nathalie shushan

I gathered my tattered roots and held them close when I moved to California. In the 6 years that I lived in Los Angeles, my signature rebellion was a staunch refusal to buy a bedframe. “It’s only temporary,” I would say, year after year, as I adorned my space with decoration that was fleeting in nature. Dried baby’s breath and eucalyptus hung like pictures, fresh flowers arranged in repurposed jars, candles that melted away into nothing, a collection of books arranged in piles like small tables pressed against the edges of my walls. Despite my best effort to be ephemeral, foundation solidified beneath me. 

Still, there was a yearning that burned the edges of my happiness. I longed for nearness to my family, for New York’s vitality, for its narrow streets, to be surrounded by buildings tall enough to pierce the sky. Finally, as I had always intended, I was called back and left Los Angeles full of love. I split my heart in half and buried it in two places so it could root down in the soil of both my homes. How beautiful would it be if I could build a bridge from one piece to the other? I would have a whole heart that spans the length of an entire country. Sometimes I feel so torn that it has me spinning in place. Pulled in every direction, I am stretched out and flattened by love. 

I spent the past year settling into myself and now I want to settle into a home, too. This transient life is devoid of small comforts crucial to my being: a cabinet of spices, space for my books, a clear corner to sit and breathe. Everything I own is still sorted in suitcases and boxes. I dream a simple dream of organizing everything in my closet by color and knowing exactly what I have so I can stop shopping to fill the void of my hollow roots. They are bursting out of me, searching for soil. I wonder if my entire life has become a rebellion against sturdiness, against roots in soil, against having a home and stability and comfort. I have altered the chemistry of the chaos that my foundation is built upon and turned it into something adventurous – but I don’t want to be a flight risk anymore. 

I always thought I had a restless spirit, a seeking soul that refused to settle, but now I understand that I can expand across the entire world if I grant myself that freedom. Last year, I discovered parts of myself buried in desert sand and along new shores kissed by clear seas, remote worlds adorned by sparkling stars after dark. My feet felt certain on far corners of the earth. I built this home strong and sturdy within myself so I know I can take it anywhere. 

It’s no longer a question of which place will make me happier or which feels more like home. There is a story in Tiny Beautiful Things about a ghost life, the ship that you don’t set sail on.  I can find solace in the fact that both of my ships are going somewhere beautiful and I alone can breathe life into the one I choose. I can make it colorful, exhaling petals pink and orange like the colors of a sunset and leaves every shade of green. 

I met a woman named Henriette on my travels. At 60, after having lived a full life in service to UNICEF, moving from country to country for long stretches of time, she returned to her hometown in Germany. Finally able to be near her family, her longing became the inverse of what it had been before. I leaned on Henriette for guidance in my quest to feel settled. “How do you feel whole when all of the people and places you love hold parts of your heart?” 

“You get used to it,” she said. “You learn to expand.”  

I have great dreams and, still, I know that holding onto what’s not meant for me requires even more effort than building the life I want to live. Sometimes it feels like we are bound by circumstance, by obligation, even by love – but love is strong and far reaching and it closes gaps created by the brave heart I used to call restless. It is the only thing I believe with certainty.