It’s interesting how stopping blogging leaves a big silence in your internet space, where it feels like nothing happens. That’s how I feel when I see blogs that haven’t been updated in over three, four, fifteen months… There is this zero-gravity image that comes to my mind, where the last post, which didn’t set out to be the last post, lingers in mid-air. I wonder where that person is, what they are doing, what has happened in the intervening months.
In my case as the blogger who was absent, the longer the time since that last post in July of last year, the less I remember what I used to want to post about. What makes a good post? That, and I just push it back, I don’t remember the urge to share thoughts, views, postcards, photos, moments. I don’t remember how to communicate. It’s something that happens to me, once in a while. When I was on my service trip around the world, in between offering service in various communities, urban, rural, I was alone all the time. Traveling between countries in airplanes and within them on buses, and long stretches of time alone, not talking to people who spoke neither French or English, I forgot to express the simple things of every day life. I just forgot how to talk for the sake of talking… I wasn’t on email very often, I almost never had access to phones, so I wasn’t talking to my close friends or family regularly, just sending sporadic emails. And I was processing a towering amount of experiences in circumstances where I could hardly keep a journal because I was so often on the move.
Towards the end of my trip I found myself with family very dear close friends in New Zelanad and Japan, and in my mind I was panicking because I didn’t feel I could verbalize my thoughts. When I asked them about it, they didn’t notice, but within me the last year of travel alone had left communication “scars” and I found myself having a very clear thought in my head and not being able to find the words to express them. It was quite a strange experience for someone who loves to communicate…quite ironic. To this day, I still find traces of that, when I feel like I say something and the words never left my brain. I realize I finish thoughts in my head rather than in words.
And I suppose a similar thing happened with this blog.
My last fifteen months in Paris were a whirlwind. I was so busy processing what was happening, getting oriented, experiencing them and there was not much desire to publish that experience, for many reasons. I guess I wanted to keep Paris for me… and now, when I imagine my heart, I see super-imposed upon it the street map of Paris, I walked the city so much, know it so well, in its nooks and crannies and wonders that its streets are more familiar to me than my own blood vessels, and I find it is the same shape as what I imagine my heart to be. Everything about the city’s size and streets was perfect for me, for my own set of aesthetics, it was my perfect place, just not my perfect time. And my time there came to an end, it was time to move on, I just felt that. It’s one of the benefits of having traveled a lot, you know when it’s time to pack your bags.
I now living in Pasadena, in Southern California. I’m settling in, making new friends, pursuing a new chapter of my life, and things are looking very good at the moment. I am happy.
I hope I find my voice again, so I can keep writing. It is one of the things I am pursuing here, and I hope that this blog doesn’t silence again with this post. But we will see how things go, blogs are organic, they’re sensitive things…In any case, I am happy I got to post this up. I had been wanting to put something else up here for so long. I am glad I finally found the words.