The paper plane

Many years ago I was so fortunate to be working as a teacher for some time, filling in for teachers that was sick. For 4 months I was the teacher of a class of 8 year olds.

As part of arts and craft I one day asked the children to put their heads down on their desks, close their eyes and just listen to the music letting their minds go free creating images.

28 children did as asked and the only sound in the classroom was Griegs "Morning" from Peer Gynt.

Slowly we returned to this world and I asked if anyone wanted to share what had played in their minds.

One of the boys put his hand up and this was his story:

"It was sunny and I was running on a huge open green field with the trees standing beautifully in the background. 

Above me a paper plane was flying. The sky very blue. 

The plane was slowly moving with the wind, gliding beautifully over the open green field. 

I was running to it, trying to reach it but it sailed just above my head.

I followed the plane as it slowly descended. The world was quiet. It was just me and the paper plane on the big field. 

Slowly slowly it circled. It was so beautiful.

Finally it glided just over the green grass before it gently landed in front of me. 

It was a perfect day." 

I was speechless and rather moved. So were the other children. Everyone was looking at him in awe finding his story a beautiful one. A lot of wow and I can see that. 28 children united by the beautiful narration of their classmate.

I have cherished this story in my heart for the 20 something years now.

I'm sharing it with you this week, after the Paris attacks (and the others) where I see so many comments about how dangerous muslims are, how barbaric they all are. All the harsh and ignorant comments flourishing.

This was a normal class except for one thing, all the 28 children came from immigrant families. This remarkable 8 year old boy telling this beautiful story was a muslim. The class listening to him was too. Don't judge what you don't know. Xenophobia is not a beautiful thing. This boy's mind was.

A beautiful soul in a beautiful mind!

A visitor has finally come home

Travelling, studying, working in other places or countries was fun. Different. New adventures. Standing at airports, train stations, bus stations talking to people most said the same: " I've loved being here and there but it will be so good to go home, to where I belong." I had no idea what that feeling was, what they were talking about.

It felt strange, different, lonely in a way, not feeling that I had to be somewhere special. That one place. The "tears in the eyes" thinking about going home. I was feeling many things, crying many tears but never over "home" home.

Many talk about feeling alienated when you come home after a short or longer stay abroad. You don't really fit in, belong any more, you've changed. Others have changed. The place you left has changed.

The thing is, if I'm totally honest, that's how I've always felt deep down. Since childhood. That I was kind of a visitor, passing through.  An "alien" if you like.

Standing at any station leaving a place to go back to Norway I often had no desire to go at all. Of course it would be nice to see friends and family. Sleep in my own bed. But longing and looking forward to see the hills around Oslo to feel complete? No I did not feel it.  It was just my base, where I came from.

One of my manager ones told me: "You're problem is not being afraid of change as most, but that you whole life is about nothing but change. You need change to much. I'm afraid that you don't root." He was absolutely right.  I was not "home" home anywhere, rooted, knowing deep down that this is where I belong.

I was a little envious of others knowing with absolutely certainty where they belonged. Me, I was like a water plant surviving in any container filled with some water, passing through. Sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week other times for years. Visiting not really rooting. Being strange but fine at the same time. Not looking for that one place either. I was many lovely places, meeting many nice people. More than 40 years went by. Life was after all good.

Then one warm day in July I knew. No fireworks, no big emotions just driving on an unromantic highway in a part of France I had never been. An inner peace, a certainty. Finally I knew what many had been talking about. There on a stretch on the highway "between the 2 oceans" I knew: This is it.

I'm home. 

Epilogue: We now live 10 - 15 minutes from that part on the highway. I finally understand the "tears in my eyes" when leaving or going back. I have moved out of the water container. I'm rooting. I'm becoming a real tree. I'm at peace. I belong.