Home is Made Up of Little Things
You know the feeling of going through all your belongings when you're moving houses (all the while thinking, "how the hell do I have so much stuff?") and suddenly finding something you'd forgotten you owned? Maybe an old shirt, journal, or keepsake. You feel as if you are rediscovering a part of yourself, like opening a tucked-away shoe box of emotions and self-potential you'd previously shoved under your bed. Finding small moments of joy when you're feeling heartbroken or lost or sad feels a lot like that.
Those rough times are the moments and events that will whittle you down to your core and force you to confront yourself--and it doesn't end there, because they will force you to then question, doubt, and relearn the contours of your belief and value systems and the breadth of your strengths and weaknesses. But, with time and the courage to let yourself feel it, your heart will slowly welcome the good feelings again. Call it muscle memory, if you will. Eventually, you will come across things that make its downtrodden self raise its tired head and make it want to put on a good pair of shoes and tap dance inside your chest.
Those little moments are reminders of who you are-- because while you might find yourself in your pain during difficult times, you also find yourself in your happiness. "It works both ways," the universal law of balance says primly, as it adjusts its delicate spectacles.
As for myself? This past summer has felt like an experience in being pummeled by earth, wind, fire, and water (I loved Avatar: The Last Air Bender when I was growing up, bite me). I felt swallowed by a tornado, with all my thoughts churning in circles. I have a terrible habit of arguing with myself, then producing counterarguments for every argument. And on it goes, sometimes with multiple threads of thoughts running amok simultaneously, the way my stupid brain works. I felt burned out, as if all my emotions and thoughts were a wildfire razing my mind and heart down to their barest foundations, yet at the same time I felt like they were rocks weighing me down until I couldn't lift myself up anymore. I felt like I was drowning in all the uncertainty and self-doubt.
These past few months whittled me down until I no longer knew myself when I delved through my thoughts.
But lately, I've been noticing a shift.
While exploring Granville Island, a place I hadn't spent much time frequenting, a lighthearted, leisurely curiosity began spreading inside me. This curiosity is a sensation I normally associate with traveling, but sadly, I don't ever recall feeling it during my recent trip. And although I'd visited the bustling markets at Granville Island before, I was surprised to feel my senses come alive in a way they do only when I discover a person, place, or thing that resonates with me: I found myself cataloguing all the gem-like colours of the numerous fruit and vegetable stands, the savory and sweet smells that wafted like a complicated perfume throughout the market, and the overlapping sounds of music, laughing children, and vendors selling their wares. It's akin to the feeling I get when I feel the urge to paint. My eyes felt hungry as I meandered through the artisan stalls, browsing each one, and circled through the market again and again. I felt a thrill of excitement as I purchased a fresh baguette and quiet joy as I chewed on it while browsing a flower shop that sold rainbows in the form of delicate roses, dahlias, daisies, and baby's breath. I felt such steady joy as I sat in the shade of a few trees with sun-dried leaves, eating a carton of mixed berries with colours so vivid they looked like mixed paints.
I was lucky to get this small glimpse of another side of myself. Simply because I'd forgotten I could be this person. I usually think of myself as pensive, solitary person of books and poetry, someone living in her thoughts, who seeks both quiet corners in coffee shops and adventures that I could turn into stories, but I had so very nearly, so nearly completely forgotten that I am also a person who seeks the colours on a painter's palette everywhere I go. Whether the colours are in the smells or sights, tastes or touches, people or place, I can't help but catalog them once they register. I am also a person who can be present, who loves to be surrounded by other like-minded, cheerful, curious people who love what they do. I am also a person who seeks feeling at home, grounded and safe, like I belong.
I've spent so much time searching for home in far away places, I forgot to feel at home where I actually am.
Those rough times are the moments and events that will whittle you down to your core and force you to confront yourself--and it doesn't end there, because they will force you to then question, doubt, and relearn the contours of your belief and value systems and the breadth of your strengths and weaknesses. But, with time and the courage to let yourself feel it, your heart will slowly welcome the good feelings again. Call it muscle memory, if you will. Eventually, you will come across things that make its downtrodden self raise its tired head and make it want to put on a good pair of shoes and tap dance inside your chest.
Those little moments are reminders of who you are-- because while you might find yourself in your pain during difficult times, you also find yourself in your happiness. "It works both ways," the universal law of balance says primly, as it adjusts its delicate spectacles.
As for myself? This past summer has felt like an experience in being pummeled by earth, wind, fire, and water (I loved Avatar: The Last Air Bender when I was growing up, bite me). I felt swallowed by a tornado, with all my thoughts churning in circles. I have a terrible habit of arguing with myself, then producing counterarguments for every argument. And on it goes, sometimes with multiple threads of thoughts running amok simultaneously, the way my stupid brain works. I felt burned out, as if all my emotions and thoughts were a wildfire razing my mind and heart down to their barest foundations, yet at the same time I felt like they were rocks weighing me down until I couldn't lift myself up anymore. I felt like I was drowning in all the uncertainty and self-doubt.
These past few months whittled me down until I no longer knew myself when I delved through my thoughts.
But lately, I've been noticing a shift.
While exploring Granville Island, a place I hadn't spent much time frequenting, a lighthearted, leisurely curiosity began spreading inside me. This curiosity is a sensation I normally associate with traveling, but sadly, I don't ever recall feeling it during my recent trip. And although I'd visited the bustling markets at Granville Island before, I was surprised to feel my senses come alive in a way they do only when I discover a person, place, or thing that resonates with me: I found myself cataloguing all the gem-like colours of the numerous fruit and vegetable stands, the savory and sweet smells that wafted like a complicated perfume throughout the market, and the overlapping sounds of music, laughing children, and vendors selling their wares. It's akin to the feeling I get when I feel the urge to paint. My eyes felt hungry as I meandered through the artisan stalls, browsing each one, and circled through the market again and again. I felt a thrill of excitement as I purchased a fresh baguette and quiet joy as I chewed on it while browsing a flower shop that sold rainbows in the form of delicate roses, dahlias, daisies, and baby's breath. I felt such steady joy as I sat in the shade of a few trees with sun-dried leaves, eating a carton of mixed berries with colours so vivid they looked like mixed paints.
I was lucky to get this small glimpse of another side of myself. Simply because I'd forgotten I could be this person. I usually think of myself as pensive, solitary person of books and poetry, someone living in her thoughts, who seeks both quiet corners in coffee shops and adventures that I could turn into stories, but I had so very nearly, so nearly completely forgotten that I am also a person who seeks the colours on a painter's palette everywhere I go. Whether the colours are in the smells or sights, tastes or touches, people or place, I can't help but catalog them once they register. I am also a person who can be present, who loves to be surrounded by other like-minded, cheerful, curious people who love what they do. I am also a person who seeks feeling at home, grounded and safe, like I belong.
I've spent so much time searching for home in far away places, I forgot to feel at home where I actually am.
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