The Art of Wandering

lost and found

by Jeneen R. Garcia

to be published (or maybe not) on 26 April 2008

 

 

I don’t have a mole on either foot to prove it, but I’ve been called gypsy, nomad, and other tribes of similar occupation too often to deny it. Instead of a caravan, I have my backpack with essential clothing, toiletries, and electronic gadgets to keep me covered wherever night may catch me. If I’m moving house, I tow along my suitcase of books and diving gear as well.

 

I’m in the middle of yet another move to another city. In the last two years, I’ve lived no longer than five consecutive months in any single place--something I didn’t realize until THIS transit. I’ve shipped my stuff from one city to another so many times that packing up has become second nature; my suitcase is always on standby for quick departures.

 

Relocating? It’s easy: post an ad in Friendster and other social networking sites saying you’re looking for a place to live in whatever city you’re headed for, contact the local freight forwarders for their cheapest rates and range of services, book a flight or boat ticket online, make sure your bank account works where you’re going, and you’re all set. All you have to do next is find the right size of boxes to put your stuff in (the local grocery is a good place to look)--wrap the breakables in clothes and sheets, line the carton with plastic in case it gets wet--and wait for the information you need to come in. You can set up everything in a day without having to leave home.

 

I’ve done it so often, I’ve become immune to goodbyes. And why mope over goodbyes, when there are unexpected adventures waiting at the other end? In my last move, I got to meet relatives I didn’t know existed, shedding light on parts of myself I’d wondered about. I learned how to draw water samples using a Niskin bottle, why moving objects in the Northern Hemisphere always curve to the right instead of going in a straight path (a.k.a. the Coriolis effect), which multivariate statistics are useful for analyzing ecological data, and where to find the cheapest MP4 players in Quiapo. I even got to go to Aparri on a lark. Then there are all the fascinating people you meet along the way.

 

Well, I haven’t been entirely honest: there’s one thing I can never get used to. Every time I prepare to leave, wherever I may be, I fall into panic and an implacable sadness that I always fear I may not get out of. It is a sadness that comes from knowing I must leave fragments of my heart behind, so that I may reunite myself with those pieces I’ve left behind elsewhere. Just as my books and clothes are now scattered on different islands across the archipelago, my heart is strewn all over the map, probably never to become whole. Saying goodbye doesn’t get easier with practice; I’ve just learned to say “see you again somewhere” instead.

 

My friends and family have long stopped being surprised that I’m never where they last saw me. But each time I move, I myself ask why I do it. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and look at myself in the mirror to make sure I’m still me, even if I’m not quite sure where I am or what I’m doing there.

 

I am adrift in the world, and the biggest question indeed is: why? Why do I uproot myself and set up base in another place just when I’ve started to forge meaningful ties? Why do I risk the loneliness and the stress of endlessly starting a new routine in a strange city? I do not have real answers. I only know that when something inside me tells me to move, I must.

 

The French poet Charles Baudelaire knew this well. For how else could he have written of it so precisely? “But the true voyagers are those who leave only to move: hearts like balloons, as light, they never swerve from their destinies, and without knowing why, say always: ‘Flight!’”. I have learned to heed this unnameable certainty, with only my faith that it will lead me to where and who I am meant to be--losing myself in unfamiliar spaces, to find myself at last.