Returning to Lanterns

Coming home to myself

I am always the most reflective among goodbyes. My last few days in America were full of attempts at savouring what was left: I had extra cups of tea with my family, lingered in grocery store aisles, took the long way home. I asked myself: have I made the most of this? Have I appreciated all that I have been given? The answer is always no. Of course not. But each time, I try a little harder. The metaphorical suitcase in my heart becomes heavier. There is more to carry — more weight, purpose, love — and I land at Heathrow feeling grounded.

I’ve noticed how, on each side of the Atlantic, the other becomes hazy in my memory. As if I’m squinting across a foggy lake, trying to see the shoreline. I returned to an environment that cradled me for the first two decades of my life. What does a grown-up bird do when it finds itself on the same tree that held its nest? Does its body remember the warmth of its mother, the fear it held when it took the first plunge? Never mind — mine did.

Mary Oliver writes in the final lines of her poem, “The Journey”:

But little by little,
as you left their voice behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life that you could save.

Oliver writes this poem from the perspective of someone fleeing the shackles of a constricting environment. I never felt trapped by the people around me. Perhaps misunderstood — but the problem lay in my self-expression. The people around me knew who I was, and I had a pretty solid grasp of who I was too. Still, it was stagnant. I needed time away from everyone who knew me so that I could see the kind of life I could build on my own. To do that, I had to be forced out of my head. It was far from easy because it had to be. I slowly began figuring it out, through my introductions to strangers, university classes, job interviews — places where I had to start over. It’s a new game with the same deck of cards. I had to re-examine all the cards I was dealt, so I could decide which ones to place on the table first. Eventually, it became easier. My fingers don’t tremble anymore.

I think of the final line in James Wright’s poem, “A Blessing”: Suddenly I realize / That if I stepped out of my body / I would break / Into blossom. When I moved abroad in 2021, I had become so comfortable with the shielding warmth of my family and my best friend— the way they saw me, and knew me without my trying. I was close to giving up out of fear, but it was the pressure of the potential blossoming that pushed me to go. I stepped out of my body, and let the raw wind rush through every hole I had yet to fill. And yes, of course, I broke. I cried a lot. I still cry sometimes. But, like April rain, it is the nourishment for spring flowers. The blossom surprised me. It continues to surprise me. And it helps me welcome the break.

by Huguette Clark

As I approached Heathrow airport this time around, peering out the window at the London skyline, the ridges of the skyscrapers and the brown-brick rows of houses, I experienced a new sense of relief. The stars began to burn / through the sheets of clouds. In a sense, I knew what to expect — I was coming home to myself. With my family, I am transparent, sometimes overwhelmingly so. There are hundreds of past selves stacked behind my present one. It is good and important to be reminded of them. But here, I work on a single version of myself, giving it extra attention and care. Where am I going? Who am I becoming? On each trip home, I can present what I have learned. I can be more attentive, more thoughtful, and more kind. It’s a vital lesson in selfhood, to be able to re-introduce myself to these people over and over again. It’s an honor to know that they will love me regardless.

Jack Gilbert wrote in his 1965 poem, “It is Difficult to Speak of the Night”:

Suddenly in mid passage
I come into myself. I leaf
gigantically. An empire yields
unexpectedly: cities, summer forests,
satrapies, horses.
A solitude: an enormity.
Thank god.

A line by Emily Dickinson has returned to me recently, from a letter she wrote to a friend after moving into a new house: I am out with lanterns, looking for myself. The big move out of your family home, whenever that may happen and however far it may take you, is a venture into the darkness. You are leaving the steps of a warm house, full of light, and given a lantern. You take it into a field and hold it close to the ground to ensure you’re following a trail, avoiding any obstacles. It is then we find we are paying better attention, looking closer at the mysteries that unfold before us. And maybe, we’ll come across others with their own lanterns, exchange what we’ve seen, and move forward together. The lights will twinkle like stars in the darkness. Eventually, we’ll each return home to our houses of light, or maybe build our own. Daylight will blossom, and we’ll move on.

I have learned so much from the friends I’ve made in my 20s so far. They have provided me with warmth and knowledge and good conversation, and have given me the space to find my bearings. Now is the time I am the most pliable, easily absorbent. I want to soak up as much as I can: all the delight, all the radiance. I want to carry it everywhere, across oceans and borders. In the little suitcase in my heart.

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A big way I’ve been able to render myself out of the chaos has been through writing. Thank you for listening. Thank you for your patience. It’s been a long time now.

Here’s an updated playlist.

Love you

<3

Tara