Sweet Sorrow

I’m moving to France, right now, in transit.

Leaving Kansas City, my home. When you’ve got a philosophical bent to you, like I do, this becomes a prime opportunity to consider what home is, what it means.

What’s become tragic to me as I consider this concept right now is that there’s no direct translation from the English home into French. Wordreference.com, my online dictionary of choice, gives these all-to-many options:

I. noun
1. (dwelling) gen logement m;
(house) maison f;
to be far from ~ être loin de chez soi;
a ~ of one's own un chez-soi;
to work from ~ travailler à domicile;
to set up ~ in Madrid s'installer à Madrid;
I've made my ~ in France je suis installé or je vis en France;
it's ~ to me now je m'y sens chez moi;
2. (for residential care) maison f;
to put sb in a ~ mettre qn dans un établissement spécialisé;
3. (family base) foyer m;
broken ~ foyer désuni;
‘good ~ wanted’ ‘cherche foyer accueillant’;
to leave ~ quitter la maison;
4. (country) pays m;
to consider France (as) ~ considérer la France comme son pays;
5. (source) ~ of (country, area) pays m de (speciality).

Oh dear! So many nuances of what, for me, is one deep, wide thing of utmost importance. Home is part of my very identity, an elusive feeling always looked for.

I’ve been learning about child development in order to prepare for my new task of caring for children full-time, and it’s been completely wonderful and fascinating. I read Maria Montessori’s The Absorbent Mind, in which she elaborates many, many capacities of the child’s malleable mind, particularly in his first six years. One thing that completely baffled me was the fact that in a very short time, a little being takes in and learns to emulate an entire culture. Think what that entails: language, posture, taste in food, values, relationships, and so much more! Within a couple of years, a child has absorbed home into his being, and has been irreversibly formed by it.

This explains why, when I lived in France for the first time at the age of 18, I ached not for Chicken McNuggets, nor for the punk shows I loved to go to, but for wide-open spaces. I craved clouds, fields, bird song like I experienced frequently as a child. These are what I anticipate craving in the next months.

But, as the adage goes, “Home is where the heart is,” too. As I step forward, my heart is full, full, full of love poured out from friends and family in Kansas City. I have a lovely book busting with notes from you all, and my computer’s stuffed with music you’ve passed along to me. I’ve been lent a camera, given an iPod, helped and fed and served. And whoo boy, did we all shed tears over this parting. Such sweet sorrow. It’s a gift to have so many friendships worth tearing up over leaving, and I’m humbled and thankful.

Still, onward ho! There’s adventure to be had, and a home to be won in France as never before. If home is where the heart is, then I go ready to plant my little heart in Paris soil, in Paris family, and let it root. I’m learning through this that where the soil is Love, uprooting and rerooting are not so bad.