Always leaving, always coming home
Today I left home and arrived home. I closed up the turtle schoolbus and ferried across the Salish Sea to the Appias, home to apt. 306. I came home to my storage locker full of clothes and photographs and love letters and junk. Home to latenight sushi and East Van pride. Home to sirens and concrete, traffic and the crime. Home to Vancouver, my calling, my peeps. Home to where the homeless find home on the street. This city is my home because I made it to be so. I invented this city to mirror my dreams. My home is with the crows flying east in the evening. My home is with the crows flying west toward dawn.
Sometimes in speaking of Vancouver I still slip and say Toronto. Toronto: my first wonderland, my prison yard and playground. Toronto where my brother still lives and where my parents lie buried. Is Toronto still my home? Yes it is.
I go home to Upaya to meet with my teacher. Home to the high desert where my skin cracks and bleeds. Home, to the dharma, the reality of my experience. Home is the shoes on my feet, the air that i breathe, and the place where my wheels meet the road.
To go home is to surrender to place and to time. My home is anywhere i choose to call mine.