Time Flies. I stay.

Time flies, as the saying goes.

Eight years ago, I moved back to Newfoundland. After university, I led quite the nomadic life – never staying too long in one place, never accumulating anything permanent. I liked it that way.

When my beloved grandmother became ill, I came back home after five years on the trot.  Her passing railroaded me in a way I couldn’t have imagined. Everything came to a screeching halt. You see, my Nan was more than a grandparent to me. She was also a parent and anchor in this world.

I’d never lost anyone before, let alone seen someone I love suffer like she did. It took a tremendous toll on my spirit and heart. To be honest, I have little recollection of the first two years after her death. I was just going through the motions. In ways, I still am. Never learning how to grieve properly does that to you. I just turned my heart inward and held on, hoping for better times ahead.

I remember that chilly November day, with the first frost on the ground, as I gathered my few belongings in plastic totes and made my way back home to Newfoundland. I vowed I would only be stopping here for a year, tops.

After all, I had a plan. The plan was to keep moving. I had no desire to put down roots. That felt like a frightening prospect. I always wanted to be sure I was living my life to the fullest, and staying in one place felt like the wrong thing to do. I had to be out there, on the move — seeking, doing, exploring, learning, and most of all growing. Stopping for any length of time was not in the plan.

Funny how life has other things in store.

Eight years later, I find myself walking on the frosty November ground, to the place I’ve called home for quite some time now. It seems roots have grown, albeit reluctantly, in these past years. For the first couple of years, I avoided any symbolic gestures or purchases that would make my staying her official. No furniture, no trappings, no set routine – no boredom.

For the longest time, I refused to hang pictures on my walls, insisting to myself that if I did, it would jinx me and somehow keep me here. Then little by little, I started to settle in cautiously. I was still ready to jump up and go at a moment’s notice, so that made me feel a bit better.

And so the years passed, and I started actually committing to a life here in one place. I built friendships. I volunteered in the community. I started being creative with writing and photography in my home studio. And time passed. I’m still here. Who’d have thought?

Perhaps I’m where I’m supposed to be, but my gypsy heart still dreams of freedom, and the open road. Being a committment-phobe isn’t easy; I’m always one foot in the door and one foot out. Escape has become a necessary part of my survival, in my life experience.

But these last eight years have brought me just as much joy as it has conflicted feelings. I’ve reconnected with friends, built myself a wondering network of people around me, and have a neighbourhood that feels somewhat  like home.

Until now, I’d never really considered anywhere else but Ferryland, the small community I lived in until age 18, “home”. I’ve called Austria and Scotland home temporarily, as well as certain cities in Canada. Yet somehow I always end up drawn back here.

It’s a love-hate relationship I have with home and the concept of “settling down”. I always feel like that word, “settling”, is the equivalent of the death of everything that we could be and could learn. At times, I feel like this city is far too small to hold me and all my wishes and dreams for the future.

And so travel has become my escape and refuge. I drink in the new places, anonymity and freedom the map offers me. It’s an elixir that brings me back to life. Once a year, I go for a month to some far off place, with one bag on my back and nothing but possibilities ahead. It gives me a new lease on life and makes living in one place bearable.

My inner gypsy rejoices and a sense of peace and happiness comes over me that I can’t find elsewhere. But when I get back home,  I also take comfort in the fact that there are people here who care about me and who I’ve missed dearly, despite the adventures away.

Am I back for good? For eight years, I keep saying, “I’m leaving again soon.”  Yet I stay.

I can’t say for certain whether the roots are strong enough to hold me when the wanderlust comes calling, but for now, I’m at least striking some sort of balance.  And while I never thought I’d be here, eight years down the road, perhaps it’s all part of the plan. I can only hope I’m where I’m supposed to be right here and now. I hate wondering if my life is actually out there, passing me by, while I stay where I am. Something many of us wonder, I’m sure.

Until I know for sure, the best I can do is live in the moment and be thankful for the people and experiences these last years have brought me — and just be.

This Buddhist mantra gives me comfort at times when I’m struggling with the stay-or-go question of my life’s direction:

“Be where you are, otherwise you will miss your life.”