I came home today after being away. It was just a short trip, but nonetheless, it got me thinking about the idea of coming home and its many different layers.
As I walked off the plane two little squidgelets ran into the arms of a grownup who clearly occupied a “you are our whole world” position in their lives. Theirs was a whole of body excitement – fairly bursting out of their little arms and legs as they flung themselves forwards. For myself, I had the unexpected delight of driving straight to my parent’s home where my biological peeps were gathered – and so had my own squiggly bodied welcome from my oldest niece and the old-as-me-greetings from my parents.
And it reminded me that one of the great joys in returning home is the physicality of the return, particularly when that welcome comes from those in our life who have yet to learn the social conventions that require you to downplay the dropdead excitement of seeing someone you love again or those who have moved through the hormonally induced indifference of teenage greetings.
But another form of coming home relates to a return to familiar places. After a day of sitting in meetings, the idea of stopping down by the river for a walk was appealing. And it wasn’t until I arrived that I realised how important it was to return to this specific location. I had, a little embarrassingly given how long I’ve lived in this town, failed to make the necessary geographical links to get myself to the river. I’d found myself driving beside a beautiful parkland I had not visited before, and yet, as much as it looked glorious and the sun was setting, I wanted to walk beneath the familiar green-grey archways of my beloved Yarra Flat gums and greet the almost-full-moon above the same electric wires that frame so many of my mind’s moon snaps.
They seem like such simple pleasures – returning home to loved ones and familiar places. And yet, both of these moments of homecoming are the result of tremendous privilege in my life.
For some people today’s homecoming will be the first time they return home without the love of their life. Or it may be the seventy-fifth day. And I guess then, returning home is something more like a question of how to continue, and not a gentle end of a day.
Or home may be a place of hatred. Conservative estimates reckon that close to 3000 women can’t access crisis housing that would help them leave violent relationships. And homelessness services turn away 423 people a night. So, for way too many people in our community home becomes a couch at a mate’s. Or they tuck their kids in for the night in the back seat of their car.
Or there may simply be no home to return to. A 2014 study reported that 180,000 people had died in 42 active conflicts around the world. What you knew once as home is now a pile of rubble in a town that lies in ruins. Now home may be one of the ungovernable megacities that flutter beneath blue plastic tarps. Or home might be out of reach, over there, beyond that closed border.
Or the Government of Australia may be seeking to remove you from the only home you have ever known. #LetThemStay
Or the Government of Western Australia may be seeking to remove you from the only home you have ever known. It is extraordinary that in 2016 we are still having to campaign to stop the forced closure of Aboriginal Communities.
Or, as an Aboriginal kid, you may have been removed from your home, your kin. The number of Aboriginal children removed from their families increased by 42% in Victoria in 2015.
And so, as I rounded the bend in my road, and saw the dragonfly lights dance a welcome return from the front porch, it struck me how extraordinarily fortunate I am to be able to come home. To open the front door and stop for a while in the chair my Papa used to sit in. To look around and see my Nana’s teapot, and my Great Aunt’s teaspoons and my Grandmother’s copper bowl. To keep company with the cicadas and, keystroke by keystroke, restore balance to my soul.
February 2016
Stardust Becoming 