Segment 8: It's gray.
The days are short, the skies are grey and the wind blows freezing droplets of water across your face at some point everyday. Ah yes, Paris winter.
No one comes to Paris for its winter. Not that I know of anyway. It has weighed on me. It is also the five-year anniversary of my mother’s illness and death. A fact prevalent in this season, whether I am aware or not. France does make me miss my mom. There is little I would love more than for her to come visit me here, and I knew I would feel that. I want her to be here to see and taste the exquisite pâtisseries, to admire the fancy museums… and just to be with me. Have you ever missed someone so much that you wish they would come back to grab a bag they left behind, just so you could see them one more time? Even if just to leave anew? That’s how I feel and it’s how I have felt for five years. One more hug, one more smile, one more look- that’s all I want. Finality is bitterly cold. The cold of hopelessness. I am not hopeless; the longing to see my mother again is hopeless. And right one cue, it is raining in Paris.
At least one can say that this time, I am not trying to bury my pain in busyness. It is extra hard to be alone, a foreigner and feeling these feelings, but it is part of the process of going on. Not moving on, but continuing on a path leading to somewhere. I don’t think one can ever quite move on from their mother, whether they would like to or not. My life would be different if she were still here, without a doubt.
Many artists have suffered and expressed in Paris. Life involves suffering and art represents life. So how shall my art be shaped?
The elation of incomparable pastries, the progress of my language learning, the rich discovery of repertoire with a trusted mentor and the sweet surprise of wandering around new neighborhoods: these joys are reflected masterfully in color, perfect harmony of voices, the sweep of a phrase rushing forward, activity, rushing forward, hunger for more and more.
The dark skies, the grief of loss, the loneliness of being foreign, the powerlessness to provide or to plan: these difficulties drag tempos, they darken colors and confuse harmonies, they plod, they rest in dissonance, they shriek and they moan. They hurt.
You came to this blog, probably, to read about my adventures and my victories, not my artist angst. But here you have it. Instead of an anecdote about a disappointing piece of cake I ate this week, you got my raw emotion. Instead of my joy having successfully met and exchanged french/english conversation with a new friend, you get a description of the world’s most romantic city stripped down to its soggy, gray underpants.
Do not fret my friends, for these feelings are part of the process. Growth and tenacity are born of such experience. Dawns come after darkness, May flowers after showers and I think there’s a line about pilgrims? Although maybe that joke doesn’t work anymore because of the colonial implications…
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watched me… mystery unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see… Advent is a time of waiting, friends. I am looking at photos from my dad that I posted on my window, so as not to ruin the precious paint on the walls of my dorm room. I see all the new family I have gained in 5 years: I see Kendra, Ethan, Natalie and baby Yasha. I see smiles. I see love. I see hope for future.
I am willing to wait. I am willing to take the journey and allow it to wander and divert from a direct trajectory. It’s more interesting. There is more to feel, more to experience.
Marie in Paris
