SPEAK OUT! SPEAK LOUD!: The following is a creative nonfiction personal essay by UK Sober Curator Contributor David Henzell.
In the liminal space between what is and what will be, I find myself suspended, like a feather caught in an updraft. In this moment of uncertain flight, the true nature of existence begins to reveal itself to me—not as a static being but as a curious creature in constant flux—forever migrating toward an unseen horizon.
Here, I stand at the precipice of great change, preparing to uproot my life and transplant it into the fertile soil of Poland. At this moment, I find myself drawn to the image of the stork. These majestic birds—with their stark white plumage and ink-black wingtips—have long been revered in Polish folklore as harbingers of new life, guardians of the home, and bridges between the earthly and the divine.
But it is not just their cultural significance that captivates me. It is their very nature, innate understanding of the necessity of change, unwavering commitment to the journey, and ability to find a home in the act of migration itself.
Like the stork, I am about to embark on a great migration, both physically and emotionally. But unlike these graceful creatures, guided by an internal compass as ancient as the earth itself, I find myself navigating by a different set of stars—hope, fear, anticipation, and the relentless pull of the unknown.
On Vulnerability.
As I prepare for this journey, I am reminded of a scene from Elem Klimov’s haunting film “Come and See,” where a lone stork, disoriented and drenched, stumbles through a war-torn forest. This visceral image reminds me that even the most natural and necessary of journeys can be disrupted by chaos. It speaks to the vulnerability we face when we step out of the familiar and into the unknown when we (however falteringly) embrace change.
Yet, it is precisely this vulnerability that opens us up to the possibility of transformation. Like the phoenix rising from the ashes or the stork returning to its nest after a long winter, we can also emerge from periods of great change, not diminished but renewed.
As we know, the landscape of change is rarely smooth. It is pockmarked with the craters of past conflicts, both personal and historical. Poland, the land I am preparing to call home, knows this too well. Its landscape is rich with the memories of wars, occupations, and revolutions. But it is also a land of incredible resilience, where storks return year after year to build their nests atop the chimneys of villages that have seen tremendous suffering and joyous rebirth.
On Longing.
As I contemplate this, sitting on a simple bench in the village of Izbica and being quietly observed by a stork, I see my impending journey not as a linear path from one point to another but as a complex web of interconnected moments, each one a nest built from the twigs of my experiences and perched precariously on the roof of my consciousness.
In Polish, the word—tęsknota—defies simple translation. It speaks to a type of nostalgia. It is not a longing for a place or time; it is a longing for somewhere between memory and imagination. As I prepare to leave behind the familiar contours of my current life, I find myself experiencing a profound sense of tęsknota—not for what I am losing but for what I have not yet found.
This longing is like the pull that guides the stork across vast continents, an invisible thread connecting where I am to where I am meant to be. It reminds me that home is not always a physical place but a state of being—a moment when the external world aligns perfectly with our internal landscape.
Yet, as the disoriented stork in Klimov’s film discovers, this journey is not without its perils. The smoke of uncertainty often obscures the path of change, and the terrain is made treacherous by landmines of doubt. I know there will be moments when I feel as lost and vulnerable as that rain-soaked bird, stumbling through a landscape made unrecognizable by forces beyond my control.
On Movement.
But in these moments of disorientation, we often find our truest bearings. Like the stork using the earth’s magnetic field to navigate, we also have an internal compass. It may not always point toward comfort or ease but invariably directs us toward growth and authenticity.
Standing on the threshold of this new chapter in my life, I wonder: What does it mean to truly migrate? Is it simply a matter of moving from one place to another, or is it something more profound—a shift in our very being? Our consciousness?
Perhaps, like the stork, we are always in a state of migration. Each day, each moment, we move from one version of ourselves to another. We build nests of habit and routine, only to abandon them when the seasons of our lives change. We fly great distances–physically, emotionally, and spiritually—always seeking that elusive place to finally rest our wings.
But what if the journey itself is our true home? What if, like the stork, we are most ourselves in flight, suspended between what was and what will be?
This concept both terrifies and exhilarates me. To embrace change—not as a means to an end but as a state of being, to find comfort in the discomfort of constant motion—might be the greatest migration of all.
As I prepare to make Poland my new home, I am acutely aware that I am not just moving to a new country but moving into a new version of myself. Like a stork returning to its nesting grounds, I will be building a new life from the bits and pieces of my experiences, weaving together the old and the new into a tapestry uniquely my own.
But my journey is uncharted, unlike the stork, whose migration patterns have been honed over millennia. There is no well-worn path for me to follow, no ancestral memory to guide me. In many ways, I am just like the stork in Klimov’s film—disoriented, vulnerable, and stumbling through a landscape altered by forces I cannot fully comprehend.
On Discovery.
Yet, this lack of a predetermined route makes my journey so full of potential. Each step is a choice, each moment an opportunity to redefine what home means to me. As I let all this sink in, I’m reminded of another Polish expression—Znaleźć się—which means “to find oneself.” But it also connotes finding oneself in a new situation. It speaks to the idea that we don’t just passively end up in new circumstances but actively locate ourselves within them.
Indeed, this is the true nature of my migration—not just a physical relocation, but an active process of finding myself anew in each moment, of consciously placing myself within the flow of change rather than being swept along by it. The magnificent storks, with their annual migrations, embody this process perfectly. They do not simply fly from one point to another. They engage in a complex dance with the landscape, reading the air currents, navigating by the stars, and adjusting their course as needed. Their journey is not just about reaching a destination but about being fully present in each wingbeat, each thermal, and each moment of flight.
As I embrace my migration, I aspire to this level of presence—to not just move through change but fully inhabit it, to let each moment of disorientation, each stumble, and each unexpected gust of wind inform and enrich my journey.
The image of that wet, stumbling stork from “Come and See” stays with me. It reminds me that even in the midst of chaos and confusion, there is a fundamental dignity in continuing forward. Though disoriented and confused, that stork did not cease to be a stork. It did not abandon its essential nature, even when its world was turned upside down.
In the same way, as I navigate the upheavals of my own life, I have to remember that change, no matter how profound, does not negate who I am at my core. Instead, it allows me to express my core self in new and unexpected ways.
I am beginning to realize that the Kingdom of the Stork is not a physical place. It is a state of being, a way of moving through the world that embraces change as its loyal companion. It is a realm where home is not a fixed point but a series of moments strung together by the thread of showing up as our authentic selves in awareness of the Now.
So, as I prepare to make Poland my new home, I am not just migrating to a new country. Like the stork, I am entering a realm of perpetual renewal and constant flux. I choose to see each moment as a new nest to be built, each challenge as an air current to be navigated, and each joy as a thermal lifting me higher.
On Creation.
These beautiful birds, with their elegant silhouettes and black-and-white plumage, remind us that life is rarely clear-cut but rather a complex interplay of light and shadow. The history of my beloved Poland itself reflects this—a tapestry woven from threads of triumph and tragedy, resilience and sorrow.
In preparing to enter this rich and complex landscape, I do so with the understanding that my own story will become part of this larger tapestry. My personal migration will intertwine with the collective migrations of all those who have come before me and all who will come after me.
Klimov’s stork, stumbling through the aftermath of human conflict, is a powerful symbol of how our actions impact the world around us. As I embark on my journey, I carry this sense of responsibility—to find my place in this new world and contribute positively to it.
Perhaps this is the most profound meaning of migration—not just a movement through space but toward greater understanding, compassion, and awareness of our interconnectedness with all things.
Just as storks return year after year, navigating by an inner compass that transcends human borders and conflicts, they remind us of a deeper truth—that we are all, in our ways, engaged in a great migration. Whether physically moving or staying in one place, we constantly navigate the changing landscapes of our lives, relationships, and world.
On Fear.
By embracing this truth and by stepping fully into the Kingdom of the Stork, we can open ourselves to the profound possibilities that change brings. We can learn to find stability in motion, certainty in uncertainty, and arriving home and departing from it.
Sitting here right now, I feel a mixture of trepidation and exhilaration. Like a stork poised for flight, I can feel the wind beneath my wings and the pull of the distant horizon. There will be challenges ahead—moments of disorientation, doubt, and feeling as lost as that rain-soaked bird in the blasted forest. However, I also know that these challenges are not obstacles to overcome but integral parts of the journey. They are the air currents that will lift me higher and the crosswinds that will push me to explore new territories.
Ultimately, this is the promise of the Kingdom of the Stork—not an arrival at a fixed destination but a continuous unfolding of who I am and who I might become. It is a realm where change does not happen to me but something I actively engage with, shape, and embody.
I promise to embrace this journey with a heart full of tęsknota—a longing not for what I am leaving behind but for all that I have yet to discover and all that I have yet to become. I truly am answering the call of an inner voice, a pull towards something that feels like home, even if I cannot yet see its shape. I find a profound sense of peace in this moment of suspension between what is and what will be, for I know that wherever this journey takes me, whatever challenges I may face, I carry within me the resilience of the stork, the complexity of Poland’s history, and the endless potential of change itself.
And so, I am moving forward into the Kingdom of the Stork, building my nest in the sky and finding my home by departing from it. For in the end, it’s not the destination that defines us, but the courage to spread our wings and fly.
On Vulnerability
Learn more about David Henzell HERE.
