Too many loves

My heart lives now in three places. Yes, as if two weren’t complicated enough.

The red land

Towards the end of my first year in Australia I discovered Pacific Ocean. I remember blissful hours spent making love with the splendid waves, a new Venus on the block. Ever since, in my mind Australia and the turquoise element have become inseparable. The so-called “temporary” tattoo in the shape of Maori symbol Koru was the result of my longing and my promise to return to the Land of Plenty. The tattoo never disappeared.

Poland is the land that has seen me born and has witnessed my growing. My feet have forged and memorised countless paths here, which in my body are never forgotten. When I think of my childhood, I see the barley ‘fields of gold’ and me running through, ahead of my little gang, in search of a hidden treasure. I miss the endless summer evenings when I’m not here. Yet I have fled – haven’t I – and I have serious doubts whether I could grow satisfied roots here. I wouldn’t know how.

The homeland

Poland always brings the feeling of family. My friendships here are old like ancient oaks. Whilst their branches may be reaching for different skies, they’re still intertwined at the roots. My blood family…through separations and conflicts, through lost tracks and confusion, through endless searching, and trust and trying, through love that is truly unconditional, through joy and comfort of knowing someone and being known by someone for your whole life…I’ve come to a place of peace. We’ve grown closer. We let each other be.

The holy land

There is another country I’ve come to love. Go read my older posts, you’ll know what kind of love I mean. The fresh like young olives leaves and simmering with yet unspoken hopes, juvenile hopes perhaps – kind.

Three deep, significant relationships. Three loves. I’m a polyamorous citizen. Hell, aren’t I lucky?

As I’m the sort of person that develops attachment faster than a homeless dog catches flies, the pain of separation with my loves tends to be brutal. It is a familiar feeling, you’d think I’d be immune to by now. The inner tremble when you pack your bag. The conversations that get stuck, because you always fail at behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, and pathos – you don’t like pathos either. The last walks around the hood your eyes tattooing every single detail into your memory cortex. The catching in your breath, the painful savouring of each moment, the resistance to leave, the holding on to the stair rail, the fantasy that you’ll miss the plane and will have to remain where you are.

The deep breath you take while safely tucked in your airplane seat, with a magazine and inflated cushion. The worst is over. On to another world.

Ah, it’s so very hard to leave one amazing home and switch it for amazing another. Poor, poor old me.

Seriously though? I’m perched on the brink of yet another journey, waiting for someone to mercifully push me off that nest. Then again I know that pushing won’t be needed. Scared, hopeful and grateful I’ll make the jump myself. Scared but pretending to be fearless. Hopeful just because one naturally is. Grateful for the three amazing homes that stretch my heart to bursting, that show me that its capacity is after all, limitless.