It's Never Too Late to Say Goodbye (or Hello)

If you are a regular or have just discovered Tarantula: Authors and Art, welcome. Inspired by our featured artist of October, Gordana Zikic, in this piece we explore the subtle courage of farewell — the idea that endings can open space for something new. As the article unfolds, you'll be invited to reflect on how goodbyes function in our lives, our art, and our memory.

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Last week, I walked around my neighborhood with my dog. It was a beautiful autumn day. I passed by the familiar stores and boutiques, the endless cafes and bakeries of this small part of town in Stockholm known as Little Paris. I discovered a new NY style bagel store that reminded me of a life I left behind, and somehow I felt complete.

When I came home I exclaimed to my husband that we live in such a cute neighborhood. He laughed out loud: "You've lived here for twelve years!" I recall that sudden hyper-awareness of place — the kind of happiness that typically occurs in the last six months before I relocate. Only this time, I have no plans to move. Has this finally become home?

For a nomad like me, even the idea of being 'stuck' shoots thousands of arrows through my nervous system. I have major beef with the feeling and the actual structure of a home.

Most of my early school memories have faded, but one assignment has always haunted me. The teacher asked us to describe our family home: home being the most important place for one's forming, developing life skills, and most likely traumas, the jumping board for life to follow.

It was the kind of assignment where every child, still small and unformed, wrote about living within the same walls since birth. They emphasized forever — sharing rooms with siblings, welcoming new babies, dodging grandmothers who stayed longer than expected.

Later, when those same classmates went to college or got married, they would talk about their childhood rooms in that home - the one they possibly decorated in high school: pink or black walls with posters of favorite celebrities; or in case of one of my best friends, a photo wallpaper of a palm tree on a beach, a destination we all longed for while residing in that room. The room that the parents left as is, for their children to return to, until the day the house was sold or inherited.

That school assignment brought an onslaught of sadness.

My parents didn't seem to get the memo that they were supposed to stay in one place.

The day my father passed away, one of his colleagues announced his death on one of his What's App groups, by describing him as a dreamer, a men full of ideas that were not always grounded in reality. I never thought of him that way, he was my serious father, but that is probably the reason that we moved homes and continents so often - chasing the bigger than life experience.

You can either have a home or have the whole world!

And yet, at the end, this man who lived so expansively came to rest in a small white-and-pink marble home, his final home, for eternity. His whole existence — body, soul, and the countless experiences he gathered along the way — fit into one small urn.

That realization was shocking.

We focus so much on the meaning of home throughout our existence, belonging, where we come from seems to identify us for the rest our lives. Yet our final destination is always something far smaller than life itself.

This month's featured artist, Gordana Zikic, stopped me in my tracks with her performance Thank You and Goodbye. Unlike her, I have never said a proper goodbye before leaving an apartment, a town, a country. I've never welcomed a new place, either. Instead, I carry the nervousness of travel — the packing, the fear of the unknown. Every new place marked a new period of my life, and I wish I'd had Gordana's tools grounded in Shamanic practices to say farewell and clear the path ahead.

After reading Tarantula Author and Art's interview with Zikic, I decided to take a moment to say goodbye to all my old homes, hoping that after twelve years in my current one, I might finally accept that this is, perhaps, my next-to-last destination.

1st house - I don't actually remember my very first house. It could've been my paternal grandparents' home, the one with cigarette smoke and velvety green wallpapers. Smell of alcohol that belonged to my grandmother's breath and feeling of patriarchy that tightened around my young mother's neck. Goodbye!

2nd and 3rd house - Cute homes, real houses and not apartments with bricks, far away and down under. I mostly remember them from photographs, but also faintly: running around the backyard, dancing in rain mixed with sunlight, ballet lessons, babysitters we didn't like, following my mother so she wouldn't leave at night, my brother often intentionally running away from home and hiding in the garage. Goodbye!

4th house - Goodbye!

5th house - Father often away on business trips, electricity restrictions, my mother's hair catching fire. Piano lessons. Standing by the window. The death of Freddie Mercury. The retirement of my favorite ice skater. First hangouts with friends. My brother's friends stealing our stereo — but that was okay; we had more, and in socialism, we thought we should share. Goodbye.

6th house - Goodbye!

7th house - Welcome capitalism! My own room, 22nd floor, living in the center of the world, huge bedroom, doormen, concerts, extreme loneliness, high school friends, painful periods, music, starring at the ceiling, my friend's Joop perfume. Goodbye.

8th house - Heliodrom, FDR drive, noise, view of the murky river. Goodbye.

9th house - Central Park, the beginning of writing., not talking. Goodbye.

10th house - A room under the stairs, footsteps that could go the wrong way, my sibling's mental illness occupies every crook and cranny while the rest try to find a hole to hide in. Turbulence. Somewhere in the middle of the island, music and a lighthouse became my refuge. Inspiration for my awarded short film Welcome. It took too long, but finally, after 9/11, I found the courage to move out on my own. The last family home. Goodbye.

11, 12, 13, 14 …. friends, cousins, aunts, sets, film magic, cigarettes, living out of a suitcase, fun times, heartbreaks, meaning of life, confusion. Goodbye.

15th house - Finally, I made it — a modern girl's dream, a home of my own. My mother's birth town. Why did I then feel so alone? Goodbye.

16th house - Finally love, dark long winter nights, frost, new language. Goodbye.

17th/18th house - Back to the center of the world, love, fun, new adventures, parties, hosting, food, frozen habanero margaritas. Getting good at this relationship thing. Goodbye.

19th house - A growing belly, Bell's Palsy, beautiful balcony, a phone call saying that granny has died. Firework at 4th of July! Goodbye.

20th house is actually the same as 16th - My husband's bachelor's pad turned into my son's 2nd home. My husband's country. 12 years of living within these walls have been the longest I lived anywhere in my life. My son will have a place to write about as "the home." This is it. For them …

… while I succumb to the idea that maybe I will never feel anywhere at home, maybe like my father, it will be decided by my child at the final stop. But until then, or rather right now, I can feel the soles of my feet itching to move on. And if I do, I'll know how to say goodbye to what was, and how to welcome what comes next with a small ritual. Hello!

Prompt: Write your own Goodbyes or Hellos to new places, relationships, friendships, countries, parents, jobs …

I approached this month's featured artist Gordana Zikic to share the recipe for her personal rituals while changing homes to help us. You can take this as inspiration and add your own twists or traditions to the mix.