I recently returned from a trip to Europe with my son. We enjoyed visiting the beautiful Mediterranean countries and islands, including Spain, Portugal, Italy, Corsica (the smallest Metropolitan French region), and France. Part of our trip was through a massive cruise ship with more entertainment than all the live events I would typically attend in a year. I am not a big fan of cruises, but on this trip, I truly enjoyed myself.
Every morning we would arrive at a new port and spend the day site-seeing, walking, and tasting local food; in the evenings, we returned to the ship to sail off again. There was so much to see, cultures to experience, pictures to take, and unbelievable cuisine. The fun exceeded my prejudged cruise ship expectation.
One of the most peaceful moments I enjoyed on the ship was gazing into the never-ending calm water with a pleasant sea breeze and occasional seabirds that tagged along. I marveled at their freedom and fearlessness; they flew in and out and rested on the rescue boats as they desired. I wondered if they ever felt they belonged anywhere. One night standing on the balcony of our cabin, looking at the magnificent immense orange moon with its shimmering light reflected on the ocean, I thought I could do this for the rest of my life, traveling and sailing around the world. Watching the crimson sunset was one of the highlights of my evenings. I could see the shadow of faraway islands. It was incredible how calm and silent—almost spiritually peaceful, this monster ship sored through the vast water.
Maybe this cruise was different, or perhaps I have changed. I spent more time doing things that genuinely pleased me and not doing activities for being there because I paid for them. I was more carefree and was consciously living the moments. I could relate to the birds.
I cherished every moment of spending time with my son and reflecting upon my relationship with him. We rode the ship's spiral waterslides, walked and dined daily together, and even danced on the ship deck under the moonlight. The memory of that night will forever remain with me. I wish the same for him.
Toward the end of our trip, after we disembarked from the ship and started our 2-day journey in Barcelona, my son's tiredness and desire to go home were apparent. Despite all the fun times he had—especially with newly made friends on the ship, endless parties, and his particular admiration of the city of Porto with all the mouth-watering Mediterranean food, I could see him getting ready to head back home. It was understandable, especially after two weeks of plane rides—in overwhelmingly busy and chaotic airports, an average daily walk of 20,000 steps among the unleashed post-pandemic crowd, and dragging carryons and backpacks in the heat and humidity.
As my way of sympathizing with him, I admitted that I was ready to go home and stretch my achy ankles too. He brought it to my attention—in a familiar teenage-adorned tone, "So, you too like to go back to the US, and even the most beautiful terrain and vibrant ambiance that I know you love to see and live is eventually become tiresome." He was definitely referring to my never-ending decision to move away from the US. I was a little tired and missed my personal space, but I did not miss returning to the US. I had to think about what and how I would respond. We were having a beautiful time together, so I wanted to maintain the momentum. He is a teenager, and his thought process differs significantly from a mature adult's. But his question was a good trigger point to reflect upon why we all need that sense of belonging to a "home"? And why I don't share that feeling.
For me, home means comfort, where you can be private, have your familiar belongings, be efficient, and feel at ease. For some, home is where they are born, go to school, and have a family history, childhood memories, and familiar relationships—a sense of community, patriotism, or even pride. My son was born in Denmark, but we moved back to the US when he was only a year old. Clearly, for him, the sense of belonging to a residency in the US makes better sense. He likes to hold on to familiar surroundings––including his school, friends, and the security it all brings him.
On the other hand, I moved away from my birth country when I was only a few years older than him. Since then, I have lived in many places and moved a lot. I cannot call a place home based on the same feelings. Maybe I have experienced far too many beautiful places and a "better" way of living to be more selective about where I want to spend the rest of my life. Maybe it is my way of putting the memories behind me. I can best describe this feeling by listening to a music track several times. You listen to it, enjoy, laugh, cry, share beautiful moments, and then move on to the next music. You may come back to listen to the song again, but it's never the same.
I can move to a new place and make it my home in no time. I take personal pride in my adaptation, coping, and problem-solving strengths. Not just because I love to travel, I do, but because I prefer to be like a river in a current. The thrill of being sheltered long enough in a place loses its magic, and soon I can get along without it—a place where I love to live holds that "je ne sais quoi" feeling. I care excessively about the ambiance and vibrancy, and a town filled more with pedestrians than cars, full of culture and fun interactions. I can build my life around that.
I take comfort in simple things. For example, knowing I have healthy ingredients in the fridge to cook a nice homemade meal anytime or watch as many movies as I desire without explaining it to anyone. I am a big advocate of minimalism. Home is not necessarily where I love to live but rather how I live. I remember Living in temporary hotel apartments in Istanbul for three months. Even though It was a challenging time in my life, It was starting to feel like a home. A sense of adventure and seeing new things brings more pleasure to me as long as––at the end of the day, week, or month; I have a comfort zone I can call my own. Home is where I enjoy watching the sunrise with my cup of coffee and sunset with my glass of wine, standing with my best company. I have an unexplainable love affair with the ocean. Perhaps, the only belonging feeling imprinted into my DNA is that I was born and raised near the Caspian Sea until I was seventeen.
There is always a reason for where we choose to live. Sometimes not even by our own direct choice. There were stages in my life where I had to live in certain places for a job, a partner, or perhaps a community to blend in. Sometimes, I don't even remember why, which tells me the lack of its importance, but I know that wherever I have to be, I can make a beautiful serene home. I am not attached to a particular place or its history. The magic of creativity and contentment in me exceeds the desire for belonging.
I would not understand if my parents shared something like this with me when I was fifteen. When we are young, we give more importance to familiar, secure, and promising things in our lives. So I turned to my son and said, "My only love of life, I will build a home wherever you are and for as long as you want to come to me and ask me to make you your favorite meal. This home, for now, is where you are and where I am. It is a "comfort zone" for both of us. Tomorrow, when you move on to your life, a home will be where you desire to visit me once a month or even a few times a year. I can't promise it will be where you want me to be, but it will be a beautiful and safe home where you want to come and let me hold you in my arms. Some things in me will never change: loving you, wanting to be with you, and desiring to explore the world where I am more myself".
I believe wherever we are, is a temporary passage in the eye of this vast universe. Who knows where we came from and where we are heading? It's the journey that matters, not the destination. I don't particularly deem a feeling of belonging anywhere, which reminds me of this quote by Rumi that I love:
"I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way. Whoever brought me here will have to take me home."