Who Says You Can't Go Home?

I was born in a town that is now part of Greater London, England. When I was 5, my family moved to Canada, leaving behind our home. It was so long ago that I don’t remember how deeply homesick I may have been. I do know that I made new friends at school and settled in. We weren’t the only Brits in our community of Stratford, Ontario, so there were still traditions, and favorite foods, and people who talked like we did, and a familiarity about daily life. Being so young, I quickly absorbed and assimilated Canadian culture.

When I was 11, my parents separated, and Mum and I moved away. Again, I left behind what had come to be my home. I still came back every other weekend to see Dad and my brother and some of my friends. It was a few years before Mum and I settled in one place, but I always had my home base to return to.

From Grade 8 to Grade 12, Mum and I lived in a town of 3,000 people. That place never felt like home. It’s really hard to move into a small community where cliques are already forged. The saving grace for me was the 3 close friends I had that made life bearable. I also fell in love with the house we moved to about a mile outside of town. We had 5 acres that were surrounded by conservation area. Having a quiet, natural environment outside my back door to explore was heaven. If I could have picked that plot up and moved it to Stratford, I would have been happy.

I went to live with Dad back in Stratford for Grade 13. The extra year was like first year of university, only done at high school. It was great to be back in the city that felt like home and making new friends, at least for a while. I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up, so I stayed while almost all the friends I was close to went away to university. I felt angsty about that at the time, but, in my older, wiser years, I realize that everything happens for a reason, just the way it’s supposed to. I’m at peace with that choice.

A couple of years later, I finally went to university. I loved the academics; I didn’t particularly love the rest of the scene. I was like a fish out of water and couldn't wait until I could go back home for a visit. Circumstances were never the same there, but I had that feeling inside of familiarity. During summer holidays, I went to Calgary, Alberta for work. I stayed with Mum and my stepfather, and I never left, even though they did the very next year.

I’ve lived in Calgary for 34 years now. In many ways, it has become my home. I’ve lived here more than half my life. I built my own world, independent of familial ties. I was in charge of the direction of my life, which has turned out over the years to be both a blessing and a curse. I have so much to be grateful for: amazing friends, some who have come and gone, as is the way of things; work that has been challenging and fun (not always, but mostly); access to all the benefits of a city of a million people, like theatre, concerts, sporting events, great restaurants, and anything else you need or want; time for myself and personal growth.

Sadly, for the past few years, I’ve known that it was time to move on. But I didn’t. The good still outweighed the bad. A year ago, I helped Mum move back to Stratford after a 30-year stay in Florida. I started thinking then of moving myself back. But I didn’t.

This March, Dad passed. I was there for the week before he died. I’m grateful that I could be with him when he took his last breath, but he didn’t know who I was. His dementia stole what could have been a bonding time for us. I know that our souls communicated in the spiritual realm, but my heart missed out. I said what I wanted to say to him; I told my dad that I loved him. I wish I could have heard him say it back one more time.

During the two weeks I was in Stratford, I decided that it was almost time to return. I didn’t want to have another wound of regret for not spending more time with Mum before she takes her leave. My timeline was somewhat vague; I only knew that I’d make the move “this year”. Mum accidentally made that decision for me when she had a fall and ended up in the hospital with screws in her hip.

Next week, I’m finally going home. I’m packing up 34 years of my life, stuffing it into a truck, and driving across country by myself. It’s going to be quite an adventure. Naturally, I have mixed feelings after all this time. There’s a lot that I’m leaving behind, but I’m not moving somewhere foreign to me. People speak my language. I’ve spent happy years there. Certain things around town have changed, but there’s enough that I still love to make me happy. I have friends that are dear to me that I’ll get to spend time with. My brother and his family are close by. I’ll be with Mum.

I think that when they say, “You can’t go home,” they’re saying that things never stay the same. That’s just a given, no matter where you are. Change is the only certainty of life. But, you can always go back to where your roots are, the fertile soil that nourishes your soul. For me, there’s a quality of light that feeds me, something in the air that soothes me, a vibration that flows through me, an energy of love that warms my heart in the place I call home.

I’m excited for my new adventure. I’m glad to be going home. This may be my only chance to drive across this beautiful country, so I want to enjoy the journey. I’ll post some notes from the road.

If you’re lucky, you already know where home is for you. If you’re not already there, please consider that decision. Perhaps, you haven’t found it yet. Keep looking until you do. You’ll be surprised what a difference it can make to your life to be where you belong. I’d love to know where home is for you. Will you share?