As I wing my way from Halifax to Grande Prairie I find myself thinking about the journey I’m about to undertake in 6 weeks time. Panama has been calling my name for over 5 years now; calling me to come home.
Home doesn’t seem to easily define itself for me. Is home the place you grew up? Or lived the longest? Or is home the place you hang your proverbial hat? Or is home the place one happens to be at any given time?
I struggle with that constantly. The place I’ve spent most of my life at doesn’t feel like home to me. The places I’ve travelled to don’t feel like home. The place I’m going to spend several months at over the next while should be the place that will be my home, but my history doesn’t suggest that that will be the case.
Perhaps I don’t have a home anywhere. I often speak of feeling “global.” Perhaps I am. Or perhaps, as I really believe, the reason I don’t ever feel completely at home anywhere is that regardless of where I live on this earth, this home is temporary.
I think that’s the answer. Until I take that final journey to my true home, I will be a wanderer. Or maybe not!