In "Hero With a Thousand Faces", Joseph Campbell explains that in the last stage of the Hero's Journey, the hero returns home bearing boons for the people he has left behind. Changed by his experiences, he returns wiser, stronger, and generally better than before. However, the hero also finds that he can never return to the way things before his Journey. He is forever changed by his experiences, and can't pick up the threads of his life as though nothing had happened.
Which pretty much sums up my experience returning to the parental home over Christmas.
During the month of December, the main thing I was looking forward to was going home. Work was an ordeal, for reasons I can't really go into, and my personal life was (and is) a mess. However, in X days, I could go home, and get some rest.
The drive back to Scotland was really good. The traffic was surprisingly light, and I made really good time. When the sign declaring the border rolled past, I let out a huge cry of "Freedom!", as would any true Scot in exile. And just under two hours later, I was "home".
But it wasn't quite home any more. Once the initial flurry of greetings was done, and once I'd answered the questions about how life in Yeovil is for the hundredth time, I found myself adrift. I no longer had the personal space I enjoyed in my past life, and felt somewhat cramped. I was bereft of the comforts that I am afforded by having my own PC and my own TV within easy reach. And I didn't really have anything obvious to do. That was probably the hardest thing of all to bear - there was no work, the people I had to talk to all had their own busy lives to lead, and so I very often found myself sitting, trying to read a book, often in a room with others talking or watching a TV that was on far too loud. Not really what I was looking forward to upon my return "home".
Another problem was that it was really hard to express that malaise to anyone there. They tended to hear comments of that sort as being statements that I wasn't enjoying myself, at which they tended to become hurt or offended. Neither of which was my intention. I was truly glad to be there, to get some rest, and to see people again. However, nothing felt quite right, or normal.
There's a flip side to all of this. The drive back to Yeovil was miserable. The traffic was heavy, the weather not good, and every mile took me closer to work. (In the event, the return to work has been really good, but I didn't know that at the time.)
I arrived back in the appartment in a wierd funk. Christmas hadn't been what I'd expected. The parental home is no longer quite "home", but Yeovil isn't yet, either. It's hard to express what's really missing, but something's not quite comfortable as yet. In the meantime, though, this means I don't really have any place to truly call home.
