Life Is A Farmer’s Market

It was only yesterday where I was strolling with my wife on a breezy Sunday morning through the Farmer’s Market on Jabaquara Avenue. We have just moved to São Paulo, the never-ending mega city and cultural capital of Brazil. Practically a mile long, eager vendors greeted the bustling air with shouts of “bom dia, bom dia”, among countless rows of what seemed like every ingredient known to man. Every herb, spice, variety of fruit, vegetable, and meat, bean, and root had been accounted for.

It was then that I knew a certain chapter of my life had come to a close––and another, more brilliant, more saturated version of myself was destined to emerge. Forgive me for speaking this way, I get like this around Farmer’s Markets. It brings the poet out of me, the dreamer. And though this is not a fictitious version of myself, in fact, I believe it to be my truest version, my essence, it is something that is potentially vulnerable, potentially a victim. A victim of the daily maintenance, the doldrum, that debilitating depression that can hit like a wall, out of the void.

It has gotten me before, and at moments, time is on the depression’s side. As minutes turn into hours, hours to days, days to years and then years into a lifetime. You’ll want to crush the depression before your whole existence is tarnished, before you’ve either thrown it all away, wasted years either chasing what you did not want, or wanting what was never ever for you in the first place. Doing all this with a scowl, torturing yourself and perhaps those around you.

So concerned with a chase of a kind, you may even forget to dream. But of course, nobody gives a damn about anybody else’s dreams. Those are on you––to either squash or protect, to realize or to grow out of. Modern humans need more time to dream than ever. We often say we should “make time” for this or that, but of course, nobody can make time. Time is just like space––it is to be used, not to be filled.

Yes, it was just yesterday that I could understand the chapters of a life unfolding in real time. It was as though I had become an assassin–a silent killer of those very things that were killing me. Where once I was on the very edge of ruin, my addictions becoming more pronounced, isolating, rearing upwards, attaching themselves onto my personality like a tattoo, I can now, with the time to dream, listen to myself. But of course, one can get sick of themselves. That is partly how I see addiction––trying to get as far away from yourself as you can. Hate is not the opposite of love, nor is apathy. Addiction is the opposite of love and is also the essence of self-abuse.

Gratitude walks hand in hand with love. But one cannot be grateful for everything. In my heart, I know I am a cynic. I cast doubt on the world and the things it produces. I am skeptical of achievement, accomplishment, fame, and the wealthy. But I find these things float away when I am not in front of a screen. When I stay away from the noise, my heart is fuller, laughter is hearty, I kiss my wife for no particular reason at all.

When strolling through the Farmer´s Markets, I am a man at his very best. I want to inspect everything. All the senses are held in the rightful position; all things are glorious, delicious, full of life. Affirmations come in the form of watermelon, bushels of mint, basil, thyme. There are no politics here. There is no debating, no warrants, no leases, no fine print, no sleight of hand, no doom.

If one action should replace an addiction, I aim to make the Farmer’s Market my replacement. I aim to love many things, as a sensualist, who can summon gratitude at his very own will.

Strolling through the Farmer´s Market, time is slowed to a crawling pace. Briefly, and perhaps dramatically, I am reminded of our most shared trait. A well known but nevertheless devastating fact; we, too, will all perish! Just as we are living, we will surely die, sometime, some day. The fresh flowers of the market that will soon wilt, the vegetables that will either be devoured by mouth or time, the herbs that will lose their pungency all remind me of this natural fact of our shared lives, across all species. And it is perhaps better this way. Because I know that I don’t want to live forever.

Time is the ultimate motivation, the purest resource. It can neither be bought nor sold, borrowed nor loaned. And I don’t think life is short. Life is not always short. Life can be long, if you live with intention. Life is long if you can learn to use it, rather than fill it with trivialities, which so very often come in the form of blinking screens, and infinite scrolls that ironically, at certain moments, prompts us with its startling inquiry: “are you a human? Are you a robot?”

So, in the darkest hours, I find solace, shelter, gratitude in the colors, sounds and smells of the market. I believe everyone should have a version of this, whatever it happens to be, wherever it may be.

Wrong Speak is a free-expression platform that allows varying viewpoints. All views expressed in this article are the author's own.