2 years.
It was July 2009 when I packed up my beloved Wytherbei. I sold the majority of my possessions, shipped the important bits to Seattle, and lived out of a suitcase for a subsequent 6 weeks.
2 years!
At that time I was thrilled with the idea of going light. I didn’t want stuff, I wanted to be fancy free. With 2 large suitcases, a 35L backpack, and a bicycle, I moved to England for a year.
a.k.a. 2 years… and counting.
A few months ago it dawned on me that whilst properly sheltered for these 2 years, nevertheless, in most regards I have been homeless. First it was 2 weeks shacking up in my friend’s basement, then it was 4 weeks with my parents and yet much of the time was on the road visiting people. My first room in England was tiny, secluded, lonely, and miserable – I left after 5 months. My second room was great and I had a fun housemate, but the lure of the fantasy caused a premature decision to be enacted upon. I spent 1 month again shacking up, but this time in a single bedroom with another, although, 2 of those weeks were spent on a bicycle in Scotland. Then it was 3 months in a house with “friends” which was a disaster with the exception of one dear Kenyan friend. I now find myself in a shared house, with a giant but cramped room, and have been here for nearly 9 months. WTF.
I’m desperate to have a home. I want to decorate, I want to return after a day’s work to find a place that smells like me, I want all my food to be stored and prepared in one place, I want to put my pictures on the wall again.
Yet.
I never expected to be in this shared house for so long, it was meant to be extremely temporary, 3 months even. However 1 month rolls into the next and major life decisions refuse to be sorted. So here I am, still longing. I continually peruse online rental listings and even viewed a place recently. I liked it, but didn’t love it, and was terrified by the upfront costs. So I continue to scan the possibilities – constantly adding bookmarks and yet finding 1 flaw major enough to prevent me from dialing the letting agency.
The other major excuse for not doing so is usually lack of time, and this is the truth.
However, the other day I began to sense that my feelings are changing. I go through a cycle of hating this house and being ready to explode with frustration to simmering down and forcing contentment upon myself until the next altercation or annoyance. Lately the worst of the slob housemates has been absent and so feeling content has been much easier. But the most interesting change in my feelings is that I may actually be too scared to find a home here in England.
I hate England.
To find a ‘home’ and try to ‘settle down’ here seems futile to say the least, but worse I’m afraid of being trapped. Simply put, long-term immigration is not a likely option,yet still the thought of signing on for 6 months feels like I will get myself even more stuck then I seem to already be. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary and it seems I’m on the cusp of changes, something big. The last thing I want is then to feel I have any sort of commitment to my living situation. With 2 weeks notice I want to be able to leave my job, leave my home, leave this temporary life and get on with things.
So as I long for a place to call home, I know that essentially I must remain resolute in my initial intentions – that England would be a short adventure with a defined purpose filled with unique opportunities best achieved by remaining fancy free.
Passing through, but where am I heading to – and are we there yet?
