A close friend sent me these words from Dr. Miriam Adeney yesterday, saying they reminded her of me:
“You will never be completely at home again because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.”
This is why I love words. They give voice to my soul in ways I sometimes cannot.
In 2010, when I returned from my four month adventure in Kenya that changed everything about my life and self and soul and I wrote and wrote and wrote, trying to remember, trying to make sense of, trying to live out Kenya, I said this:
“Over those first few days, everyone said: “welcome home.” I kept thinking ‘I’m not so sure I am home.’
Our challenge now is not only to cope and process the experiences we had in Kenya, but also the seemingly greater challenge of living between two continents, having homes half way across the world, being separated from half of our family.
Somehow you must navigate this divided path. You try to split yourself in two, to think of both families, to love both. Dividing yourself is the only way you know how to cope.”
When my friend sent me the quote, I immediately thought of these words I wrote in 2010, what seems so long ago. Since these words on division were written, my family has grown larger, my heart has traveled and split further, and my love now spans more than two countries.
Two weeks ago, I said goodbye to the child who gave me the name Mama Moses, the child who I love oh so dearly.
Before that, I said goodbye to my hilarious and kind and welcoming Kenyan parents after only one short evening together. Before that, it was goodbye to the wonderfully sincere, inspiring, and good-hearted people of the Umoja Project and Chulaimbo community. Before that, it was to the parents who raised me, the parents who made me the person I am today, the parents who have never stopped me from, but rather always encouraged me to, adventure. Before that, it was to a close friend who has been a source of strength and listening since those first days of writing in 2010 and whom I rarely see but always know is there. Before that, it was to my housemates who fill my days with laughter, with good conversation, with dancing and with sassiness, and who are examples of good and independent and loving humans. Before that, it was to my British brother whose distance renders our next ‘hello’ unknown but who has helped me discover gratitude, curiosity, and self-compassion. Before that, it was to my most delightful Senegalese family who showed me love crosses language, love is filled with dancing, love is a family-filled house. Before that, it was to my parents and brother and sister again as I left for a six-month unknown journey in Senegal. Before that and some months, it was to my grandfather, this time the more forever kind of goodbye, except not really because I still feel his friendship and his love as I walk through cathedrals in England, see cardinals flitting through trees, eat summer sausage. Before that, it was to a grandmother, then to another, as life took its course and we promised to remain family in heart and soul if no longer on earth.
Scattered throughout were goodbyes to other friends, goodbyes to teachers, goodbyes to childhood homes, goodbyes to the man who always gave us a good price on bananas at the corner stand, goodbyes to caregivers who are living proof of our capacity for good, goodbyes to first apartments, goodbyes. In two weeks, this goodbye list will increase as I say goodbye to mentors, surrogate grandparents, giggling children, sisters, red dirt, the constant dazzling I experience in this wonderful place.
And so my friend was right when she said this quote seemed to describe my life: “You will never be completely at home again because part of your heart will always be elsewhere.” Often I feel like I’m saying goodbye to pieces of my heart.
But a song I love says this: “if you give love and live love, then you will always have a home.” Those words are among my favorite and how I guide so many of my steps, movements, and interactions: giving and living love.
And that giving and living love offers me so many ‘hellos’ scattered between the ‘goodbyes’. Hellos to new places, new faces who became immediate family, hellos to familiar friends, hellos to brothers and sisters who give me more than they know, hellos to dirt paths whose rocks and bumps and mud and windings feel like old memories coming alive to my feet, hellos to smiles and laughter, hellos to challenges and lessons, hellos to a life lived in gratitude and mindfulness, hellos to fulfillment and a heart full of compassion, hello to red dirt, to the constant dazzling I experience in this wonderful place. In two weeks, this hello list will increase as I say hello to my mama and baba, to a sister and a brother, to mentors, teachers, a house filled with warmth and coffee and joy, learning, independence, and the delight of considering the life and path that lies before me.
And so while I like the quote from Dr. Adeney of the price paid for loving in more than one place and her words ring so true to what I often feel in my heart, and what I certainly felt in the past two weeks after saying goodbye to Moses, I’ve come to find that I like this idea of always having a home, rather than never truly feeling at home.
It’s true, most of my days feel like I am divided, just as I was in 2010. It’s true, most of my days I feel like I am always saying goodbye to someone in order to be where I currently stand. It’s true, most of my days I am missing the presence of someone or the feel of some place. It’s true, most of my days my family is spread throughout the world and I am only able to have their presence through phone lines or computer screens or internet typing.
It’s true, I sometimes feel like I will never truly be at home again. And sometimes this makes me not want to give and live love, makes me want to protect my heart from another splitting by not connecting with the sick child, by not opening my eyes to the wonder of a place, by not saying hello so that a goodbye won’t follow.
But then I think of the beauty of not having a straight and simple answer when someone asks me how many people are in my family. I think of the beauty of knowing the names and stories and smiles of people spread throughout the world. I think of the beauty of feeling the warmth of home’s embrace in more than one place. I think of the beauty of holding and being held by people even if far away, of the wonderful feeling of a hello that will someday follow a painful goodbye.
And I think that this isn’t a price I have to pay. This is a gift I am grateful for. And it isn’t that I will never be at home in these places. It is that I am always at home. It’s not that I am a divided person, it’s that I am made whole by many people and places and experiences across the world.
I am made whole by the love that fills each of those goodbyes and each of those hellos.
callie daniels-howell 