Sometimes while I wander thoughts begin to form. Like dew drops on flowers or whispers on the wind, the task becomes a race to catch them so they may take hold in the soil of self-reflection before they slide away. Of late, my thoughts have been of home. Perhaps it is when one crosses the vast expanse of an ocean that a susceptibility to yearning for those left behind becomes more prominent. Perhaps not. But as I sit here in England I am filled with awe at that which I see and that which I do not. In such moments of contrast, one may begin to see clearly. John Ruskin once said, "Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion--all in one." For me, in this moment, to see clearly was to understand the nature of home and belonging. To see clearly is the birthplace of thought as well as the first moments of true appreciation.
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| In front of the Edinburgh Castle Memorial for Soldiers |
My moment began many years ago with a lack of feeling. Often having little regard for the tuggings of home, I've always felt that my path laid further distant, exploring the recesses of the globe and the dormant thoughts that laid untouched in such places. This, I thought, obviously excluded my home as a destination. And for many years I have had little reason to think otherwise until I took a particular walk on a particular day in a particular mood. You see, I was in the habit of "missing." Some may refer to this as homesickness, which is true. But, as I was not sick and I yearned for more than just my home I shall broaden my term from merely being homesick. Because for me what was missing was everything I did not have which related to my home and sense of belonging somewhere.
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| In front of Edinburgh Castle |
Well, I was thoroughly entrenched in the "habit of missing" when four days ago I decided to go walking down the cobblestone streets of Keswick. All around a solitary busy-ness prevailed as I waited for the first drops of an inevitable rain to fall and further dampen the already overcast scene. All forms of life seemed to move in a quick-paced plodding as shops were visited, dogs walked, and jackets pulled tighter in a continual bustle. I felt fairly apart of my surrounding, except my lacking a dog, yet in truth, I was as mentally distant and those that I longed for. Until a little girl passed by. No more than eight or nine, she rode a little purple scooter, in a little school uniform, with a little hole at the knee in her stockings. She was humming. As she passed by I realized, for perhaps the first time, that these streets which constituted my adventure were her home. As school let out more children filled the streets, rag-tag in there peeled off uniform pieces, each headed to their own home. Even in that moment, I felt a significance to my discovery and for the first time, I felt as though I saw clearly.
Now I sit in a comfortable chair in front of a flower and seashell filled fireplace in John Ruskin's home. It is called Brantwood. Every piece sits in beautiful preservation creating an ornate jigsaw puzzle of the ever-flowing thoughts of Ruskin's immense mind. To sit in such company seemed to qualify as a quiet sort of adventure, once again, far from home. And then I heard the piano. My thoughts quickly slid home as the melody of the keys and the familiarity of its sound touched my heart and mind. As I was thinking of my home it quietly dawned on me that this too was someone else's home. These piano keys, now awoken, were once played by those who moved, breathed, and lived in this place, their home. It was yet again another home which I had constituted my adventure.
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| Just chilling with hot cocoa in our first hostel |
It makes me think of my first tea party in England. While sitting with my little friends Sarah and Dani and speaking in our attempt at a British accent I began a conversation by asking them if they'd had an adventure that day. To their sadness they told me that they had done nothing that day, therefore having no adventures. In a whisper, I quietly told them that "every day has an adventure in it, no matter where you are or what you are doing. Even if it is just your thoughts, anything can be an adventure." As their little eyes widened at this sudden revelation they began to review their day to find their own adventures that they had only just missed. And now as I sit here I wonder how many times we, lost in the sea of our own expectations, miss the moments that are happening all around us. I wonder as I walk the streets of York, Edinburgh, or Keswick if the people that swirl around me, who live maybe five or ten minutes walk away from this daily swirl their everyday life, realize that what they consider their home I consider to be my adventure. And I wonder further, how many times I've walked the paths and roads I know too well assuming that my home is only that. How many shoulders have I bumped or people seen that are on their own adventure in a place I've reduced to "just a home."
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A view of Edinburgh from Edinburgh Castle
(the castle which acted as home and defense of home for thousands of years) |
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A daily street performer
Down The Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Scotland |
In every place that is "just someone's home" history can be found. Lives have been lived and every day people still walk the streets carrying on. The traces of their beings leave a remarkable adventure as I sit contemplating and hoping to understand them. In every place that is "just someone's home" immense amounts of beauty is etched into the age-old landscape, imprinted by the elements of existence. Ruins and monuments, gardens and caverns, mountains and lakes, footpaths and trails. In every place that is "just someone's home" unique talent created by unique people can be found. Street performers, shop owners, dog walkers, strangers or friends, those going to work, those going on a walk. Young men carrying guitars, old men playing bagpipes. Each person has a story and the story they've created is the finely designed webbing that connects the elements of their home. And when I step in hoping to find an adventure I simply catch a snapshot of a life, a history, a home.
In every adventure I experience I find flowers worth pressing or rocks worth collecting. There will always be a plaque worth reading or a site worth seeing. I fully expect that the human race will still create people worth talking to, watching, hearing, and sitting with. Each of these elements, when examined in its whole, reflects the nature of home and belonging. Yet it is these same elements when captured in a snapshot form the makings of an adventure. They are one in the same, not to be separated but rather appreciated when seen clearly. They stand side by side yet also shed further beauty when juxtaposed in contrast to each other.
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| A local woman walking the beach in St. Andrews, Scotland |
As I've come to understand this concept through my everyday experiences I've found that while my missing has not necessarily ebbed, it has become a pleasant reminder of the home I have and the homes I'm discovering here. It reminds me to be grateful for the adventures I'm having while allowing me to look forward to the adventures I will have upon my return home. It has given me a powerful sense of belonging because no matter where I am I may recognize the objects that fuse together to create my sense of home. Like listening to piano keys, or watching children play, certain books, or plants, or even a treasured letter and email.
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| In the garden's of Beatrix Potter's Home |
In coming to England, it no longer surprises me to hear the innumerable songs dedicated to going home and the beauty found there. Under-appreciating one's home is not a problem for only a few and many never find fulfillment in the simple lives and those happenings that create their sense of belonging. Even so, I also sympathize with those who feel the yearning to search the corners of the earth and trace the steps of those who've existed there. There is inherent beauty in new sights, new sounds, and new tastes which can never be underestimated. But that is why the contrast is so lovely. To be home and to thoroughly enjoy your time there can be a wonderful adventure. To travel and to thoroughly enjoy your opportunity can be a wonderful adventure. Much like the way we bring our travels home with us through souvenirs, trinkets, postcards, and photographs we can, when found in the "habit of missing" bring home to our travels by recognizing and noticing the threads and remembrances that form our sense of belonging. In this way every stage of a journey can be fulfilling: being home, being abroad, and returning again. Maybe most fulfilling, is the realization that no matter what adventure lies in store or where it may be there will always be a new and exciting world to explore. And, if lucky enough to explore it one can realize and appreciate the home they have worth returning to, worth missing, and the people left behind who are worth thinking of and seeing again.
And that is what I found while listening to a piano in John Ruskin's home, having a little tea party in Earby, or seeing a little girl with a little hole in her stocking riding home on her little scooter through the streets of Keswick; I found the moment in which I first saw clearly. Finding that this world is composed of not just adventures, but homes. And no matter where I walk, no matter where I go I will be experiencing the beauty of someone's home. The history, the people, the landscape. Each part of the journey may be enjoyed and sometimes finding one's own nature of belonging first requires the "habit of missing"and is the prerequisite to the balm of appreciation.
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Shoshone Falls near my home in Twin Falls, Idaho
right before Spencer asked my parents blessing in proposing to me.
(with my finance Spencer and little brother Jason) |
As I sit here in England, moving from town to town as a traveling dot on a map, I now wonder who is exploring my own home. I wonder if they could be from here, as though we had just switched spots. I wonder what we would say if we could sit down and share first impressions and long time stories. My adventure, someone's home. My home, someone's adventure. Maybe someday I could tell that person of this instance in which I traveled, hiking across the United Kingdom. Tell them my love for England, Scotland, and Wales or maybe even the town they grew up in. Maybe someday I could ask them how they felt towards my home, the home I once thought so insignificant. Do the green and golden fields of wheat, alfalfa, and corn move them during the harvest days of Autumn? Do the mists from the Falls dampen their eyelashes as they have mine? Or did they lose their breath while looking over the edge of the Perrine Bridge over the Canyon? For now, I can only wonder and enjoy their home as they enjoy mine. But I hope they love it as I have and that my home is proving an adventure. Because now that I think about it, my home has given me the adventure of a lifetime, literally.
-Natalie Cherie
I love the photo of you with cocoa. It exhibits so many things about you I adore: glasses, pulled back hair which is simple but beautiful, layers that make you look like a hippie-hiker, your smile/smirk, how comfortable you look in a completely foreign environment, and you.
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