March 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
Last week, as I finally started packing up my life to move across the country, it suddenly occurred to me that I was moving out. As in, for real. Leaving home. Less than 24 hours before I left, as I sat in a passageway of my childhood home, this shift, which I had been thinking of for years and actively planning for months, suddenly, and with very little ceremony, actually shifted.
As my parents meandered past in their pajamas, business as usual, I was suddenly completely overwhelmed. My shock nailed me to the floor next to my half-packed suitcase around which I had built up a small nest of freshly laundered chaos, in which I immediately proceeded to totally lose my shit. I sat between piles of clothing, hunched over a lapful of my favourite books that I didn’t have room to pack, and I sobbed until I choked. It took until that moment for me to realise I would actually not be living with them anymore. This probably shouldn’t have been so shocking. Firstly because I was a week shy of 22 and, seriously, it’s time to leave the womb, but secondly because I haven’t really lived with them for about five years anyway. So they are perfectly accustomed to me not being there, and didn’t really understand the fuss. But I’ve always considered it my home, just that I went on a lot of sleepovers.
Nearly every night.
For five years.
But such is the centrifugal tether of the family unit.
Upon leaving the homogenous crevice of my hometown, I had my fingers crossed for an unimpeded creative explosion. So far, my creative inclinations have indeed been lit, but with a far more subtle rate of ignition than expected. My experience has been more of an absent-minded creative emulsion, with a loose focus on family and social dislocation. The relation to the music of the spheres; The earth singing Mi Fa Mi. The appreciation of both misery and famine, intervals of quiet and everything between.
So it is with some very conflicted little neurons that I send my best to my hometown, a largely enviable place that I have ridiculed and been aching to leave for years. I have abandoned a luxurious standard of living and cushy but limited work to live in an overpriced share-house in the pursuit of creative, professional and social expansion. I’m going from being a big, bored fish in a small, safe pond to being a small fish in a big, intimidating pond. But, as I wetly explained to my bewildered mother from my seat on the floor, I am sad to leave, but I would be much sadder if I stayed.