A Paris, Dans Mes Rêves

I greatly miss the City of Light.  I miss being able to go to someone who is an expert in every piece of food you could desire.  I suppose it seems tedious to Americans, but I saw a great quaintness to the practice of going to la fromagerie for my cheese, la boulangerie for my bread, le magasin de fruit et légumes for my fruit and vegetables, le marchand de vins for my wine, et la pâtisserie for my sweets.  It’s those simple things that stay with me after I travel.  Of course, I remember La Tour Eiffel and La Notre Dame in all their gargantuan grace, but it is the little things that are nearly intangible and define a culture that left the greatest imprint on me.     

So, this is how I find myself in my small, private side yard, so reminiscent of a European patio that it convinced me to take the apartment, with a glass of Bordeaux in my hand, a plate of brie, a baguette, and a cigarette, so desperate to reconnect with my literary self reborn a year ago in Paris.  It was in Paris that I learned how to write without pressure.  To write for me.  My degree in English Literature forced me to always be writing for something or someone.  While I felt myself occasionally getting lost in my assignments, and at times finding pride in my words, I was mostly on a mission to complete an assignment, bank the grade, and get outside, or to a party.  

I would never dream of writing with a glass of wine for an assignment that needed to be turned in, but in Paris I learned that sipping and savoring a Bordeaux was a gateway to letting the words flow.  It was Paris that taught me discipline and creativity can coincide, that one does not have to squelch the other.  I learned to write nightly, with abandon, and yet the lack of care proffered superior writing.  Over a nice Bordeaux and my latest cheese trial, I found my inner self.  I am one who thrives in solitude and reflection, especially in the wee hours of the morning.  

I see the world in colors and swirls of movement, like a Monet painting in which everything bleeds together, and yet is one.  My words come from me in some combination of a flowing waltz and a pop and lock street dance, like halting hiccups in which I can see what I feel, and search for the letters to string together into words, into sentences, into meaning, for everyone else.  I hope I am succeeding.    

 

Cheers,

QuarterCentenarianAbroad

 

Finding my Self, Again

It has been a very long time since I have posted.  It has been a long time since I have felt like myself.  In the instant I was hit by the SUV and sent flying high into the air, I recall feeling ripped away from my Self.

My second day in the hospital, an occupational therapist came in and told me that he was going to get me onto a portable toilet.  I was told him he was crazy, because I could hardly lift my legs.  I struggled for what seemed like hours, but was actually twenty minutes, to sit up, turn my legs so they were dangling off the bed, and half-stand the best I could before sitting on the commode.  A sudden rush of sweat washed over me, and I felt nauseous.  I looked up through bleary, tear-filled eyes and said, “Now this is a real Quarter-Century Life Crisis.”  I had just turned 25, and I felt like I was 98.

The majority of my days have been spent doing little more than healing.  That is all I have had the energy to do.  For nearly two months I felt numb from pain and medication designed to keep my muscles relaxed and allow my body to knit back together.  I felt far away from the world, yet I had a deep yearning to connect and absorb my predicament.  It was daunting.

Now, I feel that I am coming to grips with what happened.  Some days are better than others.  I am an artist.  A creator.  I have felt so overwhelmed by my life, and my physical pain, that I was not able to take to the stage as I would normally to express my emotions.  So, I wrote.  I wrote and wrote, and it was beautiful.  I felt like a swollen raincloud that out of necessity, finally lets go of its moisture, and finds relief.  I needed to express, but my mind was not clear enough to form cohesive pieces, so I didn’t feel ready to post here.

I have made today a special day:  I happened upon the same bottle of Bordeaux that I drank from the local cheese shop steps away from my small Parisian appartemente, in a local grocery.  So, I am channeling my discipline from Paris, and writing nightly with a glass of Bordeaux.  It is the perfect challenge to help me reconnect with the world.

It has been months since something has lit a spark in my chest.  The first month after reaching the Quarter-Century mark was nothing short of phenomenal.  A true gift in many ways.  Some gifts I could not even fully appreciate until now, looking back at what has gotten me through my struggles since the accident.  In Paris, I was a self-reliant, balanced, fit, achieving, kind person who fell in love with culture, and rediscovered the beauty in the difference between being alone, not lonely. I was on top of the world before my accident, and after, at times, I was overwhelmed by a melancholic darkness that assured me I would never feel that way again.  Sometimes, though, I could glimpse a shaft of light cutting through the darkness, promising that I would one day reconnect with the light and beauty of the world.

I often felt like Peter Pan searching for his shadow-the part that has been severed and made him incomplete.  I felt not whole.  As I gain physical strength, I gain mental and emotional strength, and I am reminding myself to keep my eyes open.  To look for the good, and be open to the positive.

As I was writing this post, a travel opportunity came to me: I am going to San Francisco!  I ignited the fire, and the travels will continue here on Quarter-Centenarian ABROAD!

Stay tuned.