Contemporary Celtic poets love the word belonging. There is David Whyte’s book of poems, “The House of Belonging.” John O’Donohue sprinkles belonging among his poems and writings. The word is provocative, leading me in many directions. To whom do I belong? Where? When? For how long?
With my upcoming trip to Florence on Sunday, I seem to have latched onto thoughts of longing and belonging. But why? I love the city, so it’s easy to long to be there. But there’s something more. Specifically I long to wander through the streets and along the Arno. But there is something more. After all, there are many places where I long to be, and with ease I can long for many things.
But what about belonging? Belonging is more limited and specific, more defined and distinct. I sense that I belong in Florence; that that city is where I get closest to my Self, to who I am. It wasn’t always that way, and maybe it will change. But for now, I belong there, at least for two weeks.
With my upcoming trip to Florence on Sunday, I seem to have latched onto thoughts of longing and belonging. But why? I love the city, so it’s easy to long to be there. But there’s something more. Specifically I long to wander through the streets and along the Arno. But there is something more. After all, there are many places where I long to be, and with ease I can long for many things.
But what about belonging? Belonging is more limited and specific, more defined and distinct. I sense that I belong in Florence; that that city is where I get closest to my Self, to who I am. It wasn’t always that way, and maybe it will change. But for now, I belong there, at least for two weeks.