Hello, friends. It’s been awhile since I’ve written, I know. Although I’m not actually sure how many followers I have so maybe it doesn’t matter. I’ll explain anyway. I was talking to an old friend about my blog the other day, explaining how I make a point not to write when I can’t get hold of my feelings. I write only when I am in a level-headed, clear-thinking place, taking time to figure out the subject and how I want to shape each entry. I avoid myself as a writer when it comes to messy feelings or ambivalence for fear that I might come across melodramatic or worse, ungrateful. He suggested that maybe I have it all backwards. As an audience, the hard stuff and my personal way of dealing with it is what interests him most. And while my writing might be more rational and well-refined, I sacrifice what’s really important in writing when I avoid these sort of subjects.
As I’ve said before, feelings don’t stop simply because I’m across the world, practically living in a French film. What I’ve been going through for the past few months is always just beneath the surface and lately has been bubbling up. And so, I’ve been reluctant to write. I want this blog to be personal, but not a diary. I want to share my life here, but not feel like I’m taking advantage of readers by talking about something unrelated to France. And most of all, I want people to understand my immense appreciation for this new world that I’ve already fallen in love with–adventurous friends, good wine, dreamy baristas, melt-in-your-mouth baguettes, amazing views of the Provence at dusk, and so much more. But I realized that my sadness, fear, and fury are just as much a part me as anything else and sometimes, I just have to open the floodgates.
Not to mention that some of these sad stories are somewhat comedic in retrospect. The other night I arrived home after a long, and emotional few hours. I left town earlier than expected, feeling sick to my stomach. I think I was overdosing on feelings. The entire way home–a 30 minute walk, by the way–I went back and forth between sniffles, and wiping snot from my nose every time I passed someone walking in the other direction. By the time I got home, I knew I had to pull my shit together. I knew Martine would be on the couch in the living room just past the front door. I scooted by her with a quick greeting, made a bee line for my room and silently celebrated my inconspicuous return. Twenty minutes later, she came to by bedroom door to discuss dinner plans. Again, I pulled it together and rolled with the punches, answering every question perfectly (or as perfectly as I could in broken French). I thought I was in the clear when she asked the one question that can break down anyone who’s holding something in: “Ça va?” Is everything okay? WHAM. It hit me like a load of bricks. I was done. I lost it. I explained the best I could through the waterfall rushing down my face, choked breathing, and my complete inability to find the words–in English, never mind in French. But there is something about motherly love that transcends all language and cultural barriers. I could feel it immediately in her touch and tone of voice that she understood. And just like that, I didn’t feel so alone.
Of course you’re wondering why I was crying. And, well, I don’t think I’m ready to go there. My main point is that life abroad is not all rainbows and butterflies, although there are no shortages of these moments. Part of why I am an Anthropology major and an actress is because I’ve always been amazed by the human ability to feel both profoundly happy and profoundly sad–sometimes simultaneously. It’s my opinion that neither of these extremes should be feared or avoided and in fact, I’m better off plunging deep into whatever sadness I might be carrying so that I may feel the full extent of my happiness when it comes along. In fact, just days after this end-of-the-world meltdown, I had one of these moments where I felt inexplicably happy just to feel the warmth of the sun on the top of my head.
Santé, mes amis.
This Little Piggy 