Coming home, to go away
I sometimes wonder what it is that made me such a drifting spirit. Or is the spirit always a drifter and its the mind that keeps everything in place?
Maybe, it requires for the mind to take the body on a journey, to let the spirit remember what it is? Free.
Either way, I guess it started when I was little. My dad lived in more than ten other cities during my upbringing so me and my brother were always on the roads. We have always loved it there. In between dreams. With an exciting look on our faces.
Since I finished high school, eight years ago, I have never lived in one place for more than two years. That was when I studied tourism and service management at a college in Båstad, a small village on the southern coast of Sweden. Ironically, during those two years, I was never at a place for more than eight following weeks. Usually, there were intervals of three or four weeks between studies in Båstad and internships all over the world. I loved going away, but I will never forget the feeling of coming home. To our loft apartment. The balcony with the sea view.
That had our suitcases ready to be grabbed at any time.
Coming home to Båstad was smell of autumn leaves and winter apples…
It was my red bike and the green fields on the way to school. It was the old house smell and the squeaky wooden floor of my school. The garden with its amazing flowers blooming in spring. The ocean.
Båstad is a popular picturesque summer destination. I only got to experience the other seasons. And a lot of rain. I loved it! I will never forget walking in the middle of the street one night in September, and the whole town was comfortably silent. Suitcases stacked away.
The silence here now, is not comfortable. But I do the best I can.
I listen to a lot of music. That fills up the silence.
I read a lot of books. That keeps my mind focused.
I eat amazing dinners with my mom. Better than any restaurant.
I visit my grandparents. My granddad tells me I look like Helen and that he is 21 years old. My grandma is half blind so I help her shop and we cook traditional food that I pretend to like.
I see friends. And their children. And pregnant mothers-to-be. And we drink coffee and talk about house prices, diapers and vacuum cleaners.
I am looking for jobs, and I have a few doors open. At the same time, I’m not sure what it is I really want right now. Maybe I am just keeping the doors half open, for something to slip through.
Because the truth is, my spririt is way out the door already. My suitcase will always be ready.