Kintsugi

It’s colder here. The air is crisp, the ground muddy. I hadn’t seen mud for nearly a year. It’s darker here too; literally. It is home, though. Edinburgh. 

Returning is… comforting but jarring. Especially in 2020 – there are no welcome pints in a dimly lit pub. No mass gatherings, marching side by side with ‘the boys’ down Easter Road. No Christmas nightsout to tag onto. No hugs for extended family members.

I thought a lot about what going home would feel like before I set off from Hanoi. I visualised walking into my local supermarket, picking the components that result in a ‘meal deal’ and paying for them on a self-scan machine. I thought about driving a car, checking mirrors, indicating and not using the horn indulgently. I thought about how it would feel to see my friends & family again. The thing I thought about most however was… weather. 

My apartment in Vietnam was on the 6th or 7th floor. At night I would often stand on my balcony wearing only my underwear, light a cigarette and think of the Scottish air. I’d think about those nights at home when the breeze is slow, silent, and chilling. The type of nights on which clouds are not present to act as Earth’s blanket. The nights where cold almost manifests its physical presence.  The thinking, longing and reflecting were not a symptom of homesickness or unsuitability with my chosen location. It was instead indulgent to think of a situation, of a temperature, to which I had been in the presence of many times before but had not appreciated or noticed its effect fully. After all…  absence makes the heart grow fonder. 

I experience the same phenomenon now, in reverse. I’ll look up to the stars on a clear, crisp, cold Scottish night and imagine being able to walk around outside at 3am with shorts on. I’ll stand in a busy street and pine for the smell of burning petrol emitting from a chorus of bikes awaiting a green light. This longing for another place is healthy – it is an integral part of the human condition. If there was no absence there would be no reunion and with no reunion there cannot be excited relief or comfort.

The people and friends I met will forever hold a special place in my heart. The relationships, locations, books, meals and cultures I encountered mended parts of me I didn’t realise were broken.

In Japan there is an art form known as Kintsugi which can be translated as ‘golden joinery’. In more philosophical terms; Kintsugi treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.

In my opinion travelling is the greatest form of Kintsugi.

Inabit x