IFOUND THIS ENTRY IN AN OLD NOTEBOOK (WRITTEN SOMETIME BETWEEN JULY 15 AND JULY 22, 2007). WERE I TO TITLE THIS TODAY, I WOULD NAME THIS:
NOTES FROM A NOMADIC NARCISSISTPassing through the oval doorway it is apparent that I am finally home. Deafening white noise melts into a comfortable hum–the melody of peace. All material possessions I hold dear in this world are strapped securely to my back and draped around my neck hanging at my side (It is a freeing feeling to value and carry only the essentials in life. Petty possessions and trivial treasures of this earth have a numbing weighty effect on us creatures of the sky). I casually make my way down the isle as if strolling down the hall way of my beloved house–the house I belong in–the house that safely holds memories of the past, comfort for the present, and identity for the future–the house that exists only in my most fanciful dreams. Each face I pass row by row hangs as if in a picture frame on the warm walls of my conjured corridor. Each photo captures a life, a treasure left undiscovered, a song most beautiful, inaudible. Finally I arrive. My couch, my bed for the next few hours. How one human can be confined to a seat less than two feet wide for an extended amount of time yet be so free and uninhibited is beyond me. It is as if I've found my perch from which I can gaze out across the expanse of the earth and catch a glimpse of what the Creator, seated on his heavenly throne, has intimately seen for eternity.
For now out my window I see busy workers simply going about their daily tasks preparing this craft for departure. Curious, none of theses employees seem to wear a smile. No one has a masquerade expression of joy plastered on his or her face. Do they not know that
I've arrived on board? Don't they realize that everything my eyes open to is a live drama, a play, written and directed flawlessly, specifically, and exclusively for me? Then it occurs to me:
I know that apathetic face. Well, it's the genuine facial expression of routine one often displays living in reality–offstage. These people have been loading luggage, directing aircrafts, driving convayer belts day in and day out before I ever purchased my ticket. Each person on the other side of this triple-paned window has a unique life to return home to when their work day is complete. Where does this strictly self-centered mindset evolve?
The obvious answer may prove more intricate and slightly beyond total comprehension. Naturally each of us inherits a self-centered mentality evident since each of our departures from the womb. Beyond that reality a revelation of compartmentalization hits me humbly and squarely in the face.
A soul caught between two worlds is a dangerously beautiful thing. By definition, a child exposed and living in a culture other than that of his or her parents is a child of a "Third Culture." Frequently transported between continents as a young girl, I quickly adapted to my double life the best way I knew how. Whenever leaving the comforts of "home" to fly to another country, I placed that life, my friends, my memories, my priorities on hold. It was as if I could, just as easily as my suitcase, be packed up and compartmentalized_
[SENTENCE LEFT UNFINISHED]How beautiful is the life of those who have no place to call home.
