Finding Home and Being Alone

A long time ago, a mysterious man in a black velvet jacket met me at a party and told me he was going to read my tarot cards. We sat down in the corner of a crowded living room, and he pulled a tattered pack of cards out of the inner pocket of his jacket and asked me to put my hands on top of them.

"What do you want to ask the cards?" he asked me.

I didn't want to pick something hokey, like will I ever fall in love or be rich. I thought for a moment about the things I really wanted; what did I want to know, and more importantly, what did I want the answer to, no matter how bad the answer could be? I had had tarot readings in the past that had predicted dark things about my future, about my children, things that I was afraid of, even if I didn't tell anyone about them.

I thought about all the times growing up when I felt like I lived between worlds; I wasn't quite Asian enough for my mother, but also felt foreign when I was among my Seattle friends. Ever since school, I had been trying to find myself, but more importantly, find a place where I belonged. I had run to Connecticut to escape my problems, and to be with someone who loved me, but whom I eventually realized I didn't love back. I had chosen to go abroad to try and find myself once again, but it was to a place that was cold and dark, that reminded me too much of the past that I had tried so hard to escape from. I had been hellbent on finding home in places that had already burnt down, on land that was salted and scarred. I wanted so badly to feel like I belonged somewhere. I closed my eyes and tried to think hard about the rough feeling of the cards beneath my fingertips. I want to know if I will ever find home.

He laid the cards out carefully in a complex pattern of cards circling a set of four in the middle. I watched as he carefully flipped them over one at a time. He asked me what my question was and I told him, and he smiled in a shy way; as if it was a rare act for him.

"No one has ever asked these cards that question before," he told me.

I smiled back, "I hope that means the cards will still understand me."

He nodded knowingly and pointed at the cards on the perimeter of the circle, in a counterclockwise pattern. "These represent the four life paths you can take. They all have to do with the position of your head and your heart." He gestured at the cards in the middle, one of which was in reverse. "You are a person led by your heart, a romantic. You love to love and be loved. You always chase the person, that is your form of home."

He then gestured to the card in reverse. "This is your mind. You are a smart person, no doubt, but logic comes secondary to your heart, always. You lead with your feelings, not your thoughts. And this will get you in trouble."

He took in a deep breath, looking intently into my face before continuing. "If you follow your heart, you will never find home. If you follow your head, you will find home. If you are alone, you will find home."

He took a deep breath and looked deeply into me. "If you follow your heart, you will never find home."

There were other bits about my reading, but those have faded away over time. This reading was nearly six years ago, but I carry it with me and think of it often. I think about the places I've moved for other people; for a job, for a partner, for a roommate who needed me more than I needed her. How those moves have always left me feeling more alone and more dispossessed than when I lived in my car, for the last three months of college. At least that car was mine.

I'm thinking about this as I sit on a plane on my way to New York; to my home. It feels surreal still, that I'm here. If you told me ten years ago that I was going to be living in an exposed brick studio apartment in Manhattan by myself, with gorgeous furniture and the strand bookstore right across the street, I wouldn't have believed you. I think of all the things I gave up; money, friends, relationships, love, to be here. That I chose this for myself when it didn't make sense (when would it ever make sense to live in a studio apartment that cost nearly three thousand dollars a month?). It feels good to be here; it feels good to follow my head and not my heart for once, even though the heart may feel a little lonely from time to time.

If you had told me that I was someone to follow my head over my heart, I would have disagreed with you. But here I am. Perhaps I've finally learned from my lessons, and kept things a little closer to my chest. More likely, I've just gotten tired of pushing for a romantic ideal that probably couldn't be achieved. But this apartment is pretty damn romantic, it just didn't come with a partner. And that's okay. For the first time, I'm realizing that home wasn't a person I was chasing, trying to nestle between their ribs like a bird into a cage, but it was me. My neck is my chimney, and my beating heart is my door. My feet are my foundation, and my fingers fold into windchimes.