Semi-Detached

Right now I have my feet in two places: Canada and Scotland; my new home and old home; temporary and eternal; yadda yadda yadda. Lately I've been feeling a bit disconnected from a sense of home because of my recent apartment move (aGAIN!), but I've recognised that home can exist outside of the usual: home can exist within camaraderie and safety from others, creating private and public safe spaces in unexpected places. Communities of people who aren’t those who you would necessarily choose for your tribe at first, but somehow become yours, anyway.

Back in Scotland I attended a private school that was, for the most part, a single-sex establishment. I know that from the outside, many kids from other schools painted us as snobbish and privileged girls, but the reality was that we were as mundane and joyful as any other youths our age (and probably really quite peculiar and gross, as well). What I loved about school was the closeness that the small population provided: we all knew each others’ names, you could crack a joke with a teacher and not worry about getting a rap on the back of the hand for it (metaphorically speaking, of course), you could wander the corridors with your shoes off as if it were your home, until Mrs. Shand chased you down for it, and if - God forbid - you'd walked into the classroom from a bathroom trip with your kilt tucked into your pants, you'd get told about it (and everyone would have a good friendly laugh at your expense). It was a safe space and a second home. Of course it was a second home — I spent hours upon days upon weeks and months and years in that same building, from when I was four years old until I was seventeen.

In my later years at school, some of my friends and I befriended a bunch of kids from the International School of Aberdeen. This was another state of inclusion — a more exclusive one than my school, it felt — but sadly it wasn’t a club I could entirely be a part of. As someone from another school, I was always on the periphery, and couldn’t ever really chime in with jokes of what had happened in class that day, and I wasn’t invited to all the parties and hangouts. Still, I was there, and they wanted me there for the most part. I’d come into school the next day with my bestie Jenni and we’d gossip about what had happened at the big house party the weekend prior — discussing our own secret club within the setting of another secret club.

And there were many more little “clubs” and “homes” that I found for myself as life went on — my university friends, the student radio association, the people I worked with at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival — they all managed to make me feel part of something. With each of these networks that I found myself in, there was a ridiculously deep feeling of gratitude and love for the people that had accepted me into their space. I remember in my final year of school, bawling my eyes out after saying goodbye to one of my friends from the international school, just being so sad because his departure marked the beginning of the end of that magic network. Sometimes I feel silly because these groups mean so much to me, and I have so much emotion for them, whereas it feels like everyone else is pretty laid back about the relationships they make in school or work or otherwise.

But I’m the kind of person that doesn’t have the gumption to go out and make a million friends — this doesn’t mean I’m quiet or anti-social, but I guess I’ll say that I’m very selective about the people I spend my time around, and the effort of putting myself out there seems like a chore, or a losing game, more often than not. And so when I’m presented with a little group of people who want to welcome me in, and I can become “locked in” to their space, I feel safe and supported. I don’t need to even really be carried by these people — all I need is to be around them and feed off the energy that we all exchange between ourselves. For that, I am thankful.

Now that I’m away from home — my real homes, of Aberdeen and Edinburgh — I take so much relish in realising that I’ve finally discovered another secret club, another second home for me to be a part of, and that is the network of staff at The Cafe. Honestly, I’m a stuck record but I really mean it when I say that everyone I work with is just so delightful. The great thing about this club is that the restaurant is new, so there aren’t really any people who are “alien” to the group — we are all in it together, feeling our way about, learning names, making acquaintances.

The thing is, the people I work with have their own lives outside of The Cafe. I do too, to some extent, but not as much, it feels. Especially having just moved apartments, I feel like The Cafe is more of my actual home than my own place at the moment. When I return to my uniform, I feel a level of security fall about me. The heady scent of baking bread welcomes me in at the ungodly hours when I arrive in the morning, and I feel like I can relax, to a degree.

Being away from home has been a real lesson in the idea of home. I was never a home-on-the-weekends girl, and as my years at uni progressed, I found myself heading back to Aberdeen less and less. But now that I’ve been away for so long, and just away from Scotland in general, I really feel pangs more often that usual for my own hills and vales. So it’s been up to me to try and generate “home” for myself, where and when I can. This has been especially important as of late, while I’m new to the apartment and am currently not even sleeping in my own room at the moment. So here is how I make home:

• enjoy time at work, speak to my co-workers and catch up with them. take interest in people and make friendships.
• tea — especially my creme caramel rooibus tea, which will always make me so nostalgic for my third year at university in Edinburgh. tea in general gives me strength and reminds me of safety and warmth. you can hide everything inside a cup of tea.
• vinyl records. over my time in canada I’ve picked up about 4 vinyls which I’ve never had the opportunity to play, until now. the kitchen in my new place has a player, sitting between the microwave and the dining table. i put it on and dance about to van morrison while making dinner. there’s something about the depth of vinyl which makes me feel comforted.
• cooking. i’m not a super-cook, neither am i a ready-meal princess — I can huff and puff and sigh over the fact that I have to (quite literally) break a few eggs to make an omelette, and the effort required makes my wrists moan after a long day tamping the grind, but creating something and dedicating so much attention to it simultaneously makes me calm and also makes me happy. because, food.

Despite my complaints about being lost and lonely for the better part of this summer, I feel like it’s been an excellent lesson in How To Be Alone. Now I can start re-learning How To Be Social, as the leaves begin to golden in the darkening sunlight.