There are many plants in the square. Ferns. I wish I knew all their names. I think it would make me feel more at home here. I would walk through the gates and say hello to the different families of foliage, gossiping with the squirrels. When the wind blows I imagine I can hear Grandmother Willow telling me that these are ‘winds of change.’ I am a hand-me-down sweater made of all my cultural experiences and societal knowings. None of me is only mine, and yet so much belongs to me. I feel no ownership over the grass and greens and yet a strong affinity exists.

The leaves are not yet changing here. Only a few go yellow or brown and then fly to the paths. I wish they would redden and blossom— like a late in life crisis, headed out soon and yet just beginning their worldly travels. A second come-to-life. A celebration of history and experience. This is how I wish the colors to seep into the leaves, first creeping in from the stem in creams and yellows and then recreating themselves into flames of blood orange, crimson, and classic red. The trees would stand defiant at the sun, coaxing it to the compare its setting hues to their vibrancy. All at once, like a couple with nothing to lose, like a child’s first leap off the diving board, they would flip and spin until they landed, giggling, in the softened dirt. This is the freedom I want for the trees.

Mother Nature and I aren’t the only ones in the square. Young couples sit on the benches, and a black dog runs in and out of the fountain. Many people sit alone and read. It is a sort of isolated community. A woman approaches the bench, my bench, and asks if she can join me. She tells me it’s her sister’s birthday and this is her bench. I watch as she ties a bundle of balloons around the back of the bench, places a card on the seat, and pops a bottle of champagne. She says she would have offered me a glass but for her lack of cups. Her sister had eaten her lunch there every day before she died.

Disappeared. Left. The bench bore her name and years, giving room for others to enjoy their meals in her place. I wonder how many people had used this park as their personal space before moving on. I ran away from that bench. I do not sit on it anymore. I like to think about this woman unknown and keep the bench free for her. Now I sit on a bench nearby, gazing as couples take her place. Day in and day out. She’s been added to my sweater, and I think she makes the grounds feel a bit more like a home.

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Ex Locum: Latin for “out of place.”
Ex Patria: Latin for “out of country, or fatherland.”

I am an expat, or, if I am not one yet, I will be considered one in the coming years. I am purposefully and noticeably out of place— away from home, away from my culture, away from my people. I never liked this term because I thought it was mainly used by snobby Americans living in Europe who have extremely popular and cliché Instagram pages. I considered myself to be distinct: I was not tied down to my culture or geography and my nationality did not trump every other possible descriptor of me as a person.

Yet, maybe, the term has more merit than I have given it. I am out of my place. I am a young woman studying in London, away from all my family and familiar street signs or buildings. Many talk about arts connectivity, about how it has helped them gain lifetime friends and fellow artists. It manifests into a community of its own. And yes, this community is powerful and interconnected and worth growing. I’d like to address an undervalued side of art, though. I have used art to ground myself in my surroundings and in my own person.

Beginning at seven years old, I started taking classes at a local Eastern European theatre company. My drama instructor told my mom she thought I would be too fragile for the industry because I couldn’t take criticism well. I remember the first heartbreak poems I wrote at 11 years old, fresh off my “boyfriend” dumping me. Flash forward eight years and I still cannot escape this concept of human fragility. I think it’s visible in every character: actors and writers alike fill their characters with doubts and weaknesses. This reality, albeit a separate one, ate away at my own insecurities by showing me the imperfections of everyone else. Now, I am a fortress brimming with foliage and flowers. This wall may make me less receptive to others’ art, but it has cultivated my own.

Yes, we are a community. Yes, we flourish under the nurturing light of others. I am not advocating for separating yourself completely, however, do be selective. Not everyone’s art is worth taking in or allowing to affect yours. Trust the direction in which you are moving.

London constantly reminds me of this. We move together, but separately. We walk in the same direction, but end up taking different lifts. Sitting in Russell Square, writing about how I am not an original but rather a sum of pieces, juxtaposes with the fact that I am isolated on the bench, only spinning these ideas through my personal cotton-candy maker. I choreograph for groups; yet value every part as a solo. A play is best when shared, but artistic sovereignty is respected.

Allow yourself to be uncomfortable and in the ‘wrong’ place. Create a spot for yourself, even if you have to shove. You may find that this spot is exactly what you needed. This spot was precisely where you were supposed to land. Decorate your spot with art, dance through your little home with jazz in the background, and write as if you could not eat until a page is finished. Find yourself through your art. Discover your own nooks and crevices. The only true way to figure out what you stand for and what your art is worth is to put yourself in a place where the wind is blowing directly in your face.

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