My dog woke me up hours before sunrise and needed to go out.
So we did. It was -15C and the sky full of stars. A sliver of a moon stood out
in shape and attitude. The stars will look like stars tomorrow and the day
after, but the moon will fill up, turn round and become new.
When we returned, I read a comment on my blog about our
perception of home: where is home and what does it represent for each of us?
… “Olive oil, garlic and jasmine flowers make a house a home”
I often heard growing up. It was a concrete concept of home linked to scents,
culture, and the joy of being there. Simple and tangible, a home was where we
belonged.
Yet, every immigrant would admit that home is more than the
soil. It is the comfort of belonging.
But belonging to what?
Perhaps that is not the right question, rather “belonging to
whom? “ And the answer to that question makes home a
pan-human concept, separate from geography, brick walls and city smog. Suddenly,
home becomes a canvas upon which we shape ourselves with every brush of
exposure to others. Home becomes a work in progress. The “whom” makes us wonder if it is another person, another community,
or our own self? Can it be that the comfort of belonging is in identifying our
self with ourself?
And home becomes not only the subject of the search but the
process of searching itself.
There are those, of course, who are in peace with what they find. But others, those who look for roads to take them home are in peace only when they search.
There are those, of course, who are in peace with what they find. But others, those who look for roads to take them home are in peace only when they search.
The ultimate answer may be that home is where we go after
our passage on this overpopulated, increasingly polluted, now partly frozen planet
of ours. That is the home where soil has
no meaning. That is the home to which our soul is believed to know the way.
Still, we need to know about our belonging. Is it a language? A
pair of brown eyes? Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique? Or is it that vast space
within ourselves that we often reluctantly attempt to explore? Maybe home is
the final art of seduction – by searching for belonging we find our identity.
… And like an old stony bridge held together by the curtsy
of time, we cross over paths, and our paths cross again.
And like with centuries-old water fountains, we shape our palms
in the form of a request and drink from that fountain of time again.
For home is a search in progress, surrounded by memories of
garlic, olive oil and night-blooming Jasmine bushes.
February 25, 2014
© Vahé Kazandjian 2014
The picture is from the city center of Ferrara, Italy.
The picture is from the city center of Ferrara, Italy.
No comments:
Post a Comment