Most people sooner or later find a place to remain. For any reason, for the last 8 years I´ve been moving, staying for a certain period in a place: and when I thought I was taking roots, something unexpected happens that makes me move again.
Those who are fixed in a place have a lot of things: their friends circles, their established routines, their houses with books, electric appliances, heavy furniture. They dedicate their lives to something they like, or at least, something they are used to doing.
Moving through different places forces you to be unattached to everything, to live without expectations. To always be ready to break the identification with that you thought you were. You have objectives, but you move towards them step by step, accepting everything that reality brings: if your backpack is overweight, you have to throw some stuff in the rubbish before taking the plane.
Although coming to another country with a different language and on the other side of the world has been the most challenging migratory mourning, it´s been a long time since I identify myself as a migrant. I belonged to many identities that I no longer belong to. I moved from one identity to another, from one city to another. Always starting again. Every cycle blooms and provides, and then perishes. And I let go the unrealised expectations I had for every one of them, little by little.
Some things, besides the witness inside me, have survived my different stages, and are still with me: writing and yoga practice. These are the things I take care of.
When a cycle finishes and a new one has to be started, it requires lots of energy, organisation, planning and strategic thinking. Will there ever come a time when I can settle down somewhere? I am open to whatever comes, and I will follow my way when it is necessary again.
A little fire 
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