What Belongs to Us… Not This, Not That
What belongs to me? The humidity of Philly belongs to me, I grew up here, but also, the dry and wispy air of Colorado belongs to me. I spent more time in Colorado, 25 years to be exact, than anywhere else I’ve ever lived, including my birthplace. So they both belong to me, and then they don’t belong to me, because I’m here and I’m there. I’m not in just one place. I’ve never been in just one place, after my childhood years anyway… Does the definition of belonging mean just one place? Why would I think that? Well, it’s because so many people I know from my formative years have only belonged to one place. However, I also know many others who don’t seem to belong anywhere, and I know others who have belonged in many places over time.
What belongs to me? I know one sentiment definitely belongs to me, it’s the trepidation of being in motion, even when it feels like I’m meant to be moving at the same time. Am I going to the “right” place, doing the “right” thing? I feel it’s right when I’m here and it’s also right when I’m there. And though I feel good in most places I have been, I also feel like I’m always standing on the edge of the pool, waiting to jump in, waiting to immerse myself completely in a singular experience, the entirety of a place.
Does my trepidation, this resistance to being completely submerged, mean that I don’t feel like I belong anywhere? What belongs to me? What belongs to us? The earth spins on its axis, the birds sing outside my window, a child is born, a sick person dies, a teenager passes her driver’s test and gets her permit, a believer goes to church and confesses his sins…Where do we belong?
Is everything transient? Should I begin each day thinking about the possibility that what I say and do will resonate somewhere in the universe, and that there will be a ripple effect, an impact that will assure me that waking up, getting out there, and making my way through the day is a meaningful act in some way?
I stood in a field of wildflowers the other day. I was in Colorado. We were at 12,000 feet above sea level, and life was abundant and pulsing in the mountains, the streams, the sky… The colors were resplendent, the weather moving all around us. Clouds and blue sky and warm and cool air, and critters and rocks and flowers and the wind and the sun and the rain… It was a vibrant moment. I felt lucky to belong to it. I knew I belonged in it.
And then, the intensity began to dissolve. Walking back down the same trail, the sun began to drift to the west (to the west of what, what is “west” really?). My breath began to soften as we descended to lower altitude, and the weather calmed down. When you’re hiking downhill, you somehow think that it’s easier, but it can be as hard on the body as the ascent. Your heart doesn’t pound as hard when you’re on your way back to an altitude that’s easier on the human body, the elevation at which breathing and moving for us is less taxing. And yet, presence of mind is still a necessity. Your feet slip and slide, and the effect of gravity that encourages your body to lean forward, combines with a pitch that can send you tumbling down the hill headfirst! Should I have been thinking, “Ok, so if I fall forward, does that mean I’m really meant to be at a lower elevation, that I really “belong” at the bottom of the hill, even if my body may end up a bit worse for the wear?”
Imagine the violence that created such enormous peaks and vast valleys. The volcanic eruptions, the glacial movements millions of years ago. The sheets of ice were once a force to be reckoned with, until they began to melt. Then, as they dissolved, they moved rocks and dirt and carved out a canyon, they evaporated into water. Some of the ice was absorbed by the soil, the residual became the creeks and lakes, completing the expansive tableau we call a mountain landscape. Did Dallas Peak, or Mt. Wilson or the Sneffels Highline know they were supposed to end up exactly where they are? Do those mountains belong there? They do seem sure of themselves, at least to me! How did the singular daisy I photographed come to belong on the side of a mountain, budding there, all alone, with a view of majestic peaks and waterfalls that so many people expend so much time and effort to get to? People dream of these views, these landscapes, these flowers. Is that because we feel like we belong in these places? I can attest to the fact that the singular daisy I saw on that barren rock, above tree line, somehow, and quite defiantly, belongs there.
As I took in that amazing feast for my eyes, my ears, my heart, my soul, I had no doubt that I belonged there. I didn’t really know why, but my brain was transmitting signals of saturation and absorption and fullness when I was in that place of natural magnificence. And I know I was so lucky to be able to experience it to the fullest on that day. Perhaps belonging is an endless journey, a series of people and places and feelings. And maybe it’s all we can do, to wake up each day with the intention of seeking out some version of that ephemeral feeling of belonging, understanding that we may not actually know where we’ll find it. We just need to trust our intuition and let it guide us to that next most magnificent place of being where we know we should be, of belonging.