The concept of "home" is one I've never quite been able to wrap my brain around. I've never been "from" anywhere, having moved constantly as a child, so home has always been wherever I happen to be at any given time. The gypsy in me was more than content with bouncing, detached, from place to place, but lately I've come to suspect that deep inside all of us is a tiny red blinking light on the backside of small metal homing device that is silently leading us all HOME.
Define that how you choose, but I suspect that the home where the red begins to blink erratically could very easily be a place you hardly know, to which you have very little physical attachment. But somewhere in the complicated blueprint that makes up your psyche lies the exact location of where you belong.
I like to believe that is why I ended up here in Edmonton. Yes, I spent the odd Christmas here, and a few weeks here and there every few summers, visiting family. My mother grew up here and my father grew up a few hours north of the city. Their parents grew up around here too. So even though I left Alberta by age four I wonder if that metal box was planted long before I left. Why else would I leave the hustle and bustle of New York City to take up residence in a city I know virtually nothing about? What makes someone leave an exciting cultural nuclei 9 million people thick? Simple. Even after six years it just didn't feel like home.
If this theory holds true, I have yet to figure out if my red light is blinking at max capacity, or if it's just speeding up as I move closer to what is home. But while I figure that out I'm going to try to dig in and get to the bottom of this prairie town.
