Three weeks ago, I went for a morning walk through brittle fields and forests to say goodbye to my new surroundings. This was my seventh home since I moved out at eighteen, not including the temporary homes abroad or the stopovers at my mother’s house in-between. I have grown into my father’s restlessness and curiosity. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever settle down, but then I remind myself that it doesn’t matter. Home is wherever I am present.
In a month, I will be heading to Scotland to volunteer at the edge of the Highlands. After four years of overworking, I am letting myself slow down for real. Less but more regular hours of volunteering and only a little freelance work with generous deadlines. Finally, there will be time to write, explore and breathe without the guilt of constantly falling behind.
Next year will be another practice in letting go, with a one-way ticket to Edinburgh and a promise to return by land. Eventually. After the end of February, there are no fixed plans apart from a London theatre ticket and some loose ideas. This time, I want to make room for things to fall into place without interfering.
This autumn stirred me awake. Stripped me bare and dressed me in frost before I could brace myself for the cold. I see the world behind my schedules. Some nights the state of it keeps sleep away, my mind spinning with calculations, grasping for solutions or at least a clue to nudge me in the right direction, to tell me where to go and how to help.
I know I have to let go of this, too. Let go and trust that when I do, I will find out.