A sense of belonging

Ms. Susie Boyt, one of my favorite columnists, wrote an entertaining article "The best kind of holiday" in yesterday's Financial Times. She talks about how she feels that "I’m every inch a Londoner." But the part that really hit home for me talked about a sense of belonging , or a lack thereof. She writes "I’ve never had that sense of belonging that others have, or I imagine they do, fancying myself as one of life’s cuckoos. I’ve never been to a school reunion or positioned myself squarely among a group or crowd.
Early on in life, I decided how I wanted things to be and worked hard to make it happen. I know how to spread and retract myself, according to the demands of each situation. I like to keep my own counsel, behind closed doors."

Having got my Bachelor of Technology degree from IIT Madras, I came to the U.S. when I was twenty two years old, to do a Ph.D. at Northwestern. Now, I have crossed the threshold where half of my life has been spent in U.S. Even though I am a citizen of the U.S. and have voted in two Presidential elections, I feel as if I am not part of the American fabric. But I feel like a stranger when I visit my hometown in India where I grew up. This is an example of suspended animation.
Perhaps it is because of this lack of belonging that I garden assiduously, letting the plants establish their 'roots.' Of course, when one gets beyond the narrow constraints of geography, it is easy to observe that we are all children of the earth, and 'dust thou art to dust returnest' reminds of my favorite poem, by the great H.W. Longfellow.

A Psalm of Life

 Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   Life is but an empty dream! --
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real!  Life is earnest!
   And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
   Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
   Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
   And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
   In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
   Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, -- act in the living Present!
   Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
   Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
   With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
   Learn to labor and to wait