I often find myself in places and states where I observe what's happening—quietly, attentively— genuinely longing to belong somewhere. I move through countries the way light moves through rooms—and people, I notice, tend to turn toward it. People that I bump into are strangely open.

I observe: on Easter evening in Yerevan, everyone walks holding something special in their hands, something you would never see on these streets on any other day. Everyone holds a lit red lantern and walks somewhere. They go to church, light a candle, and carry it home—a small Easter pilgrimage to their homes.

I observe: a Nepalese child, who had been quiet for three months—never laughed, never ran—began to shout. Pure joy, the kind that can't be held. He ran from room to room, lost in the holiday. He saw the floors of the house covered in flowers—mandalas laid in petals and colored powder, oil lamps burning along every threshold. It is Tihar, the festival of lights in Nepal, and his grandmother explains to him the right way to step inside, carefully, so as not to disturb what has been made.

I observe: six men, turned toward the mountains of Tajikistan, spread a blanket in a field and prayed together because they wanted to share the prayer with each other.

I observe: people of all ages are transfixed at a performance in the Hanoi Puppet Theatre. They dance, they sing along. Their eyes shine like children's, full of curiosity and excitement. I watched them more attentive than the show itself.

I observe: Tel Aviv during Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year — streets emptied all at once, as if the city exhaled. Then, from time to time, out of the silence, people appeared—dressed in white like angels, heading for a family dinner.

I understand that I will never become part of this—I am like the wind. I glide across everything I see, and I'm glad to be a draft. Sliding from one place to another, I watch people finding home somewhere among them, and somewhere above them.

I am lucky. I am like a child, like the most naive person in the world—I hold my breath and observe this wonder of belonging with such joy, such adoration. The wonder of togetherness and faith.

I am lucky to be the wind.

I belong: the owner of a small hair salon on the outskirts of Chiang Mai, after the haircut, admired what she had made. And at goodbye—even though I had been warned that in Thailand it's improper to embrace in public—she hugged me and said:

”Have a good journey, okay? I wanted to hug you and wish you all the best so much.”

I belong: waiting in the queue at the entrance to the mosque, pressed against the door beside a girl in niqab. Both of us wait to enter the most crowded mosque in Islamic Cairo during Ramadan—Al-Azhar. We were talking, and then she suddenly hugged me, just like a little sister would.

I belong: I was sitting in a roadside café in the center of Fethiye, Turkey, when the owner came over and said:

”Why did you order so little? I want to treat you—on behalf of the whole place, all of us—to many dishes and sweets. All on the house. Come, let me introduce you to my family.”

And he introduced me to his small daughter, who was sitting at the next table and drawing. And to his wife, who helps him run the business and works as a waitress.

I belong: in Samarkand, waiting for my train to Bukhara, I sat in a café I kept returning to—despite tiredness, despite everything—because the warmth of Gulnoza and her daughter, who ran it, filled me with such calm. I said goodbye to both of them. And she pressed a pile of pastries into my hands and wished me a wonderful journey. Hello, Gulnoza. I always remember you, and how your eyes light up when you smile.

I will never belong to anything really. And yet—Gulnoza's eyes when she smiled. The girl in the niqab who hugged me like a sister. Six men praying between mountains because they wanted to share it with each other. I carry all of it. I can have it for a moment. And walk on to see other beauties of the world and carry them too. That is always enough.