Of homes and passages or, an update of sorts.
This morning I went for a long walk around the island, through pines and green and blue and one of the most beautiful scents in the world — dew and rain on trees, warmed by the sun. (Is there a word for this? I shall make one if not.) These days are so bittersweet, my deep joy and peace in this natural world tempered by the fact that I will be leaving it in less than a month. Every day I wonder if it's the last time I see a neighbor or wake up to a perfect rain. I will be putting my things in storage soon and setting out on a professional and personal adventure of sorts as a digital nomad out in the world. These weeks are very full with packing my things, a major family medical story (thankfully resolved), launching a new entrepreneurial life, and preparing for life on the road.
My parents are Cuban refugees who came to the US in the 1960s as young people, with respectively about a suitcase of belongings each. I was raised with the mindset of "you can lose everything overnight" and this is very much my mental model, which results in both a heightened appreciation for good fortune as well as an unbearable lightness of being.
Among first-generation Cuban-Americans, a common toast, particularly at New Year's, is: "next year in Havana" — and I've heard similar to be true of other immigrants of their own homelands. Even in cases where one might physically return, it may not be safe or sane to do so and, regardless, the Thomas Wolfe title rings true: you can't go home again — not to the place you left, as you left it. There is a beautiful word in Spanish: añorar (verb) to miss or yearn / to pine for / nostalgia, and its descriptive form añorado/a; it has a much deeper sensibility than those English words. (As a teenager, my mom danced in a revue — once at Carnegie Hall, even — called Añorada Cuba, where they performed traditional dances.) French also has a brilliant word with no satisfying English equivalent: depaysé/e — which literally translates to de-countried, physically or emotionally without home or country.
We are, of course, seeing related themes play out on a macro global level — in Palestine, Israel, Afghanistan (still), Ukraine (still), Kashmir, and others not grabbing the top headlines. I have nothing wise or useful or new to say about these, just reflecting here on how powerful the forces of "home" are on human beings — what and where we call home, where we find home, and the homes that we carry in our hearts. My wife and many of my closest friends are immigrants themselves or from immigrant families, and even beyond that I know so many of you carry a heaviness in your steps right now. I send us all an imperfect but heartfelt wish for some peace and sense of home in our hearts, so that we might hold light and space for others as we go into a winter season. Love from the forest to you all. 🌲