The Transition Artist

I’m home this morning, sipping coffee I just made in my new percolator, getting ready to go for a run and start all of my homework for the week ahead. I have so much to do today, and all of the tasks are work-related, but I feel so happy and at home that I felt inclined to write about it. 

Outside the sun is shining. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. I can hear cars passing, children playing at the school down the street, and two old French ladies gossiping below me. My windows are open and the room smells of clean laundry, as the breeze blows through the clothes I hung to dry after washing them at the laverie (laundromat) around the corner last night. I’m still coming down from the high of traveling to a new country over the weekend, and feeling incredibly lucky, purely because I’m here.

I discussed this a little in my post yesterday, but I’m working on grasping the idea of “ordinary.” I can hear and see people going about their lives as usual, but I don’t feel usual. I started to settle into the steady roll of activity of France, getting acquainted with my workload (which, by the way, is much more time-consuming that I assumed – it turns out studying abroad isn’t just a vacation..), figuring out what my routine might be, and getting settled with my new friends in my new home. However, I rocked the boat by traveling over the weekend, and came back with a set of fresh eyes.

I’m used to taking trips and coming home. I know what it feels like to be left with all the remnants of a fun vacation, with its lingering airplane smell, tiny bit of weight gain, and full suitcase. Coming home means feeling the last inklings of longing to continue the trip I was on. It means feeling a little sorry that I have to go back to the ordinary tasks of my everyday life. It means letting go of a little bit of adventure. But why? Sitting here now, I’m thoroughly convinced it’s because I let it.

I came home to a city that is, in my mind, by no means ordinary. I left one adventure to continue the one I was already living in, and was humbled by the fact that I realized I had started to forget how extraordinary this place was, in an effort to normalize it and call it home. But who said home had to be average?!

Last week I didn’t write anything on the blog, because I didn’t feel like I had much to share. I went to class, I did homework, I saw a one-act play, stayed up late hanging out with friends a few nights, and, once, treated myself to a three-course dinner (complete with escargot and an apple tart). I didn’t write about it because it didn’t feel exciting enough to merit a blog post. However, at the time, I wasn’t focused on whether or not my activities were meriting any award-winning writings, I was focused on enjoying what I was doing.

Last week, when I thought I wasn’t doing anything exciting, I read letters that Vincent Van Gogh wrote to his brother in french. I discussed human rights and cultural awareness in a communications class and challenged my perspective. I saw frescoes painted by Delacroix inside a church called St. Sulpice, and visited his house, feeling personally engaged and connected because I went with my art class and had actually read about what I was seeing in person.

I carried conversation with a taxi driver, a fitness instructor at the park, and waiters and clerks at the grocery store in a language that’s not my own for over 5 minutes, and didn’t get nervous (which is typically hard for me when I’m speaking French, since it’s not necessarily what’s most comfortable for me). The one-act play I saw? It was the Bald Soprano in French, in a tiny theater filled with maybe 20 people, and I, as one of the 20 audience members, laughed at the jokes and watched in horror and surprise at the events because I understood them!

Finally, the series of events that I described when I wrote about my trip to Norway, leading up to getting on an airplane and flying to another country, all involved me asking questions and understanding responses (in French), proud because I was capable of engaging and comprehending in my (soon-to-be) second language. These things that I thought were too ordinary to write about were actually HUGE! In a matter of a month, I’ve grown significantly! I’ve learned how to adapt to a culture that, sure, I’ve visited plenty of times growing up with my family, but that I now have to conduct myself as an adult in without the crutch of a translator (usually my dad).

I’m not at all consistent with my writing, and I have a hard time figuring out what’s worth sharing, but sometimes simply the need to reflect (like right now) motivates a new blog post. I share this not to say, “Hey look! I’m writing! And I’m so proud of myself for my ordinary tasks!” But simply to share the thought I can’t let go of this morning: What we do each day is only ordinary and boring if we let it become ordinary and boring. 

I sit at my desk eager to do my homework this morning, because I’m growing, I’m expanding, and I’m learning so much. Maybe I feel more excited than usual about it because I know that I’m living in Paris and going to go to a cool class on the subject later, but that doesn’t have to be the motivator for love of a subject. I’m excited to fold the rest of my laundry because I love the way it smells and serves as a reminder of my independence in a new place. I’m excited to wash out my percolator, because before this morning I didn’t even know how to use it! And more than all of that, I’m excited to leave the apartment and step out into my beautiful new city to a lovely day and fantastic architecture.

These tiny feats, though ordinary and not overly exciting, are what make my time here so worth it. They’re what make mundane tasks feel fulfilling and worthwhile. The only difference between what I’m doing today and what you’re doing today is our location, but what does your perspective tell you about what you’re doing today?

Just some food for thought. xx