I was walking across the Jubilee Bridge – on the right side, if you’re facing the Southbank – today when I stopped to lean against the railing and enjoy the view for a moment. Living in London is quite amazing. The thought alone of living in London is amazing. As much as it can get to me and stresses me out, the city has a lot to offer, which is worth it on the whole to have the experience of living here. At least for a while.
I feel the moment of departure approaching.
Just last week I was considering a job in Barcelona and a job in Dublin was on the table as well, but that was sooner than I could’ve made happen.
While I was standing on that bridge, looking down on the river and across to Westminster, I once again stopped at the realization that I feel profoundly uprooted.
What did they say in Kansas? There’s no place like home?
I feel more like this: There’s no place called home. Which is not entirely true. I have a home, more than one. I have a home in Berlin, in Christchurch, in Canada, even in Melbourne still, one here.
But my old room at my parent’s place isn’t my room anymore and whilst I will always find shelter with my parents, it’s not my home anymore, not in a material sense. Neither is the house I lived in in Christchurch, or the one in Victoria. In Melbourne I lived in a hostel, but it was still home for as long as it lasted.
All these places were and in a way still are home. But I can’t ever return to any of them, not truly, because they’ve changed, I’ve changed and it can never be the same again.
Leaving Germany, leaving home, seven years ago now, was the hardest thing I have ever done. And now it seems finding a home again is the next hardest thing.
I keep on moving, because wherever I go I am not going to stay. I know it when I arrive. Sometimes before I arrive. No point in settling down then, which includes dating and possibly even forming a relationship.
I have this romantic notion of one day getting somewhere and knowing that I have arrived. All of a sudden I will know that this is the place for me. And so I have to keep wandering and searching.
Putting down actual roots seems to be quite out of the question. I want to live on a houseboat for a reason. I mean, seriously!
I just know that I am drawn to the water and endless horizons. And whilst a city or town should be near, I don’t want to be in the middle of it. There should be plenty of places around like that, right?
I do want a home, my own place. And if I get to share it with someone I love, great. But somehow I don’t seem to be there yet. I’ve not arrived. So soon it will be once again time to move elsewhere.
It’s a good thing I don’t hang my heart on things. I discard them too easily, if I can’t take them with me.
I wonder if uprooting myself did this to me. Or was it inevitable?
Of course I’ll never know. I’ve chosen this path. I had no idea what was going to happen, which was the most appealing part of it, and I have no regrets. But when the mood strikes, as it did today, I do ask myself, when I’ll find my place.
Is it time yet? Am I there yet?
On the other side, though, I get a great deal out of the search itself. The journey is not the destination, but it shouldn’t be missed out on. Especially when you don’t know, where the destination lies.