Road to self

I once came upon a silent place on the very bottom of a valley where monks, one after another, would exile for the remainder of their lives. I sat on that same bench where for an indefinite amount of time, the drought days of summer through winter’s breeze used to pass through the glance of a man. He might have felt every branch shake, every thunder, every bloom and blizzard, while his posture was slowly imitating the rose beside me.

In that moment, a sense of acceptance had invaded me as the very first memory of home started losing some bits.

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7am, and the first ray of light hit the glass of the car shield as I was sipping hot tea. It had been a while since I last regained full composure and was immersed in a wider environment.

It was a sunny, yet cold day while snow was pairing on both sides of the highway, greeting me towards the sky. As my vision aligned with the shape of the road, I let my body guide my mind through the left and right, the temptation of a sporadic smell of fresh air or tearing over the relief felt post freedom.

It had been an hour since the sun started to shift north. I quickly recognized a green stand-alone cabin, most likely unoccupied. I saw myself standing wet and warm behind the front window, looking out towards the red oaks.

I had to get closer.

And so I parked on the side of the highway, carrying my camera over my shoulder to capture new possible pieces of home. It was only then, alone, at the intersection of ice and a running river, that I realized I was already in it.

Across the road, buried in the woods, I saw a stone in a circular shape; an organic take on the saucer chair, almost inimitable.

I looked at it like a piece of furniture behind an expensive display, far from my reach, but remembering every shape and volume and as my camera triggered, I felt somehow it was already mine.

The walk beside the highway felt strangely soothing, probably as a result of the few noises apart from speed, which only made the wind louder, made the snow dissipate even more and the birds fly deeper into the grove.

That sense of discovery was the aftermath of a couple of days up north. The escape from the city’s weight and anger had become imminent as the tocsin within me rang, urging me to vacate.

I rented a car, skis and a cabin, and allowed the stillness of winter to invade me.

I wanted it to be silent, not as the boredom that it could imply but rather perceiving void as this particle of life which easily emulates its surroundings. And from nothing, I was able to create anything.

By the third day, my body was bruised, my legs were stiff, but I was at peace. I gazed at the hills surrounding me; the white was synonymous with the void intended within, but also pure, glimmering and bright.

Since then, when I close my eyes and I look for refuge, I see myself there, just before that little bridge joining small hills to a bigger cliff, in between the stalactites falling on the sides of a rocky highway, and the smooth whisper of snowy winds.

Eighteen moves, five different countries, and my memory of home remains in fragments.

I can remember that very first one, that promise of forever ..

Every place that followed tried to replicate the memory of that first smell, getting past the front door and touching the textured wall on which drawn warblers flew permanently.

What is home? When the memory of sea prevails while staring enviously at an assembly of migrant birds ..

There is a moment when all of it makes sense,

the in-betweens,

the journey itself.

While I am on the road and heedless of where I'm heading,

my past, present and future seem to all collide.