I feel it drawing me in. The thick woollen threads of relationship. Wrapping itself around my limbs. Warm, fuzzy, comforting and constricting. Without them, cut and floating on the otherside of the globe, I’ve felt naked and bare against the elements. Exhilarating. Terrifying. Lonely. Free. But I’m back, just now, just passing through. Each of those threads suddenly feels colourful, its weight rich, its texture, delicious. I’ve so missed the street that is coated with memories, the corner when I bump into neighbours, the little lady whose name I don’t know, but who used to call me bella and now doesn’t recognise me.
I admit, I’m a little homeless. Nomadic, indeed, almost from Birth. There are places that I have bled my memories into. Laid them down, thread at a time, woven a sense of self into a place. These places are spread out now between continents. From stuffy alley ways in Kathmandu, to inner-city hum of Perth, to sparse, dry, country streets in a freezing/stifling hot town in the Wheatbelt. Its not that I don’t accept responsibility for constantly shifting, and losing my home. I’m honest enough to know that in myself, I would stagnate left too long in the comfortable. But that doesn’t mean I don’t delight to visit, to sink into nostalgia, and lavish in the familiar. And those relationships. Those sweet, frustrating, changing, never-changing relationships with friends from childhood, with family members. The ones that turn through the same old streets of arguments and limitations, the same worn rutts of often said phrases. The same rituals of coffees, family dinners, beach escapes. How they clothe me. Wrap me up in history, in love, in acceptance, in home.
Wherever I roam, may I remember to nurture the relationships that have always clothed me. That are always waiting to be slipped into. That never seem to go out of fashion.