As the gray Volkswagen I sit in slowly pulls into a wide parking spot, my brain quickly releases a copious amount of dopamine. It knows where I am the second my eyes meet the tall glass windows that are temporarily covered with a glistening white spray to imitate the snow that falls on windows in places with winters cooler than seventy degrees. I am in my happy place. A safe space that acts as a stress reliever where I can forget my dull life and behave like an excited kid in a candy shop. As I open the car door and step onto the rocky and partially beat up black pavement, more dopamine is released. I feel like I am on a rush as I inch closer and closer to the doors of my mothership. My hands clasp onto the long, thick matte silver door handle and clasp harder as I use all my arm strength to open the heavy, snow painted door. My brown stained Vans which were once white but have been dirtied with dust, dirt, mud and extremely excessive overuse delicately set foot onto the modern concrete tile flooring and into the large meticulously and perfectly decorated room. I have entered my destination. I am calm. I am relieved. This is a strange feeling, for I regularly dread large crowds and become horrified and anxious when I am a part of one. However, the flood of people means nothing to me, and I remain calm and happy. 

The people that fill the room are practically carbon copies of each other. White, female, middle aged, well dressed and pushy. They only talk of two things. “No. It’s not too expensive for a decoration. Besides, we will put it up every year until it either breaks or is no longer in style, so it is actually an investment. Okay, hun?” they remark to their husbands who are clearly displeased and obviously do not enjoy shopping. “Now, will this go in this room, or do I need a different set up?” is the second conversation they invoke in with the owner of the store. The owner, a short redhead in cropped jeans, a fancy blouse and black flip flops which show off her fresh pedicure pushes her glasses up to bridge from the tip of her nose, nods her head in reassurance and politely gives a varied version of a response that states the customer should buy more goods from her store. 

The conversations begin to mean nothing to me as my ears hone into the Christmas music playing from the built in speakers. The speakers are not the only source of music in the shop, for there are miniature houses that hum a short holiday themed tune and light up with just the flick of a switch delicately arranged on a large white shelf that stretches from the very top of the square tiled ceiling to the grey concrete flooring to the left of me. I turn so that my eyes can inspect them more closely. Some of the houses are small, measuring only four inches high, others are six inches tall, and a few are a massive twelve inches. They are all made of a sturdy plastic that is dyed either a light brown color with a tint of orange in it to resemble baked gingerbread or just plain white. The gingerbread houses have peppermint striped doors with two perfectly square windows that are frosted with an iridescent glitter right above it. Hanging from the roof are a bunch of tiny white icicles that are covered with the same sparkling glitter as the window. The peppermint houses have a plain red door, circular peppermint candies as windows and red, white and green candy cane twists at each corner of the house. A red ribbon like trimming hangs around the edges of the heavily sparkled red colored roof. Piped white stripes that have the same texture as a churro sit on the sides of the roof, and multicolored sprinkles lightly cover them. 

Small figurines of white mice in blue sweaters and red striped beanies accompany the many different sized houses along with soft, fuzzy paper white reindeers that wear red scarfs with baby snowflakes sewn into the knit fabric and have pokey pine cones that stab you when you touch them as tails and dark brown antlers that are twisted and textured like the peeling trunk of an old tree. Cookie cutters shaped like gingerbread men, bells, present boxes, and ornaments are placed in any bare areas. Thin, twinkling fairy lights and pine needle garlands with pine cones and cranberry red holly complete the look of the tall shelf, but the peppermint scented sachets pushed all the way in the back of the shelf pull the entire performance together. 

To observe the miniature village scene as a whole, I take a step backwards. My arms feel a light yet rough bristle, and my foot produces a sound loud enough to attract the attention of the nearby shoppers and make me feel slightly embarrassed as I accidently bump into a large nine foot tall christmas tree that has fake presents carefully wrapped in metallic gold paper nestled underneath it. The needles are a light forest green, but a white powdery mixture that looks like snow hides the green. “Cookies for Santa.” “Merry Christmas.” “May your days be merry and bright.” “North Pole Milk & Cookie Co,” the large and wide circular red glitter ornaments that hang on the tree read. Big peppermint lollipops and swirls are scattered between the ornaments along with miniature plastic candy canes. Curly red ribbon is delicately thrown upon the branches. Ms. Claus dolls the size of a face are wired into the spine of the tree. The careful arrangement and particular order of the plentiful decorations and many, many, many bright lights leave me in awe. With so much stuff piled on a skinny thing, the tree should look weird or messy or crowded, but it does not look like that. It looks beautiful. The village replica shelf looks beautiful. The entire upper left hand corner of the home decor shop looks beautiful, and I begin to feel beautiful. I am calm. I am relieved. I am in a safe space that acts as a stress reliever. I am in Robyn’s Nest.