There are questions that don't announce themselves with fanfare. They creep in like morning mist, settling in the corners of your mind until you can no longer ignore their presence. For me, this question of belonging arrived with the subtlety of changing seasons – carried on the crisp winter air, nestled in the familiar yet foreign scents that tickle the nostrils, and whispered through the goosebumps on exposed skin.
It begins with nostalgia, that bittersweet companion of the displaced. Nostalgia has a way of painting "home" in colors so vivid they almost hurt to look at, like staring directly at the sun. It creates a longing for something that perhaps never existed quite as we remember it – or something we can no longer grasp in quite the same way, no matter how desperately we reach.
I find myself in this peculiar space of contradiction. Here I stand, acutely aware of my privilege, surrounded by the daily miracles of a life filled with joy and fulfillment. My heart still sings with the beauty of existence, finding rhythm in the ordinary moments that make up our days. Yet beneath this melody runs a persistent bass line: where do I root this happiness? Where do I plant these seeds of belonging?
The easy answer would be "within myself" or "within my family" – and there's truth there, certainly. We carry our homes within us, in the constellation of relationships that define us. But what of the physical world? What of the country I left behind, with its familiar streets and weather patterns, its unspoken cultural codes that I once navigated as naturally as breathing? That knowledge now feels like a book written in a language I'm slowly forgetting – still legible, but requiring more effort with each passing day.
There's an open wound in realizing that you've changed too much to fit perfectly into the space you left behind. The familiar has become somewhat foreign, and the foreign somewhat familiar, leaving you suspended between worlds. It's in this suspension that I find myself most often now, watching as memories of our former home surface with increasing frequency in my mind's eye. The ache intensifies when I see it reflected in my children's eyes – their longing for a place they remember or imagine, a belonging they seek with even more urgency than I do.
The vulnerability of this position is stark. Standing in this space of uncertainty feels like being caught in a winter storm – raw, exposed, stripped to essentials. Yet there's a strange beauty in acknowledging this pain, in not turning away from it. Perhaps this too is a form of belonging – belonging to the truth of our own experience, however uncomfortable it may be.
This season seems particularly suited to such reflections. Winter itself is a time of apparent death and destruction, yet it cradles within it the promise of renewal. Just as the warmth of Christmas lights and family gatherings pierce through the darkness of December, so too does love illuminate our current uncertainty. We may not know exactly where we belong, but we belong to each other, to this moment, to this question itself.
The answer to "Where do we belong?" remains elusive, floating just beyond my grasp like a snowflake that melts upon touch. Perhaps knowing isn't as important as the seeking. Perhaps belonging isn't a destination but a journey, one that winds through both familiar and unknown territories of the heart.
For now, I hold this question gently, allowing it to be both compass and companion. I don't know where we belong, but I know that one day, this very question might lead us home – whatever and wherever that home might be.
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