Trader Joe’s

Or: a brief study in shame, parking spots, and the real location of spiritual practice.

Yesterday, I got yelled at in the Trader Joe’s parking lot.

It was actually yell-worthy.

I pulled into a spot, and then the person directly in front of me pulled out. I just kept going and pulled into that one in front, so I was facing out. It was better for me.

I did check with the person’s eyes coming around the corner, but they were leaving. Only the guy behind them was eyeing that prime spot, and as I slipped ahead, he shouted and waved his arms about.

He did actually get a different good spot, but then we were going into Trader Joe’s at the same time.

I waited until he went in first, but then he lingered around in produce. I averted my eyes and slunk through arugula to shiitake mushrooms and ran through the store, grabbing random things I don’t know if I actually needed.

While I slunk, multiple feelings crashed through my body.

First of all, I want to say what an actual feeling is. “I feel he’s an asshole” is not a feeling. A feeling is a sensation in our bodies that we label with a word we’ve named that sensation as. “I feel hungry” is also not a feeling. It’s a sensation of hunger.

I was feeling shame.

I was the asshole.

I was feeling fear. My brain flipped images of white angry men escalating with rage and anger, where I was unsafe, or people on TV were unsafe, or friends were unsafe, or the world is unsafe.

There was also a part of me that looked at myself and judged me.

Well, look at you.
The parking lot parking-space stealer.
The slinker.

I want so badly to be seen as good. It rattles me when someone sees me as bad, and I believe they’re right.

There was another part of me that wanted to channel my inner Byron Katie and float benevolently over to him without fear and say: “I want to apologize. I took the parking space, and I already had one. Thank you for pointing that out to me. I appreciate you helping me see this.”

And look at him with 100% love and connection. Even if he had a gun to my head.

How does she do this?

Well, I am not Byron Katie.

I am the parking space stealer.
The slinker.
At Trader Joe’s.

But I could see and feel all the parts jangling inside.

Something in me sat peacefully observing the shit show going on in my head.

The other thought I had was, well, well, you talk to people about having peace and freedom in any circumstance, and you are rattled by a parking lot guy who is happily getting soy milk.

How can you tell people peace is possible?

Do you know what people go through?

Hypocrite, my mind said to me.

The Trader Joe’s slinker.

And that’s me.
After years of working on myself.

What the fuck?

How has any of what I’ve done helped me with that moment?

The part that helped me, that I can proudly declare, is that I noticed.

I can notice my own beautiful body.
I can notice my mind.
I can notice who I become in the parking lot with that competitive vying for parking spots.

I want to win.
Strategize.
Get the best spot for me.

Do I want to win parking lot next time? Trader Joe’s on a weekend?

I get to see all the parts and see what I do next.

Do I shrink and become one of those good, nice people I can’t stand?

I don’t know.

But I have a choice.

I can learn from all of it. I can listen to all of me and see what needs some love.

And I can see what needs some love.

I see I am not kind at all to myself when I make a mistake. Although I would never call it a mistake if I got away with it.

I see I’m the one beating me up.

The guy is calmly walking around buying things for a salad.

I’m the one running head down, trying not to be bombed by someone else’s blame and shame.

But it’s just me.

I’m bombing myself no matter how much I slink or slide through the aisles.

I can give some love to crazy me.

She thinks she’s avoiding bombs in Gaza, and really, she’s just running around Trader Joe’s looking weird, bombing herself.

The only good part is that I live in Asheville, and there are many weird people in Trader Joe’s, so no one notices me too much.

But really, I want to be the cool one in Trader Joe’s.

Not the weird one.

So I’m going to work on it.

Because the real test of inner peace is not the meditation cushion.

It’s whether you can keep it together in the Trader Joe’s parking lot.