I was homeless for a year when I was 17, and my experiences in the past seven months have triggered some painful emotions reminiscent of that time.
That year, 1975, was the worst year of my life, and this year one had been pretty tough, too.
I just want to say, right off the bat, that I am writing this from my very beautiful new home (see pic). All is well. I moved here two weeks ago after several “itinerant” months staying with various dear, generous and very kind friends.
Way back at 17, I didn’t have the emotional or financial resources I do today. I moved from couch to couch, unable to really understand how to find myself a place, pay for it and get myself sorted. I felt like a terrible imposition. I felt guilty, foolish and lost.
This past several months, after breaking my hip in a push bike crash, splitting up with my partner, selling my apartment ready to move, and then having the moved back month after month due to construction delays, I went back into all sorts of painful feelings. Foolish, lost, unmoored.
Coming home is an incredible feeling. Closing the door on the world and returning to myself – my special objects, the sights and textures that spell refuge to me – is soul food. For those of us who have a stable, warm and safe home today let’s just count our blessings.
And for those of us writing a book, let’s make our book like a warm, cosy homecoming, a refuge and sanctuary from whatever problem we are helping our readers to solve. What an extraordinary gift and worthy goal.