Art Heals: Long Spoons

Yesterday I went to the grocery store.  Ordinarily, this would be a mundane event, a chore I would put off until the cupboard was nearly bare (or I ran out of Pringles, whichever came first).  When I live in France, I love to shop for food. But there, I visit the traiteur, the boulangerie, the patisserie. I offer my bonjour, madame to the fishmonger and bonjour, monsieur to the butcher.  Choosing fresh vegetables at the Marché Bio is like visiting an art gallery (look, point, but don’t touch), the stallholders mound them in pyramids of freshness.  The entire experience of grocery shopping is one of visual pleasure and social communication. 
But for me, shopping in the age of covid is like a nightmarish supermarket sweep.   Go early, before the crowds, don’t forget the list, get masked and gloved, enter and follow the one-way signs, which means 3-aisle detours when the aisle I need is blocked by the restocking cart.  Throw away the list—search for substitutions. 
Speed past the empty bins where the chicken used to be.  Don’t get crazy when that gloveless shopper picks up the apple, squeezes, puts it down, picks up another, sniffs, puts it back.
Move fast.  Unlock the shopping cart wheels when they jam because you are moving too fast.  Remember to breathe.  Smile big at the cashier so she can see it in my eyes despite the mask.  Thank her.  Load the bags as fast as possible because the next shopper is right there up in my space.  Leave.  Get home, disinfect the gloves, the mask, every single item in the bags. Forgot three things. Not going back. 
Check my privilege here.  I live close enough to walk to the store.  I have enough funds to shop for the foods I need and the foods I want, not always the same. I contribute to the food bank funds when I shop.  But to be frank, the whole experience drains my empathy well almost dry.  All I can think of is me, me, me—what I want, what I need and how much I hate this.
So, in trying to replenish the empathy well, I discovered the parable of the long spoons.  It seems that in a certain town, all the people were invited to a feast. Seated opposite one another at long refectory tables, they were given very, very long spoons.  Delicious platters of food were placed before them, but try as they might, they could not manipulate the spoons to their hungry mouths. Elbows bent, arms over heads, nothing worked.  Then one person realized that his spoon could reach the person opposite, and vice versa. If he fed his neighbor, his neighbor would feed him, and all would eat.
Lesson learned.  Grocery anxiety will remain, but I will try to temper it with empathy and care for those who only wish they could fill their carts.
Mona El-Bayoumi’s Tangerines comforts me today.  Art Heals.