I sat in the plane crying because this time there is no certain date for me to go back home. This time it seemed more final, the lightness of my country and my people giving way to dark clouds and a hovering sense of never fully being myself here. I pretend at belonging, at finding a rhythm, but perhaps first must come the acceptance that home always remains home and at the same time no longer is.
During this tumultuous diaspora of the individual a friend posted this on FB, a guiding light when I was about to get lost again:
“We must be willing to get rid of
the life we’ve planned, so as to have
the life that is waiting for us.
The old skin has to be shed
before the new one can come.
If we fix on the old, we get stuck.
When we hang onto any form,
we are in danger of putrefaction.
Hell is life drying up.”