I recently had the challenge of finding a decent, affordable new place to live in San Francisco. After weeks of searching, I found a spot and have been settling in. Admittedly, it is a strange space, but what matters to me most is that it feels like home. After assembling Ikea furniture until my hands and fingers were sore and decorating with items picked up on my travels, it’s beginning to become one. One of my favorite Gandhi quotes came to mind for this week’s Wanderful Words:
“I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the cultures of all the lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any.”
- Mahatma Gandhi
This relates to many aspects of what home means to me. Like I said, I fill my living space home with tidbits of my travels– artwork and knick knacks that remind me of both the ups and downs of the road and the lessons I’ve learned on it. Beyond my blood family, I like to surround myself with others from a variety of cultures and upbringings. In my previous post, I wrote about the ability to feel at home amongst different types of people and in less familiar places. And the post before that was about experiencing other cultures in my home base city.
But while I want to open my mind, my house, and my life to the ideas and influences of other cultures, I want the core of who I am to remain intact. And who I am is by nature the product of many cultures.
Spending five hours in a car with people I spend five days a week with, I begin to really get to know them for the first time. Stories of lives unfold and interests and opinions are revealed. “What a strange bunch,” I think. I feel at home.
We stop for dinner. Our waiter comes by and as if we are his family members, he tells us the trifling details of his day of chopping wood. He has no idea what the day’s special is. He returns every so often with drinks, food, bits of information about his day and his life. This peculiar woodsmen environment is not one I’ve ever experienced before, but it is cozy and I feel at home.
Cell phone bars decrease as the altitude increases. Headlights illuminate a growing number of tree trunks and a road lined with snow. We are surrounded by mountains that we cannot see, but we know we are somewhere special. We look up at the twinkling lights our city building lights cancel out. In the rawness of the earth, I feel at home.
We settle into our cabin. The power goes out. Distractions unavailable, the entire group comes together. In the dark, we share. Quirks and idiosyncrasies are acknowledged and accepted. Unique beings bonded by individuality and common goals. I feel at home.
The light and daylight have returned. I quietly leave the cabin. I slip further into my skin and deeper into my blood. I exhale everyday minutiae and inhale fresh air and fresh perspective. I become aware of the difference between walking amongst the trees rather than past them, and strive for the former. I stop to look up at tree tops and swirling clouds and feel grounded in my position on this planet. In the wonder of the Earth, I feel at home.
It’s been hours since we left the trees and mountains behind. Across the bridge, I see a twinkling skyline. We approach chaos and frustration with undertones of possibility. I feel at home.
