The quiet comforts of home

There’s something to be said for being away. Plenty, to be honest. But there’s plenty more to be said about coming home. And truth be told, many of my friends and family from back east don’t quite understand why, 20 plus years in, I’m still in BC with no plans to make the trek back. Not that it hasn’t crossed my mind, but that’s all it does. A quick flirtation really. Like a knowing glance from a familiar face across the room. Nothing said but it’s clearly understood – sure, that might be fun – but it ain’t gonna happen cause it ain’t gonna work.

I always thought home was about a sense of place. A physical recognition of where you are from. But it’s more than that. It’s a sense of space. Where things go. Where things are. And a sense of pace. What things happen and when. And when you’re home, wherever that may be, things happen quietly, without explanation. First this, then that. First here, then there. Like making coffee and driving to school. Or getting the mail and picking up the groceries. It just happens because it needs doing. It has its place because it doesn’t need any explanation or justification. It’s just what you do.

And the quiet comfort I find there, in a topsy turvy world, is why I call this place home no matter how far I roam.


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