On Learning to Trust

One theme of sabbatical, that I am sure is regularly true in my daily life at home too but somehow seems more pronounced here, have been all the “happy accidents.” Every one of them began as a near-catastrophe (the “nightmares” I referred to in the first post of this series), but since then have smoothed themselves into something beautiful, like a jagged rock being tumbled into a shiny gemstone over time.

I’ll tell the story of two of them here.

The first “happy accident” began our second week in France. We were minding our own business on the sheep farm when I got a message from the host of the next airbnb we’d be staying at. One thing led to the next, and over the course of the next hour it was revealed that the house was not a house but a room in a boardinghouse; that it would be impossible for Tom to work from there (our host’s word, not mine), and that she thought I was an absolute idiot for not realizing any of this sooner.

I checked and re-checked the airbnb listing. No mention of any of this. Nothing beyond lovely photos of a spacious home and- the crowing jewel- a bathtub. Not even a single review mentioning that it was a boarding house, except for from three weeks prior- which was long after I’d stopped reading the reviews, since I’d booked six months before.

I sent her a screen shot of what I was seeing to try and explain my confusion. She sent me a screen shot back of the phrase, embedded in the listing: “The key word of the house is friendliness.”

“This makes it completely clear,” she wrote.

I felt more confused than ever.

Perhaps, I thought, it’s a translation mistake. After all, airbnb auto-translates it’s listing, and who’s to say they do a good job? Maybe the words in French would be that most famous of French words, Fraternité. And maybe it would mean, in this case, an actual fraternity- like a frat house. (which is, in the end, essentially what it was). I looked at the listing in its original French and found the key phrase. “Conviviality.” The key word of the house is conviviality. Reader, this did not make any of it clearer.

At this point, it was approaching bedtime and we were meant to travel eight hours the very next day to go to this friendly, convivial house. She wouldn’t let me outright cancel the reservation without forfeiting my entire payment (well within her right as an airbnb host). I didn’t see another option but to go, but let her know that we would have to change the reservation to an early departure on Monday, when Tom had a full day of coaching clients. And again, in her words, it was impossible for us to work there. (It turned out that was at least true). Thankfully, she agreed, which cut our time there short by over a week

We spent the next three days in a sort of hellscape that I hope to never repeat. Our bedroom was on the third floor, and it was ninety degrees every day, so it was boiling hot. (There’s no such thing as residential air conditioning in Europe, in case you’ve ever wondered). At night we’d open our window to try and get some relief for sleep but there would be people smoking cigarettes below the window to all hours, so we’d have to shut it again. (Maybe the oddest thing about France to me, other than the difficulty of finding fresh milk, is how many people of every age smoke cigarettes constantly). The people smoking would also be loudly talking and laughing until 3 am, making it impossible to sleep (or have zoom meetings). The bathtub I’d been so looking forward to- the only one, incidentally, on our whole trip? Impossible to use, with one shared bathroom between six people coming and going at all hours. One of these ill-fated days I had a bathroom emergency (I have gastroparesis, it happens), and I thought the girl across the hall was going to knock the door down, she was so irate at me for not coming out promptly. That particular story has a very unhappy ending, but it’s not subject matter for substack.

At any rate, as I mentioned in this post, one of my favorite coping strategies is scrolling the airbnb app for lovely (and budget-friendly) places to stay, and scroll I did, night after night, as people cavorted raucously downstairs (I’ve always wanted a reason to write “cavorted raucously!) and we sweated in our attic garret. (It’s like a Brontë novel!) It wouldn’t be excessive to say my chronically ill and always in pain body grieved the loss of that bathtub, too.

Unfortunately, summer in France is a popular time on the airbnb app, and I wasn’t finding anything worth looking twice at, until finally, the night before we were supposed to leave, I did.

The Witches’ House.

La Maison des Sorcieres.

I’ve told the rest of that story here.

And I also talked about it on this episode of The Witchy Therapist Podcast.

Because the cherry on top of that particular story is that my job that week was to record a bunch of episodes for The Witchy Therapist Podcast…which couldn’t be done in the frat house, but couldn’t have been better suited for La Maison des Sorcieres. For obvious reasons.

But all of that to say…what was one of the lowest moments (days?) of sabbatical became one of the highlights. And I find the Universe has a funny way of making that happen.

Then there’s the story of how we got to our current, and final, lodging.

Six weeks into sabbatical, I knew that it really could never be long enough…and that rather than spend two days traveling into and back from the Italian Alps, as planned, I’d rather stay put in a French village, complete with views and a boulangerie to walk to every day.

Turns out I can’t get enough of that lifestyle.

As usual, I snuggled into bed with my friend the airbnb app.

And lo and behold was a beautiful villa in Tourrettes sur Loup that would usually be outside of our price range, but was discounted due to it being on such short notice.

 

The cherry on top?
It has a bathtub.

 

This feels like a full circle moment for sure, and every part of my heart is grateful. But the really beautiful part is that over the years, due to “happy accident” after “happy accident”, I’ve learned to trust the process.

Not to trust- hear me on this- that everything is going to work out perfectly.

I’ve experienced too much trauma, loss, and illness…and hold too much space for it every day in my work as a trauma therapist…to ever think that.

But to trust, simply, that everything will work.

No, that’s not a typo.

Everything will work.

It’s like a trust fall. You throw yourself backward into the air, and gravity does what gravity will do. Hopefully you will be caught by some gentle and yet also strong arms. Maybe you won’t be caught at all (horrors! We’ve somehow gone from Brontë to Mean Girls). Most likely, you’ll be somehow caught and also elbowed in the back and perhaps sustain some bruising.

Gravity will work exactly as it’s meant to. You can trust that, when you fall.

Everything will work.

Sometimes the work is hard and sweaty and in the end you have to poop in a bag in your boiling hot attic garret room (oops- I said that wasn’t a story for substack!)

Other times the work is easy and beautiful.

Either way, hopefully there’s a bathtub at the end of it. At least, eventually.

It’s like that saying- this too will pass– that I used to love because I only applied it to the hard things. And it is true of the hard things. But I’ve since learned to love it even more because I apply it to all the things. The most beautiful moment you’ve ever lived? It will pass. The most precious person you’ve ever loved? They will pass. The hardest moment of your life, or perhaps pooping into a bag in a boarding house? That will also pass.

This is the nature of life. This is trusting the process. This is what allows me to love the accidents, of every kind.

This was originally posted on Charity’s Substack, which you can read here.