Two years since buckling into the Motherland. But I still feel like I have one leg here and another there – straddling two different continents, two different lives, two different me-s.
What is the best way to settle into a new place, I asked myself, knowing that I’d miss some stuff even while moving to be with someone I’d missed for years. There were two distinct answers – one, find equivalents to what was left behind so that one does not feel the change; two, find entirely new things and jump headlong into it all. I’ve tried both in the two years here and settled into a weird medium, still one leg here and another there, ruled entirely by moods and fancies, sometimes sound logic.
Quickie examples? I toyed with the idea of turning into a (bad) writer but then found myself a job I was trained to do. I searched high and low for a group exercise class to fit my style; now I have a Zumba class but I weight train alone. I mourn the death of DIY but can’t stand to clean India’s mystic dust patterns myself. And the like. I’ve settled into a new routine with traces of familiarity, like an eerie out-of-order jigsaw that retains a semblance of the big picture. I have a list of things I miss from long ago, and also a list of hurray-I-can-do-this, this and this-in-India. Predictably, my right brain sits on one side and my left on the other. Respectively. But they haven’t made peace with each other (yet?) in this place that I’m supposed to call home.
Is this the eternal destiny of a nomadic heart? Will I always falsely pride myself on buckling into anywhere new but battle forever with what I left behind? I don’t know. I’m ready to move away once more, if only to put this to test. For now, the one thing that I’m very grateful for is that I moved for all the right reasons; B has made it all worthwhile (including putting first-world-problems in perspective) and I couldn’t be more grateful.
Maybe I’ll eternally straddle two halves of myself. And maybe I’ll just have to make peace with that.