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 passés. 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.