I can't see myself staying for more than two years, five at most;
living in Canada isn't required either. I’m not sure what happened to my roots and,
truth be told, lately I’ve been thinking that physically and mentally I don’t
believe I really belong anywhere.
As I rule, I have one tote bin I trudge with me from house
to house that I fill with cherished possessions that come with no value to anyone
but me. Each of these items scream 'Kirstin!' and have a story
attached to it. I’ve been wrapping that speckle coloured vase in my well-loved
scarves since even before I left my hometown. I also have an old barn wood
picture frame containing a freshly captured memory from the previous summer, of
my three favorite Bushbabes. I don’t have a modern day chesterfield that comes
on The Move, but I do have a spoon used specifically for my coffee each morning
and can’t bear to part with it.
I’ve almost completed that Adulting task that I’ve promised
myself I would perform before I began to allow myself to look into plane
tickets and the more serious details of my next adventure. From this accomplishment, I’m going through
my book collection and trying to sort out those meant for the reused shed, and
those that will go back to live at my moms and join the considerable amount of
books already residing there. I’ll see my mom in April and so I’ll send with
her a duffelbag full of Big Girl clothes and those damn books that I just
can’t seem to part with.
In Canada, I haven’t met that many people who share my
nomadic lifestyle; I do love visiting my sisters and a close girlfriend,
who have a lovely family life. It’s almost as though I get to play dress up for
an evening or weekend when I’m invited over. I get to pet their dogs and chase
around their kids, while sipping on tried and true wine that we drink during
and after the planned out meal. This noise and busyness, the full house and
even the associated chores pertain some of my favorite moments. There are the
few occasions that I find myself aching for my own home such as this, with the
chesterfield and multiple tote bins and maybe even a little less trudging
around. But I’ve realized that perhaps
what I’m really seeking is some sort of common ground. I want to find other
people who invest in plane tickets rather than wallpaper and who ask for
presents that will only fit in their backpack, not their closet. I take refuge in
a collection of memoirs and short stories, which, when I began to realize I
wanted and needed this gypsy lifestyle, the pages of these books is where I
found those other people who inhabited my standard of living. When I read about
female writers hiking the Camino Del Santiago or experiencing the West Coast
Trail I can’t help feel that these girls know exactly what wand and need. My
soul feels happiness when I’m plowing through the memoir of a Female Nomad or
when I read Elizabeth Gilbert's account on going to a meditation retreat in
India soon after she disposes her nuclear lifestyle. I have this fierce urge to
go to a foreign country and focus solely on my Yoga Practice as the author Yoga
Bitch can surely relate to. Right now, my favorite book is Wild.
When I mentioned to my dear friend that I may have to move,
yet again, she told me that she talked about it to her Partner (she hates that
terms about as much as I love it) and I am welcome to move into the spare
bedroom. I was very surprised by such kindness. To me it was not only an
invitation to be a part of her family’s life, but to be a part of her family,
even if it’s for only a little while. When I insist on paying my sister for
cleaning my house each and every time I move, she sternly promises me (as only
Megan could) that it’s not necessary, and when I come back from my travels Hugo
and I will have a place to live, should I need it, and it’s not because I watch
my Niece or pay her to clean, but because I’m her sister and she is my family.
Both sisters have said this.
From a lifestyle perspective I can enjoy playing dress up
and trying on a role in their household and both my sisters and my girlfriend
are curious about all of my one-year plans and can appreciate my flightiness.
We may not share the same desires out of life, but this kindness provides a new
understanding on what belonging means.
Kindly,
Kirstin
If you don't see the book on the shelf that you want, write it [the same goes with your life].- Beverly Cearly
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