recently i started preparing for my trip to ireland. the plan is to visit a few churches and monasteries, collect inspiration and make some artworks, which then my best friend can produce into an exhibition. he is irish. i'm not.
in preparation i asked him for a couple of books on land and mythology, so i have some foundational understanding and cursory knowledge of shared symbols and ideas before i dive into learning about the establishment of christianity in ireland and about her saints.
i brought one of the books to my bed, ready to read, but something in me suddenly snapped. a familiar spiral unfolded itself under my feet and i fell into it. how dare i dive into somebody else's history when i don't know my own? why do i spend so much time being a guest, when i barely know anything about my own country of origin? where is my home? what is my home? why do i feel shame for being interested in somebody else's home? especially if he feels like home to me. shame shame shame shame shame.
And where was home to you?
And where did you feel safe?
And where was home to you?
What kind of place?
porridge radio - pop song
what is home?
oxford dictionary says:
i listed everything that came to mind: places, people, music, activities, smells, cafes, tv shows, objects, rituals etc. places and experiences that felt familiar, that soothed my anxieties, that provided comfort in one way or another.
i lamented over how some of the things that were supposed to be integral to me are no longer such. in my first few years of living in the uk i kept saying that my soul still spoke russian. now i have to actively force myself to journal in russian, as most of the conversations i have and most of the media i consume are in english. sometimes talking to my parents i find myself struggling for words describing my experiences, purely because i never had these experiences back there.
some of the places that felt like home before are no longer available. i moved on or they simply don't exist anymore.
"home is where the heart is", - kindly adds compact oxford english dictionary. where is my heart then?
if i find my heart, i should be able to find my home.
it's hard to grasp it. my heart oscillates anxiously whenever it's looked at, hiding itself in a fog of motion blur from curious or potentially judgemental eyes. i know it knows what it loves, it knows what brings it peace. regardless of how much i try to obscure its voice, it always finds a breach in numbness and shines through, guiding me towards a better life.
last week in my local church we were discussing the holy spirit. that voice that calls us towards our vocation, towards higher purer ways of existence, towards a clear-eyed and clear-minded life of service and worship.
there is a song i love, a soundtrack from a soviet coming-of-age movie. its name is translated as "magnificent afar". the last verse goes like this:
i pray, that i'll be more clear and tender,
and never should leave my friend in sadness,
I hear the voice and haste after it,
along the way without any trace.
the voice, the heart, the holy spirit. receptors and propellers of inspiration, of our movement through life, responsible for filling this earthly existence with meaning and purpose.
when i look over the list of what has brought me a feeling of home i see similarities, patterns, flavours of experiences that my heart consistently yearns for. these seem stable, even though the particularities shift and change.
- people
what is a home without guests? without friends? without family? without momentary encounters that leave a delightful aftertaste? - god
i have always felt the presence of the divine powers at play. i have verbalised it differently throughout my life, tapping into various traditions and vernaculars. but that longing deep in my solar plexus remained. - water
so often i have found myself pulled towards the river bank or any body of water in whatever city i lived in. in st petersburg i sometimes traced the edges of the island i lived on with my steps. in london thames regularly beckons me. in edinburgh it was the sea. - art
whether making it or seeing it, the practice itself bring me back to the stable ground, away from anxiety, from rumination, back into the present existence, to a place where i can flourish. - music
many songs feel like a place of refuge to me. i would listen to them on repeat singing along, feeling them enveloping me in a beautiful energetic field.
languages, countries, people, artists, practices change. they leave their marks, their contributions to the overall tapestry of my life. but they are not in and of themselves a home. it seems to be a bit of a paradox really. home is a place of stability and safety, and yet one has to actively reencounter it, re-inhabit, make it their own again and again to keep it as true to their heart as possible.
i'm excited to learn about parts of my friend's home. after all there's plenty of god, water and art to be found there.
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