Find Somewhere To Grow
Examining the tidal currents of partnership and creativity: Pt 2
Having a safe, affordable roof over our heads is one of life's most undervalued achievements.
Once upon a time, I lived in a house up the scenic highway from where I do now; a temporary situation that felt very much like limbo. I couldn't see the river from anywhere in or around the house, though it was located just metres away, on the other side of a private driveway. So close, I could smell it. I hated not being able to see the light punctuate the river's current. I knew, deep down, that we belonged up the road, just as I knew years before that we needed to live in our van for a while, or a suburban townhouse complex, or a shitty one-room apartment with a brick-wall view in the Little Portugal neighbourhood of Toronto.
One of my earliest memories of nature is a day trip with my parents, who pointed out snow-capped grey mountains in Banff to my bewildered young eyes. My parents, born in Nova Scotia and Ontario respectively, were new to Alberta. They were on a years-long layover in a faraway place, in search of their own elusive sense of "home." It would be three decades before I’d find my way back to the Rockies, on a decidedly unglamorous months-long tour that pushed us to our physical limits. Needless to say, the mountains had only grown in beauty and visceral magnitude by the time I laid my 30-something eyes back upon them.
Conflicting survival instincts can make even the most transient of us feel terminally homesick.
Finding home within ourselves, a family, or a partnership might be a tall task, but sharing space within a collective tilts the odds of thriving keenly in our favour. Having anyone to turn to in a time of need is an immense privilege. Finding more than one helper to approach - a neighbour, a farmer, or even nature itself - is belonging.
Two years ago, I walked down the highway that I now call home, gazing out upon the river. I knew I could be comfortable here - just not yet. When we were evicted due to the sale of our rented house, we hauled ourselves up the coast and landed a 30 minute drive up the highway. We recalibrated our lives with the aid of the majestic ocean basin that lay down the road. After another twelve-month sojourn in a temporary space until that house's owner needed to move back in, we returned to the river - thanks to a serendipitous rental listing - and began to lay down roots along its calming shore.
The magnetism of the river is unmistakable. There is an overarching inclusiveness, patience and gratitude amongst those who have migrated here for earnest reasons: to do right by our community and serve as stewards of our shared physical environment.
For some of us, our home is where we are right now, not someplace off in the distance or tucked deep in the past. For others, home is where we were born and grew up, and raised our own children, and where we will end, though that's becoming a much rarer feat as we delve into the 2020's. Having a safe, affordable roof over our heads day-to-day is one of life's most undervalued achievements. No home is permanent, whether you rent, buy, or simply dwell. We all know this deep down, and yet most of us instinctively nest and settle in as though each home is all we will ever know.
The places we've called home as a duo - from one-room rat-infested apartments to detached rural houses to sleeping in our minivan to staying with family - have placed varying amounts of external pressure on our relationship. Feeling comfortable within ourselves and our extended community once felt like an insurmountable hurdle. It has taken decades, but allowing our sense of "home" to be swept along both rough and gentle waters while holding steadfast to the life raft of our partnership has repeatedly kept us afloat.
Until or unless we can find home within ourselves, these places in which we physically reside are all we've got. We have nowhere else to grow.
An alternate version of this piece was previously published in Volume 3 Issue 3 of The Lunenburg Barnacle.
Ultra-Canadian musical coda: