Over the past few years there has been much discussion of roots and home. Of native and foreigner. I have given it much thought. My conclusions are the same as always, mine. It is my feeling unless you were born there, and at least several preceding generations were born there, you are not native to the land. And you never will be. The land of our ancestors is the ground we were nurtured from and from that, the essence of our souls. That will not be changed by relocating. We will change and adapt to our environs, man has always done so, but the part of us that is inherent, remains unchanged.
Every so often I feel a pull. A desire to return to the place of my birth. Really it is just the desire to relive the past, something my conscious mind tells me is impossible. I will think about it and journey there in my daydreams. The weather is always perfect, the fish are biting and all my old friends are there. Everyone is fine and has had no sorrow in their life. I walk the same old streets and see the same old landscape. Unchanged from forty years ago. Then I wake up.
Over the last forty years or so I have walked upon much foreign soil. Made many brief stops along the way. A couple years here and a few years there. Eventually coming to rest where I am now. I live here as a foreigner in a foreign land. I have learned much of the local customs. I've adopted some of their speaking patterns and phraseology. I can sometimes pass as a local. Yet, I know my roots here are all on the surface. They have begun to spread and take hold. I am pleased.
Perhaps I am where I am for a reason. Perhaps my old soul could not have stood the changes. The roots of my upbringing reaching for new and vital nourishment. As my distant immigrant ancestors came searching for a new home and a new beginning so might have I. We are not always aware of history or moments as they occur. Sometimes only through reflection do we actually see.
The day will come when I return to my ancestors. Of that much I am certain. In that land there are no foreigners, only friends. The roots of my raising run deep in my soul.
Every so often I feel a pull. A desire to return to the place of my birth. Really it is just the desire to relive the past, something my conscious mind tells me is impossible. I will think about it and journey there in my daydreams. The weather is always perfect, the fish are biting and all my old friends are there. Everyone is fine and has had no sorrow in their life. I walk the same old streets and see the same old landscape. Unchanged from forty years ago. Then I wake up.
Over the last forty years or so I have walked upon much foreign soil. Made many brief stops along the way. A couple years here and a few years there. Eventually coming to rest where I am now. I live here as a foreigner in a foreign land. I have learned much of the local customs. I've adopted some of their speaking patterns and phraseology. I can sometimes pass as a local. Yet, I know my roots here are all on the surface. They have begun to spread and take hold. I am pleased.
Perhaps I am where I am for a reason. Perhaps my old soul could not have stood the changes. The roots of my upbringing reaching for new and vital nourishment. As my distant immigrant ancestors came searching for a new home and a new beginning so might have I. We are not always aware of history or moments as they occur. Sometimes only through reflection do we actually see.
The day will come when I return to my ancestors. Of that much I am certain. In that land there are no foreigners, only friends. The roots of my raising run deep in my soul.
Sounds like heaven to me!
ReplyDeleteGood one, Ben!
ReplyDelete