share it with the world. I want to connect other people’s hearts, maybe those that can relate. I want to share my life’s experiences. I know this is true, yet I still have to be petty and ask…  

WHAT IS THAT FIRE, TAROT READER?! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO TELL ME WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO DO! THAT’S WHY I’M HERE!

I am struggling to keep my eyes open. I am falling asleep in her tent; I feel a drip of sweat fall off of my eyebrow. I am sitting in a position that aerates my body most efficiently; no legs are crossed here. She is looking at me with smiling, enthusiastic eyes. I am almost annoyed, feeling as if she is trying to convince me with her enthusiasm for each card she pulls like it’s the greatest thing since air conditioning was invented.  

Laying the spread, she is ooh-ing and wow-ing at each card as if this reading is uniquely special, but I can’t imagine another soul bearing this heat as she apathetically pulls cards for them and tells them their life is shit. 

Why did I do this? I know better. But today, I am feeling so torn in my life, a familiar feeling I repetitively fall into as if the whole weight of the world rests on my shoulders. Every few months (or even in small ways, ever day) it seems I have an existential crisis, wondering if how I am spending my time is the right way to be spending my time. Wondering when my time will come, and if I would be happy with how I went out. I keep thinking it’s a car accident that gets me…

“You are not alone,” she says, picking up another card from the spread. She looks at me with a hint of a smile, like this is some funny secret she is sharing with me. “You have a big team.. uh..” she continues, struggling to find the English words…

When I walked into her tent, she warned me she had never given a reading in English and that her English wasn’t great.

“It’s better than my French,” I said, exhausted by the heat and life in general. I didn’t care. I needed some answers, and I didn’t care if half of it was in French; I figured if there was a message to get, I would get it. 

She finally finds the words, “Uh.. they are.. uh.. guiding you and supporting you. You have a big team,” she says, looking up, turning her head around in awe of a presence in the air surrounding her. Internally, I roll my eyes. She has no idea. They freaking better be, is my silent, expressionless reply as three people immediately come to mind: Mom, Dad, and Lily. I conceal my irritation. 

“Hmm…. wow,” I quietly say as I smile, nodding in acknowledgment at the lady looking at me, having just delivered some profound news. Perhaps she means spirit guides in general, this abstract idea I have played with for some time myself, but a part of me wonders if she knows somehow my parents and best friend are dead. 

“No, really. You are not alone; you must know this,” she says, looking at me more sternly this time; she’s not joking around. Her blue eyes are piercing with conviction. She really wants me to know this. Taking her words in, I lean back slowly in her blue velvet chair, shifting my weight only once every few minutes. Moving any part of my body fatigues me. Stillness is the key to staying cool. The wind is even hot. I’ve just walked 2 miles void of shade; I am extremely dehydrated, and now I am sitting in a dry sauna with a French psychic. 

Her seriousness wakes me up. 

The French intimidate me, but for some reason, in this tent that I spontaneously decided to walk into, the sense of differentiation has just eclipsed. I am sensing a connection of humanity, transcending language barriers, cultural barriers, and borders. There is a mutual connection, a mutual understanding of something greater than ourselves here in this little flea market in France. We are both looking at each other, not saying a word.  “You know this?” She breaks the silence of our gaze with an intriguing smile, a knowing smile. I’m looking back at her now with a look of confusion, wondering if I do know this. I don’t know this. Sadness looms over me, but defeatedly I admit, I usually believe this; it’s just a belief that is coupled with the grieving of their absence every day.  “Oui..” I sigh, opting for the one French word I know. Looking down, I reluctantly acknowledge this. I do believe this, that they are here, that I am not alone; I suppose sometimes I just struggle to fight the sadness I feel because they are also gone. 

Somehow she has convinced me. I have evolved from my state of observing her to connecting with her. She invites more intimacy in with her next words: “Promise me that you know this, that you are not alone.” I feel a bit taken aback by the request to make a promise, not just because she is a stranger, but because, and perhaps this is a little skewed, but life has taught me that there are no promises.

Looking her in the eyes, I nod slowly. 

“You have a fire to share with the world; this is your purpose, this is your…” she continues, muttering in French. 

NOVELTY! Gosh, I could’ve done this reading myself

You see, this trip for me wasn’t a vacation. This was me, once again, on a journey to find myself. My “fire.” This afternoon, I found myself dehydrated under the Provençal sun, having walked miles, contemplating how torn I feel on what steps I should take when this trip is over. I am trying to listen to my heart, but I am not really sure what it’s saying… so this psychic tent was worth a shot. 

“But… what is that fire? That is my problem.” I say, hoping she understands what I am asking. I feel I know what it is; I just want her to tell me too. She types the word she was searching for prior into the translator on her phone and hands it to me across the table of crystals and cards. Great. I have to move again. I sit up to meet her halfway, retrieving the phone. 

“Strength,” I read the word displayed across her screen aloud. “Yes, your fire is your strength!” she enthuses. I press her again, “But what is my fire?” hoping for some sort of direct answer this time. I know better than this; I know the answers are within me; I know there is no way in hell this French tarot reader is going to magically have the answers to my life. But still, I want to try and find out. 

“This is problem everyone has in life,” she says in broken English, smiling. Her words reassure me. This I agree with. I don’t feel I am being conned by these words. It comforts me as I take a minute to remember how almost everyone I’ve come across in my life is plagued with this feeling or has been before.

My fatigue and thirst were replaced by a feeling of connection and relief. Connecting with this French lady, the walls built from a number of differences were torn down by one common understanding. Our shared understanding that we are all human, we all are challenged by life’s unknowns and difficulties, and no matter what language you speak, we all speak the language of life, of grief, and loss… and that we can see that there is something quite beautiful about it all. I didn’t really get any direct next-step answers, but I felt better. 

I left French psychic lady behind in her oven tent and took with me a few understandings. We are never really alone, and whatever it is that lights your heart on fire is your strength. I knew these things; I suppose I just needed a $30 flea market reminder and a heat-induced transcendental state to hear them.

I hope this little tidbit moment made you smile. France is beautiful, and there have been many incredible moments I have experienced on my 30-plus day journey from here to Italy, but this one in particular somehow inspired me. Grief comes out in funny ways, even five thousand miles away from its origin.