on being home

The first time that I ventured away from my parents, and home, was when I made a group tour (along with my sister) when I was about fifteen. Way back when. We travelled out to London and Paris. Of course, we had made numerous trips out to aunt's and gran's homes respectively, but that was a whole different matter. And then, when I was a tender eighteen, I left home as a student in search of that tertiary gem of discovery and newness. And then, again on all those journeys of wonder through the world, both in armchair travels and actual jet-lag inducing tourist missions armed with digital brigade and fervour. And so leaving and finding home became an often philosophical marker on the journey of self-reflection. Earlier this year, I left home again, to wander off toward the east coast on a short-term project of sorts. Its the middle of this term for me, and I am back home. In Johannesburg. For a few days of festive fun and feel good quality family time. Its great! But surreal, somewhat. Because an affiliation to place can be explained in myriad ways and still fall short of the essence of being there. Wherever it may be. And of just being.