Are you homesick too?

Perhaps for a place, a time, or a person? It all counts.

The most home I feel is writing in front of the fire (Autumn ‘23, Bristol, UK)

Last Tuesday, I took Bohdi to the ‘big park’ for his morning walk. The meticulously kept cricket field is ideal for ball chasing, and it’s lined with oak trees that are just starting to colour up.

We are easing into a southern hemisphere autumn, and the grass was soaked with dew. It was cool enough for a sweatshirt (it never gets frosty here). Big Park is across the road from the beach, with a soundtrack of the tidal rhythm. The sun hung low and orange over the water, the sky was clear and bright and blue, Bohdi was having The Best Day Ever, and I felt nothing.

None of it went in.

I was just… flat, indifferent, separate.

I could see objectively, in any universe, this is a damn fine way to start any day of the week, but I couldn’t feel it.

My first response (for my name is Sas, and I am an Oldest Daughter) was to give myself a bit of a talking to. Because I am safe and well and, frankly, living in paradise, and I should get on with it. Because it's a giant-assed ‘privilege problem’ to be missing my women and Bristol and the way March in England smells so hopeful. Because it’s just homesickness, not actual genocide FFS.

But that just hurt my own feelings, and I found myself welling up on the drive home.

I don’t know if this feels true for you, but I tend to downplay my own experiences (no matter how trivial or traumatic) when I know other people are suffering. Probably because: Oldest Daughter, and also it has become acutely apparent that in New Zealand, the most important thing you can ever be is: ‘not a dick’.

In an effort to heal this, I’m learning to share more of the stuff that I find hard or icky, and trusting that I don’t have to hold all of it alone.

My beloved friend Lisa (who is excellent at such things) texted me back to say, ‘Love, the world is really hard right now, and I think most of us are homesick for times that we remember as easier, simpler, softer.’ 

And this made me do a bit of an ugly cry because YES.

You too?

So lovely, where are you as you read this? Are you okay? How is your heart right now?

Are you at home within yourself? Do you have dreams for yourself? Do you allow, create, or seek joy on a semi-regular basis? Do you have things to look forward to?

Are you at home with your people? Do you know your neighbours? Do you have people with whom you can be unapologetically yourself? Do you let love in?

Are you at home in the world? Where are you with all of this *gestures broadly*? With the broligarchy and the swasticars? The endless landfills, artificial intelligence writing screenplays instead of translating whalesong? Are you clear on what matters to you?

Are you at home in nature? Is there a tree you can lean against? A body of water that can hold you? A hill you can unleash a primal scream from the top of?

It’s not selfish, indulgent, or in any way dickish, to acknowledge what’s hard. This is how we know something is off, or wrong, or is inviting us collectively to move at dawn.

If you are homesick for a place, a time, or a person, I’m standing beside you.