that undulating lava lamp

part 2

i fear my words today may appear somewhat disjointed. over the last few weeks, i’ve had a rush of thoughts and emotions firing at me in jumbled disarray. i finally decided to just go with them, let them flow. i figured that’s probably okay in the end anyway, since it’ll prove i am truly speaking from the heart.

this is part 2 of 2, yes. but this chapter of my story will most likely never conclude.

maps and a handy travel diary. apparently that’s what it takes to know “all about going abroad.” until you decide, of course, to actually move there. for four years. and then start going back and forth. encountering situations that maps and a travel diary can’t quite cover.

i attempted to describe it two weeks ago, in part 1 — how it felt to be suspended inside an undulating lava lamp. a vivid metaphor for the constant shifting and blending of my emotional journey that i tried so valiantly to contain within its vessel (me). a fluidly dreamlike process, eerily similar to watching a lava lamp change shape right in front of you. a perfect way to describe how strong emotions tend to rise and fall, even morph into different blurry forms. as i struggled to assimilate to my new country, trying desperately to understand the unfamiliar dance with my surroundings.

when i returned to the united states, i thought it would be a piece of cake to just ease back in, after what i’d already experienced living in a foreign country. so imagine my surprise when i reacted with such deep feelings. at times i felt almost detached from my own body, like i was watching myself in a movie, numbly viewing life-as-usual unfold. (i am fully aware there is a clinical term for this state, dissociation. i can even pinpoint a couple of distinct moments in my life when it has occurred, this being one of them. my acknowledgement and acceptance — along with certain grounding exercises — helped me cope and move beyond.)

migratory grief is real. and confusing. and common. and overwhelming. it is normal to mourn the country you’ve left, even if you’re happy in the country in which you live. over time i’ve created a kind of fusion of rituals, uniquely blending traditions. i’ll always feel like my heart is split between two locations though » in the united states (especially with my sons), but also in italy. with lots of love for argentina mixed in as well.

and is repatriation/re-entry the precise term if you still own a residence in each place? i’m not sure what to even call my situation at this point. argentina immediately felt like home again when we stepped into our apartment in buenos aires, even though it had been a long time since we’d been there.

i guess that’s why all these feelings seem so very muddled right now. am i ever truly at home ANYWHERE? most who know me would probably agree that i’m pretty much the same person wherever i am. of course, by necessity, i’ve had to shift and adjust in different settings, to different cultures. but i’ve stayed true to my essence, never pretending i was ever someone i’m not.

as i’ve mentioned many times through the years, i am always arriving (the foundation upon which my retreats have been built). i honestly don’t think a person ever fully arrives. but i know that dreams along the way can absolutely be realized.

an interesting dichotomy seems to guide my life. hanging out somewhere between convenience + familiarity (accompanied by that passive stagnation i so consciously avoid) and frustration + bewilderment (which often creates that dynamic growth i seem to crave). advantages to both, disadvantages to both. we don’t want our days to become boring and dull, but neither do we wish to encounter difficulties on a daily basis. i’ve more than once chosen the latter, which can be a challenging space to live in. and i’m thinking about choosing that path again.

this doesn’t mean i don’t appreciate an easier less-messy existence at times. but that never seems to fulfill or complete me long-term. i prefer a mixture of contentment and thrill, routine and adventure. and i do eventually find that new balance, that newly-comforting rhythm. my perfect zone. (until i decide to do it all over again!)

think about it. you enter this world at the beginning and you exit it at the end. there’s no getting around that fact. you are born, boldly stepping into this brand-new expedition, with no idea what might await you — the people and places you will encounter, the chapters you will write. and then you leave it, bravely surrendering while toasting a life well lived. (obviously depending a great deal on how you’ve chosen to live the in-between.)

i guess, for me, it all comes down to the way i define home. home is not a villa in tuscany or a penthouse apartment in buenos aires. it’s not a pink house in a small mining town either. home is a feeling inside that reminds me “this is right.”

my oldest son wrote a poem many years ago, after his first week ever away from home. a poem that described what homesickness feels like. he expressed the emotion vividly, using all his senses. and it ended with this line, this line that has stuck with me ever since: “homesickness feels like you can’t swallow.”

i’ve come to realize that there’s no better description. when it’s wrong, when you’re somewhere you know you don’t belong or want to be, you know it. it’s a visceral reaction. you cannot swallow.

you can learn, however, to carry the most-important-of-life’s-treasures tucked safely inside your heart. then, no matter your geographical location, you will always feel safe and comforted.

you will always be home.

.

“his life, he marveled, had come full circle, like a wheel spinning around, always ending at the beginning, always beginning at the end. that, he saw, was just the way of things.”
-from home to italy by peter pezzelli