Nostalgia

Could it be that we have now lived abroad long enough to have become nostalgic over our humble beginnings here in France?  For certain, life has returned to . . . well . . . normal, if indeed our lives have ever been so to start with.  The daily tedium is starting to feel like a long prison sentence in many ways.  The adventure seems to be waning and at this point I think I would feel more comfortable at home.  Having very little wind to fill my sails, all creative endeavors have come to a crashing halt.  I am still obsessed with upcoming travels, but it seems to be the only bright light that keeps me moving forward.  I have no less than 5 blog posts that are half written and needing my attention, a fictional novel that has lost some of my interest after its first chapter and 3 paintings in varying stages of completion with paint drying to a crust on my unused palate.

The only thing I can think to do is to “write” my way out of this slump as I often do these days.  I have come to a realization that my true calling is to be a writer.  While I doubt my meager skills, it is the one thing that brings me as much joy as the company of my family.  I often receive remarks these days regarding the transformation of my life and the fact that this move to France has perhaps had more of a profound effect on me than the rest of my family.  Sure, each is more proficient in French than I and each are having life altering experiences, yet I have somehow been transformed further still.  Part of this transformation includes the realization that I am a bit more like my mother than I would like to admit.  I have taken her vocation and struggle with a moderately depressive personality to boot.  I suppose this to be both a gift and a curse.  Being fairly introspective provides insight and an intense examination of the world around me has led to tremendous emotional growth.  On the other hand, your thoughts can easily become your master and pitch you into a dark chasm from which you can’t escape.

The truth is, for as long as I can remember, my mother has lived in that dark place.  I don’t think I ever truly understood the condition until recently.  The feeling of hopelessness without reason is a strange concept.  Nothing to put your finger on, just something weighing you down.  Eventually you crumble beneath this burden as my mother did throughout my childhood and even more so in my young adulthood.  So, despite this natural proclivity burdening my daily life, how is it that I come out free?  Reason and intellect help me stay the course, but I would say that it is my ability to excise the bad from my life with a surgeon’s scalpel that has kept me the moderately sane person who now stands before you, figuratively speaking of course.  One of those things that I have successfully cut from my life is a relationship with the person who gave me these gifts.  It was with some regret that this decision was made, but sometimes life is simply about survival.  I am a father now, and it is important that I protect those under my watch.  Still I think of her often and wonder if she understands my decision.  There is a childish chamber in my heart that will forever hope that she will “come around” so to speak, but I know that day will never come.  And so, I remain haunted by this decision in life and am reminded of other moments I wish I could change for the better but at this point it seems I am powerless to do much more than apologize.

A recent dinner conversation reminded me of the only other thing that I truly regret from my youth.  There was a time when I was obsessed with military aircraft and dreams of being a pilot filled my young mind.  My father was in tune with this interest and took it upon himself to build a replica of every modern military aircraft.  Not just a simple snap together casting, but a painstakingly crafted replica complete with custom paint rather than decals.  After construction was complete, he hung each with care from the ceiling in my bedroom.  I would fall asleep at night with a dogfight swinging from fishing line overhead.  Eventually I outgrew this fancy and found myself right in the middle of my early teens when rational thought is often seldom found.  From scraps of disassembled toys I had fashioned myself a sling shot of sorts and one afternoon took aim at these now dusty models.  There wasn’t any malice in my heart and their destruction was not meant as a statement of rebellion.  It was simply a thoughtless act.  It is only now that I realize the kind of pain my father must have felt as I threw them all away.  It is a pain that was revisited on me recently with my own child when after spending an afternoon drawing with my youngest, I presented him with a fairly decent drawing of Spiderman that I was certain he would love.  He did not.  He was offended that I used his paper for my project and promptly crumpled my drawing and threw it on the floor.  The rejection was earth shattering even though my project had been a fraction of the time in the making compared to the hours spent on the model airplanes.  I wish I could take it back.

And so now we will wait to see if my children eventually write me off to complete this cycle of life.  I certainly hope not, but time will tell.  I am doing what I can to right all of my wrongs.  I change the things I can and accept the things I can’t.  For all these things I apologize and will continue to look forward rather than looking back.  To close my day of remembrance I prepared a lovely lunch of hotdogs and dippy with a generous portion of Monster Munch.   I love my life.  R.