As I sit here at my desk on a rare and blessedly sunny winter’s day, listening to the twitter of the birds and the cries and laughter of the children at the barnehage next door, it has struck me how many delightfully ‘foreign’ occurrences happen here every day. Peering out the window to see the 2-3 year old children zooming around the tiny slopes of the barnehage yard on mini-skis. Babies sleeping alone in buggies outside apartments and coffee shops, swaddled head to foot in blankets to ward off the winter nip, no adults in sight. The street names and signs and advertisements that I pass by each day, written in a foreign tongue that I am slowly gaining the ability to read and understand.
These are the type of deviations I love so much about this strange little country, only about the size of two average US states. Little quirks that make life feel fresh and bright and endlessly full of wonder. In moments like these, I have to remind myself with a sense of awe that I live here now. It’s the same joy I feel upon my first steps in any foreign land, when the stress of the long journey of travel has worn off, after I’ve had my first sleep, and I wake up with renewed vigor to an entirely new world.
I had always prided myself in the past on my ability to find a sense of home in so many places around the world. As a solo traveler, there were always occasions in which I felt lonely, or in which I wished I had another person by my side to share in the beauty of the amazing wonders I witnessed. But as long as I had a few key elements, I could always make myself feel at home- through a walk in nature, reading books in a green city park, making friends with stray dogs and cats, drinking freshly brewed coffee on a porch or balcony.
I never could have anticipated how difficult it would be for me to feel at home here in Norway. The lingering sense of disorientation caught me completely off-guard. On so many occasions, I have felt that I’ve lost myself, lost touch with my core essence. But in truth, it’s not that at all. I know exactly who I am, what I love most, and how I want to live. Instead it’s been fitting myself, my lifestyle, my desires, into this other world that’s so very foreign to all I know. It seems part of the magic of my traveling was knowing that I had my own home to come back to, my comforts all lined up and nestled into a cozy little apartment, waiting to embrace me with open arms.
But my home was more than just those walls, of course. Home was visiting my grandparents over holidays, trying out new pasta dishes, drinking red wine with my grandmother while painting our nails matching colors. Home was carrying Rocky like a baby in the crook of my arm- him with his tongue lolled and snoring on my shoulder, me working one-armed in my kitchen, grinding fresh coffee beans, heating the kettle, and pouring it into my favorite mug. Home was sitting across the table from a close friend, coffee in hand, talking, laughing, and crying about anything and everything. But most of all, home was Amelia. My soulmate. Long hikes through the mountains, bathing in mountain streams as she chewed on a stick on the shoreline, morning cuddles on weekends with clean sheets and a good book. As long as she was by my side, we would figure it out together. It was us against the world.
And so the questions linger inside me… What makes a home when those we love are no longer in this world to embrace? Or when they reside a continent away? Or when some unforeseeable and unalterable situation, injury, illness cuts us off from the places and activities that bring us peace, joy, and solitude?
Severance is inevitable, but the grieving never truly passes. I grieve not only for lost loved ones, but for my lost ways of life.
My days of living as a nomad are not lost on me, my wishing so desperately for a single place to lay my head amidst the chaos of the pandemic. Nor are the devastating atrocities being committed around the world. My heart aches for those displaced, whose homes are being ripped from them by the minute, destroyed or no longer viable. I know how amazingly lucky and privileged I am to have a home here in Norway, a home that took so long to acquire, a home that is safe.
And I have made my own versions of home here. My partner who grounds me and roots me more than anyone else in my life, whose hugs bring a wave of such immense happiness to my soul. Our spacious and relatively minimalist apartment, with airy windows and wild green plants covering every sill. A space I’ve worked so hard to make cozy, repainting bookshelves, reupholstering chairs, arranging everything just so. Adding to it the beloved physical pieces of my former life I chose to bring with me overseas- an elephant tea kettle, an owl coffee mug, a yoga mat, so many irreplaceable books and journals, sacred items on an alter for those I have lost and loved the most.
But I miss do my former life, so desperately at times it takes my breath away. Despite loving so much of Oslo and being so much closer to my partner, the foreignness of this city often sinks to my core, especially in the dark winters. Norway is a world where conformity reigns and drawing within the lines is expected. Where feelings are not spoken of and strangers are very rarely spoken to.
I miss living in a culture where random strangers make small talk, where the sun shines upon freshly fallen snow, where I could drive a car. I miss having neighbors who became close friends, instead of those who make a point of hiding in their apartments when they hear others in the stairwell. I miss having a dog.
I know I’m not alone in this feeling, and I have to continuously remind myself that I’m still new here, still acclimating and learning the ropes. Although I’ve been popping in and out of the country for years now, I’ve only officially landed for 8 months. In fact, this is the longest stretch of time I’ve stayed anywhere since moving out of my apartment in Asheville. Looking back with a bit of distance, I can also now say that my ankle injury has been the root of so many of these feelings of alienation, cut off from my main coping strategies and deepest loves, no longer being able to run, hike, or, many times, even go for walks amidst the ice and darkness.
So I try to reach back to my teachings. Practices in yoga, tantra, and meditation that have all taught me that home lies within one’s self. The outward world may lead one astray, but we can always come home by feeling within. I’ve always believed this to be true. After all, at the end of the day, we are the only ones fully within our control, who will always be there by our side, no matter what. As Carl Jung wrote, “Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”
But sitting still within the chaos is far easier said than done. Slowing down to meditate, sleep, even breathe can feel unbearable, bringing with it tidal waves of panic and overwhelm. At times in this journey I’ve become a master of distraction, occupying myself with anything to avoid the unceasing race between my heartbeat and my thoughts. I lost touch with my intuition- or more accurately, I willfully ignored it. In a sea of swirling anxiety, it became increasingly difficult to hear what was coming from the inside and what was coming from the outside. I second-guessed myself, constantly. I rationalized all of my decisions, telling myself what I should be feeling, how I should be reacting, and what this journey was “supposed” to look like, instead of allowing my true experiences to be fully felt and actualized. I sought comfort in what seem the most logical or rational ways to proceed. It was a very Norwegian way for me to operate, actually, in a region seeped in pragmatism. To balance my overwhelm in sensation, I focused on my head instead of my soul.
My acupuncturist recently reminded me that I’ve been trying to draw from an empty cup. Until our bodies can reach a place of stasis, we will have nothing left to give. I know this all of course- I taught the same to my students for years. And yet somehow coming from her- a stranger, a professional- it felt so much more blessedly validating. The masses have all seemed to preach the same advice: Meditate. Sleep more. But those are almost impossible to practice and come by when the anxiety that resides within us, the fear and angst and trauma, is seeped into our muscles, joints, and brain patterns. It takes much, much more.
I do believe the key to arriving home lies in our own bodies, returning to our inner knowing. But how we arrive back to that space can take on infinite forms. Acupuncture has been an amazing blessing for me, cleansing my system, allowing me to think more clearly, sleep more soundly for the first time in months. In addition to increasing my much-lacking Vitamin D, the dedication of an hour a week solely devoted to myself, my body, my healing, has been an incredible gift as well. Being able to fully relax in the hands of another with nothing to accomplish but to lay there, to feel within my body, to breathe.
Perhaps coming home is consistently bathing ourselves in actions that renew and rejuvenate, that shower us with joy, that cleanse our soul. I’ve come to realize this return needs NOT to be a novelty, or something when we engage in when we have the time. It’s not just ‘self-care’. It’s our life force. When we let that candle burn down, we burn out along with it.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes writes a lot about the straying from our soul-selves in “Women Who Run With the Wolves”. On the concept of coming home, slipping back into our skins, she writes:
“There are many ways to go home; many are mundane, some are divine. … Spending even a few minutes near a river, a stream, a creek. Lying on the ground in dappled light. Being with a loved one without kids around. Sitting on the porch shelling something, knitting something, peeling something. Walking or driving for an hour, any direction, then returning. Getting on any bus, destination unknown. … Greeting sunrise. Driving out to where the city lights do not interfere with the night sky. Praying. … Sitting by a window in a cafe and writing. Sitting in a circle of trees. Drying hair in the sun. Putting hands in a rain barrel. Potting plants, being sure to get hands very muddy.“**
I have made my own list in addition to hers, modified for my current injury. Small, simple acts. Sitting on the balcony in the sun, despite the cold; slow and mindful walks through a park; dressing myself in the clothes and jewelry from my former life; practicing Breath of Fire; burning incense and Palo Santo; reading poetry; writing lists of gratitude.
In recent weeks, I’ve tried to make coming back to soul my main priority, though it often hasn’t been easy. Its forms shifting from day to day, hour to hour. I don’t have all the answers by a long shot, but I feel as if I’m at least facing in the right direction.
It has been listening to my inner “no”- for only when I accept my no’s can I truly embrace my yes’s. It has meant, at times, turning down offers that the rational side of me argued I should accept, despite my insides screaming not to. Finding the hobbies I have access to- substituting a hike for sitting on my balcony; indulging in more reading, more cooking. Prioritizing and budgeting for necessary healing efforts- acupuncture, physical therapy. It’s been treating myself with more kindness and understanding, as I would a close friend.
As Clarissa Pinkola Estes has also taught me, it’s gradually learning to care for and love my own body as I would care for and love those most sacred to me- Amelia, my grandmother. Giving her water when she is thirsty. Allowing her to rest when she is tired. Indulging her in her greatest joys. Loving her for all her scars and blemishes and eccentricities. Allowing for infinitive moments of weakness and mistakes and discouragement.
And perhaps that’s the key.
Perhaps through that relentless tenderness and compassion, that unwavering love, that honoring of their memory, we continue to keep the lives of all of those we love burning, once again fully alive and at home within ourselves.
**Estés, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run with the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. Ballantine Books, 1992.
A Mermaid Out of Water 