The long and winding road
Origin
My daughter has a different mother tongue than I do. She is unique and separate from me in many ways. But I also recognize myself in her often. The anxious summoner of imaginary monsters I was as a child and sometimes still am; the analytic, structured and pragmatic adult I morphed into; the restless collector and experimenter I have always been. There is genetics at play, projection on my part as well, I must assume, probably mirroring habits and behaviours to each other. I observe, guide and protect, she grows, delineates and becomes.
When my father died, me and my siblings went on a sort of biographical pilgrimage through the country he was born and grew up in. It filled blanks in my head that I didn’t know were there. I picture taking my daughter on a trip through my old homes, so she would not fill those blanks by herself. To understand where I came from in time to ask me questions about it.