Looking for an Anchor

A post that I made direct to the FB page a couple months ago…it’s finally a real blog post today 😉

I went home today, or I tried to. I’ve been sad and searching for an anchor. Something to bring me back to myself.
Back home.
I decided to go to the only real home I’ve ever known. One small problem; the home I was looking for isn’t home anymore.
I alread knew that while driving there, taking the familiar turns, passing the same streets of my youth. Naming them one by one in my head as I approached. I already knew home wouldn’t be there.
I cried as soon as I turned into the not my street.
Still, something in me was hoping that rather than travelling to my old house, I’d be travelling back in time, to my old life. Mum in the kitchen, or chatting on the phone, or tending her fern garden. Dad painting or fixing or growling because I parked on his nice lawn. Bec with her 13 year old secrets and Bro with his 8 year old annoying boyness.
Back when at 16 I thought life was hard.
what the hell did I know about hard.
What the hell did I know about life.

Now I sit outside my house that’s not my house and wonder if the new family inside will think I’m crazy if I knock on the door, ask to go and smoke a cigarette in my old bedroom.
I don’t smoke anymore, but I would if it could take me back.
I considered it.
But I’m far too adult (ppffft) for that nonsense so instead of sitting in my car crying like an idiot I decide to leave. I end up at the beach instead.
My beach.
The one at the end of the not my street that has known me since I was born.
The track is so familiar. So much the same that I almost smell sunscreen and aeroguard and red cordial.
This is the beach where my parents paddled with me at 12 months old.
Where I collected shells every single summer of my life and built sand castles with the best moats.
Where I collected crabs with my brother and held them in a hole so large they couldn’t escape. Captives.
Where we ate vegemite sandwiches and bbq shapes that always had a little bit of a sandy crunch.
Where I was afraid of the seaweed and knew every route to make it out to the deep whilst successfully avoiding standing on even a teeny piece of it.
Where i was once bitten by some big ugly sea monster.
Where my sister and I walked on “the wall” and tried to hold hands even though it made the task of balancing ever much more difficult.
Where My friends and I at 15,16,17 ‘borrowed’ other peoples boat sheds; we came to talk and smoke and listen to music.
Oasis and Faith No More.
In the days when we had to carry the heavy ghetto blaster, with its cassettes and spare D batteries- that would inevitably go flat. Every.single.time.
Where I went when I ‘ran away from home’
Where my best friend always knew she could find me and where my then brandnew boyfriend and I wagged school just to walk hand in hand, barefoot in the ocean.
Where we shared our first kiss and where he eventually proposed.
I have a jar of sand and a jar of sea water from this beach that I collected 20 something years ago, knowing that wherever my life would take me, I would always have a piece of it with me, in a treasure box in a closet in whatever house was my new home.
I must find those jars, I think.

And then I realise the truth. I don’t need those jars. I never needed those jars. This beach is always with me, has never left me and never will.
This is the true home of my heart, the church of my soul, and it will always exist, if sometimes only in my memory.
So I did travel back in time today, and I did find my anchor, and I did go home after all.

 

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