I have just returned from a month-long journey to France.
While I have traveled many, many times to France with very full and intentional itineraries, this trip was fundamentally different. I went on a personal residency in Ménerbes, which lies in the heart of the dreamy Luberon region of Provence.
My agenda was simple -
I went to make space for stillness. To walk without destination. To listen.
To see with fresh eyes. I went to feed my soul.
After the sudden loss of my husband last year, life became something unfamiliar. The shape of my days changed overnight, and in the months that followed, I found myself trying to understand not only profound grief, but also who I would become within it, searching for a way to simply be.
My month began in Paris.
The city moved around me with its usual elegance—cafés opening onto narrow streets, windows dressed with studied nonchalance, galleries hidden behind heavy doors.
There is always comfort and inspiration in observing and being in a place that has long understood the relationship between beauty and daily life.
Then came the welcome, slower rhythm of Provence.
Mornings arrived gently. Church bells marked the hours instead of notifications. Bread carried home in paper, markets where I gathered fresh produce and flowers for the week... celebrating the quiet rituals of everyday life.
There was no dramatic revelation. Healing rarely announces itself that way. It arrived instead in fragments.
I wandered through villages where stone walls have witnessed centuries of human life. I visited museums, artists' studios, galleries, and flea markets where forgotten objects waited patiently for their next chapter.
I spent countless hours simply sitting, listening to the cicadas and swallows as the light moved across the walls, streets, and land. I began to pause and notice details... the close-up textures and patina of things—worn wood, iron softened by time, thoughtful brushstrokes, well-loved ceramics, faded linen that had grown softer over time, gardens allowed to spill over stone walls.
I became deeply aware of the intention and the hands of the makers—the artisans, shopkeepers, florists, cooks, bakers, and builders.
Travel has always been one of my great teachers, and this time it revealed something simple yet profound.
Inspiration isn't something we chase. It is something we make room for... allowing ourselves to be changed by what we notice.
This may be the greatest gift this month offered me.
Perhaps what this month taught me is that joy and sorrow can exist together and both inspire.
That beauty doesn't erase loss but can gently accompany us through it. Healing doesn't arrive all at once; it can come quietly through simple rituals, connections with old and new friends, and places that remind us to be still.
My hope is that everything Caroline Shop is for you brings joy, a sense of curiosity, and a connection to the world, both near and far.
With gratitude,
Caroline
