Defining 'Home'
We've been having a too-early heatwave, with the air hot and still, grass browning, appetites dimming, and my Scandanavian skin burning red at the mere thought of spending five minutes outside without a hat.
Sunday was my cooking night, and I made Vietnamese salad rolls, with raw veggies and cold peanut sauce, plus the pasta salads left over from Saturday's Going Astray celebration. No heat, no cooking.
And yet I felt hotter and hotter. I soaked my wrists in cold water. I held a cold cloth on my forehead. I went to bed at 7:30 hoping to nap off whatever I felt I was coming down with. No luck. I started feeling bad. I finally gave up and went down to the t.v. room, which is in the cool, dark basement.
Legends of the Fall was on, a frontier epic of the sort that I cannot tend to stomach, with 3 brothers all in love with the same woman and battling the elements in the wild west. And also with Brad Pitt. Blergh. However, a lot of it was filmed in Alberta, much of it on my mom's cousin's ranch. So, feeling ill, I succumbed to the homesick nostalgia of the panoramic scenes of familiar cliffs, river valleys, mountain vistas, and the ranch. I always have loved Alberta' geography, even if its politics terrify me.
I began to think about all my definitions of home. Home is Calgary, specifically the Varsity Acres neighbourhood where I grew up, where all the families knew each other, and where all us kids could roam freely as long as we were home for dinner. Home is also Cochrane, Alberta, where I lived from 17-25, where I did most of my partying, lost my virginity, became a feminist, and fell in love with train trestles and beaver ponds. Home is also the Lower Mainland of BC, and in the last 10 years I have lived in Lions Bay, North Vancouver, Vancouver, and New Westminster. And yet I don't feel like I am in my home yet.
I miss Alberta's definite weather. You are either hot or cold, buried in snow, or stuck in a downpour. Here in BC in took me years to be able to tell when the seasons changed, as the differences between winter and spring, for example, are subtle and slow to appear. I miss the sky and stars, which here are hemmed in by mountains on all horizons, except for where there are skyscrapers. I miss having to look for beauty instead of taking the forests for granted.
At the same time, I love being close to the ocean. I love the islands and feel very sad whenthe ferry brings me back to the mainland. I love that I don't need snow tires for my bike, and that I can get anywhere I want on transit (except for out of the cities).
I am half a year from graduating and becoming a teacher. I am interested to see where teaching takes me, and if I will, finally, come home.
At some point in the night, a rare thunderstorm struck, the heat dissipated, and the air pressure suddenly dropped. I recognised the feeling of release that comes when an anticipated storm finally hits. I stood in the rain and let it wash away my tears, and at last I slept.