Is it possible that children of the diaspora, once uprooted and driven from their ancestral home may never find the perfect spot to be transplanted? Is it possible that once I realized that there is no home to go back to, the chord that tied me to the mother ship snapped and I began to float in an eternal galaxy?
So what do I do with this weltschmerz? This profound sadness that comes with the realization that physical reality will never satisfy the demands of the mind, and that the juxtaposition of what’s real and what’s ideal can be very cruel sometimes. What do I do with this fragmented sense of home? Do I need to create a larger understanding of home? A lifestyle that will constantly keep me on the move and offer some sense of belonging everywhere I go? But then again, doesn’t the idea of a home suggest permanency an anchor that will keep me grounded and offer some kind of a base?
Maybe its time for me to stop searching for a place I can call home and accept the fact that I will live with this anomie for the rest of my life. Or maybe every once in a while I should remind myself that home is where my emotions are, and take up residence in an old lemon tree, in a book resting on my nightstand, in Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor, or in the heart of someone I adore.