To be honest, I didn’t know what struck me last year. Places like dreams are all over my memories. Things happens so fast, it all feels like some kind of explosions, over and over again. Moments, people and experiences all somehow cramp up until I lost for words. It is one of those moments, where you feel at lost even as a writer for no words seems audible even for your own sake. I give it time to digest it, to let things seep in. I closed my laptop for some time, even unplugged the internet connection for time to time and in the end finding myself scribbling endlessly in a notebook trying to get some sense back to myself. I know for myself that I for once need to slow down. To stop even and I need too.
The last few days, stranded under the volcanic ash reaching as far as 300 kilometers from where it spew, I picked up some novels which I bought in Kathmandu last September and read on. And thanks to Amitav Ghosh and some Rilke poems found within, I’m tracing this blog back as an attempt to write things down again. Somehow I gain my belief that in the end literature never fails you in a journey, your journey anywhere. It is always a habit to me to have a book in hand wherever I’m going somewhere. It is in the end the best company.
As someone who always constantly moving around among places, I’m starting to accept that life has been offering me that. That movement is part of my energy within, it is part of something that fuel my life. Even with my son’s around, I can’t denied that pulse is still in constant calling. My journey last year has teach me so many things and one thing is to accept my nomadic nature. The title of this blog describe me no less.
Although I’m not too sure whether I could tell all or I would tell less, for that I cannot answer. But I do want to begin with this reminder of Rilke found in Ghosh:
‘ Look, we don’t love like flowers
with only one season behind us, when we love,
a sap older than memory rises in our arms. O girl,
it’s like this: inside us we haven’t loved just some one
in the future, but a fermenting tribe; not just one
child, but fathers, cradled inside us like ruins
of mountains, the dry riverbed
of former mothers, yes, and all that
soundless landscape under its clouded
or clear destiny – girl, all this came before you’
For all that happened, I miss my days in the Himalaya.