From London to Paris
Walking through Père Lachaise Cemetery on D-Day
Eighty-one years ago marked the beginning of the end of World War II. It was clearly a combined effort of American, Canadian and British troops that invaded France and defeated the Nazis. Today I walked through the narrow walkways at Père Lachaise, visiting the gravesites of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde, exploring different ways of understanding grief.
I first saw Morrison’s gravesite in 1991 and sent a postcard with its image to my sister who at the time listened to a lot of music by The Doors and had a poster of Morrison hanging in her room. It seemed to go along with the person she was—always curious, and instead of turning away in fear of some unwanted to result, she’d go ahead and do whatever thought she formed in her mind. Sometimes it turned out to be wildly fun, sometimes dangerous, sometimes tragic.
Jim Morrison’s Gravesite at Le cimetière du Père-Lachaise
It’s interesting to learn the reasons why Morrison decided to move to Paris. For one, he seemed to live more anonymously. I don’t know for sure his reasons, but he appeared to be exhausted by his role in The Doors, and it was time to move on, to rediscover himself. A place can do that to a person. It’s easy to get lost here and start over again. A lot of writers, artists, musicians have found themselves on the very brink of existence. Yet there was something about the beauty of Paris that reawakened a new sense of creativity.
This particular part of my sabbatical, I have been exploring the concept of grief, even going back and rereading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. In her research shortly after her husband, John Gregory Dunne died suddenly, she discovered two ways of grief: one that is normal and uncomplicated, a period of growth, and that which is pathological. I’ve experienced the pathological that has something to do with waiting for the lost one to come back, meeting them once again in this lifetime. I have questioned whether we ever know when death is creeping upon us, the subtle clues or changes in one’s behavior. Recently in telephone conversations with my father, he’s told me that he loves hearing me call him dad. He never said this before. His voice is more subdued. He talks a lot more about ordinary things whereas he never used to do this. His health has declined considerably, and in the back of my mind, I realize that time with him is running out. But it does not feel like a race. The actual experience of losing him will be extremely difficult, something I cannot possibly imagine. But no one can prepare, even though they might convince themselves that they have it all figured out. I do not have any of it figured out.
