Homeless

This past weekend I had the divine pleasure of going to White Plains, NY for a conference of the National Association for Drama Therapy.  The conference was good – however, the best part was catching up with my amazing NYC friends that I haven’t seen since the summer.  As Lindsay and I were driving away from the conference – heading back to Montreal – I was shocked at the profound wave of melancholy that washed over me.  It was a large mouthful of homesickness.  I’ve been trying to pick it apart – find the meaning behind it – and this is what I came up with. 






The theme of the conference was “Finding Home: Pathways to belonging.”  I didn’t think anything of it initially - a nice little conference theme that allowed people to come up with some broad and creative presentations.  But then I attended a workshop lead by my dear friend Lucy.  In the workshop we explored the concept of home – and I realized that in many ways, just like my former clients, I feel homeless.  Sure, I am fortunate enough to have a roof over my head – but in many other ways I feel a bit adrift.  Montreal is great, and hard, and seemingly temporary.  New York is big and intense and the center of the universe and was my home for 8 years and yet in looking at it now, it doesn’t feel like home.  As I sort through my inner world, the closest I can come to feeling at home is Utah – and for those of you who know me, that’s a little insane. 



I guess in many ways it makes sense that Utah is home.  That’s where my entire family is based (even if the parents are currently in South Africa).  It is also where I spent half of the years of my life.  Granted, many of those years were fraught with strife and self-loathing, nevertheless, I had a place there. 


Is home a place, though?  As I look at my experiences over this past weekend, I realized that I felt at home in White Plains.  At the risk of sounding incredibly cliché, home, I realized, is not about the location – not about the roof, the porch, the familiar cracks in the sidewalk or the view out the front window – home, instead, is about the people.

In White Plains I was surrounded by many of the people I hold most dear – like the smell of baking bread or the sound of someone practicing the piano, their presence felt familiar and comfortable.  Upon thinking, I began to wonder whether or not I will ever feel truly at home until I find someone to be with.  It seems very exciting – and strangely foreign – to think about having home as someone who is with me.  To travel with home.  To come home to home – to have home come home to me (alright, I know, a bit hokey).  The truth is I am resistant to relationships – for whatever reason.  And sadly I suppose that until I get over that resistance I am going to continue feeling a bit homeless.  However, I know that I will have beautiful moments of homefulness in the arms of my friends and family to break up the isolation.  And for that, I am truly grateful.