Rootlessness

When I was doing the editing for my last post, my title word came up: rootless. What I thought was just a sense of this disconnection from my younger self to my older self turned out to be something much deeper. Multigenerational, even.

Lately, I’ve found myself aching for a sense of my own history. I am the immigrant daughter of a recently established immigrant family, soon to move to America. Any sense of self that I have built up in the last ten years will be greatly altered. Thus, it’s a time of personal reinvention and questioning. This step forward has made me think and overthink what I want my life to look like when I move. The kinds of places I’ll go, the kinds of clothing I’ll wear, the friends I’ll make – all have played on my mind.

And yet, I already doubt that this move will bring me close to an authentic sense of belonging. This is a pessimistic view, but I find myself wanting more and more to be closer to nature – to feel the Earth’s cycles, to feel dirt under my fingernails, to grow carrots and play in snow. These desires are at odds with a city where summer lasts for seven months and casual wastefulness appears on full display. Either I will find what I am looking for, or I will move on.

But that isn’t to say that I’ve ever felt truly at home where I live now. Nor did I feel as though I was at home in the house where spent my childhood. I am, however, enthusiastically looking. 

Religion was once a tradition I kept up because it made me feel like another link in my familial chain, kneeling before the sacraments and inhaling Vatican incense. When I unceremoniously left the church, I severed ties with an institution that had marked the births and deaths of my family since they were in the old country. Their names were logged, their marriages were recorded. So was mine. 

If we go back far enough, though, all of our ancestors practiced the ‘old ways’ – the rituals and beliefs that put humans in touch with nature and helped us understand the world through its cycles. 

Perhaps what my heart longs for is the black forests of the Volga River valley, where my mom’s family came from. Or the sun-baked earth in southern Italy, where my father’s came from. The push and pull of both is almost equal, which makes it difficult to decide where one belongs. If I feel a piece of my identity in both places, how can I call either home, or feel at home anywhere else?

When I married my husband, I became a Hamilton. I got to wear the tartan at balls, and I was part of a new family. It has been fun to feel like one of them, but I know I’m just an in-law – not a member in my own right.

Maybe these thoughts have come upon me because I’ve booked the shipment of our things and the flights for our pets. Maybe I’ve just been reading too much of Jonna Jinton’s blog, nostalgic for a life that was never my own. To be able to go back to a piece of the earth where my family once lived would be both a dream and impossible: it’s under the Moscow Sea.

Clean Slate*

I’ve always thought that, if I could, I’d give up everything and start over. New city, new country, new life. Given all the knowledge I’ve acquired about myself, I would, in the future, make all the right choices, meet all the right people, and say all the right things to those new friends.

I’d never have a misguided haircut or make a purchase for my fantasy life, as I’d have all the knowledge I needed to avoid such youthful mistakes. Nor would I forget my reusable mug, have a wardrobe malfunction, or wear stupid shoes that make my feet bleed. Those actions belong to a girl who is still learning, and I am so past that stage.

The problem with this polarised view of the self (past me = bad, present me = good) is that it makes me rootless: far too quick to deny that I have any past at all. I am also less forgiving of my mistakes in the present, because I should have known better by now.

To say that I am a perfectionist would be an understatement. I’ve considered plucking people out of my life because I don’t like who I was when I was last around them. All reunions remain unattended for this reason. There were some people I didn’t like back when we met regularly, but the problem is more that I didn’t like myself.

And so I have a desire to disassociate myself from the person who grew into me. She wasn’t perfect, and so I feel disdain for her. I’m even considering changing my name so her actions can belong to someone else entirely. The more I think about it, the more I wonder at my decision to start a blog. All my past thoughts will be visible in the future, should anyone go back and read them.

But that is off-topic. Because I am about to start a new life. New city, new country, etc. My husband, our pets and most of our furniture will soon be packed up for transport across the Atlantic. Currently, we live in the UK and will soon be moving to the US midwest. All being well, we will celebrate Samhain in our new home. Suitcases have taken up residence in our second bedroom and transport has been booked. Very few people know us. It’s strange, and also preoccupying. ‘Who will I be?‘ is the recurring question. I expect that the answer is simpler than I want it to be.

I will be me, of course. Some things never change.

*For some reason, the word slate always makes me think of Anne Shirley smashing her slate over Gilbert Blythe’s head. It literally has no other connotation.

Audrey 2.0

It’s been said that September is the thinking woman’s January. This was probably said by Vogue, encouraging women to up their style game and buy products from the brands that they advertise. Nevertheless, I’m going to run with this idea. Because it’s September. And I’m undergoing a personal transformation.

Maybe we all do this continuously. We transform incrementally, working towards goals and accomplishing them only to move on to other tasks. The efforts might not be concerted in a particular direction, especially if we’re in a job we don’t like or derailed by a state of emergency. The difference this time is that I want to guide this growth so I end up in a new place.

I expect the changes to take many forms: my appearance, spirituality, exercise, culinary accomplishments and, perhaps most importantly, my writing. I’m going to focus on one thing at a time, so I can really give it my proper attention and, thus, take a solid step forward. Also, I can’t include everything in this list. There’s also familial love to cultivate, but I feel as if I can’t plan that; it needs to grow organically. Also, if I write down that I’m planning on adopting a dog, I can no longer pretend to my husband that a stray just happened to walk onto our property and stay. But I digress.

My appearance has been of some concern to me for a while. It is also what I’m going to be focusing on at the moment, as it is rather distracting for me to feel as though I don’t look my best. Our current locale is not overly conducive to feeling glamorous, though I do live in London (albeit a rougher area). I regularly see girls out in onesies and the local grocery is populated by people in their jim-jams. London may be a fashion capital, but the news has not reached my neighbourhood. This is not inherently bad, but I don’t want to be like that. I want to look like the best version of myself, and even the most glam onesie is not going to get me there.

So the clothes are a priority. I like a boho aesthetic, though I’ve previously lacked the confidence to pair up such outfits. Worse, I rarely make time to do so: I work from home, and my only regular outings are for dog walking. It’s been my choice to let my sartorial game slip, but now I want to work at it again. Not because I feel like less of a woman when wearing my husband’s jumpers…I just feel less like me.

My hair, too, is something I want to change. Currently just below shoulder length and in my natural colour, I find myself hankering for the copper locks I had a few years ago. But dye comes in single-use plastic, and I can’t justify using it just so my hair can be a different colour. Therefore, I’ll have to find some new ways to style it, and maybe a new haircut. Besides, it’s in better condition than it ever was when I was dyeing it. Surely that counts for something.

Lastly, my makeup techniques haven’t been updated in around eight years. My skincare is consistent but basic, but as I get a little bit older, I feel that both need an upgrade. It’s good timing, too, because my bottle of argan oil is nearly empty. So, as things run out, I’ll be replacing them with carefully-researched products that suit my ethics*.

So, there we have it. The official start of my personal transformation. I’ll be working to appear on the outside as I feel on the inside, and hopefully improve both.

*What a metaphorical minefield.