How is it that one can go to a foreign country and feel completely at home?
So sure that the place of arrival is the place for a new settlement, a new space for discovery?
And, this notion of citizenship? How does one’s ability to love a foreign land undermine citizenship?
Are we truly citizens of a nation? a city? a school of thought? or an entire world?
And one’s family? What does it mean, then, for them when you decide to live abroad?
And not just tour, visit, vacation.
But not really abroad because it doesn’t feel foreign, at least not anymore.
And I continue to make plans to visit here or there, Africa, and Asia. But what happens when I find a place where I think I can live, love, and learn freely as I desire for the new majority of my mortal life?
What happens then to the countries in which I’ve lived previously? Like Brazil. How that experience in Bahia freed me, warmed me, filled my soul–and my stomach–with nourishment that can never be replicated with such fervor. Such experiences are too ephemeral for my heart to accept.
And yet there’s an admitted obsession to continue find new territories, meet new people, hear new languages, eat new foods, see new paradises, and feel new peace.
Nevertheless, each flight some how takes a toll. Crazy? I don’t know. But slowly but surely, there is also a need to feel grounded. In some way. In some place. To some number of people. To some significant other.
Simultaneously, there is an encouraged philosophy to accept change. to accept loneliness. “we were fashioned in love, so why should we feel lonely?” -Mos Def. to accept being alone (because the two are not synonymous). to accept loss. to accept the fact that at any moment everything that i believe to be true could be falsified, persecuted, exterminated, invalidated, deligitimized. Easily.
So, what’s a girl like me to do, eh?
So much more to come, however, as I find my home–externally and internally, literally and metaphorically.