Sunday, 7 August 2011

Home, Roots, and Tumbleweeds

I used to think that there were few things that I could know in life besides that I belonged with a certain someone and in Toronto.  Fast-forward five years and here we are.

I have changed residences so frequently over the years that I have to keep a log of all of my previous addresses just so I can keep it all straight.  I don't even know if there's anything in my possession that I've had for longer than a year.  I donate my things with each move partly to reduce moving costs but mostly because I change - my tastes shift, and I get bored of things.  Am I nostalgic? I may not hold onto items, but I definitely hold onto memories.  I enjoy reminiscing fondly about les temps pass├ęs.  Do I long to have them back? No.  Letting go is essential in appreciating the true beauty in a moment.

I have always managed to make each place I've been feel a little bit like a "home".  I get entrenched so quickly.  It's that I find people so fascinating, and given the opportunity to indulge socially, I begin to find it difficult to uproot myself... But I always do, eventually.  I see myself as a tumbleweed: I survive in the desert, disengage from my roots, and leave a little bit of myself everywhere I go.

Someone recently described me as 'flittering about aimlessly'.  I don't think that's the case.  Some people have a home about which they navigate, and towards which gravitate for comfort, strength, and courage.  I don't have a home in this sense.  There is no place, set of things, or network of people that I will always come home to.  Some situations may mimic home in this sense for me, and admittedly, there were times when I thought I found one, but I was wrong.

I've learned that I am my home.  Wherever I go, I will have comfort.  Whenever I rebuild, I will have strength.  And whatever the circumstances, I will survive.
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