He sees the things that he knows are his
He sees the bright and hollow sky
He sees the city sleep at night
He sees the stars are out tonight
And all of it is yours and mine
And all of it is yours and mine
So let’s ride and ride and ride and rideIggy Pop – The Passenger
I’m feeling particularly Finnish tonight. “A typical Finnish guy” is also the description I’ve heard quite often lately, and why not: as far as I know, my whole family is of Finnish descend up to the ninth generation or so, and I myself was born and bred in the Northern plains. I had lived my whole life within the Finnish borders until last August, when I chose to follow the Mystery and took a ride to Canada.
Now that it’s been six months in exile, so to speak, I think I’ve reached some sort of a critical point. One obvious sign of this is that I booked a one-way flight back to Finland. By then it’ll be altogether nine consecutive months I’ve been away. I’m coming home.
But what is home? What is “my country”, if there’s such? Shouldn’t I be a Sovereign, one able to establish his kingdom wherever he might set his foot on?
Well, yes and no. Living here I’ve yet again noticed how setting oneself outside the comfort zone, or the familiar environment, can transform the self — and living in a foreign part of the world will, for sure, show you how much you are affected by the culture in which you were brought up. I know I’m a freaking Finn when I try to make that tiny piece of a traditional rye bread last for one week!
But these traits go deeper than just one’s taste of bread. My Self has been forever molded by the more subtle currents prevailing in Finland. The heritage that lingers there in the nature, in the language, and in the very blood of the people is thoroughly magical. I feel myself alien in this American soil.¹ It has given me much, but it can’t be my home. I guess it’s a bit like learning a new language. You can have fun with it, you can use expressions that have sprung from a different perspective on life, and it will prove itself useful in mundane life — but you can never call it your own language.
There will be a day when I face the darkness utterly alone, without the bounds of land or culture. But until then, much of what I am will be defined by where I live and even more by what I call my home.
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[1] Not entirely unlike the “imported” gods feel themselves alienated in Neil Gaiman’s excellent novel American Gods.
