When I was 20 I moved to Paris, France to study and write. It was the only time in my life that I was truly me and alone and without a man and as happy as can be. But I traded Paris in for a much smaller life and for bad relationships and I sold my soul to the devil. If I look my life along as a graph, I was climbing high in Paris, reaching my goals. And after I came home, the line sharply drops and I seem to give up.
Of course, I cannot think like that now. I have to convince myself that the route I did take had its value. I have two beautiful sons, a home, a family. But I have no career and I’ve spent a lifetime depending on men instead of me.
At any rate, I wanted to share this ridiculously corny poem that I found in my journal from June, 1989. Many of my friends that I’d met in Paris were traveling or leaving on holiday and I was left behind in Paris, alone, trying to figure out the meaning of this huge loss and aloneness.
When does it start?
When life falls apart
And you struggle to make it again.
Who is my friend?
The Lord till the end
So never let go of his grace.
Where is my place?
It’s inside your faith
But will die if you give up your dreams.
It’s so hard it seems.
Oh yes, indeed.
But you must always continue the climb.
And if I fall behind?
My dear, take your time.
There’s plenty of days for change.
And if I don’t play the game?
You’re only to blame.
Living begins when you try.
And if I should die?
Then at least my dear friend, you will know in the end
that you tried to reach for the sky….