What does home mean to you? Is it a physical place where you have a bed and cups and a plant? Is it a figurative place where your family and friends are all together in the same place? Is it your country, your province, your city? Or is it a combination of everything and everywhere you’ve been (c’mon, you need a good bed)?
Home to me has come to mean different things over the last few years – mostly because I’ve spent so much time away from mine. And the longer I’m away, the stronger the connection I have to it. Because like all the paradoxical aspects of being human, absence from something (and somebodies) truly does make you love it (them) more. Absence make memories of the Prairie winter seem bearable, and the reunited conversations more deep with laughs that seem to last longer.
While I know it’s all a bit of a mirage, my favourite vacations have been to Regina, Saskatchewan. My home. And this summer was no different.
The familiar smells, sounds, sights and faces put me at ease, while every breakfast, brunch, lunch and supper was filled with old friends (and new a nephew), new stories and a familiarity that can’t be faked.
And while it’s always so tough to leave, I always feel fortunate to have those roots to miss and come back to. Living abroad you meet a lot of people who don’t have that sense of home, that sense of belonging, and they seem lost and searching.
Living in Malaysia and Sri Lanka, I’ve no doubt built connections to those places, but I’ll always be a foreigner – not just in the eyes of Sri Lankans or Malaysians, but in my own soul. And that’s okay because I really love being a visitor, I really do hate winter (I remember that now) and I really love being a tourist in my home.
Until the next time, my friends. Thanks for the visit and in the words of my niece Annabelle – “See you soon.”