“Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.” - Isabelle Eberhardt
I confess that I hadn't the faintest idea who Ms. Eberhardt was when I stumbled across this quote (Wikipedia tells me she was a Swiss explorer and writer in the late 1800's who converted to Islam). But in the same inexplicable way that music sometimes pulls at my innermost self — expanding outward in every direction while still remaining locked inside and intensely private — Isabelle Eberhardt’s words pulled at me. She, a woman who lived more than a century before me, had managed to pen what my own heart has often felt but never been able to describe or share.
I would never dare to consider myself an explorer. I haven’t got the courage or the curiosity to merit that title. But I grew up amidst a lifestyle of transience. Change was perhaps the only constant in my life, aside from my family and my religion. No matter where we found ourselves, I understood that I would someday move on. Even now that I am married and live away from home, and even with my father considering retirement from the Army, I still feel that constant tug towards change. When I contemplate my future, I don’t see myself as permanently fixed. Unlike many military children, who long for stability when they are free to make their own choices, I am afraid of staying somewhere indefinitely. I’m afraid of being stuck.
Isabelle Eberhardt’s words have a very sad quality to them — she speaks of being haunted, of discontentment. But there is also something hopeful about her statement. At least, that's how I feel when I read it. I feel hope for a more vivid and extraordinary future, one where the only person who limits my possibilities is me. Growing up in a military home encouraged the idea that I could always start over and that there was always more to be gained by seeing something new than by clinging to the familiar. It fostered in me a discontentment for sedentary life and a longing for elsewhere.
I wish I could say that this world perception is all romance, but there are harsh realities associated with it as well. Throughout my life people have expressed sympathy for me when I’ve explained that I don’t have a home town to speak of or a single place that I call home. I understand that this stems from the very human need to belong to something, but I’ve never felt as though I didn’t belong somewhere, nor that I ought to belong to a single place. I've always considered myself to belong everywhere. But the very nature of such an existence means that I simultaneously cannot truly belong anywhere. Experts call this being a “third culture kid” — belonging as much to one culture as another, and thus creating a third, mixed culture where you really fit. Even this doesn’t quite characterize how I see myself. I feel as though I belong everywhere, and nowhere.
Human nature inspires us to try and connect with people, to categorize ourselves and others, and to define ourselves based on those categories. Although I fit within several of these categories — Mormons, homeschoolers, military kids, third culture kids, BYU alumni — I’ve never found a single one that could define or confine me. This box we talk about, the one we are encouraged to think outside of, it doesn’t exist. No one should feel required to fit within one specific outline, nor to try and stretch themselves outside of it when it is convenient. Belonging is a choice, not a default. And I want to belong. I just don’t want to restrict my thinking based on what I belong to. My thoughts, my choices, my life, — they’re my own, and no one and nothing can change that.
This blog is very much a reflection of myself. It belongs to everything and nothing, everywhere and nowhere. I use it as a place to express my beliefs and thoughts on whatever topic feels relevant to me at the moment, without the intention of making anyone agree with me. As long as I am writing here, I will express myself freely. I invite you to do the same, understanding, of course, that you must respect my own right to believe how and what I may the same as I respect yours.
I confess that I hadn't the faintest idea who Ms. Eberhardt was when I stumbled across this quote (Wikipedia tells me she was a Swiss explorer and writer in the late 1800's who converted to Islam). But in the same inexplicable way that music sometimes pulls at my innermost self — expanding outward in every direction while still remaining locked inside and intensely private — Isabelle Eberhardt’s words pulled at me. She, a woman who lived more than a century before me, had managed to pen what my own heart has often felt but never been able to describe or share.
I would never dare to consider myself an explorer. I haven’t got the courage or the curiosity to merit that title. But I grew up amidst a lifestyle of transience. Change was perhaps the only constant in my life, aside from my family and my religion. No matter where we found ourselves, I understood that I would someday move on. Even now that I am married and live away from home, and even with my father considering retirement from the Army, I still feel that constant tug towards change. When I contemplate my future, I don’t see myself as permanently fixed. Unlike many military children, who long for stability when they are free to make their own choices, I am afraid of staying somewhere indefinitely. I’m afraid of being stuck.
Isabelle Eberhardt’s words have a very sad quality to them — she speaks of being haunted, of discontentment. But there is also something hopeful about her statement. At least, that's how I feel when I read it. I feel hope for a more vivid and extraordinary future, one where the only person who limits my possibilities is me. Growing up in a military home encouraged the idea that I could always start over and that there was always more to be gained by seeing something new than by clinging to the familiar. It fostered in me a discontentment for sedentary life and a longing for elsewhere.
I wish I could say that this world perception is all romance, but there are harsh realities associated with it as well. Throughout my life people have expressed sympathy for me when I’ve explained that I don’t have a home town to speak of or a single place that I call home. I understand that this stems from the very human need to belong to something, but I’ve never felt as though I didn’t belong somewhere, nor that I ought to belong to a single place. I've always considered myself to belong everywhere. But the very nature of such an existence means that I simultaneously cannot truly belong anywhere. Experts call this being a “third culture kid” — belonging as much to one culture as another, and thus creating a third, mixed culture where you really fit. Even this doesn’t quite characterize how I see myself. I feel as though I belong everywhere, and nowhere.
Human nature inspires us to try and connect with people, to categorize ourselves and others, and to define ourselves based on those categories. Although I fit within several of these categories — Mormons, homeschoolers, military kids, third culture kids, BYU alumni — I’ve never found a single one that could define or confine me. This box we talk about, the one we are encouraged to think outside of, it doesn’t exist. No one should feel required to fit within one specific outline, nor to try and stretch themselves outside of it when it is convenient. Belonging is a choice, not a default. And I want to belong. I just don’t want to restrict my thinking based on what I belong to. My thoughts, my choices, my life, — they’re my own, and no one and nothing can change that.
This blog is very much a reflection of myself. It belongs to everything and nothing, everywhere and nowhere. I use it as a place to express my beliefs and thoughts on whatever topic feels relevant to me at the moment, without the intention of making anyone agree with me. As long as I am writing here, I will express myself freely. I invite you to do the same, understanding, of course, that you must respect my own right to believe how and what I may the same as I respect yours.