An uprooted nomad
Last week, I was walking in Brittany, between sea, forest and menhirs. Brittany is part of me, since I studied there for three years and it was there that I became an adult and I started to build my vision of the world. I had not been back for more than eight years.
Looking at the menhirs of Monteneuf , from top to bottom, I felt very small. I felt uprooted too. They are several meters tall, but they only need a few centimeters deep in the ground to stand for thousands of years. And I, meanwhile, unlike a tree or a megalith, I have no roots. Still, I’m standing, pretty much.
Since I was little, my family has moved. This is the lot of postman families and it never bothered me. I’m a nomad , my family is nomadic and my ancestors probably did not hold up either. My parents moved, my dad keeps coming and going, my sister moves, my aunt too, and for the first time since I was born, my grandma, at over 80, is moving too. I have never had a family home, a familiar place to come back after a long journey and the grandma’s house and her village was a bit of one of my only constants. And this year she leaves and it makes me weird. Looking at the Pyrenees from its window, I felt nostalgic, but also invigorated, inspired and ready to live each day more intensely. I hope she also sees a bit of that by looking off, the white peaks of mountains that have accompanied her every day for years. Nostalgia and inspiration.