HOME SWEET HOME; BUT WHERE IS THAT?
I write this blog in a determination to be absolutely honest in terms of the emotional intensity that eats into my inner being. It is a deep-seated feeling I suppose many ex-patriots also experience in varying degrees. This is, of course, the question of when, or whether to, return to one’s own country, one’s own roots. Walking the very paving stones and streets I paced as a 10-year-old tears at my senses.
A quick tour of John's Hometown ~ Salisbury, ENGLAND
Do I wish to come home? What would we do for employment? How would we find a place to live? Is it too late? Have I missed a wave of Doctor Who-related activities that might have brought some income to make this move possible? What would Jeni do for employment? These and more basic concerns churn in my mind, heart, and soul. Then as we reach Heathrow, the emotion deepens. Looking at the city of London as we circle, about to land, one almost tries to find any purpose or reason to return once more, for good, to Great Britain. Once we step out of the airport, always, it seems, under a grey, cloudy sky, mixed with the joys of my home country start to come reminders of why I was eager to leave such a long time ago. These conflicting emotions dog me every day of my trip.
Coming home to where we live now, we arrive in Los Angeles, which is warm and initially inviting in its American-ness. We get in our familiar coach (the “Flyaway”; we love its efficiency and regularity, and it only costs $7 per person, round-trip between Van Nuys and LAX airport) then we get in our car and know we are on home ground, with all the comfort that brings. We reach home, park, unlock the apartment, praying that robbery, fire, flood, or other calamities did not visit whilst we were away, nor any strong aftershocks of the 5.4 magnitude earthquake that hit the day before our trip. Thank heavens. We throw open all the windows and there we are, in the heart of our apartment, comfortable in its familiarity, surrounded by objects that please and placate us after two weeks of being in other people’s homes. The thoughts of going back to Britain shrinks for a while into the background of my mind, as daily life seeps into my existence again, and then everything returns to as normal as it can be when you live abroad.
The heart, it appears to me, is emotionally fickle and sometimes dangles possibilities before our eyes, as if to tempt us. How delicate we are in reality, always seeking Nirvana, even though we know it is almost impossible to just maintain stability for six months at a time. In closing, you can at least imagine my sentiments, as the United States of America is so vastly different than the United Kingdom, but I thank them both for keeping me safe.
I call them both home.
Here are just some of the images of my home. My feelings are that you will be a little spellbound and understand absolutely how it makes one feel when you see the medieval beauty of my city and where I lived for the first twenty-one years of my life.
St. Anne's Gate
John's primary school... Now, "The Polly Tearooms"
John inside the tearoom, stands where his desk used to sit when he was a "wee lad".
A beautiful sunset on the river Avon.
A familiar "Sergeant" visits the town square!
© Copyright 2011 John Levene Sgt. At Arms
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