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Many times I’ve been told
Speak your mind, just be bold

So I close my eyes, look behind
Moving on, moving on
So I close my eyes

All the tears will clear
Then I feel no fear
Then I’d feel no way
My paths will remain straight

Home again, home again
One day I know I’ll feel home again
Born again, born again
One day I know I’ll feel strong again

Michael Kiwanuka. Home Again.

Home again. In the distance, the sound of the ocean. The soothing hum of waves crashing ashore. Birds are singing a gentle lullaby: magpies, parakeets, an owl, maybe. The last call of the kookaburra. A gentle breeze plays with the surrounding greenery. The setting sun bathes the wooden verandah in a warm golden light. Its rays warm my freckled skin.

Home again. It’s a quiet Saturday night in December. Two weeks until Christmas. Canada had its first snow. And I am sitting on my porch in shorts and t-shirt. “I know life’s unfair when I see palm trees,” my son comments when I send home photographs. I get it.

Home again. After four months of living out of suitcases, one Airbnb after the other, I have finally moved into my new home. A little white house in an old lady’s backyard, three minutes from the beach. A piece of Golden Triangle magic – sunshine, surf, and summer. 

The day started with packing my meagre belongings and waiting for my friend to give me a ride to my new home. Three suitcases, a couple of shopping bags full of shoes and groceries, and a clothes rack. We step out of the door of the Airbnb, only to be almost knocked over by a large group of runners:

“Hello. Entschuldigen Sie. Excuse me.” one of the runners shouts with a heavy German accent.

“Know you the Australian national song?” 

The Australian anthem? I don’t. My friend starts humming, trying to piece together the words.

“No, sorry. We are from Germany. We don’t know the Australian anthem!”

“Ah, from Germany!” the runner’s eyes light up. A landsman!

“We, too, are from Germany. We run this race. You don’t know the Australian song? That’s ok. 

Another runner comes up to me. A woman this time.

“Would you swap your shirt?” 

Twelve pairs of runners’ eyes are on me. Everyone is trying to catch their breath. I am holding mine. First the anthem, now my shirt? What kind of run is this? 

Before I know it, I’m taking off my t-shirt and handing it to the German. Stripping in a cul-de-sac in the suburbs of Sydney. Welcome to Australia! The runner hands me her sweaty top. A high-quality running shirt for a cheap t-shirt from the Gap. A good deal for me.

“Can I have your number?” the first guy interrupts our intimate moment of undressing and dressing in public.

My number? Was it because I had taken off my shirt without hesitating?

“Your number. We need to get someone’s number.”

Anthem. Shirt. Number. And it’s not even eight in the morning yet!

Before we know it, the pack of panting pacers is gone. Taking my shirt, and my number, leaving with nothing but a smile on my face. This is going to be a good day. My first day in my new home.

A little white granny flat in someone’s backyard. On a quiet street in Newport, one street over from the beach. It is unfurnished, and so I spent the rest of the day assembling Ikea furniture, shopping for everything from a toilet brush to kitchen towels. It has a washing machine and a built-in dishwasher, though no fridge – clean over cool. And so I will spend the weekend collecting furniture and appliances. People have been very generous with me, lending me a bed, a fridge, a microwave, a table, a chair … 

The evening is spent with my friend and a glass of warm bubbly out of new Ikea glasses on my new wooden verandah, sitting on new Ikea chairs. Pink cotton-candy clouds from the setting sun in the evening sky, a bird having a nightcup from the red day lily flowers, a bandicoot rustling in the leaves of the ferny hedge. We remember a poem that fits the moment perfectly:

Barely the day started and… it’s already six in the evening.

Barely arrived on Monday and it’s already Friday.

… and the month is already over.

… and the year is almost over.

… and already 40, 50 or 60 years of our lives have passed.

… and we realize that we lost our parents, friends.

and we realize it’s too late to go back…

So… Let’s try, despite everything, to enjoy the remaining time…

Let’s keep looking for activities that we like…

Let’s put some color in our grey…

Let’s smile at the little things in life that put balm in our hearts.

And despite everything, we must continue to enjoy with serenity this time we have left. Let’s try to eliminate the afters…

I’m doing it after…

I’ll say after…

I’ll think about it after…

We leave everything for later like ′′ after ′′ is ours.

Because what we don’t understand is that:

Afterwards, the coffee gets cold…

afterwards, priorities change…

Afterwards, the charm is broken…

afterwards, health passes…

Afterwards, the kids grow up…

Afterwards parents get old…

Afterwards, promises are forgotten…

afterwards, the day becomes the night…

afterwards life ends…

And then it’s often too late….

So… Let’s leave nothing for later…

Because still waiting see you later, we can lose the best moments,

the best experiences,

best friends,

the best family…

The day is today… The moment is now…

Home again. The next morning, at 4:45 sharp, I can hear him in the distance: my friend the kookaburra! I wouldn’t say I missed him, but it sure is good to hear his laughter again! In the distance, I hear a rumbling noise, almost like the faint sounds of a motorway. It takes me a few moments to realize – it’s the ocean I hear. The crashing and rolling of the waves endlessly beating the shore. I listen to the parakeets screeching, and the minor birds singing. The kookaburra must have turned around and gone back to sleep. I leave my mattress on the floor (no bed frame, yet), throw on yesterday’s clothes, neatly folded on a pile next to it  (no chair, yet, either) and go to the beach. The same beach, but on the other end. A new green bench. 

The sand is still moist and cold from last night’s dew. The pale light of the morning sun trying to escape the clouds in the sky. It is the third candle Sunday, and I don’t feel Christmassy at all. But happy nonetheless. I feel at home. Like I have finally arrived. In one more week, I will leave to return to my other home – Canada! And I can’t wait to see my family and friends. And in another week’s time, I will be taking all my boys to Germany, my home from home from home. I am a pretty lucky lady to call three places in three different countries on three different continents my home. 

It’s two weeks until Christmas and the days are busy: report cards, end-of-year cleanup, moving classrooms, meetings, Christmas parties, dinners and drinks. Haven’t had time to read a book in ages, though I managed to finish a tiny Christmas novella we read for book club. “Always, Christmas brought out the best and worst in people,” it read. And I agree. People are stressed and on edge, and tense. Having to write an eleven-paged report card when you should be strolling along Christmas markets, drinking punch, and buying useless Christmas gifts for your loved ones doesn’t help. But then there are the small, little things that make it a special time. Christmas-green margaritas with a friend, secret Santa gifts and one final excursion with my class. The prospect of a long summer, err winter break. And my little white house. 

“Why are the things that are closest so often the hardest to see?” my book club book asks. And I make a point to take an extra moment on my new wooden verandah to take it all in. Home again.

Cheers!