It’s been almost six weeks since returning from a 3-month stay in Paris. I’m still processing. Still reflecting. Still pondering. But, mostly, thawing. While I was safely tucked away on the opposite side of the Seine as the tragic events of November 13th unfolded, I’ve come to realize that I was more affected than I originally allowed myself to believe. Not in the way that should elicit sympathy or concern. I’ve been extremely hesitant to write about my feelings regarding the weeks that followed, in fear of seeming exploitative and opportunistic. Is this my story to tell?
My whole reason for going to Paris, for uprooting myself from my husband and children, for living alone among strangers who would soon become friends, was in order to immerse myself in a particular time and place to which I’m drawn. While in Paris, I enrolled in French language classes, learned about French cuisine and fashion, as well as conducted research for a collection of short stories and a novel I’m currently working on. Along the way, I made Paris my foster home, as it continues to nurture my creativity and my voice.
But… Paris is not without its flaws and contradictory nature. As with all things in life.
On November 14, despite the urging of government officials to stay indoors, I ventured out. Fearless in a need to reconnect, I walked the streets which had been made desolate and stagnant. As an outsider, I had the security of detachment, but, as an intrusive lover, I could not completely liberate myself from such devastation. As much as I wanted to be that objective observer, the writer who records from a bird’s eye view, my heart would not let me. Instead, like those who remember exactly where they were in Paris on the night of November 13th, I became numb. A numbness which has given me the time and space one needs in order to process and reflect. To grapple with the whys and hows which will never, ever be answered. At least, not in the way that allows a blanket of false security.
I continue to thaw. To ruminate. To seek answers to questions that have yet to fully form. I’m thankful for the pen and blank page, as they provide the heat needed to free myself from the extremities and complexities of life.