It’s always bittersweet coming back to a place you have called home after many years. For me it was nearly ten years. Things look the same, smell the same. But so much has changed.
The infamous swing at Cleeve House was gone.
The grass seemed better kept.
The stone steps out back were done up.
Safety barriers installed around the terrace where we used to jump.
Overall, it was impressive seeing Cleeve House at its best, even if it looked a bit different. I was used to it looking a bit rougher around the edges.
But more than that, the thing which stuck with me was…
Seeing the people I once sang beside at workshops, looking older. People I once carried on my shoulders — now towering over me. And the countless new 3rd-gen children and young 2nd-gen teens and adults, who look blankly at you as you walk past, for it’s their first time doing so.
And then, while you grab a quick drink and try to find some shade, you keep looking around and a sort of sadness falls over you. You start to notice all those that were once there, but now are not — the friends who have moved abroad, those that have left the church, those that have passed. Like empty seats around a family dining table, you can’t help but notice those who are not present.
If a community is a place where people “know your name,” then what is it called when the people who “used to be there” “knew” your name? A soccer team, maybe? Or a university graduating class?
I married a Japanese girl I had never met before when I was twenty years old. My main motivation for doing so was twofold: one, my deep personal relationship with Father; and two, my respect and admiration for my own parents’ marriage.
I spent seven years in Japan and now nearly three years in Portugal. Living abroad has rounded out my character and forced me to grow in ways I was never expecting to. But it left gaps in my timeline here in the UK that can’t be filled.
Coming back to the UK, I guess I was hoping that everything — the people, the smells, the feelings — would all feel the same as they once did.
But they didn’t. And why would they?
The friends that I used to have have been on their own journeys. They have their own families, careers, goals, arguments, addictions, which are unique to them. I guess it’s just hard for me to accept that when I look at them I see someone else, and not the person I remember. Maybe just like a parent whose children have already grown up — the memories of simpler times are so overwhelmingly vivid that they almost overshadow the actual reality of things.
Where did my friends go? Where are my mentors? Those that inspired me? I haven’t forgotten you. Please don’t forget me.