I tried to write in Paris, but I didn't like it. I was trying to put an ending to a story that wasn't finished. Some how at some point I had lost track of my voice. What it was I wanted to do. I've spent a lot of time since my accident letting people tell me what I should do. I don't know why, I just did. Sometimes I liked what happened, but most of the time I was trying things that other people suggested because I was afraid to do what I wanted to do. Perhaps if I never failed at it I could always keep the idea of it clean and shiny and promising.
For a long time I've been fascinated by France, the language, food, culture, art, architecture; basically the more I learned about it, the more fascinated me. I put it on a pedestal and sculpted it to perfection, buffed it so it shone brighter than anything else. So when I couldn't take the malaise and discouragement of not finding satisfaction in everyone else's suggestions I decided that perhaps the answer to happiness lay in the capital of the perfect place: Paris. I know it's an odd jump, and I would never claim it as logical. I really was just avoiding being honest and facing my fears.
So a little while ago I was hell-bent on spending time in Paris. My wife can attest to my daunting force of will and desire to get there and the disregard and often contempt for anything that I felt stood in my way. I stopped doing things I enjoyed if they felt like they might hold me back. I concocted this idea of a world trip to make it easier for my wife to come with me, when all I really wanted to see was Paris. So we got there and as anybody in their right mind would expect: it was awesome. I was so elated to be FINALLY going that I actually cried a little on the train coming into Paris. I loved the city! I was totally up for dealing with dogshit covered wheels and tobacco smoke filled lungs just to live in Paris. After settling in Paris though I soon knew without a doubt that it wasn't the answer to my question of what should I do with my life. Be a Parisian? What kind of lame answer is that anyway, how did I ever think that might be it. I think I knew it wouldn't be what I was looking for, I had discerned I wanted to teach perhaps art, in the weeks leading up to going to Paris. But I'd created such a perfect imagination of Paris in my head I had to go check to make sure the answer wasn't in that corner of the maze. Man, I feel like I sound dumb. Of course just being a Parisian wouldn't give my life more meaning.
A part of me needed to go to Paris to prove to myself that the only thing ever actually preventing me from doing what I want, no matter how crazy it may be, is myself. So now that I've checked under my Parisian rock and demonstrated that I am in fact in control of my achievements, I feel like I'm ready to go home. I want to face my fears and strive to achieve what I've been afraid of. And I'm glad I will not always wonder if the answer lay hidden in Paris.
I did learn a few things in Paris. As I envisioned myself as an art teacher it didn't feel quite right. I asked myself why do you want to be an art teacher and I didn't have a specific concise reason. So art teacher didn't feel quite right. As I continued to think about what it was that excited me about art and teaching and my current journey I realized that what I want to teach people is to find their voice and express it. Art is an excellent way to express one's voice. So I don't have the conclusion to my story, just the next chapter: I'm still planning on pursuing teaching art, but for the sake of helping other's find and express their voice, regardless of the medium they might choose.
