Wonderbringers Newsletter with Monica Parker
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Hello Wonderseekers!
This past July 4th marks 16 years since I left the US. I use the 4th as an anniversary marker for my departure, as it was the long weekend that my mother and I made the trip to find my flat in Belfast and sign the lease. In the end, we discovered that the US and UK systems of rentals operate very differently, and arranging to see places beforehand and agree on leasing terms for my move six weeks hence was nigh impossible.
It was a bluebird day. So warm the sun was splitting the stones, and I recall giddily exploring the Botanic Gardens with my mom. (If you haven’t been, they are a lovely expanse of green and the beating heart of the Queens Quarter in the south east of the city, the star of which is The Palm House. A frothy white metalwork and glass confection that is Victorian architecture personified, the inside of which has the reassuring smell of soil and damp and bloom and decay.) As we were wandering, a young woman walked up and handed us a small American flag.
‘Happy 4th of July!’
‘Wait. Are you American?’ I asked.
‘No,’ (and it was then I could hear what I now know as the familiar Nordy drawl, making the ‘No’ sound more like ‘Nawy’)
‘Nawy. But we Irish love the Americans. Are ye American?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling.
I went on to explain that I was moving over to start at Queen’s in a few weeks, and her genuine enthusiasm for having met me and my impending move filled me with such excitement and anticipation that my concerns for having no lodging arranged seemed to melt away. It was a gesture, so simple, and yet so heavy with meta-meaning for me.
Her gift severed the thick cord of my Americanism. I handed my history to that smiling face and she planted my roots there in the Botanic Gardens. And in exchange, she traded me a flag of the place that was suddenly ‘back home’ but not ‘home’ anymore.
I didn’t leave Atlanta with my bags (and my dog — that’s a story for another day) for a few more weeks, but for that final stretch, home wasn’t the magnolia-laden one I’d been born in but the green jewel of hope I was heading towards.
‘Home’ now is a more transitory idea for me. It starts with where my husband is. He’s my roots and carries my history. But every 4th of July, I’ll take a bit of time to sit in nostalgic wonder, reflecting on the day America was born and the day I was reborn, so far from her shores.
What does ‘home’ mean to you? How has that meaning changed over time?
Some wonderbringers for me this week:
Plato warned that some pleasures separate us from reality: The contemporary obsession with feeling good might mean we’re losing sight of what makes life genuinely meaningful.
Where did the wonder go: Can AI help us find it? (Thanks for the shoutout, Lucy!)
You don't know yourself as well as you think you do: And that’s okay.
Next week, I’ll be taking the stage at the National Council for Community and Education Partnerships annual conference in San Francisco. NCCEP works with underserved students to provide them with the mentorship and learning support they need, enabling them to succeed in high school, university, and beyond. If you’re going to be there, let me know!
With wonder,
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