16 January 2006-Alberta. . .still and again

Yesterday, I called because I desperately didn't want to feel the way I was feeling. Had a bad cold tying me down, but would not resign myself to a day of rest. So I puttered about, unproductively, waiting for the bloody, freaking car to get fixed. Turns out it'll be a day later than anticipated, maybe two. Turns out it'll be $1,000 more than they quoted. This news, atop the aimlessness and frustration that surfaced throughout the day, made me desperate to hear your voice. I needed a home.

At least, that's what I thought I needed--the sound of a familiar voice to reassure. But it wasn't enough.

Being on the road has taught me that home isn't something you can hold onto. It's not a place you leave and return to. It is not a structure or a place. It flows through you. There is a beautiful beach on this island, and I'm setting up my own little grass hut and building my own fire. And I don't want to stay there alone. My phone call should have been an invitation for you to put down anchor for awhile and check out the sand. Not a desperate request for you to build the fort.

I have no intention of making this home inaccessible. I'm no siren. I think I'm just learning what it feels like to be at home in your own body. To be at home with yourself.

And I'm learning that home is about people, not places or things or pillows that you can't sleep without or food that you can't find in this province or slippers that I forgot to pack. (Although having said that, I really do miss those slippers. Damn, do I miss those slippers. . .)

Perhaps this makes no sense. But I think it makes sense to me.

C